Chapter 35: Strings Attached

Near High Heart

"We need to do something to make them trust us."

The question was, what? Robb Stark wasn't stupid, and there wasn't any reason why his men would be. Okay, there were stupid people everywhere, but one could not rely on that alone. The campfire had burned low until there were only glowing embers left, and even they were beginning to grow cold. Rebekah propped her chin on her hand and rested her elbow on her knee as she sat cross-legged beside the campfire and listened to the men discuss what they could do. She stuck another stick into the embers to try and stir up some flames. She didn't like total darkness, despite being a creature of the night –she supposed she was also a lady of the night now. The dark was so cold and impersonal and so devoid of anything worth living for.

Ideas were bandied about. Most of them involved raiding. Raiding Lannister lands would hardly have an effect, with no one there to see them do it. It had to be like Stefan and Clegane's little venture into the Riverlands, except turned back against the Lannister forces.

"What about Amory Lorch?" said Jaymse suddenly. "He's escorting supplies. He mentioned fending off northern outriders. Bolton ones, I think."

"Amory Lorch is not a man to cross, Moreland," said another man. "If he catches you, he'll have your head."

"It'll be my head he'll try to take, and we all know he can't," said Rebekah. "You're under my command so responsibility would fall on me."

"And Amory Lorch already hates you, my lady," Fredyric pointed out.

"I guess that's settled then," said Rebekah. "Amory Lorch it is, but I'm not doing it in this farce of a dress."

"You're not going at all. You're the whore," said Fredyric. "It would be very odd if Bolton men were to find us fighting alongside a whore."

"I am not a whore. I am a courtesan."

"What's a courtesan?" asked Fredyric.

"Never mind. But if you call me a whore again, I might just rip off your balls. Slowly."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

They didn't.

Amory Lorch had been completely unprepared and absolutely furious. They hadn't made off with everything, but they had made off with a lot, and what they hadn't made off with, they'd burned. And was it any surprise that Tywin's personal guards had beaten him? Fredyric and his company had been selected for their skill. Lorch…well, God knew why Lorch was a knight, although he fitted the earliest definitions of the word to a tee. After all, thug on horseback was the only way to describe him.

Now they wandered through the wilderness as close to Stark territories as they could without looking as if they were deliberately pretending to be bait.

"At least we have salted pork," said a man called Felip.

"You're not eating all our spoils," remarked Jaymse. "If you eat them, how will we convince the northmen that we actually raided anything?"

"We took some coin," said Felip.

"Yes, and they wouldn't suspect us of being in Lannister employ if we handed over gold dragons and only gold dragons."

It took a day and a half, but eventually they did find a northern raiding party, possibly also on their way to raid Amory Lorch. The northmen surrounded them. Their furs were rank with grease and sweat and they kept their hair long and matted. Just what was the difference between northerners and wildlings again? She should have asked.

After the discipline of the Lannister camp and their much superior hygiene, it was a shock to the system. That wasn't to say that the Lannister camp had been sterile like a lab, but it was a sight better than…this. The northmen lived like the Mongol hordes, who were forbidden by Genghis Khan's Yasa laws to bathe in the rivers or wash their clothes, for fear of offending one water god or another; Rebekah wasn't too clear on that because she hadn't been very interested in them.

The company gave up without much of a fight and Fredyric convinced the leader of the horde that they were sellswords who had gotten a windfall but wouldn't some work either.

"What's to stop us to taking everything and sending you on your merry way?" asked the northern horde's…chieftain? War leader? Certainly not 'general' or 'commander'. They didn't look civilized enough to have such ranks.

"Nothing," said Fredyric. "But you'd have to ask the permission of my sword. She's tasted lion blood and, as you can see, we reap results."

"Who the hell says that?" called someone in the back. Did they have no concept of the hierarchy?

"Bah! Fancy southerners and their fancy words."

"It only has four letters in it."

"What?! You can read?!" The men laughed at the poor unfortunate literate soul.

"Where's your books?"

" 'Ere, give me your sword. You can have this feather."

The laughing and teasing continued as they were marched back to the northerner's camp, and their spoils were confiscated.

"Since when did we take prisoners, Mik?" asked another of the men, possibly someone holding a semi-important rank.

"Lord Bolton said we needed every man who wasn't a Lannister," said the man called Mik. "We could do with a few more sellswords."

She stayed back behind Fredyric with her eyes down like a meek little whore as Fredyric put his case before the man who wasn't Mik. It wasn't hard to convince him, considering the Starks needed as many men as they could get, and Fredyric and his company looked a sight better than the other sellswords wandering around, with lice and fleas and God knew what else. Probably syphilis.

"Pretty little thing, that," remarked the recruiter. Damn, had she been noticed already? Of course she'd been noticed. Even in this state, she was prettier than all of them combined. "Are you going to share her?"

"For a price," said Fredyric. He hooked an arm around Rebekah's waist and yanked her against his body in what he thought was a possessive manner. She looked up at him and smiled, trying to look as if she were on the verge of tears rather than the verge of laughter. His hand was shaking slightly, not enough to be seen but she could feel it, and he was being far too proper. If he wanted to be convincing, he should be groping her buttocks, not keeping his hand firmly north of her hip. Unless he was fondling her breast, of course, which he wasn't.

They were admitted into the Stark army without further questioning. Her bared breasts –for that dress kept on flapping open without the use of double-sided tape– attracted a lot of attention and curious glances from the men, and other camp followers cast her dirty looks. She supposed that even though she hadn't bathed for days, she still looked and smelled a great deal better than they did, what with their love handles, cold sores, tangled hair and lurid caked on make-up. Didn't they know that caked-on make up only made the lines on their faces more prominent, and the shadows around their eyes deeper? With make-up, less was always more. Unless it was red lipstick. One could never have enough red lipstick, provided they stayed within the lines of the lips. Obviously, these girls didn't know that. Most of them bore more resemblance to the Joker from Batman than Helen of Troy.

She strained her ears to listen for any news regarding Jaime or Stark movements. Mostly the men talked about mundane things, like how awful the rations tasted and how there was a Count Dracula running around. Lovely Damon had been spreading tall tales again. Was he trying to get found out or something?

Their particular contingent would be moving south to join with Robb Stark's main army soon, she heard, and Stark had already sent men west.

West? Did he mean to attack Lord Tywin on his home turf? That was a bold move, and if Robb Stark went west, would that mean Jaime would be taken west as well? It would be easier to rescue him in Lannister territories than in Stark or Tully ones. Was this intel trustworthy?

Well, she would find out soon enough, perhaps even from the Young Wolf's mouth.

Around the Kingsroad

Their money had run out. Gendry supposed it was partly his fault for eating so much. And Hot Pie's, too. The girl, Jeremy, as she called herself, although he was pretty sure that wasn't her real name because she'd been using it since the beginning, had refused to rob travellers for money except the few that she was forced to kill after feeding on them. At first, he had been terrified of what she was. Who would have thought that those stories about vampires were real? Although she was nothing like Count Dracula, and she didn't mind garlic or sunlight at all.

But gradually, he had become used to it and he was grateful for her presence on the road, in case anything bad happened. However, he still wasn't very keen on feeding her. Hot Pie could feed her. He had more blood to spare. Gendry actually needed his because he was the only one who occasionally managed to catch dinner. Apart from people, the girl wasn't particularly good at hunting other kinds of prey. She'd brought back one rabbit once; a tough old rabbit that probably would have died within the next week, but it had been better than nothing, even though the meat had been stringy, tasteless, and tough. Jeremy's main problem was that most animals were too lovable for her to kill, and she couldn't kill anything young. One did not even need to consider Hot Pie. He had almost eaten nightshade berries at one point.

Their lack of hunting ability meant they needed to buy food, and without money, they couldn't do it. 'Jeremy' had insisted she could slowly adjust to the idea of killing furry animals –she'd had the nerve to suggest that they try eating beetle grubs roasted over a fire instead– but since she was so eager to get to Winterfell, Gendry hardly felt they had time for her to stop and adjust.

So it fell to him and Hot Pie to…uh…replenish their funds. 'Jeremy' used a lot of big words and Gendry had been picking up on them.

The problem was that it was harder than it sounded. Pickings were scarce on the road, even if it was the Kingsroad. That, and Gendry and Hot Pie had no idea how to rob anyone. They were a blacksmith and a baker, not bandits. "Remember, we don't kill them unless we have no choice," Gendry reminded the fat boy.

"I'm not afraid to kill," said Hot Pie.

"Sure," said Gendry.

"I'm not! I've killed someone before! There was a boy and he stole my pie so I kicked him and kicked him and kicked him and–"

"Shut up, unless you want to either scare away everyone or have Jeremy find us! You know how she is. She'll probably drag us north to the Wall by our ears." Hot Pie shut his pie hole.

They picked their way through the woods as quietly as they could. Jays and magpies scolded them from above. The sun was setting behind the trees and the mountains in the west, although instead of the orange sunsets Gendry was used to in King's Landing, sunsets here on the road were blue and grey like cold steel, and one did not even notice them until it simply became too dark to see.

He suddenly raised a hand to stop Hot Pie from going any further. He heard someone humming an unfamiliar tune.

Sam hummed to himself as he gathered the firewood. Jon would probably have finished gutting their dinner by now. He was in a far better mood now that they had found the Kingsroad and were steadily making their way south. The boy wondered what it would be like to meet Jon's family. He had heard enough about them to feel as if he knew them already. Well, a little bit. Just as he felt as if he knew the white walkers because he'd read about them. Although, Jon always insisted that reading was not the same as experiencing. However, books were as close as Sam ever got to the real world.

At least, before this, he supposed. He had to say, this adventure was growing on him. It was much better to travel with a friend, and to know that there were endless possibilities at the end of it rather than a wall of ice where the men were harder than stone. And, of course, he would like to see Jon reunite with Elena. His father Randyll Tarly had always scoffed at the tales and songs about fair maidens and brave knights, but Sam had always been a bit of a romantic. He loved the tales and he always imagined he would rescue a fair maiden. In reality, it was more likely he would be rescued by a fair maiden, but it didn't stop him from dreaming.

He imagined what their reunion would be like. Would there be tears? Would Jon ask Elena to marry him? It would be a beautiful wedding. He'd only been to his cousin's once when he had been very young, and the bride had cried. Elena wouldn't cry when she married Jon. He didn't think she would anyway, although his mother had explained that women sometimes cried when they were very happy. His cousin's bride hadn't looked all that happy, but what did he know? He'd been very young then.

He added another stick to the pile in his arms. Dinner first. Wedding plans later. Jon wouldn't let him talk about them anyway. Sam was so engrossed in his little musings that he did not notice the two people stepping out of the shadows until one of them addressed him.

"Hand over all your money and we won't kill you!"

He paused, still holding his stick in mid-air. The speaker had been a chubby little boy. Beside him was a much taller boy with muscles that bulged on his arms. His dark hair was cut short, and he looked very hungry and angry and mean. Both of them were armed with swords. They didn't look as if they knew how to use them, but did it matter? It was two against one! And Sam didn't really know how to use his sword either.

"I'm sorry. I don't have money!" he shouted, and then he turned and fled, the firewood still in his arms. He managed not to scream until the two boys pounced on him. He tried to throw the sticks at them, but in his haste, he simply threw them all into the air and they fell around him like ineffective arrows. "Give us your money!" the fat boy was screaming.

Sam tried to scramble away, but his legs became tangled in his cloak. The other two were crushing him as they tried to reach for his pockets and tear his sword away from his belt. His sword! He reached to his right side for it, only to remember he'd belted it to his left today.

"Jon!" he shouted. "Help, Jon!"

The hare's fat dripped into the fire and made it crackle. Jon lifted the spit off the fire to examine the animal. It was still a little undercooked. In fact, it was at vampire juicy levels. He set it on the fire again and turned the hare slowly. Ghost hardly blinked as he watched it with his head cocked to one side. "You've already had dinner," Jon told him. "That look might work on Sam or Elena, but it won't work on me." They had caught a brace of hares, both him and Ghost. Sharing in their little party wasn't quite fair, as the wolf always at least got half of the kill, while he and Sam had to share the remainder. Sometimes he wondered who was the master and who was the pet.

Suddenly, he looked up, hare forgotten. Sam was shouting for him. They were under attack! He sprang to his feet, sword drawn, and ran in the direction of the screams to find Sam being accosted by two bandits. Only two? Usually bandits hunted in larger packs, but as of late, a lot of smallfolk were turning to robbery, thanks to the raids and the burned crops. He hadn't heard much about anything –no news from King's Landing or the Twins at all– but he'd heard about Stefan Salvatore and Gregor Clegane's fine work.

Jon dragged the larger man off Sam and flung him against a tree, stunning him for a moment. The man recovered before Jon could run him through and dived for his dropped sword, only to find that Jon had kicked it out of the way. He levelled the tip of his sword at the man's neck. Well, boy, actually. The bandit looked younger than him, although not by that much. Perhaps it was the lack of a beard. Well, it was just his luck that he had tried to rob Jon Snow; now the robber would become the robbed. "Hand over your money, and I might just spare you," he said.

"We don't have any money," said the boy as he raised his hands into the air.

The other bandit screamed as Ghost sank his teeth into his calf and dragged him off Sam. He was just a little boy, and a fat clumsy one at that. "Jeremy!" he screamed. "Jeremy!"

Jon heard a rush of wind coming towards him, and then a blurry shadow knocked him to the ground. He cried out as his attacker twisted his hand to make him drop his sword and pressed his arm against his neck to cut off his air. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he released him.

And Jon realized he wasn't a 'he'.

"Jon?" whispered the girl. He would know that voice anywhere. She clambered off him and he sat up. His neck was still sore from almost having been crushed. Her long locks had been hacked off in the roughest manner, the rags she now wore were worse than what she had worn on the Wall, and there was dirt on her face, but he knew her just as surely as he knew his name was Jon Snow.

"Elena," he whispered. It wasn't clear who fell into whose arms, but what did that matter? Elena was in his arms, and he was in hers. He held her to him tightly and felt her bury her face against his neck and shoulder. They sank to the ground as if they were the only two people in the world. He stroked her hair, hardly daring to believe that she was here. He didn't ever want to have to let her go just in case this was a dream. If he let her go, he might just wake up and find he was still at the Wall, never to see her again. "I'm here now. I'm here, Elena."

She wrapped her arms tightly about him as they sank to the ground. Jon. It was Jon! "Did I hurt you?" she asked when she finally pulled away. She cupped his face with both hands and brushed a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. He looked a bit older and a bit worldlier than he had been before, and his beard was rather long.

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. She gently took his hand anyway to examine his wrist. He winced, and the wrist was beginning to swell.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's just a sprain," he said. "I've had worse."

He might have had worse, but he needed that wrist now more than ever. It was his sword arm. Before he could object, she sank her fangs into her wrist. Blood welled up from the two puncture wounds. "Drink" she said.

"Elena, I don't–" he began.

"Take it. It's going to waste anyway," she said. He couldn't argue against that. Tentatively, he put his lips to her wrist as if he were kissing it. The idea of drinking blood probably repelled him a little. It had certainly repelled her at first, until she had gotten used to the idea. The swelling faded immediately. Jon's eyes widened as he flexed his wrist. Her wounds healed, leaving no trace.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I had thought you would be in King's Landing."

"After what happened to Lord Stark, I couldn't really stay. I'm so sorry, Jon," she said.

"Why? What happened?" He narrowed his eyes. Could it be possible? Word would have reached the Wall, at least. Wasn't that why he was here, having…deserted?

"What happened to my father, Elena?" he pressed.

Behind them, even Hot Pie had stopped whinging about his leg. Or rather, Gendry had shut him up. Jon's eyes bored into her as he gripped her shoulders. If she had been human, she would have bruised.

She hesitantly began the tale with what she knew, from the moment when the Tower of the Hand had been attacked and when she had lost Sansa and Arya. She told him about seeing Damon standing behind Cersei when Lord Ned had been brought before the Sept of Baelor. Jon's fist tightened and he swallowed rapidly.

"Joffrey had him…had him…executed." The very thought of it made her want to cry again, and she felt her eyes burn as tears formed. She hated to be the one who had to tell him.

"No," he whispered.

"I'm so sorry, Jon," she said. It wasn't enough. He had just lost the only parent he had ever known.

"No," he repeated, his voice harder this time. "It can't be. You must be mistaken, Elena."

"I wish I was," she said.

"It can't be!"

Ghost whined, sensing Jon's distress.

Elena didn't know what she could do, so she took him into her arms, stiff and unyielding as he was. Her touch seemed to unlock something in him. He struggled against her, sucking in deep breaths. She never let him go. "Cry if you need to," she said. "I'm here."

Jon fought against Elena's embrace, refusing to believe what she was telling him, but knowing it to be true. His father was dead. His journey south…what had he come for? He had failed, ultimately. His father was dead. Gone. His head on a spike on a wall in the Red Keep. His breath stuck in his throat. It couldn't get past that painful lump there. He swallowed to get rid of it. His eyes burned as he tried to keep the tears at bay. Elena still held him against her even though he was pushing her away, although he didn't know why. Perhaps if he accepted her touch, it meant that it was true.

One hot tear slipped down his cheek. And another. He stopped struggling. She continued to stroke his hair as he sank against her and rested his head against her chest, as if he were a little boy. "It's all right to cry," she whispered. He didn't want to cry, but his body refused to listen to him. More tears came. He sucked in gasps of air. The sun went down in the west, leaving him alone in the darkness. Finally he just stilled, too exhausted to fight the truth.

She pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead. He finally lifted his head and looked up at her, with those luminous dark eyes and the kind heart. He didn't know what possessed him, but he leaned forward tentatively. She didn't pull back.

That first kiss was so full of fire that it eventually melted through the ice that seemed to surround his heart. A spark passed between them. It conveyed everything they wanted to say that words could not convey. The need became urgent. She was the first to push her tongue between his parted lips to taste him, and he returned the favour. One hand grasped the back of her head while he fumbled at her clothing, undoing the ties that kept her modesty intact. She was better at it and had removed his furs and jerkin before he managed to get rid of her tunic.

His desire, his pain, his anger, and his grief all intermingled and drowned out anything else he might have felt during his first time with a woman. Her chest had been bound with linen bandages and he couldn't see how he could begin to unravel them. She solved his problem by ripping through all of them. Her breasts sprang free. He was already hard and straining against his breeches, and his fingers became clumsy as if they no longer belonged to him. She undid the ties of his trousers and braies to free him. He spread his cloak out and lay her down on it. Somehow, her breeches and under things had disappeared. She pulled his head down as he moved over her, straddling her body on his hands and knees. She was so beautiful. He let himself explore her as he had done so many times in his fantasies, tracing his fingers down the sides of her breasts and over her soft, smooth skin. Was this really real? But it had to be. It felt very real.

Elena arched her back as he brushed his fingers over her hardening nipples. Her fingers raked down his back and broke through his skin, finally allowing him to give voice to the pain in his heart. She gripped his buttocks, and before he knew it, she had flipped him over so that she was straddling him at the hips and he saw her in all her glory, a goddess of the night rising up in the darkness, illuminated by the single torch that had been left in the clearing.

She leaned down to trace a line of feathery kisses from the base of his jaw, starting from just beneath his ear, lightly nipping his earlobe as she did so, down to his collarbone and his chest. Wherever she touched, she left a line of hot desire that built up. He had never thought he could feel like this, so aware and in oblivion at the same time. Thought was drowned out by sensation and the baser instincts. He needed her. He needed her. He needed her.

She circled his nipple with her tongue. He repeated her name like prayer. Elena. Elena. Elena. He was a traveller lost in a snowstorm, and she was his shelter. He pulled her head up again to kiss her. The contours of their bodies melded with one another's perfectly. They devoured one another until it wasn't clear where one ended and the other began. "I don't want to hurt you," he managed to whisper.

"You won't," she said.

When he entered her, it was as if all his emotions came to the surface. He could bare all of himself, his body and soul, to her without fear, because she would understand. She was part of him. He filled her completely as she guided him into a rhythm not unlike the waves that wind created on the surface of a lake. The ripples grew larger, their crests grew higher. With each wave of pleasure and fire, she brought him closer and closer to the edge.

He arched his back as they reached their release together. He cried out wordlessly. Her voice joined his. The sound was so primal it would have not been out of place in this forest five hundred years ago, or even five thousand. It was a sound that had existed ever since the first man and woman walked the earth together. In that moment, they were one and whole. Complete in one another.

The wave faded gently. She still rode him even after his release until she was spent. She bent down to kiss him, more tenderly this time, as she sank onto him and rested there. They lay entwined together, her with one leg flung over his body and her head resting on his chest with her ear over his heart. He held her close in his arms. "I'm going to kill them all, Elena," he whispered. "All of them. But I can't do it alone." She lifted her head and met his gaze. He stroked her hair. Her poor hair. "Will you help me?"

"Of course I'll help you," she replied. He smiled. How wonderful she was; how generous and kind and strong and beautiful. She embodied everything that was good and right in the world.

"I love you, Elena," he whispered. "I'm in love with you."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed that!

Next chapter: Sam gets acquainted with his new travelling companions. Elena ponders Jon's declaration. Jon makes a shocking proposal. Daenerys settles in Qarth but has growing suspicions about her new friend's agenda. Jaime is serenaded by northerners and gets new lodgings. Robb sets down some boundaries for Katherine.