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Chapter Thirty-Seven: No Tomorrow

"I always knew there was something strange about you." Garlan sounded breathless, although they had been at rest for some time. He was propped against a tree trunk while Robb attempted to stop the bleeding from a would as thin as a razor, but deeper than either of them realised.

"I try to keep it hidden, my lord, but sometimes I just can't help myself," he replied. He wanted to keep the talk light, to take the other man's mind off his pain. Anything to keep him conscious. But the bleeding continued, despite the narrowness of the wound.

"Brynden's bastard, a cupbearer," Garlan continued, raising a stiff smile. "Your interruptions of the Lords were impertinent and you got more wine on my lap than in my cup."

Now it was blood that was spilling into his lap. "I'm not much better as a nurse."

"I should have known, when I saw you fighting in the yard at Riverrun," said Garlan. "You fought like a man with no tomorrow."

"You must do the same, Ser Garlan," said Robb.

A moment of silence fell between them, during which they looked at each other as the understanding passed between them. Beyond words, unspoken: this was serious. Without prompting, Garlan dragged himself to his feet, using the rough tree bark to catch a grip and pull. The effort of standing cost him greatly. In the aftermath of the fight with the Others they had also become separated from their men. Alone, the two of them and struggled on to safety, waiting for the sun to rise from within the Haunted Woods.

In places, the trees were so dense they wouldn't have noticed the sunrise anyway. The canopy was dark and, more than once, a shadowcat had scented the blood and come prowling up on them. Robb did all he could to threaten the creatures, drawing Ice and retreating into the overgrowth with Garlan behind him, using him as a shield. Slowly, they inched westwards, towards where they prayed Hardhome would be. But this deep in the woods, their bearings were slipping and each direction looked the same. Simultaneously preoccupied with Garlan's injury, Robb's mind was slipping. In reality, they could have been trudging an endless circle, for all they knew.

"Lean on me," he said.

When he went to take Garlan's arm, he was stopped. "I'm all right, I can walk."

Progress was slow. More than once, Garlan had to pause and let himself fall against the nearest tree, otherwise he'd have hit the ground and not got up again. It pained Robb to see him like that, to be walking ahead of him. So he slowed his own pace, eliminating the risk of accidentally leaving him behind. Together, they inched forwards until Robb could take it no more.

"Stop being so damn proud and lean on me."

"See? You were never a bastard cupbearer, you're too controlling," Garlan gave a brittle laugh before complying.

Robb momentarily stumbled under the extra weight but soon found his footing. With his right arm wrapped around the other's waist, they set off again. Dragging their feet through frozen foliage, following their noses into the darkness of the woods. When Robb looked back, he could just about distinguish a trail of blood tracking their progress.

"You should go on without me."

"You should know I'd never do that," said Robb.

For a moment, Garlan stopped and Robb had to do the same. He looked at Robb keenly for what seemed a long time. "Back then, you talked of reclaiming all you lost to honour your father. You did, no doubt. But not as much as you do right now."

Garlan's grip on Robb's shoulder tightened. A deliberate act of affection, a semi-embrace as best they could manage it. For a moment, he couldn't find the words to say. Grand gestures were one thing, but it was the details that marked the mettle of a man. Eddard Stark knew that better than anyone.

"We're going to get out of this," he said. "Both of us."

His father told him not to make promises he couldn't keep. But he also told him never to give up in the face of adversity. Robb made his choice.

For a while, it worked. They each found enough strength to push through, advancing across the uneven ground until they reached a clearing in the woods. Already, the sun was setting. But there was a clean stream nearby, which Robb could use to fill their water bottles and wash Garlan's soiled bandages. He worked quickly and methodically, ignoring the achingly cold water that rapidly numbed his hands right to the tips of his fingers. When he returned, Garlan was barely conscious. But he was still breathing and where there was a heartbeat, there was hope.

"Garlan," he said. "Garlan!"

"I can hear you," he replied. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his eyes half-closed. "But you must stop now. Just stop."

"I need to change the dressings, that's all. They're clean, I just washed them. See." He held them out for inspection, but the other man wasn't looking. Reluctant to wait any longer, he began unfastening Garlan's tunic and shirt. Until a hand fell over his, stopping him by holding fast.

"Please stop now, your grace."

"You can't give up now-"

"I'm not giving up. I need to talk to you."

Robb fell back, rocking on his heels at Garlan's side. "I'm listening."

With increasing difficulty, Garlan pulled himself into a sitting position, the collar of his shirt still open. Robb thought he was going to close it again and went to help, only for his hand to be batted away again. Instead, Garlan reached beneath the collar and pulled out a gold chain with a locket and a ring too small to fit any of Garlan's fingers.

"Inside the locket, I want to see her."

Robb struggled with the fine clasp, his fingers still numb from cold. But inside he found a miniature portrait of Leonette Fossoway, Garlan's wife. In the other panel, a lock of hair he assumed was hers.

"Break the glass, if you must."

Robb hesitated. "I don't mind holding it up so you can see."

"No, give Leonette the chain and the pendant. The ring is for Margaery."

Robb understood. He extracted the lock of hair after a little fumbling, his fingers still numb from the cold water. But he had to break the panel to get the small scrap of painted canvass out. Miraculously still in one piece, he placed it into Garlan's hands, along with the curl of fair hair. Garlan closed his hand around it, a smile of relief of his face. Beneath him, the snow was stained red.

There was a hundred things Robb wanted to say. To implore him not to give up now, not when they had come so far. It was the futility of it all that stopped him. The pointlessness of it. He went to back away, but Garlan reached out and stopped him. His strength was pitiful, draining fast. Then, when their eyes met and their gaze locked into each other, he was shocked by the fierceness in the other man's golden-brown eyes.

"You do not let them turn me into one of those things," he said.

"No!" said Robb. "I won't. I promise."

But he remembered the Glover lad from a few nights before. How quickly he had been turned. Was it instant? No one even knew how long he'd been dead for, before he rose again. Robb knew it couldn't have been long. This pale assurance was all he could give, but it was enough for Ser Garlan who fell back against the tree. He opened the palm of his hand and a few stray snowflakes came to rest on Leonette's face. Robb backed away, as if giving the two lovers time alone, but was reluctant to go too far.

He watched as his brother by law weakened, helpless and alone.

"Thank you, Ser Garlan," he said, fearing he was slipping into unconsciousness.

"What for?"

"You know what. Everything. Alliances, pacts. The saving of Winterfell." It felt forced, but all the same it had to be said. "For entrusting your sister to a northern barbarian."

That caused the other man's gaze to sharpen again. "You look after her, or I'll hunt you through the seven hells and back again. Then I'll hunt you through whatever heathen hells it is you northern upstarts believe in. You can count on that."

But he was smiling, a dry laugh escaped him that sounded more like a cough. And Robb was pleased, too.

"If I do wrong by her, I'd spare you the hunt and give myself up."

"Oh, Leonette…" Garlan began, but it trailed off into a shallow sigh. The remainder of his sentence was consigned to the annals of things people never got the chance to say. Robb lifted his head to face him, knowing he was gone already.

"Dracarys." Daenerys' command was met with a roar of flame as Drogon plummeted downwards. Behind her, Jon gripped her so tight she thought he might crush her. But this was his first time going to war on the back of a dragon, she made allowances. She felt him cautiously peering over her shoulder, looking down at the place where wights took light in a river of molten fire. It wasn't enough and she gave the command again. "Dracarys, Drogon!"

Rhaegal had peeled away from them as they flew over Castle Black. Now he approached them again, burning off the wights that were fleeing Drogon's attack. Viserion had crash landed at the top of the wall, from where he perched and screamed his fire directly downwards. A hue and cry had gone up from within the castle itself, a horn blast repeatedly shattering the darkening air. But Daenerys was reluctant to stop now. Visibility was poor and getting worse. Leave it much longer and she knew she wouldn't be able to finish what she had started.

"Are you all right?" she called over her shoulder, to where Jon was entranced by the action playing out below them.

He looked at her briefly, managing to nod. "I think that's done it."

Her view of the target wasn't the best. But she could make out the figures of the wights, moving fast but jerkily. From that height, they looked like a swarm of black insects against the virgin white snow all around them. Rhaegal moved in for the kill, breathing more fire as he swooped low over the ground. Below them, a bell was ringing in alarm and the voices of men cried out wordlessly. Whether jubilant or not, Dany couldn't tell.

"Land," said Jon. "Make land now, so they know we're on their side."

"They've been expecting us," she pointed out.

All the same, she knew how it must look to the men on the ground and she complied. Careful to steer Drogon to a bit of empty land about a half-mile south of Castle Black, she landed as gently as she could. It was the landings that seemed to bother Jon the most. It was an almighty bump which always seemed to knock him out of his seat, sending him sliding perilously down Drogon's back. She would never let him fall, and she hoped he knew that too.

Rhaegal and Viserion landed close by, lumbering over to join them as soon as they hit the ground. All three were tired after their exertions and she decided to leave them there. The land was deserted here, they wouldn't be troubling anyone. Meanwhile, men from the castle were already running over to them. Hopefully, she thought, not with spears in their hands.

"This is Daenerys of House Targaryen," Jon declared, loud enough to the first to hear. It stopped them in their tracks. "She's come from Meereen, to help us."

They had stopped. Hundreds of them all dressed in black. Stony-faced men, young and old alike – all had been prematurely aged by the conditions in which they lived. All of them looking at her as she stepped forward. Daenerys of House Targaryen. Mother of Dragons. Eventually, one man stepped forward. He didn't look impressed.

"And here was me thinking it was Nessa with the big tits come up from Mole's Town," he said, deadpan.

Dany would have been affronted had Jon not been grinning so widely. He and Lord Sarcastic approached each other, met half-way and threw their arms around each other in a gruff bearhug. Jon peeled away, looking back at her with the smile still on his face. "Don't mind Edd, your grace. He's our official jester."

"Aye, don't mind me your grace. Lads, bid the Queen welcome."

A roar of cheer went up among the Watchmen and she soon found herself surrounded. Hands were shaken, a few slapped her on the back hard enough to jerk her forwards. But she did not mind. She had expected no less in this man's world of the Night's Watch. They were gruff and scraggly as they came, but warm and humorous with it. But as they made their way to Castle Black, the talk quickly turned serious.

"Are they gone?" she asked. "Those … things."

"The wights?" said Edd. "Gone, for now, thanks to your grace. Do those dragons need fuelling or what? Because they'll soon be needed again."

She had expected no less. "They need to rest for now. They've all been airborne for days. That skirmish will have exhausted them."

"But we're safe for now, are we?" said Jon.

"I'd say so. Damn things have been standing there for months," said Edd. "The ones that weren't burned will have gone running off to wherever wights go."

"And where's that?" said Dany.

Edd shrugged. "The Haunted Woods, Skirling Pass, Frost Fangs, anywhere between here and the Lands of Always Winter."

When the made it to the Castle, they were greeted by the men patrolling the top of the wall. The wights gathered at the gates had been dispersed. But, like Edd, they had little hope of a long respite. They did not think for themselves, the dragon fire was not a memory they would retain. Soon, they would return with reinforcements.

Meanwhile, rooms were made ready for them in the Castle. But Jon was to return to the Lord Commander's chambers, to Dany's dismay. Before that, however, they were alone in the common hall used by the men. A rare moment they could speak privately.

"Any word of your brother?" she asked.

Jon shook his head. "No. He left for the Shadow Tower nearly a month ago and hasn't been heard from since. Most of the men here are his, though."

Ever since leaving Winterfell, he'd been in a strange mood. They had barely exchanged a word and, when they stopped overnight, he slept as soon as they finished their supper. More than once, she suspected he was feigning sleep to avoid talking to her. Even Rhaegal had been behaving strangely. Snappy and angry, like he was turning into Drogon when one of him was more than enough.

"We'll find him, Jon," she assured him. "Come the morning, when the dragons have rested, we will go out again."

"I am needed here now," he answered, brusquely. "Your grace, I am still Lord Commander and I have duties to perform-"

"I know," she cut in. "And I thought one of them was finding your brother."

"It is. But Dany, we can't go together," he said. "I appreciate it. But I will assemble a ranging party and we will head out in a day or two."

"And I will bring Drogon," she said. "I'll be able to cover more ground. But if I have done something that's upset you, I wish you would tell me."

"You haven't," he assured her. "It's not you. It's this."

He reached into a pocket and withdrew a letter. The same one he found back at Winterfell, or so she'd wager. She took it after he gestured for her to do so. And when she went to ask what it was about, Jon pushed past her and ran for the door. Alarmed, she spun on her heels to see what was going on and ran to him when he fell to his knees in the snow outside. Half a heartbeat later, he was wrestling in the snow with huge white wolf. And she smiled.

"Ghost," she said to herself.

With no wish to break up the reunion between man and wolf, she took herself and her letter aside. Not looking where she was going, she almost bumped into the man she didn't see coming. She looked up, startled and noticed the woman dressed all in red at his side.

"Welcome, Daenerys Targaryen," she said. Even her eyes were red; a ruby pulsed at her throat. The man she was with remained silent, regarded her coolly.

"Thank you," she replied, edging past them both. As she passed, she looked back over her should, already knowing the red woman was still watching her.

Restlessly, Margaery paced the floor of the common hall. Both Sansa and her grandmother bid her sit, but she could not. All her thoughts were of Robb, where he could be and what he was doing. Loras and Garlan worried her, too. They were her brothers. Her thoughts, wishes and prayers were all for them. But her heart was Robb's alone. She felt bound to him. And still she paced, pushing away the food they brought to her. She couldn't face even the thought of food. That night, when she slept, it was fitful and restless.

She awoke before dawn, feeling hot and sticky. The pipes in the walls, or so she thought, making the room too hot. Feeling dizzy and sick, she threw back the bedsheets and noticed the blood on the sheets. At first, for just a second, it didn't register. It had pooled between her legs, like her moon blood sometimes did when she was not prepared for it. From being too hot, she was suddenly cold and shivering violently.

"Jeyne!" she called out in fear. "Jeyne, I need you."

Muffled thumps sounded from an antechamber, soon followed by Jeyne barrelling through the door. "Your Grace, what is it?"

Jeyne soon saw, her face turning white as she looked at the bedsheets in the candlelight. Margaery tried to stand, but a pain so violent seized her she fell back down again, crying out for help. Arya burst through the doors, Sansa came rushing in with Wolkan. It all happened so fast and Margaery wished they'd all go away and leave her. The pains kept coming and when they ebbed away, she knew they were taking her baby with them. She knew, but she couldn't accept. She crossed her legs, fought against the pains and tried to hold the infant in place.

"Margaery," said Olenna, whom she had not heard enter the room. "Margaery, there's nothing to be done. The babe is gone."

"No," she whispered. "No. No. No."

Denials all in vain.

The sheets were pulled from under her, bright with blood. The pains came again and she felt the infant slip silently out of her. Numb with disbelief, she let things be done to her. She drank something Wolkan brought to her lips. She let the girls put her in some hot water. It all happened in a haze, she was a thing they passed between them and she was powerless to stop them. She got out of the bath and a bundle of pure white linen was place in her arms. Inside, a scrap of humanity that never got the chance to breathe.

"The infant is a girl, your grace." Wolkan spoke softly. "Born too soon. Far too soon."

It became real, then. As she cradled the miscarried babe in her arms, she began to weep. Bitter tears that leaked down her face. A little girl, she thought to herself, a little Princess. She couldn't let go, not yet. It seemed unreal that she would never hold this child in her arms again, so she made the kiss matter.

"Go softly, sweet girl," Margaery whispered in her daughter's ear. "We will meet again."

Still cradling the baby, she looked out of the window into a world still dark as night. The sun should have been up by now. But, at that moment, she didn't care if the sun never rose again.

Jon thought the sun should have been up by now, but he set about his work all the same. In the darkness, he lit a candle and dressed quickly before entering the common hall. There, Dany was waiting already. Dressed and sat at the high table, she watched him curiously. He had not seen her since giving her the letter and he thought she might not have read it yet.

"Good morning," he said, tentatively.

"I read the letter," she said.

He didn't know whether he should be dismayed or not. But already he was prepared for the worst.

"Do you believe it?" he asked.

"Why wouldn't I?" she replied. "Your brother wouldn't lie. But would Howland Reed?"

She got up and approached him, coming to a rest at a kissing distance. "This is why you have been so distant with me."

Jon nodded. "I should have told you."

"On the road would have been better," she said. "When we had some privacy."

Jon couldn't argue with that. Now he was kicking himself. This moment was always going to have to arrive, he'd merely been delaying the inevitable. "I understand if you no longer wish to have anything to do with me-"

"Why would I want that?" she cut in.

She moved closer still, taking his hands in her own. Their foreheads touched and Jon so badly desired her it hurt. He knew what he knew, but it was too late. He loved her then and he loved her still. Now the truth had set him free and ruled her out of his life. But he desired her still and he couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "If I had known, if there was something I could have done-"

"Don't apologise," she said. She brought her hands to his face, drawing him closer for a kiss. "I swear to you, I will find your brother and bring him back here. Then, we will all talk. The three of us and we will find out what is happening."

Relief washed over him as he wrapped his arms around her. "Aunt," he said.

Daenerys laughed. A snorting sound muffled by his furs. Still they embraced, until the door opened and they pulled apart a second too late. Jon's heart sank at the sight of Ser Alliser Thorne. Jon could have brought Dany, Dragons and the riches of the known world here and Ser Alliser would still be looking at him as if he was something a dog regurgitated on a Myrish rug.

"I can see I'm interrupting, Lord Commander, I'll come back later."

Jon cursed as the man vanished out of the doors, but he knew of the mutiny already. Edd had told him everything. Still, it made him uncomfortable that they had been seen with their arms around each other. The late dawn was disconcerting enough already, now he knew he was going to have to go up against Thorne sooner, rather than later. A cold feeling settled in the pit of his belly. It was time to strike or be stricken.

"That's the man I saw with the red woman, yesterday. Who is he?"

Jon, still watching the spot where Thorne had vanished, simply answered: "Bad news. And I'm going to have to deal with it before he gets the chance to tell all and sundry that I've been fucking you in every room of the castle."

The pyre was built within sight of the heart tree. In the absence of a sept, it was the best that Robb could do. He knew no prayers for the new gods, but he didn't think the seven would hear them from the north anyway. All the same, he did what he could. A palette of fallen logs, padded out with bracken and brambles and other detritus foraged from the forest floor. Three layers of it, giving the pyre some good height. Ser Garlan's body he arranged last of all. He removed the dirty furs and lay the green cloak of House Tyrell over his body, his arms arranged on top. In his frozen hands, Robb placed his sword and made sure it was held straight. Then he struck a flint to light a torch, which he touched the loose brambles in hope the foliage would take light fast.

It should have been a funeral fit for a warrior, attended by family and friends, and every fair maid he ever saved from the marauding beasts that roamed the land. Instead, Ser Garlan had died thousands of miles from home and no one even knew about it yet. But now the old gods knew. When the fire took hold and the flames curled around the corpse of his brother-by-law, Robb knelt beside the tree to be with them.

There he stayed, until the layers of the pyre collapsed in on itself and flames rose higher and higher. Alone, miles away from anywhere, he wondered what he should do now. He'd long since lost track. Still he didn't move. The sun should have risen by now, he was sure of that. He had been waiting for the dawn to light the flames, before giving up and doing it anyway. It was very strange. And when dozed beside the hot fire, he once more dreamed that he heard Bran's voice.

He awoke with a start, breathing in ash and staring into a dark and endless night.

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