Andrew

"I had hoped that by now you would have known what you are getting into when you married me." His wife had put aside her leather jerkin and breeches that she always wore for a soft blue gown with sleeves of silver Myrish lace that she had used as the nightgown.

"Seems like I have made a mistake," Andrew said quietly. "I should have enquired more about my bride."

"You should have," Argella plucked a cup from the table and threw it at the bed.

He could see that she wanted to throw it at him. They had been at it for a long time. He had hoped that she would see the wisdom in that decision, but he knew his wife well enough to know there was no arguing with that stubborn jut of jaw. "Nothing good is going to come from speaking about the past," Andrew told her. "You should know it is the wisest course of action. Even your father approved of it."

That seemed to surprise her. "Father? I could talk to father and make him see that this wisest course of action is not fair." She flicked the hair away. "Not to me. What of our lessons? You know I can't miss them."

"We can always continue when this war is over," Andrew told her.

"And until then you expect me to run your household," Argella looked at him sharply, her blue eyes so pointed and flashing like an icy crystal. "I would do a wretched job at it."

That was a lie. She would do a good job at running a castle and holding it at war. But his wife could be stubborn as a river rock, even more so when it comes to things like this. But Andrew was not likely to forget the past any time soon. Blood, fire and death littered his past and dreams. He could not allow the future to follow suit as well.

"That is not what I mean for you," Andrew told her.

"I am to be sent cowering back into a castle with women and children," Argella accused.

"That is an honourable charge," Andrew said softly.

"To mind the children?" Argella said. "To find food and bedding when you return from war. What renown and honour is there in that?"

Andrew sighed. He walked over to her and grasped her by the arms and looked into her clear blue eyes. "My lady, a time may come for valour without renown," he explained. "Who will then my people look to in their last defence? Their King who lost in the south or their Queen in the North?"

Her face softened then and Argella looked at him with blue eyes full of hope. "Let me stand at your side then."

"It is not in my power to command you to do that," Andrew told her. He gave a reassuring smile and turned away from her.

"You do not command the others to stay," Argella followed behind. "They fight beside you of their own choice. They fight beside you because they would not be parted from you... because they love you."

Andrew stopped for a moment and looked at her. He had no answer for that. Argella blushed brightly then, realising what she had said. "I... I am sorry. I will go North if that's what you prefer." She stormed off from the room without waiting for a reply.

And I prefer you safe, Andrew wanted to tell her. He did not doubt her valour or skill in battle, only the path that was set before him. The Targaryens were too strong than he had first thought. And he would not have her bleed or harmed for his sake. He already had too much blood on his hands.

Somewhere the gods were laughing to put him at this impossible position again and again only to take it away from him when all seemed well. Argella had never taken kindly to be denied something that she loved, he knew that. He hoped that his softer words might have swayed her to listen rather than defy, yet he was still like to miss her. Of late Andrew had come to appreciate her company more so than he had thought it to. And she made him smile more often than not.

Part of him would be glad to do nothing more than to bring her with him. He had never thought that he would ever enjoy the taste for the company of a woman after Joy had died in his arms. Yet his Queen had a charm that could have challenged his mother's own. She charmed them all. She charmed them so much that they were enthralled by her, smiling sweet smiles at Lord Dustin, calling back at the Greatjon with a jape when he had enquired about the bedding, defeating half his men in archery contests and other half in racing. "Argella the Fearless," his Lords had taken to call her for all the wrists and noses she had broken and the blackened eyes she had given during their bedding ceremony. He was the only one who had the right to touch her, yet the only one who never did so.

His closest and highest Lords were waiting for him in the yard along with a hundred picked knights and as many esquires who awaited him outside Riverrun's stables. Lord Arryn, Lord Baratheon, and Lord Tully rode beside him with the others following behind, Lords and knights from the North, Vale, Stormlands and Riverlands alike, all sworn to Winterfell, Eyrie, Storm's End and Riverrun. His cousin Edric was carrying Andrew's standard, the grey direwolf on a long and heavy white wool. Behind him the standard bearers of the other lord unfurled their standards as well. Ser Vardis Egen of Vale held the moon and falcon of Lord Arryn. Ser Dermot of the Rainwood carried the crowned stag of House Baratheon. The leaping trout of the Tullys flew from the staff of Ser Desmond Grell. Olyvar Frey had the honor of squiring for the King in the North and so he rode with him at the head of the column. He had left the prisoners in Riverrun under the command of Ser Edmure Tully. It would not do well to parade them all through the Seven Kingdoms which would only lead to more chances of escaping the chains.

His mount was the destrier that Lord Dustin had given him as a wedding gift, the magnificent black stallion with a white star between his brows. It had been long years since Andrew had named any of his horses; he had once named all of them in his father's stables, chief amongst them were Little Blackie his father's black stallion and Snowy his mother's white filly, the priced sand steed from the stables of Starfall. All of them had died after the Starks had perished in the south. But when Lord Dustin had offered the wild stallion whom no one has ever tamed or set a saddle on before it was too great of a prize to leave it unnamed. And so Andrew had named it Spirit for the spirit it showed in throwing any man who sought to tame him. They had brought the stallion to him kicking and rearing and roaring. More than half the population of the North had tried to mount him and failed in the attempt. The southron knights tried their luck as well only to find the same result. When all of them had given up the hopes Andrew had surprised everyone by subduing it. He was only afraid of his own shadow and so Andrew spoke soothingly to him and turned the stallion towards the sun so he could not see the shadow anymore, calming the animal's distress.

When he had climbed upon its back and took him for a ride around the Riverrun without saddle and reigns for the first time, the men had cheered so loud that it drowned everything else from this world. Spirit wore the black armour that Lord Baratheon had given him, the black steel blending with the fine black coat of the warhorse only the sheen of steel showing the difference. A coat of light mail enameled in black covered till it's chest. The crinet was made of several separately moving plates to give the horse comfort and maximum mobility at his neck and chamfron protected his head. The head piece was attached with a poll plate at the top and tiny rivets the size of mustard seeds held an inner lining of soft leather to keep the steel from chafing its head. An iron spike rose from the the forehead, right between the brows where the chamfron hid the white star on the black coat of the horse. Olyvar Frey held the stallion's reins as Andrew mounted. His squire was skinny as a spear, with long arms and legs, brown hair, and cheeks soft with peach fuzz. His cloak was Stark grey, but his surcoat showed the twin towers of his own House arrayed upon a silver-grey field. "Your grace," the lad asked, "will you be wanting your coat?"

"It would not be needed," Andrew told him. He had worn a brown jacket today with the white linen shirt underneath and woolen undertunic beneath it. The shirt and undertunic were tucked into the brown breeches. Andrew also wore the silver-steel mail shirt Lord Arryn had given him between the layers of the shirt and undertunic. The mail was small and light and strong... so strong that he could feel it off the polished steel and the gems. Frost hung from his hip today, sheathed in the jewelled scabbard which was the gift of Ser Gunthor Hightower and the blue dagger Rickard Karstark presented hung beside it.

When he was sitting comfortably on the saddle gifted by Lord Royce, Andrew gave a whistle. Ghost came bounding off to his side from the castle. He never knew where the direwolf came from, but then saw the answer in the yard as Argella walked down the stairs leading up to the keep of the castle. She had changed from her gown in favour of her riding leathers, the black boiled leather armour inlaid with gold and fastened with the golden clasps.

"My lady," Andrew said, "you are riding with us?"

"Just to the encampment," Argella answered, barely even looking at him. She walked as if nothing was wrong and went to the stables where the Lady Brienne was waiting for her with her horse. "It's a tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men." She swung up on the saddle smoothly and looked at him with a sweetest of smile. "I am sure your grace would not be so cruel as to deny me from saying my farewells."

He could scarcely deny her that. It was cleverly done, that request. But Andrew did not fail to see his wife carrying her bow and arrows. Farewell was not all that she wanted to say. He nodded then. They still had a long way to go to reach the Trident. Several leagues and castles lay between Riverrun and the crossing at the crossroads. It should harm no one.

"Fine," Andrew said to his queen. "If you must." He gathered the reins in his right hand and wheeled his horse around.

Argella made her way to Andrew's side, dressed in leather and mail but still looking like a queen. Her sworn sword, Brienne of Tarth fell in beside her, dressed in a dented armour of deep blue. The large woman's shield hung from the saddle of her palfrey, the wood so hacked and battered that only one of the two suns and moons were visible while the other half showed only the pink and blue paint with only streaks of yellow and white on it.

He never knew when she had planned to take this quest. Most like she's not even told her mother of it. Andrew would have loved to see Cersei Lannister's face when she realised that her daughter had run off. It would have made a wonderful sight to see.

The gates of Riverrun were already open for them and Andrew rode out through it. The soldiers had already been mustered and they were waiting for the battle.

When his father used to march out through the Winter town to the sound of drums and horns, hundreds of men and women would line the streets to cheer him off. Little boys had joined the march, striding along beside the Stark soldiers with heads held high and legs pumping, whilst their sisters threw down flowers from the windows.

Andrew used to watch them from the gates perched upon his mother's hip. He was even younger than those boys, but still as eager to be a warrior as they were. Once his father had caught one of the flowers and threw it back at his mother who had accepted it with a smile and sent him off.

Today it was him who led these vast armies off to battle. And his wife and queen rode along with him to say her own farewells. Outside crowd parted for the column. Knights and footmen alike looked upon him with eyes filled with reverence and eagerness. Here are there a man shouted his name or one of the names of the great Lords behind him. They are looking forward for the battle, Andrew observed.

The greater part of his command awaited him beyond the castle walls; The Blackfish commanded his outriders after Lord Beric Dondarrion gave the command to the seasoned knight who knew the lands well than he did, Ser Guyard Morrigen with the right flank consisted of the Stormlanders, Ser Robert Arryn at the head of the splendid array of the Winged Knights, and the northmen under Galbart Glover, the archers under Bryce Caron, Lord of the Marches, the baggage train under Maege Mormont and the rear guard consisting of a several thousand heavy horse under Lord Tytos Blackwood.

In the brief pause from the fighting, the Riverlands had recovered considerably. From what Andrew had last seen of the riverlands, scarce a field remained unburnt and a town unsacked. The war had touched its lands with its fiery fingers from the tips of the Trident in the North to Tumbler's Falls in the south. And now I am going to breathe air into the smoking fire all over again. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

This near to Riverrun, the lands were as safe as any road could be in such times, yet Andrew sent the Blackfish and his outriders ahead to scout. He had no intentions to be taken unawares by any dragon. If they should come to battle the dragon sooner than expected he would like to be prepared.

"If any foe should come within a dozen leagues, you will know of them beforehand, your grace," Ser Brynden had said before he rode away with his outriders.

There were still cows and sheep to be seen near the city; apples on the trees and berries in the brush, stands of barleycorn and oats and winter wheat, wayns and oxcarts on the road. Farther afield, things would not be so rosy.

Riding at the front of the host with Argella by his side, Andrew felt almost content. The sun was warm on his skin and the wind riffled through his hair like a woman's fingers. When young Terrance Lynderly, the squire of Robert Arryn rode up to him with a helm full of blueberries, Andrew thanked him and took handful of it and told him to share it with the fellow squires and the others.

Argella accepted the offered berries with a smile as well. She seemed so comfortable in her mail and leather armour as she was in her silken gowns. She was silent all along the way but Andrew sensed that she was glad she'd come.

Andrew had brought the crannogmen with him as well, Jojen and Meera Reed. He needed Jojen's help to understand the things he didn't understand fully yet. He had sought out Jojen Reed's chambers at the lowest floors by the water gate only that morning. With all the proper rooms with some measures of comfort already handed off to the pleasure of other high and noble Lords, only the lower rooms beside the gatehouse had been available for the crannogmen. Jojen and Meera Reed had accepted it graciously. The entrance to their room was proper at ground level, behind a door of iron and wood. On the floors directly below were the dungeons where still some of the prisoners they had taken from the Battle of Riverrun.

The chambers was heavy with smell of herbs and poultices and moss. As Andrew entered, he had found Jojen Reed in a deep thought, so deep that he had thought that he had gone to sleep with his eyes open. Elsewhere piles of clothing were strewn about the floors, and the bits of moss and herbs scattered here and there of leaves both green and brown. His sister Meera was with him as well. She had only touched her brother's shoulder and Jojen Reed emerged back from whatever dream he's been having. "I am leaving Riverrun for the war today," Andrew told him. "I would like to have you with me . . . if you want to accompany us."

Silence was his answer, and after a long moment he whispered his reply. "As you command, your grace," he had answered. But then just as he was about to turn and take his leave, Meera Reed went down to one knee. "Your grace, allow me to come with you as well," she asked. "My father told me to take care of my brother. I will not part with him." Andrew gave her a nod of approval. And here she rode with her brother in his mighty host, the only woman in the army besides his wife and her sworn sword. Andrew glanced at Argella. Perhaps there is yet hope for the both of us to make amends and have more time, my lady.

That night they made camp beneath a hilltop by the edge of the Red Fork alongside the River road. As the sun went down, a thousand tents sprouted beneath the hill, along the banks of the river that ran beside it. Andrew gave command for the sentries to be set. He did not expect trouble this close to the castle, but he had once thought to be safe in Braavos as well. It was best to take no chances.

That night he sent out invitations to the high lords to come sup with him in his own pavilion. They dined together, himself and Lords Jon, Robert and Hoster along with a dozen of their vassals and knights and lordlings.

"Has there been any word from Lord Bolton?" Lord Jon asked as a course of trout was served.

"None," he said, feeding a portion of his capon to Ghost who curled around his feet. Andrew had sent the secondary army of some ten thousand men under the command of Lord Bolton to lure the loyalist army coming down from King's Landing. He had placed his hopes on the feint to work. It would be much easier to pick apart the two armies separately before they could join strength.

"It's only been three days," said Lord Hoster as he boned his fish. "They wouldn't have gone that far."

"The dragons are creeping along far slower than they ought to," offered Lord Beric Dondarrion. "The essosi and the sellswords are dragging them back hard. They are hardly suited to march with the knights of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I say the delay is a welcome news to us," said the Greatjon. "The Targaryen prince will be looking for his reinforcements and we will catch him with his pants down while he is still waiting."

"No doubt," Lord Dustin agreed.

"I will send a raven on the morrow to learn what we can from Lord Bolton." Everyone agreed, and that was the end of that.

Yet afterward, alone in the pavilion he had been offered for the night, Andrew found himself wondering. He had already sent a good portion of his men to their graves and cells of the Targaryen in order to get some time for the Baratheons to get to Riverrun. And now he has sent another in an equally hardy task. He knew that the army coming from King's Landing would vastly outnumber his men, but he had equipped Lord Bolton with the proper men to perform a feint, not give a field battle. The best part of the army was made of light cavalry who could outrun and outmanoeuvre the heavily armoured knights though at the expense of extra protection during combat. The Lord of Dreadfort was the most cunning of his bannermen who picked the fights that only served in his favour. He would never give battle to the Lord Hand, not until he knows for sure that he can with. But he could keep Jon Connington busy for long enough to Andrew to break Aegon Targaryen.

He opened the shutters. The night was growing cold, and a horned moon rode the sky. The pale fur of Ghost shone dully in its light. Andrew stroked the soft warm fur of the direwolf. Ghost craned his head and looked up at him with bright red eyes. He nipped at his fingers lightly and licked it before going to lay down beside the brazier.

The flaps to the tent opened suddenly and Andrew turned to find his wife standing at the entrance. She had found a sword from somewhere and she pointed it toward him. "We only have very little time to spend with each other before we part," she told him. "I wish to continue from where we had stopped the training." Andrew didn't have it in him to deny her that. And so he followed her, his direwolf silently padding beside him as they went further up the hill away from the eyes of all men. A small clearing opened at the top of the hill. Andrew thought that the place to be perfect for their nightly ritual. He offered a shield to Argella but went without one for himself. Andrew took a tourney sword and readied himself. Frost was too sharp and too dangerous to be used in a friendly spar.

"Let's see how well do you fare tonight, your grace," Argella said, raising her sword. "I shall not go easy on you tonight as I have not forgotten what happened in the morning.

Andrew raised his blade in reply. "Bring on your storm, my lady." And the queen moved at once to the attack. Argella was so smooth and graceful in her movements, and strong enough to deliver a ringing blow though she was not so strong as Andrew was. He met her every cut with his own blade, or feigned away to make her work for it. They danced beneath the horned moon as the blunted swords sang their steely song. Andrew was content to let Argella lead the dance for a while, but finally he began to answer stroke for stroke. He shifted to the attack and caught his wife on the thigh, on the shoulder, on the forearm.

He blocked an overhead cut with his dagger, never bothering to bring his sword. The change left his sword free to ring her head, but he stayed his blade. Argella looked straight at him and swept her sword in a violent arc to break away. She tried a slash to hit his left arm with the dagger, and almost managed to get a strike. But in her earnest she missed her steps and ended up so close to him that Andrew reached out and caught her by the wrist. He tugged her towards him, spinning her around and pressed her back against him, holding Argella by her abdomen. Her firm stomach yielded to his strength as he grabbed her and his fingers pressed firmly into her leather clothes and the taut tummy beneath. Argella gasped and let the shield fall from her hand. Andrew dropped his dagger and pinned her sword hand in front of her where he pressed the wrist to her body and held her captive in his arms.

She was so uncomfortably close that he could feel the warmth of her body through the clothes and her scent filling his senses. Argella struggled in his grasp but Andrew held true which only made her press further against him. Her hair was heavy with the scent of first shower of rain and wild flowers. He could feel the softness of her rear pressed against his hips as she jerked and pulled and pushed. "You have good skill with a blade," Andrew told her when she finally stopped. "But you have to check your impulses or you will find yourself get caught or worse dead."

He removed his hands from her waist and let her go free. Argella turned around to face him with fury in her eyes, blue as a frozen lake. "I fear neither death nor pain."

"What do you fear, my lady?" Andrew asked, curious.

"A cage," Argella answered at once. "To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valor has gone beyond recall and desire." She bent down to pick up the shield.

"You are a daughter of Kings, my lady," Andrew told her. "A kind, fearless and courageous lady. I don't think that will be your fate. Come now. We shall continue tomorrow."

Another bright and blustery day was followed by a cloudy one. Wind and water made no matter. The column kept its pace, east along the riverroad, and each night Andrew found some private place for him to spar with Argella Baratheon. They fought inside a stable as a one-eyed mule looked on, and in the cellar of an inn amongst the casks of wine and ale. They fought in the blackened shell of a big stone barn, on a wooded island in a shallow stream, and in an open field as the moon looked down from the sky.

Argella always made sure that they had their nightly dance, even if he was caught up in councils and meetings. Almost all of them believed that he spent the nights entangled with his wife in bed, making love. That ought to be the nightly ritual of a wedded couple after all. But their nightly ritual was completely different from that, one which involved sword and shield in place of bedding and sheets. And the only witness to it was Ghost who looked silently upon them every night with his blood red eyes.

Soon the signs of war could be seen on every hand. Weeds and thorns and brushy trees grew high as a horse's head in fields where autumn wheat should be ripening, the Riverroad was bereft of travelers, and wolves ruled the weary world from dusk till dawn. Most of the animals were wary enough to keep their distance from the huge host.

That day their column crossed the stream that formed the boundary between the lands that did fealty directly to Riverrun and those beholden to Stone Hedge. He did not need a maester to tell him that these hills and fertile plains were held by Lord Jonos Bracken, Lord of Stone Hedge. The castle was built entirely of stone as the name suggested, and the outer walls and towers were blackened with smoke. There had been some fighting here as well. Stone Hedge had fallen to the Tyrells when Garlan Tyrell had routed the Riverlords and set about to capture the castles for his King. When Andrew had relieved the strangling hold Tyrell had on Riverrun the Riverlords had set about to take back their castles. And through that a dozen castles in the Riverlands had changed hands several times over the course of a fortnight.

Lord Jonos appeared to receive him into his home, with a retinue of about fifty guards. That night they camped there in the halls of Lord Bracken and they practiced together in the gardens of the castle. When they were done they had gone to sleep in the same bed.

His wife took leave from him the next morning. Argella waited by the gate in the predawn cold, wrapped up in a hooded cloak over the leathers. Beside her was the Lady Brienne. Andrew had offered her a hundred of his own riders to escort the queen back safely.

"Are you sure this force is enough?" Andrew said, incredulous. "They are more than enough, my lord," offered Argella. "You need them more than I do." She was kneeling down and patting Ghost on his neck.

"I would have done well even if I have to make the journey alone," said Argella. "I know where I must go and I know to protect myself."

That she did. She had been insisting him that she and Brienne were more than enough to make it back to Riverrun safely. "My lady, I know that. The risk-"

"-is mine, Your Grace. But I shall take those guards if that will let you be at ease."

He was thankful for that. She need fear no harm from the men from here as those here were still supporters of the rebels. But both of them knew too well that they were not the only ones here in these lands. If she somehow fell into the hands of the Targaryens, that would mean the end of it all. He didn't want to think about it. "You have sufficient food?"

"Bread, cheese, pork, salt cod, salt beef, salt mutton, and a skin of sweet wine to rinse all that salt out of my mouth. Even if we somehow managed to dry out the supplies I could hunt. I will not die of hunger."

"Then it's time you were away. I suppose you have finished your farewells."

Argella glanced at the sky and then back at him. "You know in the south it is customary for ladies to send their husbands off to war with a kiss for good luck."

Before Andrew could give a reply Argella flung her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Andrew was stunned for a moment that he could barely think let alone return the kiss. He looked at her with grey eyes wide in confusion when she pulled back.

"I-" He was about to say but she had already reached up and pulled him down to her, and the rest of his words were lost against her mouth. Andrew kissed Argella gently, carefully, but it wasn't gentleness she wanted, not now, not after all this time, and she knotted her fists in his shirt, pulling him harder against her. He groaned softly, low in his throat, and then his arms circled her, gathering her against him, and they swayed against each other, still kissing.

Both of them were gasping for breath when they pulled away. "There you go. That's your good luck kiss. Be careful, my lord. I shall await you at Winterfell."

Andrew went down the stair with Ghost running in front of him. The others followed. Andrew looked back as they passed towards the gate. Alone Argella stood before the doors of the keep of Stone Hedge; her bow hanging from her shoulder. She was clad all in black and gold, her hair streaming in the wind behind her and shone like gilded goddess in the rising sun. Andrew took one last look upon her face and turned away to face the wars in front of him.