DACEY

It had been a grave mistake for her to come along, Dacey realised as they were not three miles from the keep, but no one would hear it from her. Her shoulder hurt in the most gruesome manner, pulled this way and that every time her horse made an unexpected move. She gritted her teeth, though, and schooled her face in the most neutral expression she could muster, anxious as she was not to allow the Maester to see she was in no fit state to travel the twenty miles to Meerya's home and back. Ever since she knew there might possibly be someone else who had survived the massacre with her and Smalljon, she needed to see who it was, hear his story – it might even be someone she'd know.

Leaving Jon had been difficult, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat. They had no choice but to trust the people at the Wilford, but with the passing of the weeks it had become clear that neither one of them truly trusted any of the people they were surrounded by since they had survived Edmure's wedding. Leaving Smalljon defenceless and still in so much pain and fear, not to mention taking the Maester away from him, had given her pause. So much so that she had almost talked herself into staying at the keep, until Smalljon told her he would be fine, and that any man of theirs still out there fighting for his life, deserved her protection – such as it was – much more than he did. She had slipped him her dagger, telling him to hide it, and she had given Gerad's wife Ayla such a pointed look on her arrival in Smalljon's room that the lady had seemed to shrink away from Dacey's presence.

"I'll take care of him, I promise," the woman managed to say, aiming for a disarming smile, but Dacey had just nodded, muttering 'you'd better' under her breath before leaving the house in search of her horse.

Another sharp stab of pain bolted through her body and Dacey was snapped out of her thoughts, her eyes focusing again on the road ahead and the woods on either side of it. Behind her Meerya and the Maester were talking and instead of turning in the saddle to ask them to keep it down, she had to let her horse fall back and tell them off while looking straight ahead in order to prevent more pain. While they quickly nodded and stopped talking altogether, Dacey trotted ahead again and offered a prayer to the old gods begging to spare them from raiders or soldiers or Frey search parties for she would be totally unable to fight them off.

It took them most of the day to reach Meerya's home – or what was left of it – and by the time Dacey came off her horse everything inside of her had gone frighteningly numb. "I know," Ellard whispered in passing, following Meerya to the door, shooting her a knowing look. Dacey looked away, wondering as she limped to the door herself if the Maester hadn't been right after all when he'd told her she shouldn't travel. Yet, it could no longer be helped and she mustered the last shreds of her energy to go inside and face whoever it was Meerya had found all those weeks ago. Maybe seeing one of her own would renew her strength.

"Where is he?" Ellard asked, nodding at Meerya's father who could only stare dumbfounded at the almost-train of people that suddenly came through the door in the dusky half-light of the evening. Two younger men, her brothers most likely, stood silently watching with their arms folded across their chests and Dacey squared her shoulders – despite the pain. The people in this house were merely trying to survive, she could tell from even the smallest signs, but something about them told her that she needed to be on her guard, especially around the brothers. They looked at her suspiciously, something she could not really blame them for since she walked into their house in full leather hauberk (of which she had been clever enough to remove her House's sigil before they left at the break of dawn) and her broadsword, not to mention she was almost six foot tall.

Meerya led them to a small room, only divided from the rest of the house by a curtain, and the Maester followed her inside, his bag of instruments in hand. Reaching out to grab the curtain, she could hear his voice calling her.

"He's alive, Dacey," Ellard said. "Why don't you come in and tell me if you know him?"

When Dacey stepped inside the room she thought her heart would stop.

What she wanted to do was drop to her knees by the side of the rackety bed and wake him up, to call his name and wipe the beads of sweat from his brow, to cup his cheek and tell him – promise him – things would be all right and she would lead him to safety, but she also knew instantly that no one could know she had found none other than Robb Stark, and so she stood as passively as she could, resisting with all her might the urge to touch the man she was sworn to protect. She was never one for politics but in this case she knew she had to keep her wits about her; it was imperative no one would know this was in fact the King in the North.

Especially not the two brothers, who had stepped up behind her and were following the proceedings in the room with an oddly curious interest.

Dacey's mind worked at high speed now that she understood she had been given a renewed chance at being a Kingsguard, a task she felt she had truly forsaken; something that had eaten away at her nerves during every last hour since surviving the Twins. She moved around the bed slowly without saying a word, giving herself time to think. She saw that Meerya had taken most of his clothes off and knew she would underestimate the brothers if she thought they had not thoroughly examined them. She didn't know how much telltale signs of his House and his kingship had still remained after his stint in the river, but she had to expect the worst.

"I know him," she began, slowly, taking in his deep red curls, long and shaggy around his face, his scratchy, ruined, once so handsome face. "He came down with Robb Stark's army from the North."

"A soldier?" one of the brothers asked and she dragged her gaze up from the bed.

"No," she answered, acutely aware that whatever would come out of those brothers' mouths would only be covered up ways of testing her. "He's a Captain. I don't know of which company – I was only a soldier myself and I wasn't serving under him." She could tell the brothers weren't certain she was speaking the truth. "The King in the North marched with over twenty thousand men," she added, hoping to sound casual. "We camped around the Twins with over twelve. You do not honestly believe me to have known every singe one of them?"

"I must say I have never come across a woman soldier before," the other brother chimed in, changing the course of attack. "It's hard to believe you are able to use that sword you're carrying there."

Dacey cursed inside. "I'm still recovering from my own wounds," she said curtly. "But once I'm healed I'll gladly challenge you to a duel." The young man smiled wryly at her. "You won't win," Dacey added, with an equally strained smile.

"My brothers should know better than to pick fights with Northern warriors, shouldn't you, Maaric?" Meerya asked pointedly, handing the Maester his bag as he motioned for it. "Now all of you, leave, so we can tend to him."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dacey said and it earned her a curious look from the Maester.

"I don't know how many of us survived," she added quickly. "He may well be the highest in rank, and if that's the case I have a duty to keep him alive." She widened her stance in the corner of the room and crossed her arms in front of her chest, her hand on the pommel of her sword. "I won't be in the way," she said decisively, not brooking any further argument.

The brothers retreated the very second the Maester started pulling the covers away from the patient and in a flash Dacey knew she was going to see a whole lot more of her King than she had ever bargained for – forcing her face to remain as impassive as it had been throughout the exchange with Meerya's brothers. When Ellard removed the bandages he muttered under his breath, clucked his tongue and Dacey could see Meerya shrink as the Maester's investigation continued.

'Well," he began, turning to look at the girl. "It is not the best work I have ever seen, but you certainly kept him alive with it." Dacey looked at Meerya, taking in her scrawny appearance, a daughter who lost her mother and, in a way, her father too, and who could barely make ends meet after the war had raged around their parts. Dacey knew she was indebted to this girl, that she should and would not ever forget this and that hopefully there would come a day to repay her; once Meerya knew the true weight behind her actions.

"I'm going to undo all the stitching," the Maester cut through her thoughts. "And then clean the wounds and then close them once more. If we start right now, we could be on our way to the Wilford in the morning." He looked up from his work to nod at Dacey. "Because he can't stay here, Dacey – prepare the bed in the wagon."

Dacey hesitated. The order from the Maester was clear enough, and ignoring it because she wanted to stay in the room could cast suspicion. Yet, she also knew that opening up the wounds was by far the most hazardous part of the Maester's plans and she wanted to be around when he carried it out.

"Later," she said. "I might be of help if you start opening him up again." She unbuckled her sword belt in a bid of cooperation, resting the blade in the windowsill where she could reach it quickly if necessary. "I've seen enough wounds in this bloody war to know that much. Let me at least help you first."

Ellard nodded and the three of them set to work.

It happened when the Maester cut the stitches of the very last wound, the one closest to the scar Robb received after storming the Crag. The Maester lifted his hands away from Robb's body and Meerya stumbled back in surprise when his whole body jerked – clearly in pain – and then his eyes were open, blurry, his pupils fully shot to black, but open.

"Rodrik," Dacey called out, dropping to her knees beside the bed, realising belatedly how that might look but happy with herself for coming up with a name just in case she had to use it before she could explain the situation to the King. As the other two people in the room were steadily working to undo Meerya's well-meant but clearly clumsy stitches, she had mostly watched, taking or offering the incidental bandage or knife, and think up a suitable name to keep from revealing Robb's true identity. The name would give her a fraction of time to correct herself if she accidentally wanted to call him Robb and she knew it would stick easily in Robb's head, as she'd chosen the name of the man who taught him everything about arms and warfare and fighting there was to know.

"Hold him down, Dacey," the Maester said and she knew she would have to press down on Robb's shoulders with all her strength in order to restrain him. As she moved to the head of the bed, hands on his shoulders all the while, she looked at his eyes and wondered if he realised where he was, or even who he was. She smiled down at him, pushing his shoulders into the mattress, swallowing hard when he cried out in agony once the Maester started cutting away at the stitching again.

"Shouldn't we give him something for the pain?" she asked hopefully, but the Maester shook his head.

"Once I start cleaning these wounds he'll pass out anyway," he said in a dark voice, and it was true. Robb's second terrified scream that tore through everyone's bones was also his last before he lost consciousness again.

It had been a week before Dacey was finally strong enough to leave her bedroom. She had fallen quite ill with a persistent fever after they arrived at the Wilford again, two days after the Maester had finished treating Robb's wounds. The trek back to the small keep had sapped the last of her strength and she could only hope and pray Robb wouldn't wake up and give himself away while she was absent from his sickbed, finally tackled by disease to one herself. Cleaning and redressing his wounds had proved much more work than the Maester anticipated, and Robb had woken up on two more occasions, his screams and spasms testimony to the terrible pain the Frey arrows had left him in. Once done, Ellard had been exhausted himself and didn't dare move his patient until the trembling had stopped and the fever that had started raging anew had more or less abated. Robb had been delivered to the keep drawn and pale and so thin Dacey wondered if she would ever see him again as she got into a bed of her own.

Gerad had visited her, though, together with his wife, to tell her how Smalljon was growing stronger every day, his fever gone, walking about in his room, and although her illness sometimes made it seem impossible for Dacey to even think straight, she had apologised to the lady of the house for her improper behaviour before they had left. Ayla smiled, holding up her hands, muttering something about how these trying times made everyone paranoid.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pushed her legs into her breeches and threw her linen shirt over her head, needing another five minutes to catch her breath. "Seven hells," she cursed, but only after she'd muttered the words did she realise her shoulder hurt far less than it had done before she was forced to remain in bed. Pulling on her boots and buckling her sword in place proved quite a task, but she managed, leaving the room in search of Smalljon first and Robb after.

"Jon," she spoke softly, closing the door behind her, finding her comrade sitting up in his bed, smiling as he saw her. She sat down on the edge of his bed, grabbing his hand. "You will not believe who the patient in Meerya's house turned out to be." Smalljon's eyes widened and Dacey knew she did not even have to pronounce his name. "They don't know who he is, they have never literally seen our King" she continued, her voice even less than a whisper. "Not even Gerad and his wife, I think. Or they have recognised him and they are true to their word, which is good, but it's not as good as not knowing altogether. His true identity has to remain a secret, Jon." She took a deep breath, barely able to contain her laughter, sheer happiness bubbling up now she could finally share the news with her fellow Kingsguard, her friend. "I've called him Rodrik, and for now I have made him a Captain in the Stark army. There may have been Stark paraphernalia left on his clothes when they found him and I'm certain Meerya and her family have examined those to try and find out who he is."

Smalljon pushed up and swung his legs over the edge, reaching for his breeches on the far end of his bed. Dacey closed a hand over his. "He was in a terrible state, Jon," she muttered. "I asked Gerad if he was still alive when he came to visit me three days ago, and he told me that was the case – but barely." Smalljon stilled his movements to look at her and she noticed how his beard was steadily growing back to its former glory. She offered him her safest smile, the one that told him not to despair. "He'll pull through. I know he will," she stated, balling her fists unconsciously, looking down as Smalljon touched her wrist. "And when he does we'll go back north and hide him and amass an army again and reclaim what was taken from him – from us."

Without another word they both left the room, in search of Robb's.

JEYNE

She didn't think she had ever been so cold in her life before. She had grown up at sea, in the south, with the sun on her skin more days than not, and of course it was the worst possible preparation for travelling north. Especially this far north. The fire she was staring at only did so much to stop her from trembling, her dress and fur cloak not nearly enough to block out the cold gusts of wind, and when she looked up at the sky she could tell the clouds had much more snow in store.

"Here," a gruff voice came from behind, placing another thick fur cloak around her shoulders. She huddled inside of it, gratefully looking up at the big man who was now walking around the fire to join her in their evening meal. He cut a meaty bit off the rabbit that was roasting over the small fire and her gloved hand took it from him, giving it a dubious glance. "You need to eat, Your Grace," the man said, cutting off a morsel for himself. "You need to eat in case we will have to go without for a few days; you'll need some fat on you to survive the cold that's still to come." He tore off some more meat and handed it to her, watching her carefully as she ate obediently – offering the man her most grateful smile.

"I cannot thank you enough, Ser Brynden," she said after most of the rabbit was gone.

"You are my Queen," he answered, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You were never going to be safe at Riverrun, not in the end, so I smuggled you out. It was the only sensible thing to do."

She looked at him with her kind eyes, thinking back to the night he had stolen into her room, urging her to get dressed, telling her how something terrible had happened and that she needed to leave the castle sooner rather than later. He had helped her pack the barest of necessities, told her to dress as warmly as possible before throwing one of Robb's heavy fur cloaks over his arm and leaving the room with it, growling a hurried 'follow me'. With a start Jeyne realised it was this cloak the Blackfish had just draped across her shoulders and it caused a fresh wave of grief to wash over her unannounced. She averted her face, unwilling to show the old man in front of her even more of her useless tears, but she couldn't help herself.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said uncomfortably, clearly lost for words.

"My name is Jeyne," she smiled through her tears. "I never liked the title anyway, and I am more of a widow now than a Queen, so please call me Jeyne." Her words caused her to burst into even more tears when she remembered how Robb had never truly got used to his title either, urging her to call him Robb right from the start, right after they did what they did and he married her for it. It was something she knew no one would ever do for her but Robb had, from which point on it was impossible for her not to love him. When they were a good thirty miles from Riverrun, during which she spent most of her time wondering how they could possibly have crossed the river without getting their feet wet, Brynden Tully had sat her down and told her what had happened at the Twins where his nephew was supposed to get married to Frey's daughter Roslin. Not much of what he told her that evening had stuck in her mind but for the part that Robb had been slaughtered at Walder Frey's hands, betrayed and murdered after he had been forced to leave Grey Wind outside and order his Kingsguard to disarm. The North had lost its King, she was dimly aware, but the fact that she had lost the boy who'd managed to make her feel like she belonged was what had really slammed her in the face and left her barely conscious. She had lost her husband who only ever laughed when he was with her. She lost the man who took her to his bed every night and worshipped her, told her how precious she was to him and how much he wanted to get a baby on her. She lost him before they ever truly got to know each other, their marriage barely one year old, leaving her maimed and bereft and shattered with the loss of him.

She swallowed, trying to stop the tears, sternly telling herself it was something that could not be helped anymore and that she was still his Queen. She should at least give him that – his honour and his memory kept alive by a Queen who held her head high despite her grief. It was an anchoring thought, actually; the challenge she needed to survive.

"Maybe calling you Jeyne would not be such a bad idea," Ser Brynden's dark voice broke through the haze of her sorrow, a slight smile on his lips. "After all, no one is supposed to know I'm harbouring you, and the title that comes with you." He winked at her and she smiled through her tears, wiping the wetness from her cheeks with her sleeve.

"And I'll try not to be such a common girl – crying at every turn," Jeyne grinned, tucking Robb's furs closer around her body. "We can meet each other half way."

"Sounds like a deal," the Blackfish agreed, killing part of the flames by kicking snow over it. "Now, let us try and get some sleep. It's a long way yet to the Wall and we will need our strength."

"Are we close to Winterfell, do you know?" Jeyne asked before walking to the shelter of a huge overhanging slab of rock, the thought suddenly coming to her.

"Aye," the old knight answered. "It's a day or two to the northeast, as the raven flies." He stood as well, guiding her to her makeshift bed. "Does this knowledge comfort you?"

"Yes," she said, smiling up at the big man, clad from head to toe in black mail and a giant fur cloak. "It most certainly does."

Lying down, she wrapped herself in her heavy furs, hoping against hope that a bit of Robb still remained in the rough animal skin. She had never seen Winterfell in her life, and she knew that her husband's ancestral home had been put to the torch by Theon Greyjoy, but the simple thought that she was getting nearer to the place where Robb had most likely spent the happiest moments of his life gave her an odd sense of peace, allowing her to sleep well for the first time in weeks.