DACEY

He had managed to sit up in his bed before she came into the room; his triumphant little smile tugging at her heart. He didn't smile much, if ever; weighed down constantly by a crushing sense of guilt. She would sit with him every evening after she had shared her meal with Smalljon, keeping away from the family. They were both afraid of saying too much and didn't want the family to feel like they should entertain the strangers anyway. Tending them back to relative health had cost them more than enough already.

She had been surprised to find Robb preferred her company to Smalljon's, but when the latter suggested she might come closest to something of a mother figure it made a little more sense to her. They didn't speak much – he tired too easily, but just having her around seemed comforting enough and she was happy to oblige.

"Well, well," she smiled, closing the door carefully, sitting down at the foot of the bed as had also become her custom. "You're sitting up. We'll be out of here and back north in no time at all now." It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it when the last word had left her mouth and his smile instantly disappeared from his face, leaving a sad mask of the man he once was.

"There's nothing in the north for me," he muttered, looking down. "Winterfell is gone, my father is gone, my mother dead at my own hands, Bran and Rickon burnt, Sansa in the clutches of that madman and only the gods know where Arya is. I don't see how I deserve to be alive." He looked at her, barely lifting his head. "Maybe this is the gods' way of punishing me – forcing me to live out my days in the knowledge of what I have done; all the mistakes, the things I haven't done – all the wrong choices." He swallowed, staring at the window, the door, anywhere but at her. "Maybe I do deserve to live," he continued quietly. "For I certainly don't deserve the peaceful rest of death."

"Don't say such things," Dacey scolded, shaking her head. "You still have a wife at Riverrun who's living under the false assumption you were slaughtered at the Twins. Think of her grief. Don't you want her to know you're still alive?" He looked at her, his face completely blank. "Don't you want to take revenge for what Walder Frey did to your mother? To your bannermen? Your armies?" She breathed deeply. "To you and me and Smalljon?"

He dragged his gaze up to her, his expression no longer empty but riddled with more guilt.

"If I ever grow strong enough to wield a sword once more," he muttered softly, clearly not believing his own words, "then maybe." He lifted his head entirely, levelling a defiant gaze at her for which Dacey felt infinitely more grateful than the blank or guilty expression he usually wore. "But don't forget they call me the King who lost the North."

Dacey had no reply to that and they just sat quietly together. She could tell he was struggling to keep his eyes open, and she decided to just stare at a fixed point somewhere behind him, giving him wordless leave to stop socialising and go to sleep. The evening had been taxing enough as it was and he didn't need more stress if she wanted to take him north soon. She had been busy planning their journey, wanting to take Robb away as soon as he could travel, on horseback or elsewise – and now that Smalljon had fully recovered she was itching to leave. Gerad had promised them horses and provisions for at least a week or two, a wagon if Robb could not yet sit a horse although she much rather wait until he had recovered enough to ride himself. They planned to follow the coastline before crossing the Western parts of the Neck to Flynt's Finger, trying to find passage there to Bear Island. If that failed they would have to ride further north into the Barrowlands and on to Deepwood Motte, but it was the less favourable plan, since Deepwood Motte was rumoured to have fallen into Ironborn hands. Dacey was startled from her thoughts by a deep groan coming from Robb's mouth and she watched him fuss under his covers. Getting up, she moved to pull them closer around him, the cold of the evening creeping into the room now that the fire in the hearth was burning low, and as she was bending over him like this she couldn't help but look at his face, so close to her own – for once not feeling embarrassed now that he was sound asleep.

His beard had grown back, a wonderful russet affair, as had his curls, and even some of the scratches that had so deformed his face were slowly fading from his cheeks and neck. The dressing around his torso had become less thick, she noticed, no longer holding the Maester's poultices to help heal the ugly wounds, and she knew from experience that his wounds were just horribly painful now, limiting one's ability to move freely; to talk or even sit for more than an hour; walking still very much out of the question. She also knew that this part of the healing process was usually only temporary and she had good hopes Robb would actually survive his ordeal. He was young, he had been healthy and fit when Walder Frey took him down so treacherously – the only way in which the Young Wolf could have been beaten, apparently – and Dacey was certain they needed to wait only one or maybe two more moons until Robb was well enough and they could take their leave. Gerad and his family had been wonderful, but every day they stayed on was another one in which Robb's true identity could be found out, and she wouldn't rest easy until he was safely up at Bear Island.

He groaned again, this time in pain, and her hand went up to his cheek of its own accord, caressing him softly until his wordless muttering stopped. Then, before she was even aware of it, Robb was awake and looking at her with his blue eyes wide open and – caught – Dacey jerked her hand away as if touched by fire.

JON

The two haggard travellers that had come riding through the gates of Castle Black mere minutes before, had immediately been brought to the Lord Commander's quarters and now Jon Snow stood studying Jeyne Westerling as she dropped to her knees by the fire, this woman who was his closest link to family now. He shivered despite the heat of the fire, the news of Robb's death still chafing his nerves. The raven had come almost a moon ago, the message clipped and clear: Robb Stark and armies butchered at the Twins; Walder Frey breaching guest right; no survivors. It had taken him days for the news to really sink in, and when it did – in the dead of night – he had left his rooms with Ghost, found the heart tree where he'd said his vows – and cried.

Shaking off the memory and trying to ignore the emptiness that had filled his heart ever since he knew his one true brother had fallen, he walked over to a side table to fill cups of warm spiced wine for his guests, or political fugitives rather, and handed one to the Blackfish.

"My apologies, Lord Commander," the old knight spoke quietly, offering him a pained smile. "I know the Night's Watch is not supposed to get tangled up in southron politics, but there was no other place to go. You're one of the few remaining relatives of my great-nephew who is in a place of relative power. And well away from the thick of the war."

"I will personally make sure the Queen is safe here," Jon said, giving the Blackfish a curt nod. "She is family, after all."

"She is also with child," Ser Brynden said under his breath, making sure the loaded message reached only Jon's ears.

"She's…? Blount," Jon called out, getting his steward's attention. "Secure some food for our guests, take it to their rooms and return." The boy in the corner sprang to attention and left the Lord Commander's quarters in a hurry, allowing Jon a small window of undisturbed time. "She's carrying the heir to Winterfell?" he asked slowly after the door had closed and the Blackfish nodded.

"We found out on the road, Lord Commander," the knight explained, twirling the cup between his fingers.

Jon found himself unable to keep his eyes off the young woman now that he knew she was carrying the heir to Winterfell. When she rose to take a more dignified seat in the nearest chair, he could already discern the slight swell of her stomach and it filled him with warmth and sadness all at the same time. Robb had been a wonderful older brother to his younger siblings, he remembered how he had always found time to play with Bran and especially Rickon and Jon knew he would have made a good father.

Then the harsh reality of this unexpected pregnancy truly hit him and he forced himself to see it for what it was at the Wall; a place of stern men and harsh cold and unexpected Wildling attacks. This pregnancy was an added complication. "I will harbour the Queen for now," he said softly, not wishing for Jeyne to overhear them lest it should upset her, "but ultimately she cannot stay here." The Blackfish gave him an unreadable look. "We are at war as much as the Lords of Westeros, Ser," he explained. "Wildlings are pushing south and I have no idea how long we can hold the Wall if none of those blasted kings down south send us more men." He breathed deeply, lowering his voice. "Not to mention the Others; they attack my Rangers more often than I care to admit."

He moved to offer Jeyne some of the wine as well, watching her take the cup from him, warming her hands on it. She smiled in gratitude before turning her face to the fire again, and Jon could tell she was a gentle creature; far too gentle for the harsh world she had ended up in. He could also see in her smile what had bound Robb to her in the first place.

"The Wall is no place for babies," he muttered when he went to stand next to the Blackfish again. "We need time to think this through, to come up with a solution that is best for everyone – especially this unborn child, who will become the most hunted child in the North if word ever spreads about its existence. But until we find a way, the Queen will be safe here; do not doubt that."

He motioned for the Blackfish to come to his desk and showed him maps of the lands beyond the Wall and those south of it. "Tell me what you know about the war of the Kings," he said. "Tell me what you have heard and seen; I've had but few ravens."

The two men sat down and talked until the steward came back. Jon instructed him to show Ser Brynden where he and his charge could stay, and to make the guests as comfortable as possible, especially the woman.

"Make certain the Queen stays indoors," Jon urged the Blackfish, once his steward was out of earshot. "And let her cover the swell of her stomach at all times; there are some Brothers among us who would defect in an instant when they find out who we are truly hiding here." The Blackfish nodded once and followed the steward out of the room.

Jon walked over to where Jeyne was still sitting by the fire, folding his hands behind his back. "You will be safe here, Your Grace," he said, fumbling for words that would fit the situation this young woman found herself in.

"Please," Jeyne cut in, standing up. "Jeyne. My name is Jeyne." She smiled at him, but it was a sad smile indeed. "My husband never cared much for his title, and neither do I." She swallowed hard and chose to stare at the fire rather than him. "It is complicated, Lord Commander. On the one hand, I hate my title, as I am convinced my husband would be alive today if he hadn't been adorned with it. Yet, I cannot help but love it too, because without it I don't think Robb would ever have met or married me."

He winced slightly at hearing her say Robb's name. By not mentioning it out loud he had put distance between the Robb of Jon's memories and the one being slaughtered at the Twins and somehow that had made his death a little more bearable. Now that he stood here, listening to the woman who had spent week upon week trying to come to terms with a death that he himself didn't want to examine too closely, he suddenly had to fight to keep his stoic mask in place, to not show anyone how much Robb's demise affected him.

"But he did," Jon said, trying to shake the sadness. "And he was the King in the North, which makes you his Queen." He dipped his chin briefly, aware of his stubborn hold on rules and customs and more things that did not really matter, but he knew it was the only way for him not to fly apart now that he had the only tangible, twofold legacy of Robb Stark so close he could actually touch it.

Jeyne stood, pulling her furs around her shoulders, giving Jon an unreadable stare.

"I'll do anything to protect this baby," she said quietly. "And not for the titles of lords and kings, or even the connection to Winterfell. This child will be all I have left of Robb and he didn't even know about it when he left. The gods are cruel, Commander." She turned to leave, to join the Blackfish who was waiting for her outside. "Lord Commander," she said softly, sending a tentative smile his way.

"Jon," he interrupted. "You can call me Jon."

"But-"

"We are kin now," he continued. "And in private you should call me Jon."

"Jon," Jeyne said, trying the name tentatively. "Will it be all right if…" she halted, clearly searching for the right words, before asking "if I ask you to tell me about your childhood years with my husband?" She bit her lip, fumbling with the laces of her dress, an embarrassed flush threatening to rise on her cheeks. "He never really had the chance to… with the war and the fighting and… I just know so little…" He could tell she was close to tears and decided to end the matter by interrupting her again.

"Of course, my lady. Maybe it is time for me to remember as well."

Her eyes were full of understanding when she nodded at him and crossed the room, leaving it before Jon could say anything else. When he was certain everybody had left, he sat at his desk and buried his face in his hands, hoping silence and time would chase the images of perpetual snowball fights and first live-steel sparring and nightly fur-covered horror stories away, at least for a day or two, until he could no longer refuse the Queen.

DACEY

It was a biting cold day but the sun stood high in a clear blue sky and it gave everything a little more shine, a little more hope. Dacey had just fired a whole quiver of arrows at a straw puppet some fifty yards away and was taking a breather on a large boulder in the middle of the field, the fresh snow crisp under her feet, when she heard a sound behind her. Twisting in her spot, she watched Smalljon and Robb walk out the gate, and she gasped before standing up, joining them quickly. Meerya had packed Robb's clothes when Maester Ellard had moved him to the keep, now almost two moons ago, and he was wearing some of them, damaged though they were. Lady Ayla had offered to mend them, even to replace them, but Robb had thanked her, saying all he had need of was a new fur cloak (as he'd lost his trusted, wolf-adorned cloak at the Twins) and nothing else. Dacey knew he wore his ruined leathers almost as a testament to the fact he had survived, a sliver of defiance returning to her broken King.

"You're outside," she beamed, jogging up to the men, a bright smile on her face. The 'are you all right' was right behind it, but she bit her tongue – Robb hated being fussed over; especially by her, she suspected. He had looked at her with the most unreadable expression Dacey had ever seen on his face, an expression she never even thought him capable of, after she had removed her hand from his cheek on that fateful evening all those weeks ago. Now, he only nodded, searching her eyes for she did not know what.

"A raven arrived for you," Smalljon said when Robb clearly wasn't going to say anything, filling the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them. Dacey accepted the little strip of parchment, reading it quickly. 'We are waiting. Bring the boys home' was all it said, but she knew exactly what it meant. It had felt like the riskiest raven she had ever sent but the way Maege Mormont had worded the message was enough for her to know it had reached her mother and none other. "She's waiting for us," Dacey muttered quietly; crumpling the parchment in her fist, ready to throw it on the nearest fire once inside. She looked at Robb. "We ride for Blazewater Bay as soon as you're able to."

Robb nodded, his eyes unfocused as he absent-mindedly touched the pommel of his sword, the one Gerad had allowed him to pick from his armory after Dacey had remarked he really should start practising again. It wasn't as heavy and formidable as his own broadsword had been, but given the circumstances Robb had chosen well.

"Robb," she hissed, and Smalljon was giving her a funny stare. "Focus."

"You can't talk to him that way," Smalljon spluttered, narrowing his eyes at her.

"She can," Robb spoke for the first time, staring at the snow on his boots. "Someone should be in charge. I sure as hell am not."

"You've just been brought back from near-death," Jon argued. "Of course you are not. But you are still–"

"I am no one," Robb broke in and started to walk away from them. Dacey wanted to cry out in frustration when she watched the defeated hunch in his shoulders; noticed the limp in his left leg. She could almost punch him when she realised that whenever he was making a tiny bit of progress he undid it again in a heartbeat – unable to shake his guilt or live with it. At times like this she wondered if he wanted to live at all.

"Burn this," she told Smalljon, pressing the crumpled parchment into his palm. "Make sure there's nothing left." He nodded and she waited for him to reach the gates before she turned around to follow Robb. It was easy to catch up with him and when she touched his elbow he stopped dead in his tracks.

"I didn't mean to sound harsh," she said quickly before he would cut her off again. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I just want you to focus on what we're going to do. I need you to be focused because our journey will be dangerous. We won't succeed if we're not paying attention."

"I know," he muttered, still looking everywhere but at her, fidgeting with his gloves, not saying anything else.

"What is it?" she bit out, exasperated. "I don't know you like this; defeated and emotionless. Where is the King who inspired us all?"

"Dead," Robb said, finally looking up at her, his eyes as empty as the sound of that one word.

"You are alive," Dacey hissed. "You were saved; you lived through it. You should have died at the Twins, you should have died in the river, you should have died in Meerya's house. Hell, you should have died the second Maester Ellard started opening up each and every one of your wounds again, losing so much blood. But you didn't. You lived. The gods may be cruel, but they also speak to us. Isn't it about time you started listening?" She heaved in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, noticing how his eyes had gone from empty to slightly curious.

"I'm sorry," Robb said after what seemed like ages. "It's just that all I can see, waking or sleeping, is my mother drowning in her own blood and the score of bolts in Grey Wind's body and my brothers, blackened and burned, dangling from the gates of Winterfell. There is just no room for anything else, it seems."

Dacey thought back to the first few days after she had been rescued, the horrendous deliriums she had suffered while fighting for her life, and understood Robb perfectly. She also knew he was young, and realised it would be a lot harder for him to push the guilt and the pain and the memories away like she had learned to do at a very young age already, one of the few things a warrior she-bear could do to help retain her sanity on an island in perpetual fights with selfish, cruel raiders.

"What can I do?" she asked quietly as soft snow had started falling again.

"Nothing," Robb replied automatically, but Dacey shook her head.

"There is always something."

Robb stood frozen to the spot, his bright blue eyes glistening.

"I would hope to hear if Jeyne is still alive."

Dacey smiled tentatively, muttering a soft, "there are ways to find out."

"And I wish I knew what has happened to Grey Wind," he went on, his eyes immediately going out of focus. "I think he dragged me out of the river, even though he was just as wounded as I was."

"You remember this?"

Robb huffed out a short, sharp laugh. "I don't remember, exactly; I dream. Do you recall how I told you I didn't want any more milk of the poppy?"

She nodded and thought about the moment she told the Maester who did not think it was a good idea at all. "He is adamant," she had argued, trying to sound as persuasive as possible. Ultimately, between a drink of dreamwine and a number of vigilant nights on her and Smalljon's behalf, Robb had lived through the worst of the pain until it became slightly more bearable and he could do without the medication.

"Maybe Grey Wind survived," she tried carefully. "Maybe we'll find him, or he'll find us."

Robb offered her a distant smile before looking away.

"I miss my mother."

It should have made him sound like he was ten instead of his seventeen years, but Dacey heard the truth behind the words immediately. Of all his siblings, Robb had always been closest to Lady Stark, and of course she had been right by his side when everything in his young life was uprooted, from his crowning to the Twins. Lady Stark had been his compass for so long, even though he didn't always heed her, and that compass was gone now. She suspected he must feel adrift.

"I know," Dacey said, wishing she could say more.

"And why did you touch me?"

His eyes were alive now, Dacey noticed, and although she had to swallow hard around the question, she was glad for the emotion, this sign of life. The whole delicate affair had not been brought up between them ever since the day it happened; she had just walked away from the bed, telling him to go back to sleep; that he was just having a bad dream.

"I meant to comfort, you, Your Grace," she muttered, hoping to find shelter in courtesies and distance, now that she knew Robb hadn't been fooled despite his pain and his fever.

"That was all?"

"Aye." Dacey hoped her eyes didn't betray the lie that was falling from her lips.

"I see."

She expected to find incredulity in Robb's eyes, or relief.

Not disappointment.