DACEY

Almost sick with fear Dacey looked at Gerad, trying to decide if she should spur her horse on and make for the gate that Gerad might well close, now that Maaric had told him the truth of the matter, or slow down to avoid the risk of crashing into it. Gerad threw the gates wide open, though, just in time for Smalljon and Robb to thunder past him, and he laughed as Dacey made up the rear. "I knew all along!" he called out at her, urging her on. "Make for the mill! The mill!" And then she stormed past Gerad with Maaric in her wake, hoping and praying the master of the Wilford would always remain as loyal to them as he proved to be now.

"Get him!" Robb roared, and all three of them rounded their horses at full speed towards Maaric who was cutting through the marshy field left of the road that led out of the keep, clearly making a run for it now that he had so blatantly given away his allegiances. He had gambled on Gerad and he had judged him wrong, and all he could do now was try to escape and make for the Twins – the only place he would ever be safe. Dacey spurred her horse on, going faster, well aware that hunting Maaric down was their first priority. They needed to catch him and make him talk and find out how many people he had told about his suspicions. Then they would slit his throat and be done with him. She would gladly do the honours, not having trusted him from the very moment she passed the threshold of Meerya's ruined home.

It took them longer than she had expected but then they were gaining on Maaric, driving him closer and closer to the woods – the one place where they knew they would have immediate advantage over him; where they would chase him like an animal and force him off his horse and end his misery. Maaric had clearly ridden a horse before, Dacey noticed, but they were riding bareback and it took a lifetime of horse riding to chase and attack at high speed like this, or to stay on when dodging branches and jumping tree trunks as soon as they would enter the forest.

Crossing the last stretch of open field, Maaric looked around, saw riders coming at him from three different sides and he could only go for the trees, slowing down significantly, and Smalljon screamed in anticipation, knowing it was only a matter of seconds now. It was Robb who got to him first, stretching his arm as far as he could before slamming his gloved hand into Maaric's collar and dragging him off his horse, smashing him to the ground with a dull thud. Dacey was the last one to have entered the forest and the first to reach the spot where Maaric was scrambling to get up. She slid down her horse just as Smalljon and Robb were wheeling theirs about, landing on her feet like a cat and drawing her sword faster than Maaric could blink, and she grabbed his hair, resting the point of her blade against his throat.

"Traitor," she panted, ignoring his gasps as she shook his head, causing her sword to nick his skin. "I should slit your scrawny little throat right here."

"Dacey!" Robb cut in, coming over with Smalljon by his side, the limp in his leg worse again, his breathing coming in sharp gasps. "Obviously this man would like to explain himself."

She pushed him to the ground forcefully, letting go of his hair, but keeping him at sword point nonetheless. "Let him explain," she spat. "And then I'll slit his throat."

"You'll do no such thing," Robb countered. "Not unless I tell you to."

Somewhere in a distant part of her brain, Dacey was amazed at how easy they seemed to all merge back into their respective roles; how instinctively they understood who would say what to make Maaric feel properly confused as to whom he could trust and what he should tell. He turned around on the muddy leaves, looking from one to the other, fear and defiance fighting for dominance in his eyes.

"How did you know?" Robb asked, and Dacey silently commended him for the calm, soft-spoken approach he took, the anger well hidden behind deceptively kind eyes. She could tell Maaric was already calculating on making it out of the woods alive and her fingers were itching to prove him wrong, especially when Maaric did not reply. Smalljon stepped in, grabbing him by his vest with one massive hand, shaking him viciously, dagger drawn.

"You'd better started answering me," Robb spoke again, still so calm that even Smalljon glanced over his shoulder as he held Maaric by the scruff of his neck. "My guards are much less patient than I am. So again: how did you know?"

Maaric shrugged himself out of Smalljon's grasp, eyeing Dacey's sword with a strange mix of fear and defiance in his eyes. "Your clothes," he said, searching Robb's eyes. "A clasp – it got stuck in the linens – a direwolf of copper and gold. I didn't know what it really meant until you were gone and the first search party came by."

Dacey had no idea what clasp Maaric was referring to exactly, but she could tell Robb did, and the two of them locked eyes for the briefest of moments; a glance that told Dacey she would have to kill Maaric because he knew too much indeed.

"I asked a Frey soldier when the search party passed, asked him what they were looking for," Maaric said. "Maester Ellard had just taken you away, and when the soldier said something about finding Northerners who survived and needed to be tended at the Twins, I realised what they were really looking for. Then I asked that soldier if he knew what the Young Wolf looked like but he told me Robb Stark had died at the Keep. When I pushed the point he described someone I knew my sister and I had dragged from the river, so I decided to lay low and wait for the best moment to reveal what I knew – that you were still alive."

"So you took the clasp and showed it to Walder Frey?" Robb went on. "Did he take it from you?"

Maaric stared at Robb, his breath coming out in nervous gasps. "My sister has it," he said. "She doesn't know. When one of the search parties passed our house again I decided to tell them and they took me along." He took a deep, steadying breath, never taking his eyes off Robb, and Dacey realised Maaric was only telling Robb the truth because he believed he would still walk out of the forest alive. "If I had taken the clasp to the Twins Walder Frey would have stolen it from me."

"You forget yourself," Robb cut in icily, and inwardly Dacey shuddered at the complete lack of emotion behind the words. In that instant she could see what Robb would be like once he did find the strength to avenge himself – he'd be ruthless and merciless, the snarl of a wolf around his lips, indeed. She narrowed her eyes at him as Robb spoke again. "You stole it from me."

"That might be, Your Grace," Maaric spoke in measured tones, placing too much emphasis on the title which caused Smalljon to take a threatening step forward again, and Dacey could hear the anger behind Maaric's words; anger that he feared to express but could barely tamp down. For the first time since they had started questioning him, Meerya's brother looked down, his breathing ragged. "We have nothing left. The house is a ruin, the lands are useless – everything was ravaged." He looked up again, anger and defiance clear in his eyes. "You did that."

Robb was unmoved, his eyes blank and cold and Dacey could tell it was not the reaction Maaric had hoped for; in fact, Robb's passivity only angered him further.

"My sister has the clasp and I will sell it in time to prevent us from starving to death," he stated. "I hoped that by telling a search party meant Walder Frey would reward me for giving him the King in the North – without him knowing about the jewel."

"So you aimed to have both?" Robb asked slowly, lowering himself to look Maaric straight in the eyes.

"Wouldn't you?" the young man asked in return. "These are no times for the weak-hearted. I have mouths to fill and my family to protect. My mother is dead, and for all I can see – so is my father. Finding you was a blessing in disguise as soon as I realised who you were."

Dacey motioned for Smalljon to take her place keeping Maaric at sword point and she drew her dagger from its sheath. Maaric had nothing to lose, she knew, so they'd have to be fast once Robb gave the command.

"That didn't go quite the way you'd planned, now, did it?" Robb asked him, his eyes slowly going from blank to alive as he rose again, towering over their prisoner. "Your sister can keep the clasp, I hope she'll survive longer because of it. But you," Robb paused and everything in Maaric's posture betrayed how scared he was at the hands of these three seasoned Northern warriors, "you have made yourself a liability."

"I told you the truth," Maaric argued, his eyes going from Robb's to Smalljon's to hers and back. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

"You suggest I drag you along then?" Robb asked and the half-smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth caused Dacey to huff out a sarcastic little laugh as well. "Keep you as a hostage?"

"My sister saved your life."

"Your sister didn't betray me," Robb countered immediately. "And if she had I probably would have kept her as a hostage." He stood as tall as he could, Dacey noticed, and squared his shoulders. "You, on the other hand, served your purpose." He turned around and walked away, uttering a cold, "Dacey."

When he mentioned her name the sound of it carried such finality that Maaric instantly knew why Robb had said it, and he whipped his head around to face her, only to be met with the sharp dagger in her hand. Dacey didn't even stay long enough to watch him sink to the ground and bleed out, she just felt a peculiar gratefulness for the fact that for once, Robb had allowed her to do his killing for him as she walked towards her horse.

Smalljon was cursing under his breath when they mounted, his shoulder bleeding through the fabric of his shirt, his hauberk thrown wide open to diminish the pressure. Now that the feverish rush of the fight and the chase and the killing was starting to dwindle down, realisation as to what had happened and what was still to come fell over them quickly and overwhelmingly, leaving them exhausted and in pain. They had all hoped for a relatively safe exit from the Wilford, under the guise of night and packed with as much food and supplies as their horses could carry. Now they only had the dark of night and their horses, but no food and definitely no Maester to see to these new wounds. Dacey was especially worried for Smalljon as the wound to his shoulder kept bleeding profusely and they had no way of treating him apart from scorching it closed, if they could make fire and find the proper materials. As Robb climbed on top of his horse, Dacey noticed his movements were also hampered by pain and she vowed to get them to the mill Gerad had mentioned as fast as she could.

"When I left the Wilford, Gerad mentioned we make for the mill. I know of it, it's not too far from here," Dacey said, bringing her horse alongside Robb's, and she threw him a look, silently asking if they should run the risk of staying in the area at least one more night.

"We need to treat his wounds," Robb said, patting his horse's neck, looking at Smalljon as he was coming towards them. "And if Gerad wanted us to head for that mill, then maybe he'll bring us some supplies for the journey. If he turns out to be a traitor… Well, I'd want to see that mill first before we decide to stay there; see how we can protect ourselves – escape from it if needs be. If it's a death trap we'll retreat into the woods again to see to Jon's wounds ourselves – and my own." He offered Dacey a wry smile and touched the place of the wound that Maester Ellard had always worried most about once he was being taken care of at the Wilford. She widened her eyes, unable to stop herself from leaning in and raising her hand to touch she did not know what, as the wound was covered by his heavy hauberk, and Robb threw her a surprised if not slightly bemused look. He regrouped quicker than she could as he sat up straighter on his horse, his eyes slightly narrowed as he spoke again. "We do not have much of a choice, wouldn't you agree?" Dacey nodded. "I say we hazard it." He wheeled his horse about and looked at her over his shoulder, inviting her to take the lead and find that mill.

Dacey dipped her chin at Robb, and for the very first time in all the moons that had passed, she felt like she was acknowledging the presence of her king again.

JON

Sam had told him the day had not been particularly easy on Jeyne, that she had vomited so much that not even a cup of water would stay down. She tried to be brave, his steward could tell, but feeling sick and miserable made it difficult for her and the tears had come easy all day. Jon pulled his cloak closer about him before leaving his room and crossing the yard towards hers, as snow had fallen in fat flakes all day, covering the world in a thick, silent blanket. At least her quarters would be very warm, he thought, nodding to the only two Brothers he ran into, probably on their way to stand watch, a quiet 'Lord Commander' falling from their lips as they passed.

The Blackfish was in a seat by the hearth, his figure somewhat slumped until Jon closed the door with a dry click and the old man slowly pushed a small knife Jon hadn't even noticed back into its sheath. He stood up, bowing slightly.

"None of that here, Ser," Jon said, shaking his head as he approached, dipping his chin at the dagger on Ser Brynden's belt. "I see my good-sister is well protected."

"She is the Queen," the Blackfish replied simply. "She is all the North has left."

"She is the Queen," Jon repeated slowly, staring at the door to her room. "I hear today was difficult."

Ser Brynden nodded. "Her grief worsens her situation, I believe." He took a good long look at Jon, and Jon felt himself shrink under the formidable knight's gaze. He knew the Blackfish was Lady Stark's uncle, and perhaps not the best-loved one in the Tully family if his added name was anything to go by, but even though he was old and somewhat bitter, there was not an inch of him that was not strong or true or did not command respect.

"You do have the Stark colouring, if I may be so frank," the man spoke suddenly and Jon looked up at his face. "Unlike my great-nephew."

Jon was well aware he had decided to visit Jeyne's rooms tonight to tell her more about Winterfell and Robb, but somehow it was still hard for him to deal with even the slightest of references to his brother.

"He took after his mother, yes," Jon remarked, wondering how much the man knew of the true nature of the relationship between him and Lady Stark. "The red hair, the blue eyes… It must have been strange for my father, to have his bastard resemble him so much more than his true-born son."

"Robb may have had more Tully in his features," the Blackfish said, sitting down again to resume his vigil, staring into the fire. "But the bitter cold of the North was always in his eyes. The King was a true Stark."

Jon nodded, setting his jaw as he walked across the room and knocked on the door.

The Queen was in her bed, a number of pillows propped behind her back, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders. "Commander," she smiled, but Jon could tell the smile was strained and tired – could tell the girl in the bed was frail and exhausted. He closed the door and stood in front of it.

"If this is not a good time for us to talk," he started, feeling the heat of the room seep through his cloak and gloves, "I can return another night."

"No, no," Jeyne sat up, rushing the words out. "Please." She dropped back against the pillows, a pleading look on her face. "I have felt awful today, it's true. But your words will make me feel better in the end, I am certain of it." She motioned for the chair next to her bed and he unclasped his cloak, draping it across the bed frame. Sitting down, he pulled his gloves off, one by one, loosening each finger before removing it. He felt her eyes on him, on his movements, and so he stilled his hands and looked up at her.

"Robb's were almost identical," she said quietly, picking the glove he had already taken off up from the bed. "Riding gloves, they are. Able to withstand the worst cold." She smiled at herself, then looked up and laid the glove back in its previous spot. "I'm not sure I have yet endured the worst cold out here," she added, her eyes sad and moist, "but inside of me the cold is terrible."

"I miss him too," he said, and the words had mostly escaped him, he hadn't meant to tell her this. He had come over to talk to her about his time at Winterfell, about the great castle and the half-siblings that lived there with him. He had expected to feel melancholy about them, the stories he shared with Robb. He had not expected to immediately share with her the one thing that made it so hard for him to function every day, ridiculous as it was, for he had said his goodbyes to Robb so long ago now.

She looked at him and he wondered what was going through her mind, her eyes searching his face. She was a pretty girl, this Jeyne Westerling, he thought. A very southron girl, though, in all her mannerisms and appearance, and not the type he had ever thought his brother would prefer. Apparently, his thoughts were in his eyes because she smiled apologetically as she spoke to him; softly, a little embarrassed.

"He married me for honour," she explained and Jon flushed, feeling caught out. "He married me the morning after, saying something about not wishing to leave me with a possible bastard as he knew what a bastard's life could be like." She shrugged a little, giving him an unreadable look. "I'm guessing he was referring to you."

Jon nodded slowly, remembering how Robb had always hated the difference between the two of them, especially when they grew older. Maybe that was why his brother's death had affected him so much more than he had ever anticipated – Robb treated everybody like he wanted to be treated himself, which was as much to his virtue as it was his downfall. Walder Frey had never been a forgiving man.

He swallowed hard. For weeks now he had tried to fathom how scared Robb must have been in his final moments. Word had reached him how the King and his guard were forced to enter the hall of the feast unarmed, how Grey Wind had been confined to a pen, how totally and utterly defenceless they had all been in their final moments. As a warrior, a ranger of the Wall, a fighting man, Jon could only guess at the levels of vulnerability Robb must have felt once it became clear it was all a trap. He had cried for Robb once, but the sudden vision that hit him now made him realise he still had some unshed tears left for his brother.

"Robb was the better swordsman for a long time," he said suddenly, forcefully shaking his grief off, pushing it to the deepest corners of his conscience, leaving it for later scrutiny. "He grew faster than I did, always hungry." He smiled as he remembered. "He had the upper hand because of that. But later, when I had already made up my mind to join the Night's Watch and I was practising while the aim of becoming a Brother was always on my mind, there was really only one opponent in Winterfell who could bring me to my knees." He looked at Jeyne, her eyes transfixed on his, her always fidgety hands idle in her lap. "Robb was a clever fighter," he murmured, thinking back. "My technique was always better, I was quicker too, but Robb always had something unpredictable up his sleeve – I never truly knew what to expect." He chuckled suddenly, realising how talk of their swordsmanship was easily the best and safest place for him to start reminiscing. "He won all his battles for a reason, my Lady: the Lannisters never knew what to expect either."

"He took an arrow when he stormed my father's castle, you know," Jeyne offered thoughtfully, her eyes unfocused, and Jon thought it could well have been her closest encounter with fighting and battle and the actual war. "It was the most horrid thing I'd ever seen when our Maester broke the bolt and cut the arrowhead out of my husband's flesh. I was made to leave the room right then, but I will never forget the scream."

He thought about it for a while, listening to the crackling in the hearth, the warmth emanating from it seeping into his bones.

"I'm sorry," Jeyne went on, a pained expression in her eyes. "I shouldn't have brought that up, I suppose."

"It is quite all right, my Lady," Jon smiled. "He and I suffered a number of wounds together. Blunted swords can be just as dangerous as live steel." He remembered some pretty nasty wounds they had suffered throughout their years in the practice yard together, wounds that had bled and festered and stunk but that had eventually closed and healed and given them tall tales to tell Sansa or Jeyne Poole or even Arya, but somehow he decided to refrain from sharing these with Robb's widow.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to know about?" he asked instead, not really knowing where to take the conversation. Jeyne's eyes lit up, though, so he gathered he had asked the right question.

"Tell me about Winterfell," she spoke immediately. "About the winter town and the glass gardens and the hot springs. Oh, and the godswood," Jon raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing on his lips. "Samwell gave me a book about the North," she explained bashfully. "Robb did tell me a few things, but I would so much like to know more." She had pushed the covers away in her enthusiasm to relay the question and Jon could see the swell of her stomach, the babe well on its way for some four moons now, Maester Aemon had estimated. He wondered how they would deal with the situation once the Queen was to deliver, how they could keep it all a secret. Jon knew he could scarce send her on the road now, but sending her away with a newborn in her arms was an equally bad decision. Fact remained, she couldn't stay at the Wall – a safe haven had to be found for her, and soon. He swallowed, pushed the thought from his mind for the time being and sat up a little straighter.

"Winterfell is built on a giant hot spring," he started, smiling despite himself as he remembered. "The water is piped through the walls and floors of the castle, keeping it nice and warm, even in the long winters. Robb and I, we were both born at the end of a winter, I have no recollection of it, but father told us how the snow could build for yards and yards until doors would no longer open and thatched roofs would collapse under the snow's weight." Her eyes went wide. "Actually, my first memory of Robb is of him playing in the snow and how he was completely covered in it, head to toe," Jon went on, thinking how his last memory of Robb was also one of him in the snow; fat flakes of summer snow that had caught in his furs and his hair, a winter king indeed.

He swallowed hard and ploughed on, told her of Winterfell and the glass gardens, of the people who left winter town in summer and the weirwood tree in the godswood. He told her of Sansa and Arya and how two sisters couldn't be more different. He told her of Bran and his climbing and of Rickon, who had always looked up to his eldest brother with something close to idolatry. He told her of their father, Lord Stark, and how the man was a Northerner through and through – the chill of winter always in his eyes. He told her how Eddard Stark had tried not to let Jon's descent come between his sons and how Robb, especially later, when they were older and somewhat wiser, had always made it a point not to allow anyone to insult his bastard brother, at least not within his earshot. Robb had drawn his sword over it once, he remembered, and he told Jeyne about the time Theon had made a truly cruel joke about bastards right in Jon's face, making Robb so angry that he had come up to Theon from behind and rested the tip of his sword against the skin of Theon's neck, telling him that if he would say such a thing again he wouldn't hesitate to push straight through. Right at that moment Ser Rodrik and Lord Stark had walked out onto the court yard and Robb had been caught and scolded for doing something that was strictly prohibited. Robb had borne his punishment without so much as a flinch, staring down Theon and his smug face as he was forced to follow his father inside – refusing to apologise.

"I brought him my supper that evening," Jon finished the tale, Jeyne's eyes wide and filled with pride. "He was always too honourable and headstrong anyway." Before he could truly fathom what he had said, he watched Jeyne's face drop and realised that he had chosen the wrong words. "My apologies," he started but she lifted her hand before she did her face and Jon fell silent.

"None of that," she said and the smile on her face was as strong as she could possibly muster. "Robb was very headstrong. He was advised not to marry me on a number of occasions; was even told to have the marriage annulled, but he refused each and every one of those voices – even his lady mother's." She frowned and stared at her hands. "He was headstrong because he felt he should do the honourable thing and I know that, in the end, it was what got him killed."

ROBB

"You'll be fine," Robb said quietly, pulling off his glove to brush the sweaty hair out of Smalljon's face. "Dacey is outside, looking for herbs that will help you sleep – she won't be long now." He kept making shushing sounds and slowly Jon stopped shaking underneath his furs. Robb took off his cloak and folded it on top op Jon's, adding to the warmth, and even though he was cold to the bone himself, shivering as he felt the trickle of blood that had been seeping from one of his old wounds constantly, he ignored it with iron determination and looked into Smalljon's eyes.

"You survived the Twins," he observed with a smile, settling in next to his friend, a hulk of man, the heir of House Umber, now reduced to a shivering, bleeding, grunting patient. "You'll survive this."

Robb's free hand had not stopped putting pressure on the wound, trying his best to stay the blood until Dacey would come back and they could bind him; how, he didn't know yet, but he was certain Dacey would have an idea.

There had been Maesters in his army, wherever they marched, the wise men would follow. He had visited the wounded after every one of his battles, but he knew nothing of healing. He remembered Maester Luwin talking about it at lessons in Winterfell, usually after Jon had asked about it, but for the life of him he couldn't remember any of the old Maester's words now. He'd liked history, the stories of old, the battles between the great Houses, the Dragons and the Kings. He'd always liked to read and hear about them. He would usually make an effort to pay attention to all the other subjects the Maester would address, but his heart was never truly in those. Looking at Smalljon's face now, twisted in pain, he wished he had been better then, for he certainly wasn't of any help now.

It wasn't as if he had felt very useful ever since he had woken up at the Wilford. Most of the days he was there all he wanted was for his wounds to fester and rot so he would get worse and die and finally be done with it, but it hadn't happened. He had been lying in the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move without feeling the most excruciating pain, and he had prayed for that end – wanting nothing but to join his father and his mother and have it end – but his death wouldn't come. He had watched Dacey come into his room, had noticed the dagger at her belt, had decided he would wait until he was strong enough to grab it and end his life himself, but he hadn't gone through with it.

Dacey had always been there by his bedside, he had come to realise over time. Whenever he woke up, there she was. Whenever he wanted something – a drink of water, a clean bandage, a new poultice or a simple wash – there she was. He had known Dacey ever since he could remember. As a child he had danced with her in the Great Hall of Winterfell, after his father had once summoned all the banners and the she-bears of Bear Island had come at once. Of course she had towered over him, a woman near twenty, whereas he was but a boy of one-and-ten. She had always been kind to him, though, even when he barely reached her chest and he had coloured bright red when she remarked how his view of her breasts must be a wonderful one for any boy his age. She had kissed his cheek, dipping in a neat little curtsy before parting with him, and the next morning at breakfast had come to make her apologies. He had smiled and stammered that she had essentially been quite right and she shouldn't feel the need to apologise; and then they had sat together and she'd regaled him with stories of Bear Island, and the fighting that took place there because of the Ironborn who kept raiding it.

Dacey had been the first one to offer her services for his Thirty and he had accepted her without a backward glance, not the least bit interested in what the men in his armies might think of a woman warrior in his personal guard. She had saved his life on so many occasions that he had lost count, but while lying in one of Gerad's bedrooms at the Wilford, watching her tend to him, helping him eat or drink or cleaning up whatever mess he had made in those early days, he knew he couldn't betray her like that by stealing her dagger to slit his own throat. He'd suffer through whatever the gods had in store for him, he had decided then and there, and wouldn't end himself, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn't honour that had kept him from taking his own life, as honour had brought him nothing but pain and betrayal and death – he was more than done with honour. It was gratitude, he guessed, pushing down harder on Smalljon's shoulder to keep the man pinned to the floor. Gratitude and admiration and respect. He couldn't hurt her like that, couldn't find it in him; he'd be just as much of a monster as Walder Frey.

Just when he started to wonder what took her so long, he heard a sound and he slipped from his thoughts. The mill had been easy to find, and as it was situated on a ridge with a ten-foot drop straight into the river, they had decided to stay the night; the Trident being an excellent means of escape if things would turn sour. Moreover, Smalljon couldn't' travel any further, they needed to tend to him first, so Dacey had helped him carry Jon inside, had checked the wound and told him to apply constant pressure – and it almost made him smile how she was ordering him around again – and had left for the nearby woods to collect some herbs that would alleviate at least some of their comrade's pain.

"Dacey?" he spoke under his breath; the sound not quite a whisper, but no answer came. He started doubting if he had actually heard something, but then there it was again and he felt his breath hitch in his throat – this is a familiar fear.

When the sound came a third time, Smalljon uttered a soft whimper, and then everything went black.