DACEY
Robb's brow was shining with a cold sweat that she kept dabbing at with the mostly clean rag she had found in the abandoned miller's quarters upstairs. She had torn the cloth in two to also use it to bind Smalljon's wound as tightly as possible to stop it from bleeding too much, and, unlike Robb, Jon was now resting rather peacefully. His breathing was admittedly shallow, but regular, and the bleeding seemed more or less quenched for the time being. The herbs that she had made him chew had done their work, she knew, when the shivering abated after a few minutes and sleep took over. He did need someone to stitch the reopened wound, though, because although the skin had closed, the connection was fragile at best, and she secretly hoped for Gerad to make good on his unspoken word to meet them at this mill.
Robb however, was quite another story. She had returned to the dilapidated mill to find his shuddering body on the floor next to Jon and she had tried to wake him from his trance until Smalljon needed her more and she had to leave him to his convulsions. He had calmed after a while, his body growing slack and heavy like the dead, and once she had made certain Jon was reasonably comfortable, enough at least to tide him over till the morn, she had crawled over to her King and had pulled him into her arms – trying, fruitlessly, to wake him. She had then gone over those parts of his body she could more or less reach, had wormed loose the straps of his hauberk, pushing the garment out of the way and finding none of his old wounds open, apart from the one near his shoulder – the one Maester Ellard had always worried about the most. It was bleeding, but not alarmingly so; a red, narrow thread oozing out at intervals, and she had torn the rag in two again to push the cleanest part against the wound. The angry red of the blood stood in sharp contrast to the pale skin of his chest, the hard, broad planes of it ravaged with scars and bruises and war. She ran her hand under his shirt, closing her palm over the wound Robb had taken at the Crag; felt the ridge of the scar under her fingertips and remembered how badly he had suffered then, in that old, damp Westerling keep; how blood poisoning was a constant threat, and how it had taken him weeks to recover. She had guarded his door then as she had guarded it at the Wilford, and every time Robb had fought against odds and expectations, not to mention his guilt, which was exactly why she had followed the boy king into war in the first place.
He wasn't a boy anymore, though, she thought with a smile, sliding the flat of her palm across his chest, the russet hair tickling her skin. He was a battle hardened soldier now, all naivety and innocence lost the moment his father was beheaded in Kings Landing and his son had to start wearing the crown and with it the vengeance of the North. She pushed the rag into place a little firmer and pulled the linen of his shirt across it, flushing a little when she realised the intimacy of what she was doing. She watched his face, peaceful now, his breathing evening out, thinking how he was still handsome, even though his face had not exactly escaped the ruin of Walder Frey's arrows and blades. The scar on his jaw was a long, thin line, still red and jagged but it was one of those scars that would mostly fade with time and probably leave a narrow, sunken mark. It made her think back on the conversation they were having right before Smalljon barged in to warn them of the Frey soldiers at the gate, and again she wondered if Jeyne was still alive and if Robb would ever see his Queen again.
Dacey silently vowed to keep Robb safe until he did, her duty as his guard and his friend. With a start she realised her cheeks were no longer burning despite cradling the King in her arms. She was holding Robb rather than the King; a soldier, just like her. He had survived the Twins, like she had, and although he was still her King, Robb was her friend now more than anything. A friend she would keep safe until he could fend for himself again, or until he called for her to help him fight those who had done them wrong. A friend who, right now, she could only hold and watch; like she watched Smalljon sleeping quietly beside her.
In the silence of the night she was acutely aware of the sounds surrounding the building; sounds that belonged to the dark. Animals mostly, she hoped, some of which would probably come this close to the mill as it was positioned near the river. If people would find them here she knew they would be in trouble. There was no way she could defend them alone and all she could do was pray to the gods they would be granted this night undisturbed.
When there was a lull in the noises coming from outside, the wind calming down for a few heartbeats, the constant lapping of the river below her somehow easing up slightly, she could suddenly hear wolves howling off in the distant woods. The sounds were long and desperate and it made her wish for the north; a feeling of both sadness and happiness that she wondered at, turned over in her mind, thinking of her mother and her sisters, of snow and cold and home. The second she realised wolves usually didn't prowl this far south, she jerked from her thoughts only to find Robb's bright blue eyes staring up at her.
"Robb," she breathed his name, wondering where she had left his title now that he found himself in her arms with his hauberk thrown wide open, the laces of his shirt partly undone. He looked curiously at her, then lifted his head to look at himself, and Dacey got the distinct impression he was surprised to be waking up, coming back from wherever he had been.
"What happened?" she asked again, feeling oddly bereft when he clambered into an upright position, squinting his eyes, clearly trying to get used to the darkness.
'There are people coming," was all he said and he sounded scratchy and exhausted, bringing up shaky hands to adjust his shirt, turning his back to her. "Draw," he ordered as he moved to stand, unsheathing his own sword but groaning with the movement of his arm. His shoulder was clearly still hurting; his recent wounds too serious to truly heal in the time span of only a few moons. Her hand had been on the pommel of her sword the very moment he'd uttered the word people, though, and they both instinctively stepped away from Smalljon and towards the only door, Dacey the one to carefully peer outside to check for the people Robb had warned about.
Outside, it had gone pitch dark, the only light coming from the moon that slipped from behind heavy clouds occasionally, the glow of it echoing off the water to their left. It hit her how she didn't even question the truth of Robb's words, how she immediately and perfectly believed him when he claimed there were people outside. In the course of their campaign, when they were still fighting to free and later avenge Eddard Stark, Robb had often shown knowledge of the terrain that he couldn't possibly know about. It had often struck her as odd, and upon asking her mother, Maege Mormont had shrugged, almost as if the answer was too simple to give much thought, saying Robb was a Stark with a direwolf, and had left it at that. Dacey hadn't quite known what to make of her mother's words, but had never doubted her King's predictions again. Opening the door of the mill a fraction wider, her mother's words still going through her mind, she realised that Robb must have had one of his dreams again, like the ones he sometimes had while recovering; the ones that had urged them to speed up their departure from the Wilford; and that this one must have been much more intense for him to enter into a fit like the one she had walked in on earlier that evening.
"Anything?" Robb asked from behind her, and she shivered when she felt his breath ghosting the skin of her neck. Then he was gone again, walking back to Smalljon who had started muttering in his sleep. She peered out once more, trying to make out shapes or shadows moving in the darkness of the night, but, apart from the sway of the trees in the soft breeze, there was nothing. Robb came up behind her again, his hand on her back.
"Check up on him," he whispered, nudging her shoulder. "I'm going out."
"No," she hissed immediately but Robb only threw her a questioning, if not slightly angry look and she knew it was not her place to tell him where to go or not. "What if something happens to you?" she asked, trying to make him see sense though.
"I'll be fine," he reassured her, but his eyes were distant. "Keep him safe," he added with a jerk of his chin in Jon's direction, an edge of urgency creeping into his voice. "We're going to need him." Without explaining himself any further, Robb pushed the door open far enough for him to be able to step outside, and she closed it behind him before going back to kneel at Smalljon's side, her sword still drawn.
After what could have been nothing more than a few minutes that felt like ages she heard muffled voices, Robb's definitely one of them, and the next thing she knew was the door being opened and Maester Ellard walking in. Robb came in after him, his sword sheathed, a complete saddle in his arms. "I'll get the others," he muttered before dropping his load to the floor and walking back out.
"Help him, please," Ellard said softly, kneeling by Smalljon's side, getting flint and oil to light the torch in his hand. "I'm going to tend to him and leave again. You need to move as quickly as possible; there was another search party looking for the one you killed and I don't think they believed a single word of the lie Gerad was spinning. The area will be rife with Frey soldiers soon – you'll have to ride before dawn – and ride hard. I'll patch him up, leave supplies, bind him to one of the saddles for all I care; but whatever you do – get out of here."
Dacey spent the next minutes unloading Ellard's cart, two more saddles that she left with Robb, who rigged their horses quickly and expertly, never saying a word, and Dacey could see how tired he was in the tense, rigid line of his shoulders. While packing the supplies in neat little bundles that would fit their saddles, she kept a furtive eye on him, realising he hadn't slept since their escape from the Wilford, as his previous state of unconsciousness could not have given him any real respite, something he still needed more than anything – as he was still recovering from his multiple wounds.
Once the horses were saddled, they started tying things into place, including three extra swords – bastards, she noticed – that fit nicely under the saddle flaps, well-hidden from sight until they were needed; extra furs that Robb had cleverly used as saddle blankets for the horses as the threat of snow was steadily building, not to mention the fact they were headed north; and rolls of canvas, tied to the back of all three saddles, in case they couldn't find any shelter. Dacey tied the food supplies into three separate bags that could be slung across their horses' backs, handing bits of bread to Robb and the Maester before taking some herself. It was dry and a little stale, but she was hungry and cold and if they were going to be riding the second Jon woke up, she needed every bit of nourishment she could get.
"Did you dream again?' she whispered, even though she was well out of Ellard's earshot, and Robb turned around, eyes wide, his fingers still busy tying up the last flagons of water and wine, his fingers getting clumsy with fatique. She moved to stand next to him and took over, handling the leather straps with practised ease, never taking her eyes off him. He nodded, dropping his gaze. "What happened?" she asked again, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What do you dream of?"
Robb didn't answer, just picked up another flagon and handed it to her before moving to collect his cloak from where Smalljon was lying, as Maester Ellard seemed nearly done stitching the wound back up. When he moved to stand next to her again, adjusting the clasps of the heavy cloak around his shoulders, he winced and she lifted her eyebrows. "The Maester should look at you as well," she suggested but Robb shook his head. "I've had worse," he said quietly. "Trust me."
"Oh, I know," she smiled, patting the straps as they were finally put into place, a quick flash of Robb's body covered in open, ugly wounds going through her mind. "What did you dream of, Robb?" she asked again, adding his name on purpose. "You made a frightening sight just now. What was going on?"
"Don't know," he answered and shrugged again, this time without the wince of pain on his face, and Dacey had to commend him for his restraint. "These dreams I have had for ages and they all amount to the same thing. I'm not myself; I'm inside someone else. I walk with them, see with them; I always smell blood and earth and winter. The dreams make me think of home, of the Wolfswood, of Bran and Rickon." He swallowed thickly, she saw, and she had to fight the urge to wrap her arms around him.
"My mother once told me that you probably have a close connection to your wolf," she ventured, referring to the words her mother had spoken so long ago. "Do you dream of Grey Wind when these spells hit you?"
"Not of," Robb muttered, turning his head, checking the harness of his horse again. "As."
He walked away abruptly, almost ashamed of what he had told her, and she wondered why, tossing his words over and over in her mind. She turned to look at him but he was already talking to the Maester in hushed tones, his back to her, and so she walked to the door, checking if they were still alone, if it was still safe to leave. They had pushed the Maester's cart out of sight, and there was nothing out there but the steady rush of the water and the wind in the treetops. She realised with a start that the wolves had stopped howling in the distance, and it made her think of Grey Wind again, wondering if he was still alive, believing he had to be – for Robb's sake. Before she could think any more on the subject, though, Robb was at her side, touching her shoulder.
"He's awake," he said under his breath. "I told the Maester to use his salts. We cannot wait any longer – we ride."
JON
"How is she?" Jon asked without looking up from his papers and maps.
Sam pulled off his gloves before removing his cloak and when he had put them away he stood awkwardly in front of Jon's desk. It wasn't until he started shuffling from one foot to the other that Jon finally looked up, only to give him one of his typically exasperated looks.
"You can sit down," he sighed, a hint of a smile playing somewhere around the corners of his mouth. "You don't have to wait for me to tell you to."
"You're the Lord Commander now, Jon," Sam argued. "It's not my place."
"Oh, shut up," Jon grumbled, looking at him as he folded the papers away. "You're my steward, my scribe, my librarian. It won't be long for you to become Maester Aemon's unqualified but undoubtedly highly talented successor. You can sit when and where you want to when there are no other men around." Jon took a deep breath. "Is this understood? Because we seem to be having this discussion every time you step in for your daily updates."
Sam dragged a chair closer to Jon's desk and sat down with a smile. "She is still feverish," he started, recounting his half hour meeting with the Queen that morning. "But she holds her meals, asks for more, sits up in bed and reads the books I bring for her." He shrugged. "Her mother's stomach is severe, but I think she's seen the worst of it."
Jon nodded, thinking that his only experience on the subject was Lady Stark's pregnancy with Bran and Rickon. He wondered suddenly where the boys were; if they had even survived the sack and burning of Winterfell; if they knew their mother had died. He swallowed. There was no love lost between him and Catelyn Stark, but the woman had had to endure the unjust killing of her husband and the loss of all of her children in some form or other in the months leading up to her own cruel murder, and he couldn't help but feel a cold and terrible sadness encompassing his heart.
"Will she deliver the baby at the Wall, Jon?" Sam asked, his eyes wide and questioning, addressing the subject they had spent weeks avoiding now. They both knew it was going to be impossible to keep the secret from their brothers, and what was more, winter was truly coming and there wasn't going to be a single baby that would survive that particular kind of cold in the harsh and draughty shelter of Castle Black.
"Can she be moved?" Jon wanted to know, not yet prepared to share with Sam how he had been racking his brain trying to come up with a solution. "She fell ill the moment she arrived here; I wonder if she'll survive the cold and the hardship on the road." Jeyne was trying to toughen up, he had noticed, but life at the Wall was hard for even the sturdiest of men.
Still, he kept weighing the options: the Castle or the road; the black brothers and the Wall and anything that lay beyond, or the dangers of the road to a possibly safer place. He'd asked Sam to give him daily updates on the Queen's health, to maybe discern a pattern or find traces of her growing strength. He didn't want to send her away; she was family now, after all, but as Maester Aemon had explained to him – the safest place for a baby is inside its mother's womb – and with each passing day he realised the best time for her to leave was before she would enter her birthing bed but also before she would become too big and burdened with the babe to travel.
There was a knock on the door and Sam stood to answer it immediately, probably glad of something to do in the ominously silent spells Jon knew he was wont to drop.
"A raven came, my Lord," Pyp said and Jon looked up to see his two friends standing together in the doorway. Pyp handed the small roll of parchment to Sam and inclined his head briefly before retreating, his cloak wrapped about him as he strode out into the cold again. Sam turned the parchment over to show the seal as he handed it to Jon. It was a message from the ranging party he had sent out weeks ago, and his heart jumped. These were their first words finally placed in his hands, and he cracked the seal impatiently. When he was done reading the three hastily scribbled lines he folded the parchment and stood up. He felt nauseous.
"The decision has been made for us," he said and Sam raised his eyebrows, spluttering to say something but Jon went on. "We need to move the Queen, and fast. Start preparing – horses, a wagon, supplies for weeks. Ser Brynden leaves tomorrow night or the night after at the latest." He had already stepped away from the desk to grab his cloak from a peg on the wall, giving Sam his instructions while he was fastening the clasp in one practised motion, pulling on his gloves after adjusting Longclaw on his hip. Then he turned to look at his steward and friend. "And you, Sam," he said solemnly. "You're going too."
Jon could see the conflict building behind Sam's eyes, could tell he wanted to protest, could almost see the but forming on his lips. It never came, though, as Sam was wise enough to understand that if the Queen had to go, there was no one but him who could possibly aid her if she went into labour before they reached their destination. Jon was well aware Sam had no experience delivering babies whatsoever, but the only other option was Maester Aemon, who was too old and frail to survive outside Castle Black, and besides, Jon would bet his beloved old sable cloak that Sam had read about such matters in one of his precious books.
"There's no point in arguing," Jon drove the issue home, and Sam hung his head.
"Where do we go?" he asked then, looking up again. And then, "and why?" He seized Jon's arm, stopping him from opening the door and stepping outside. "You've got to tell me, Jon," he urged, fear in his eyes. "What's in that letter?"
Jon gave him a long hard stare before answering, thinking of the plan that he had been mulling over in his mind ever since Jeyne and the Blackfish had arrived. He turned away from the door and sighed. "Mance Rayder is marching south," he said at last and Sam's eyes went impossibly wider. "The size of his host is incredible, or so the Halfhand tells me." Jon lifted the hand still clutching the message, the parchment tattered and dark. "The wildlings will be upon us any day now, Sam, and Robb's heir cannot be around when that happens." He took a deep breath, then put his arm around Sam's shoulders.
"You and Ser Brynden will travel to the Shadow Tower," he said in a low voice, drawing out the words so Sam would catch every last detail. "From there you'll make for the coast and sail for Bear Island. The women of House Mormont are fierce both in battle as well as the birthing bed. They'll help deliver the baby if you'll make it in time, and they'll protect it with their lives." He smiled, realising Sam needed reassurance above all. "Maege Mormont was on Robb's war council," he said. "Dacey Mormont was in Robb's personal guard. I don't know if they were at the Twins, but House Mormont will always be loyal to the King in the North." Now that he had spoken the words out loud, had unfolded his plan to someone other than himself, he actually truly believed it could work.
DACEY
Of course it would have been better if they had gotten a decent night's rest. They had ridden hard all night, skirting the forest as much as they dared just so they could stay on passable roads, especially with Smalljon threatening to tumble off his horse, worn down by pain and fatigue. Robb had dark smudges under his eyes, Dacey noticed once the early sun started to rise, throwing dappled light between the trees, but he pressed on without a word, adamant to put as many miles between them and the Twins as possible. She said nothing, remained close to Smalljon, keeping a careful eye on him as he struggled along, and decided that although it had been a long time since she'd felt so completely exhausted, she would much rather have this grim, relentless Robb over the desolate, defeated one of the Wilford. There was an unexpected strength about him now that she had last seen in him while riding for the wedding at the Twins, when their true objective had been to march back North to retake Winterfell from the Ironborn turncloak, and Dacey knew she would follow her King to the deepest of the seven hells because of it.
To her left, Smalljon swayed dangerously in his saddle and she knew then that if not for herself, she had to urge Robb to halt for Jon's sake and so she steadied the huge man until she felt safe he wouldn't fall, then trotted her horse up to where Robb was riding in front of them.
"Robb," she said, nothing but a breathed hiss as she knew how speech travelled far in the quiet hours of the early dawn. "Robb," she repeated, coming up beside him and brushing his shoulder. He twisted in his saddle as if burned by fire, flinching away from her touch, his eyes deep and red rimmed, his mouth set in angry determination. "Robb," she said a third time, shocked by what she was seeing, realisation suddenly dawning on her. "Come back to me," she urged, reaching for the reins and bringing Robb's horse to a stop. Behind them, Smalljon's destrier got the hint and halted of its own accord.
"Robb," she said again, shaking his arm, bringing her horse in as close as possible. "We're going to stop here. Jon's falling off."
Robb wheeled his horse about and on seeing Jon slumped in his seat, hanging on by sheer willpower, he finally seemed to snap out of his trance, his features going slack, and Dacey could hear him release a deep shuddering breath.
"There's an overhang of sorts about a mile to the west there," Robb pointed along a path that branched off into the forest. Dacey opened her mouth to say something but Robb cut her off with a pointed, dark stare and she snapped her mouth shut again, deciding to follow him into the gloom of the trees, leaving the ever-growing morning brightness of the road behind, the reins of Smalljon's horse in her hand.
"What's he up to?" Jon's voice came, ragged and exhausted. "He can't know."
Dacey shrugged, thinking now was as good a time as any to share her suspicions.
"I think he's warging," she muttered quietly, hoping Robb couldn't hear. Jon's head twisted towards her once he understood what she was truly saying, eyes wide. "And he's doing it more and more."
.
.
.
A/N: In answer to a few comments/PMs I received, I feel the need to point out that, even though with this story I am trying really hard to stick to the events as they happened in asoiaf as much as possible, there are a few significant changes I made. The most important of them is the fact I made Jon Lord Commander well before he got that title in the books. His ranging mission beyond the Wall and his encounter with Ygritte and Mance as a result of that never happened. In fact, the Halfhand is sent ranging on Jon's command, and he finds Mance's host and tells Jon about it. Also, I like to point out that Stannis Baratheon didn't sail for the Wall until after the RW happened, and arrived there when the battle at the Wall was in full swing. That is all still to come. Hope this explains my plot lines a bit more. -WW