A/N-1: First of all, my apologies for the delay. It's been the summer months and I was traveling more than writing, so thank you for bearing with me on that account. Now that that time of the year is gone again, I'll most likely go back to a more rigorous posting schedule. Anyway, here's chapter nine, let me know what you think.

A/N-2: Also, if you don't find (parts of) this story good (enough) it's obviously more than okay to let me know, but an explanation of why you feel this way would be appreciated instead of just dumping your unsalted words on me. Thank you.

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ROBB

Unlike other early mornings, when it was usually a stray animal that wandered into their small, makeshift camp or a strange sound that was too near to be comfortable and caused him to sit up with a start, this time Robb woke slowly – feeling like he was trying to swim to the surface of a deep, dark lake with a weight tied to his legs; his heart pounding, sweat on his brow.

When he opened his eyes he noticed it was still early, the sky a dark grey beyond the treetops that crowded his vision. He slowly grew aware of the rest of his body, his arms and legs heavy and tingling, his wounds not so painful for once. Then he realised that other part of his body, hot and heavy, trapped in leathers and linens, and he blushed in spite of the cold and the fact it was too dark for anyone to see. Another second and his dream came rushing back to him, causing him to turn on his stomach, pressing down, trying to recall how long ago it was for him to wake in such a state. The woman in his dreams was faceless, he remembered – a vision like the ones he had had so many times before when life was still bearable despite the cruel changes; when guilt was limited to having been unable to stop his father's death or save his long lost sisters.

They had been travelling for days now, nearing Flint's Finger, the cold and exhaustion a permanent fixture in their bones and their souls, keeping an effective watch over each other an ever-increasing problem. He knew Smalljon was sitting a few feet away, probably fighting sleep or already nodding off, and Robb was grateful for another night without incident. To his left, Dacey muttered something unintelligible as she slept and he turned his head to watch her sleeping form. Had it been Dacey he dreamed of, he asked himself, and the thought filled him with a whole new sense of guilt because shouldn't he be having these dreams about Jeyne? He thought about it for a while as he lay listening to the howling of a wolf far off in the distance, a sound that soothed him and somehow kept him sane and strangely driven.

Dacey's face was soft in the shafts of light that slowly started to fall through the treetops, giving it the look of silk or satin, and Robb found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, his fingers itching with it, a fresh surge of blood going south. He turned on his other side, his heavy fur cloak rustling, causing Smalljon to stir and cough and Robb fell silent – closing his eyes, focusing on the heavy throb of blood in his veins.

Dacey muttered again and Robb forced himself to think of Jeyne; almost-forgotten images of his Queen filtering in and out, her hair a honey-gold tumble of curls against the soft, smooth marble of her back as he held her hips and lost himself inside of her.

Jeyne had been a timid, tender creature when he had first met her, soft-spoken and courteous, thoughtful and caring. Over time he found out there were more layers to his wife; wilder, saucier ones he uncovered when he was alone with her at night, when the war was held at bay by the stone walls of Riverrun and they could come together in a way that had nothing to do with courtesy or honour.

He swallowed and pushed his fist against his teeth, realisation dawning that he wanted again. It had been gone from his existence ever since he'd woken up after the Twins and he had never really given it much thought again. He didn't miss it, didn't want it; told himself it was for people better than him. Once he got lost in it again he knew it would feel too good, and feeling good was not something he thought he deserved after surviving the massacre at the Twins; so he had decided to dismiss it from his mind.

Until now, that was. Because while he could probably dismiss the familiar, sweet craving to all seven hells and back, his body acted with a mind of its own and the insistent urge wasn't going anywhere.

Robb chanced a quick glance across his shoulder again, noticed how the camp was still quiet and Dacey was still asleep. He tried to recall the woman of his dreams, tried to remember if it had been Jeyne – because it should have been Jeyne, and felt almost embarrassed that he couldn't bring the image back, couldn't answer the question. He sighed and turned onto his back, shivering with the cold that was steadily seeping into his bones now that they were going further and further north, resigning himself to overtight breeches and a long wait.

Dacey had been so close to him these past moons, had taken care of him when he was nothing but a living corpse; cleaning the blood and the guts and the vomit. She had sung to him – soft and a little unsteady – during the two or three nights when he'd refused the Maester's milk and he had come so close to death. If he shut his eyes he could still feel her fingers in his hair, brushing the tangle of curls from his face, muttering silly encouragements under her breath, her hand clasped around his all through the night.

She had shared stories of Bear Island with him when he was well enough to be awake longer and lie bored in his bedroom at the Wilford. The first of those stories she had told him standing near the foot of his bed. After a few evenings she had sat down on the edge of the mattress and in the end she would sit next to him against the headboard, knees drawn up under her chin, her eyes soft and distant as she regaled him with tales of the Mormonts – her family and her house – the people who taught her to fight and care.

He thought back to the handful of moments when she had touched him in a way she shouldn't have, thought back to the night he had been inside the creature again, how he had woken up in her arms with his jerkin undone and her hand curled around his laces. He'd been much too shaken by his dream to do more than stare at Dacey a little funnily and move away from her to go and ensure their safety, but now that he had some quiet, secret time to give the episode more thought he understood what had actually transpired between them. What had been building between them ever since he could sit up and appreciate another person's presence again. What he knew about Dacey all along but had never ever acknowledged – not before the Twins, and certainly not after.

Dacey had been the only woman in his Thirty, her position undisputed among his guard but sometimes frowned upon by others, his older Bannermen, his soldiers, people who didn't know her – or him for that matter. He had never gone through the trouble of explaining his choice to anyone, letting her courage and skill as a warrior speak for itself; but he had also never dared to admit to himself that there might be more to her appointment than just her prowess on the battlefield.

He had pushed the thoughts away even then, even before Jeyne; had kept them hidden so deep within, conjuring them up from the deepest, darkest corners of his memory only in the dead of night when he was sure he was alone in his tent, and even then he only briefly examined them – too embarrassed by what they truly meant. It was something he had barely any experience with and which would probably cloud his vision and strategics when he all he wanted was to avenge his father; when all he wanted was the war and the fighting to be on his mind. He'd left his feelings for Dacey Mormont alone most of the time, and then Jeyne happened and soon after everything spun out of his control – if it hadn't already.

Next to him, Dacey began to stir and he quickly closed his eyes again, feeling ridiculously caught out, jamming a hand against the front of his breeches, allowing himself a sliver of relief.

"Maybe today we'll reach the Finger," he heard her voice a second later, raspy from sleep, Smalljon's voice right behind it humming his agreement. "Your Grace," came Dacey's voice again and Robb winced inwardly at the title as he felt her hand at his shoulder, causing him to sit up with a jerk, as if she could sense his thoughts and his actions – minute as they had been – simply by touching his skin. "Easy…" she soothed as she watched him bolt upright, his face contorting in rapidly returning pain now that the haze of his arousal was wearing off.

"Let's hope we'll find passage," he threw in, hoping to sound casual enough to deflect attention, stumbling to his feet and a little away from the others, trying to find a secluded spot to relieve himself, realising it was going to be a bit of a problem this time. He disappeared behind a tree as he heard Smalljon list their possibilities if no ship would be sailing from the Finger, neither one of them sounding too tempting, least of all riding all the way north to Deepwood Motte. As he laced up again, thankful that it wasn't the hassle it had sometimes been when he was younger, he was about to turn and walk back to his companions when he felt the cold steel of a blade at his throat. Before he could say or do anything, he heard the ugly rasp of a man's voice close behind him, could smell the sour stink of cheap wine on his breath as he spoke, and Robb knew there was no way he could go for his own sword, not even while his hand was already hovering close to the hilt.

"Walk back to your companions, Your Grace," the voice, laced with sarcasm, ordered curtly, "real nice and easy or I'll slit your right royal throat."

SAM

He never thought Jeyne would be able to face the cold and the hardship of the long road to the Shadow Tower, but he had to hand it to her. She hadn't complained once during the three days they'd been on the road now, and even though she had been feeling unwell, still suffering from a persisting fever, Queen Jeyne carried herself with the poise that came with the title. The trek to the Shadow Tower would take them about two weeks, he figured, with the slow pace they were setting, the cart that carried the Queen pulled by oxen, not horses. The cold was bitter and biting and even Sam, in his Night's Watch garb, wondered if they wouldn't freeze to death before they reached the shore.

Jon had given him some handwritten instructions right upon their departure, an uncharacteristically secretive affair in the wolf hour of the night with Ser Brynden bringing the Queen out in a thick, fur-lined, hooded cloak, her swollen belly well hidden underneath the many layers of the garment – making her as comfortable as possible in her covered cart. Ghost had followed their progress for the first two days before leaving them alone somewhere during the third night – his muzzle pushed against Sam's arm as if to bid him safe travels – making the latter feel a lot less safe once the beast had gone back towards Castle Black.

The letter Jon had given him taught Sam about the Wildlings that would be clamouring at the gate before long and about the rumours that Stannis Baratheon had been spotted sailing north along the east coast with a massive host. That information especially made Sam shiver, for he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Baratheon heir to the Iron Throne would never accept the widowed Queen of the King in the North, let alone their possible heir. Jeyne had never been quite safe among the Black Brothers, even if they managed to keep her name and title a secret as best as they could; it would be worthless and forfeit if Stannis ever caught wind of her presence in the castle.

Sam did not know anything about Bear Island apart from the few things his previous commander had shared with him and what he'd read. He knew the island was almost like a matriarchal community, a place where conditions were such that women were treated equal to men by some sort of unspoken code, and that the leader of the most important house of Mormont was the Commander's sister, Maege, a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and an important voice on Robb Stark's war council.

Her daughter Dacey Jon had portrayed as a tall, formidable woman who had been swinging a morning star with scary precision ever since the tender age of nine. Sam shivered again at the thought of such a woman, and when Jon described her with some more detail, his memory trying to go back to the last time the Mormonts had visited Winterfell and to the way she had decimated Jon and Robb and the Greyjoy ward in the practice yard, Sam swore he could see the young Commander shudder a little, too.

"She was taller than Robb," Jon recalled, "by at least five inches the last time she came to Winterfell. She dressed like a man in breeches and leathers, her cloak as heavy as yours and mine, and she was a good ten years older than us. Robb always admired her, or so he told me, and I wasn't surprised to learn later on that she was appointed to his Thirty. I think we can safely assume she was with him at the Twins, and thus slaughtered along with my brother, but her house is loyal to the Starks – there's no doubt in my mind."

Sam wasn't too sure he wanted to go to an island where women, highly proficient at using deadly weapons, were in charge; but Jon had ordered him to take Queen Jeyne there and so he would, reminding himself he'd be trembling even harder at the prospect of having to deliver the royal baby himself.

"Never seen or heard so many wolves in my life," Ser Brynden muttered as Sam rode up to him, checking behind him every other minute to make sure they were still the only ones on the road. "It's uncanny."

Sam had to agree, the old knight made a valid point. Quite against the Lord Commander's instructions they kept a fire in the camp every night to ward off the wolves trailing in packs along the perimeter of the forest that lined the road to the west. He thought of Ghost, who had stayed with them for a few days, making Sam wonder about the truth in this old form of northern magic he'd read about – this warging – thinking if Jon wanted to make certain they were all right. He also asked himself if the wolves were only coming closer now because of the fact Ghost had returned to his master again, giving his smaller cousins free range. He shuddered some more, asking himself if he wouldn't rather help deliver a baby than encounter a pack of ferocious wolves. It was biting cold, Winter had truly come, to use the Stark words, and Sam knew that the wolves as well needed to get sustenance now wherever they could get it. They all knew that only the fire would keep them safe.

"I take it there are no wolves in the Riverlands?" Sam ventured, still a little daunted by the gruffness of the massive Tully knight.

"I served in the Vale for a long time," the old man answered, "but no, wolves are uncommon south of the Neck." He was silent for a bit and Sam could tell he was thinking of something so he held his tongue and waited for the knight to speak again. "Or maybe I should say they were uncommon," Ser Brynden continued in the end and he gave Sam a curious look. "My great-nephew had a direwolf just like the Lord Commander's, but bigger still and of a different hue."

Sam nodded, he had heard about the beast that had always accompanied Robb Stark into battle.

"His name was Grey Wind, and Robb was truly the only one who could control him at all." Brynden Tully looked ahead again, while Sam threw another furtive glance across his shoulder, the road still as empty as ever. "I've seen them fight together," the old man continued, "something to behold, I tell you." There was genuine awe in the Blackfish' eyes and Sam was both relieved and disappointed he had never seen the biggest direwolf of the famed Stark pack. "He was killed at the Twins as well," the knight spoke once more, "along with his master, and since then more and more wolves have been seen coming south, howling at night, prowling the Riverlands – almost as if they mean to take the West and the Twins and the Lannister Rock themselves."

Sam smiled at that, remembering Jon's barely concealed grief after he had brought him the news of his brother's murder, of how he had muttered curses under his breath, thinking Sam couldn't hear them, swearing he'd tear down the Frey Keep with his bare hands, or how he wished to set a snarling pack of direwolves on Tywin Lannister himself.

"They do howl at night as if they are out on revenge," Sam said and Ser Brynden gave him an uncharacteristic smile.

"The entire north is out on revenge, boy," he replied. "Robb was a good man, by the Gods; and I know he tried. I saw him; I saw his struggle; he had enemies everywhere and I don't think he ever lost faith, maybe until the very last end. Walder Frey –" The old man looked away suddenly, unable to continue, so Sam muttered something unintelligible as he allowed his horse to fall back. He realised once again that, even though he had never met Robb Stark, he could gather from what the Lord Commander and this seasoned, old knight had told him, the boy they called the Young Wolf must have been a natural, inspiring leader to say the least.

"Sam." His thoughts were interrupted when the Queen stuck her head around the curtain of the small covered cart, calling his name.

"Your Grace?" He wheeled his horse about and rode so that they could speak easily.

"I may have to…" the young woman started, looking embarrassed, and Sam knew what was the matter straight away.

"Ser Brynden," he called out and the knight looked back instantly. "Would you stop the oxen?" Sam knitted his eyebrows together in a way that said it all and the old man halted the team. When the cart had stopped completely Jeyne climbed out of it, clutching a massive fur-lined cloak around her shoulders that brushed the snow-covered earth as she made her way to a forlorn bit of undergrowth, allowing Sam to stand guard.

The apology was right there on her lips the second she emerged, but Sam quickly raised his hand, indicating no apology was necessary – he had read about this awkward indisposition related to being with child and as he was under strict instructions to keep the Queen as comfortable as he could, he would not hear of an apology for something she could not help.

As she climbed back into the cart with some difficulty, hindered mostly by the cloak she tried holding together, Sam helped her up and in and averted his eyes as she settled in her seat again. "Maybe Your Grace shouldn't use that cloak…" Sam began but the Blackfish gave a loud cough that startled him and gave Jeyne enough time to pull the little curtain.

As the oxen continued their slow but steady trek again, Ser Brynden shook his head.

"That is her late husband's cloak, master Tarly," he explained and Sam felt like he could kick himself. "It is the one I grabbed when I smuggled her out of of RIverrun, and she has clung to it ever since. Apart from the babe growing inside of her, it might well be the only thing she has left of Robb Stark."

DACEY

"Jon," Dacey hissed as quietly as she could, the air sliding out between her gritted teeth and Smalljon gave her a brief look. His hand was on his sword even before he could put two and two together, instinct telling him something was wrong and to pull his blade from its sheath. Dacey stepped behind her horse and slid her axe from the straps on her saddle, holding it as if she was ready to strike a blow at any time.

"Don't even think about it," a rasping voice came from between the trees, and the two warriors exchanged a quick look, lowering their weapons when they saw Robb stepping into the clearance, the point of an old and rusty but still very effective blade held against the back of his neck. "Drop those weapons," the man ordered, carefully circling his charge but keeping to the shadows of the large trees on the edge of the clearance, still resting the tip of his blade against Robb's throat with sickening precision.

Dacey dropped the axe and drew her sword to put it on the ground as well, hoping to placate the man with the gesture – conveniently forgetting to remove the dagger at her belt, which she had twisted to her back when she'd stepped aside to get her axe. Next to her Smalljon laid his broadsword on the mossy ground as well, moving away from it and closer to a massive, fallen branch, Dacey noticed.

"That's better," the man said and Dacey watched a small trickle of blood disappear into the furs around Robb's shoulders. She locked her eyes with his and to her satisfaction she only saw determination there, no fear. If this was caused by the fact that at times Robb still felt he didn't have a lot to live for, she couldn't tell, but for now it left him fearless and brave and ready to fight. She gave him the barest of nods and shivered when she saw a ruthless glitter in his cold, blue eyes.

"Now," the man growled, stepping out of the shadow of the trees, and Dacey stared at him; a Frey soldier, his ugly, tattered skullcap a little askew on his head. "Isn't this a stroke of luck?" He sneered and pushed his sword even tighter against Robb's skin, nicking it deeper, causing more blood to flow. Dacey balled her hands into fists to stop herself from giving in to the urge to fight the intruder, fully aware this would most likely cause more harm than good. They had to wait for a diversion, as small as they could come, before they could attack and disarm him without endangering Robb any further. The Frey soldier chuckled as he looked at the three of them, one by one. "The King in the North taking a piss right under my nose?" Dacey watched with disgust as spittle flew out of his mouth with the ugly rasp of his laughter, tightening her fists, steadily ignoring Smalljon's warning stares to her left.

"You," the man jerked his chin at Dacey, "untie that horse."

"Which one?" she stalled, and Robb's eyes widened fractionally.

"I don't bleeding care," the man answered. "Don't try to be clever with me, you northern whore. Now untie that horse."

Dacey exchanged a quick glance with Smalljon before loosening the reins of one of their horses from the tree it stood tied to, stepping away once her task was done.

"Turn around," he told Robb and pushed his shoulder hard. Robb winced, it was the wrong shoulder, but he managed to stay on his feet and the man pointed at the length of rope that was hanging from the saddle on Smalljon's horse. "You," he motioned for Dacey again, "tie up your King." Dacey reached for the rope but probably moved a little too quickly to the man's liking and he pushed the blade still deeper into Robb's neck, opening the wound for real this time.

"You might want to be careful with my throat," Robb bit out. "I think Walder Frey might like to slit it himself." Robb stepped away from the steel, challenging the soldier to cut him again. "I do not think he'd like it if you deny him that opportunity. From what I could tell, the man is unable to handle a slight."

"Old man Frey wants you dead, is all," the soldier answered and pushed the blade in again. "I'm going to put you on a horse and ride you back to the Twins and hand you over so I get an even better reward, but if you put up a fight I will kill you in the blink of an eye. Now tie him up!"

Dacey moved in and tied Robb's hands behind his back, careful not to pull the rope too tightly, hoping to leave it wide enough for him to wriggle free. From the corner of her eye she could see the wound in Robb's neck, a nasty cut that had gone deeper than she'd expected, the fur just below drenched in blood already.

"Tighter," the Frey soldier commanded, startling her, stepping closer to inspect her work. "I should have asked him, as you're doing a piss poor job of it. I might have to kill you as well."

Dacey did as she was told the second she saw the man's sword go back to the wound in Robb's neck, scared he would cut it open for real if she angered him any further.

"You surround yourself with poor excuses of women, Your Grace," the man continued, and Dacey knew to be quiet, to allow the man his rant as it would probably cause him to get off his guard sooner rather than later. "Your Lady Mother's throat was so easily slit," he rasped and laughed and Dacey was amazed by the fact his words didn't elicit one single reaction from Robb, "as was your wife's, the minute she was found – just outside of Riverrun." Spittle glistened again on the man's lips as he spoke the damning words before he cast a sneer in Dacey's direction. "I'm certain this one's just as simple to kill."

Whereas Dacey inwardly shuddered with the news that Queen Jeyne had been murdered, Robb was still motionless, his body rigid, eyes cold.

He's waiting for a chance to escape, Dacey thought and it caused her to focus even more on the position of the man's hands and his sword and the dagger she knew was waiting for her on her back. From the corner of her eyes she watched Jon move minutely closer to the branch by his feet, not doubting for a single second he could heft it and use it to bash the man's skull in.

"You flatter yourself," Dacey couldn't help but challenge the man and she wondered if it was the merest hint of a smile she saw flitting across Robb's face. "Here's your horse."

She clapped the beast on its flank and it stepped in between her and Robb's assailant, causing him to move back temporarily, the very thing Smalljon had been waiting for as he bent down and lifted the enormous branch over his head. Dacey smacked the horse's flank again with one hand and drew her dagger with the other, partly cutting the rope around Robb's wrists before he had to duck down as Smalljon took a swing at the Frey soldier once the horse was gone.

The man was quicker than either one of them had expected, though, and Dacey watched his hand land in Robb's cloak, pulling him flush as he wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pushing the blade in deep, much and more blood coming out this time, and she knew Jon had seen it too. She pulled back, keeping the dagger out of harm's way and watched how Robb was roughly pulled backwards to the horse that was now behind them, a choking arm around his neck preventing him from putting up a fight now his hands were untied again, blood running and covering the man's arm and sword and dirty tunic.

"Fools!" he shouted but there was no time for more as a loud crack to their right was followed by a flash of fur and a growl so wild that even Dacey stepped back in fear, averting her face to prevent dirt and sand to fly into her eyes, and when she looked again the Frey soldier's throat was a huge gaping mess of pulsing blood and ripped sinews; his body being dragged along the ground by a direwolf's red-stained muzzle. The beast let go of the ravaged corpse, dropping it carelessly to bleed out, the forceful spray of blood from the Frey's neck steadily diminishing to a pathetic trickle.

It had all gone so fast that Dacey realised Smalljon was still holding the huge branch overhead, lowering it only when the wolf returned to where Robb was trying to get up only to fall to his knees again as he wrapped his arms around its neck, burying his face in the thick, grey fur.

"He survived," she could hear a disbelieving Smalljon say to her left and she smiled knowingly, thinking how she had travelled the last few days watching her king slide in and out of his warging state; wondering how long it would take for Robb and Grey Wind to be reunited again.