Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited this. It means a lot. Thank you.

Just one note: I've skipped a highly tedious "Robb travelling to the Stormlands" post and had him arrive there already, just for convenience sake seeing as I'm already 17 chapters in. Thanks for understanding. And, sorry, but this is a long one.

Chapter Seventeen: A Land of Rivers and Storms

When dawn broke over the Neck Jon caught his first glimpse of the crannogs surrounding Greywater Watch. Small islets jutting from the surface of the lakes and waterways, providing small ground for the round structures built in circular formation from reeds and rushes. Evenly spaced, but too numerous to count. They didn't look much, but they were built to withstand flooding and attack in equal measure. Small boats bobbed alongside these small dwellings, the area's chief mode of transport. It was so different to anything Jon had ever seen before. And, although he couldn't see how it worked, he could see that it did work. This mesh of a society that knitted together and protected itself from some fearsome attacks. The Ironborn, to name but one would be invader. These were the people Robb definitely needed on side.

Although alone in the chambers he had been allocated at Greywater, he had still awoken to a fresh fire burning up scented herbs. Scented herbs used all over the castle to drive out the smell of damp and stagnant waters, but still a twinge of wet rot formed a base note to the air. Once there a full day or two, Jon ceased to notice it. The only other surprise that this place had given him was the absence of any Maester. He had half expected another version of Maester Luwin to be clanking along the corridors beneath the weight of his chain, but it seemed nothing of the Seven had made it across the swamps and waterways of the Neck.

When the sun rose fully, the morning fishermen set off. Jon could see them too, over the small boundary wall of Greywater Watch. Their nets were so fine he could not make them out fully, but the sunlight caught the fine, lattice strands of hemp thread. They were not unlike the net that Meera carried and used to devastating advantage. He found himself contemplating Meera again. A girl the same age as himself, completely at one with her other-worldly surroundings. They were so alike and yet so completely different she intrigued him in a way no other girl had managed before. She was lithe and light-footed, where he was brash and heavy-handed. She was swift and fast on her feet, where he had to ponder his every move. She could be assertive; where he would prevaricate. Ultimately, however, they only complimented one another.

As he pondered the things which united and divided himself and Meera, he dressed himself all in black. It was a nod to a time when he thought he was condemned to life in the Night's Watch. He would never be a brother, but he still dressed the part. Not long after becoming presentable, Meera seemed to have second guessed him and appeared at the door. She knocked first, only entering when he gave the signal. When she did, she looked as though she had been up for hours already. Alert and wide eyed, she stepped into the light of his chamber.

"We're waiting for you," she told him, smiling any reproach from her words. "Come and break your fast with us."

Now that she had said it, he noticed how hungry he was. And as they made their way through the galleries of the keep, they chatted about nothing in particular.

"Is the view from your chamber agreeable, Lord Stark?" She glanced back over her shoulder as she asked, a twinkle in her eye. There was a mischievous catch to this question, he could sense it.

"Most agreeable, my lady. That's an impressive lake, with impressive crannogs. It seems to be getting more sunlight than yesterday." It was the most magnanimous answer he could come up with. A break in the tree canopy must have opened their spot to the skies.

Meera turned on her heels, walking backwards as she led him to the hall. "You did notice then? The position of our keep changes; its ancient magic." She broke off and laughed at the look on his face. "You don't understand, but you will."

For the time being, he had to take her word for that. Presently, they arrived in the hall where Lord Reed had now been joined by Lady Reed. He not hitherto met with Jyana, another born of the Crannogmen and sharing much of their characteristics. Her hair was dark and falling in a mass of curls, just like Meera's. The most outward sign of her elevated station was the silver circlet that shone brightly among the black ringlets, otherwise she dressed simply. As Lord Reed formally introduced them, Jon leaned down and kissed her hand.

"Welcome to our halls, Lord Stark," she said, gesturing to the chamber at large. "And may I offer my condolences on the murder of your father, Lord Eddard."

Jon nodded his gratitude, but remained torn on the constant references to Lord Starks "murder". He didn't know whether to be grateful for people's anger, or to flinch against the harsh ugliness of the word itself. Still, he thanked her for her hospitality and took his place at the table. No serious business was discussed as they ate, leaving Jon to continue his conversation with Meera who was sat at his right.

"So, will you reveal to me the secrets of this keep?" he asked, recalling her peculiar remarks about the view from his chamber window. "Although, I think I understand in part what you meant. There's a reason why not even the ravens can find this place."

But Meera had that glint in her eye again. "You may be the brother of the King in the North, Lord Stark, but we've held our secrets since time immemorial. Maybe one day you'll find a way in."

It was an enticing prospect; the very waters and mud flats of the Neck seemed loaded with some unseen magic. Something just beyond the periphery of his understanding. Alluring and just out of sight. For a moment, he wondered whether it was really that which had led so many invading armies to their deaths.

Once breakfast was over, Meera and her mother once more withdrew to leave Jon and Howland alone together. But they did not immediately turn to business. Howland rose to his feet, leaving the spent platters behind for the servants. He gathered his long, moss-green cloak around his narrow frame and set off down the hall, beckoning Jon to follow. Without saying where they were going, Lord Reed opening the doors of the keep, letting in a broad wash of mid-morning sunlight. Ghost, skulking in the porch, quickly bound over to Jon.

"You can bring the wolf," Howland assured him. "And your sword. The infamous Dark Sister."

Jon's heartbeat skipped, turning rapidly from Ghost back to Reed. "You knew?"

"She is quite famous," he answered.

"But no one's seen in her in generations," Jon pointed out.

"Besides, I have other means."

Preoccupied with buckling his sword belt, Jon didn't query that last comment. Once he was done, he jogged to catch up with Lord Reed who was heading to the small boats he had seen from his chamber window. Up close, they looked insubstantial to him. Wooden framed and hollow bellied, they had no sails. But there was a vast fleet of them, stretching along an oak wood jetty that lined the curtain walls of Greywater Watch. Now, he could see out over the vast expanse of water. The surface was as placid as a milk pond, but huge and with clusters of lily pads gathered by the walls. They both climbed into one of the boats, Jon almost toppling as it rocked under their shifting weight. He thought it only polite to offer to row, but when we went to reach for the oars he realised there were none. Just a pole, to push off from the harbour. Howland gesture for him to do it, finding that he only needed to do it once before the vessel was gliding across the surface of the lake.

"These are my people, Lord Stark," said Howland, once Jon had settled again. "You can see for yourself, they are not warriors or fighting men."

That wasn't what he had heard. But as the boat seemed to glide of its own volition, they passed numerous crannogs and shore-lined huts. The Crannogmen themselves were all small and slender as children. He squinted as he kept them in focus, wondering where their reputation came from.

"Not in a conventional sense, at least," Jon added. "Or, so I suppose."

Lord Reed smiled; the first time Jon had seen him do so properly. White teeth appearing from within his beard.

"We fight alongside our environment, Jon," he explained. "Our land, the Neck itself, is our greatest ally in battle. This terrain plays tricks on people who've never been here. It trips them up, beguiles them. To the untrained eye, it looks the same in every direction; but we here know every bend in the rivers and bump in the swamps like the backs of our hands. We work with what we have and use it to our best advantage. Do you follow me?"

Jon nodded. "If you took someone who'd never left Kings Landing; put them in the middle of the Wolfswood and asked them to march south, they'd probably just walk in a big circle and die of frostbite. If I did it, I'd be home in time for supper."

"Exactly, but this is on an even bigger scale and with all our men firing arrows at them from unseen treetops and they'd drown in their armour. Just like the poor old Freys did," said Howland. "Even the late lamented Lord Roose Bolton feared to set foot on my territory."

"But, on the other side of the coin, if the Crannogmen were taken out of the Neck and asked to fight a land war, they would fall on their faces," said Jon, finally getting the older man's point. There were no Knights at Greywater; nor Masters at Arms. Nothing of the usual military set up; things were just too different here for that. "It's not their terrain; it's not how they're trained."

"They could shoot arrows, they could form a decent rear guard perhaps. But they would be children to the slaughter if they were out front." Howland glanced towards the banks, to where his land tenants were going about their morning routines. "Of course, I will spare your brother our very best archers. Some of them, at any rate. Naturally, we would be more than happy to give the entire Northern host safe passage to the Riverlands. Tell your brother that, but also give him my apologies that we can only offer little by way of fighting men. But we fight here and hold the North for you."

Jon understood and he trusted that Robb would, also. "Thank you, my lord. All we really needed was safe passage through the Neck."

Although curious about why they were in a boat, Jon sat back and allowed himself to enjoy the peculiar ride. It was not something he had done before and found it calming, even allowing one arm to hang over the side, his fingertips caressing the water.

"You look like her," said Howland, after a long silence. "Like Lyanna."

Jolted out of his reverie, Jon sat back up again. "My mother."

"I only caught a very distant glimpse of your real father, Prince Rhaegar, but from what I recall of him he passed very little of himself on to you," Reed elaborated. "The first time I saw him he was riding triumphant at the Tourney of Harrenhal. The second, and final time, was dead in the water at the Trident. It was quite a contrast."

"I can quite imagine," said Jon, feeling himself clam up.

If Howland noticed the effect this talk was having on him, he didn't let on. "The rubies that fell from his armour that day were taken by the Brothers of the Quiet Isle. There is one still at large, as I understand it."

"That's unfortunate."

"It could be very unfortunate," Howland added. "If it fell into the wrong hands."

"After all this time it could well be sinking to the bottom of the Summer Sea," he speculated. "It would have washed out to the seas and the tides carried it to who-knows-where. I doubt it'll be bothering anyone."

Ghost stirred from his sleep at Jon's feet; opening his red eyes and meeting Jon's grey. Meanwhile, Howland continued.

"An item like that will not have been allowed to just wash away," he pointed out. "Someone will have it. The other six are safe, but the seventh is an unknown quantity. You should retrieve it, if ever you get the chance."

"But why? It's just a stone. There are scores of rubies; how would I even know it was his?" he asked, intrigued as much as he was vexed.

"You'll know," answered Howland, obliquely. "Besides, I may be worrying over nothing."

Jon suspected as much, but kept his opinion to himself. Still they sailed on, barely leaving a ripple in the calm water. But they did pass into a river that narrowed, wending through dark trees that blocked the skies. It was cold and cloying again, like the path he had taken to arrive there in the first place. It was where quicksand formed a deadly border between land and water, where grass grew thick and disguised the pools that could easily drown an armoured man. Where Lizard Lions darted to the surface and posed as still as floating logs, waiting for the unwary to mistake them as such. Howland pointed it all out to him, offering brief explanations of their natural defences. It fascinated Jon beyond any talk of lost rubies.

It was almost early evening by the time they disembarked on dry land again. Lord Reed gestured to the horizon, which had cleared of trees and swamps entirely. It was a flat land, rivers glimmering in the distance. Fertile, green land sweeping outwards as far as Jon could see.

"That," said Lord Reed. "Is the northern Riverlands."

Jon drew a deep breath and smiled. The Twins had been circumvented; they could join their host to the Tullys. "Excellent, Lord Reed," he said. "This is excellent."

Sansa knelt at the Sept, but she hadn't come to pray. Initially, perhaps she had, but the words to half remembered prayers escaped her now. Now, she was content with merely hoping. Hoping in a sacred space seemed to her to be more potent than hoping while shut up inside her chambers. Sometimes, it felt as though the walls of the Red Keep could hear her words and read her mind. Everyone seemed to second guess what she was thinking and what was in her heart. Here, surely, the Seven would keep her hopes and secrets safe.

Opening her eyes, she glanced up at the niches above the floor's tiled seven pointed star, to where her gods looked down at her in effigy form. Light from the coloured glass glittered over their faces, making them look almost alive. If she tiled her head, she could swear that the Maiden was smiling down at her. But, like everything else in this place, it was probably just a trick of the light. All colour and no substance.

Just on the off-chance, however, she renewed her efforts at serious devotion. She closed her eyes and whispered her sister's name.

"Arya," she murmured. "Arya is alive. Arya must live. Robb, too…. And the Hound-"

She cut herself off, opening her eyes wide. She had not meant to say the Hound. But he had rescued her from the mob, he had even spoken up for her when she saved Ser Dontos from Joffrey's public humiliation. Where Sandor Clegane was concerned, something else entirely lay beneath that mutilated exterior. Was that how things went in King's Landing, she wondered, all that glitters turns out to be dirt and all that which looks like dirt turns out to be gold? All those urchins in Flea Bottom should be living like princes, if that were true.

That morning, she had spoken with Queen Cersei. Afterwards, she had listened in at the keyhole to Queen Cersei as she upbraided her younger brother, Lord Tyrion. It seemed that so long as Robb stayed in the North, they were not a threat to anyone. He was a boy, she had said, a boy with a grudge match playing out silly war games. Sansa heard the contempt oozing from the Queen's voice and, back in the present, she renewed her prayers once more.

"For Robb to ride south with as big an army as he could muster…." She thought to herself. "For Jon to raise the north, for Theon to raise the Iron Islands, for mother to raise the Riverlands and for Aunt Lysa to raise the Eyrie. For them all to march on the capital and sweep the Lannisters off the coast of Casterly Rock."

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open again, blinking against the bright light that surrounded her. Sansa felt her jaw stiffen, her resolve strengthen. She had the dreams again. She was Lady and Lady was her. They ran and ran through the Riverlands with Nymeria at her side. And Arya was Nymeria as she was Lady. They were wolf sisters and blood sisters in one. No fighting nor squabbling this time around, it was how things should have been. As disturbing as the dreams were, they made Sansa feel strong and alive while languishing in this lion's den.

For all the strength her wolf dreams gave her, her human knees began to ache against the stones of the sept. She had to move before she froze like that. Stiffly, she got up and arranged her skirts, smoothing down the brocade. Fixing her hair and making herself as presentable as possible, she turned and walked straight into the man she hadn't realised was standing directly behind her.

"Lady Sansa." It was Varys, perfumed and flowery as always. She recoiled, not trusting the Master of Whispers one bit. "What a surprise to see you here."

She smiled politely, ducking her head deferentially. "Excuse me, I was just leaving."

But as she tried to pass, one fat hand appeared from the dagged sleeve and came to rest on her arm. She froze, suddenly in a flutter and not sure of what to say.

"My Lady," he addressed her formally, softly. "I was most grieved after what befell your father."

Guarded words, but Sansa was still struck by how dangerous they were. Too dangerous, and she remembered how much she distrusted this man. Her reply was mechanical, without feel or sincerity. "My father was a traitor; Joffrey is my King."

But she lifted her clear blue gaze to meet his, unable to hide the grief there. My father was the best of men, she silently added. Before she could grow tearful, she recalled the wolf dreams, when she and Nymeria ran wild through the Riverlands. Meanwhile, Varys frowned, his plump face darkening. He looked almost dismayed.

"Of course, my dear," he said, his hand transferring to her shoulder. He squeezed said shoulder in a manner meant to be reassuring. "You know, don't you, that Stannis Baratheon is expected to land on our shores at any moment. You must be prepared."

Sansa nodded hesitantly. "I will be."

Some small hope of escape flared up in her. She could escape, run away and flee north to where Robb would welcome her home. But like Lady and Nymeria, it was all one big dream. Before Varys could say anything else, the Hound's hulking shadow loomed over the doorway of the Sept, drawing both their gazes.

"I really must go now," she said. "I thank you again, ser."

Hitching up the hems of her skirts, she hurried away. The smell of his perfume followed her in a choking cloud as she left, like she would never be rid of him.

Spattered with mud and dust from the road, Robb washed himself as best he could with just a basin of cold water. The tent's décor was sparse, but adequate for his needs at least. Moreover, it was a lifestyle he knew he would have to quickly get used to once his own army were properly on the march south. A prospect that, despite his endless worries, grew more exciting the nearer it got. This was his first real taste of what it would be like.

While he cleaned up, Grey Wind snoozed by the front entrance like a slacking guard dog. His fur was matted with dirt now, too wearied from the journey to even roll in a puddle. He, too, would need cleaning up before they were presented to King Renly and his Queen, Margaery. Before them, however, he had his mother to answer to.

"Robb!"

He didn't notice the entrance moving, or hear Lady Stark entering. Hurriedly scrubbing at his face with a towel, he straightened up to face her. Bare chested and chilled to the spine, he tried not to let his discomfiture show.

"Mother," he returned the frosty greeting.

At the sight of him, the shock on Lady Stark's face gave way to relief. She gathered her skirts and closed the gap between them, kissing his newly washed cheek. Then she stood back, scrutinising his face as though checking that he'd really made it all that way in one piece. He found it almost disconcerting.

"I am alright," he assured her.

"I know," she replied, holding his gaze. "Of course you are; I know that."

While she had her moment, Robb turned to the clean shirt one of his squires had left out for him. The rest of his retinue were being housed in separate tents, including the array of Boltons he had brought down with him. Wherever they were, he knew Renly would have provided for them – it was something of a forte of this southron King.

"The men were worried that you were giving up the Neck," he said, explaining his sudden appearance there. He was also worried. Despite everything, he felt apprehensive and turned to face her again. "Mother, tell me you haven't made any promises."

"Do you think me a simpleton?" she shot back. "If that's what you think, son, I'm clean amazed you trusted me on this embassy at all."

He sighed heavily. "Mother, no. But the others thought you were giving away-"

"And Jon is still there negotiating with the Reeds," she cut over him. "I'm not a double dealer, Robb. I'm almost a Northerner!" All rebuke was gone from her words and she laughed.

Robb almost felt foolish, inwardly chiding himself for doubting her. But he was sure his would not be a wasted journey. He still had a deal to strike with King Renly and it would be on his own terms. But, before he could fix his coat back in place, his mother placed a hand on his arm to get his attention.

"Lord Baelish was here not so long ago," she said, her expression softening. "He was escorting your father's bones north. Naturally, I said that I would take over from here."

The breath hitched in his throat. He would have thought Baelish was preoccupied with the war effort in the south, but all that was forgotten when the other part of his embassy was mentioned.

"Father's bones," he repeated, weakly. "Are they here still?"

Catelyn nodded, her eyes now damp with suppressed tears. Like the rest of them, she had not had time to mourn properly. "Lord Tyrion sent them as soon as he returned to the capital. So, you can pay your last respects here; it may be the last chance you have."

Robb replied with a slow nod. This unexpected emotional blow had caught him straight in the heart. "As soon as I am presented, mother, take me to him. I will guard him overnight."

Catelyn's face flushed with pride, bringing one hand up to his face and gently caressing his lower eye – as though he were the one weeping. She only stepped away from him when the tent front opened again. This time, a tall and handsome youth wearing an alarming rainbow cloak over his armour entered. Going by the rose sigil embossed on his exposed breastplate, Robb could guess that it was Loras Tyrell. His blond curls leant him the good looks of a maid in bloom, but his reputation as a fighter went before all else. He bowed respectfully to Robb, deferring to him as a recognised King.

"Your Grace, His Grace the King will see you now. Come with me, when you're ready."

Despite the weather in the Stormlands being bleak and damp, there was a great feast going on. Revelries that showed no sign of letting up as Robb and Catelyn approached. The atmosphere reminded Robb of King Robert's visit to Winterfell, an event that now seemed to have taken place in someone else's lifetime. Pushing all knowledge of his father's remains to one side, Robb forced himself into the act of one dignitary receiving another as Ser Loras led him to the high table.

King Renly was alone beneath the canopy, his Queen clearly indisposed for a moment. But he rose to his feet as the voices of the guests all petered away into silence. Catelyn dipped a curtsey, while Robb himself went as far as to incline his head. Bending the knee a step too far at this delicate stage. But if any offense was taken, Renly didn't show it. He stepped out from behind his seat, rounded the trestle table at which he sat and approached Robb with open arms.

"The King in the North!" he declared loudly, his voice carrying in the open air. The declaration met with muted applause. "Welcome, Your Grace. I've heard so much about you."

The mood was still one of celebration and, clearly, it wasn't the right time to bring up affairs of the state. Coupled with the fact that he was, like his father before him, not one for great parties, he began to curl at the edges with impatience. Still, he observed etiquette and followed the King to the table, where a place was already set for him. Before he sat down however, Renly made a sweeping gesture towards a young woman who had appeared at his side.

"Please, Your Grace, meet my wife, Queen Margaery Tyrell," he said.

Robb turned to look at her properly. An undeniably beautiful girl, maybe a year older than himself. Her eyes were the colour of honey, lips parted in a bright smile as she dipped him a curtsey. As she bent at the knee, her hair slid over her shoulder and drew his attention to her bosom. Even at her husband's side, Robb could not pretend he wasn't looking, but pulled himself together once she was standing properly again.

"Your Grace," she said, allowing him to kiss her cheek. "It's a pleasure to meet you, at last. Your mother has told us all about you. Please, come and dine with us."

Robb smiled easily. "It would be a pleasure, my lady."

Even if she wasn't married, she would be Jon's. His mother would see to it that the Tyrell's returned to their old Targaryen alliance. She would be Jon's. What a waste, he thought to himself.

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