Howland
His world was one of green and grey, a changeless flow of days into weeks, months into years. Though his father had died when he was still a quickling, Howland had taken well to the ways of his people, as skilled with hook and net as with spear and arrow. Even so, when manhood came it seemed sudden, and so he spent the first years of it outside the well-trod waters of home. Wyrelake and Deep Pit, the Hill of the Sworrm, the Tangle of the Webbs, all and more he visited, making himself known to them. In time, though, new haunts became old and the nameless warrens of House Feest were as familiar to him as the every shifting sandbar of Greywater Watch.
"Mother," he asked on the very day he returned home, "there is a world outside our lands I wish to see before I marry and have children of my own." She smiled, though sadly.
"I trust you will find us with no great difficulty, my son. Never was a man born more beloved of our mists and mires, we will wait eagerly for your return. But you must beware, Howland, for our kind do not often leave our borders. It pleases the rest of Westeros to forget about us, and so neglect has become our firm ally. It would not do to draw eyes to us, friend or foe. Our world is our own." With his solemn oath he would go unseen into the wider world, he took his leave of the hearth and home he'd been born to. Travelling alone to the edges of the Neck, he kept his little boat folded up tight on his back. When it came time to step out of the North proper, though, his curiosity clashed with uncertainty. The lands to the south of the Neck belonged to the Freys, no friends of his nor his people. Prayers in the south went to pictures and statues, wax and glass, not the formless, faceless gods of earth and sky, of ice and fire. At last he could linger no longer and paddled quietly down the Green Fork, passing the great stone towers on a moonless night. These southerners would miss a dragon passing overhead, he thought incredulously on hearing their jests, mutters and complaints. The river proved a better road than the muddy path the southerners called the kingsroad, so Howland kept to it and only by night when he need share it with no one. The riverlands themselves sailed by, inn by cottage by castle, until Howland left the Green Fork rather than stop at Lord Harroway's Town.
He filled his belly with squirrel and field mice when going overland, a castle dwarfing the Twins poking up from the horizon days earlier than he expected. Only when he stood in the shadow of the great ruin of Harrenhal did Howland appreciate its size, gaping up at the melted towers and imagining the beast that had made them so. But Harrenhal was the home of the Whents, a family that boasted one of its own in the ranks of the white swords that hovered behind the king. Howland was no keener to linger on their lands than those of the Freys, and so out came his boat when he reached the banks of the Gods Eye. He stayed with the green men on the Isle of Faces for a winter, learning still more about the Pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest, long gone despite the weirwoods. The Children wielded the Hammer of the Waters from this very place. The destruction wrought by Balerion the Black Dread had been something to behold, but no dragon ever sundered a landbridge in twain, never sunk miles of dry field below the water to create the very bogs Howland called home. In his heedless eagerness, he asked the green men what they knew of the time after the Pact, but the Age of Heroes as men called it, northern or southern, was of no interest to the green men. The Long Night they would speak of not at all, nor the beings that came when the cold winds rose and the snows fell fit to bury men, Children and giants alike. They live still, Howland supposed, far beyond the Wall. In the furthest, coldest places of the world, waiting for the cold to come again. But the cold did not come, nor the night that blotted the sun from the sky for a generation. The winter he spend on the Isle of Faces was a cold one, but hardly the stuff of legend. Only when the snows melted and the green leaves of brown trees (weirwoods never lost their leaves, even in winter) unfurled did one of the elder green men ask why Howland was there.
"To learn," he replied at once, hearing the words before the question.
"And so you have. As much as any on this island knows, or at least can guess at. You are a young man with a young man's hungers, so why do you remain?" Howland looked at his feet, unsure how to answer. "You came south, Howland Reed, but you never truly left the Neck nor the North. If you would learn about the wider world, you will not do so here, nor the bogs of home." Howland pondered that. I can scarcely stroll into the Citadel and forge a chain. Though he could make head nor tail of the elder's riddling, Howland knew it was time for him to bid the island farewell. He returned the way he'd come, shoring at night as ever to find Harrenhal alive with light. In the darkness no one could tell he was a crannogman, no one saw his olive skin or moss-green eyes, and so he found himself joining in the smallfolk's games as well as food, tasting beef and pork and chicken for the first time. Greywater Watch was nothing like this place, so alive and full of joy! Jest by laugh by cup of ale, Howland forgot his mother's request, falling asleep not in the safe boughs of a tall tree, but at one of the feast tables the Whents had laid out.
A shout jolted him awake. Howland was still blinking last night's Arbor gold out of his eyes when he felt a hand pull the spear from his back and still another yank him to his feet. They were clumsy, meaty hands, but if he went breaking fingers word would spread.
"What are you doing here, mudman? A tourney's no place for the likes of you, slither on back into the bilge and leave the games to us as play them!" A boy's voice, Howland thought, trying to sound a man's. At last his vision cleared and he saw them, not a one his age but all overtopped him despite it. They were squires, that much was clear, and each wore a different device. The Blount porcupine, the Haigh pitchfork, and the towers of Frey. The sigils of ambitious houses, the sort that lived to sneer at those below them and fawn over those above.
"Seems I've found bilge enough where I am, why leave?" he replied, yawning. The Frey squire's fist seemed to move through sap or mud, yet Howland made no move to avoid it. When it met his jaw, it ached, but what were some oafish squires compared to a bull lizard-lion? He could do it, he knew, and leave the three dazed and bloody in the dust, but instead he let them knock him down, pretending their blows hurt.
"Fucking frogeater!"
"I'd sooner eat a frog than wear those towers." He feigned a hacking cough, wondering how long he'd have to play the helpless runt. While the squires kicked at him, he pondered just why a Blount squire would be in the company of the riverlanders. They are the same person, he answered himself, just bearing different devices.
"That's my father's man you're kicking!" The dull thwock of a wooden tourney sword meeting the wool-clad elbow of the Haigh squire made Howland open the eye he'd been squinting shut. The Blount squire reached for his own sword out of reflex but the tourney sword rapped down hard on the hand that fumbled with the sword belt and Howland heard two knuckles pop, their owner wailing in sudden dismay. The Frey squire could only stare as the newcomer brought the pommel of the tourney sword up, smashing his nose and causing a thick rope of blood and snot to snort out, landing on Howland's pant leg. Eugh, he thought. She got Frey on me. The shouting continued, the lot of them becoming quite a sight as passerby stopped to stare. Only when the squires ran off as quickly as they'd come did Howland realize why. A girl, he thought, cheeks flushing when he realized the whole tournament might soon know he could not defend himself. They flushed further when he saw her face, grey-eyed and framed in dark hair. A Stark, he knew at once. Lord Rickard's daughter. She helped him into a sitting position on the bench. "Are you hurt, my lord?" she asked, eyes big with worry when moment's before they'd flashed with anger.
"Just my pride, Lady Stark. I thank you for the rescue, although I'd have rather you not broken that Frey's nose."
"Whyever not? His wanted breaking in the worst way, the way a stallion wants a mare."
"Maybe, but you got Frey on me." He showed her, trying to look nauseated. The Stark girl blinked at the red line on his calf.
"Eugh." she said, making a face.
She pulled him to his feet.
"I'm Lyanna Stark."
"So you are. I am Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch…" then he remembered she'd known him for her father's bannerman, why blather on so?
"A finer place than the Twins for a certainty. I'd rather sup with snakes and lizard-lions than Freys any day." Lyanna spat in the dirt. Rather practiced for one supposedly a lady. Howland let her lead him to the rest of the wolf pack, introducing them as if Howland were any other highborn man. Brandon, the bold, wild heir of House Stark. Eddard, solemn and withdrawn even for a northman (and Howland was no stranger to keeping his own counsel), and Benjen, the pup, though still taller than Howland himself. "Those oafs tore your garb and bled all over you besides. We ought have something you can wear to the feast tonight…" Lyanna said, looking Howland over.
"Ought we? Even my clothes would be too big for him." Benjen said, yelping as Lyanna punched him on the shoulder. Though Brandon Stark greeted Howland warmly, he had the upcoming joust to worry about and so it was Eddard who helped Lyanna bind Howland's wounds while Benjen dug around in his trunk. "Aha!" he cried, pulling out a deep green surcoat and after a bit more rummaging, grey leggings. He's right, Howland thought, reddening at the fact, even a wolf pup's clothes are too big for me.
"Oh, wait!" he said excitedly, pulling them on while Lyanna waited without. "They're perfect!" Eddard and Benjen traded doubtful expressions as Howland flopped at them like some kind of sodden bird. "In the Neck, we tie our clothes tight or back to make sure nothing slips up a sleeve or down our backs." he said, making use of what little of the clothes he'd worn that remained unsoiled. After a bit of improvising, Benjen Stark's clothes fit neat as if they'd been made for Howland. While Eddard only gave a bemused smirk, Benjen paled.
"What sorts of things?" he asked, half intrigued, half intimidated.
"The sorts of things that aren't fond of finding themselves caught between wool and skin." Then he clicked his teeth together, making even Lyanna squirm. "Crannogmen helped keep the Andals out of the north, but it was the Neck that did the keeping proper." Howland said, smiling a bit.
"Biting and stinging and snapping all the while, no doubt. Enough about the bogs, we'll miss the knighting if we dawdle any longer." Brandon called from the other end of the tent.
"So?" Lyanna replied, sticking her tongue out at him, prompting him to reply in kind.
"Come on! We'll miss the knights!" Benjen said, excitable even for a lord four-and-ten.
"Have you ever seen a knight, my lord Reed?" Eddard Stark asked.
"No, but when they come calling crannogmen take care to see to every one. Their steel is heavy and their mounts draw hungry, hidden eyes." Benjen shuddered again, Lyanna punched him on the shoulder…and for the briefest of moments something like amusement flickered across the solemn wolf's face.
The crowd that had gathered around the tourney grounds was one garbed in silk, fine wool, and new leathers. The clothes of the highborn, Howland thought, content to shadow the wolf pack and go unseen as before. When they had taken their seats, Lord Whent came forward, accompanied by four young men who could only have been his sons, a blushing maid Howland assumed to be his lone daughter…and a brother in white plate. A knight of the Kingsguard. Lord Whent welcomed all the realm's attendees before the rest of the Kingsguard came forward. Howland didn't know their names, but as soon as he heard them they were seared into his mind. Jonothor Darry. Prince Lewyn Martell. Barristan the Bold. Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Though Ser Gerold was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and beloved of the crowd highborn or otherwise, it was the slighter, younger man at his elbow the mob was beside itself for. "Dayne!" they cried, or "Starfall!" or "Sword of the Morning!" Poking out from over the slight knight's shoulder was the hilt of a sword that glinted white. A fitting blade for a Kingsguard, then, Howland supposed.
"Ser Gerold is as fine a knight as can be found, but his prime is behind him," Brandon Stark was telling his quiet brother. "It will be Ser Arthur who takes his place when comes the time."
"Not Ser Oswell? Or Prince Lewys?" Benjen asked, shouting to be heard over the noise even though he sat next to his brothers.
"Both great knights, without a doubt. But it's Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, people will sing of a hundred years from now and more. Him and Dawn both, that white sword he carries." Brandon replied. Another youth came away from the stands to approach the kingsguard, clad in rich deep crimson with a head of golden ringlets that reached his shoulders. He knelt before the White Bull, who tapped him on the shoulder with his own blade before clasping a white cloak around the newcomer's shoulders.
"What about him? Ser Jaime Lannister?" Benjen asked. Brandon snorted.
"All they'll say of him is what a shame it is he had his sister's beauty but not her teats." Lyanna coughed and Eddard started. Then the royal party came forward and even the cheers for the Sword of the Morning were outdone. Howland thought Prince Rhaegar marked a stark contrast to the Kingsguard, clad in black armor enameled in the red of his house as he was. The princess beside him blushed at all the attention while Rhaegar seemed almost burdened by it. Howland left them, glancing to the women in the princess' retinue- and all the shouts, cheers, cries and calls went quiet even as they made the air around him hum. The woman that had so caught his gaze had dark tresses flowing past her shoulders, flawless ivory and even from a distance, Howland found himself entranced by her beguiling violet eyes. When she chanced to look at them, she did not look away. Howland's heard skipped a beat before solemn Eddard muttered in his ear.
"Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall. Sister to Ser Arthur." he muttered. Of course she was, how could she not be? Who but the truest knight to ever wield a sword could share blood with a creature not of this world, full of hurt and want and fear? Finally her gaze rolled on, though more than once she looked back toward where the wolf pack sat. The better for me to lose my heart all over again, Howland thought, thoroughly frazzled. Even the approach of the king could not break the spell, no more than it could temper the crowds' love of the court of tomorrow. Howland wasted no time taking in the king's wretched appearance, flyaway hair, scraggly beard…his eyes followed Ashara Dayne to her seat and lingered as she talked with Princess Elia Martell, Howland only looking away when Ashara glanced their way once more.
When night fell, Howland resolved to sleep and put the violet eyes he saw whenever he closed his own well and truly behind him. Lyanna Stark had rather different ideas.
"You're no less highborn than we are, than anyone is. You've a place at the feast as sure as sunrise." she declared. With a growing sense of trepidation Howland duly followed the wolf pack as they made their way into the cavernous castle, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths alive with hundreds of visitors.
"I wouldn't have thought the Whents capable of such display." Eddard said, so low only Howland heard.
"How do you mean?"
"They are a wealthy house, but scarcely are they Lannisters. More like, the Whents are just the face someone with wealth enough to put on this mummer show has decided to wear." Howland didn't know what to make of that. Even when the prince sang to signal the beginning of the feast, Eddard's concerns were what tumbled in his mind, quickly replaced in turn by a violet gaze. A soft sniffle from Lyanna, a yelp from Benjen as she soaked him in Arbor red and Howland was rubbing his eyes trying to will Ashara Dayne's face out of his head. Despite the wine soaking into his hair, Benjen was grinning ear to ear.
"Maybe the prince will ask you to dance, Lyanna!"
"Bah. I'd sooner have him dance with you." she replied, Brandon smirking at their antics. Dancing? That was something Howland knew even less about than knighthood, so he contented himself with food and drink as the hall's floor began to fill. He cursed himself for a food when his eyes found Ashara Dayne straightaway, partnered by her brother. It seemed most every man of import got at least a few moments of her time, though they were replaced too quick for Howland to mark them. Those men of higher birth or renown within the royal party were not so quick to relinquish Ashara Dayne, though. First came the princess' prickly brother, then a tall red-haired knight who tellingly spared Ashara no more glances than were required not to trod on her feet- his gaze was rooted firmly on the prince. Only when Howland realized Eddard was following his glances carefully did he find some other pair of dancers to pretend to watch, resisting the urge to let his eyes slide back to the lady from Starfall. Even the castle sounds of a higher realm. Brandon looked at Eddard in turn, shaking his head and chuckling.
"Ned, you'd keep quiet if a dragon hatched in front of you." he said, stepping out onto the floor, heading directly for Ashara. While she danced with Brandon Stark, Howland heard her laugh for the first time, a sound that rang in his ears. He guided her away from where the royal party sat, near the northern tables. Both Howland and Eddard stiffened.
"My brother is too stubborn, perhaps, to admit he fancies a southern lady…or too shy, take your pick. In any case, would you do him the honor and me the favor?" Brandon asked.
"I would be delighted, my lord. Though my favor must go to the Sword of the Morning, I'm sure you understand." she told him, taking Eddard's hand and leading him back out to dance.
"Now that's the sort of girl who comes 'round once in ten thousand years." Brandon said, chuckling as his younger siblings waved, no doubt eager to give Eddard a good ribbing when he returned. While Ashara was all smiles and laughter with the elder Stark, with Eddard she was solemn. Almost steeled. Whatever had passed between them had not affected her dancing ability, though, and soon every gaze was upon the quiet wolf and she-star.
"Poor Ned, does she have to show him up like that?" Lyanna said, pursing her lips.
"She's doing nothing of the sort, Lyanna. Just the opposite. She's trying to make him look like more than his melancholy self."
"Ned isn't melancholy!" Lyanna replied insistently. Howland caught one of the Kingsguard looking less than pleased at the development, frowning visibly while Ashara looked past Eddard- right at Howland. Again, his heart froze in his chest. Brandon laughed, raised a cup, toasted her and drained it. The Kingsguard's eyes followed Ashara's own to the northern table, but they lingered on the heir to Winterfell, not Howland Reed. Not the little crannogman, he thought, sunk up to his eyebrows in bog bilge, with high lords and glittering knights aplenty to deny him a star's light.
When the last of the night's food had been eaten and wine drunk (Eddard's friend Robert Baratheon doing more than his bit to accomplish the latter, leaving a knight of skulls and kisses dazed on the floor) the hall began to empty.
"Come, Lord Reed. We've southerners to watch at their sport tomorrow, and wine to sleep off." Eddard said. We do? Howland thought, having had only a cup, Eddard little more. Brandon was another matter, Benjen and Lyanna needing to steady him as he swayed, staggering back to the tent. With only stars and torchlight to see by, Howland was any other man and so was greeted courteously whenever they happened to pass someone. In the light of day, I am only the little crannogman, the frogeater, he thought. Night has made me something else. "My lord." Benjen said as they passed the table Howland had woken at that very morning. The squires had returned, smelling of wine and grease. I ate and drank better than they, he realized. They are only boys, and I am Lord of Greywater Watch, Lord of the Neck. Once in the tent, Brandon strewn across his bed, snoring loudly, Benjen spoke.
"I could find armor for you, Howland. A horse as well. You would put their masters to shame, I'm certain of it." Or would he?
"I am no knight, Benjen. Far from jousting with any grace, I'd be hard-pressed to stay ahorse." I am not the sort a horse will like the smell of.
"This lout is going to keep us up all night." Eddard said, prodding Brandon with a foot, who grunted in his sleep. "I'm going to bed in my own tent."
"You have your own tent? That's not fair!" Lyanna cried at once.
"Father tasked Brandon with looking after you. He thought if I had my own tent…"
"You'd be like to find a lady to woo. While Benjen and I have to sleep in this sty!" Eddard stuck his tongue out at her, and as before Lyanna promptly copied him.
"I think I'll get better rest outside." Benjen mused.
"I'll not inflict my siblings on you any longer, my lord Reed. Please join me, if only to ease my own mortal embarrassment."
"HA! Says the lovesick pup mooning after Ashara Dayne!" Lyanna snapped.
"You're the one who cried when she heard a man sing, straight out of a bloody love tale."
"Hmph!" Lyanna said grumpily. Howland left the tent, trying not to laugh aloud and failing when Eddard Stark bid his siblings goodnight by sticking his tongue out at them yet again, blowing rudely as he backed out into the night.
"Siblings," he said, "are the gods' great joke."
"I'm afraid it's one I've never heard, my lord. Unfortunately, I happen to be the Reed, not just a Reed."
"You are now. One can become many, and I'm sure in your own country there is no more eligible a man."
"With respect, Ned…had I fancied one among the crannogwomen, I would be at Greywater Watch right now, not here." And Mother would rest easy knowing I had wed, knowing I had little ones to mind instead of just mourn her passing. They lie awake watching the stars glint through the top of the tent.
"How did you come to be here? Before Lyanna found you, I mean."
"I visited the green men. Actually, I wintered with them. But the warm winds came and the world called."
"Well, you're not going to make it all the way back to the Island of Faces in a night, but perhaps the gods might hear if you prayed at the water's edge."
"As you say, my lord." Howland said, getting up and walking out into the night. He only just made the banks of the Gods Eye when he heard someone approach. Eddard, praying for his brother's safety in the lists? Howland turned, blinking at the outline of a cloaked figure approaching. With too light a step to be Eddard, or indeed any man.
When from under the hood flashed the violet gaze that lingered in his mind's own eye, Howland stilled.
"Are you a lizard-lion or a fawn, my lord?"
"Your gaze would stop either in their tracks, my lady." She brushed the hood up, though not enough to let her hair tumble out.
"Do all lizard-lions prove so difficult to snare?"
"Bull lizard-lions are far too strong to go after with snares. Sometimes we find them, dead I mean, and no meat goes to waste in the Neck. As for me, I must confess I'm not nearly your equal. Your eyes are with me always, looking out of every shadow, and your laugh rings in my ears."
"You sound quite besotted with me."
"So I am, I'm ashamed to say. No doubt you've broken a hundred other hearts tonight, as well."
"Ashamed?" She sounded bemused. Howland could only shrug his shoulders.
"Were I to approach you in the hall, what would have happened? All the realm's laughter would be drawn upon the Neck. My people have no need of a lovesick lord who makes a fool of himself so."
"What if, amid the laughter, I took your hands in mine and let you lead me in a dance?"
"Well, you'd most likely trip over me. I'm a foot shorter than you and I've not danced a step in my life."
"No, I don't suppose you have. Then again, you haven't spent your life clanking around in steel either, like a suit of armor come to life. Whatever else you are, Lord Reed, I'm sure you're defter by a country mile than any knight. And anyhow, if I tripped, we'd fall together, rise, and continue. Perhaps with me leading at that point." She couldn't help but smile, a soft mischievous one for him and him alone. Am I dead? he wondered, not altogether sure if what was happening was real. This morning I was being beaten by squires.
"I don't wish to keep you, Lady Dayne. If I might know why you've come, we could return you before anyone notices you're gone." Part of him was not half so timid, part of him wanted to fly into her arms there and then, but…
"Very well, if we're being blunt. It seems I got a dance from every bloody man in Harrenhal save the one I wanted one from, and I intend to claim what I'm owed."
"You want me to dance with you?" "That is rather what I implied, yes." It would serve me well to bruise my pride. Nothing like falling on one's own ass in front of the most beautiful woman in the world.
"I could scarcely imagine myself the dancing equal of, say, Dorne's Prince Oberyn."
"I will be the judge of that." Ashara Dayne said, fair hand extended in a perfect invitation to take. Before his budding courage could fail him, Howland put his hand in hers.
To his surprise, Ashara led them straight to Eddard's tent. Out he came, still dressed, though yawning.
"Hells, it took you long enough."
"The fault is shared. I could charm him no faster and he would not come any quicker."
"What?" Howland asked, thoroughly befuddled. "Brandon asked Lady Dayne for a dance on your behalf."
"So he did…and I asked her for one on yours." Eddard said, grinning for the first time.
"Who did you think I was trying to impress, Howland Reed?" Ashara Dayne asked, sounding almost incredulous.
"Prince Oberyn? Brandon Stark?"
"One, the other, any of the hundred other men at the feast!" Howland cried, heart racing now. Ashara Dayne could only sigh, pulling off her cloak to reveal a stunning dress of ivory lace and silk.
"As far as I'm concerned, there were only two men in that hall, Howland Reed. Everyone else…and you."
"This is where I shove off, I think." Eddard said, stretching. "I'll return an hour before dawn. I have to make sure Robert's in bed. Asleep in bed, mark you." Then he left Howland alone with her, all while he gaped and blushed and gasped and spluttered. When the tent flap closed, Ashara came closer.
"Am I truly so terrifying, Howland? As terrifying as the creatures of the Neck?" she seemed almost upset. "There is no one but the gods to watch now. If I so distress you, I will of course take my leave."
"No." Howland said, something quite apart from nerves bashing them aside in one devastating blow. "I'm being stupid. I just…didn't think a tournament would be anything like this."
"Oh, you'll see. The rest is all horsemanship and play fighting, cockerels trying to out-strut each other. A more boring farce you never will see, and that's a fact. But enough about them…" she took his hands again. "…and more about us." Somehow she snapped her wrists and he was flush to her. Then the two of them were dancing, the sort to put the stuff in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths to shame. She was right of course as well, Howland proving more than able to twirl her through the air without so much as a second breath, hold her aloft just as long as Prince Oberyn and longer. Even with only a lone candle to see by, they never once knocked it over or even caused the flame to flicker. Their dancing could not stop it burning lower, though, and Howland was sure the spell would break come sunrise. She noticed him looking, as well. "Don't worry about what's to come. When you look to the future, you lose sight of what's around you."
"One could say the same about the past, I suppose."
"Only if you linger on it. What was only does ill when brooded on and left to become a festering wound. My brother told me once of a tower he found while moving through the Prince's Pass in Dorne. He was on his way to meet the prince for the first time, stomach full of butterflies."
"I know well how he felt." Howland remarked.
"The memory of then still brings a smile to Arthur's face. How even the Sword of the Morning was once a nervous young lad." The notion that he might have something in common with Arthur Dayne made Howland's head spin. By the time the candle was on its last legs, though, he decided it didn't matter. I danced with a maid clad in starlight, with the gods looking down. No man can take that from me, squire, knight, prince or king.
When Eddard returned, Howland helped Ashara get the dark cloak back on. Green, he realized with a start. Patched with black.
"We'd best be off. The guards will shift soon, and men up for the morning watch gossip bad as fishwives." Eddard said, voice tinged with urgency. Ashara left Howland without a word, though as she disappeared through the tent flap, she turned for one last look at him. Then the canvas fell free, and there was nothing to remember the night by but the wick poking out of a small pool of wax. And the memory itself, Howland resolved.He lay down on his mat, resisting the urge to try to push it, her, out of his mind. I could not begin to do it, so why bother? No more than I could be a knight, or catch a falling star, or marry her. He was a northman, made for honest pain, not soothing lies. He was no nearer sleep when Eddard returned again, looking startled at Howland's state. "We were not seen." Howland didn't reply immediately, comporting himself before he gave answer.
"Her sister is a knight of the Kingsguard, she is a princess' lady-in-waiting. She will have suitors beyond count, worthy or otherwise. I saw no wife of Prince Oberyn's at the feast, it may be Lady Ashara marries him."
"It may be." Eddard replied, sitting on his own mat. "The Martells are tied to the throne through Elia's marriage to Rhaegar, but they have only a single daughter. Surely they would want that tie strengthened, and Prince Oberyn marrying a vassal's sister doesn't accomplish that."
"A crownlander, then."
"A crownlander, or a merman, or a bloody mountain clansmen. Or indeed, Prince Oberyn. The man's ego would never settle for a woman he considered his inferior, by birth or otherwise. You ought sleep, Howland. A tournament is best experienced without blinking sleep from your eyes." Not one to know, Howland took him at his word and rolled over, hoping against hope he would not dream. His desire was denied, of course, and what dreams came were full of starlight, dances, and violet eyes twinkling in the light of an unseen candle that never seemed to dip. Then someone was prodding him, poking him awake, and the violet eyes of Ashara Dayne flickered out of view, replaced by the grinning face of Lyanna Stark.
"Come on! We've only just got Brandon up but it's a proper chore to get someone winesick into tourney armor, you'll have to help! Ned, too!" she announced before darting back out. Ah, good, he thought, though it took him a moment to remember where he was. Something to keep me busy, anything. The gods heard his plea only too well it turned out, and Howland got the singularly unlooked-for pleasure of wrestling a man twice his weight into his jousting gear. Eddard and Benjen did their part as well, but only when Lyanna returned with a bucket full of cold water did Brandon snap out of his fugue, grey eyes wide and alert and hands up in a plea of mercy moments before she could douse him. "If you shame us on the tourney green, I'll find another bucket," she vowed, "and put it well to use with all the bloody court watching."
By now, Howland was practiced at going unseen among the wolf pack. They were a loud, boisterous lot minus Eddard, and people tended to notice their endless arguing instead of a little crannogman. The first day was devoted to the contests of bow and axe, with a horse race, contest of singers and even a mummer show to follow. The next day was a great melee, in which they watched Lyanna's betrothed, Ned's foster brother Robert Baratheon knock man after man into the dust, before a man whose size belayed his patience knocked him dazed in turn.
"Yohn Royce of Runestone." Brandon muttered. When the jousting began, the first day was more to place the participants come eliminations than anything, and so most tilts were won by whoever was favored, often heavily. While the Kingsguard managed their tilts to a one, cheered by the crowd, Howland was more interested in the knights who bore the arms of Blount, Haigh and Frey. No one much seems interested in cheering them.
"The Blounts are no house of import, the Haighs are a lickspittle's lickspittles and the Freys are bloody toll collectors." Lyanna whispered in his ear, as if reading his thoughts. "It would be nothing to knock them from the saddle, even for one unused to riding."
"Someone will beat them, no doubt. They will not prevail if matched against a knight of any renown, to say nothing of a Kingsguard." Lyanna pursed her lips at Howland's reply, face hardening as the day passed by. At day's end none of the three had fallen, though Howland's bruised pride was assuaged somewhat at the notion of one of the three being set against the Sword of the Morning or Prince Rhaegar. When sunset began they made for their tents again, Lyanna quite uncharacteristically quiet. Brandon didn't notice, of course, too flush with victory in the preliminaries. When they got him to bed, snoring as usual, Lyanna and Benjen joined their brother and his guest in the smaller tent.
"Before I say what I'm about to say, I'll have you three louts know I'm going to do it and damn to all the hells whatever you say otherwise." she said, fiery as a crackling hearth.
"Dousing Brandon? I'm not about to stop you, all that'll happen is I'll get soaked instead of him." Eddard said, shrugging.
"No, ass. I'm going to ride in the lists tomorrow." Quite apart from a buzz of objections, Howland could hear the insects dancing outside.
"Why?" Howland asked, unable to think of anything smarter.
"You're not some poor stableboy for the squires of the highborn to kick and beat. When I plant their masters in the dirt, and I shall, the only ransom I will have of them for their horses and armor is they teach their squires some shred of honor."
"And what armor will you wear, Lyanna? What arms? Surely you're not expecting Brandon to loan you his…" Eddard said quietly.
"No, I'll have to make do somehow. There's plenty of junk steel in the northern baggage train, undeviced and unremarkable. Just the sort a mystery knight might wear."
"What if you lose?" Benjen's eyes were wide and fearful, though Howland saw too admiration in the grey rings. Lyanna frowned. "It won't be like riding, you'll have a lance and everything-"
"You saw the first tilts. Half of the knights could scarce be counted on to stay upright, might less strike a winning blow. All I need do is stay in my saddle and I'll win."
"You'd better. Forget Brandon and even Father, all the realm will see if you're defeated. When they bid you remove your helm…"
"I won't lose. Not against the likes of Blount, Haigh and Frey." She looked to Howland. "Our sworn vassal has been dishonored. It is for us to put that to rights, like when Ser Aemon the Dragonknight defended his sister Naerys." He stood there, unable to speak. How could he not love them after all they'd done? Taken him from bloodied in the dirt to washed, clothed, and at their side in front of all the realm…and here a daughter of their house vowing to ride when he himself could not. Seeing the lord in me, when I myself cannot.
Early the next morning, before the rest had woken, the four of them got to gathering the armor.
"What if one or all of the squires realizes who's in the armor? If you should beat them all, surely it might occur to them…" Howland asked.
"None of them would much want to inform their masters they'd just lost to a fierce rival all of six-and-ten and a girl at that. Nor would they care to enlighten anyone overmuch that they'd angered House Stark."
"Very well, but speaking for at least one Stark, you'll have to choose a device that will ensure you aren't recognized." Ned said.
"I already have. The old gods of the north have eyes here if anywhere, with the Isle of Faces so near. Though, I'll not have a dour, frowning tree on my shield." Lyanna replied. So it was that they managed to patch and piece together a singularly ill-fitting suit of armor.
"It will fall to pieces at the first hit." Ned declared.
"So it may. We will never know." Lyanna shot back, Howland helping to tuck her hair up behind her head as Benjen tucked her helm on.
"Will this truly work?" Howland asked anxiously.
"With our luck? She's like to come against the prince in the final tilt, beat him, and then what a fucking scene we'll have on our hands." Ned replied, sighing resignedly.
"Were it Rhaegar putting his foot in Howland's stomach, I'd ride against him just as readily." Lyanna said. Howland knew it to be fact.
"Meantime, keep your mind on the man across the tiltyard." They found her the calmest horse they could next from the ones that had come from the northern castles, as plain as the pieces Lyanna wore. Howland handed her the lance, worn and dull even for a tourney lance.
"Go, ser." Eddard said.
"My lord." the knight before them nodded before sauntering off, looking born to the saddle if not the armor he wore.
"Let's get back to bed, yeah?" Benjen said, the three of them dashing off.
"I don't know what you're so pleased about," Eddard him as they ran, "You're the one who's got to tell Brandon why Lyanna's missing when he wakes."
Though it was a scant hour before they were due to wake, Howland felt every second crawl by. When the first voices sounded from outside, his stomach lurched.
"You're most nervous, my lord. You do know you're not the one who has to ride today?"
"My stomach would sit easier if I were, with Arthur Dayne between me and the winner's circle. More importantly, with Lyanna safe in the stands with you." Ned squeezed his shoulder.
"I know." The voices grew louder. "Come, Lord Howland Reed. We have a champion-to-be to cheer." Gods save Lyanna from such. I never meant to start all this. Perhaps it would have served better to beat the squires bloody. Mother would never have wanted me to put a Stark in danger. When they sat, the empty space between them felt vast as a canyon.
"Will no one notice?" Howland couldn't help but ask, indicating the vacant seat.
"The benches empty and fill from the first tilt to the last, and everyone will be watching the jousters, not the stands. Pray the seat Lyanna prefers is never vacated." The first round of jousts saw yesterday's surprises become today's disappointments, but both the Blount and Haigh knights proceeded to defeat their opponents. They were of hardly greater skill, Haigh nearly unseated by his own blow, but the Frey knight was someone of small talent with the lance. His victory was neater, even if his horsemanship was suspect. While the next round proceeded, Howland saw with a fresh tingle of nerves a short knight canter into view, stopping briefly to utter something to one of the tourney heralds. When the man in turn whispered in the ear of the master of ceremonies, the consummate showman raised his arms.
"Ser has declined to give a name, but the challenge is leveled at the knight of House Blount!" A murmur of interest broke out among the highborn benches.
"A peasant lad in stolen steel, putting his life on a hope of catching a ransom." someone muttered.
"It's been a long way for some knights, might be someone previously vanquished has a bone to pick with Blount." another supposed. The nameless knight took up his position at the far end of the field without so much as a whinny from the horse he rode. The Blount knight mirrored him with observably less control of his mount.
"Four dragons on Ser Short." one man laughed.
"Are you blind or a Blount? Five, and that's the easiest gold I've made in all my years!"
Then the knights spurred their horses and they were charging at each other, the mystery knight's pitted lance striking shoulder while Blount's found only air. He careened in the saddle, slipping gracelessly from it and landing with a clank in the well-trod grass.
"Oh, thank fuck." Benjen muttered.
"The least of the three." Eddard muttered in reply.
"That's comparing the shit on a horse's shoe to the shoe itself." While the Blount knight's squire rushed to his master's aid, the mystery knight trotted past another herald, who in due turn ran to the master of ceremonies. This prompted outright conversation and more than one person began to speculate what might come. The master's arms went up again.
"The challenge is leveled at the knight of House Haigh!" The mystery knight did not even turn to look at the crowd, though their calls were certainly enthusiastic. He merely waited at the far end of the field, gauntleted fingers idly tapping his lance as the pitchfork knight rode into view. Again, the horses charged, and again, the mystery knight landed a solid hit while his opponent failed to land his lance completely. For the third time, the mystery knight made to approach the nearest herald, but by now they knew the steps of the dance and the man was running toward him with all speed, making just as quickly for the master of ceremonies. His arms flew up, the crowd going quiet. "The challenge is levelled at the knight of House Frey!" The whole throng exploded, the Knight of the Laughing Tree waiting almost disinterestedly in his accustomed place. Far from the pittances of earlier, fortunes were threatening to change hands- though no one much seemed interested in betting against the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Instead the bets were made on whether the Frey knight would appear at all to accept the challenge. To Howland's mixed anxiety and thrill the knight appeared, bearing a fresh lance bedecked in the blue and grey of his house. Slowly, fluidly, the Knight of the Laughing Tree levelled his own. At the waving of the flags, the horses were off. Time seemed to slow enough for Howland to watch each knight bounce in his saddle. Unfortunately, Frey's lance was pointed true, and it rapped against the smiling weirwood. Rearing in his stirrups, the Knight of the Laughing Tree stood, letting his lance become a great spear. Or a trident, Howland thought, heart soaring. He brought it down with force enough to push Frey down from his mount instead of merely off, crashing to earth as if he'd been flung off a roof. Amidst the cheering, Howland Reed laughed giddily while Benjen bellowed curses at the top of his voice for all anyone would hear him, Eddard content to merely sigh relievedly. The Knight of the Laughing Tree regained his seat, hefting his lace at rest, a sign his desire to challenge anyone was sated. The vanquished knights duly came forward, Frey needing the arm of the squire whose face Howland so well knew. "The knights Blount, Haigh and Frey seek to ransom their belongings. What will Ser's price be?" the master cried.
"Only that they teach their squires honor, else they'd be better served with new squires." They were the only words Howland heard the knight speak, yet he missed not a one due to the rich booming voice that spoke them.
"I pray she has sense enough to get clear of the crowds before she tries taking her helm off…" Benjen muttered.
"Lyanna? Sense? How long have you known her, Benjen?" Eddard replied.
After jostling their way out of the stands, they rushed for the tents. They found Lyanna waiting for them inside, clad in her bits of armor and face flushed, a brilliant smile across her Stark face. Howland rushed to her, arms wrapping 'round in a hug that sent the dodgy steel cascading to the floor. Even as her own wove tight around him, he was sinking to a knee.
"Ask of me anything you will, my lady, and I will do it. Mine is a debt that can never be repaid-"
"Well, stand up, for a start." she said, pulling him right back to his feet. Someone fast approaching had the lot of them shoving everything under Benjen's mat, Lyanna pulling off her sweat-soiled clothes behind a cloak Eddard held up to don a deep grey dress as befit a lady of a great house. By the time Brandon came in, breathing hard, Lyanna might have been fresh from the seamstress.
"Where have you lackwits been!?" he cried, hands on his temples.
"We got bored." Lyanna replied, as if that were the answer to everything.
"I wanted to ask that mummer we saw to teach me juggling." Brandon gaped at her.
"You would miss the best jousting in a generation to go pester some poor Braavosi!" he declared, dashing back out as quick as he'd come.
"We ought join him." Eddard said as color returned to Benjen's face. "We could watch the rest of the jousting and no one would be the wiser."
"Yes, it would do well for people to see you in the stands, my lady. They will think you'd been there all the while." Howland reasoned.
"Lucky for us the royal box isn't on the other side of the yard." Lyanna replied, content to go with them and make no further mischief for once.
"How's that?" Howland asked, frowning.
"Ned would have missed me pulling my pretty trick if he had Ashara Dayne to look at all the while!" Eddard covered his eyes with a hand, muttering under his breath. On returning to the benches, Howland saw it was indeed as if they'd never left. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had woken the crowd well and true, and the knights still to tilt were keenly intent on displaying their ability. No one will miss one girl in all this, Howland was certain. They watched the Kingsguard defeat Lord Whent's sons, while Prince Rhaegar vanquished both Lord Yohn Royce, the melee winner, as well as Brandon Stark in the last pass of the day, much to Lyanna's disappointment. As they moved to leave the benches, Howland saw the prince gazing the way of the northern benches, though with his visor down, his mood was a guess of the gods'.
Howland's own brevity vanished during the feast that night, where it seemed every man still in the lists was vowing to get the better of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth were at the wine again, agreed that the winner of the latest drinking contest would have first crack at the nameless knight. No less a man than the king himself was shouting to the Kingsguard that it was their duty to unmask the knight.
"This traitor, this coward, who hides behind a painted smile!" The Starks were little more at ease save Brandon, content to drown the sorrows of the loss in the wines around him and the embraces of a well-endowed girl wearing a green-apple pendant.
"Let them chase the Knight of the Laughing Tree," Lyanna finally whispered low enough that only Howland, Eddard and Benjen would hear, "we'll see how well they follow him into legend."
"I hope you had the sense to get rid of the shield as well. One pauldron is much like another, but the shield will be known." Eddard said.
"I hid it under my pillow, where no one will ever think to check." Lyanna replied crossly, rolling her eyes. "I made sure it would be found. All that would be found." They would get no further explanation from her and so gave it up, content to let the evening pass. When the Knight of the Laughing Tree could not be found the next morning, the king's rage was such that the tilts were put on hold until the mystery knight was brought before him. However, when the prince and his men returned, they had only the chipped shield to show for their efforts. In contrast to King Aerys' spitting fury, Prince Rhaegar seemed almost unsurprised.
"Unmasked, he would soon be forgotten," he said, speaking more to the men around him than his inconsolable father, "but remaining a mystery will keep him in men's minds for years to come." Then the jousts resumed, the prince riding as if he were tilting against straw soldiers. Yohn Royce, knights of the Kingsguard, none were Rhaegar Targaryen's equal. When he won the final tilt against Barristan the Bold, Howland was hardly surprised. Just what had honed the prince's focus so Howland could not guess, but it was something that produced results. Rhaegar spurred his horse on, slowly approaching the seats of the great houses. When he passed Princess Elia, Howland honestly thought Rhaegar had misjudged how far he had to ride- and then a crown of winter roses was slipping off his lance and into the lap of Lyanna Stark. Her hands closed around it slowly, almost reflexively, thought it was obvious she was stunned beyond words. Rhaegar didn't linger in front of her, content to canter on to where his squire waited for him. Howland heard Robert chortle.
"Who can fault him? It's no more than she's owed!" His mirth was not shared by the Dornish, but Howland could not see Princess Elia's face. Only Prince Oberyn's, and he looked irate. All because I left the Neck, Howland reflected, despairing.
Howland's prayers for the storm clouds over Harrenhal to disperse went unanswered. Almost as soon as the tourney ended, Lyanna rode on to Riverrun to attend Brandon's wedding to Lord Tully's daughter. Only when Howland arrived, at Ned Stark's side as always, they found both of them gone. Lyanna had been taken by the prince, and Brandon had hurried off in a rush with a cadre of northern lords and their heirs to demand her return. The trickle became a flood, a river of emotion rushing over them all. When Ethan Glover reached them, he told them of Brandon's death and Lord Rickard's for good measure, as well as the king's proclamation that the young Lord Stark was now an enemy of the realm. As was Lyanna's betrothed, Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. Lord Arryn raised his banners in reply, intent it seemed on putting his wards before his king. Benjen was sent back to Winterfell as Eddard's heir. Gulltown followed, then the Stoney Sept and the wedding of an old lord and a young one to the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully. When Rhaegar fell on the Trident, it seemed to Howland there was no other way for it to end but House Targaryen overthrown. Yet, Lyanna was not in the royalist camp when it was searched. War had done away with the wide-eyed boy who danced with Ashara Dayne once upon a time, as it had the quiet somber pup that Eddard Stark had been. When they reached King's Landing, they found the capital half raped, half dead, and all looted. The boy they'd seen become a knight of the Kingsguard sat on the Iron Throne, lips pursed and musing idly when the northmen came into the throne room, the king's corpse lying in a pool of blood and shit. They found what had become of Prince Rhaegar's wife and children, too, which was enough to splinter the alliance between stag and direwolf that had dethroned the dragons. Robert called it war, his furor for the end for true of the Targaryen line and name a well-known one by then, while Ned Stark had called it murder. Which, in Howland's opinion, was what it was. No one asked him what he thought, though, even though it was obvious to him and Ned both that Tywin Lannister had proved more than willing to turn on the king he'd once served as Hand. "Why can Robert not see it?" Ned asked, fresh out of storming out of Robert's presence as the new king's furious uproar bounced off the Red Keep's walls. Though the castle was expansive, a search had failed to turn up Lyanna Stark. Howland could sense the worry in his liege lord building by the day, perhaps helped by his mounting own.
Turning south, Eddard led the northmen on to Storm's End to put an end to the siege taking place there. Mace Tyrell dipped his banners quickly, some muttered so quick as to be unseemly, but neither Howland nor Eddard had any interest in another battle for battle's sake. Robert had stayed behind at King's Landing, dealing with a wound, and the war was Ned's to finish. They searched the royalist camp from top to bottom, the last possible place to look. Still, Lyanna had not been found. Perhaps just as tellingly, in all the battles there was no account of the death or capture of Ser Oswell Whent or Ser Arthur Dayne, rumored to have aided the prince in Lyanna's kidnapping. Nor Ser Gerold, the White Bull, who had disappeared in the early stages of the rebellion, tasked it seemed with locating Rhaegar only for the prince to appear without the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard by his side.
"I can't figure it." Ned was saying one night outside the walls of Storm's End. "They must be somewhere, and that somewhere is where Rhaegar's hidden Lyanna. It will not be the Reach, you saw how quickly Tyrell yielded. Ser Gerold could not return to Oldtown without alerting someone, and the riverlands were rebelling nearly from the start, so Ser Oswell could not have led his brothers there. It must be Dorne. The only place in the Seven Kingdoms Targaryen supporters need not hide their loyalties…yet." Howland knew his friend's next thought, for it was also his own. But where in Dorne?
"Starfall?" Howland asked. "Ser Arthur would never be so stupid. It's the first place someone would look for him." Howland felt a pang in the stomach, a dagger in his gut. What if the Sword of the Morning remained unfound, him and his brothers and Lyanna Stark to boot? What would become of Ashara Dayne? If Robert suspects her of knowing her brother's whereabouts, he will have her head off and Starfall razed on suspicion alone. The stars themselves gave no answer, though every time they blinked or twinkled Howland remembered Ashara's eyes, clear in his mind as if the dance had been moments ago. Was that dance worth all this ruin, Howland Reed? You had not the courage even to kiss her. Instead you talked to her, fool that you are, about the past and the future as if you were some great sage. Then his eyes felt fit to burst from their sockets. Slowly he sat up, making sure there were no others to hear his words. "My lord, you must order the army to disband come the dawn and start for home." he said, trying hard not to yell at the top of his lungs.
"What? I mean to scour all of Dorne until we find my sister, an army will be rather necessary-"
"We'll not reach where we must go in time with an army, and besides, the Dornish would never allow us passage through their lands. Order the men home…but perhaps ask a few men you trust to follow you a little further."
"What are you about, Howland?"
"We are agreed that wherever Lyanna is, she is with Ser Arthur, yes? Well, my lord Stark,I know where he is."
The morning proceeded as Howland had instructed. On the pretense of returning to the capital at some point to try and find passage to White Harbor, they parted ways with Eddard's host save for a few worthies who elected to remain with him. Lord William Dustin, Ser Mark Ryswell, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull. None were names that rang in song as the Kingsguard knights' had, but they had stayed by Eddard's side for whatever may wait for them in Dorne. They moved through the low mountains first, using the Boneway after making Summerhall.
"The Dornish must know we're here. They know their country." Lord William said one night as they camped.
"So they do, my lord, but a war has just ended. The Dornish have gone home to their families, to reap their crops, raise their children-"
"-and fuck their wives, aye. Our quarrel's not with them." Theo Wull said, tapping a mace he'd taken off a soldier during the Battle of the Bells on the stony ground.
"Normally, I'd avoid using a well-traveled road. But there should be few Dornishmen patrolling it and anyway, we'll not be on it long enough to truly test their patience." Though the others save Ned did not know it, time was a factor. The sooner they recovered Lyanna, the sooner they could all be home and out of harm's way. The war has ended and yet the swords remain out, sharp and ready. It didn't feel like peace to Howland. Never mind the world beyond. I need only to see Lord Eddard and Lady Lyanna home, then I can return to Greywater Watch, where I belong. When at last they saw the mountains rolling out before them, the Boneway rolling right down to the sands of Dorne themselves, Howland bid them turn west.
"West where?" Ser Mark asked. "There's naught but rocks and then the empty air of the Prince's Pass."
"We go on." Howland said, the way before them visible to his eyes if not to theirs. They climbed more than walked the next two days, the hard hot stones of the mountains no friends of Howland Reed's, but they were nothing to his desire to see Ned and Lyanna reunited. And my pledge fulfilled as well. They found themselves on the eastern edge of the Prince's Pass the next day, Howland recalling to the word all of what Ashara had said. After not half a day of walking north, Ethan Glover had his hand on Howland's shoulder.
"Look, my lord." he said quietly. At the limit of Howland's vision he could see something sticking straight up out of the red dirt.
The tower was of no great make, a round squat thing built of mismatched red stones. There was no sign that anyone was there…save the hoofprints of the horses that had come via the Prince's Pass, the animals themselves lingering in what shade the tower might give. "Well done, Lord Reed." Howland heard William Dustin whisper.
"We're not here to fight." Eddard said, quietly but clearly. "We're here for my sister. The Kingsguard need not be our enemies." "That doesn't mean they'll let us have her, Ned." Theo Wull said, brushing the dirt from his long mustache. Or that we're getting out of this without a fight. Ned persevered. "They are knights in plate, with the best steel in the realm filling their scabbards. We're clad in wool and leather, you're wearing bloody fur, Theo-"
"Aye, and what of it? Wulls have died wearing less. I'd sooner die wearing nothing at all, a blessed she-bear in my lap, but dying in fur's not a bad way to meet one's fathers." They stood there in silence for a time, thinking, wondering, praying. When Eddard walked down toward the tower, his men followed him. Howland was unsurprised when not two hundred feet from the tower, three figures in white emerged from the doorway at its base. The northmen kept moving. When the white knights were a scant stone's toss away, the tallest of the three spoke. Howland heard the words, understood them, but… Something is amiss here. The Kingsguard were maddeningly calm. Their prince was dead, their king slain… He realized the shortest of the three was watching him closely. Howland did not flinch or look away from the Sword of the Morning's gaze, nor quail at the sight of the brilliant white blade he held. If that's common steel, my trident is solid gold.
"And now it begins." one of them was saying.
"No. Now it ends." Eddard replied, drawing his greatsword Ice. Howland's trident was in his hand faster than even he could follow and only Ser Arthur's own devil-quick reflexes stopped it from burying itself in his eye. Keep them off Ned, he told himself as they flew at each other, seven against three. Even if we never find Lyanna, I will not return to the north without a Stark.
Theo Wull was brave. He rushed the White Bull with a bellow, brandishing his mace only for Hightower's sword to bite through the meat of his arm, then punch through the back of his neck. Six, Howland thought as he kept on Ser Arthur. The knight was fast, even in plate. It doesn't matter, Howland Reed told himself. He is not faster than a rattletail. The knight was strong, even off-balance. It doesn't matter, Howland Reed told himself. He is not stronger than a lizard-lion. That he hadn't yet been killed should have been remarkable, but Howland soon impressed upon Ser Arthur that life itself in the Neck was ever a fight. Where only the fastest, the strongest live to see the next day, and all the rest die. When bulls fought for primacy, there was no gallantry, no honor. It was force against force, power against power. Graceless, ugly, primal. His trident snapped in twain at Dawn's first touch, but that just meant Howland had two weapons when before he had only one. I might snap as well should he find Reed instead of air, Howland thought. Perhaps, Lyanna's voice echoed in his mind. We will never know. Dawn might have been aflame for all it did Ser Arthur, for he could no more catch Howland Reed than his own sigil. Whent barked a curse as he put his own blade through Ser Mark's face, shoving Glover away. Five. Meantime, the White Bull had Martyn Cassel and William Dustin sore pressed to defend even themselves, much less keep him off their lord. His break in concentration might have doomed a normal man, but Howland knew well the feeling of a lizard-lion poised to spring from the water. When he spun away from Ser Arthur's unseen slash, he heard the man huff. With nerves, with exhaustion, with irritation, it didn't matter. He means to keep me off his brothers. His blows kept on coming, but a figure at his back made his violet eyes widen. If you turn away from me, Ser Arthur, you are a dead man. The Sword of the Morning knew it just as well, it seemed, snarling as he pushed away from Howland to bring their dance to a close. Howland wasted no time, dashing for Ser Oswell as his sword clashed with Ice. Too late did the white knight see him, and by the time his sword was free Howland was on his back. Eddard gave him a shove and down they went, Oswell's helm flying off. Without a breath, Howland buried the broken end of his trident in the man's neck, getting to his feet in a blur of dust. Martyn lie nearly decapitated at Ser Gerold's feet, William Dustin now wholly outmatched. Four. Howland made for him, Ned taking Ser Arthur off Ethan Glover not a second too soon. The White Bull might have made short work of Lord Dustin, but Howland Reed was another matter. Even as William locked up with him, Howland was trying to force the trident's head through any weakness in the white plate he could find. The White Bull's prime was behind him but even at William Dustin's best he could not hope to match the man, quailing when Ser Gerold's sword had a red pool gushing through his ringmail. Dustin flew at him in a fury, the dying blow enough to push the White Bull perilously close to Howland Reed even as William collapsed in a heap. Three. How many times had Howland seen a lizard-lion explode from the mud, pulling down a grown bull as if he were a fawn? Today proved no different, Howland punching through a gap in the man's side to draw a bellow of pain. Despite his age, despite his wounds, Ser Gerold Hightower kept his feet another full minute, all while Howland Reed ate him alive with half a common trident. He turned to the last of the three, where Ser Arthur's white sword took Ethan Glover's arm off at the elbow before he drove it through the lad's chest. Two.
"Ser Arthur." Howland called, when the Sword of the Morning put Ned into the dirt. The white helm turned to him. For the first time he seemed to see his brothers, the twin children of the trident Dawn had snapped poking out of each. He started.
"Lord Reed, is this your doing? Why did you not fight in your own name at Harrenhal?"
"I don't fight in tournaments, Ser Arthur."
"Why not? Too humble?" Though it was not a jibe, Howland's mouth tightened.
"I don't fight in tournaments because when I fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do." That made the Sword of the Morning laugh aloud. "Ser Arthur, surely honor is satisfied. Your vows to your prince, to your king-"
"Vows are more than words, Lord Reed. Surely you must know that, of all people." What does that mean? "Those squires might never have seen another day, but for your promise to your lady mother." Howland's insides turned to ice.
"You do have Lady Lyanna."
"I have no lady, on my honor as a knight, as a Kingsguard, as a Dayne."
"Horseshit." Ned said, from where he wriggled feebly to rise.
"How did you find us, my lord?" Arthur asked, ignoring Eddard. It seemed as keen to catch his breath as Howland was his own.
"Does it matter? All that's been done is more corpses were made, of men who might have proved invaluable to the peace to come."
"In Dorne, there is a saying. 'Only corpses know true peace.' The Usurper's allies are allies only for the moment, who would happily spill his own blood as they did the blood of Prince Rhaegar's wife and children. War will come again, one day."
"Today need not be that day, Ser Arthur." The Sword of the Morning brought Dawn to bear. Did I really expect him to simply say 'bugger it' and tag along? As Howland had no weapon, he could only shy away from the white sword's edge. At first he sought only to lead Ser Arthur away from Ned…then he recalled his lord had a sword that even if not Dawn's equal, was better than an empty hand. Five breaths later and Ice was in his hands, scarcely the weapon of a crannogman…but it weighed little more than his trident, and where once Howland had only wood to contend with armor, now he had Valyrian steel. And now the tide turns. With a proper weapon to hand, it was the Lord of the Neck pushing the Sword of the Morning away. Wherever Dawn tried to go, Ice would get there first. Wherever Howland wished to put Ice, Dawn could not reach fast enough. Ser Arthur became each squire in turn, became Prince Rhaegar, became every knight in every tale his mother had ever told him. There could be no other way, no other outcome, until in a last flurry of blows Ice smashed Dawn out of Ser Arthur's hand, then plunged through his white breastplate. Howland saw the violet eyes go wide, the blood running from the mouth beneath them. Then they were empty.
Howland sat there for a moment, looking into Ser Arthur's face. Only after he closed the man's eyes did he realize Ned had disappeared.
"My lord?" he asked, wondering if he'd fallen unconscious somewhere. Even as he picked up Dawn, there was no sign of him. "My lord!" he cried, heart hammering all over again. Footsteps to the tower's doorway were his only answer and so he darted after them, Ice in one hand and Dawn in another. Let some other try me, he thought, mind a whirl. Let someone get between me and my lieges. He walked into a room that smelled of blood and roses, of sweetness and death. When violet eyes glinted out at him from the side of a bed Ned was kneeling at, for a mad moment Howland thought Ser Arthur had somehow returned for a second bout. Then he realized.
"Lady Ashara." he said hoarsely, fully aware of her brother's blood running down Ice's dark blade. A gasp from the bed made him turn, swords at the ready.
"Howland." Ashara's voice was all his nerves were not. Calm, gentle, even soothing. She drew nearer without flinching from the sight of Ice. When she reached for his hand, he expected part of him to scream to put one point or the other to her throat. Instead he let her take Ice from him, dropping it on the floor. Dawn followed, clattering on top of the former as if they were dropped serving platters. She's crying, he saw. Of course she bloody is, you just fucking killed her brother. The finest knight to ever live, or did you forget? Look down, Howland Reed, at the swords, and remember. Then she was leading him to the bed, the sheets stained with blood. His breath hitched at the sight of Lyanna in the rushes, face red, sweating, and half-delirious. The only part of her that looked normal was the hand her brother clutched, more like from the tightness of his grip than anything else, though Lyanna Stark seemed not to feel it. She gave a fresh cry, grey eyes full of tears opening only after a few shallow gasps. They widened at the sight of Howland.
"Don't talk," he said at once…until he saw the swell of her belly. Howland's legs turned to water and it took Ashara guiding him to the bed's empty side to get him to move. "My lady." he said, whispered, trying to get words out, any words. Her hand, smelling of sweat, caressed his cheek. "What's wrong with her?" he whispered to Ashara.
"I don't know. It started yesterday…I pleaded with Arthur to find a midwife…but he said he could trust no one but his Sworn Brothers…and me."
In her bed of blood, Lyanna turned to Ned.
"Listen to me." When he spluttered for water, for a maester, she cut him off. "Listen to me, Ned. Rhaegar and I-" Then she grimaced, screamed anew, and the scent of blood was fresh and pungent. Howland moved to its source, drew up the grey gown she wore. He came up with a king in his arms, wailing in the cold air. Lyanna whimpered at the sight of her son, while Ashara helped Howland bundle the infant in a square of black silk, flanged with red. Numbly he tucked the babe in Lyanna's elbow. She wept at the feeling of him in her arms, straining to hold him properly even as the last of her strength began to leave her. "Rhaegar and I married. After Harrenhal…" she sniffled, looking into the babe's face. "Robert will never let him live, you-" she screamed again, Howland flinching in surprise. The pain, he thought at first, until Lyanna's eyes found him again. Slowly, he looked back down to where fresh blood was soaking through her dress. He felt a hand in his own, and with a squeeze from Ashara Dayne, they lifted the dress together. When something filled their arms, Howland felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His body trembled. But there was no cry, no movement from what lay in their arms. Howland blinked tears out of his eyes to behold a princess, neither moving nor breathing. Lyanna began to sob. Come on, he thought, rocking the girl more tenderly than he would have believed himself able. He felt his breath hitch, and then gave a sob of his own. Come on. He lifted her to his face, breathed into her little nose and mouth.
"Princess, it's time." he said, begged, pleaded. Ashara Dayne gave her back a pat.
"Again." she commanded. Howland Reed could only obey, breathing whatever life he could into the babe he held. Another pat. "Again." Another breath, another pat. "Again. Again. Again." Just as Howland was ready to sink to the floor, a torrent of fluid deluged from the princess' mouth, followed by her nose. Howland heard her first breath, felt it, his hand linked in Ashara's across her back. Then her wails joined her brother's, hale and hearty as could be asked for. Gods be praised, Howland thought. Born twice. Ashara had no second blanket, so she wrapped the princess in her own dark cloak before giving her to her mother. When Howland looked back to Lyanna, joy turned to despair at the sight of her pale face.
"My lady, your son and daughter must have names." Her breathing was so shallow she might well not have bothered.
"Aemon." she whispered. Lyanna took another breath.
"Naerys." she sighed. Then she died.
While the men wept, Ashara gently took the babes.
"We cannot linger here. Howland, we cannot stay here." He looked at her. In her eyes he saw no fear, no hate.
"But Arthur-" Ashara pursed her lips, and for a moment it truly looked as if she might cry. Had that happened, nothing would have been able to get Howland on his feet.
"He met his fate as well as his vows allowed. Two men fought. The better man won." Is it so simple for her? "Howland, help me with Ned." Stiffly he worked feeling back into his limbs, lurching over to where Eddard Stark still clutched his sister's hand, though now the rest of her had gone as pale.
"My lord." he said, Ned Stark not reacting. "My lord. My lord." He prized her hand from Ned's grip as gently as he could. "Ashara is right, we must go. We can perhaps build cairns for the dead…and then we must be gone." He eased Ned into a sitting position, unable to stop the tears flowing down his long Stark face. Howland took the boy, the king, from Ashara and slipped him into Ned's arms. Only then did the sobbing stop, as he looked into the babe's little face. "Aemon, the First of His Name." Howland said. Slowly Ned found it in himself to stand, as if the babe was giving him the strength Lyanna's death had taken. Ashara came near, the girl, the princess, cooing in her arms.
"Naerys, Princess of Dragonstone." Ned finally rasped out. "You're right…we have to go…but where?"
"Starfall. From there, we can take ship north…where they'll be safe." Ashara said. Howland snapped toward her. "Robert's wroth will be a thing too terrible to behold. Anyone he suspects of having a hand in her abduction or death he will not hesitate to cut down where they stand. To expect the sister of the Sword of the Morning to remain beneath notice for long…"
"What do you propose then, my lady?" Howland asked.
"I am no lady, in truth. For my own safety and at Arthur's insistence, I have been Wylla these past months. Ashara Dayne has been at Starfall where she ought be. Someone must see her there again, to keep any suspicions from arising."
"And then?"
"And then…Ashara Dayne must come to an end. No lady will accompany you forth from Starfall, my lords, but Wylla." The pieces began to slide into place in Howland's head. "And when Wylla reaches the Neck, Wylla too will come to an end." No trail to follow, no secrets to learn. Only a ghost with no beginning and no end. Slowly, Ashara nodded.
"You must take the boy, Ned. He will not become the man he must be at Greywater Watch." Howland said. He looked to Ashara, to Wylla, to the woman with whom he shared a princess. "We will take the girl. She will not become the woman she must be at Winterfell."
When they reached Starfall, Ned made a show of returning Dawn. Ashara Dayne's grief was on full display for all the servants, and alone they ascended to the top of the Palestone Sword, the tower where Dawn slept when it was without a bearer. Unbothered by guards or servants, Howland and Wylla cleaned Lyanna up as best they could, wrapped her in the very dress Ashara Dayne had once worn to Harrenhal, and together let her fall from the Palestone Sword and into the Torentine, where the current would all but ensure no trace was ever found. Shortly after they returned to the north, Howland Reed took his leave of Eddard Stark.
"Have you thought of what you'll call him?" he asked.
"My first thought was Arthur, save me…but that would draw most every eye. There was another among the p- among his friends, though, the one we beat at Stony Sept."
"Jon." Howland said. Ned smiled.
"Yes, Jon." He left them, then, the Lord of Winterfell headed home in the back of a donkey-pulled cart, his bastard son held close. Howland turned to Wylla.
"Are you certain about…" This? Us? Bloody all of it?
"I would think between Dawn on your back and the baby on your chest, my certainty is a given." Howland found Greywater Watch in the northwesternmost reaches of the Neck, flush with Fenn lands and not a day from Wyrelake.
"Mother," he extolled when he saw the woman cleaning a fish. She looked up, the smile forming on her face dying at the sight of who he had in tow. "Mother, I've returned." He looked at them, new-made mother and new-born daughter.
"What is your name?" Mother asked her.
"I have none, my lady. Nor my daughter."
"That will not serve."
"What was your mother's name, my lady?"
"Jyana."
"Then Jyana I will be. What is your name?" Howland saw his mother's lip quiver. The hairs on Howland's neck stood up again.
"Meera." At sunset that very day, the two of them stood side by side at Wyrelake's great weirwood. The Fenns had slipped black lilies in her hair, called her sister, and as the stars came out to watch, Howland Reed took Jyana Fenn to wife, their daughter Meera in her arms.
