Mid April, 300 AC
"Mother?" Robb's voice was weak, his skin dappled with sweat. Don't look at his face, don't look.
"She's not here," Arya answered, gripping her brother's hand. "It's me, Robb, it's Arya."
"Arya?" He groaned. "Water."
Nymeria whined. Her jaws were gently clamped around a waterskin. Arya let go of her brother's hand and took the waterskin. Just look at his mouth, only his mouth. With awkward fingers she placed the tip of the waterskin against his dry cracked lips, tilting the skin so water would flow into his mouth. Robb gulped at the water until the skin was empty, and Arya took his hand again.
"Jeyne," Robb whispered. "Where is she?"
"Gathering herbs," Arya replied. And looking for an elder tree. A weirwood would be more helpful, in Arya's opinion, but Jeyne Westerling had not asked her. "Dacey and Patrek Mallister are guarding her."
"Good... good..." She heard a thump as Robb's head fell back against the pillow. Grey Wind lay at his side, his snout nuzzled against Robb's chest. One paw protectively curled over his belly.
A wolf should be brave enough to look. Her stomach churning, she looked upward, taking in shoulders, neck, and face. Arya bit her lip hard to stop from crying. This was not her strong brother, who could best even Jon Snow with the lance. Robb was thinner than she'd ever seen him, pale and drawn with pain. And his face...
The arrow had struck the right side of his face, close to his nose. Robb had torn out the wooden shaft as they fled the Twins, but the arrowhead remained buried deep within the flesh. Jeyne Westerling had cleaned the wound with wine and bound it up with a poultice, but she had removed the bandage this morning so the wound might breathe before she returned.
"The skin must not be allowed to close, not until the arrowhead is removed," Jeyne had muttered while examining the gaping wound. The timid girl Arya met at Riverrun was gone, replaced by a woman as grim and focused as a maester.
"You need to eat, m'lady."
Jeyne Poole bore a flagon of cider, while steam rose from the platter in Meri's hands. Soft cheese, roasted fish, yellow bread and watercress and mashed cattail roots. The food was as plain and warm as old Ser Hoster Grey and his towerhouse.
House Grey were landed knights, guardians of White Willow. The little village boasted only a few dozen thatched cottages, built around a small empty field. It was an odd village. There were no vast fields of wheat or barley, no paddocks full of sheep. Almost everything seemed to come from the surrounding bogs. The strange yellow bread was made from cattail flour. The pillows in the towerhouse were stuffed with cattail down; the four men-at-arms bore arrows whose shafts were made from cattail stalks.
Few visitors made the trek to the peculiar little village. That was why Robb had chosen it for his refuge while the Greatjon hunted down Roose Bolton. Patrek Mallister only knew of it because he'd once gotten lost while on a hunt with Wendel Frey, a page in Lord Mallister's service. Scouts screened the village for miles, garbed in dull colors so they might melt away into the bogs.
White Willow was northeast of the Twins, so close to the Neck that Ser Hoster joked he should rightly pay homage to the King in the North, not the King of the Trident. Arya did not appreciate the old knight's sense of humor, but she suffered it in silence. He had suffered Grey Wind and Nymeria's inspection without showing how terrified he was of the direwolves.
When the meal was finished Jeyne Poole began fussing with Arya's hair, combing out the tangles with her fingers. Arya was too tired to protest. She had barely slept since that awful night at the Twins. Jeyne's fingers were gentle, the touch soothing. In spite of herself, Arya's eyes drooped shut.
Memories flashed against the backs of her eyelids. She saw the night aglow as flames devoured the great tents. She saw white waves splash against the black river as mare and wolves swam across. She saw the squat ugly keep on the western bank, its battlements packed with archers.
She saw Anguy and the other outlaws raise their bows; she saw men plummet off the keep to their deaths. She saw the Smalljon shove Robb to the ground, his enormous body taking the arrows meant for his king. She saw Robb turn back, for just a moment, his face a mask of horror, his lips mouthing "mother?"
She heard him scream as the arrow pierced his cheek.
After that everything was a blur. Robb fell to the ground, his wife desperately trying to pull him to his feet. A Frey man-at-arms ran at the king, his axe raised, and Grey Wind ripped out his throat. Arya's wolves flung themselves at the enemy; horses screamed; men died. Out of the darkness Gendry emerged, carrying her brother in his brawny arms.
"My lady?"
Arya scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. "What?" She asked, more sharply than she intended. Her heart was still pounding, her pulse racing from the nightmare.
"Her Grace asked if you could find Anguy," Jeyne Poole said. "She's changing into clean garb before she tends to Robb."
When she was little, Arya would have had to roam the vast halls of Winterfell for hours to find one man. With Nymeria's nose, things were much simpler. She followed Anguy's scent to the village, stopping before a thatched cottage and whining.
Anguy did not looked pleased to see Arya when he answered the pounding on the door. His hair was mussed, his clothes rumpled as if put on in a hurry. Behind him was a buxom woman twice his age, her gown half off her shoulder.
"Queen Jeyne wants you," Arya informed him. "Now."
Anguy came, muttering oaths under his breath while the buxom woman blew him a kiss.
"Who was that?" Arya asked as they walked back to the towerhouse. It was a good mile's walk, and silence left her too much time to think.
"Helly, the blacksmith's widow. Gendry asked if he might use the old forge."
Arya paused, putting her hands on her hips. "What's that got to do with you visiting her?"
Anguy laughed, a light blush against his freckles. "Helly told him yes, but she said she needed a man's help about the house. I was, ah, assisting her."
"With what?" She'd heard slapping noises before she knocked, and she couldn't think of any household tasks with such a sound.
"Never you mind, m'lady," Anguy said, turning pink before hastily changing the subject.
Dacey Mormont and Ser Patrek Mallister stood guard at the towerhouse when they returned. The cut on Dacey's cheek was already half-healed, but Ser Patrek leaned heavily on his spear. The wounds he'd taken were light, but there had been many of them. They were the only two of Robb's honor guard to escape the Twins. Ser Wendel Manderly had been lost within the keep, tackling two Freys away from his liege lord. Owen Norrey and Donnel Locke had died during the fighting in the camps.
The Greatjon and his mounted men had trounced the Frey host, who were mainly on foot, but they had suffered losses all the same. Anguy and Tom o' Sevens had not been able to stop Robb's foot soldiers from partaking in the freely flowing ale and wine, and the Freys had killed half of them when they set the tents afire. The rest of the northmen had fought their way out, howling with fury.
Lady Catelyn had not been so lucky. At first no one knew what had become of her. To Arya's shame all thoughts of her mother had fled in the chaos, driven away by the clash of steel. It was not until they were riding through the woods that she remembered.
"My mother!" She'd cried. "We have to go get my mother!"
She wheeled her mare around, seeking a way out of the column of horse. Greatjon Umber had plucked her off her mare with his huge hands, hugging her tight as she fought and screamed. The Freys had her mother, Arya had to go get her, it was all her fault...
"They'll keep her for a hostage," the Greatjon said gruffly, ignoring her flailing fists as if he were a bear and Arya but a stinging fly. She bit at his furs, her teeth grinding against the mail beneath, she kicked and punched, but it was all in vain.
The next day Tom o' Sevens had ridden back toward the Twins, swearing he would not return until he had news of Lady Catelyn. The host was nearing White Willow when he returned, his wide smile vanished.
Robb had wept bitter tears when they told him, blood seeping from his wounded cheek as if it shared his grief. But the next day he had asked for mother, as though she were alive.
"The fever," Jeyne Westerling had said sadly when he fell back asleep. "He cannot remember."
The queen was sitting by Robb's bed when Arya brought Anguy to her. Dark circles rimmed her eyes; if Arya slept little, Jeyne did not sleep at all. A bundle of tree shoots laid on the table beside her, their ends freshly cut. Softly Jeyne explained what she needed.
"Thinner than an arrow's shaft, much thinner," she said. "The pith will need to dry before you fashion the probes. I shall need several lengths; two inches, four inches, and six. I pray the wound goes no deeper; the arrowhead likely rests near his spine."
When the archer was gone Jeyne Westerling attended to Robb. First she changed the dressings on his cheek, then pulled back the covers to check his other wounds. His chainmail hauberk had caught the quarrel that struck him below the arm. A great bruise marked the spot, blue-black and swollen.
His leg had fared worse, the quarrel puncturing his calf. Jeyne had removed the quarrel as soon as they reached the towerhouse, cleaning the wound before stitching it shut. Her stitches were as neat as Sansa's, tiny and perfect.
"How will you get the arrowhead out of his face?" Arya asked when she could bear it no longer. "You're not a maester."
"I am not," Jeyne agreed, inspecting Robb's leg before gently covering him with the blankets.
"My great-grandmother was a healing woman from Essos, a maegi. She trained my mother in the healing arts, just as my mother taught me. Our maester despaired of our nonsense, but he never noticed when I borrowed his books. All the texts agree that an arrow wound is a simple thing. The arrowhead must be removed, the wound cleaned and stitched."
"You can't just pull it out," Arya argued. "The shaft is gone."
"So it is. That is why I need probes, to open the wound so that I may reach the arrowhead."
"You're going to make the wound bigger?" Arya's stomach roiled when Jeyne nodded. "And then what?"
Jeyne pulled her legs up to her chest, suddenly just a girl again.
"I must have something to pull the arrowhead out. Tongs, perhaps, though they will need to be very small. If I should push the arrowhead further in..." Jeyne bit at her nails, her eyes wide and staring.
"Robb's not going to die," Arya said fiercely. "He won't, he can't."
Jeyne looked at her sadly, her arms wrapped around her knees.
"I will do my best, such as it is. The only other thing we can do is pray."