JEYNE
They were nine days north of Riverrun, and still Ser Brynden would hear of no letup in their pace. He let her snatch only a few hours of sleep at most, in trees or brambles or thickets or once a deserted tower on a tor. Sometimes he went foraging in the dark, returning with a stringy squirrel or a handful of withered apples, and they would scoff them down in the gloaming, never daring to risk a fire or any unnecessary conversation.
Jeyne had asked where they were fleeing half a dozen times, and the only answer the Blackfish had given her was that he hoped to make Oldstones in a few more days. She was frightened of the gruff old knight, but knew as well that she was completely dependent on him. And he would not fail her. He had sworn it by earth and iron, by ice and fire, by the very Tully words: Family, Duty, Honor. For the niece and great-nephew he had failed. Her husband, her king, dead so long now. Oh, Robb.
The memories of the escape from Riverrun were still a blur in Jeyne's head, and she thought it best not to dwell on it too much. She had first thought they would follow the Tumblestone to the westerlands, and had even entertained a foolish fantasy of seeing the Crag again, just in passing. But of course they would not, must be as far away from Casterly Rock and Lannisport as possible. The Blackfish was well known in the riverlands, and since it was equally well known that he'd never taken a wife, Jeyne could hardly pose as his daughter. But since Ser Brynden had disguised them both as a pair of poor cottars, that difficulty was removed. Their ruse would never withstand close scrutiny, and all it would take would be one wrong pair of eyes glimpsing them to seal their fate. Secrecy was their only hope.
Oldstones and then. . . where? The Neck was full of bog devils and ironmen, and the North had been placed under the lordship of Roose Bolton and his son Ramsay, as bannermen to the Lannisters. Beasts in human skin. Robb had never entirely trusted them, Jeyne knew. And since the Westerlings had changed their wager once more, the Lannisters were no longer a sanctuary for her. There is no place for me, or any Stark. She wondered if she'd ever been a true Stark, even for a moment. She'd wanted to be, more than anything. She had thought her family did too, but it had all been a grotesque lie, fashioned by her mother. Even the part Lady Sybell had played in sending Jeyne on this road was not enough to exonerate her. I hate her.
This had been her mother's notion, as always. Lady Sybell was furious with the late Lord Tywin for not informing her of the true extent of the Red Wedding; if she knew, she had said, she would never have sent her son Raynald, Jeyne's brother, to die at the Twins with the rest. Combined with the rest of the Lannisters' suddenly crumbling fortunes – Queen Cersei grown ever more mistrustful and erratic, the Imp pausing only to murder his father before fleeing Westeros with a price on his head, Ser Jaime a cripple, and King Tommen a boy of eight – Lady Sybell had decided that the only hope for their family's survival lay elsewhere.
Jeyne had thought it was a trick when the torch appeared at her door in the middle of the night, and her mother's voice ordered her to dress warmly and darkly. Jeyne had thought she meant to hand them over to Ryman Frey, Lord Walder's heir, who commanded the thus-far totally ineffectual siege of Riverrun and threatened to hang Ser Edmure daily without result. But the Kingslayer had arrived to personally bring an end to it, would storm the walls with fire and sword if need be. One way or another, it would have been my death.
But instead Lady Sybell had escorted her downstairs, lips as tight as if she was sucking on a lemon. Jeyne's questions had gone unanswered, until at last they reached the shadowy hall, and Ser Brynden Tully was waiting.
Panicked, Jeyne glanced between them. "What – I don't – "
"There's no time for talk, child," the Blackfish said brusquely. "We're leaving the castle. Tonight."
"Leaving the castle?" Jeyne repeated, baffled. With a Lannister and Frey host in arms to every side? What were they supposed to do, grow wings?
"Aye. Come." The Blackfish took her by the arm.
Lady Sybell inclined her head, so stiffly her neck might have snapped. "Take care of my daughter, ser."
The Blackfish stared back at her with undisguised loathing. "I will, but not for your sake. Come," he said to Jeyne again, and picked her up off her feet, carrying her down the serpentine steps to the Water Gate. The night was black as coal, moonless, and the wind tugged at her cloak and hair, rippling the dark water beneath the portcullis.
A shadow loomed up nearby. "Hurry."
To her shock, Jeyne recognized the voice. It was Ser Edmure himself, freed from his long vigil on the gallows by Ser Jaime, and sent back with orders to surrender the castle to Lord Emmon Frey and his ubiquitous parchment. He beckoned to the portcullis, and Jeyne clutched at him. "What's going on?"
"Shh, my lady. No noise. You're going with my uncle. Do what he tells you."
"But the castle. . . they'll notice we're gone. . ."
"My uncle, yes. Naught can be done about that, but no matter. As for you. . ." Edmure hesitated. "Your sister will pose as you."
"Elenya?" Jeyne did not want to ask what promises or threats had been used to get her little sister to agree to this plan. Elenya was two years younger, but they looked enough alike that those who did not know them well oft mistook them for one another. Yet Elenya was still a girl, with narrow hips and small breasts, and even if Ser Jaime had never seen their faces, surely there would be a Lannister lordling or man-at-arms who remembered the Westerling daughters. "But I don't – "
"Listen." Edmure put his hand over hers, squeezed tightly. "This is my only night of freedom. On the morrow, when Riverrun is surrendered, I will be given into the Kingslayer's custody and sent as a prisoner to Casterly Rock, likely for life. And you. . . They told me. . ." He seemed to be groping for words. "You have not had your moon blood since the Red Wedding. My lady, if there is the faintest possibility, the slightest. . ."
Shock lurched through Jeyne like a freezing dagger. Suddenly the thought was there, and it was too horrid even to contemplate, if only because it would make her weep with how much she wanted it. Her mother had brewed possets of herbs and ale and milk, claiming they were to help make her fertile, but they had actually been intended to stop her from conceiving. But while effective, they were not foolproof, and if she was, against all odds, with the Young Wolf's child, the survival of the north rested on her.
"Oh," she whispered, heartbroken. "I understand."
"We have no time," the Blackfish broke in. "Edmure, is the portcullis raised?"
"Aye, Uncle. Swim under, stay low for as long as you can. You have Robb's will? If my lady should not be with child after all, the crown must go to. . ."
"His heir. I know. It will be seen to." The Blackfish splashed down the steps. "Jeyne. Come, girl. Now."
Jeyne paused, looking at the towers of the castle around her. They seemed warm, light, safe compared to the perils of the black river, but that was all a lie, as so much of her young life had been. Then she flung her arms around Edmure Tully's neck and kissed him clumsily on the cheek, tasting the salt of his tears and her own. "Gods be with you, ser."
"Aye," he said, voice breaking, and gave her a hand into the water. "Go, my lady. Go. And Uncle – farewell."
"Farewell, my lord." The Blackfish pulled up the hood of Jeyne's cloak and tugged her against him. "Now," he said in her ear. "We have to get under the portcullis and swim out away beyond the machicolations on the walls. There are Frey soldiers who will see us if we surface too soon. You must hold your breath for a minute, mayhaps longer. Can you do this?"
"Aye." She had no idea.
"Good." The Blackfish waded up to the Water Gate, which still appeared to be closed. "Dive down, swim fast. After me, child. Now."
With that, he took a few quick breaths, then one deep one, and slipped beneath the surface with barely a splash. Jeyne watched him – and then, at Edmure's signal, she gulped a raw lungful of air and dove.
The river was so cold that it felt like knives. Eyes closed, she kicked hard, feeling slimy stones and soft sediment. She had to make sure she was deep enough not to snag on the teeth of the portcullis. When she was a girl, she had splashed gaily about in millponds and creeks, and once the sea off the Crag when Raynald dared her, before their nursemaid found out and shrieked at them. So far removed from this, swimming for her life. She couldn't think how long it had been. She couldn't risk surfacing yet. Surely someone would take notice. . . she braced for an arrow in her back. Robb was shot with a crossbow, twice or thrice, before his head was hacked off. I will die likewise, perhaps.
She swam harder, lungs beginning to strain for air. She opened her eyes, and saw only swirling darkness. At last, when spots were reeling in her vision, she stroked upwards, and tried to breach as softly as she could. The water now felt warmer than the night air. Behind her, torches pricked the darkness, but there was no outcry of alarm, no muster to arms. Only distant voices, laughing and cursing without a care in the world.
A hand grabbed her wrist, and she swallowed a scream just in time. No matter; the other hand was pressed to her mouth. Soaking wet, a lacework of waterweed draped over his shoulders, the Blackfish looked more a river demon than ever. He pressed a finger to her lips, and she nodded, quaking. Then he beckoned her to cling round his waist, and she did. With strong, graceful strokes, he paddled them downstream, and before long, Riverrun had vanished entirely in the night.
That was how they'd made it up the Red Fork, swimming whenever they could. They kept off the river road, and when they finally reached the Inn of the Kneeling Man, Jeyne was so footsore and tired that she begged Ser Brynden for a halt, but he would not hear of it. "Too many men of uncertain loyalties come through here. We'll press onto Fairmarket."
And so they did. That night was the most dangerous of all. The Blackfish glimpsed men from afar, and at once ordered them deep into the brush. The party passed so close to their hiding place that Jeyne was able to catch a glimpse of them. There was a thin grey-haired man in red robes, and a big sour brute in a cloak the color of lemons, and a smiley freckled youth with a longbow. Then a Tyroshi sellsword with a beard dyed green, and any number of disreputable-looking others.
Ser Brynden tensed. "It's them," he hissed. "Outlaws. Beric Dondarrion's men, nay doubt. They'll kill us both if they find us. Don't move. Don't breathe."
Jeyne, taking him at his word, lay still as a corpse. The outlaws did not appear to be staying long; they were only taking a short respite, talking and laughing. Their voices drifted on the wind. ". . . those Frey sons of whores, old Lord Walder will piss his breeks when he hears. . ."
"Nay," someone else grumbled. "He bloody hated Ryman, why should he. . ."
". . .what you will about the ancient bastard, he tends to his own. . ."
Jeyne turned her head fractionally, straining to hear more. Ser Jaime had sent the Freys, under the command of the stout-hearted Ser Ryman, back home to the Twins; had the outlaws caught them up? And if so, what had –
Only one outlaw did not speak. He sat alone on a rock, eating nothing, swathed in a heavy cloak that hid any hint of face and form. The other outlaws gave him a respectful berth, glancing edgily in his direction and minding their tongues when he glanced in theirs. But Jeyne was the most shocked of all when the lout in the yellow cloak said, "Should we press on now, m'lady?"
The cloaked figure rose to his – her? – feet, and made a sharp gesture to the rest. They took final pisses and gulped the last of wineskins, and fell in promptly behind her. The trees were thick enough that Jeyne soon lost sight of them, but she did not dare to move, even after they were long gone.
"Hsst!" Ser Brynden tugged at her, and she scrambled after him through the underbrush, through slippery, muddy boulders, out to a narrow animal track. Twilight was falling, and Jeyne was starved.
"We'll stop briefly," the Blackfish said, "but eat fast. We've had an unimaginably lucky escape. That must have been Stoneheart herself, the one they call the Hangwoman. And to judge from what we heard, she found some Freys to bestow her honors on.'
"Dondarrion's lover? Isn't that who she's supposed to be?" Jeyne began to gnaw on the inedible wodge of jerky Ser Brynden handed her.
"Gods alone know." The Blackfish cast a glance over his shoulder, but the darkening woods were empty. "I don't want to sleep anywhere near here tonight. Come."
Jeyne choked down the last of the jerky, then rose wearily to her feet. She followed.
They reached Fairmarket late the next morning. The Blackfish hadn't wanted to risk entering the town itself, but Jeyne was so faint with exhaustion that he had to carry her the last mile. So they bought a room at the first no-account, ramshackle inn they could find, and Jeyne lay on the foul-smelling bed, too tired even to sleep. Robb's face kept floating before her. I said goodbye to you thrice. Would I never had. I should have died with you at the Twins, and we would be together again.
No, no. She was still alive, and there was still the faint possibility that she bore his heir. She must be strong for them both, must revenge him however she could. But that was the last coherent thought she had the strength to form, and she fell into a dreamless daze.
Ser Brynden returned in late afternoon. He had been sitting in a corner of the inn's common room, listening to all the gossip he could, and he had much and more to report. Ryman Frey and his men had indeed been hanged just six miles south of here, and it was universally believed that Lady Stoneheart and her outlaws were responsible. Queen Cersei had been arrested on charges of treason, and Ser Jaime was on his way to Raventree Hall, to take the castle from Lord Blackwood. Once that was accomplished, the Trident would be pacified, and the sundering of Robb's short-lived kingdom complete.
"Gods be good," Jeyne murmured. "The queen has been. . .?" If half the tales were true, Cersei Lannister was the Mad King with teats, an incestuous, scheming, murderous devil's daughter entirely deserving of her new home in a prison cell in the Great Sept of Baelor. All Jeyne's life, her family had been bannermen to Casterly Rock and the Warden of the West, and it was odd to now think of them as her implacable enemies, but she could not summon a single drop of grief for the golden queen she'd once so admired. It was Robb she wept for. Robb and his poor lady mother Catelyn and her brother Raynald.
"Arrested, aye," Ser Brynden confirmed tersely.
"Then who rules the realm?"
"Mace Tyrell has been appointed Hand. And Ser Harys Swyft and Kevan Lannister are Tommen's regents." The Blackfish snorted. "The Fat Flower, the Chinless Wonder, and the lesser Lannister. Seven save us all."
"Oh." Whoever governed in King's Landing no longer seemed to matter nearly as much. "Could we. . . stay here? A time? Just a day or two?"
Ser Brynden frowned. "Child, I know you're dead on your feet, but there is no safe haven for leagues and leagues. We must reach Oldstones as soon as we can. And after. . ."
"And after?" Jeyne pushed herself upright with a grimace. "Where are we making?" Nowhere is safe in this world anymore. "Tell me."
The Blackfish cast a suspicious glance at the walls. They were very far from the Red Keep, where such things were well known to have ears, but Fairmarket was still a busy trading town. He gestured her to come closer, and she did.
"We make for the last of your lord husband's loyal vassals," the Blackfish whispered. "They will help us get to where we must go."
"Which vassal? Where?"
"My lady, you will trust whatever I say?"
"Yes, my lord."
Ser Brynden paused. Then he said, "Greywater Watch."
"In the Neck? The crannogmen?" Jeyne had heard all sorts of frightening stories about the green men who lived in the bogs, and the castle that moved. "Why?"
"Howland Reed was Eddard Stark's most loyal friend. You are still as yet Queen in the North, widow of the Young Wolf, Eddard's eldest son. If we can reach the Neck with our own necks intact, he will be honor-bound to help you."
Jeyne had a markedly less idealistic view of honor than might otherwise be expected of a fifteen-year-old girl. She had once been so, aye, but that was before the Freys had slain Robb while he was their guest, at their board, at his uncle's wedding. "He will?"
"Lord Reed is to be trusted with our very lives, I am told."
"And do we mean to stay there forever?"
"No." The Blackfish ran a rough, callused hand through his shock of silver hair. "There is your lord husband's will to execute. As I said, if you are not with his child, then – "
Jeyne put a hand to her stomach. It might have been more rounded than it was before, but it was impossible to tell. She hadn't bled, it was true, but she'd had no morning illnesses or other symptoms. "Robb's heir," she breathed. "But his brothers are dead."
"No," said the Blackfish. "Not all of them."