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Chapter Text

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Vows

Vows were what shaped her life.

Her father, Eli, had sworn vows and oaths to a lord that had betrayed him and her mother, resulting in an orphaned state.

Maeve remembered the screams, her father's guards, their families, her uncle, her mother, her father. She remembered the pain in her leg from the arrow that pierced her as she tried to run into the woods. Even now she didn't know why the noble spared her when he had no problem killing the other children of her guard's families.

The murdering Lord ordered one of his wife's handmaids to take her to the local whore-house to be degraded and humiliated; however, the handmaid had taken mercy on the little five-year-old and dropped her at the small, humble sept in the center of a nearby village. It was there, that Maeve lived and learned as a septa, a priestess of the Seven Gods.

Maeve hadn't really had a choice in the matter, it was expected that she become a septa and there was no way to fight it. It would shame her to fight the people who had taken her in, clothed her, fed her, housed her, educated her, so she did not fight.

At twelve she vowed to spend her life worshiping and serving the Seven. She was not a septa yet, but vowed to go through the trials to become one. At sixteen she completed the trials and obtained her title as Septa. That night she was anointed with the Seven holy oils and took her official vows, to remain loyal and true to the Seven, to love and serve no one else but the Seven and the sept and to help those who needed aid.

It would be years before she could go out into the world. A young septa was deemed too inexperienced to be given a job anywhere else but the sept where she pledged her loyalty. Before she would act as a governess to a noble's child or provide comfort to dying men or heal the sick, she was to maintain the library under the watchful eye of Septon Phillip.

But her years of service to the library of the sept was cut short when Robb Stark, the son of the late Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, called the banners against the South.

A breeze suddenly chilled over her skin and she instinctively curled closer to Jon's side to deflect the gooseflesh prickling against her body.

The weight of her vows hung heavy on her chest as she watched his profile as he slept. He hasn't gotten much sleep. The fear of invasion was enough to keep everyone in the camp awake well into the night before the body's needs overtook the fears of the mind.

Shame did not batter her as ruthlessly as it had their first time together but it still weighed heavily enough that it bit at her. Jon's presence in her life made her question the gods she so piously fallowed. If the gods wanted her celibate all her life, why did they send Jon Snow in her path? If they didn't want her to love, why did they give her a heart? Why did they make this feel so natural and good if it was so wrong?

She bit anxiously at her thumb nail as a soft breeze lifted a strand of auburn hair to caress her cheek. Septas do not show their hair; their womanly looks could inspire lust in men and with lust came temptation. For some reason it had not mattered to her when Jon first saw her hair—possibly because it hadn't meant anything then, she didn't believe anything would develop into anything.

When word of war spread across the land, life became very complicated for everyone in the sept. Some wanted to stay, withhold the temple from any and all soldiers and others wanted to aid them, to pick a side to serve.

Maeve wanted to stay, but in the end it was decided that those who wanted to go should go, but the others would stay. She was set on staying, but old Ysilla had plans otherwise. Ysilla was a septa, a teacher and mentor to the young, close to her ninetieth name day and wiser than any within ten miles. She ordered Maeve to ride with a group that was headed to the North to aid the weak and helpless. With the old woman's crooked hands, frail body and that unseeing left eye of hers, she was the most commanding sight in the entire sept.

Maeve grudgingly obeyed.

The ride was long and tedious. The cart that they had brought along, filled with fine fur blankets, healing herbs, food and simple hunting traps for game, was also occupied by the elder Septa and Septon's. With their escort of ten village men going off to fight for the north, Maeve was deemed capable and young enough to ride her own horse. Each day, she slid off her mare with an aching, sore bottom, blistered hands and raw thighs. Maeve was only too happy when she lay down by the fire with her wounds dressed with soothing herbs only to have to do it again for hours again the next day. By the middle of the trip, the older people she traveled with granted her a kindness and let her ride in the back of the cart.

When her group arrived three weeks later, they were not received with a welcoming party. The army believed that they were Southern spies in disguise. Theon Greyjoy's mouth did not help matters. When a black haired boy with a white dire wolf growling at his side spoke some reason to the mob of armed men around them, Theon Greyjoy managed to get them all tense again with a single sentence.

Finally after a good twenty minutes of arguing, Robb Stark's army accepted that they were who they said they were and dispirited back to their duties. After most of the men had gone away, the boy with curly black hair came forward, his albino wolf trotting behind him.

"I'm Jon Snow." his brown eyes gazed across the lot of them. A few of their eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his last name. Snow was the name Northern bastards took. "I'll take you to Robb." Maeve wanted to ask where the young Lord was when all the chaos was erupting, but refrained. They'd just escaped being killed in a riot, now was not the time to question their Lord.

Her group was then assigned according to Robb Stark. Maeve was allocated to Allyria Draper, a withered mother of five young children whose husband was killed in a raid on their village. They and the others from that village were now refugees traveling with Robb Stark's army. Her five children, ranging from fifteen to a year old, kept her busy for the next week so she hadn't had time to bathe.

The day he saw her was a week after her party had arrived. The men and refugee women and children had grown to trust the Septon's and Septa's, but still their eyes followed her as she made her way through the temporary camp to where Allyria had told her to wash up.

It was late afternoon, the sun just starting to set. The forest surrounding the camp was thick and the low riding branches made it harder to stay straight. The river she came across was wide but not very deep.

After looking around to be sure that no one was watching, she carefully stripped off her dress and unfastened her hair scarf. Her auburn hair curled wildly after she freed it from the braid.

The water was cold as she waded through it in her shift, it made her shiver. She washed quickly and thoroughly, saving her hair for last. After she was satisfied, Maeve stood atop a rock along the bank. Using the small cloth Allyria had given her as a towel, she wiped off the water from her shoulders.

Suddenly a twig snapped, shattering the silence she had enjoyed. She squealed, dropping her towel into the water and snapped her body around, reaching for her dress she rested atop a nearby rock as she did so. Covering her body with her dress, she eyed up Jon Snow, his brown eyes wide and his cheeks red.

For one very long second, they stared at each other, frozen. Maeve became very self-conscious of the fact that her hair was unbound and that she looked like a normal girl, not a septa. That was dangerous, if men see you as a girl and not a part of a holy order, they might ignore the fact that you are. It didn't help that behind this dress that the only thing shielding her body from his gaze was a very thin, nearly see-through, shift.

"I-I'm sorry, milady." Jon stuttered as he quickly turned away and nearly ran back into the woods.

For a long time, Maeve stood there stunned. He was a bastard...he was suppose to be wanton and a cheat and a liar and amoral. Not stutter and run when a girl, nearly naked and alone was presented before him. Maeve dressed quickly, rebound her hair and hurriedly made her way back to Allyria's small tent before as the sun went down. She was confused on Jon Snow's actions for the rest of the night.

From beside her, Jon groaned and shifted in his sleep, tightening his grip around her waist. She had to smile as she recalled after that.

The camp was large so Maeve hadn't seen Jon Snow since the river. After some of the refugee women had gossiped as they sat together making supper, Maeve had learned that Jon Snow was Lord Eddard Stark's bastard, Robb Stark's half brother. Not only that, but he had taken the black, swore his vows and then left in the dead of night! Bastard boys are oath breakers; why does that surprise me, she thought.

A week later, Maeve had finally had enough of Allyria's children going to bed with growling bellies and sadder eyes. She stormed from the tent at first light and marched to Robb Stark's tent. He, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy and a few other men were outside, talking to one another about battle plans and whatnot. She blushed as she spied Jon, but swallowed her hesitance and walked up to them.

Boldly, she demanded Robb ration the food more fairly to Allyria, personal bitterness adding to the venom in her tone. She despised Robb Stark for causing all this. A war between the north and south would divide everyone in the middle, and all those who didn't swear fealty to the new child King would be condemned as traitors and executed. The Lannister's and Robb Stark and their war pitted everyone between two pointy swords.

Not only that, but he unknowingly tore her away from her sept, from her sisters! That was not easily forgiven, although she chastised herself for such a sinful feeling as wrath.

Jon watched her, surprised by her boldness. He had never seen such a young woman in a septa's garb before that the first time he'd seen her, he too had questioned whether they were truly from a sept or spies.

He could see she was quite beautiful, even more so close up. When her party arrived that day she was behind the others, covered from his view. By the river he was farther still, but he could tell she was quite lovely, her auburn hair long and wild. Up close, her body was covered and her hair was hidden, she was gorgeous.

Although her tone was sharp, Robb did not take offence and assured her he would take care of it.

Maeve didn't know how it happened, but Jon became her friend. He seemed to always be there when she needed help, when she stumbled over war props or one of Allyria's younger children got away from her. During these times, they'd make small conversation and by the third month of her being there, she and Eddard Stark's bastard had acquired a friendship.

He was sweet to her and, never having had a man's attention like this before, she was not especially uncomfortable with the boundaries of her vows. Her former traveling companions looked down on her friendship with Jon Snow and she herself was torn. He was a bastard, people of the sept did not approve of bastards. Yet, she still conversed with him freely and when he was free from war efforts or meetings, and when they were virtually alone (Allyria's children under ten) they had come to call each other by their first names.

She remembered the night he first kissed her. She did not know what had possessed him to do it or what had left him, but he had.

After Allyria and her children were blissfully put down to rest and most of the men and other women and children had gone to sleep, Maeve had gone out for a brief stroll to help wind herself down when Jon happened upon her, sitting on a fallen tree not far from the camp. The celebration feast the camp had held was as grand as it could be with music and dancing. Little Sybelle, Allyria's youngest daughter, had demanded that Maeve dance with her all night. It was difficult to say no to the little child.

Jon settled besides her, facing the opposite way into the woods, and they sat and talked a while. Somehow through their innocent conversation, it had shifted to family.

Maeve remembered the quiet voice she had used when she talked about her family, telling him the shameful truth that she didn't even remember what her mother's name was, what she looked like. That she only really knew her family through the stories told to her by the elder Septa's. She also remembered the shame that washed over her at his story. He had a father with a wife and family but no mother, he never knew her. His stepmother hated him and he had never been welcome in Winterfell. She may not have remembered her mother's name or what she looked like, but she remembered her warmth, her love. She may have been orphaned but at least she got a new family. She had no right to be sorry for herself.

Jon told her as such.

Anger and embarrassment flared thorough her and soon they were in an argument, a stupid, meaningless fight. After their hurtful words had been spat, silence engulfed them. It was long and drawn out. When she realized that neither of them would apologize first, she abruptly stood up and turned away, stalking back to the camp still seething.

She stealthily slipped into the tent and saw the children's sleeping mats unoccupied and looked to Allyria. Sometime during the night, all five wayward children crawled over to their mother and curled up next to her.

That little sight made her smile and made her want to weep. They were scared to be away from Allyria during the dark night, that raid that had taken their father had scarred them.

Long after she'd curled up on her own sleeping mat near the entrance of the tent, she heard footsteps outside.

"Psst! Maeve!" she heard Jon whisper. From their spot by their mother, Gerold and Lyla, the eldest boy and girl, stirred in their sleep. Without thinking Maeve shot up from her spot and dashed out of the tent, rushing toward the side where she had heard Jon.

"Are you bloody mad?" She hissed at him as she towed him away from the tents.

Once they were far enough away, he spoke again, surprising her with an apology. Jon Snow did not strike her as the type of man to apologize, but he was one to know when he was wrong. Even though she was angry with him for snapping at her, he was not wrong for it. It was reasonable that he snap at her, though she did not appreciate it. She told him that.

With soft, sad smiles at one another all was forgiven. She did not really know who had initiated it; perhaps it was mutual, perhaps not. Whatever had happened it didn't matter because in an instant, Jon's lips were on hers. The thing that damned them was that she didn't push him away, she didn't scream, she kissed him back. They were hooked after that.

It had been so pleasant at first, warming her from the inside and unleashing butterflies in her belly. Then reality began to bombard her with its facts and all the unpleasant emotions that came with it followed suit. So, in that likeness of fear, Maeve did the only thing her body could think of: she hit him.

She slapped him across the face and after a second of astonishment, she turned and ran back to Allyria's tent.

Maeve let out a small giggle at the memory. Before it hadn't been funny but after their anger and surprise had vanished, it became a fond memory they shared.

Abruptly her smile vanished. She should be like this. She was a woman of the gods, a septa! Every time she saw the other septa's and septon's he heart dropped in guilt as well as sadness. She vowed to herself to a life of chastity, a life devoted to the gods and her sept. She was not to be made some love-sick girl with her legs spread wide. What had she become? An oath breaker? Was she still a septa when she was soiled so?

That small little spark that was her anger ignited into a full flame. What seemed to add to her fury was that Jon had taken vows too. She shouldn't have been the one who kept them in check, he should have left her alone and none of this would have happened. He was a man of the Nights Watch, sworn to be celibate and love no one for as long as he lived. To take no wife, to father no children. How dare he bewitch her like this! How dare he allow himself to get caught up with her?

Old Ysilla's face appeared in her mind then. It made her want to break something.

She stood up, quickly grabbing her shift which had been discarded carelessly to the side and roughly pulled it over her head. Upon her sudden movement, Jon awoke, watching as she yanked up her dress and clumsily tried to do up the laces.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Without turning back to look at him, she answered in the iciest tone she could manage, "Leaving. You're familiar with it aren't you?" Jon licked his dry lips. She had been doing this their last few meetings; she'd leave as soon as they were done and cross with him. It was time to demand a real reason.

"Are you doing this again?" he asked as he stood up, lacing his trousers as he did so. This time she turned around, trying desperately to do the knots up the back of her dress.

"What?" she snapped.

"The anger. You've done this these last few months. What is it?" He tried to be as kind and as calm as possible, but he quickly grew frustrated. The stress of battle, the guilt of his broken vows, his confusion over his relationship with Maeve, it was slowly taking its toll on him.

"I guess I have a right to, since I've become nothing but a common whore." she snapped, her shaking hands still desperately trying to do up the laces and tie the knots. Tears began to sprout in her eyes.

Jon could've rolled his eyes at her foolishness, if he wanted a slap in the face. "You're not a whore." He assured her tiredly.

"I might as well be! I broke my vows, I let you ruin me and I enjoyed it! Damn it!" she yelled, finally giving up on trying to tie up her dress. She held her head in her hands as she tried to blink away her tears. Jon tried to move forward to help her lace up the dress, but she wretched her body away from his grasp.

"Don't touch me." her voice was hard and slow, shaking with mixed emotions, her face flushing in anger and the tears finally falling down her pink cheeks. He watched her a moment, both of them glaring at one another.

"I broke vows too, Maeve. Don't think that I don't feel the same."

"Yes, yes you did. You broke vows to the Nights Watch, but you tell me Snow didn't you break your vows before you laid with me? You abandoned your post." He was silent. "Yes, you see that's why I'm angry. You don't have a bloody reminder of your betrayal watching you every day!"

They were both very silent the next few moments. Jon was at loss of what to say or do. He couldn't hold her; she'd fight him and fight him hard so he'd probably end up with a red hand shaped mark on his cheek. He couldn't say anything that she could not twist around. After the end of five, very long and tense seconds, Jon decided to hold her, but she spoke before he could move.

"Jon I'm going to go back to the sept." she stated in a mechanical voice, trying to leave no room for negotiation.

"What?" he demanded.

"Yes. This has long since gotten out of hand and I think it would be best if one of us departed. Since you cannot, I will." It was a bit odd watching her, eyes glassy, face flushed and wet, her dress loose on her form from the undone laces, a small purple mark on her neck from his kisses.

She was serious though, that was plain to see. In her steely grey eyes, he saw the strict, dutiful, emotionless woman she portrayed to all others but not him. This angered him further; he hated it when she shut him out like this.

Maeve's fortitude nearly broke at the rising anger she saw in him. He would never hit her; he never hit a woman or a child. She nearly submitted because she didn't want to fight with him, she wanted him to understand, to just let her go. To spare her.

She wanted to tell him that at times, she could not stand the other Septa and Septon's condescending looks that flitted across their faces when they saw her talking to him. She wanted to tell him that the disgrace of breaking her vows bit at her at night and made her lose sleep and not only that but when shame didn't rack her with guilt, did she feel wrong.

But mostly, she wanted to tell him that she could not bear the grief of knowing that what they had could and would never bloom.

Maeve had never dared herself to dream in the beginning, she knew that a life with Jon would never be possible, not only because of their vows, but how would they live? Being a bastard he was entitled to nothing, being an orphan whose parents' belongings were pawned off, she would get nothing. Also, Jon did not want a child that would bear the bastard name Snow, so what would they have done about that? Even if they overcame all of this in some way, who were they to assume they would be together all their lives happily? The Seven worked mysteriously and could twist their future into a dark one if they chose to.

Unfortunately, one night as she lay dozing at his side, she had dreamed of a life with him and what she saw she could not forget. In that life they were happy, four beautiful curly haired children with his black hair and brown eyes running around, smiles that were still genuine and loving, touches that still made her quake and tingle. She longed for it, wished for it, but it pained her that it would never happen.

She loved him and if she told him these truths, it would make haunt him too. So she kept her mouth shut and let him speak.

"Mae, you cannot go back to the sept, it'd be suicide!" He watched her demeanor begin to chip away. "The Southerners are too close, you're safe here," Jon said his tone a bit softer and gentler.

"I'll just be more careful." she uttered. He glared at her sadly, almost pleadingly. She was honestly considering leaving Robb's camp and going off to a sept that probably isn't there anymore? And if it is, it would be occupied by Southern troops and they would know where she came from. It sickened him to think of what they'd do to her for information. The thought filled him with new conviction.

"Maeve, are you so big of a fool that you'd get yourself killed to manage a few dusty books—"

"They're not just a few dusty books!" she objected fiercely.

"—I won't let you. I love you too much." She stared at him with her unreadable face.

"I am not your wife, Jon," she remarked bitterly. "You cannot command me." That panged both their hearts. Jon wanted a life with her too but, like her, he could not see that ever happening in this life.

"Even so, Robb couldn't let you. It would risk the camp if they interrogated you and succeeded in obtaining information." Maeve was quiet for a long moment.

"Well that settles it then doesn't it?" she muttered, looking down at her bare feet before looking up into his beautiful brown eyes. "Leave me be from now on Jon. Don't approach me, don't talk to me, don't watch me. We cannot continue this." her eyes began to grow blurry once again, but she quickly blinked them back.

She turned away then, into the dark forest with her dress still unfastened in the back, and her scarf swaying in her arms as she walked. Jon remained there stunned, and burned from the order. The camp was large but not so large as to aid in them avoiding each other until the refugees found a new, permanent village. Sooner or later they'd come across one another and be filled with temptation once again.

The sounds of his feet were cushioned against the forest floor, and the wind was chilling against his skin, though he had put on his under-shirt and boots. Maeve had gotten quite far in only five minutes.

When he saw her figure, still dark in the early morning daybreak, he ran faster. Before she knew what was happening, he seized her upper arm, turned her around and roughly pressed his lips against hers.

Weakly she pressed against his chest, before yielding to him, gripping his hair and pulling him closer, both their vows forgotten again. When he pulled away, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead on hers, his palms cupping her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, her hands resting on his biceps.

"I love you Maeve. I would never hurt you, cheat you, or abandon you." he promised. She opened her eyes. Her lips began to tremble and her eyes softened into sadness once again and it made his heart ache. Her hands trailed down his arms and to the hands that were framing her face and gently gripped his wrists.

"My heat is yours Jon." she promised. She pulled away from his embrace. "But my life isn't." Maeve pulled away fully then, her body slipping away from him and into the dark forest and left him standing there.

She moved through the trees as best as she could with bleary eyes and a throbbing heart. Right before the woods sloped into a grassy clearing where the current camp was located, she pinned up her hair and retied her scarf. Her dress was still unbound and she could never retie it now, so she quickly moved back to Allyria's tent, grateful everyone was asleep yet, even the watch at their posts.

The dress crumbled in a soft heap on the grassy floor. Allyria and her children were right where Maeve had left them not three hours before: curled up together in a deep yet uneasy sleep. Carefully she pulled back the simple fur blanket that covered her sleeping mat and curled up there, wiping the tears from her eyes. Even under the furs the cold bit at her like it should have in the clearing where she laid with Jon.

Although she had begged him to leave her be, one way or the other they'd meet again, weather they'd seek each other out mutually or happen upon each other by chance. They'd bush it off but inside feelings and duty would battle.

For Maeve, it was so hard to stay away from someone she held so close to her heart. Jon had already damned himself by leaving the Wall...really what harm could loving Maeve do to him that he already hasn't done to himself? It's hard to stay away from the one you care for so deeply, especially when they are so close. The temptation was so sweet and taunting that it made them forget everything but each other.

She had taken vows once to love no one and to remain a maid for her entire life. But how can the gods expect that of her, when they sent Jon Snow in her path? Why did they make it so that her heart called out painfully for him whenever he left for battle?

Her ponderings kept her awake until Sybelle stirred and bounced over to her to wake her.

Chapter Text

4 months later...

Her breathing was ragged, her dress was bunched around her waist and her heartbeat was erratic. His hand tangled in her hair as hers tangled in his and her legs were locked around him in the most provocative way.

It was the most amazing feeling of joy she'd ever felt, having him back in the camp, safe and sound.

When she saw him, walking behind his half-brother and their wolves trotting behind them, her heart stuttered in her chest in relief that nearly brought tears to her eyes. At first, she just wanted to talk to him, that's what she told herself at least as she pulled him into the woods as their victory feast was held. But as she watched him carefully, the need for reassurance grew too great to just see him and hear him, she needed to feel him.

The rough tree bark dug into her back painfully as Jon pressed her harder against it but she didn't mind. Jon didn't seem to mind that her teeth had drawn out blood from his bottom lip. Their lips were rough on each other, teeth knocking together, hands leaving red marks on their flesh. Happiness, relief, and love mixed together in a confusing and heated concoction that left them breathless.

Near a month ago, a group of scouts and foot soldiers returned with grim news. A large southern horde fast approached their camp, the Lannister's flag flying proudly in the wind. This news hung like a dark cloud over the camp, even the usually lively children had quietened at the adults' solemn looks.

Robb Stark, King of the North, was at loss of what to do. The refugees his army carried with them numbered well over two hundred and this camp had become a mobile village to them. Would go into battle like always and leave the women and children defenseless? He would need the better half of this army to defeat the southerners and the other half to go around them and cut off their retreat.

Sleep did not come easily that night. The camp was so deathly quiet it was almost deafening.

At first light, Robb had finally made his decision: to lead his army away while the women and children escaped into the northern thicket to find a safe haven until the northern army returned. Lady Catelyn Stark was none too happy when her son insisted that she accompany the refugees, but ultimately left with them all the same.

Allyria and Maeve were awoken not long after the decision was announced; an armed soldier poked his head through the tent's flaps and shouting, "Get it together, women! You leave in an hour!"

The early sunlight barely made it past the white clouds. The snow crunched under their boots and fog escaped their mouths and red noses as they hurried. The homeless villagers quickly assembled their few belongings into their haversacks, and hurriedly helped pull down the tents most of them shared.

As Maeve helped Allyria and Gerold pull down and roll up the tent, Theon Greyjoy rode by on his chestnut horse and barked orders at all the refugees that could hear him.

There was no fondness between Maeve and Theon Greyjoy. Maeve wasn't really sure what she did, but whatever it was had earned his contempt. He hadn't seemed too fond of the other septa and septon's either. Perhaps, she thought one day as he mocked Septon Horus, he is not of the Faith of Seven.

Even so, she bit the inside of her cheek as he shouted at them to hurry, making no move to help the weakest of the weak. Instead of calling him obscene names that neither a woman nor a septa were supposed to know (she wasn't even sure where she knew profanity), she went over to Lyla, a girl no more than twelve, and took baby Tobias from her knobby arms.

The camp was alight with frenzied activity, both in the preparation of battle and escape.

Maeve had not come across Jon or his albino dire wolf, Ghost. They'd gone off earlier, with Robb and his guard when the sun was still down. For this Maeve was grateful...it would not do well for her or him if she saw him now only to throw herself in his arms and beg him not to go.

When the news reached their ears that the horde of southerners was near, she knew that Jon would ride off to fight at the side of his brother, he always did. Great fear and unease washed over her in waves as she thought of Jon on the battlefield, southerners in their red colours and gleaming armor around him, swinging at him with their murderous weapons.

Every time he left for combat this feeling would arise and claw at her until he came back. It was foolish to worry; Robb won every battle and Jon always came back. What was there to worry about? That he'd come back with a scratch? She was neither his mother nor his wife so why should she worry? Ghost protected him on the field.

This time, the Lannister's army was too large to not be worried about. It seems that the old Lord Tywin was waiting to catch them off guard with his small attacks and this time they were approaching from the east, rather than the south. The sensation of oncoming danger was too strong to be ignored or to be irritated by. Dread had locked tight on her heart in its steely, icy grip and would not let go. It whispered disturbing thoughts to her, wondering if he'd come back maimed or even come back at all.

Somehow, through her fear and unease, she managed to do her job; she tended the Waters children and made Allyria stand up when she sensed the older woman wanted to lay down and never get up. But she did so with none of the warmth she usually presented. Her mind was elsewhere.

Hiking in the snow could only get their wagons so far. By the time the sun was starting to set, the small encampment had taken root deep within the thick forest of the north. Here, the foliage was too profuse to put up even the smallest of tents and too dangerous to start a large fire that would warm more than two people.

Even Lady Stark only got a bit more coverage than the rest of them, a pristine fur blanket that had not been affected by time and a tarp that shielded her and the one guard she was permitted from the harsh winds. The rest of them were not so lucky but she willingly shared what shelter she could with young children and their mothers.

The next six days were difficult. With very little shelter, the most helpless of the refugees faced the freezing cold night and day, with snows that were as unpredictable as the birth of a quickening child. Whatever food the hunters could catch was small; a hare and if they were lucky a doe but it was harder to cook with their small fires.

At night, when Tobias slept in her arms, swaddled in furs and Sybelle was curled against her side, Maeve would look to the sky, dark and cloudy, and wonder about Jon. Weather he was awake like she was, fighting some southern soldier, asleep or...wounded...or not there at all.

Sometimes the clouds moved in just the right sequence, allowing her to see the stars. Back in her sept, there had been doors in the stone arches of the roof in the dorms. With just the tug of a rope, they opened and revealed the sky. Watching them now, brought her back to the simpler time when she watched the god's candles as she fell asleep. After her worries had taken its toll on her body, Maeve would settle into an uneasy sleep, still sitting up against a tree.

Every night she silently prayed to the Warrior for their victory and Jon's safe return. Any other time, it would have disturbed her that she did not pray like she should have: inside the tent the septon and septa's used for worship, scented oils sweetening the smell of her body, incense burning lightly, murmuring a hymn silently. Not now...not as dread started to seep in.

Time seemed to flash by yet drag on tediously at the same time. Days merged together, and under the cover of the trees, it was shaded even in the day. Then, one day, a rider wearing northern colors galloped to their camp. When the fast hoof beats broke on the snow, Maeve looked up suddenly, hope growing and then nearly dying abruptly in her chest upon seeing that the horses' rider was not Jon.

It was Theon Greyjoy, seeking them out after a "great victory for the north." he said it with his customary crooked grin and this exasperated Maeve.

It was then that Maeve felt the first sting of desperation. Damn it, all she just wanted to know was if Jon were safe! Anger coursed through her, so strong she gripped the children's hands tighter than she should have. This fraught emotion brought about shame. It's not right to feel this way; if the gods wanted him, they would take him. A septa should know this, a septa should never question this... a septa should never feel like this over a man.

They once again marched through the trees and down the hill where they had traveled, this time with a noble leading them.

Tobias slept blissfully in the sling around Maeve's body. The elder boy and girl walked ahead with their mother, holding the rucksacks that carried their belongings. Sybelle and Roderick held onto each of Maeve's hands, their short legs sluggish in the snow that came up to their thighs. Thankfully, a passing wagon filled with the old and very young, offered the young and tired looking septa a break from pulling the children through the snow. Sybelle and Roderick fell asleep against one another within moments of settling in the wagon.

The rest of the march through the snow was uneventful, and each step drained more and more of Maeve's energy. Greyjoy had come to them when the sun was at its highest point in the sky. When they heard the telltale sounds of an army camp, it was when the sun was just beginning to skim over the horizon.

Although the journey was short, it was still difficult with the trees and snow and rocks in their path. By the time they really saw their camp, they were all too weary to cheer, although by the number of men in cots, bleeding and moaning, they wouldn't cheer if they could.

As their large group crept slowly into the clearing where the camp was set, Maeve's fatigue was pushed to the depths of her conscious. Without realizing, her eyes began searching the crowds for black curly hair and a white dire wolf.

She searched in silence with as much subtlety as she could manage. Hope once again laid its seed in her heart. There was so much possibility in that large maze of soldiers and the wounded...so much promise that Jon was among them. If Jon was dead, their King's brother, they would be flocking to his body, building a platform where his body would rest and where the pyre would flame up and lick the belly of the night. Her heart squeezed.

She was tempted to run and look for him, but she could not bring her feet to move, no matter how desperately she wanted them to. Gerold dropped the rolled up tent on the frozen ground and three of them began to slowly bring it up while Maeve minded Roderick, Sybelle and held Tobias.

Despite her desire to go out and watch for Jon, sleep was just too tantalizing a mistress. There was no need to worry, she thought dreamily, Jon was always alright. There would be time to look about once she was rested, she'd do a better job of it with sleep. So Maeve curled up away from the already slumbering family, and slept until rambunctious laughter awoke her later in the night.

Suddenly, Jon hissed through his teeth, pulling her closer by the hips. Startled, Maeve pulled away to look at his face. His eyes were clenched shut and his jaw was taut. He was in pain, or intense pleasure.

"What is it?" she breathed. Not waiting for an answer, she looked down. Sometime during their fumbling his fur lined cloak, his leather jerkin and his tunic had met the snowy earth, revealing his muscled chest and stomach. There, on his side, under his ribs, was a bandage wrapped around his body.

She exhaled sharply through her mouth as her hand reached out to touch it. He hissed once again as her gentle fingers met the bandage.

"It's bled through." she stated, not able to take her eyes off the crimson bind.

"It's a scratch," he muttered as if it were nothing. He pushed her auburn hair from her forehead.

"Yet it causes you pain." for a split second she wondered if this is how the wife of a soldier felt. Her eyes drifted over his body once more before she looked up at him.

"Its fine," he assured her once again. While gaining some relief from his word, Maeve was still not entirely convinced. Carefully, she pulled a leg free from his waist, Jon supporting her still as she regained balance. Her eyes never broke from his even when her feet finally settled.

Slowly, she leaned in. His lips met hers gently, the urgency from their first kisses channeled into tenderness. It was in their minds that they should stop, the pain of his injury should have killed any desire they had, but they were already too far gone to heed any thoughts of stopping now. It had been too long.

It was odd, such relief entwining with the dull, almost faint emotion of regret. Was it so wrong that the regret was barely there now? Was it not there only because she was so relieved that Jon was alive and well or was it because being with Jon so many times had become natural?

Their kisses were slower now, but no less passionate. When she began to trail her lips down his neck, he gripped her leg and brought it over his hip on his uninjured side, pushing up her dress until he held the bare skin of her thigh.

He let her unlace his breeches, let her hands wander over the smooth, pale skin of his abdomen. He watched her face as she brushed her fingertips across the linens once again. Her arched brows creased and her eyes looked downcast. Not wanting her to dwell on the wound, he found the laces of his dress with his hand, and gently tugged the open.

When the music awoke the children a few moments later, all five of them sprung up and ran out of the tent, their eyes glittering with glee at the promise of a party. Well, little Tobias tried to crawl after them but quickly gave up when the cold earth chilled his little body.

The merriment proved contagious as Allyria danced and laughed with the other women as she held her youngest son to her breast and the elder children ran and played with the others. Even Lady Stark had joined them in their celebration and allowed happy smiles and graceful laughs to escape her usually taut and stern mouth.

Maeve sat aside, looking on at the happiness, an untouched cup of milk in her hand.

When a loud, booming voice called their attention behind them, Robb Stark and his grey dire wolf walked toward them. Cheers erupted all around the camp, and soon, a steady chant had come up: "All hail the King of the North!"

But as everyone cheered for Robb and his victory, Maeve's grey eyes were on the man directly behind him, a bastard boy with nothing to inherit. The one who was starting to replace all the love and devotion she had ever had in her heart for the Seven and her sept. Jon Snow. She didn't even notice the slight limp he had.

Maeve let out quiet moans as he held her there against the tree. There was no rational thought present for her now, every responsibility and every facet of her life was gone and the only thing left was Jon. For once in a very long time, nothing seemed to matter.

Once again guilt would make her weep silently as Allyria and her children slept. Later, Jon would take his frustrations out with his sword at his weakness. But future torments were pushed away and replaced with longing.

Maeve cried out suddenly and Jon's shoulder's trembled beneath her hands as they found completion. As the tremors ceased, they slowly, almost hesitantly, untangled themselves from one another and began to straighten their clothing, cold beginning to prickle bare skin.

As her hands began to retie her dress, she stared down at the melting snow at their feet, unseeing.

Months ago, over a year ago she realized, she had known exactly who she was deep inside. A Septa; not a lord's daughter, not a peasant, not an orphan, a wife or a mother. Now that life seemed a thousand years gone.

Her feelings confused her just as much. Different strong emotions flitted through her when she thought of certain things; it made it harder to distinguish what she exactly felt. All she truly knew was that it was very difficult to try to stop caring about Jon. her life was based on rules and vows and the gods, how can a man make her wish that were different?

Her hands fell from her laces, only half done, and leaned on the tree behind her, watching as Jon slipped on his leather jerkin and tightened the laces on his breeches. His brows were pulled together and his face was hard. Maeve did not bother to tie her hair again; the cold was welcome on her too warm skin.

As she watched the boiled leathers and cotton tunic cover the reddening linen over his wounds, she suddenly realized just how fragile his life was. Since coming here, she had seen men come back bleeding and die soon after. Tears threatened as an image of Jon in one of those makeshift cots, bleeding and dying, entered her mind. He could die anytime.

Maeve did not know what she'd do if that happened. Taking a step toward him, she brushed her fingers over his side, over the 'scratch'.

"You don't have a right, to come back to me like this." Before he could speak she looked up into his eyes. "You've taken my heart. You cannot be so careless with it." She said, not unkindly. The words were like bitter bile on her tongue, knowing that with all its wickedness and vice, her words were true.

Without warning, he pulled her to him, happiness flaring in his heart at her declaration. She did not say it as a goodbye like she had four months before. Her arms were trapped between them, crushed against his chest but neither really cared.

Maeve could not stop herself from proclaiming herself to Jon. He needed to know that it would break her heart if he was gone from all existence, banished to the realm of the afterlife.

Then, a moment later, their world was shattered.

"Well, well, well. What is this?" a loud voice sneered out. Maeve's heart stopped. Jon's pounded under her hand. It had to be a dream, couldn't it? They'd gone for months without being caught! Why now? Why now, why now, why now, why now...

Jon's body snapped around to where the voice was heard, but his arms kept Maeve locked in a protective embrace. Dread dropped into his stomach at seeing the familiar form of Theon Greyjoy, his eyes alight as a child that had just gotten a new toy.

Chapter Text

She would not look at anyone, Jon noted with fury at Greyjoy. Maeve's head remained averted toward the ground, her cheeks red and her lip trembling. He had never seen her so distressed, not even after they first made love.

Love is the death of duty, Maester Aemon had told Jon once, just two nights before he rode off in the night toward the south. He had not realized just how true the old man's words had been, Jon realized with shame. He had loved Robb and his father enough to leave the only place where he had ever wanted to be, and had stayed for as long as he had for Maeve.

It was soon clear that Robb had little need of Jon; he had his lords, well skilled in the arts and tactics of battle. But they were brothers, and in this world where there were daggers in men's smiles, one needed someone to trust completely. Then there was Maeve. She was just so...lovely and calming to be around. The way she blushed, the way she could be so gentle and then so bold and fierce, the way she smiled, the way her hair curled...

At first, Jon felt ashamed for feeling these feelings, for noticing these pretty traits. I am a man of the Night's Watch, he remembered thinking as she walked away with the children he usually found hanging about her. The thought jolted him. Was he though? He left his post, so now what was he? Oath breaker, scoundrel...traitor. That's how everyone—even he!—had seen men who tore an oath to bits. The thought made his hands clench and his breath come shorter in fury. He was not a traitor!

The tent felt too crowded, and dreadfully hot.

Maeve felt as if every deed she had ever done was laid bare before their feet, felt as though she were naked under their scrutiny, arms and legs bound so there was no hope of hiding. Under the cold eyes of Lady Stark and the revolted sidelong glances from elder Septon Syvos, all Maeve wished for then was death.

When elder Syvos entered the tent, glaring at her with such hot rage in his aged eyes, old memories that had previously been locked away deep inside her heart began to surface.

Her memories flashed back to the night she went down into the dungeons of the sept, the other girls clinging to one another's hands as they all disappeared into the dark, damp corridor.

Septa Havina was silent as she led them down the spiral stairs, the torch she held the only source of light. Maeve remembered biting her nails until they were blunt and short. The dark had never agreed with her.

The next thing Maeve remembered was entering a room, a cell, where a woman was held. Stunned and terrified gasps came from the handful of girls at the sight of the poor woman, naked and bleeding, whip marks marring up and down her once pale and smooth back. She hung from the stone ceiling, her wrists red and bleeding and her toes blistered from standing on them. Her head was slumped forward and all that Maeve could tell was that she was a red head. She didn't know if the woman was alive or not, but by the smell, it said she was dead. All the same, Maeve had the urge to cover her nudity, save the poor woman from the shame of everyone knowing her in such an intimate way.

"This is what happens to septa's that disobey the gods, and whore themselves." Septa Havina snapped with indifference when one of the girls let out a sob. The woman's eyes flashed over the line of young girls in clear warning. Maeve heard a strangled, sad noise come from somewhere, and after a long moment, realized it was her own sob.

The memory of the bloody, broken, defiled woman was suddenly as fresh in her mind as it had been when she was a child. Septa Havina's voice rung in her mind. Was that what she will become now? Dead and rotting and shamed in the deepest cells of the sept where natural light could not be seen, and her disgrace was exposed for the entire world to see?

Oh gods, forgive me, she prayed silently.

Suddenly a hand lashed out and struck Maeve across the face, so hard her head snapped backward and her cheek split open, blood spewing forth.

"Ah!" she grunted in shock, her own hand flying up to soothe the burning, stinging skin. Jon did not think, only acted and flew forward and knocked the elderly septon out of the way, sending him to the ground. He moved toward Maeve quickly, taking her face between his hands and inspecting the damage.

Catelyn watched the altercation with a deep, black wrath that had been growing ever since Ned had brought that damned bundle called Jon, back to Winterfell all those years ago.

Robb had still not made a move to help the old man up, so she did, hauling his frail old body up. She could see her son was torn, between a priests' honour and the love he had for his bastard brother. To her, there should be no competition. Robb already began to try his men's loyalty when he did nothing when Jon showed up at camp. Showing favouritism was not the way to rule. Furthermore, Catelyn found this as another profound insult. For seventeen years Jon had been running around, mocking her every time she saw him, reminding her day-after-day of her husband's betrayal. Now he had violated a priestess of her faith. Nothing good came from Jon Snow.

Septon Syvos was the first to speak then, still half leaning on Catelyn for support.

"You—!" he cried pointing a long crooked finger at Maeve, her face still between Jon's large hands. "—are a whore! A disgrace! Slut!" Maeve instinctively curled closer to Jon and he brought his arm about her shoulders and held her closer, not looking at the enraged septon, but this only fuelled the man's assault. He spat awful, dirty words at her, then at Jon, then finally, at the both of them.

Maeve felt so wrong, holding to Jon when she had always hid her affection in fear of this very prosecution. Begrudgingly, she pulled away, shame wracking over her body more powerful than she had ever felt it. Jon did not stop her, the same mortification running through him as well.

"The greatest sin against the gods! You will rot in—"

"Enough," Robb cut off. All their eyes, save for Maeve's who still looked away from everyone, turned to Robb.

Jon felt another tug at looking at his brother.

Robb looked up at Jon, his face unfathomable, hard and emotionless. It hurt Robb to see his brother like this, knowing that the woman would have to be dealt with by her own superiors with no say from Robb. He had never seen Jon like this with any girl, even back in Winterfell; Jon tended to distance himself from the fairer sex, as many of them either saw coin or only a base-born nobody.

"Septon," Robb addressed Syvos. "Take her back to your tent and decide what is to be done with your septa. I will not tolerate abuse on women in my camp, so there is to be a guard set outside."

"You cannot order me about, boy. I serve the gods, no king and will cleanse this whore any way I see fit." Syvos spat, still seething.

Robb glared. "I'm not your boy, septon. I am a King, and you will do as I say or be condemned a traitor." the septon glared a moment, before moving forward toward Maeve, and suddenly grabbing her upper arm, harshly pulling her away.

Whimpering only once, Maeve did not fight as the old septon pulled her out of the tent, her hair unbound and uncovered for everyone to see for the first time since she was twelve. Jon watched her go without a fight, wishing that the temper she had would flare up and bid her fight back, but she did not.

Robb turned to Jon, watching Jon watched Maeve be pulled away. "What the hell, Jon?" Robb hissed. Robb was mostly angry that Jon had seen fit to bed a septa, a woman he knew full well he could never have a future with. Jon had broken his own heart.

Jon did not answer, his eyes shifting a second before staring intently at the tent flap, his brows narrowed.

"You. Had. No. Right!" Catelyn suddenly hissed, her voice quaking with anger. Without further warning, Catelyn Stark unleashed years of loathing upon Jon Snow. "You, I should've ridden myself of you when you first came to Winterfell—" Robb cut her off then, horrified at his own mother's words.

"Mother," he snapped. "Stop. Now." Catelyn looked to her son, a little ashamed of herself. It was true though, when she first laid eyes on Jon, pink and squirming in Ned's arms, she had thought of it. And so many babies died in the cradle...but she couldn't do it, she feared her husband's hatred because he did love the little bastard so, just as much as he loved Robb.

"I love her," Jon finally admitted with a lining of bitterness beneath his words. Catelyn and Robb turned to him again.

"Well, you can't." Robb said after a long while of silence. He said the words with no pleasure and no sadness...it was just a simple statement.

Chapter Text

Her arm throbbed, her face stung, her side ached from kneeling so long. Faces swam around her, all eyes cold and unforgiving, all set on her. The fifteen other servants of the gods Maeve had traveled with stood around her, inside the tent they used for prayer. A short war, loyal servants, a good harvest and peaceful deaths is what they prayed for. The sweet smell of incense that had once comforted her, now turned her stomach with shame. The dying embers lay on the cold ground near her hand; it had been knocked over when Septon Syvos all but threw her inside. But she dare not get up, his violence not strange and new. When she was a child, she had learned quickly that getting up when punishment was approaching, offers more pain than gentle smiles.

So Maeve knelt, half curled up on the ground, her chin near the ground, and awaited the burning words they were sure to throw at her, and the punishment she knew was coming. It was as inevitable as autumn into winter, as the Stark's always said.

"You know what the gods demand of those who disgrace them? Those who spit in their faces." Septa Zaffira hissed. It was not a threat she uttered, but it was a genuine question that she knew the answer to, though her tone was laced with venom. Before the trials, all novice priestess' made to see the outcome of breaking their vows. Strangely enough, no one seemed to care or question the fact that in their prime, septons were rumored to seek the women from pillow houses, and, (more horrifying), young boys.

Septa Zaffira was silently asking if Maeve was mad, if she had forgotten the punishment for such disobedience. Maeve released a shuttering breath she hadn't known she was holding, once again thinking back to the woman hanging from the ceiling in that cold, dank hole.

"She is young, stupid, run only by her body. Old Ysilla was old and mad when she insisted this little harlot come with us." another spat.

Movement caught Maeve's sight, and pulled her eyes away from the freezing ground and toward Septa Tissa. Only once before had Maeve seen the old woman's eyes so...soft. To an outsider, one would think she were openly glaring at the younger girl on the ground, but Maeve had known Septa Tissa since she was a child and had seen her with her usual scowl. And that was not it.

She knows, Maeve thought. She knows, even just a little about this kind of hurt. The thought did not comfort her. Maeve's heart still hurt, and her body trembled with fear. With or without the old woman's empathy, it beat on in a numbing sequence of emotions.

"Back to the sept with her then?" a septa suddenly asked. Maeve lifted her head.

After a moment's pause, Septon Syvos replied, "Yes." he shot Maeve a pitiless look. "Coital relations with a bastard. The gods must redeem her, save her from the Seven Hells." Maeve knew the Seven's ways of saving a tainted septa, and she felt tears in her eyes at the great and terrible sufferings that she now faced at the hands of the people she had trusted with her life.

Her heart stopped. Had...had? She had trusted them...didn't she trust them anymore? The Seven had been all she knew, the sept had been her life, her gods had been all the logic she needed. Had this changed? Maeve thought about it a moment as the others talked around her, and found she did not know.

She loved Jon Snow; her heart had long since yielded to him and was at his mercy. She had betrayed her gods for him (Maeve flinched at the thought), but although she felt this way for him, part of her still longed for the familiarity of her brothers and sisters back in her temple. Perhaps if she was within the familiar walls of the sept, perhaps her mind would clear and she could forget how Jon Snow made her heart feel warm, even on the coldest of nights.

But now her deeds were laid bare and the scandal was imminent and so now she feared the ones who she had once viewed as a type of family. Perhaps, she thought fleetingly, by the time the punishment is over I will hate the very thought of him. 

Suddenly, her body was pulled up, a large hand tightening painfully about both her arms. A whimper of pain escaped her throat and then a cry of shock and fear as a knife was brought before her face.

Maeve began to struggle, her body jerking to avoid pain, but only gained some as the hands tightened even more. A loud yelp escaped her as the cold metal pressed against her chest and then sliced. In her panicked mind, she did not realize the gash was of her own doing. It would not have come if she had not been struggling. In a flash, the blinds of her dress was ripped open, hands quickly pulling and tearing at the fabric until it was nearly to shreds.

Only then was she let go. It all happened so quickly that scarcely had time to react. Her body slumped forward in shock, her hands weakly holding the remains of her bodice to her naked chest. Why are they doing this to me, Maeve wanted to weep. It was only one thing, and it brought her such happiness...why did they hate her for it?

"Only through suffering, can we receive redemption." Septon Syvos said. Hard hands wound once again around her arms in a steely grip, pulling her up to her lax legs.

The ones holding her began to move toward the tent flaps, her feet weakly running across the ground in a frail attempt at stopping them. Oh gods no!

"No! Please don't! Stop!" She heard herself beg. She clenched her eyes shut, her only protection from the faces of the men outside the tent.

She felt the cold hit her face, before the light. It puffed coldly against her pale skin, instantly creeping down ward and chilling the skin of her neck, shoulders, and the tops of her breasts for the first time. The simple, yet unfamiliar bite of the icy air on that part of her was like a bad dream. She had felt it before, when she was with Jon in the most delicious state of bliss, but now they made those private, good memories into something terrible, something dirty. For the first time in her life, she felt a real surge of hatred toward the sept and all associated with it.

Her anger was pushed to the back of her mind though, as she heard the first hoot from the soldiers as she was pulled through the flaps.

Eyes clenched shut, desperately tuning out whatever words may have been thrown her way by the most pious of men as well as the most rambunctious, Maeve let the arms holding her drag her forward, wherever they wanted.

Maeve did not expect a rescue, did not expect mercy. She only hoped that Jon was not there to see her like this.

She felt herself stop, felt the excited shudders of the horse next to her, but still she did not open her eyes. She was pulled up on the horse, her hands tied to the saddle, and after what felt like a life-time, she felt the horse jerk and start a slow trot.

Her wrists were bruised, rubbed raw from the rope. She had long since curled up away from the others, her ankle tied to a long, thick string of twine attached to Septon Mord's wrist.

Maeve could hear their breathing, the snores. It was a little startling to see how they can go to sleep with the same stern faces as they had in the day, but Maeve could not truly appreciate this small wonder. Her mind was whirling.

Oh Allyria, I'm so sorry. Allyria had been widowed, left with five young children to care for all on her own without getting anytime for herself to sob over the loss of her husband. So, still in a hazy state of grief, Allyria walked through every day, holding herself up with only her children as motivation and Maeve to help ease the weight of every weary day. Without Maeve, what would happen to her and the children she had grown so fond of? Mother, please don't punish them because of me, Maeve prayed.

And Jon... Oh, Jon, she almost moaned out loud. She curled deeper into herself, pulling her legs to her chest. Tears prickled behind eyes, and her ears began to pound.

What of him? He was the king's brother, so surely they could not string him up. She cried for everything she had lost in only one day: Jon, Allyria and her children, her respect among the other god's servants, and also her dignity.

She cried until her head pounded painfully and her face was wet and her throat was sore. It was only then she gave herself over to the comforting arms of sleep, letting it take her away to happier times.

It was one of those times when she allowed herself to bask in the warm bliss of afterwards. Maeve lay contently in Jon's arms, her head resting on his chest, listening to his breath and heartbeat, another reminder that he was safe and alive in her arms.

Slowly she felt guilt begin to set in. Soon she would have to get up and face the fact that this perfectly wonderful evening had been a mistake. It was a confusing loop that Maeve hated to go through, but her body always acted for her: meeting Jon in secret when her mind uselessly whispered what she was doing was wrong, while the rest of her relished her time with him.

Still, she enjoyed the tips of his fingers running across the back of her shoulders, slowly pushing her long hair back. It tickled a little, and it made her belly twist in a strange, pleasant way. She wished she could stay there forever, warm and comfortable, in their own little world where nothing could touch them.

"Do you ever think of later?" she suddenly blurted. Jon shifted and opened his groggy eyes, first seeing the dark and mysterious canopy of branches above, then looking down, he saw the beautiful girl beside him. Maeve's hair fanned out over her shoulders, the dark red-brown tresses spread across the ground while the dim light made her skin glow.

"When this war is done...what will...?" She stopped herself there. Jon stared at her face, watching her take her bottom lip between her teeth, a nervous gesture he had become achingly familiar with. "Do you ever think of it?" she asked finally, looking up into his face for an answer.

Maeve had thought of it, she knew by heart what would happen. She'd go back to her sept, manage the library with Septon Philip  the rest of her days, unless some noble family called upon her to govern and raise their children. She'd watch them grow, silently saddened that they were not her own, and soon, as age's inevitable hand grasped her and robbed her of her youth and beauty, all the sweet, private memories of Jon would fade away, like a dying flower, turning to ashes and falling away to the wind. Jon would reside in the North, pardoned by Robb and go back to the Wall, and forget all about his little slip with the setpa from the South.

Jon's brows narrowed ever so slightly, frowning at her sudden question. It was not good to think of the future, he knew it would not look so bright anyway. Maeve would not be a part of it.

"Maybe it's better if we don't think." Jon said, shifting and pulling her closer.

"I know you'll forget me," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Jon frowned at her. How could she think such a thing?

"Don't say that." he murmured angrily. "Do you think I'd forget you? After all we've been through? Do you think that little of me?"Jon pulled away, glaring at her. He sat up, and Maeve followed.

Maeve stared back at him, a little crease between her brows that let him know she felt something. "Why wouldn't you? You'd be a man of duty, if you went back to the Wall and men of duty who visit old memories cannot do their jobs." She would, the thought was stubborn and full of pride. She'd have to. 

Jon paused, his glare softening into something that looked wounded. "Would you forget me?"

"No!" Maeve replied without hesitation. How in the Seven Hells could she? He had caused such a bloody mess of emotions inside her, and cost her many tears and sleepless nights, as well as many wild bouts of laughter she never knew she had in her, and seemingly endless periods of happiness. He brought the best and the worst of her and she knew—even with her very limited experience— it was impossible to forget someone who did that.

"Why not?" he asked, challenging her. He was cruel to ask it. 

Maeve bit her lip, unsure of whether or not to tell him what she felt. Wouldn't it hurt even more when he knew? She looked up into his eyes once more.

"Why not?" Jon asked again.

"Because..." I love you. "You brought me to life." Strange and true and a shameful admission that was the lesser of the two truths she had held secret. Life had been gray before knowing Jon, and she was not sure how she could go back to seeing things without colour once their time was done. 

Jon's eyes lit up and his lips twitched up. The sight of him happy, his eyes laughing, made her own smile light up her face. Without warning, Jon pulled her body up on top of his, resting her forehead against his and smiling against her lips.

"Wake up girl!" a loud voice suddenly growled. a light kick was delivered to her legs, and Maeve awoke, finding herself on the side of the road, her traveling companions getting ready again. Her heart hurt inside her, finding herself alone and in this hell once more.

Her hands were once more tied to her horse's saddle and they were off again, traveling the dangerous road to the south, so Maeve could be judged by her elders and punished accordingly.

Robb was loath to let the priests go, knowing that their departure created a huge security risk. If southern captured them, even though they knew nothing, it would mean death for the sept people. A painful death, as he knew a sharp questioning could make any man or woman sing sweet songs that were not even true. 

Still, Robb was not of their faith, and so had no real authority over what they did. And the septon's and septa's were innocent of all battle knowledge so there was no threat in them leaving, but for the moral torture that would come if they died where Robb could've stopped them, kept them here under his protection. And yet, he was almost happy to see their backs. 

Robb felt so very tired, so drained from the day's activities he wanted to sleep for a year. He grimaced as one of the healers walked out of Jon's tent, bloody linens in a basin of water in his hands.

The devout men of the South who had joined Robb's cause had called for Jon and Maeve's death, but no matter what Jon had done, Robb could not pass a judgement of death on his brother and then carry out the punishment. But in order to appease the southerners, Jon had to be disciplined. Robb felt like a traitor to have done it, but what choice did he have? 

Chapter Text

Flashback...

Robb Stark's camp was now had a small village attached to it, a few months into his campaign. 

Instead of houses and shops, there were pavilions and wagons filled with things and small qualities of home that brought some comfort. Things like the tent that served as a whore house for the whores, a tent for the people of the Seven to worship from and even a tent that served as a tavern of sorts. These small things kept people relatively satisfied and sane in the middle of a war. It offered a small sense of normalcy whenever one went to these places. But whenever they came close to a village with a little room, people would settle down as soon as they were near enough. A dozen or so people would leave at a time, and still the camp never seemed to get any smaller.   

It hustled and moved with the urgency of war camp and the business venture of a town. This disturbed Catelyn Stark. They were not the soldiers she wanted, but refugees driven from their burning homes.

Even eighteen-thousand men made up still too little of an army against the Lannister's who had more gold to throw about than the Stark's could ever dream. Surely, that spy that Robb had let live, had told the Lannister's of their numbers and surely the  lions had since doubled their army.

As she looked out, Lady Stark saw two halves of the same camp: a village and a militia. The two could never stay together for long, despite Robb's optimism on the matter. The women, the children, the old and the crippled would only slow them down and hinder them in their numbers on the battlefield since Robb always left a good number of soldiers with the refugees.

Robb has too noble of a heart, she thought with a small frown. He was still too young to realize that there were some people that cannot and should not be helped in war. He was like his father. Taking one last look around, Lady Stark walked briskly toward her son's war tent with her head held high.

As the elder red haired woman walked by, a respectful silence fell on the group of women and children situated around a large fire, blazing near the center of the camp. Activity only resumed when she quietly slipped into the large tent of Robb Stark.

The sounds of sharpening swords and grinding axes, the sounds of horses and the shouts of men once again perverted the air. Along with this crude and gruff noise, there was the faint, soft music of laughing children and giggling and nattering women floating through the air like the remnants of a sweet mist. It was odd that such a mixture be found in a war camp.

A deep, biting chill had settled over the camp sometime in the night and had still not let up even though they continuously moved further south. The sun hid behind pale white clouds and forced them to relying on a fire for warmth all through the day.

The inviting heat of the fire called to all the women seeking warmth as they did their chores, to the septa's who minded their children and tended their wounds, to the old who needed it to warm their bones and to the feeble. Needless to say it was quite a lively bunch.

For the time being, it was almost as if this little group of the exiled and their young were not caught in the midst of war. Their smiles and the jovial tone their words took gave away nothing suggesting anything other than glee, but the truth was always present under every happy smile and good natured quip.

On the far left side, sitting on a flimsy old cloth to protect her against the snow on the ground, sat Maeve, sewing silently.

Lyla had gotten into a row with Sybelle and the younger girl ripped her sister's dress from collar to the waist. Although it was considered wasted effort to repair the dress, Maeve was happy for the work and by the end, the stitch would hardly bother Lyla. She had enough time anyway. The two girls in question were now being punished and commanded to remain in the tent until supper later in the evening. The two boys were off with the men, hunting and baby Tobias was currently cuddling up against his mother for warmth on the other side of the pit.

Diligence kept her mind occupied. At night, after a long day of reprimanding children and teaching them and telling them stories and helping cook supper for the entire camp, she slept the entire night without waking.

Sometimes she wondered dryly how she had time enough to break her vows at all. It was strange to have time to herself, not in a particularly good way either. The toil that made her sleep at night, also kept her mind off...other things.

She hissed sharply as the needle pricked her thumb, drawing froth a small bead of blood. She took the small pad of skin into her mouth and soothed the sting with her tongue.

Oh, that was a terrible lie. Jon Snow was never far from her thoughts. In some way or another he was always present, an annoying little ghost that would pass through her and rip the lid off the box she had stuffed her feelings and hopes and desires into. It was even worse when she saw him about the camp.

Damn him, she thought bitterly as she pulled her thumb away from her mouth and hastily continued with her ministrations.

"That's the third time you've stabbed yourself." a critical voice sounded from beside her. The younger woman did not look up; it was obviously septa Tissa who had sat herself down next to her much to Maeve's vexation.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Maeve responded tensely. The older septa had never held her tongue when it came to pointing out her mistakes. 

"Girl, I taught you myself. A student of mine never pricks themselves, no matter how clumsy."

Slightly exasperated by her previous thoughts and the older woman's nosy cutting words, Maeve let her hands drop into her lap. Still not looking at septa Tissa, Maeve replied, "I'm tired. Five children and a mother who falls into a grieving stupor once or twice a week is a lot to handle." looking down once more, Maeve continued her stitching, hoping the old crow would leave it be. Obviously she did not.

Septa Tissa nodded. "The loss of someone so dear is hard to bear. I was fifteen when I lost my Sid."

Maeve snapped her head up, whirling around to stare at her old teacher. When the woman spoke, it had taken on a soft quality that mystified Maeve. It had never dawned on her that her old crone of a teacher may have had a life before she came into this one. When she first came to the sept as a traumatized five-year-old, she had believed a septa had to start her lessons from birth. It was only a ten that she learned otherwise.

Even then, Tissa was too old and bitter to ever have had a husband or a lover, at least that's what Maeve and the other girls believed. She was always too short-tempered to be thought of as anything but an old crow, so the question of Tissa's life before being a septa had always been assumed to be a lonely one, if she was ever anything but an old, bitter septa.

"Y-you were married?" she asked cautiously.

"No you foolish girl! You think the Seven would have taken me into their Light if I was not pure?" She sounded deeply offended at the challenge to her chastity. "But I loved once. He died before he could make an offer to my father." At seeing the old woman's face harden even more at her inquiry, Maeve thought it better not to antagonize her with more questions. Yet Tissa was not done with Maeve.

"Of course, I don't expect you to understand a broken heart's anguish. You will never love as I or that woman has. Let her grieve, girl. I doubt she will want any relief from a girl not of twenty with no experience in the type of hurt she feels."

Once again, Maeve stabbed her thumb, but this time did not go to soothe it. She was too angry to register the pain. Instead, she only looked into the fire before her. Part of her wanted to snap at the old bat, to let her know that her own experience in love and loss was much fresher than hers. But of course, she could not. Strangely, the other part of her wanted to break down and weep and wail, lamenting for something she did not know.

Maeve did not want Tissa to think she got to her, so she closed her eyes and pushed away the welling hurt in her heart and the tears prickling at her eyes. Carefully, she continued to mend Lyla's dress until it was done.

A few days later, Maeve and four of the five children she governed walked together toward the stream that served so many uses to them.

It was still very cold and word had said that the river was beginning to freeze over had prompted Maeve to bring the children for one last wash of both their bodies and their clothes before the river did really freeze.

"But I don't want to wash in a freezing river!" Lyla protested. "It's too cold and we'll die!"

"Lyla, I will be there with a fire blazing not six feet from the river." Maeve reminded the knobby twelve-year-old.

"Maybe we'll see grumkins! Or a shadow cat! Or a white-walker! It's cold enough right septa?" Roderick exclaimed with excitement. Sometimes, she mused, Roderick is too adorable. The little boy was always lively, always kind and always curious. There was very little to scorn him for and even if Maeve did, he would look so sorry and sweet; it was tricky to stay cross for long.

"Little one, grumkins live beyond the Wall. A shadow cat prefers the Vale and the white-walkers have been gone for a thousand years." Upon seeing the boy deflate a little, Maeve felt a little bad. "But, gods be good, we'll see some form of wildlife to suit your curiosity as well as my nerves."

Smiling, the boy nodded. Before long, they reached the large boulder, the last sign that they were nearing the end of their short journey.

Maeve paused at the edge of the forest, looking out on the snow covered clearing on the bank of the river. Lyla also froze a moment, before she continued on to save herself from any social embarrassment. The others, however, moved on like there were not at least ten men washing along the icy bank. They were boys afterall, apart of Sybelle who was too little to understand why the septa and her sister might hesitate. 

One of those men was Jon Snow.

His back was to her as he sat along the bank by a small fire, drying his clothes gently over it. At first, she tried to reason it couldn't be him, but when his dire wolf opened his red eyes and wasn't invisible anymore, she knew it was Jon. That blasted creature fallowed and aided no one but Jon.

Sybelle and Roderick squealed in glee as they ran as quickly as they could toward Jon, more likely, Ghost. The Draper children were closer to the wolf than any other family in their "Village" because of Maeve's friendship with Jon. When they had been acquaintances and the little ones became familiar with the great wolf, the fear and unease that usually came with beholding such an intimidating creature soon faded into amazement. Ghost, that fearsome, eerie beast that caused many deaths for men on the battlefield, was surprisingly gentle with the eager children. Gentle being the key word. Ghost didn't bite, but he didn't play either.

"Master Snow! Master Snow! Can we play with Ghost?" Sybelle asked happily. Since the beginning of their fascination with the animal the children had come into the habit of always asking permission from Jon before daring to touch the beast. It was a matter of respect; Jon Snow was quite admired throughout the regiment for his deeds on the field and of course romanticized rumours always arose with warriors.

Maeve kept her head down as she walked toward the river where Lyla was currently setting out the tarp where they would sit. She could not forbid them to play with the wolf. They had done it hundreds of times before and it would attract difficult questions if she called them away out of spite. Plus, the wolf did keep Sybelle and Roderick occupied.

Without looking in his direction, Maeve set Tobias into Lyla's arms and started a small fire made from the twigs and sticks they had found beforehand.

"Yes, go on. Just don't pull his ears like last time." he said sternly. Silently, from the corner of his eye, Jon watched as Maeve remained aloof to him. While he was stung by her coldness toward him these past three months, he was more irritated by the feelings that swirled through him when he thought of Maeve and what had developed inside him during their little affair.

He hated that he wanted her, hated that he wished he had not sworn his vows, hated that she looked the way she did—so beautiful even covered up head-to-toe as she was.

Maeve scrubbed furiously with the brush, as she washed the children's clothes. Roderick and Sybelle's giggles were maddening as they played with Ghost. In anger, she scoured the course fabric in the cold water until her fingers were numb and red, and it was only then she stopped, set the wet fabric and brush on her lap and sighed tiredly.

She was tired of feeling this way, angry, hurt, and ashamed. She wanted it to stop, to be the way she was before, to be a woman of knowledge and honour before Jon Snow and his bloody...everything had muddled it up so. Anger still present, Maeve started scrubbing again; hoping Snow was nearly done with his business by the river and leave, taking that bloody mongrel of his with him.

"G-good day, Master Snow." Lyla suddenly shivered from the blanket. Maeve froze, not even daring to turn around.

"Hello, Lyla." he greeted back. Slowly, Maeve turned, eyeing him up with tense shoulders and cold eyes. Jon did not look at her, not wanting to see the cold look she always gave him. In Jon's hand, he held a large stick, the end burning brightly and flickering in the cold air. "Here," he knelt down to the small flame they had going and arranged it so the fire actually kept them warm.

Lyla quickly scooted forward, Tobias in her arms while the infant chewed on his fingers. They greedily lapped up the warmth the fire gave off. Maeve swallowed hard, a lump suddenly forming in her throat. Once more her eyes flashed up to Jon, finding that he was looking at her. Quickly she looked down, uttering a quiet "Thank you." before turning away and continuing her scrubbing.

Jon sighed, knowing he would get the cold shoulder but got stung anyway. He turned away, calling Ghost to him and leaving the riverside. Maeve looked back at his retreating form, ignoring the urge to cry once again.

Chapter Text

Jon did not care that his back was burning and throbbing with every beat of his heart, every thump making his blood stain the pale linens dressing his back, he didn't even care that the healer was jabbering away about things that meant nothing to him. Jon remained silent and stared at the table ahead of him. On his belly, the lesions wouldn't hurt so much. There was a basin on the table, where the healer had put the old dressings. He could see the brown, clotted blood dried into them. 

Ghost was silent, but Jon knew that the large albino dire wolf was smarter than he let on. Ghost knew that something was troubling Jon, and also knew that he was physically vulnerable. Ghost had been held back with iron shackles around his thick neck, powerless as his master was forced against a tree, his shirts long discarded, and was whipped twelve times. Each crack of the whip against his master's once pale and smooth back, left a deep welt that spewed dark red blood.

Ghost had fought against the chain, trying to squirm around to bite the one that held him, but when he finally did latch onto an arm, Grey Wind came running and bit his neck, forcing the white wolf to the ground. Now, whenever someone came toward Jon's prone form, Ghost watched them, teethed bared, the threat clear in his red eyes.

Jon absently scratched Ghost's white furred head, trying to wrap his head around what had happened.

Maeve was gone; he knew this for a fact and could not get his mind off it. It was strange to be without her now, he had gone eighteen years without her and now after only a year of knowing her, it was unsettling now to comprehend that she was gone, back to the south, where he may never see or hear from her again. The thought burned him, worse than the whip marks marring up and down his back.

Pain seared his heart, leaving him wounded beyond repair. Maeve...her eyes, her hair, her lovely face, her soft hands, the scar on her leg, the secret birth mark on her hip...he would never see her again. He felt the sting of tears burn his eyes but forced them back.

Besides the aching in his heart, Jon could not understand what he felt. Part of him, some single part that prized honor above everything else he held dear, was relieved that Maeve was gone, never to tempt him again. Another, larger part, grieved for her absence, the void she left behind made him wonder if it would ever be full again. It didn't feel like it though.

Also, Jon's pride was in shambles, and anger was what was putting the pieces back together. Anger toward Robb, Catelyn, Septon Syvos, the Seven... Jon felt a sharp twinge of shame for this ugly anger towards his brother, but still it would not ease. He knew his brother had no choice, but the ugly whispers of anger pointed out that as king, his brother could do what he pleased. He can say that Joffrey was no king, that they were an independent kingdom.

He could have released Maeve of her vows, their Seven Gods be damned. He could have made Theon keep quiet, could have called the Greyjoy a liar. But Theon had walked through camp announcing his discovery, and the member's of the Faith had found them first.  

He never thought he would feel this fury towards Robb. It was not hate, but it was still a feeling one brother should not feel toward the other. Jon had never felt as angry at Robb before, not even as children when anger was often petty. They were brothers and Jon loved Robb. At that point, Jon felt every bit the backstabbing bastard that Catelyn Stark claimed he was.

But not only had Robb sent away Maeve, he had let them go south, where people were so fearing of spies and rebels that they strung up outsiders without warning or remorse, to prove their loyalty to the sadistic prick that was their king. If they made it back to their home, unharmed, Maeve would start her punishment. 

It was almost fair to say that Robb had sent her to death.

Jon had told Maeve once that she was a fool for wanting to leave the relative safety of their camp and head back south, back to her sept. She got her way, Jon thought without humor. But what will they do to her now that the world knew about their relationship? He'd begged her to hide among the thousands of people in the camp, before Theon returned with others. He'd promised her a life afterward, a life where they were free to be together without looking over their shoulders. She only had to fight for it, he couldn't fight alone. But she worried, doubted, and in the end, they had found them.  

 Jon breathed in deeply, feeling the maddening prickle of unease in the face of the unknown.

I am so tired of feeling guilty for wanting you.  

All I know is that I love you. There it is. I love you. Memories of their last moments together burned, and the pain in his back was nothing in comparison.

Ghost looked up and bumped Jon's hand with his cold nose, as some show of comfort or understanding.

Much as it pained Jon to think of, he knew Maeve's future was not a pleasant one. He had known since he saw the pure disgust and abhorrence in Septon Syvos' pale eyes.

Maeve could be quite a fighter, unafraid of slapping or spitting out a barb when she was hurt or backed into a corner. But she feared her faith so much to the point where her discomfort and her pain became void. She would not protest if they decided that Maeve would be beaten, she would take it with blood and bruises, but no other protest.

What kind of gods do they worship, Jon wondered with a new found anger. Love selfish, cruel gods. Why did she blindly follow these gods who tortured their worshipers for feelings that came naturally?

2 months later

Maeve stared down at the little portion of strew, surprised that she did not find it the least bit appetizing. She thought, perhaps, it was because the meat was bad or the potatoes were under cooked but really, it was just because her stomach turned at the sight of it.

I have to eat it, she thought, once again lifting the wooden spoon to scoop up the food. Closing her eyes, she lifted the spoon to her lips, and gingerly took in the food. Her stomach rolled, but she forced herself to chew and swallow, wondering why such a mundane task required so much thought.

In the last two months of their journey back to their home sept, Maeve had gotten one meal a day, except when food was scarce; those days she went hungry. She had to savor this meal, because tomorrow there might not be one.

The camped in one place for days and days, allowing the elders to rest and the others gather food from the land. They kept off the King's Road, because if they used the easier path back to the south, they would be constantly stopped by whoever manned the roads, scouting out traitors, bandits and rebels.

This was not the first time she had felt so disgusted by food. The week before, when they'd made camp beside an abandoned village, she emptied the contents of her stomach in the bushes at the sight of the goat liver steaks the others had cooked up.

This hurts, she thought, trying not to grimace as the next spoon full of greasy, slimy stew slithered down her throat and into her aching, empty belly. Her heart hurt her constantly, a continuous throb that only let up when her tears stained her face at night and when sleep finally took her.

A loud snore broke through the cool air and she nearly sighed aloud with relief that finally Septon Syvos was asleep. She always felt the old man's eyes on her back. The others were still awake, but they did not glare at her all the time with naked loathing like Syvos did. They barely looked at her at all. It hurt that they ignored her, as if they hated her and wanted no part of her near them.

It felt as if Jon had taken something from her when she left, making her feel incomplete. She missed him, his face, his rare smile, his kisses, the way he treated her, the way he made her feel, his smell, his touch…she missed all of him, and that created the void she felt, the part of her that belonged to him.

Setting down the half eaten stew and curling up on her blanket, Maeve curled her arm under her head for support. The others barely looked up at her movement.

What is he doing now, she wondered. She felt a little beat of shame for thinking of Jon, but she was already being punished for loving him so what difference would it make if she thought of him anyway? Her gods would most likely be angrier with her now, but she was already set for the Seven Hells.

She hoped he was alright, she hoped he was happy. He always looked so handsome when he smiled…

Her tears chilled her face, crushing her hand to her mouth to keep quiet as a mouse. She curled up further, pulling her knees close to her.

Maeve sniffled and said another silent prayer for Allyria, Jon and herself, hoping against hope that some god, any god, heard her prayer and took pity on her. She knew it was wrong to pray for herself when her punishment was to be just, but still, she feared the dark, dank hole where the guilty were taken, she feared the whips and the cold, the rats that feasted on the dead, she felt she would rather just die than face all of that.

Fight, Maeve. Please, a memory of Jon whispered. Behind her clenched eyes, she could see him clearly, smiling at her, laughing as she slipped down into the snow once, hopping about trying to pull her boots on. Finally, after the second attempt, she gave up and lay there, staring up at the dark sky, laughing at herself. Her laughter stopped when he lowered himself down by her, dipping his head to peck a kiss to her lips, both of them still grinning at one another.

When it was just them, Maeve and Jon, not Septa Maeve and Black Brother Jon, there were no masks, no serious walls, and it was good until the night came to an end and the outside world called and reality slapped them across the face.

Maeve opened her watery, red eyes.  Knowing more thoughts about the future and past would only cause more tears and heart ache, she thought back to the early years, back to the stories they recited to each other.

When she was little and when night and darkness had befallen the girls' dorms in the sept, she and the other girls would gather on each other's bed, telling one another of the stories they had each come across at some point. Some told love stories of lords and ladies and knights and kings, others told stories about animals and quests. It was the best time of day for Maeve, when entertainment was the only thing that mattered, not prayer, study or back breaking work in the gardens, kitchens or library. The only stories that the septons and septas told were of the Seven and those got very dull, very quickly.

So, as the sounds of the other travelers ceased, Maeve remembered the fairy tales of her childhood, bringing herself a small feeling of comfort, though what she wanted more than anything, was Jon.

Jon's back had healed…mostly. Scars had been left, tender wounds that that stung when they were pressed on. They opened sometimes when he slept on his back, bleeding and creating an uncomfortable layer of brownish-crimson on his skin when it dried.

He still had not returned to the battle field, much to his annoyance, and so spent his time planning with Robb and his men and practicing with his long sword, all the while ignoring the looks men gave him. Men looked at him differently now, some looked with eyes that judged harshly as if they knew anything, others (very few) had pity, some held wonder, and many had smirks and laughed. Catelyn Stark just outright hated him, she always had, but now that she had another "reason" she was quite vocal about it. But by far the worst was Theon Greyjoy.

As if destroying him and Maeve's lives was not enough, now Theon had become quite fond of mocking Jon whenever he was able, trying to entice a reaction. Jon had thus far been able to push back the need to break Greyjoy's nose but his patience was wearing thin. Maeve was the past, and Jon wanted to forget.

He knew he had sworn he would not forget her, but the hurt and embarrassment and anger that came with remembering her was becoming too much. It would simply be better to forget her and try to get on, but the task was easier said than done.

It seemed the world would not let him forget. In every taunting smirk, every mocking jab Theon Greyjoy announced to the world, Maeve would arise again and all the awful emotions that had come with that day came with it. Tyrion Lannister had once said to wear his greatest shame like armor, so it was never used against him. Using his love for Maeve like a shield just did not work.

Jon stalked toward his brother's tent, Ghost running behind him, silent as ever. Robb and Jon had not been on the best of terms since that day. Robb felt awkward and guilty around his bastard brother, not sure how to speak to him now that all was done. Jon was still angry at Robb, but refused to unleash his wrath on him. All their conversations were terribly pleasant, not free flowing and joking as it had always been.

There were grunts of greeting from the men around the large table as Jon walked into Robb's tent. Without saying a word, Jon took his place to Robb's left, listening and thinking as Robb made his attack plans.

It was not terribly interesting, but before long they had finally agreed on a plan of action to take the next holdfast. A small weight was lifted from their shoulders at the decision. Jon stepped back, stretching slightly as his muscles ached from looking down at a map for over an hour. But this little bit of calm was broken by Theon Greyjoy's mouth.

"Yes, who knows Jon, maybe they'll have some pretty septa for you to get you cock wet." Theon smirked. Jon went stiff, his eyes flashing dangerously, though he was turned away and none of them could see it. Robb wanted to snap at Theon, and was about to, when Jon swung his body around, and slammed his fist into Theon Greyjoy's stomach.

Theon made a whooshing sound, a strangled grunt and then a wheezing sound. His body curled inward on instinct, inadvertently leaning on Jon's arm for support, while Jon's face remained emotionless. The other men stared at Jon in shock, none of them moving, only watching as Theon gasped for breath, half hunched on the ground.

Jon roughly pulled his fist back, making Theon completely crumble to the ground, and abruptly turned and stalked out of the tent, Ghost running over Theon's body and trialing after him.

None of the stunned Lords made any move to help the young man up, and no one moved from their spot for a long moment.

Suddenly Greatjon Umber said, "I was wonderin when he'd finally do that." There was a low hum of agreement.

Chapter Text

The days were long, the cold winds chilling her body despite the cloak she'd been given to preserve whatever dignity she had left. Her hair grew dry and coarse from the exposure, dust dirtied her face and still ripped dress from her nights sleeping on the ground. At night, she slept on her back, because her breasts were tender to the touch, and so when she awoke her back was stiff and sore.

The saddle had caused her a lot of pain, but slowly, she grew used to it. It still hurt to sit atop it for hours and hours without stretching, but she came to accept and ignore the pain it garnered.

Their pace was slow, the mule drawn-cart at the head of their van creeping along at a snail's pace. There were six of them on horseback, including Maeve, and there were seven elders inside the cart, always protected by the canvas cover in the back. Maeve envied their comfort. Even though they went further and further south, the cold of the North chased after them, seeping into their bones.

Maeve half wanted to scream. The cold, her sore body, the endless road in which they traveled, it was all getting to her, mile by maddening mile. Each day brought them closer to the town where her sept was rooted, in the village of Crim. And each day she grew closer to the dark dungeons she had feared as a child.

Had she the energy, she might protest, cry or scream. But she was so tired. Each day she woke, ate what the elders gave her, curled up beneath her cloak, and climbed up into the saddle. Her energy was sapped before sunset. What was the point in fighting anyway? What was there to fight for? 

Thinking of Jon and their time together always gave her comfort and in her new world of distress she could not feel guilt for this.

Looking down, Maeve dully poked at the brown bandage on her arm. It was suppose to be white, but the blood had soaked it and dried to an ugly brown. A gift from her stupidity. She had fallen when she tried to lift herself up onto her horse, falling back onto a bed of dead weeds and moss. The impact was not nearly as painful as it might have been if she had fallen on rocks, but it did knock the breath from her lungs and bring tears to her eyes. But the soreness of her back was not nearly as bad as the gash on her forearm. When her left arm flailed out to catch herself, she caught a sharp branch that sliced open her arm. Blood had trailed down her arm, dripping red fingers.

She stared at the crude bandage that dressed her arm. The others only threw her a pouch of healing herbs and a roll of cloth to wrap the gash herself, and with only one hand, the work was sloppy at best. It kept the poultice against the wound and stopped the blood, but it was loose and would have to be changed soon. She hated blood. Such an inconvenience...

Suddenly she frowned. Blood…when was the last time she'd seen it? Every new moon women bled, but she had not…

Her stomach rolled and she could not stop herself from heaving up the contents of her stomach over the side of the horse. The animal did not seem to care, even as Maeve coughed and spluttered. She knew eyes were on her in disgust as she humiliated herself once more, but she could not be bothered as her mind worked in a panicked frenzy.

Her moon's blood, she had simply not had it, not for…Maeve could not recall the last time! Was she sick? A monthly occurrence did not just simply stop, not until you were old and barren like Septa Tissa. Once or twice she'd prayed the gods to make her dry up early, so she would not have to suffer with every moon turn. But they had never answered her, and slowly, the other possibility arose in her mind. The possibility that was very possible. A child.

Wiping her mouth and covering it, she straightened on the saddle, eyes wide with shock. No, no it couldn't be. She was not made for it! A septa was never meant to be a mother. What a disgrace, what a stain upon the Order. Her breath quickened. Please gods no!

Of course in the sept they taught them where children come from, and why, but Maeve had never thought she'd ever need to worry. A long time ago, Maeve had come to terms with the fact that she would never be the smiling new mother, only a helpful midwife. She had accepted that no one would call her "mama" or hold to her when they were scared, that her womb would not swell with a child and that every babe she ever held would never really be hers. Maeve had let those opportunities go easily, a lifetime in service to the gods had seemed a nobler life. Now, her life as a septa was done, and a life she'd never wanted was thrust upon her. 

Fear thundered through her, her stomach twisting in knots, heart fluttering and breath catching.

All at once, her reality came crashing down over her, and she could not stop the tears burning her eyes. She buried her face in her hands, muffling her cries as best she could, but they were louder than she wished. Still, she couldn't stop. Gone were the nights of content with Jon, the nights that were like walking dreams. This was very real, the possibility frightening and new.

Before, all Maeve had to fear for was herself and what awaited her at the end of this road, but now a child was thrown at her.

She knew Septon Syvos was not opposed to using Moon Tea, as some septons were. If they found out soon, Moon Tea would be made, and shoved into her hands, clearing her womb of the growing babe. 

Once, not long before her eleventh name day, an unwed girl came to the sept, pregnant and dirty and sad looking. She was older than Maeve had been, around twenty, and asked them for that tea and nothing more, her voice low and sad. The septa's took her in and before they even clothed her or bathed her, they gave her Moon Tea, making Maeve go down to the gardens and fetch tansy, wormwood, and a bit of mint. Maeve had seen her afterward, curled up on a bed, sweating, holding her stomach in pain, but in the morning, she was alright, thanking the septa's for their help and leaving again.

When she asked a younger septa what had happened, she had only said the gods would not forgive the girl if she'd birthed a bastard. 

Maeve tried to imagine herself in the girl's place, but did not think that she would be able to drink that odd smelling tea…she just couldn't. Would Jon want her to? 

If they found out late, when her belly was huge and the end near, they would rip the baby out of her arms the day it was born. Where they would take it, she would never know, and Maeve knew that that would be the worst torture of all, not knowing what they had done with her baby, not knowing if he was safe and happy.

Please, don't let me be, she thought. It would be so much better if she were not. It would be easier. It would be a mercy . A child should not suffer for the sins of their mother and father, and so should her baby not bear the weight of her sins.

"Shut up!" someone shouted, but she could barely hear them above her sobs.

"Stupid girl's finally lost her wits." Another voice sneered.

Maeve would have no choice in whatever they did; the septa and septon's would decide the child's fate, not her. It was either save her child by destroying it, or save it by hiding it, only to give it a life-time of hardship. She was a wicked, selfish woman, but she did not want to be rid it. She wanted to keep it, to raise it, to love it and teach it all that she knew. It was hers, hers and Jon's, even though she doubted he would have ever wanted it. 

Her heart gave a painful throb but forced herself to push it back. Now was not the time to dwell over what Jon would have thought. He would never be here with her again anyway, he would never know.

And Maeve was not even certain! Being late was not unusual, but three moon turns without her blood... that was unusual. I haven't been eating well, she thought. Women who don't eat, don't have their blood. 

Slowly, her sobs quietened into sniffles. She would have to wait, give her body a chance to catch up. Maeve ran her hands over her wet face. What will I do? 

Four days later

A beautiful full moon hung above, lighting the night world as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Old Ysilla used to tells stories of the moon and sun. The sun was The Father, moon was The Mother. The Father watched over the working days, while The Mother kept guard over the night, the children and mothers of the world safe under her eye. It was said that the full moon was the greatest omen of good and peace.

Maeve found herself questioning the Mother. The Mother was merciful, the kindest of the Seven in Maeve's opinion, but what was merciful about this? Sending her a child, when she was sent for punishment. Maybe it was Her way of providing her comfort. Or, perhaps, a cruel punishment. 

Four days, but still no change, still no blood. She wanted to deny it, but she knew. She'd known four days before, though she had reasoned otherwise. Inside her, a child grew…Jon's child. Her child.

The thought was strange to her, but she found herself accepting it. She was afraid, so, so afraid, but she could not imagine doing anything but letting it grow, and that was worse. She cared for this child, but this only meant it would hurt her so much more when they took him from her. She put her hand on her belly, trying to make sense of what was there.

They stopped again, this time just shy of a stone bridge. There had been little to eat to tonight, the last of the meat was eaten up and so the feasted on vegetable broth and hard bread. Maeve still did not want to eat it, but did anyway, the food taking like ash in her mouth. Now she stared up at The Mother's watchful eye, asking her why she had given her a baby when she was never supposed to have one. It was just not fair, to her, or the child. Maeve was leaning more toward the cruel and unusual punishment idea. 

The others sat by the warm fire, talking in hushed voices, while Maeve sat outside their little group, her knees pulled up to her chest. She looked away, down the overgrown road to the bridge. There was something beautifully tragic about that bridge. One could tell it was once beautiful, but now it was sad and old, worn away by time, stones missing and moss growing all over it.

Maeve sighed. It shouldn't look like that, she thought. Something that was once so grand should be cared for, tended to. 

Suddenly, a screech broke through the cold night air. "Syvos! S-Syvos! Syvos wake up!" Snapping her head up towards the commotion, Maeve saw Septon Syvos being lowered to the ground and the others swarming around him. Shocked and little scared, she stood, getting a better view.

There was the old Septon that seemed to have so much hatred for her, laying on the ground, his face pale and his body still. His face was slack, one side drooping. Stunned, Maeve was frozen, she could only stare as the others clamored around her, trying to revive the elder desperately.

Time seemed to move slowly as she watched the scene unfold before her eyes. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her breathing whooshing in and out of her mouth, but there was no other sound. She looked away for a split second, over to the bridge, and then back to the others.

Before she knew what she was doing, her feet were moving. Time sped up as she started running like a madwoman toward the bridge, over it and stumbling into the darkness, leaving her old life behind her.

Chapter Text

Her feet kept tripping over unseen debris, her hands scraping against the rough, patchy ground. Whatever drove her to run refused to let her falters halt her for a second. She let out a startled gasp as she tripped, landing on her hands and scraping her palms. The pain did not register as she stumbled forward, recovering and resuming her blind sprint. Before long, her lungs burned, her legs felt horribly tired and her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her chest but she continued to run.

It was so dark; the trees covered the moon's light and made her blind. The Mother would not help her here, not now. Maeve was driven by something she could not understand, something she could not name. Whatever it was, it did not care that her gods were not protecting her, would not help her to escape, it only mattered that her feet kept moving, farther and farther away from them, the ones who wanted to hurt her, who had hurt her.

Run, faster, farther, was all it said to her with each thump of her heart. She obeyed.

Her panting was loud. Labored breathing and an occasional startled cry from her throat was the only sound the night heard.

Despite the instinct to keep running—the need to get away—her legs began to steadily slow. Crooked, sharp fingers clawed at her face, pulling at her dress as she rushed past the trees.

The Mother's watchful eye could not see her here, but through the branches above, Her light broke through the dying leaves. Perhaps She is trying to stop her defiant follower, Maeve pondered, bringing her arms close to her body. Maybe She lights the way for the others, when they start looking for me. Another branch pulled at her dress, but she yanked it from it's grip. Her heart pounded as she rushed through the dark, mind whirling. 

The branches scratched along her exposed skin annoyingly, pulling at her hair and weaving twigs and leaves into her already messy locks. The ground beneath her worn boots was wet and soggy, the muddy water seeping into the old deer skin boots and wetting her toes. Maeve shivered, suddenly realizing how cold it was without a fire burning nearby.

She felt her legs tremble. A testament to her sprint. She'd run. Her people were behind her, and she could not turn back. 

Her legs faltered once more, and halted. When she turned to look behind, the glow from the fire was gone, and she realized she was alone. Truly alone, in the dark. Free. 

The thought was strange, insulting almost. Becoming a septa had been a choice, she could have run when she was a child like so many others had, but she'd chosen to remain in the sept. But was it really a choice, when the alternative was starving, without a home? Alone, without a friend to protect her? The thought made her feel wretched, and she denied it at once. The gods gave her peace, comfort and serenity when she needed it. Something most people never experienced. 

Jon had ruined it. She'd ruined it by enjoying it. Rules and oaths and vows were shackles when she was with him. 

Now what was she? No longer a septa, no longer a chaste girl. Nothing. Just an oathbreaker, an unwed woman with a baby coming...

Maeve started moving again, tearing her eyes away from the darkness behind her. Too many things had happened too quickly, the world had suddenly jumped a hundred paces ahead, and left Maeve struggling to catch up.

Her long sprint began to catch up with her, and her feet began to drag heavily along the hard ground, exhaustion clouding her mind. The muscles in her legs felt tired and heavy, each step was difficult and all she wanted to do was stop and sleep, but she couldn't. Every moment she delayed, every second wasted on rest, meant that the ones behind her were one step closer to her.

They would hurt her if they ever found her, worse than any beating they'd ever delivered before, she was sure of it. As a child, it had been because she was wicked, bratty and spoilt. "For your own good," one of the kinder septas had told her as she laid a cold rag against her bruised and throbbing back. "You can't serve the gods if you're so willful." 

Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving...

Suddenly, her lead filled feet caught a rather large rock and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her already battered palms caught her body, but only for a brief moment, when her arms gave into fatigue. Her body collapsed to the cold, damp earth and, no longer thinking, curled up on her side, bringing her legs close to her chest. Before long had passed, Maeve fell into a deep sleep, wonderful memories of Jon greeting her as the world slipped away.

Jon could not sleep. No matter how many times he turned or how many hours he laid awake, sleep refused to come. Ghost lay on the ground beside his bed, his large head in his paws, his red eyes looking about with caution. Jon wondered if the direwolf was just as troubled as he.

Thoughts of the day before ran through his mind. 

He did not avoid camp, though he suspected many thought he mind, with his immoralities on well known.  But he would not hide his face. Wear it like armor, the Imp had told him. And it can never be used to hurt you. He had paid the price anyway. There was nothing the men in this army could say to him that would match the heaviness in his heart. 

Theon Greyjoy, of course, was the exception. He was the man who had found them out, after all, and made his ugly little jokes without a care. After that first, and only blow to the stomach, Jon had been sorely tempted to turn back and knock out a few more teeth. But that would put his already unsteady position in jeopardy, since King Robb would doubtlessly have to act in response to the beating of a high lord's son, done by a debauched bastard deserter. He and Theon had avoided each other ever since, though sometimes Jon could feel the glares full of venom from the hostage-turned-adviser. 

Jon had walked through the camp, Ghost alongside him as he passed the refugees. These people did not seem to hate him as much, though perhaps they were more cautions in their hatred since he was a lord's bastard son. But Jon felt lower than any of them, he felt guilt and anger wrap tighter around his heart and the old familiar hurt that had formed in Maeve's absence nearly take the air from his lungs.

These had been Maeve's people. She'd remained with them, never venturing far into the army half of the host. She'd tended to one family in particular, five children and their widowed mother. With Maeve's departure, they had to fend for themselves now. 

He had ruined Maeve and himself, had destroyed what their lives had been before and had thrown their fates to the wind. He had fallen in love with her and that was their downfall. Jon knew it had been a mutual thing; she loved him as much as he did her, but he couldn't help but feel solely responsible. If he had not loved her back, her honor would still be intact. It was probably because Maeve had been the one taken away to some unknown fate, while he stayed there, long narrow scars on his back a reminder of what his love had cost him.

I should not have left the Wall, he thought. He had come to help Robb save their father, but father had died anyway. He stayed for vengeance, to have a chance to take Joffrey's head. If he had not left his post, had not broken his vows, Maeve would be where she was supposed to be, safe in her sept, reading up on something…She had loved reading, he remembered. More rather, loved the knowledge reading gave her. His heart squeezed.

Gods, he had fought with himself at nearly every turn over Maeve in the beginning. He knew finding her pretty was wrong, he knew that talking to her when he wanted her was wrong, but he couldn't stop himself. He had just always seemed to find her. His feet always walked to her, his eyes always found hers, even when he didn't mean to.

What would Eddard Stark think of him now? His good, honorable father, who had slipped from his marriage vows once to father him. Just thinking about his father made Jon's fist clench, fire rising inside him with a need to seek out Theon Greyjoy in particular to quench the burning. He felt a little ashamed at the thought, knowing that his father would have been deeply disappointed in him if he turned back. And Maeve…she would've looked at him like he was a madman; she would have been frightened of him.

It does not matter, he thought angrily, both of them are gone.

In his bed, Jon shifted again. 

Suddenly, a voice stopped his thoughts, a woman was screeching at the top of her lungs, anger filling her every word.

"I told you to watch him! And what do you do? You go off with that boy! Now look what you've done! You're brother's arm is broken because of you!"

"I'm sorry! I-I didn't think that would happen!" Jon looked to where the argument was coming from, seeing an aged woman with graying red hair screaming at her daughter, a thin, knobby looking girl of fourteen. It took Jon a few seconds to realize it was Allyria Draper and her daughter Lyla, Maeve's former charges. He recognized the girl more than her mother. Where Maeve could be found, often she had the Draper children close at hand. 

The elder woman was tired looking, while the girl was wide-eyed and teary. Allyria screamed something else at her daughter, and Jon saw Lyla's lips move then suddenly, Allyria's hand flashed out and struck her daughter. It was not a particularly harsh blow, but it was enough to break the young girl's heart, staring at her mother with wide, shocked eyes. Lyla clutched her cheek and as Allyria raised her other hand to do the same damage to the other cheek, Jon rushed forward and caught to woman's wrist.

"Stop." He ordered, squeezing her wrist in warning. Allyria looked up at him, her expression reminding him of the way Lady Stark looked at him when he had come to visit Bran after his fall, heartbroken, but full of hatred.

"Unhand me, bastard boy." She spat. "She's my daughter and I'll punish her the way I see fit." Allyria tried to wretch her arm away, but Jon held tight.

"I said stop!" he hissed lowly, his breath fanning against her face. "You don't ever strike a child in this camp." Jon growled.

"You see what she did to my boy?" she gestured angrily to her side. For the first time, Jon noticed the little boy lying on the ground, an old man wrapping up his little arm that looked three times its normal size. Jon grimaced at the poor, whimpering child, thinking that he ought to send a maester to him. 

"She didn't break it herself on purpose. She's your child too."

Allyria's eyes narrowed, using her other hand to shove him away. She spat at his feet. "This would never have happened if you could keep your cock to yourself!" 

Jon's jaw clenched at the scattered laughs her words generated. 

"This would not have happened if you were watching your son yourself. Rather than tossing him to a young girl." He said it with full of spite, rage that she had dared rip open a wound that had not yet healed. 

Allyria's eyes glistened, but her anger didn't break. "She left him alone! You know what could have happened when he was on his own? He could've been killed!" Jon looked to Lyla, who was staring at her mother with tears streaming down her pink face, still clutching her cheek in shock.

"Mama, stop," the girl begged. "I-I didn't m-mean to, I promise! I'm sorry!" 

"Your daughter is right," Jon said. Allyria tried again to shove him away, but he yanked her back, a veiled threat he didn't think he could carry out in his tight grip around her wrist. "Enough."  A moment passed, the older woman studying his expression, her eyes dark and hot as coals in the fire. But she gave the slightest of nods and Jon released his grip.

She stumbled back, her hand going to her reddening wrist. Her eyes flickered to her sniffling daughter. "Get back in the tent." she ordered, mouth set in a hard line. Jon hated to think the girl's punishment was not over. Perhaps he would sent a guard this way soon. But suddenly Allyria spat, and a wet glob landed on Jon's cheek. A shocked sound went through the people around them. "It's your fault." she hissed, eyes glistening with malice. Jon scrubbed his cheek. "My husband died, no one could prevent that. But all you had to do was leave the girl alone, and she'd still be here." Her mask of rage cracked open a little, and her lips trembled. "Go to the Seven Hells, already, bastard." She turned away, kneeling on the ground next to her son. Her hand ran over his hair, a tender gesture that belied her fury. "And leave my children alone." 

Jon stood for longer than he'd intended, watching the woman worry over her hurt child. He turned and continued on when he heard a sniffle, not knowing if it was truly hers. 

As he stalked away, ears red with anger and embarrassment, it suddenly occurred to him that Maeve's loss was not only felt by him. He would made sure Allyria's children were taken care of, that they were fed each night, and that a maester was sent to the boy.

Now, as Jon lay on his side, staring blankly at the burning lamp on the table across the tent, he could feel the hole Maeve had left in his chest expand ever so slightly.

Jon had seen heartbreak before; he'd watched the first days of a hazy sort of grief befall the sufferer. He watched the slow progression into anger, into spite, into grief again and finally, when they were able to smile again without hesitating. Memories had shifted from a source of bitterness and pain, into something good, something relaxed. Robb told him it didn't hurt to think of the girl who'd broken his heart anymore. "We weren't meant for forever, anyway." Robb told him. "She knew that better than I did."   

He shifted again in his cot. 

It's cold, was her first thought upon waking. It's too quiet, was her next. 

It took a few moments for the events of the previous night to come back to her, opening her eyes slowly, cautiously, as though a sneaking septon would be upon her if she opened her eyes.

But she was still alone, the glaring light of the sun starting to peak through the branches, and shining in her face. Her hand trailed over the ground, hands clenching and coming away with a hand full of fallen, dead leaves. She shifted, and her body creaked in protest, her slumber having left her stiff and sore. 

Gingerly, she sat up, her back cracking and relieving some of the pain. Warily, she looked around her, hoping something didn't stare back. 

Around her, trees' branches hung down, sad and lonely and abandoned. The forest floor was littered with dead leaves, fallen branches and little shrubs that somehow managed to prosper. Maeve felt that her clothes were damp and got up. The cold and wet would foster illness, and she didn't need that. Still, she felt filthy--her hair was a mess, and when she raised her hand to comb through it, she pulled away a two twigs and three leaves. Her dress was little better, dirty and damp, rips torn through the flimsy, aged fabric. Septon Syvos said she should be covered, her septas garb having been destroyed by them. But he'd only permitted the shabbiest of garments to be given to her.

Better than nothing, she forced herself to accept. She looked down to her arms, studying the fine little scratches left behind by her escape. 

Getting up proved to be painful and out of instinct, Maeve set a hand on her stomach, and looked down at it in surprise.

Oh, she thought dully, taking her hand away. That's right. A baby. 

She wondered if she would ever get used to that thought. Perhaps, in time, she would. She'd already dared an escape for it, running through the dark without a proper plan out of sheer terror that someone would try to take it from her. A little smile crept onto her lips, pride swelling her heart. She'd saved her own child, protected something that she and Jon had made together.

Maeve had lost Jon, lost her pride and dignity, but the piece of her time with Jon would not be taken, not by anyone. Not if she could prevent it. 

The child would live and live free and happy and loved. Even if the gods could not abide a bastard, she did not care. Not anymore. 

Maeve looked up and as she did, she saw something through the trees, not too far away either. It was pale, glowing in the morning light. A toppled pile of bricks? A toppled wall? She moved forward, wary, but curious. 

Chapter Text

 Maeve walked past the broken remains of whatever structure had once stood. The large stones had been picked off by scavengers and eroded away by time, until only a few remained, a hint of what had once been. A gentle breeze blew across the clearing, making the grass sway and pulling her hair over her shoulder. It was quiet here, and it seemed that not even the animals dared to tread this plot of land, no matter how lovely it was. And truly, it was beautiful—the grass was soft beneath her fingers, the clearing was surrounded by trees. She perked up at that. Perhaps there were some fruit trees close by. Her belly rumbled at the thought.

A place of death and destruction, she thought. Despite the rising sun and the lush growth around her, this place was more of graveyard than anything else. What was once a grand structure was now a crumbled waste. A graveyard with a mask of beauty.

Standing alone towards one side of the clearing, set before the trees, stood a wall that had not fallen yet. An arched window now was the home to a nest of sparrows. It seemed as though that while most animals avoided this place, the mother sparrow nested here. Perhaps it was for the better. Maeve heard eager chirps from the nest and watched as the mother sparrow returned and perched on the lip of her nest. No predators had come to steal her eggs.

A strange, unpleasant sinking feeling began to well inside her as she walked, but her feet could not turn around.  She’d known a place like this as a child, before the sept. She hardly remembered those days, and after a few years, she’d stopped expecting someone to come to the temple and retrieve her. Her life had not been worth anything to anyone before the sept, so what good was it to remember it?

Gingerly, she bunched her dress in one hand and climbed atop one of the lone, pale stones, still staring at the wall.

Beside the wall was a tree, damaged and most of its branches gone, but still growing, half hunched over as it was. Whatever had happened here had happened long ago. What a shame, she thought. If this holdfast still stood, she might have had somewhere to sleep tonight.

Wanting to be closer, Maeve stepped down from the half buried stone and jumped in surprise as she heard a loud clink from beneath her feet. She stumbled away, falling to the side. After staring at the source of the noise a moment, Maeve crawled forward and brushed away the grass and the thin layer of dirt covering whatever it was.

Rich brown soil stained her fingers as she brushed the dirt away. Her fingers met something hard and smooth and cold and a moment later, she found what had piqued her curiosity. There, half rusted by years of rain, was an bit of worked iron. She didn’t know what it was—a breastplate, a shield?—but a hint of it’s emblem still remained. A red, clawed foot adorned the piece, the paint faded and chipped, although the words engraved beneath the foot caught her attention. They were clear and proud as ever.

Glory of the West.

Maeve stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. Eventually, her thighs and knees began to ache, and she sat back on her bottom, her eyes still on the words, as though they held the meaning to everything. She frowned. She'd heard those words from somewhere...somewhere so far off it did not seem real. Like the memory of a dream she wasn’t sure she’d ever had.

What did it matter, she realized with a roll of her eyes. So the history of this place was dark, and it had not died quietly. They were just words, and she was already starting to feel the ache of her belly with each passing moment. She looked around the clearing once more, leaning herself back on the white stone.  

Alone. She was alone now, she had to take care of herself and soon she would have a little infant to take care of as well. Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away.

Standing, Maeve turned away from the forgotten relic of the fallen House, ignoring the curiosity that flared within her as she turned away from the crimson-claw and the words printed beneath it. What was past was past, and she needed only to concern herself with surviving.

13 years ago

There had been a time when House Reyne had been the second richest family in Westeros, shortly behind House Lannister. Time and fate had not been kind to the crimson lions, and their legacy now was of blood and ruin, only the remains of their castle left as a reminder to never cross Tywin Lannister.

People said it was pride and arrogance that started the feud, that Lord Reyne and his co-conspirator Lord Tarbeck had been hungry for more—more power, gold, honour, and had sought to surpass their liege lord and take his seat at Casterly Rock. As punishment, the Old Lion had destroyed their Houses, root and stem. Not even their children were spared.

The truth, as it often is, was a bit different.

Castamere had been a grand castle in it’s prime, white towers brushing the sky itself, their silver and crimson banner flying proudly. Smaller than Casterly Rock, and hidden in the lush, dense wood of the west, it had been the seat of the Reynes since Aegon’s landing. Their goldmines had kept the House in luxury for just as long.  

Truly, the last generation of House Reyne had been a blessed one. Lord Reyne’s marriage to the beautiful and demure Lady Violet Ryger had produced three beautiful, healthy children.

Lord Eli Reyne watched from his solar as his daughters played in the gardens with their kittens, Lady Fluffy and Ser Mouser. Their screams of delight as they chased the playful kittens made his heart glad. His son was in the practice yard, the Master at Arms teaching the boy how to swing a sword properly.

His children had taken the Reyne look, dark red hair with light eyes and fair skin. His son would grow into a strong man, honorable and brave. The boy was no coward, that was true. He recalled how the boy had tried to clobber a rat with his shoe, after the rodent had bitten him. Sometimes, in fact, he thought his boy was too bold for his own good.

He looked forward to his daughter’s future more, however. His son would belong to their House and legacy, but his daughters were his. They would grow tall and graceful, marry some lord, but he would always ensure they returned home often. He would like to see his grandchildren more than twice a year.

Knowing that one day his children's sweet laughter would disappear into practiced courtesies and secretive giggles, Lord Reyne enjoyed the sound of their games for the moment.  Gods knew when he would have occasion to hear them so free and innocent.

Their childish joy was free of the fear this…uprising of his was causing. It was a just cause, and Lord Eli would not turn from it. The Lannisters had become weak and fat since Tytos Lannister, Tywin Lannister’s meek and timid father.  He, as well as the other western Houses had tolerated much these last forty years, but no longer. The family was poison—if they were not weak, they were cruel.

Years ago, when his eldest child was a babe, Lord Olis Tarbeck, his closest friend had been taken captive at Casterly Rock for attempting to kill a Lannister. The man had raped Olis’ wife, and he’d wanted to beat him to death with his own hands. Old Tytos was weak but proud, and ignored the accusations on his great nephew, and put Lord Tarbeck into the dungeons for treason.

Lord Reyne did not truly believe that Tytos had seized Lord Tarbeck on his own. Truly, Tytos was Lord of Caterly Rock in name only. Some said that his son, Tywin, was the true Lord Lannister.

Eventually, Lord Olis was released. His eldest son had taken three Lannister's hostage at their holdfast, and despite Tywin’s protests, Tytos exchanged their hostages, hoping that everything would be forgotten.

But bitterness and rage had festered as Tytos and his wretched son ignored the Tarbeck’s suffering, as rumours arose, claiming the Lady was loose and wanton, that she’d seduced the man who’d raped her, and only claimed she was forced  in order to protect herself from her husband’s rage.

Year after year, they had waited. Planned so carefully for the correct moment when they would strike. And finally, Tytos had died, and for the past year, he and his friend had moved, finally acting.

After decades of making the West a laughingstock, Tytos had done them a favour and finally released his hold to life. He’d been bedbound for years now, Tywin acting as the Warden of the West and correcting his father’s blunders one strike at a time. Not all of them, however.

Had Tywin brought justice to Lady Tarbeck’s attacker, perhaps they would be content to let the shewed man rule over them. Perhaps not. Casterly Rock was too fine a seat to not be tempted by.

“Eli," a voice broke him from his thoughts. He looked toward the door, and saw his lovely wife, Violet. “It isn’t too late.” She moved forward in a graceful glide. She knelt before him, taking his hand in hers. “Please, we can still turn back. I beg you,” She swallowed. “Please don’t do this.”

“What? Do not seek justice for that poor woman?”

“It isn’t about her, I know it!” she cried, her eyes flashing up to meet his. “Perhaps it was, at the start. But that was years ago.”

He sniffed, not liking the direction her words were taking them. “I’ve already told you, Vi. It must be done. They cannot be allowed to—” his wife stood up then, dropping his hand and stepping away.

“They are Lannisters. If they rally the other Houses, they will crush us.”

“The West will side with us, I know it. We were not the only Houses insulted by Tytos and his son.”

“Tytos is dead.” She reminded him. “Dead and buried, what more vengeance can there be?”

“His son still lives. His entire House grieves for the weak, feeble old man. There has never been a better time to strike.”

“Then Lord Tywin will rally men from the riverlands, or the Reach, or the stormlands and crush us.” Eli’s hard, steely eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge dancing within them. “I want to see our children grow up. When it comes down to it, I love them far more that I love justice or fairness.”

Eli stared up at her from his seat for a long moment, tapping his fingers on his desk. “It would have been you, you know.” Lady Reyne frowned, her full brows pinching together.  “Lady Tarbeck told her husband, and he told me. The Lannister wretch that forced himself on her…he had been looking for you. I have thought on it much since he told me, and from what I can remember,  you were missing Garrett that night, and left the feast early to be with him.” With a soft gasp, Violet looked away. It had been so long ago, but she remembered Lord Tytos has wanted a feast and invited all the western lords to attend at Casterly Rock. Her son had been so little then, and she’d taken him along instead of leaving him with a wet-nurse. Had she left the feast so early? The details were so faint, she hardly remembered. “Would you still care so little about what was right, if that prick had found you instead?”

“How dare you.” Lady Reyne hissed out, her voice low and icy. She didn’t believe him, not truly. He was trying to rile her, to ignite her passion so she would support him. “You do not want justice for Lady Tarbeck. You want Casterly Rock.” Eli scoffed, standing from his chair to look out into the gardens once more. His daughters were sitting beneath a tree, one he knew had a nest of birds. They chattered at each other, pointing up into the branches. “Admit it, Eli! I am your wife, I know you best.”

“You know me little, woman!” He snarled, neck snapping around to glare at her.

Her shoulders slumped. “Fifteen years together, and I don’t know what you desire?” Violet laughed, a low, bitter sound. “At least if you were ambitious, I could understand. Then I wouldn’t think you were putting our children at risk for the sake of another woman.” She was sorry Lady Tarbeck had suffered so, but she loved her family more.

“Enough, woman.” Eli’s voice had lost much of it’s bite, but still, he spoke without affection. “Leave me. Alert me when the Tarbeck banners are visible.” He had grown tired of his wife’s accusations, tired of hearing her defend the lives of worms. He looked away again, watching as his daughters laughed, clapping when a bird returned to its nest right before their eyes.

“As you wish, my lord.” She said it as formally as she could, hoping he knew that she hated him in this moment. She made her way down the stone steps from his solar, and rushed through the castle. Dread was seeping into her bones, urgency as she’d never known it surging through her heart. She made her way towards the gardens where her daughters played. She wanted them close.

"Aleia! Maeve! Come here, my loves!" she called to them.

Tenderly, still mindful of her sore muscles, Maeve sat down at the base of the tree, happy for the shade from the sun. The mother sparrow peaked her head out of her nest, her head twitching curiously.

“I won’t steal your eggs, I promise.” She vowed, her voice dull. Another moment, and the bird retreated back into her nest.

Looking down at her folded hands, Maeve started rubbing at some of the dirt there. She hissed when she rubbed too hard over a scratch. It struck her again that she had run from the Order, had run from the people who cared for her since she was five. The people who would have harmed her, and the child.

Her feet and thighs ached from her long run, her back was stiff from sleeping on the cold forest floor the night before and her hair was now more of a nest than the curly auburn locks she had always had. She wanted to find a river to wash in, but her body would not bring itself to move, now sitting in the shade of the tree.

Yet somehow, there was a pride she had in her dishevelled appearance, an elation she didn’t quite understand. These aching muscles and the scratches on her skin were proof that she’d run as far as she could, as fast as she could without letting herself stop. The twigs and leaves in her hair and the dried mud on her dress were proof that she had escaped. She’d run. She couldn’t do it when Jon had begged her to, but…somehow she’d still done it. Late, though it was.

She wondered if her baseborn lover would be proud of her, or if he’d be a little irked that she’d found courage too late. Part of her liked to think he would be proud, that he would've smiled at her and kissed her forehead, whispering something sweet.  The other part of her ached.

Jon was not there, he never again would be. Never again would she smell him, touch him, kiss him, hear him laugh or see him smile or just simply hold him to make sure he was really there and alive and safe. He would never know of the child he had fathered or know that she had runaway. Maybe, she thought, that is better. Better he forget one person than two. Better one shame than double.

Gods, she thought with a sigh, realization catching up with her.

During their time together, in the conversations they had about their lives, Jon had told her about his life in Winterfell and how being a bastard had always hung over his head like a dark and ugly cloud. He never could escape it, it was in his very blood. He had never wanted children, because any child he had would be a bastard, since he never intended to marry, either.

She feared the anger or disgust in his eyes if he should ever look upon their child, his son or daughter with his bastards name. Maeve knew that if that happened, her heart could not bear it.  As much as she loved Jon, as much as her heart and soul cried out for him, she didn't want to see him again while she had his child.

It doesn't matter, she resolved. It did not matter what she feared or wanted because Jon would never come back to her. He would never know of this child, never. It would hurt less to just not think of him.

Time crept by slowly as she rested against the trunk of the tree, watching the woods for movement all the while. Sometimes, she heard the mother sparrow chirp above her, and heard the answering call in the wood around her. If she listened closely, she could hear the faint rush of a stream, not too far off. She would have a wash up later, when she was ready. When she was sure no one would burst through the clearing, donned in septons robes.

Guilt slammed against her heart as she thought of the others, so many of them old. She thought about septon Syvos, wondering if he was alive or dead. In her heart, Maeve knew the answer, and there was the briefest flash of relief before she stomped it down. He might have been cruel to her, but he had served the gods diligently and faithfully. She scanned the skies for dark smoke, in case they’d built a pyre for the septon, but there was none. They must have buried him, then.

She hoped it was peaceful, hateful creature as he was, but hoped more than anything that with septon Syvos’ death, they would let her go, and leave her to the elements as punishment.

Standing and bushing her hair back from her face, Maeve looked around and began to walk again, idly following her ears to where the stream was. It was wide, and cut through to the far end of the clearing. There had been wood structures erected along side it, but, like the rest of the castle, they were in ruins too.

Yanking off her worn out boots, Maeve bunched her dress up in one hand as she walked through the water. It was cold, but so soothing as it washed over her aching feet. Still too afraid of prying eyes, in case the others were determined to capture her and punish her thoroughly, Maeve gingerly knelt down next to the stream, cupping her hands in the water and scrubbing at her face. She rubbed at her arms, her chest, and behind her neck with the water, the simple, crude wash felt as good as a hot bath at the moment.

Lifting her left arm and unwrapping the blood stained bandage, she cleaned the wound and was pleased to find that it was healing well. She threw the soiled linen onto the bank of the stream, a soft wet smack sounding over the rush of the water. Maeve had no intention to ever use that again.

When she was braver, and better assured that no one would come for her, she would strip naked and bathe properly.

Once she felt cleaner, she stripped out of her dress, leaving her in a thin shift. Quickly, she shoved her dress into the water, scrubbing fiercely at the fabric. When she was done, she wrung it out and laid it down to dry on the grassy bank before sitting next to it, her knees drawn up close to her.

The sun was at it’s highest point now, and she felt warmer.

Stay here, a little voice whispered to her. Yes, it is quite lovely; secluded, good steam with clean water, and there must be a fruit grove somewhere around here. It was as if she had been meant to find this place, as if it was meant to be hers.

It was an appealing notion, and far better than stumbling through the woods, finding a rode and hoping it led her somewhere safe. Maeve entertained the thought of building a life here, and for a few moments it was a nice little fantasy, but she realized it would not work very well. She needed people, she needed a home, a place to sleep, a place to…give birth.

It’s early still, she told herself, wanting not to worry too much after only half a day. I'll just stay here a little while. She laid back on the grass, looking up at the white clouds above. Only for a little while, she thought, dosing.

They had set the castle afire, the stone would not burn but the red and orange flames burned the eyes of the people, scorched their lungs and very soon, the old and feeble were dead from the thick black smoke.

Violet Reyne cursed her husband to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells, as she ran through the crowded frenzied halls to her children's rooms. The castle had been stormed by Lannister soldiers in the dead of night and her husband had gone out to fight as well, assuring her their family would be still be alive when the morning's light came, even if his rebellion died.

The Tarbeck host had only arrived a few days before, and even then they had only arrived with a quarter of their numbers. It had been to prevent detection.

Damn you, Eli. Damn you and your stupid rebellion! She thought. She did not care where her foolish husband was. He could die, and she would not weep for him. He had brought this down upon them so let him burn with this castle.

She had just started rushing down the parapet that led to the tower that housed her children, when she heard the words that made her blood chill. "They're in! They're in! They've broken through the Main Gate!" Violet ran faster, feet stumbling once as she reached the steps and then taking two at a time.

Please gods, spare my children, she begged as tears sprang from her eyes. Screams of terror and agony began to sound throughout the halls, fueling her need to find her son and daughters.

Finally, she reached their rooms. She shoved open the door to find her three children huddled together, hiding at the far side of the bed. Her boy, Garrett, had his arms full with his sisters, one arm wrapped around each of them. Her youngest hid her face in his shoulder, while her eldest daughter blinked owlishly at her, her grey eyes shining with tears.

" M-mama?” she whimpered, moving as though she wanted to run to her, but hesitating.

"Come, come, come now!" she hissed. They fearfully stood and ran to her, her daughters clinging to her night dress and robe as her son attached himself to her hand. He hadn’t held her hand since he was as little as her youngest. Her heart ached, knowing her brave boy was afraid. She could feel their fear, and see it in their beautiful steely eyes, and it broke her heart to see them this way. She needed to get them out.

She hauled the youngest child into her arms, curling her arm around her body while she reached for her other daughter’s hand. “Hold to me, Aleia, love. Right? Don’t let go of mama. Good girl. Garrett, do not let go of her hand, not even for a second. Do not.” She ordered, starting to rush again down the steps of the tower, her children in hand.

Violet Reyne ran with them down to the kitchens, where the back doors led out to the gardens and into the forest. She’d admonished her son a hundred times not to climb over the short wall there, so worried that he’d get lost in the forest. They could climb over, run through the trees, escape. Her family’s seat was in that direction. Miles and miles away, but they could make it there. Her brother would hide them, she knew it.

When they finally reached the kitchens, she found it empty. Not a cook, scullery maid or Lannister in sight. The screams got louder. She heard a woman screaming not far off. Violet locked the wooden doors behind her, throwing the key into the burning embers in the fire pit.

“I saw her come down ‘ere!” A man called, and a chorus of men shouted in reply. Her heart plummeted a thousand feet. She met her children’s eyes, bringing a finger to her lips to keep them quiet.

A moment later, another voice, closer this time, spoke. “She’s got ‘er babes with ‘er. Figured she would’ve smothered them while she could.” Violet shuddered, her arm curling tighter around her child, a hand running through her other daughter’s hair when she coiled her arms around her leg.  

Terror clawed up her throat, her eyes burning from the smoke. Or was it her tears? She looked down at her son, his eyes wide and fearful, silently asking her what to do. Her youngest whimpered against her neck. They were so beautiful. Eli was a fool, but he’d given her such beautiful children. They couldn’t die like this. They couldn’t die afraid, and crying, not knowing what was happening.

She could halt the soldiers, lead them upstairs and tell them she’d given her children mercy, and her children would have escaped by the time they realized she’d lied.

Gently, she pushed her children away from her and knelt down to their level. She clung to one of her daughter’s tiny hands and gripped her son’s shoulder, while the third was standing between them.

"Listen to me now, loves," she whispered, fear making her voice shiver. "You have to listen now, there isn’t much time.” She met their eyes. “Run as far as you can, as fast as you can into the forest. Your brother will help you over the wall, but once you’re over, you keep running. You know the forest, yeah? Good." The woman took in a shivering breath as she looked at her children, learning their faces by heart although they were forever seared into her soul, and felt more tears well in her eyes. "I love you so much," she whispered.

Gods, kill me if it means they can live, she prayed. If not, I'll just do it myself.

"Mother," one daughter whimpered tearfully, as if knowing her mother's plans.

"Hush. Stay together, and go to uncle, you know Lord Ryger. Garret,” she met her son’s eyes. “Follow a straight path from here, and keep going until you get to a river.” A heartbeat past, before he nodded. “Good boy." Violet whispered. Looking at them a moment longer, and giving them a gentle smile, she leaned forward and kissed each of their sweet brows before standing and ushering them out the back door.

"Remember, a straight path. Do not stop for anyone. I love you." She whispered. She pushed her children out the door, having to pry her daughters' arms from her to do so. Her children looked at her with faces that made her heartbreak. "Go," she hissed. They did not move. A loud bang made her whip around to see an axe breaking through the locked door. "Go!" she hissed more harshly this time. This time they flinched and began to run, her son holding to both of his sister's hands.

"There she is!" she heard a male shout from behind her. She turned to see a group of Lannister's coming through the now broken door.

Violet held her head high, comforted by the fact that her children had gotten away.

Then suddenly, she heard a scream, a little child's scream. Her neck snapped back to see where it had come from, and screamed in anguish as she saw her youngest daughter fall, an arrow piercing her little leg.

Instinct moved her legs at once, needing to have the child in her arms, to assess the damage and fix it so her baby was not hurt anymore. But before she could take another step towards the screaming child, a hand stopped her. It grabbed hold of her hair, pulling her back and brought the cold steel of a dirk under her neck.

“No, no wait, my daught—” In one quick jerk it was done, and the last thing Violet Reyne saw was a man with a knife approaching her injured daughter.

Chapter Text

The night had grown cold and though she worried for what attention the light of a fire could bring her, she did not care and built one anyway. Still, it was not without difficulty. Loathe as she was to admit it, her fires were always dainty, spluttering and guttering out if she did not feed it a steady stream of kindling. Maeve huddled up against the last remaining wall, rubbing at her chilled arms as she slowly ate  a nearly rotted apple. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

Maeve had been right, there had been a grove of apple trees as well as berry bushes, but the season was coming to an end and so most of the fruit was on the ground and rotting or was ready to fall. Despite the softness of the flesh and the worm holes in some of them, Maeve gladly ate the apples, her stomach no longer growling at her in hunger.

 Had she run years before, when she was a child and had a chance to, she might be more accustomed to hardship.  She’d been afraid, then. Afraid of what would happen if she’d dared step away from the sanctuary that had housed her and fed her. So she stayed.

Life had been for the gods—following their word, living a chaste, modest life, and encouraging others to live as holily as they did. Her family became made of septons and septas. The only proof  she had ever needed was the gods, and the Seven Pointed Star.

The Order had protected her from the unspeakable horrors that befall homeless children in the outside world. The sept had given her a home, clean water, good food, a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head, an education…no one else save for little lords and ladies could ever make such a claim! And all they had asked for her in return was her lifelong devotion as a septa, and she could not give it to them.

“The gods work mysteriously, child.” A septon named Ornell had told her once. “They’ll send a starving family another child to feed and a rich family will be fruitless. But they are always right in their works.” He’d bopped her nose then, a childish action she’d long since outgrown at eleven.  

Why bring her and Jon together, if not for them to love each other? Why send a child if she were not meant to have it? The gods worked mysteriously, they said, the gods are always right, they said, always follow their law, they said. But she had followed them, had faith in them, they gave her Jon, but punished her for loving him. Where was their justice and goodness then?

The honourable thing would be to return to the sept, to face her punishment as she should, but she could not bring herself to want to, much to her shame. If she did, her child would be caught too.

How strange it was, to care about something she hardly knew, something she hadn’t felt or seen. It held such power over her, this child. Her bastard child.

Maeve sighed.  A child without a father was a pariah among other children, one to be avoided, mocked and even beaten for it. A mother without a husband was a whore to be taunted and shunned, given simple work, disrespected and sneered at and expected to be thankful for it. At least, that was what Maeve had always been taught.

The world was rightfully cruel to the wicked, taught the sept. The future was uncertain, but Maeve knew that life would always seem bleak if she chose to see it as such.

The child will not have an easy life, she thought. Their father will not walk beside them, extend a hand when help is needed, will not dry their tears and soothe scraped knees. She would likely be jeered at, dubbed a whore…but if there were people that could view others so hatefully, there had to be people who could look through the past and see the people beneath. Maeve had seen Jon Snow as something much more than a bastard: she had seen a good man, gentle and sweet to her, capable of great things with a kind but firm heart. She had seen his flaws, his ambition, his anger, his quick and sometimes violent temper, and how he could be a stupid fool. All of these things did not make him an illegitimate son, it made him Jon, the man she knew and loved.

Maeve gave a little smile, poking the fire with a stick. There was hope then, small and fragile, but hope nonetheless.

"What's his name again?" Jon asked Robb as they walked through the bustling crowd of soldiers, past the writhing bodies of the injured and the healers who tended to them. The battle was won; they had taken Wayfarer's Rest, the first holdfast on the way to Casterly Rock. Next was Golden Tooth, after that, Sarsfield.

"Ronald Ryger, a River Lord." Robb replied shortly. The air was thick with silent contempt and unease between them. Things had not improved between the brothers, many things were left unsaid and so the tension had not ceased. This irked Jon to no end, but he did not speak up, nor did Robb. What were they supposed to say?

"Where the hell has he been?" Jon asked skeptically. When Robb had taken Riverrun, every House under the Tully's had sworn their swords to Robb, save for the Ryger family. Their little holdfast held no noble with the name Ryger, only their knights and squires. Readily, the abandoned knights swore to Robb, but the Rygers had simply disappeared, Lord, Lady and their only child.

There were whispers they had fled to the Lannisters, but so far, there had been no proof. Jon didn't want any or need any. They had fled like cowards, they were oath breakers. So are you, his heart whispered.

"He said somewhere helpful. To us or the enemy, I don't know." Robb replied stiffly.

"Did he bring men with him?"

"Three knights, a steward and his son. The knight's don't even have House sigils on their armour." Jon stopped a moment amidst the hustle around him in surprise, but started moving again a moment later. Robb was a little ways ahead of him now, but Jon made no move to catch up.

Robb's war tent, where the battle preparations were made, was half crowded as Jon entered. Robb sat at the table, watching the men before him with a stern glare.

"Lord Ryger," Robb began, staring directly at the short, stout man wearing green robes that were caked with dirt and mud. He was old, his hands crooked and his hair wispy and white, but it was clear, with the way he stood, that he had been strong in his youth, a sword fighter perhaps. Now it was clear he was too old to carry even a dirk, his hands would not let him. Stitched onto his chest, was the symbol of his house, the weeping willow of House Ryger. The knights behind him were silent, the two men—one who must've been the steward and the other his son—were quiet as well.

"You swore loyalty to my grandfather, Hoster Tully. Yet when he called his men to war, you were nowhere to be found. Give me a reason why I shouldn't condemn you a traitor."

One of the young men next to Ryger, his son, quickly rested his hand on his sword, but made no other move. The other young man a boy of twenty-three, shifted closer to his lord, staring at Robb in a way that dared him to make good on his threat. Jon didn't like this, and clearly, neither did Robb.

"I am your King, boy." Robb glared at the steward. "Back down." The boy, a steward by the name of Garrett, glared back, but slowly stepped away, clenching his fists until they shook and averting his eyes from Robb's.

A long moment passed before Lord Ryger spoke. "Forgive him, your grace. Garrett's been a part of my household since he was a little lad. " His voice was old and soothing, but Robb did not look impressed. "Your Grace, when word of war broke out, I thought it the perfect time to rally supporters in the West."

"In the west? The western houses are Lannister men, old man." Said Robb incredulously. “They’d beat me and hang me and mine before siding with our cause.”

"Yes, yes, my King, but, I've found in my life, that when you have more gold than your worth, you attract as many friends as you do enemies." The old lord replied slowly. Robb waited for the old man to continue, wanting him to get to the point without the useless words beforehand. Lord Ryger either didn't notice Robb's impatience or didn't care. "You know of the Reyne's, Your Grace? The family that tried to raise against the Lannister's...my sister, was the husband of Lord Eli Reyne and when she and her husband, as well as one of their children, were murdered during the storm of Castamere, it was a blow to my heart and to my pride.” The old man sniffed, looking away from the younger man to collect himself.

"It was no small secret what they were fighting for: the Lannister's were no longer fit to hold to titles they were given and, following the rape of another lord's wife, my brother-in-law saw fit to relieve the Lannister's of their seat." Reyne ended sadly. The steward next to him shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Jon interrupted then, impatience rising. "Answer: why did you run when you were called to war?" Jon grumbled from the tent opening. The men looked over to Eddard Stark's bastard with surprised eyes. No one had expected the silent man in the corner to speak up so forcefully.

"He didn't run, you s—" Lord Reyne waved a hand and silenced whatever insult that steward of his was going to throw at Jon. Jon shifted his eyes to the boy, intent on making the prick learn his place, only to have the strange feeling of nostalgia come over him at seeing his eyes…his surprisingly familiar grey eyes.

"Garrett, shut up." Ryger scolded. Jon looked away from the steward. Fool, he thought, she's gone a few months and now you see her eyes everywhere. It disturbed him a little that it was in the eyes of another man.

"Your Grace," he continued. "The Reyne's actions were justified, even if you don't think so. Tytos Lannister ignored the crimes his own kin committed, let him walk free and unpunished simply because they shared the same blood. Many Houses, not just the Reyne's or the Tarbeck's, were angry by the Lannister's actions. And when their Houses were destroyed, every house in the West was wounded."

“And yet the Lannisters still hold Casterly Rock, unopposed.” Lord Karstark’s gruff voice replied.

Lord Ryger cleared his throat. “They hung my sister and her husband from their gates…” Robb could hear the shaking in the old man’s voice, the rage and grief that had built for years. “They let them rot there…food for the crows until her body finally fell from the noose, her head landing a yard away.” Moisture gathered beneath the Lord Ryger’s eyes, glaring at Lord Karstark.

Robb watched the old Lord, looking for lies and deceit. Finally, he spoke. "What you imply is that the houses sworn to the Lannister's are willing to betray their liege lord to avenge the Reyne’s and Tarbecks." Robb summarised.

Lord Ryger shifted, one of his gnarled old hands reaching up to brush away any proof of his grief. “Yes and no, Your Grace.” He said, clearing his throat a second time. “The queen, Cersei, is no true queen; the small folk are losing love for her as well as her son. These, accusations of incest, make every House in the West, want the Lannister's gone." Ryger nodded. Jon glared. This was a trap, it had to be.

 "I'm not a fool, Lord Ryger. I won't believe you and send my men into an ambush." Robb growled. Grey Wind, who had been sitting beside Robb all this time, stood up, his massive chest rumbling as he let out a menacing snarl.

The men backed away, the knights reaching for their swords but they did not draw them...not yet.

"No, Your Grace, I swear on my wife's life it is no trick." Lord Ryger swore. Suddenly, the other man, Lord Ryger's son, reached into the pack around his shoulder, and brought forth a bundle of scrolls, holding them out for Robb to take.

Carefully, Robb took the scrolls, unrolling one and quickly reading over the yellowish parchment. Jon watched his brother's face. A long moment later, Robb looked up and motioned to the guards standing nearby.

"Take them to their tent, keep them there until I say otherwise." He ordered.

"Y-your Grace," Lord Ryger stuttered, shocked at being dismissed so abruptly. "I have more to tell you."

"Until I know you are what you say, I will hear no more from you." Robb grunted as he looked back at the paper in his hands. With that, the guards all but pushed Lord Ryger and his men from the tent, leaving Robb and Jon alone. Grey Wind sat back down at Robb's side and Jon moved forward a step.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Letters from Westland lords swearing their swords to me." Robb replied hollowly.

Three weeks later...

The little bump on her belly had seemed to appear overnight, a gentle swell that frightened her and fascinated her to no end. Maeve's eyes softened at she slowly ran her hand over the little, almost unnoticeable, distortion. There was a baby in there...it was so odd and she couldn't stop touching the curve.

Her dress was tight over her midsection, it was uncomfortable, the binds stretched completely and on the verge of tearing. She had mended the ties as best she could, but she would need a new dress soon. It did little good for her aching breasts.

Idly, Maeve ran her fingers on the bark of the old tree by the last remaining wall, one hand still feeling the new bump on her belly.

The last few weeks had been long, a dull sequence of sunrise to sunset, each day filled with nothing but walking amongst the ruins and ghosts of this dead holdfast, sitting by the stream and eating the apples from the orchard. All the while, she mulled over the uncertain future and the past she wanted to forget.

It was odd though, how...at home she felt here, ruined as it was. At night, she would lie against the last remaining wall, and look up toward the sky, feeling as if she had done so a hundred times before. In the day, she'd walk amongst the ruins and dip her feet in the rushing stream, a strange familiarity and sadness coming over her as she looked out at the remainders of the castle.

The others had never come for her, she never saw them again. Maeve wept at that loss, feeling both pleased and distressed as hot tears stained her face. The final tie to her old life had been cut, leaving her floating in an abyss without meaning or purpose, another life that was devoid of any type of glory or honour there was.

When the apples ran out, she knew she would have to leave. There was no food here, no proper shelter. But the idea of leaving this place was troubling. What if she left and came into trouble along the way? What would she do for food? What if she never found refuge and was forever lost in the sea of tall trees and thick shrubs? What if she found some place to go, but found that she was not wanted?

She was afraid. In this place, there was no one to judge her, no one to whisper, no one to look. It was a novelty, a freedom never before experienced by Maeve, but it was also lonely. Each day made her feel more and more alone, and it was a feeling she had no wish to prolong any further.

She would leave, soon. Maeve could only hope that this next step would be one in the right direction.

Once more she ran a hand over her belly, wondering how it could possibly get any bigger. This would be worth it, though. It had to be. It was hers, given to her by Jon. Hers to love and take care of, hers to forge into someone good, someone with dreams and purpose. Someone with honour.

Someone not like her.

Maeve laid her head down, bringing her knees close to her as she watched the fire flicker over the sticks she’d piled onto it. She watched as it slowly guttered, shivering when it finally went out.

Chapter Text

Following the river seemed to be a good idea at the time, but now Maeve wondered if there was ever an end to the thing she walked along now. The dry dirt beneath her feet had stained her worn boots a light brown colour and the bodice of her dress was pulled tight across her ever expanding midsection.

She’d left the ruined holdfast a fortnight before, treading on the side of caution each day in case someone came upon her. No one did, and so she walked a little farther each day.     

Her belly was far more pronounced now, the weight of the child inside making her back ache and her feet throb. She felt like an old woman, though she was hardly yet twenty. The summer was at the end, the leaves were starting to change and die, but Maeve still found a small familiar shrub, it’s wide leaves still green. She chewed a couple,  and then layered the green mush over her feet. It soothed the blisters that had formed.

Maeve had followed the stream, watched as it flowed into a river and kept walking and walking and walking. Every day, she felt a little emptier, felt more of a stranger to herself. She acted out of mindless, meaningless instinct. Every step, every chewed up leaf, every day was mechanical, her body working day by day as her mind drifted off elsewhere.

She touched her curved belly, clothed by measly scraps...this was not the body of a septa. Maeve half wanted to stay alone so no one would ever see her shame, but the larger half grew lonely. Loneliness proved a harsh force, driving her toward the promise of company as a farmer dangles a carrot before his mule, the reward just out of reach and urging the animal forward.

She kept on.

Finally, she stopped at the side of the road, not able to walk anymore, and sat. Maeve stripped off her boots, cringing at the sight of her blistered feet. The outside of her feet, as well as the soles, were now marred and rubbed raw, the skin spitting and cracking, red flesh revealed beneath her peeling skin. The green mush she had spread across the ugly wounds had rubbed away and to her dismay, she saw no sign of any more.

The sun moved across the ground with aching slowness, but Maeve took no notice as she sat there until the light finally disappeared beyond the trees. The wind carefully lifted her hair, tickling her chin as the dull, dry strands brushed against it.

Too many days she had traveled, too far had her feet walked, too thin her hope and courage had been stretched.

A few says rest, just a few days, then I'll go again, she promised herself. She feared that the promise would not come to be. I want to go home, she thought suddenly, although she had no notion of where home was.

Pulling herself back and leaning herself up against the tree behind her, Maeve once again touched the curve that kept her child safe and warm. A fluttering sensation greeted her touch, the feeling still so shocking that she could scarcely manage the smile that wanted to get out as her heart burst in happiness.

Many nights ago, Maeve had not counted how many, she felt it for the first time, so faint that she had believed the movement to be something else. She pondered over the feeling, a little worried, when suddenly realization hit her. Maeve felt immensely stupid for not knowing, people often marveled over a pregnant woman's belly, eager to feel what she felt. Quickly the feeling of foolishness faded, replaced by a calm yet giddy feeling.

Their...her child was strong and growing and before very long they would come out and greet the world, screaming and red all over. A thought suddenly occurred to her. Would it be her child or Jon’s? Would it have her hair, or his? Her eyes or his eyes?

A baby that was a constant reminder of her lover, a child that had black curls and pale skin, his laughter and smile, his heart...she hated herself even more for the dread that came with this lovely little picture of a strong little boy or a beautiful little girl that looked just like their father. What she feared more than anything was that they would be like him and it would hurt so much that she would be unable to hold it, or look at it without her soul hurting. She feared that she would give her child coldness instead of motherly warmth and that they would grow to hate her. She was their mother, she should not care what they looked like, they would be hers—her child, boy or girl, her likeness or Jon's, she should not care if it hurt her.

The fluttering slowly stopped, leaving Maeve to her dreams and hopes and fears. She did not pray anymore, save for the little prayers for Jon's safety in battle and Allyria and her children's much deserved prosperity. Her heart was not in it anymore. Her faith in the Seven had waned until her trust was less than the trust a deer held for the hungry wolf.

Belief in the deities of her youth did not drive her anymore. The only thing that did was the fluttering thing inside her.

Maeve closed her eyes; her legs brought close to her and fell asleep, dreaming of a world where Jon was with her and their child had both a mother and a father.

When next she opened her eyes, the day had come and with it the rocking sound of a wagon and the protesting whines of the mule drawing it.

Her fading dream was pushed aside as fear and excitement washed through her and she suddenly found herself very awake. Not far down the road, a small wagon was being pulled by a tired old mule, driven by an equally tired looking old man. Her heart leapt in her chest in a mixture of fear and happiness, and knew that he had not seen her, as the brush along the roadside kept her well hidden.

He drew closer and closer, the rickety creaking letting her know how close he came. She feared discovery, but feared the loss of this rare opportunity more.

Swallowing, Maeve carefully climbed to her feet, crying out sharply as she stood for a second on her battered feet. Suddenly the squeaky cart stopped but Maeve barely noticed as her feet gave out, sending her forward to the ground on her knees. Frantically, she put her arms out to catch her, the bleeding scrapes on her palms from the rocks was a small price to pay to keep her swelling belly from harm.

Maeve stiffened, slowly turning her head to look back at the man in the cart. He looked so surprised it was nearly comical, his mouth hanging open, his crooked old hands still holding the reigns of the donkey and his pointed cap still settled atop his bald, pink head. He was a fat man, no chin under his mouth.

For a long moment they were silent, when she finally managed to speak, "P-please" her voice sounded hoarse to her, proof that it had not been used in quite some time.

He then urged his mule forward toward her, her voice seemed to have broken him out of whatever surprise that had gripped him. Maeve still remained on the ground, an overwhelming feeling of relief coming over her.

It seemed the sun had finally come up in these dark days, a sweet end to this period of loneliness and of loss. She could sob but refrained, not wanting to frighten the old man off. Still though, tears welled up in her eyes.

When he rolled up next to her, he asked, "You’re fine, aren’t ya girl?" his voice was gruff, cautious as he tried to remain aloof. A stranger on the road was odd; a young girl alone on the road was even more suspicious. He rolled onwards, not stopping, expecting the girl to keep up if she wanted to speak.

"I...I..." she coughed, scrambling to her feet. He hadn’t stopped and so she stumbled after him, hoping that he’d let her come with him. "I've been traveling for a long time." She said, her voice still croaking. "My feet," she motioned, "I cannot walk anymore." She stumbled on her feet, falling once more to her knees. The old man blinked, but did not halt his mule. Maeve rose again, cradling her belly. "Please," she rasped. "Are-are you going to town or a village? Please, I beg you, take me with you, I-I will pay you anyway I can." If she were not so desperate, Maeve would have feared a lusty look to overtake his wrinkled face, but at this point it didn't matter. Let him think her a whore, if only to find a village. She would runaway when she was well again before he could even try to lift up her skirts.

The cart came to a stop, the mule braying and flicking his ears. The old man stayed silent for a moment, sizing her up and looking around the road. Finally he said, "You will ride in the back, with my daughter and granddaughter, and you will find your own food and take none of ours. Our water we will share with you but when we get to Golden Tooth, you will pay us ten golden dragons." While she was thankful he did not want her body, her heart dropped realizing what he wanted she could not give.

"I-I-I have," she paused. She had no money whatsoever, no gold nor silver nor coppers, and she was afraid that if he knew that he would refuse her a ride. It was wrong to lie, the gods hated deceit, the part of her that was still a septa whispered. Think of the baby, you can take the ride and when the end is near, promise to pay them back another way, another part of her said.

Maeve straightened up from her position on the ground, moving up so she knelt on her knees, her pregnant stomach revealed to the man. She touched her belly, thinking and weighing the options. It was not the best of offers, she had not found much food along this road and what food this man had, he would not share. It was a ride though.

"Yes, I will pay you ten pieces of gold." She swore finally. The old man nodded curtly, and gave a sharp nod toward the back of his cart.

"Don't wake them. Don't think I won't push you out myself if you do." Maeve did not reply as she carefully got to her feet, quickly shuffling toward the cart and latching her hand to the edge to keep from falling. Her feet stumbled, and she rammed her body against the side of the cart, rocking the entire thing like a boat on rough waters.

The old man hissed at her, and she opened her eyes and looked into the cart. Curled together in the back of the cart, two young girls laid together, sleeping so peacefully as if the hard wood of the cart they slept on was the plushest of beds.

The elder girl was very young, about nineteen or twenty, with orange hair that looked straight and tangled. She was pale, freckled, but pretty. The other girl was lying on the elder's chest, her head tucked under her mother's chin, the same thick ginger hair falling down her shoulders. The little girl was about four years old, and if they hadn't looked so alike she might have took them as sisters.

When she carefully lifted herself into the back, settling as far away from the mother and her child as she could, the old fat man whipped the reigns again, making the donkey whine but walk forward nonetheless.

The girl and her daughter were surprised to see her when they awoke an hour later, but actually quite sweet. The mother's name was Tally, and her daughter's name was Dorna, a bastard from the Westerlands.

They traveled from Ashemark, fleeing from the war and to run to the safety of Golden Tooth.

When Tally saw Maeve's feet, she grew very worried and found some more same leaves Maeve had been using, fishing them from the pack she rested on. With gentle hands, Tally wrapped her feet in an old cloth she produced from a little pack she used as a pillow. Dorna, Tally's daughter, having seen Maeve's swollen belly, timidly gave the stranger her little portion of bread one night a few days after they met.

Maeve had refused, but the little child was persistent, and soon, Maeve was feasting on a slice of bread. Afterwards, as Dorna slept and Tally's father drove them on, Maeve said, "She's a sweet, sweet little girl."

Tally smiled, her chipped and crooked teeth showing without shame or embarrassment. She stroked her daughter's hair. "Aye, my little dove, she is." Tally looked back to Maeve, gesturing to her belly. "How far?"

Maeve thought a moment. "Five moons past…I think.” She ended timidly.

"Ah, I see. Will he be a bastard when you name 'im? Or will he 'ave a name?" The bluntness of her question shocked Maeve a little, and slowly she answered.

"A...a bastard's name." She watched Tally's face, and saw a little flicker of judgement before it faded into softness.

"Someone force ya?" she asked kindly.

"No! No, no, I, um..." Maeve stuttered. She didn't want to explain to the younger girl how her situation came to be, and Tally seemed to sense that.

"Oh. Well it makes no matter. If he was married, old and ugly, or if he's dead, or if he paid you a few shiny coins for a quick one, you get a little baby out of it." She said this with a sweet kindness, but Maeve was still offended.

How dare she think her a whore! How dare she think her a mistress to a married man! Maeve's eyes narrowed into a glare at Tally. The anger she felt was a surprising change from the shame that washed through her when the word was spat at her before. Tally’s own child was a bastard, how could she be so rude?

Tally's smile faded at seeing Maeve's glare. "Don’t call me a whore." Maeve spat out. The back of her mind screamed at her that this was a sweet girl, who was kind enough to give her a ride and water and even help for her feet. But she had been called a whore too often; she knew that's what she was, she didn't need people to constantly remind her of it.

Tally's eyes widened, surprised by the other girls anger, and Maeve felt immediately guilty, but not enough to apologize.

That was all Maeve said, and that was the end of it.

1 month later...

Greif and anger can turn even the most honorable and good of men, driven by the basic need for comfort and assurance, damned be the consequences of afterward.

Jon was felt lower than low as he turned away from the girl behind him, both of them too stunned for words. It had all happened so quickly; one moment, they were talking, grinning at one another, the next, they were lying next to each other, breathless and spent. Maeve, he'd thought at first. I've just betrayed Maeve. The next thought was, my vows. He knew that the latter thought was truer than the first, he didn't have Maeve anymore, but his honor, or the recovering remains of it, was still there. But this still didn't make him feel any better. He felt like shit, like he deserved a good punch to the jaw.

The girl's name was Avera, she was a local girl, black haired and pretty, and surely no maiden. The way she moved was experienced, the way she showed no shyness when she unlaced her bodice and guided him inside her.

They were still camped in Wayfarer's Rest, their army settled outside the town, while Robb and his generals took beds at the inns and taverns. Robb did not want to advance too quickly yet, still fearing an ambush in the West. Why would the West Lords swear to Robb and not Renly, who was looking to claim the south?

Jon wanted strategies, plans and battles and training, he didn't want to be with this girl he barely knew, he didn't want the trouble of telling her this was a mistake and that he was sorry it happened.

It had happened though.

He and Robb entered the local tavern for a drink, wanting to settle their nerves. Robb planned to meet with Renly at a neutral location. Avera was a serving girl, quick on her feet as she served the tavern’s patrons, bringing him and Robb their ale and parting again with sweet words.

After the third cup of ale, Robb had left and Avera's flirting finally paid off as Jon invited her to sit as the tavern slowly died down.

Now Jon found himself here, in her room above the tavern, wondering the quickest way out.

"This shouldn't have happened." He said suddenly, turning toward her. She stopped straightening her clothes and looked to him, her eyes wide and shocked. "This won't happen again." Jon stated firmly.

Avera blinked, cheeks becoming pink. "B-but...I-we...we both enjoyed it and, you'll be here for a while anyway. Why not?" she demanded, her long narrow face twisting into the anger and embarrassment rejection usually came with. "I loved it and you did too! I know you did!" she screeched at Jon.

This scene was horribly familiar to Jon. He hated it and liked it at the same time. His heart twisted as he thought of Maeve.

And it was true, he had enjoyed it, his body drinking in the pleasure he had not felt in such a long time. But it was wrong; had left him unsatisfied and with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"It was wrong. I'm sorry, but this won't happen again." Jon replied evenly. Avera glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes.

"Fine." She bit in a whisper. "Leave the coins on the table and go." Jon looked at her oddly. "You fucked me and now your leaving. So if you treat me like a whore, I'm going to be paid like one." Her anger made her say it, and Jon suspected that if he paid her or didn’t, it would hurt her all the same.

The tense moments that followed were some of the most terrible in Jon's life. Finally, though he felt even worse for it, he dug into his pocket, fished out three golden coins and set them on the table next to the bed.

Chapter Text

"Sing us a song, my girl." Tally said, grinning down at her daughter. "Just 'as mama taught ya." Tally only looked between her mother and Maeve, shyness burning in her eyes. "Come now, girl, Pawpaw wants to hear you."

"Aye, my little flower." The carter called back.

"I bet you have a voice sweeter than any bards." Maeve softly encouraged. It had been a few days since she had snapped at Tally, and those few days had been quiet and tense. Maeve found herself feeling terrible about the entire event, wishing to apologize, and yet she remained just as silent as Tally. But whatever anger left between them seemed to have dissipated now, because Tally smiled her crooked grin at her at the compliment. Maeve was relieved—Tally was sweet and kind, and Maeve did not want to quarrel with her.

Finally, the child seemed to have the courage, and took a deep breath before starting her song.

"I loved a maid as fair as summer
with sunlight in her hair."

She had all the talent of her age, her voice soft and uneven, but lovely and endearing.

"I loved a maid as red as autumn
with sunset in her hair."

Her mother ran a hand over her orange hair at that, and she twisted around to smile up at her. Her heart ached at the sight, at the love so clear between them.

"I loved a maid as white as winter
with moonglow in her hair."

It was a sweet song, but sad. It spoke of a love gone by—taken, stolen, rejected or divided, it made no difference. A heart was broken, a love that never flew. When she was younger, she had thought there was a whisper of hope to it—something that said even though the pain of lost love remained, how good it was to even have loved at all, to know something so warm and to seek it out a second time. She was too old for such musings, jaded and scarred and humiliated.  

It was only a song.

The cart rumbled beneath her bottom, jerking her back and forth in an almost nauseating manor. The bright and beautiful land they traveled by, seemed grey to Maeve. Grey and bleak and joyless.

“I loved a maid as strong as dreamwine, with phantoms in her eyes
I loved a maid as tart as cider, with amber in her eyes
I loved a maid as warm as kindling, with ember in her eyes.”

Dorna’s voice continued on, her song making their journey a little brighter. But for Maeve, she found her enjoyment of the song, of the country passing her by, dimmed.  Often, she thought of those she’d escaped, wondered if they had finally made it to the village. She thought of Septon Syvos. Her eyes looked out, but barely saw; she smiled but it never reached her eyes; she dreamt, but it only brought her mornings that made her long for a man she'd never see again, a life she'd never have. Days felt like years because she was alone now, even though Tally and the others were around.

“I loved a maid throughout the years, now left with nothing, but despair.”

The baby moved, gentle as a reminder. It was her reason, she remembered. Her Order had rejected her, Jon was ripped from her, and anyone else who met her would know she mothered a bastard. But at least she had this. At least she wouldn’t be alone.  

 Maeve rubbed her belly, a little grin pulling at her lips. She didn't know how to be a mother, not really. Her books had taught her some things and the septas had taught her others. She knew how to bathe a baby, how to swaddle it, knew that birth was painful and as dangerous as a soldier in battle. But how to love a baby, how to raise it and teach it right from wrong...Maeve was at a loss.

She cared about the little thing inside her, loved it even. Maybe that would be enough to start her off on the right of it when the time came.

She had some experience thanks to Allyria's children, but the thought of taking care of her own baby still worried her. What if she did it wrong? Love was often not enough—it felt good, but that didn’t mean much in the scheme of things.

For her and Jon it hadn’t been enough. She was a septa, he the bastard brother to a king. Their names were wrong, their duties did not align…no all they had was love, and love hadn’t saved them. It brought them guilt and dishonour so deep that at one time, she could almost swear for certain she hated Jon as much as she loved him. Maeve was sure he had felt the same.

They clapped when Dorna finished her song, and the carter called back for another.

“My favourite one now, my flower. Y’know the one!” his voice was a jolly boom.

Encouraged, the little girl beamed, flashing a smile that showed a few baby teeth missing. With a clap to the beat of the song.

“A bear there was
A bear, a bear!
All black and brown
And covered in hair!”

Maeve grinned at the start of the bawdy song. So many septas and septons sneered at the song, and for a long time she hadn’t understood why until one of the other children at the sept explained it.

She and Tally clapped along with Dorna as she sang.

The former septa thought on the start, of when things had shifted. It started off slowly, but after they laid together the first time, it was jarring. Things had changed and would never be put together the same way as before. And yet she came back for more, scared and thrilled and half in love already.

She couldn’t tell Jon how she felt, not for the longest time.

After each visit, she promised herself and the gods that it was the last. She would slink back into Allyria’s tent, timid as a guilty child, and pretend it had all been a dream. Her guilt made her angry, her guilt made her long for comfort, and it all led back to the dark haired brother of the king.

“Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair!
The maid with honey in her hair!
Her hair! Her hair!
The maid with honey in her hair!”

For the first time in her life, Maeve hadn’t known what she wanted. She had always known herself—what she liked, what she believed, what to do, what to say. Jon Snow had stolen that from her, and for that, she’d hated him.

But it was short lived.

Once or twice, she and Jon were taken by their own desires and had each other in his own tent, only feet away from detection. The first time was just as the sun dipped below the treeline, only a few days after their first time, and anger overtook her sense and brought her to her lover’s tent.

Even now, her cheeks still flamed at how wild they’d been.

“I want you to leave me alone.” She’d hissed when she set eyes on him, dark and beautiful in the light of the brazier. “You’ve ruined me, but I can still make it right, but you leave me alone.” It was an order, stern and cold and yet Jon’s eyes flamed to life.

“If I ruined you, then you ruined me too. And it didn’t feel too much like ruining.” He had been just as innocent as she, and the knowledge set her aflame, as well as filled her with dread.

“It was!” she cried, but suddenly she remembered where she was. She bit her lip, trying to control herself. If anyone should find her here, uncomfortable questions would be raised. “It was. I should have known better.”

A beat passed them. “I knew better than to kiss you, that day. But I did it anyway. You knew better too. And still you came back around. More than once.” She had. Even after that first kiss; she had reacted, she had run, she vowed never to look upon the baseborn general again. And she’d broken that vow, like so many others.

Her cheeks had burned, her belly lurching. “Don’t insult me.” She’d all but begged. “It was wrong.” Why did that sound so unconvincing? “I should have stopped it, but the gods made us weak.”

Her thought for a moment, frowning in thought. “If it’s so wrong, why did the gods make it feel so good?” He took a step closer to her, backing her up against the table. Maeve swallowed, hoping to be calm. Be calm, she thought, be calm and extinguish the flame. He sighed. “It need never happen again.” He didn’t say her name. She remembered how he’d murmured it into her neck, the sounds he’d made as he moved above her, inside her, around her. It had been the sweetest sound in the world to her.

Heat started burning between her legs, pleasant and scorching all at once.

“We should have resisted.” She whispered. His feet halted, not daring another step towards her, keeping himself at arms length. “It wasn’t right. We’re not right, it must never happen again.”

“That’s a shame.” he said, his voice low. Maeve was not sure if he was sincere or not.

“If anyone ever found out…” she couldn’t finish it. “I shouldn’t see you anymore. I won’t. Not ever.” The promise was weak, and she knew it. She had to cut him out like a corruption. She had to and it would hurt.  

“Aye, you shouldn’t.” he agreed, stepping forward again. Maeve’s hands trembled, her breath catching, debating, deciding, warring with herself.  

…And she was on him in a flash of bleak, grey robes. His hands were hard and warm on her, immediately going to the laces on her chest, tugging and loosening them until he could yank her shawl out from her robe. He ran his fingers through her hair, even as the auburn strands remained trapped by her braid.

When he lifted her to the table, stepping between her opened legs, her distant sense of chastity came flittering through her heat-soaked mind. No, we can’t, my vows, your vows, we shouldn’t—AH! It was gone when her lover ran a hand over her thigh while he licked at her neck. Her back pressed painfully into the surface of the table, and she was half sure a model of some House sigil was beneath her.

When Jon pushed inside, he had to cover her mouth with his hand to keep her quiet, but it was weak on her face in the onslaught of his own pleasure. She felt him pant soundlessly against her neck and found she enjoyed the feeling, and pressed her fingers deeper into his back.

When the pain at the base of her back grew too much, she’d shoved him away from her, panting and flushed. He had never looked so beautiful to her, his lips reddened, his cheeks pink, hair in tangles from her hands.

This time, his back met the floor of the tent, and she’d straddled him in a way she’d never imagined doing. Jon had laughed a breathless laugh against her lips, one echoed by her own. And when he slipped inside, her moan mirrored his and his hands pulled and squeezed until she was breathless.   

Even after, when she thought all he desired was a body to satisfy his lust, he’d shattered that horrible hope only an hour later. It was a little funny. He had been walking past her during the day when they usually kept away from one another for appearances sake, when he smiled at her, quickly brushing his large hand against her smaller one before continuing on, like he hadn’t even noticed her. That sweet smile he gave her was so full of warmth, so full of… it made her ache in a way she hoped never ended.

Strange how such a small gesture could change her eyes so quickly.

And after that, all thoughts of wariness toward Jon faded, although most often, shame would overwhelm her and frustration would boil over in him. But he had loved her still, and she had loved him...

“She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,
But he licked the honey from her hair.
Her hair! Her hair!
He licked the honey from her hair!”

An elderly septa named Rhaena had once told her the gods created love out of boredom, so the mortals might amuse them with tears and suffering. That's why people of the sept were above all the rest; they kept their hearts locked away, free of pain and the chains of love, immune to the charms of it, so the gods favoured them over kings and warriors so bold.

Love was the gods' blessing and a curse, it was the endless pursuit of devotion and passion so deep that it made hearts who never found it lament with grief, and to those who did find it, were doomed to despair when they lost it once more.

Was that why she sat here now, pregnant, with strangers fleeing the war? Had they given her Jon and watched them wither and suffer for their own amusement? Slowly, a heavy feeling welled up inside her chest, a ball of hatred and anger made up of loss and grief.

A surge of doubt and mistrust for the very gods she had served rose in her, and she cannot trample it even if she wanted to.

I have to be strong now, she thought with resolve, her hand resting on the bulge of her belly. No man will ever rule over my heart again. And yet, part of her heart was missing, gone to the winds, searching and yearning for things it could not have.

Amusement, indeed.

Dorna finished her song with a flourish, drawing out the final note, proud as any mummer. The three adults clapped.

Patiently, she awaited Dorna and Tally's arrival back to the cart, as the two young girls had gone off to wash up. Maeve had opted to stay behind with Tally's old father, who was currently watering the mule all the while muttering to himself about things she could not hear. He was a silent man when his daughter and granddaughter were not around, closed off.

She would have gone with the two, but suspected the mother would rather have privacy. Alone in the bed of the cart, she had privacy too.

Tugging off her lambskin boots, she found her blisters healing into pink scars. The soles of her feet had thickened, so when she walked, the rocks that poked through her boots didn’t bother her.

Her dress, however, was fast becoming a problem. Her fast expanding midsection was starting to make her dress far too tight, especially over her aching breasts. The weight of the child inside her made her feet ache in a different way, along with her back and knees. Worst of all, red marks ripped the skin of her hips and waist, and over the lower part of her bulging stomach. She hated them, they were so ugly.

Too many times had she met the end of a rod for the sin of vanity. The sept had hurt her so many times, it was no wonder she started to obey. But fear makes power brittle.  

A sudden urge to make water rose up, and hurriedly, she clambered out of the cart, mumbling her excuse. That seemed to be something new, as well. This whole…thing was new to her. The aching back and feet, the evasion to precious food, the tiredness...she just hoped all she felt was normal.

It wasn’t long after she relieved herself, and returned, that Tally and her daughter came back. In her little hands, Dorna held a modest bundle of white and blue flowers, admiring them and stroking the dainty petals with love and care. Maeve smiled at the girl.

Perhaps it was a girl she carried. A girl with her hair, her eyes, her nose…or perhaps they’d have Jon’s hair, or his eyes, or his nose. Would they have a love of flowers? Or would they be as Jon’s wild little sister, loving to run and jump and play with the boys?

Jon sighed as he leant against the tree beside him, thankful for the sturdy support. Around him, delicate, fluffy white flakes fluttered down, sticking to the ground and his hair. It was a gentle snowfall, not like to stick for long. It was more of a warning of bigger winter storms to come.

Below him, he could see men at work, horses scattered and the angular shapes of tents. It was clear to see where the town of Wayfarer's Rest ended and Robb's battalion began, because there was a clear gap between them, that even he could see the white gash from all the way up here on the hill.

He liked looking down at the encampment from the hill, he liked watching the tiny figures of men and horses bustle about. It almost reminded him of the Wall, and the year he'd spent there.

Jon had been thinking about the Wall a lot as of late, ever since he'd came from Avera's bed. A stab of shame hit him on the chest, Maeve's face inadvertently flashing through his mind. How different life might have been if he had kept his vows.

How long could one man go on feeling like this? Hurt, angry...ashamed? Why did he have to be ashamed for loving Maeve, when even Jaime Lannister fucked his own sister, and—if rumours could be true—sired three children on her? Where was the sin in loving Maeve? Maeve who worshiped her selfish gods, who so feared punishment she would gladly walk towards it if only it were made softer.

It didn’t make sense to him, anymore. Being a bastard, Jon understood that life was unfair, cruel to those who are marked with dishonour. But if the country was ruled by a king born of a brother and sister’s incest, and only half forty years prior, a mad man wed his sister in the Light of their Seven fucking gods…how could they say love between a man and a woman, a bastard and a girl too young to even be a septa…how could it be so wrong?

He knew the answers, but they were so strange to him now.

He still wanted her, but he would never have her. He never even truly had, he suddenly realized. While they loved one another and sacrificed their virtues for it, they still belonged to something else.

Him to the Night's Watch, shackles broken as they were, but still bound by vows, while Maeve was forever tied to a holy order that owned her body, and mind.

In his heart, Jon had known that they were doomed to failure, from the first time his lips touched hers, to the last time he held her back in Robb's tent when they'd been discovered. It was a dangerous game they played, but neither could bring themselves to stop; it felt too good, too right.

Back at the Wall he'd sworn to never have a wife nor father any children, to hold no lands or titles and know no glory. How many times had he thought of earning glory and honor as Ranger? He'd dreamt about it since he was a boy. That was all he'd wanted really, to prove himself, to make people see he was more than a bastard.

He'd given that up when word came of war, when Eddard Stark had been killed on King Joffrey’s orders.

As he stared down at the soldiers below tracking through the white fluff that fell  on the frozen ground, he wondered again if he should return to his post. That had been an…an almost plan for when the war was over—to return to the Wall and face whatever he was met with like a man. But dreams sprouted up like weeds the longer he spent with Maeve.

They were always impossible, he thought.

He’d likely be executed as an oathbreaker the moment he dismounted his horse. At least Jon Snow could say he died with the honour of facing his punishment. Perhaps they’d spare him, instead. Offer him a chance to regain whatever honour he’d lost.

Turning away from the distant camp below, Jon returned to his task of watching the surrounding wood for any approaching army or spy. With the horn strapped to his waist it felt much more like the Wall, all white, cold and high up as he was

His eyes searched for another form as well, the muscled white form of his wolf—Ghost. But there was no sign of him. Jon felt a bit blind without Ghost near, and it constricted him. But he would know if something had happened to the beast. It would only feel less lonely if he had his wolf at his side.

But Ghost hadn’t been seen since that night with Avera, as though he were ashamed of his master as well.

He sighed, wishing to see familiar red eyes among the snow, but continued his watch.

It was difficult to avoid the tavern after that night with Avera. Men liked the tavern, the warmth, the beer, the women, it lured them in with the promise of forgetting the horrors they'd seen, but Jon found that he couldn't go there afterwards.

So instead, he drank with the knights and squires and foot soldiers on the edge of town where their camp was set. It was not so different from the tavern, except there were fewer women, snow swirling overhead and men and horses alike pissing and shitting about where they saw fit. Jon was glad for it. He didn’t feel so much like a spectacle here.

Jon sat close to the fire, warming his body as he sat crouched on the ground. Other men sat near, playing cards or dice games, some sharpening knives and talking and laughing with one another, anything to stave off boredom and the cold. Not far from his little fire, was a group of Lord Ryger's men mixed with some humble foot soldiers of the North.

Lord Ryger had still been denied the King's attention as he was still suspected of treachery. Robb was so far treading lightly in finding out if the west was truly seeking to overthrow their liege lord and swear to him.

It was a challenge. If what Ryger swore was true, what would stop the west from rising up and destroying Robb after he'd won their battle? If it was false, what were their plans that involved such a clumsy attempt to lure Robb in?

All these lies, all the rumours and games people played in this war was tiring. Men lied to their dearest  friends every day to ensure their safety, because in this battle of kings, only the liars survived. Once again, Jon wished he had Ghost with him at least, he wished he could feel his white fur between his fingers.

"Does he ever stop moping?" one man asked as he and his mates gathered around another, larger fire, not far from Jon. Robb Stark’s squire paused, ears perking up.

His companions looked toward the bastard in question and shrugged.

"Believe it or not, there was once a time when the bastard actually smiled once in a while." A large bald man recalled. "O'course, that was when he was fucking that pretty little septa." He smiled hungrily, remembering how the little woman made him actually want to find religion at his age. He was met with a few bawdy laughs.

"You better keep quiet," a smaller, skinnier man warned from beside him. "I heard he nearly gutted Theon Greyjoy like a fish for talkin’ ‘bout her." The man whispered worriedly. Of course it was a rumour, but it did have some small truth to it, the young man knew. He had been in the tent, silent as the king’s bastard brother threw his fist into another lord’s belly.

"Why? It ain't like she's the only woman 'round." The first man replied, watching a village woman walk by, his face falling when she sat with another man who pulled her close.

"Eh," the fat man grunted uninterestedly. "The lad's first woman. It does things to a man, y’know. Ye become a slave to one cunt, like there’s not ‘nother hundred walkin’ around." More laughter followed.  

Cautiously, a squire approached Jon Snow. He was a high born lad, unused to the gruff randy attitudes of the men yet, and approached his king's brother nervously. "M’lord Snow," he addressed, his cap clenched tight between his hands.

"What?" Jon asked looking up and finding his brother's squire standing before him. Jon looked back down to the fire.

"Uh, His Grace r-requests you come to s-see him at once, sir." The boy's voice was shaky as he spoke, rushing though the words to be over and done with already.

For a moment Jon seemed not to have heard, but after a moment's hesitation, he abruptly stood. "Better not keep him waiting." He muttered, already walking away from the squire. Bemused, the boy turned and rushed after Master Snow.

When Jon entered his brother's tent he was met with Lord Ryger, his squire and Robb. Only the three of them which was odd, with Grey Wind standing dutifully at Robb’s side.

"What's is it then?" he asked, looking at Robb. Robb stared back, his eyes hard and cautious, and Jon knew why his brother had called on him: he wanted Jon's insight. Their relationship was in shambles but Robb still trusted Jon with the important matters above any of his lords.

"Lord Ryger has an...interesting claim." Robb said, looking back at the old man, and the steward beside him.

"What?"

The old man swallowed, and stood straighter, looking between Ned Stark’s bastard and trueborn.

Jon wondered if the old man resented his presence, if he thought it an insult to explain himself to a bastard. Doubtless he’d heard the other rumours. By any right, Jon shouldn't be alive. His list of sins was short, but heavy: deserted the Night's Watch but was spared by his Kingly brother, and how he'd degraded a Septa of the Seven and escaped harsher punishments, with only whipping scars up and down his back.

If he were not himself, Jon would think what everyone else thought: that he’d used his brother’s power to escape justice. But that was not true, not really. He had faced punishment, and yet his head remained attached to his shoulders, all to avenge the north, their father, and win back their sisters.

But whatever resentment the lord might feel meant little to Jon.

"This," Lord Ryger motioned to the man behind him, his steward. "is Garrett." Garrett was a tall man, broad as well. His hair was long and dark red, falling over his pale eyes. His cheek was marred with a long, jagged scar, and there was something deep and hollow and sad about his grey eyes. "His mother was, Lady Violet Reyne," he paused letting the truth sink in. "And his father was Lord Eli Reyne. Garrett is the sole heir to House Reyne's seat at Castamere."

Both brothers looked to the young man beside the old one, seeing him in an entirely new light.

“Your turn, now Maevy! We all sung ourself hoarse, ‘n now it’s your turn!” Tally called as she ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair.

“Well, I don’t know…” Maeve started, smiling a little. They had taken up camp along the edge of the road, a little ways into the trees to cover them. Still, the cart and the mule were quite visible. The fire made their faces glow, and Tally and Dorna’s hair looked just as orange as the flames.

“C’mon, girl, I’m sure ya voice is just as lovely as any bards.” Tally shot her new friend a grin.

Maeve licked her lips, thinking a moment. She knew very few songs by heart, and the ones she did know were not cheerful and boisterous. But Tally had asked. She licked her lips.

“The Father's face is stern and strong,
he sits and judges right from wrong.
He weighs our lives, the short and long,
and loves the little children.”

The three girls would sleep in the bed of the cart tonight, while the driver bed down with his mule to keep him warm. The old carter did look quite happy next to his mule. She sang on, the world silent around them. The sun had set long ago, and the moon had revealed her face through the soft grey clouds above. 

“The Maiden dances through the sky,
she lives in every lover's sigh.
Her smiles teach the birds to fly,
and gives dreams to little children.”

Her voice grew softer as she watched Dorna snuggle closer to her mother, eyes starting to flutter. Perhaps she’d chosen her song right. By the end of the song, Dorna appeared to be asleep, and her mother laid her down on the soft grass beside her. Even then, Dorna snuggled closer, being comforted by her mother’s presence. Tally was such a kind mother, so happy despite the fact she obviously had nothing and no one besides her father and child.

Suddenly a question formed on her lips, and before she could stop, she spoke. "Where is her father?" Tally looked up, and Maeve felt ashamed for asking such a question. Jon had once told her no one asks a man about his bastards and no one asks a bastard about their father. It was uncouth, impolite and rather a pointless question.

But Tally had asked her a similar question before, so why should she feel bad? She still did though.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." Maeve said hastily. Despite her annoyance toward the girl for implying she was a whore, Maeve did like Tally a great deal. And Tally’s own father was the one giving her a ride, and she couldn’t afford to insult them and loose her place on the cart.

Tally straightened her back, no longer looking down at the small girl who was sleeping soundly with her head on her lap. "No, no, it's fine. He was a…a customer." Tally said gently, nudging Maeve's shoulder with her own as a sign there was no insult felt.

"A customer?" Maeve asked dully, frowning. Tally raised an eyebrow. Oh...oh...OH! Maeve's mouth dropped at her stupidity. She smiled when she heard Tally give a little chuckle at her expense.

"Yes. He was a...a regular, I guess. He liked me best; ‘n always paid for me over t'other girls, the older ones who were tall with bigger tits. He liked to kiss my ears and neck, and he liked to fall asleep after, curled up against me." Tally recalled. "He was only two years older than me, and he was tall." Tally smiled.

"How old were you?"

"Four-and-ten." Maeve nodded, knowing that most girls who had no other options usually went into the pleasure houses as soon as they were flowered. "Then ‘e was thrown from a horse, ‘e fell and broke open his beautiful head, and ‘e died. And he left me with my Dorna inside me." Tally said sadly. Maeve saw the younger girl's eyes glisten and her ginger brows pinch together in despair.

Maeve wrapped an arm around her, not thinking, only hoping to bring some comfort to the usually beaming girl. It was not right seeing someone so happy, so sad.

“I believe in the Land of Always Summer,” she mused aloud. “A beautiful, warm place we go when we die. No war, no pain…only our loved ones there to meet us.” Maeve smiled at the image her mind made up, a warm grassy field, sisters running through it, trying to catch their kittens. She tried to recall who told this to her. It wasn't the sept, but she couldn't remember where she'd heard this. The words were a warm blanket around her, comforting and warming. Even as the sept tried to instill their Seven Heavens and Seven Hells into her heart, Maeve always thought the Land of Always Summer sounded...sweeter. Death must be so very lonely, frightening, and to die and not be alone any longer sounded better than being alone but somewhere nice.

"The sept tell you that? Some high and mighty septon on a stand somewhere, saying the sinners and whores and liars and cheats and bastards go to hell, while the rest get the Land of Eternal Summer?" Tally scoffed bitterly, sadness lacing her words.

"No," Maeve said. "The Faith believes in Seven Heavens and Seven Hells. Someone I can't remember told me. But I think it's true. It is good that he left you Dorna, you’ll always have a piece of him." Another kick.

Tally perked up a little at that, sliding her fingers thorough her daughter's ginger hair. "Aye, I do," she nodded shakily. She looked at Maeve, once again nudging her shoulder. "What about you? Where's ‘is father?"

Maeve froze, and bit her lip. Her hand went to her belly. What could she tell her about Jon? Everything she guessed, there was no danger in it. But could she? Would it hurt too much? Over the last…almost six moons?—her thoughts and emotions built up high. She wanted to talk to someone about it, to cry and scream and have someone pat her back and say they understood. She was so tired of being strong.

She looked to Tally. "His name was, Jon. We were together when she shouldn't have been." It was the first time she'd spoken about him since she was taken from Robb Stark's camp, it was the first time she spoke his name aloud since they last made love, when he planted their child inside her. "He was—"

Suddenly they were rushed, men running toward them from the trees, spears up and ready to kill if any of them should move. The loud clanking of their armour and the beat of their footsteps on the ground awoke the old man by his donkey, and Dorna in her mother's arms.

The child clung to her mother, and Tally pressed her daughter's head against her breasts, her eyes flashing frantically as the men closed in around them.

Maeve flinched back as a spear was pointed at her chest, gasping in terror and holding to her belly, fearing piercing through her, the baby kicking madly.

"Hello, hello, hello." A voice said suddenly. It was then Maeve noticed, that the colours on their breast plates, were of crimson red background, with a golden lion over it.

Chapter Text

"Traitors, eh?” The voice came from the darkness. “Them wolf pups you have? You whore yaself with those traitorous dogs?” a man emerged, firelight making his armour gleam. He was tall and from across the fire, Maeve caught sight of the sword still sheathed at his side. He looked from the carter, who was startled awake with his mule, and back to the women by the fire.

Maeve felt her baby kicking her palm as her hand rested protectively over the swell. It's alright, she found herself thinking, it's alright, I won't let them hurt you. I'll keep you safe. She was answered was a hard kick against her palm.

The man asked nothing more. “No matter,” with a terrible grin, he nodded to the man pointing his spear at Maeve. In a flash, his weapon was pulled away, and Maeve had no time to be relieved because at once, a hand struck forward and tangled itself in her hair. His hands were violent, strong.

“AHH!” she cried out, her ankles scraping against the ground as he yanked her towards him. Her feet stumbled trying to right herself, and she felt the baby kick, harder this time. No! Her mind screamed out in agony, as a violent, desperate cry escaped her mouth.

She resisted, pulling back although it set her scalp on fire.  He didn't stop though, and she felt tears stream down her face as she tried to free herself. But it was no good. Soon enough, he grew tired of her struggles and flung her forward to the ground. Her hands took the worst of it, but they didn’t stop her belly from colliding with the ground. A grunt left her, and pain started throbbing from her right hip.  When the Lannister soldier heaved her up to her dead feet, her knees buckled, and only his painful hand kept her from crumbling to the ground.

Tally's screams sounded through the dark night now, and the heartbreaking whimpers of a terrified child accompanied them. Her child kicked her fiercely now, giving her some relief at knowing it was still safe inside her. Still, sobs of pain and fear came from Maeve, tears trailing lines down her dirty face.

"Please not my daughter! Please don't hurt them!" for a moment, Maeve didn't realize it was the old carter who'd spoken, as his voice was so unexpectedly loud. A smack cracked through the air as a fist collided against the old man's face, Tally's cries grew louder, and Dorna's whimpers grew into wails of fear, then they quietened suddenly. A soldier slipped a knife against Tally's side, pressing into her belly, but also dangerously close to Dorna's neck. Dorna clutched to her mother, his face buried in her stomach, unaware of the danger so close to her.

Maeve felt sick. How could they think to hurt a little child? How howhowhowhowhow? She let out a sob, and distantly, she heard the man who’d grabbed her walk up behind her.

"Shhhh..." the man holding Tally whispered in her ear. "Sh, sh, sh." Tally sniffled as he pushed his hips against her bottom, tears brimming in her eyes as she realized what he wanted.

A hand wound itself back into Maeve’s hair then, yanking her back to her feet. When he finally pulled away, there was little relief as he tore away chunks of long, red-brown strands. Her knees refused to hold her weight, but before she could crumble, the meaty arm of her captor pulled her flush against him.

Did he not care that the woman he abused was heavy with child? But then, why should he? The babe was not his, and men could be cruel to children whose blood they did not share. Women as well, she thought, remembering Lady Stark.  

"Where's your gold? Give all ya gold and silver and coppers to me, now!" The man behind Maeve shouted at the old man. At this moment, Maeve felt immensely ashamed for not having learned the carters name. Tally had called him papa, but she had never learned the name of the man who had given her a ride out of the wilderness.

There was some fumbling, and the soft 'clink, clink, clink' of the coins rattling in a purse. Maeve's tears made her blind, but she could see there was a group of them, she could see the blurry blob of the old man on the ground, digging frantically through a satchel, and she could see Tally holding her daughter as a skinny man stood behind her. She saw Dorna tighten her arms around her mother’s middle.

The Lannister leader took the purse, his eyes glowering down at the old man as he shook the little leather pouch, unsatisfied with the few clinks he heard.

"Not much here is there?" he grunted as he pocketed the purse. If Maeve hadn't been so scared, she might have noticed how calm, how soft his voice was for a man who led a brigade that had no qualms about abusing the elderly or pregnant women.

“N-no, milord. I most of all I had on my cart, to save my daughter and grandgirl from the wolves.” The old man flinched, a fine dew of sweat sheeting his forehead, his eyes flashing once to Tally and Dorna, both of them so frightened. “P-please, milord. We are loyal folk, loyal to House Lannister.”

“Do you think I care who you’re loyal to? You think the old twat of the Rock cares?” His voice was mocking, and Maeve wondered if he’d be so insulting when Tywin Lannister heard.

But then his eyes turned to her, and Maeve felt a fresh shiver of fear run up her belly like a knife. “And whose this little beauty?” He asked, taking a step towards her. The meaty man behind Maeve  must not have liked the way the other man’s eyes traveled her form, because he wretched her upwards once more, one arm secure and tight just below her breasts, while the other grabbed at her hip, nails whitening as he gripped her.  

The man who spoke laughed. “You can have her, Lod. She’s much too fat around the middle for me.”

"Her!" the old man shouted suddenly, pointing accusingly at Maeve. “Sh-she promised me ten gold dragons for passage to Gol'n Tooth! She has gold!"

Cold, greedy eyes turned to her; she blushed under their scrutiny, terrified of what they would do when they found she had no money to give them.

“Now please, milord, let my daughter and grandgirl alone!”

The leader ignored him, and walked around the cart and close to her, every slow and steady step, menacing and dropping her heart further and further to the ground. When he was close enough that she could smell the rot of his teeth on his breath, he spoke. "You don't have money do ye?" He didn't glare or say this in a harsh way, but the smile that accompanied the statement made her skin crawl. “Nah.” He murmured, like he had answered his own question. “Skinny, dirty little thing like you? If you had that much money you’d be fatter than you are now.”

Maeve trembled, letting out a shaky breath through her nose. His grin grew into a smile. "Well, you're gonna have to offer us something, if you want to pass." Tally held back a sob, and Maeve drew in a horrified breath.

"Boys," he addressed his men, stepping away from her. "Do as you will."

"No!" the old man yelled once, when her was suddenly run through with a spear, a wet squelch and a drowned out groan were the last sounds he made.

A soldier stepped forward and grabbed Dorna from her mother's arms, while the skinny man holding Tally stumbled backwards with the screaming mother still locked away in his arms. Dorna screamed and wailed, reaching for her mother. The soldier who'd pulled her away, turned her around and savagely stuck the child across the face, sending her to the ground, quiet and bleeding.

“Nooo!” Tally screamed. “Dorna! Dorna, please!” The girl sobbed, one hand clawing at the air towards her fallen daughter, while the other feebly tried to push the man behind her away. But it was no good, and he threw her to the ground, stunning the young ginger a moment, before he pinned her down with his own skinny body.

Maeve, meanwhile, struggled fiercely, twisting and squirming in the man's arms, trying to get away to save herself.

The meaty man behind her pulled her tight against him, using his heavy body to push her to the ground, belly down. The girth of her belly made her cry out, more in discomfort and fear than in true pain. She struggled harder, fearing what this horrible weight would do to the baby within.

"No!" she screamed. Please, please gods no! H-have mercy.” By some miracle, the man kneeling behind her paused for a moment. Maeve grasped  wildly at his hesitation. “Please, please. My baby,” a sob tore from her throat. “My baby needs to live. He’s all I have, please.” The baby was all she had, all she had left of the man she'd loved, of the life that had almost been. She could not bear to loose it. 

A heavy hand ran over her hair, horrible and repulsive, Maeve wondered if the slob was trying to comfort her. Maeve tried to quieten her tears, hoping not to insight his malice any further. He stroked a few more times, gentle. Gentle…perhaps there was hope.

Then he learned forward and smelled at the space behind her ear. “I’ll put another son in your belly…something to remember me by.” His breath was hot on her ear, and Maeve threw her body back on instinct, hoping to throw him off. But he was too strong and he pressed his large body against her smaller one, causing her to grunt as some air was forced from her lungs.

Maeve hardly noticed the pleas falling from her lips, and she knew no one would answer her.

It was never supposed to be like this. Jon was her first and only, and she never imagined another man would come after him. She had never wanted one too. Jon was tender. He was sweet, loving and he would smile at her, and in those small moments, Maeve had known he truly cared for her—beyond all thoughts of right or wrong, beyond the realities of their circumstances. Jon Snow cared for her, Jon Snow had loved her. This man—if a monster could even be called a man—would never be like Jon.

He was rough, he whispered dirty, loveless things in her ear, he wasn't gentle as he reached for the hem of her too short, too tight dress. Her legs kicked out, her free hands reaching behind her to claw and slap, only to have both hands pinned together above her head and a knife at her throat.

“Stop that, you little bitch," he hissed in her ear, the tip of his knife slicing her skin. She hissed. To prolong her suffering, he slowly dragged the knife across her once smooth, white throat, leaving a bleeding line. He let go of her hands, but did not move the knife, and Maeve dared not move, knowing if she did, she would be dead.  “I’m trying hard ‘nuff to be gentle with you. Or is it you like it rough?” She stayed silent.

He began to push up her dress, and her body tensed but did not struggle like before. She felt something hot drip on her chest.

“N-no, please, stop it.” She cried through her clenched teeth, too afraid that opening her jaws would make his hand slip and leave her bleeding. It was then, Maeve could faintly hear Tally's silent sniffles, and Maeve's heart broke for the poor girl...neither she nor Tally deserved this. This was horrible, this was terrifying...no one deserved this...

“Yeah, why am I even tryin’?” he murmured, sounding thoughtful.  “More concerned about yer damned bastard than your duties.” Duties? What did he mean?

Maeve had little time to ponder, because in the next moment he’d grasped the hem of her dress and started yanking up. He must have been frustrated now, because she felt the fabric give way and tear.   

The dream had started out so sweet. Jon dreamed he was running, the woods rushing past him, black and ominous. It smelled so good, the smell of earth and death and decay, the smell of winter. Maeve's sweet voice carried from somewhere far away. Her voice was far, it was faint, but it was her.

He had started to forget what she sounded like.

Now he heard her, with his sharp ears; he could hear her talking about someplace, someplace beautiful she said. He could hear another voice as well, but he didn't care, he only cared about her, his Maeve.

Then the wind changed and he could smell them: meat. Vicious humans, the humans that stunk of cruelty and blood, the ones that would be eaten by animals when he was finished with them, the ones who were nothing but meat and bones, he could smell them, and Jon could hear them in the trees.

Then the screams started.

His legs moved faster, the sounds of crying and screaming driving him forward, toward Maeve and whatever danger she was in. His heart pounded inside him, and the blackness of the night around him did not seem to end, and for a moment, with the echo of her voice in his ears, he feared he had lost her.

Jon stopped, turning his body to the north, the east, the south and the west, desperately willing her to make a sound louder than a whisper, praying for the wind to change once more and give him her scent, so he could find her. For an endless moment he heard nothing but his own heart pounding in his ears, but then, as though she’d heard him, he found her voice again.

"…stop it.” as clear and loud as ever. His ears perked up, and he shot off toward where he'd heard her. Excitement and terror mixed in his veins, the overwhelming joy that he had found her again twining with the fear of what she had been caught in.

Her sobs grew louder as he ran and ran, and never before had Jon been grateful for such a sad and heartbreaking sound.

The trees ended with a wall of bare and dead plants, and all of a sudden, he broke through them and into a ditch at the side of a road. There, he found five Lannister men doing what Lannister's do.

What he noticed first was the man on top of a woman on the ground, and it took Jon all but three seconds to realize it was Maeve, sobbing as the bastard pinning her pulled up her dress as he held a small knife against her neck. He caught her scent—warm and soft with the acrid scent of terror. And something else, something a little bit like him.

He growled, snapping his jaws and drawing attention from the fuckers hurting her.

Blind fury overtook him, when Maeve didn't look up, a silent sign of submission. He charged at the monster on top of her. He would not let them hurt her, he would kill them first.

Jon was vaguely aware of the deep voiced screams of the men as he ripped them apart, he could taste the iron in their blood, feel their bodies stop moving beneath his, and when he was done, he stood over one for a long moment, growling silently, blood dripping from his jaws, waiting for the bastard to move again so Jon could kill him again.

Unsteady, shuttering breath finally met his ears, and he turned. He saw another woman, lying stunned on her back, her dress bunched up around her waist, blood on her face and chest from when Jon ripped her rapists' neck out while he was still inside her.

He looked farther on and past dead bodies of the animals he had just killed, was Maeve, sitting up and staring at him, her steely grey eyes both terrified and relieved. Her hand moved suddenly to rest upon her belly.

They watched one another for a long moment, neither daring to move. Jon felt like he could not breathe, he felt like he was floating. She looked so different, yet much the same, for it hadn't even been a year since they were taken from each other. She was skinnier, save for around her belly. Her hair was longer, less lustrous than he'd ever seen it. A trickle of blood dripped down her neck and onto her breasts from the slice on her beautiful, pale throat. Her face was dirty, but still as beautiful as he remembered.

Maeve. My Maeve. You’re alive, I’ve found you!

He wanted to run to her, hug her, kiss her, tell her he'd never let anyone hurt her again, and he was about to, when she whispered, "Ghost?"

Suddenly the spell was broken, and Jon shot up from his bed, a cold sheen of sweat on his skin, his heart and head pounding.

Maeve...Ghost...Ghost, Maeve, Lannisters, real, real, real, no, a dream, a dream, it could only be a dream.

Jon's thoughts were jumbled for the rest of the night, and the next night as well and the night after that. He would not sleep for two nights, terrified of where his dreams would bring him, of what he would see if he closed his eyes and allowed dreams to come.

Chapter Text

Maeve held Tally close to her as she cried, the ginger girl's tears wetting the fabric of her bodice. Maeve paid no mind, and just held the other girl, stroking her tangled hair. It felt good to hold someone against her body, it gave her as much comfort as she hoped Tally got from being held. For Maeve, it assured her that she was not alone. They knelt on the ground, and Maeve's feet were losing feeling as she stayed there for an unmeasured amount of time

There was a little kick against her ribs, and one of her hands left Tally’s back to rest where the movement had come from. Maeve’s face crumbled then, and she dropped her forehead to Tally’s shoulder. It’s alive, she thought, agonized. He’s still alive. Her hand rubbed over the spot, relief so devastating it tore a soft sob from her throat. I can feel you, can you feel me?

She hadn’t felt the baby move since…not since…

She couldn’t look at the corpse that had crushed her to the ground.

 Tally held her own child close. Dorna laid half asleep against her mother’s bosom, her little legs settled over Maeve’s lap as the two women clung to each other.

After shoving pushing herself up off the ground, Tally’s first words had called for her child, hoarse from screaming. Maeve recalled how she had scrambled towards her daughter’s still form, on her hands and knees, before reaching out to brush the hair from her little face.

“Dorna…” Tally had murmured softy. When no reply came, Tally had begun to cry. “Dorna, Dorna, wake up my flower…” Fearing the very worst, Maeve crawled towards them, her whole body aching with each tender movement. Her back was wet with the blood of her attacker. Just as she reached the two, Tally had taken her daughter into her arms, weeping into the child’s hair.

“Let me see her.” Maeve said. She felt like she could sleep for a thousand years. Tally only shook her head, eyes clenching shut as she rocked the limp body in her arms. “Let me see her.” Her voice was firmer, and still Tally did not let go of her daughter. “I need to see how hard they hit her.” Slowly, Tally’s rocking came to a stop, and her weeping turned into soft sniffles. It was then she slowly relaxed her arms and cradled her daughter so Maeve could see her face.

Blood caked the side of the little girl’s face, and a dark bruise was already forming. Maeve wanted to cry.

With tentative fingers, Maeve touched the sides of her face, gently prodding for…she didn’t know what she was looking for. But the girl was warm, and she felt the soft throb of a beating heart beneath her fingers.

“She’s alive.” She told Tally. Tally did not breathe a sigh of relief until the little one opened her eyes and mumbled, “Mama?”

 The three did not move from their spot huddled together until the sun started coming up, casting the horrible, exposing light of day upon the bloody ruin around them. Maeve forced herself to look at them, some deep, unfamiliar urge making her eyes rove over each corpse that littered the ground.

The leader of the group laid far from the scene, as though he had been content to watch as his men did what they did. The purse laid in his limp hand, coins spilling out on the grass. Maeve gagged to see the flies crawl over his opened eyes.  The man who’d taken Tally was on his belly, one of his arms was missing. His face was turned away and she was grateful. She did not want to see whatever Ghost had done to his face. The other men were in similar states—one had his throat ripped out, the other had lost his entire jaw.

Finally, Maeve’s eyes found the body of the man who had hurt her most.

He was the one Ghost had savaged the worst.

The only thing recognizable about his face was the blue eye that stared out at nothing. The rest was a ruin of blood and flesh and bone. Half of his arm was ripped off, the flesh ripping at the joint, and his belly was in ribbons, his guts spilling on the ground. The laces of his trousers were half undone, and she felt her stomach roll with disgust. When had he done that? Was it while he petted her head like a dog, while he tried to lull her into hoping he would stop? That part of him was intact, and she wished Ghost had bitten whatever hid behind those laces, off.

Something deep and dark and ugly bloomed inside her. And for a moment it, she did not recognize it as satisfaction.

These men had hurt them—they had brutalized two women, one pregnant and one frail as a newborn calf, and had struck a child so hard, she was difficult to rouse. They’d killed an old man.

In the sept, no one ever told her how...horrific it was, to be caught in a predators clutches without a hope of escape, to be cornered and terrified of the horrors you were about to face. The sept had been safe, they kept her safe, and whatever terror that had brought her to their doors had been left in the past.

The world was so open, so dangerous. Had she been donned in her septa’s robes, she doubted her fate would have been any kinder at the hands of these men.

The septon's had preached that murderous, wicked men like these men were the result of their whore mothers' fornications and sin. Having spawned something so vile and cruel was to be their punishment from the gods. She didn't know if that was true anymore; maybe some men were just born wicked, for surely the gods could not produce such hateful creatures? But then again, they could do anything.

Maeve hiccupped against Tally’s shoulder, her hand still holding her belly. A stronger kick prodded at her hand. Not even born, and she had already failed the child. Had it not been for Ghost…

Her eyes clenched shut. She wanted to do something; to vow to never be that vulnerable, to swear her child would never come under threat again, or to somehow atone for her weakness. She had been helpless to protect the baby.

Eventually, they had to pull apart. The tears slowed, and the sun rose upon them again. Dorna was horribly silent—she had only said “mama,” and no tears had been shed from her.

“We need to leave.” Maeve said, her voice hollow as she pulled away from the other girls. “Come on.” More of them will come before nightfall, surely. To investigate why their men haven’t returned. Maeve rose to her feet, stumbling as her feet tingles and stung as the blood flowed downward. “We have to go.” Jon told her once that men on patrol had systems. If one group doesn’t make contact when they’re supposed to, the rest of them tread with caution and investigate the area the others had last been. Maeve reached down, curling her arm around Tally’s. “Come on, up you get.” Tally’s joints popped when she stood, shifting to keep Dorna curled in her arms.

The blood had dried in the night, and now the back of her dress made the strangest crunching sound as she moved.  Blood of the man who’d tried to rape her. It itched on her skin, stiffened her hair where it had dried. It smelled awful, it itched. She wanted to bathe, the live in the river until all the stains of this man were washed of her skin forever.  

She cast a look to Tally, but her eyes were locked on the body of her father. Of all of them, he had the cleanest death. The bloody stain on his chest had given him a faster death than any of these men.

The Seven and their small mercies, she thought without an ounce of gratitude. She eyed the bite marks on Tally’s neck. If only Ghost had found them sooner.

Maeve reached out to touch Tally's hand, but the girl flinched back, her body recoiling without Tally meaning to.

"I'm sorry," Maeve whispered, wishing she could say something more to comfort the girl. "Let me take her, while we find somewhere to...wash." she held out her arms for the child, not really wanting to bear her weight, but willing to.

"No." Tally replied hastily, holding Dorna closer. "No, we're fine...we're fine." She whispered, but it was very clear that they were not. Maeve nodded.

They lingered there a while, steadying themselves on their unsteady feet, wary of any enemy that may present themselves. But in the morning light, the world was still, only a soft breeze moving the trees and fallen leaves through the air. Only they and the mule remained alive and suddenly the absence of the one who'd saved their lives was made terribly obvious.

Maeve looked around them, but found no sign of the white direwolf. The dead bodies on the ground were the only evidence that he had ever been. Had she imagined it? Had it only been a wolf? There was no way that was Ghost.

But it had to be. Wolves never grew that big, unless they were direwolves, and none beyond the Wall were white. But where was he?

After she whispered the animal's name, shocked at its sudden and unexpected presence, the creature seemed to flinch. It blinked its red eyes once, and for a second, she could swear something had changed within Ghost with just that one instant, but he had turned away so suddenly and ran away and was gone so quickly, she could not be sure. Still in a state of shock, she did not think to call for him.

Maeve's heart quickened. Ghost meant Jon. Jon never went anywhere without Ghost and Ghost never went anywhere without Jon. They were too close to leave the other very far behind. She drew in a trembling breath. So many different things swirled inside her, a tidal wave of pure emotion that pulled her under and knocked her from one feeling and hope to the next. She was crossed between heart aching excitement and longing, and disbelief and fear.

But Ghost was gone, as if he was never there, if he ever was. Maeve worried a little that she'd gone mad from tiredness, the stress from the night making her see things that were not there.

Silently, Maeve and Tally marched across the road and closer to the river that supplied Golden Tooth it’s water. Neither thought of any danger.

Maeve stripped herself bare, wading into the frigid waters, watching the dried blood slowly wash from her legs. Tally sat down on the river bank, holding her daughter close, still refusing to let the little girl out from her arms. She would bathe later when Maeve was done and could watch over Dorna, and she would bathe longer and scrub herself raw.

Maeve's hands roughly rubbed water over her filthy arms, leaving the pale skin an irritated red. She stood in the freezing water up to her hips, not caring that she was starting to shiver violently from the cold of the air and the water. She scrubbed herself down; she cupped water over her body and watched the blood fade into the water. Her scalp stung when she washed her hair of the blood, the wounds that came from her hair being torn out, burning at the cold water's touch.

Her mind was whirling, adding to her aggressive washing. Thoughts of Jon, Ghost, and all that had happened in the night brought tears to her eyes. What were they going to do?

A gentle breeze lifted Maeve's damp hair, something soft and gentle compared to the harshness of the day. When she was finished, she sat in front of Dorna so she wouldn’t see her mother’s abused body as she washed herself. Maeve taught her how to braid a few locks of hair together as a distraction.

With no other options, the two women were forced to slip back into their ruined garments. Maeve observed Dorna’s little fingers trying to master a simple plait into her wet hair. She ignored the stench of the dried blood, and was glad she did not have to look at the ugly stain.  

“Beautiful,” she murmured in encouragement to the little girl. Her wide blue eyes flickered up to hers, curious and unsure. “You’re doing so well.” The child took the praise with little more than a nod.

When Tally was clean, she took her daughter and gently bathed her, washing the blood from the side of her face, the cold water soothing the bruises forming beneath.

Later, when the sun started rising higher, Tally knelt beside her father’s body, tears dripping down her chin as she arranged his arms over his chest. Timidly, Maeve moved forward, wanting to help, wanting to soothe. She smoothed down the hair on his head, and scrubbed away from of the dried splatters of blood on his chin and cheek. She felt strangely hollow touching him.

It was then that more body-wracking sobs rolled though Tally's small form.

"He," Tally sniffed. "he wasn't th-the best father, but he k-kept me n' Dorna s-s-safe." She said as she sat close to his body, looking as small and scared as a child. “He l-loved me, he took care of me. He n-never hi-hit me, not even once.”

Maeve said nothing, but felt an uncomfortable need to do something, give some kind of comfort. At the sept, they would sing when someone dear had died. Their voices, both strong and meek, carried through the stone halls, lifting into the air, as sweet and sad as the seven oils that burned for seven days and nights.

She had not been a Silent Sister who looked in the face of death and did not flinch, one who prepared the bodies of the dead and laid them down in the earth to rest.

No, she had been a septa, her duties had been to helping women and children, helping them live better days.   

Settling down next to Tally, Maeve watched as Dorna crawled into her mother’s lap. For a while they sat together, silent and mourning. Perhaps this was how everyone else grieved.

“We have to go.” She said again at length. “More of them could…” Tally sniffed wetly. Another moment passed, and an urgent need to flee started brewing in her gut. Hooking her arm under Tally’s, Maeve guided her to her feet, carefully steering them towards the cart.

It would be easy to abandon them. They were small, they were afraid, they likely couldn’t chase after her if she decided to take their mule and cart. But then they would die at the side of the road, alone and cold and hungry and Maeve could not bear the thought. Maeve also feared what were to happen if she continued on alone, what dangers she may face alone or the loneliness that may develop.

Her child would come soon enough, and she would feel better to have a friend at her side who had given birth before.

So, as gently as she could, Maeve pushed them into the cart bed.

“Sleep now. You’re safe. I’ll keep watch, just sleep.” I’ll keep you safe, she wanted to promise. But how could she possibly keep that promise? Tally looked up at her with the eyes of a wounded woman; tired and hurt and sad. She reached forward and took Tally’s hand in hers, squeezing gently. “I…I’ll keep us safe.” The promise was made without thoughts of later. Perhaps it was a promise that needed to be made.  

“Just close your eyes. Try to rest.” She stroked softly over her hand, hoping it gave the other girl even the tiniest crumb of comfort.  The ginger haired girl nodded, blinking her reddened eyes.

“Y-you won’t leave us, will you?”

Maeve’s heart ached at the question. “No. I won’t leave you. I swear it on the Old Gods and the New.” Again, Tally nodded, moving to settle on her side, her child curled up beside her.  Maeve wanted to sing to them, the only means of comforting grief she’d been taught as a child of the sept, but she didn’t think it right.

Songs were for joy, and for laughing. The songs were dead.

Gently pulling her hand from Tally's, Maeve walked around the side of the cart, her steps slow, and stopped alongside the mule, who snorted softly at her approach. She stroked the donkey's long snout. It seemed to be in good health, and hadn’t been accosted the night before.

The gods and their small mercies.

Her brows pinched together in worry. What would become of them now, where were they to go? Ghost had run away and there was no hope to find him, he was too fast, too agile. Her heart sank, and tears swam in her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. They wouldn't be safe by themselves...and Ghost was gone and couldn't lead her to Jon.

Jon would keep them safe. He wouldn’t turn them away. And Maeve wanted to see him more than anything—to see his face, to feel his heartbeat and breath beneath her hand, to see he was as whole as he was when she last saw him. She wanted him to hold her, to let her cry and tell her everything would be alright.

A little movement and suddenly the pain in her neck flared back to life, a reminder that the man from the night before had left his mark there. Maeve’s face crumbled, and she pressed both her hands tight against her mouth to keep in the sobs that wanted to break through.

He’d crushed her on the ground, so hard that she hadn’t felt her baby move until hours after. She thought it was dead. Tears leaked from her eyes and she shook her head trying to force away the terrible memories. He’d pretended to be gentle, he stroked her head and then promised to replace the baby he would rip from her. Maeve’s stomach rolled, and she was sick beside the mule.

Her breath was heavy as she settled her hands on her knees, focused solely on the blades of grass, studying them intently as she breathed. It’s over, she thought, they’re dead. Gone. Nothing. He will never hurt me again.

The baby rolled inside her, another reminder he was still there with her. She only wished his father could be there too.

Of course, she had feared Jon would hate her for bearing his bastard child. It was a raw and painful thought, but she would risk the pain to see him. At least then she would know. At least then she would be safe, for even if Jon was disgusted by her state, he wouldn’t abandon her. She tried to tell herself that Jon’s protection would be enough, but she didn’t know. She was still in love with him—how could she accept his hatred?

Suddenly, the mule jerked back, shaking Maeve out of her thoughts. Confused and suddenly afraid, she looked around, her hair whipping back and forth against her shoulders as she searched out the foe that frightened the mule.

Movement caught her eye, fast and bright as a falling star. She gasped, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. She wanted to cry again for how sweet the relief was.  All that came out of her mouth was an awed, “Ooh…”

On the side of the road, atop the half rotted log lining the trees, Ghost stood, massive and fierce, his red eyes watching her steadily. His snout and paws and dirtied with dried blood. It was him, she thought. He suddenly jumped down off the log, causing the mule to fidget more aggressively now. The direwolf's fur stood out bright and proud in the forest, where the colour of dying leaves and dirt offered Ghost no chance of cover. He stepped closer, but paused when the mule tried to rear up.

“Shhh.” She hushed desperately, fearful that his agitation would scare Ghost away. She stroked over his snout. “Shhh.” When the animal was a little calmer, she stepped forwards, coming closer to Ghost. She wasn’t afraid of him, not really. Once, he’d played with children who liked to pull on his ears and make him chase them about the camp.

Red eyes met hers, and she carefully stepped closer. Ghost was huge, his head coming up to her chest, his body longer than the donkey's; one of his paws could surely crush her. His nose nudged forward, carefully taking in the scent of her. Her eyes softened at the bloody hue staining the beautiful fur of his muzzle.

Jon's Ghost had saved her, this great and frightening beast she had never really cared for before, had protected her, and saved her, her baby and her companions from death.

Then, the wolf’s nose drifted lower, his eyes settled on the swell of her belly. She shielded the bump with her hands without realizing. Whatever he smelled there, Maeve did not know because there was little reaction that she could see. His eyes only flickered back up to hers.

“This is Jon’s.” she whispered softly.  She raised her hand up, intending to scratch behind his ears the way Jon said he liked, but before her fingers could touch him, Ghost suddenly turned and trotted down the road.

"No! Wait!" Maeve called after him. Don't leave me, she was about to yell, when the creature stopped and looked back at her. She watched him, afraid of moving, afraid of making him run away again. They watched one another for an unmeasured amount of time, and as Ghost inclined his large head and seemed to nod towards the road, Maeve understood.

Slowly, carefully, she backed up, and climbed onto the seat and took the reins in her trembling hands. She slowly urged the mule forward. She had never driven anything before and a little part of her was simply thrilled at the prospect and exhilarated that so far it seemed to be going well.   

Ghost waited until they were close, and trotted forward again and waited and moved forward again when they were close.

And so it continued, from that day onward, Ghost led them down the road towards a fate unknown, protecting them and watching over them at night, never coming closer than the trees, although Maeve could sometimes see him inch closer, only to turn and bolt away again.

Six Days Later

"...and the lords of Golden Tooth will surrender to us, here," Robb pointed to a location on the map. "And they will give us the men and supplies we need to march onward towards Sarsfield and then Casterly Rock." Robb finished. "Renly Baratheon is dead, and Stannis is defeated for now." He continued. "I've gotten word that Cersei Lannister has ordered all garrisons not at the front to remain at the Red Keep to protect it from siege."

"She'll keep the girls locked away in the deepest pits of that bloody castle, no doubt." Jon grumbled from across from Robb.

"Yes, but we will have Casterly Rock, and all hostages and gold therein." Robb said a little too harshly to his half-brother. Things between the bastard and the King were deteriorating quickly, and Jon counted the days when this war was done so he could go back to the Wall and never bother Robb again. "We also have the West, and dozens of Houses sworn to me and twelve thousand more men." Robb almost smiled at his victory. "I've also heard that Tyrion Lannister has been sent back to the Rock to lord it while his father, brother and sister remain at the Red Keep."

"We lose a full man Lannister and gain a half-man Lannister in return." Theon mumbled amusedly.

As they continued to plan, Jon thought once again how quickly this had progressed.

After meeting the long lost heir to Castamere, four men of noble Western houses had ridden in, singing praises for Robb and promising their lord father's loyalty. Their father’s were at the Capitol or in the field, and so they sent their heirs to make allegiance with the northern king.

Both Jon and Robb were wary, but when an actual lord came riding alone to their camp, both brothers began to tentatively believe the claim that the West wanted Robb to throw the Lannister's from their seat.

Garrett the Steward—or should they call him Lord Garrett Reyne now?—stood beside Jon, the red lion of Castamere stitched on his tunic. Jon wasn't sure what to make of the man. He was quiet, his steely eyes glowering at the Western lords and lordlings who had come to camp, as if blaming them for his Houses' ruin. Other than that, the boy was reserved, with an air of anger that made a lot of men uncomfortable.

"I want Casterly Rock, when this war is done." Garrett said suddenly, his deep voice rumbling through the tent. The eyes of the lords (and Jon) turned to the usually silent man in surprise and question. It was not right for a man to make a demand as large as that.

"You'll have Castamere—" Robb started.

"A pile of burning rubble the last I saw it." Garrett mumbled out, grief evident in the far off look in his eyes. "I have no interest in going back there any time soon. I will rebuild it, but I don't want it for my family's seat." Garrett refused to return to that place. His family met it’s end there—his father died in battle, his mother had her throat slit, and his baby sister was run through after an arrow stopped her running.

I should have carried her, he would think sometimes. Had she lived, he could have made a match for her, gained allies and more men to destroy Tywin with.

Garrett remembered some fond memories of Castamere. He remembered his mother singing him to sleep when he was ill with fever, her voice was soft and awkward, but he had not cared. He remembered his father giving him his first practice sword, and teaching him how to hold it properly, promising to have a real sword crafted with a red lion made of rubies on the pommel. He remembered scaring his sisters with frogs and toads and spiders, racing with them from the gardens, through the orchard and to the stream where they fished and swam. He remembered talking to his youngest sister softly and gently when her pet cat died, hoping to stop her tears with sweet notions of the afterlife.

But all those good memories had been burned away by the fire that scorched Castamere into rubble. He could not go back there, not with the ghosts of his family still haunting him.

"What makes you think you can demand such a prize as the Rock?" Lord Ramsey asked.

"Because I am a lord of the west just as they are. They followed my father, and they will follow me." Garrett said, clearly getting fed up with their resistance to his demands. "My entire family was murdered in our rebellion. They see how much we sacrificed to be rid of Lannister's and know that I ought to be the rightful lord of the Rock." I’ve suffered more than any of them, my family died to be rid of the Lannisters. I am owed the Rock.

"How can you be a good and just lord, when you hate the lords you rule?" Robb asked sternly.

Garrett looked up at Robb. "I don't hate them; I just don't like them very much." Theon and the Gretjon snorted.

"Even so, the new lord of the Rock will go to someone we trust." Theon sneered. "And you haven't been a noble for what, fourteen years? Know your place, boy, and know you have no right to demand anything." Theon continued offhandedly.

Garrett looked shocked for a second, and then rage fitted across his face and his started toward the Greyjoy, fists raised and ready to get them bloody. Jon and Lord Karstark held the man back, as Robb angrily ordered Theon from the tent and his sight. The Ironborn looked at Robb a moment, almost surprised and hurt, but turned and stormed from the tent.

A moment of tense silence followed the outburst and after a moment, Garrett roughly shook Jon and Lord Karstark off, grumbling under his breath about "arrogant, stupid fucking islanders."

"I will consider it." Robb concluded his voice hard and cold as ice. “But if you cause disquiet like that again, you’ll be put in stocks until you can behave.” Garrett was content with that and was silent the rest of their meeting which did not last for very long after.

Jon was pleased to be out of the tent. Emotions always seemed to run high in the war tent, men always coming to blows to the mildest of slights. Not that he was innocent of it, but he had become more controlled after the first time. He was tired, so tired, he felt he could sleep for a hundred years.

He was tired of this war, of Robb and being so bloody withdrawn from his own brother, he was sick of Catelyn and her hatred for him. He was tired of worrying about his sisters, and wondering if he would ever see them again. He was sick of missing Maeve, of hoping against himself that every time they moved camp, he would find her again.

Worst of all, he could not even find solace in sleep.

If he slept, he usually dreamt of Maeve, but that wasn't what troubled him. He dreamt of her all the time, even when she was still there with him.

But now his dreams had become much more…vivid. He not only saw her, but he heard her voice, smelled her scent, and as she slept, he would venture closer to feel her body heat. But he could not speak to her, no matter how hard he’d tried. In the morning, he would be frustrated, his longing enflamed by the night.

What troubled him most was the sight of her middle. He didn’t want to think of her swollen belly, or understand what it meant, and it made him sad to see it really. Before, he used to think of what it might be like to wed her and have a child with her. His dreams must be the manifestation of all those secret longings. Such an achingly lovely sight that he could never have.

Chapter Text

When they were little, as boys often do, they solved their differences with their fists, punching, kicking and slapping their way to rolling around the floor, the need to win overriding any thought in their heads. Robb outmatched him in strength, but Jon was quicker, able to get out of whatever hold his brother put him in.

The last time they fought like that was when they was six. Robb was just about to yield, his bastard brother having pinned him down to the ground, his cheek red from where Jon had hit him. Suddenly, Lady Catelyn had been there, and wretched Jon away by the arm, all but tearing it from the socket. She dragged him through the halls of Winterfell, ignoring the child's pained whimpers, and stormed to his room, where she abruptly shoved him in, locking the door when she left.

It was only later, when Lord Eddard sat his son down in his lap and explained why Lady Stark had been so angry.

Jon was a bastard, and Robb was trueborn. It would not be accepted if a bastard harmed Ned Stark’s trueborn heir, and Lady Stark would be the first to put a stop to it. He promised the woman would never grab him like that again, and she never did. But it was a long time before Jon could return a blow Robb had landed on him in the practice yard. It did not take long before Robb realized their roughhousing days had come to an end.

But at this moment, after everything they'd endured together, after growing beside each other for so many years and shedding blood for each other, Jon was finding it very hard to keep from throttling his brother. Robb was not made to hold his tongue the way other men were—he was their king and kings were above such things.

It had started slowly. They’d been in the war tent, flattening out more plans for battle, and the other lords had retired for the night. But Robb had requested he stay behind a few moments, to talk about what they would do with the camp followers they’d accumulated along the way. It would be no good to storm Golden Tooth with a place to house the men, women and children who travelled with them. But that could not be avoided, so it gave rise to the question: where would they go once Golden Tooth was captured? Surely with this new sacking, more innocents would be left homeless. They were fast accumulating.

It was good the wolves were out on a hunt, far from their quarrelling masters.

The king wanted to merge the remains of the fallen villages with the flourishing city of Golden Tooth, to have the homeless small folk find their own way in the west, as Robb continued to make war on the Lannisters. When they sacked Golden Tooth and proceeded onto Sarsfield, he would leave them behind.

Jon thought of Maeve, then, of the widow and her children that she had cared for. Allyria. Since that wretched meeting where her son had broken his arm because his elder sister had not kept a closer eye on him, Jon had kept tabs on them. The boy’s arm had healed, but Allyria kept all five children closer to her. Jon ensured they ate every night. He had not set eyes on the family since then, and was glad for it.

But still, they had been Maeve’s charges. She’d taken care of those children, she’d made sure they were washed and fed, made sure their clothes were clean and that their tent was secure before they laid down to sleep at night.

Allyria was a widow with five children. She would not last in Golden Tooth, not if she wanted to keep all her children with her. In Winterfell, he knew of a few families who would take her in, families who would be happy to have six additional hands to work. The west was not so forgiving, not so generous. Jon doubted any would be so charitable to a broken hearted woman and her litter of young.

If it were any other circumstance, Jon would have agreed with his brother. His solution made sense, it was practical, but this time he couldn’t. Maeve would want the Draper family to be safe, to have a home and be happy. He could not guarantee that in Golden Tooth.  

So Jon wanted to keep them, all of the displaced villages, in Golden Tooth on a temporary basis, and then, once the battle was won, send them north, to attend to the fields and crops before winter closed in. Perhaps he could slip back to the Wall if he escorted them all north.

Jon was walking the thin line between returning to the Wall and remaining here with his brother's army, and believed he would know what was right when he was back in the familiarity of the north. It repulsed him to think he would be a deserter twice over by leaving Robb to his war, alone and facing enemies, so he stayed without complaint.

I can leave, he would think sometimes. It would not be so strange to take a garrison of three thousand to hold Winterfell. The thought gave him some comfort.

Then suddenly, this mild disagreement exploded into a very loud argument, made up of all the silent loathing and quiet blame, guilt and shame that had built between them. Jon's head was buzzing, unsure how this happened and barely knowing who started it, but continuing to scream back at his brother anyway.

“You have to challenge me with every single choice I make like a sulking boy!” Robb shouted, his blue eyes flashing in the firelight. Bitter rage is what drove him on, and he was rather shocked at his own anger. His own grief for his father’s death had turned to rage, and it had won him a battles and a crown as a result.

But there was no death here. Only an ugly, painful separation between Jon and his septa. But, perhaps, a little bit of the love between himself and Jon had perished along the way.

That must be the source of his fury. Robb lost his father, his brothers and sisters were miles away. Catelyn and Jon were the only family he had here and his mother had freed their most prized prisoner, while Jon resented him for reasons that were beyond both their control.

Jon looked away and turned to leave, cold, icy rage in his eyes. He’d turned his back on his brother so many times these last few months, the old instinct to walk away before it came to blows presiding over his actions. Robb would not let him, not this time.

“I thought you were a man!” He spat out, knowing the blow to his manhood would get a reaction.

Jon snapped around to look at his brother, the ice melting away into a fire almost instantly.   

"What?" he snapped.

“I thought you were a man who spoke his mind. A man who had integrity and honour, despite the fact he abandoned his watch at the Wall.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. “You don’t want to know what’s going through my mind, brother.”

“Now you sulk about, worse than any child. At least children have an excuse.”

“An excuse?” the bastard hissed, hating the word. “You think I enjoy this? Think I enjoy walking through this camp, knowing that they all know? But I stay, and I stay for you.”

“And you hate me for it.” Robb bit back. “You hate me because of that girl.” Finally, he gave words to what they all knew, what none of them dared to think. “Because I did what I had to do. That woman’s been gone for months now, for fuck sake.” He struck his fist on the table in front of him, shaking the candles and the flagon of ale there. Robb knew he was probably being cruel too, but he was past caring. “How much longer will it take Jon?”

Jon’s head was buzzing, he felt his nerves were standing on end. “It was you who allowed her to be sent back!” He roared back. “You have no idea what you sent her back to, what they’ll do to her once they have the chance!” Maeve had been so afraid that last time. She had always been afraid, too afraid to really speak of what her punishment would be if anyone found out about them. He should have thrown her over his shoulder and stolen her away, hiding her in camp like he’d planned to.

“She was a septa, Jon! What, did you think you could marry her?!”

Yes. I wanted to marry her, I wanted a home with her, I wanted children with her. I wanted a life with her. The thoughts came before he could stop them, and the resulting wave of pain was unexpected.

“You’re the king, you could have—” let me marry her? Set her free of her vows? Helped her flee or hide? Each one sounded more impossible, and he paused, only for a moment, but it was enough for Robb to reply.

“You’d have me be like Joffrey? Going about, doing what I want, however I want? I’d be killed before the month was over.”

Jon’s rage subsided for the briefest moment because Robb spoke sense. Then, another wave crashed down over him. “So letting them drag Maeve through a camp of rough men who haven’t had a woman in months, was your way of being better than Joffrey!?” He had heard the rumours, but he hadn’t seen the deed himself, because while Maeve suffered that humiliation, he was being strapped to a tree, his shirt removed so the whip had no barrier to cross to meet his skin.

Robb’s jaw clenched. “She’s a septa who broke her vows, that is what the Faith does to women like her.” The Faith and crown were separate entities, and had been since Maegor the Cruel. No king that followed had been foolish enough to combine the two authorities again and Robb could not afford to change that.

“’Women like her’?” Jon’s voice was low, incredulous. Robb did not say anything in reply, and Jon wondered for the first time what his brother thought of Maeve. Was he like the rest? Did he think her a whore? Maeve had been innocent when he took her, but he knew that mattered little to people. “Go on,” he urged. Dared. “Say it.”

Robb’s nostril’s flared, and he let out a sharp breath. “I had no control of it.”

“Convenient.” Was all Jon could say in reply.

“I mean it.” He growled. Somewhere, far off, a wolf howled. “You are my brother Jon; do you really think I would have punished her like that?”

Jon rounded back on his brother, chest heaving with anger. “You allowed her to go back south, which is even worse! Aye, we are brothers, but I have never betrayed you as badly as to put the woman you love in danger.” It suddenly struck Jon how...relieving it was to unload his pent up anger on his brother, even though it sliced like a knife to speak of Maeve.

"You betrayed yourself when you climbed down from the Wall and bed a septa. It's your own fault she's gone, I only fixed your mess."

Those words hit him hard on the chest, his deepest fear and shame finally put to words. An indescribable wave of hurt washed over him, eating its way from his heart, to the ends of his hair, to the tips of his fingers, to the soles of his feet. The marks on his back burned, the pale, risen skin of his scars feeling as though the wounds were still open and bleeding from the whip.

Jon felt his hand clench, his teeth grit in fury. He felt his arm draw back and suddenly, his fist was smashing against Robb's jaw. Pain burst in his fist, his heart was pounding and his breath was short as though he'd run a mile. Jon could not bring himself to care, blind emotion overtaking all rational thought...after all, one has to be either momentarily mad in order to strike a king.

Closer now, the wolves howled to each other, yipping and growing and snarling.

He deserved that, Jon thought, watching as Robb stumbled back, falling on his arse half a heartbeat later. Jon barely noticed the aching pain throbbing thought his knuckles, for suddenly, the first stirrings of fear tugged on his gut.

Brother or not, a subject had struck his king.

For an endless moment, Jon watched his brother sit on the ground, his arms resting on his bent knees. He raised a rand to swipe under his lip. It came away bloody.

When Robb’s eyes met his brothers, he ignored the instinct to scramble to his feet and hit back. There was a look in Jon’s eye that halted him. He looked wounded. Wounded and angry and even a little fearful, but wounded above all.

It would be folly to continue on, wrestling like children. They weren’t boys any longer, and so they could not walk away from a scrap without consequences. The last thing the King in the North needed was his men to question his capabilities. Their independence was young still, and he would not surrender it after three hundred years of subjugation.

Even for all his sound reasons, it was his brother’s heart that kept his hands loose at his sides when finally he stood up.

The drawn out silence between the men was filled with unspoken understanding. Robb did not like to be hit—at all—but if it was his brother that hit him, he could find forgiveness easier. Jon wouldn't hold this against him, and Robb wouldn't hold this against Jon. That is the way it is between brothers, an understanding that went beyond words.

“I’ll never forgive myself for that.” Jon said, his voice low as he confessed. “I had a hand in what happened, I know it. I loved someone I shouldn’t have. But she didn’t deserve that.”

Robb regarded his brother a moment, and then relaxed his shoulders. The tension was broken, the quarrel was done.

“She didn’t.” Robb finally admitted, swiping again at his lip. Uncomfortable now that he no longer desired a row, Robb spoke again. “Feel better?” he asked, gesturing to the place Jon had struck.

Jon didn’t smile. “A little.” He admitted. There was a certain amount of anger that had released when his fist cracked against Robb's jaw. Jon sighed. “That’s been a long time coming.” He remarked, his eyes a bit softer.

“Aye,” Robb replied, spitting in the grass that carpeted the tent. "Should we get a drink then?" Maybe a few drinks would clear their heads.

“You let me punch your face in. The least I could do was get you a drink.” It felt good to mock his brother, as if their relationship was never broken. Still, Jon was testing the waters for how true that statement was, if it really was as if they never hated each other for a seven month period.

Later, in the silence of the war tent, a flagon of ale between them, Jon and Robb talked about better times. They talked of Winterfell and spring, of their childhood and the siblings they had not seen in over a year. It pained them to speak of their sisters, especially after hearing the most recent rumour about Sansa.

While Arya had been missing since their father’s arrest, Sansa had been the queen’s prisoner, and, if reports were to be believed, Joffrey’s favorite subject to torment and humiliate. Jon hated to believe them, because he hated to believe Sansa, his sweet, naive sister, being abused. But, now their spies reported a change, a shift in the tide that could help bring the lions’ legacy crumbling into the dirt.

Sansa was said to have escaped her captors, with the aid of the monster known as Sandor Clegane, King Joffrey’s sworn shield. The news had come only a few days ago. Jon had never seen Catelyn Tully cry so unashamed in front of others at hearing the news, and never had he seen her steal away so quickly before either. Jon couldn’t blame her, not with the reports from the riverlands concerning Gregor Clegane and his atrocities. Many didn't believe that Sansa had escaped, deeming the whispers to be false, but Robb had ordered men to keep their eyes out for a disfigured man riding with a young maid of fifteen.

But for now, with the ale warming their bellies, the fear for their sisters had eased back a little, and allowed them to remember without too much sadness at times gone by.

The anger that had been simmering between them for so long had finally released, and calmed once more.

Deep down, it irked both Jon and Robb that a single woman could alter their relationship this way. But Jon could no more make his heart forget about her, than he could will the summer to come. He had tried, but it never lasted long.

He thought about her often, where she was, how she was. If she was happy, if she was safe. Was she back in her sept? Had she been spared? He wondered if she was still traveling along the back roads deeper and deeper south, if she was fed and warm and safe.

Memories of a dream flashed before his eyes, and he reminded himself that that was all they were: dreams. No, he had to admit it, he had to accept the terrible truth: he did not know what had happened to Maeve, and never would. That was the worst of it—knowing the fate of someone you love was going to forever be a mystery and knowing you had a hand in sealing their fate.

He would not make his heart cold to Maeve, and neither could Robb shirk his duties as king.  So here they were, love and honour, drinking together like the start of an unfunny joke.

But Jon would stay with his brother. He would help him finish this war, take the west, cripple the Lannisters into submission and then escort his sisters back home. Then he could return to the Wall, then he could forget. If they didn’t hang him for oathbreaking, he could take his post and watch and guard the realm for the rest of his days.

In the end, Jon had to see it through. He had to see this war come to an end, he had to see justice done for his father. Maeve’s ghost would not take that from him. He could not let it.  

There was a world of difference between having someone else drive and driving yourself. It was difficult at first; she had to be careful with her pulls and tugs, the feeling of being in control of the cart making their progress down the old road slow at first, but as they rolled along, her gestures became more smooth and fluent and she found she enjoyed the action...it was quite calming for some bizarre reason.

Tally offered to drive the mule from time to time, and from time to time, Maeve would accept the offer, going to sit in the bed with Dorna, playing simple games with her and reciting simple stories. Maeve was happy to be with them. She felt more like herself with them; warmer, less lonely, but it was Ghost who made her a little less afraid.

The aftermath of that night had left them all quieter. Noises from the woods were suspicious now, the darkness of the night was the Stranger.

The first night they stopped to rest, it had been to the sounds of Tally’s weeping, begging Maeve to keep on, to ride through the night so they could reach Golden Tooth sooner.

“The mule will die of exhaustion if he keep on like this.” She had said after she pulled the donkey to a gentle stop. Almost at once, the animal laid down to rest.

“It s’not safe t’stop.” Tally wept, stoking her daughter’s hair. Maeve thought of Ghost then, and looked out into the darkness of the forest for any sign of him. His eyes reflected back at her. She bit her lip, thoughtful. If Tally saw him, she’d scream. She’d scramble away, she’d get to the reigns before Maeve could stop her, and leave her and Ghost behind.

So instead of revealing their saviour, Maeve only said, “I promised you I’ll keep you safe.”

“’Ow can you keep us safe?” the other girl scoffed, casting a look down at Maeve’s swollen belly.

“Because I can.” Ghost can. “In the morning, I’ll tell you how. But tonight, I want you to sleep, and rest and in the morning, you’ll wake and-and…” Tally’s eyes were reddened and disbelieving, and Maeve felt more scolded than she’d ever been by any septa. Her throat ached. “Please?” It took a while, but eventually, Tally curled around her child and closed her eyes. Maeve didn’t think she slept, but it was better than nothing at all.

And in return, Maeve kept her promises. The sun rose and they were untouched by cruelty. The sun rose, and as they broke their fast on a little bit of bread and dandelions, Maeve once more looked into the trees. Ghost was there, hidden in the shadows of the trees, but the snows had not come yet, cold as it was, and so he was not well concealed.

“Do you remember what saved us that night?” Tally stopped chewing, looking up at Maeve, startled and angry. “It was big and white. A massive beast.” Another moment passed, and finally, the other girl nodded. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Tally looking between them, and heard the crunch of the dandelion flower as she chewed it up. “He stayed with us. I saw him in the night, prowling through the woods.”

“You mean hunting us?” she spat.

“If he’d wanted us dead, he would have had plenty of time to do it in the night.” The other girl had no argument at that, but it wasn’t until midday when she truly believed the animal meant no harm to them.

They’d stopped a second time, and split the already tiny bit of bread left between them, when Ghost revealed himself at last. Tally screeched, as expected, and hauled Dorna up onto her back. Maeve got up as quickly as she could with her belly in the way, and put herself between the other two and the direwolf. She smiled to see the dead rabbit between his massive jaws, and with careful movements, mindful of the woman watching her, Maeve stepped closer to take the food from Ghost. He only licked the blood from his snout, and trotted back into the woods.

That night, they settled around a fire as they tucked into their roasted rabbit. Tally never mentioned Ghost, not even now, days later.

After that night, they were all quieter.

The winter was catching up with them fast, the days were colder and the nights were darker.

Dorna, the young child she was, had asked questions of what had happened, but neither woman could bear to answer her, the memory too raw and new. Better she linger in her childish ignorance than know the horrid truth. But when the little girl curled up against her mother at night, gently running her little fingers over the bruises on her arms, Maeve could see the sadness in her innocent eyes, and knew the little girl knew something horrible had happened to her mother. Dorna soon stopped asking.

Without thinking, Maeve's fingers drew up to her neck, quickly finding the burning line where that man had cut her. It hurt, it burned to touch, but her fingers continued to trace it.

What did another scar matter? This journey, short as it was, had left her with many. There was a short, thick one on her arm from when she fell from her horse and realized her baby's existence. There was one faded one on her chest, just below her collar bone from when her elder septa's and septon's used a knife to shred her clothes the day she was ripped away from Jon. Her feet were rough and leathery with the scars of her blisters. There were ugly red lines on her belly where her skin stretched to accommodate the growing child in her womb.

Another scar for her collection. Ugly and painful and undeserved. A mark of all the things that had harmed her these last few months, all the times someone failed to destroy her. She had come this far and survived, she could go farther. She would leave them all behind to perish, while she continued on.

They might hurt for a time, but the marks on her heart would heal. Eventually.  

Suddenly here was a nudge from inside her, bringing her from her thoughts. Taking one hand from the reigns, Maeve set her hand on her swollen belly, feeling another kick against her palm. As the days rolled along, and the baby moved more and more inside her, it suddenly occurred to Maeve that motherhood was approaching fast.

Like it was being indignant for letting that fact slip her mind, another, sharper kick landed on her side.

"Ah." She whispered, pressing down against the spot a little. Such a strange feeling: having something move inside you. The notion of the baby was more tangible now, no longer abstract and strange.

Soon she would meet the little person who had made a habit out of kicking her. Jon used to kick her too, when they were sated enough to find a few moments of sleep together. When his breathing slowed, and his hands twitched, it was a sign he was truly asleep. But when he kicked, it revealed his dreaming.

Once, when she asked, he told her about his dreams.

“I’m a wolf, running through the trees. Hunting, most times. I always wake up before I make the kill.” She had said they sounded very frightening, but Jon shook his head. “I’m free, there.” He had said, running his hand over her naked shoulder.

The barren, cold fields passed by, farm houses in the distance with tiny specs of families toddling about. She could see cubed blurs which must have been carts, the smoke from fires far off in the distant, black plums rising into the air. Maeve wanted to think it was only a large bonfire, but she knew it was most likely the remains of someone home rising into the sky. She only hoped they were far enough away from it to escape whatever had taken it to torch.  

"Think they'll stop us?" Tally asked softly from behind her, motioning to the people in the distance. She stroked her daughter's hair as she watched the world pass by.

"I'm not sure...we have nothing really for them to take." Maeve replied. Except ourselves, both women thought. “They look to be packing.”

"Why can't we jus stop here? Um hun'gry!" Dorna mumbled out, pouting grumpily. The food was little now, and though they scraped up what they could from the land, the winter cold killed the plants quickly. But Ghost was always there.

The farmers' harvest had probably been seized to feed the Lannister's army, and what they had left for themselves should be used to feed their families. And farms kept close to the cities so they wouldn't have to ship their product very far, so Golden Tooth must just be up the road a little farther.

“No, my flower. Here, have a little meat.” The little girl took the food without complaint, gobbling down the roasted rabbit and then licking her fingers clean of the juices.

Her own belly rumbled. Ghost is here, she thought, Ghost will protect us. The large creature was here somewhere within the trees, somehow invisible and silent, a true ghost. Maeve knew he was there, she could feel those red eyes on her. When they decided to rest, he would arrive with a fresh kill between his teeth and drop the carcass at her feet, before trotting back to the safety of the trees.  

Tally and Dorna had taken to hiding in the cart bed whenever he appeared, afraid of the large intimidating animal, despite Maeve's assurances that he was tame. Well, "tame" might not be the right word, she thought with a grin.

"You can't tame a wild thing," Jon had told her when she asked if the children were safe around the beast. At that moment, the two of them were talking on the eastern side of the camp, closer towards the trees. Tents stood around them, but the smiths, carpenters and stone masons were located towards the center of the camp, and so most of the company around them were foot soldiers and families.

Maybe that's why Jon liked it here; it was a lot more peaceful than being around battle minded men. Or, some stupid, silly thought whispered, maybe he likes it because this is where he’ll always find you.

“A wild thing would tear off their little arms for pulling at him as they do.” Maeve countered, gesturing towards the two youngsters currently amusing themselves with his direwolf. She spoke softly enough so the little ones would not startle and scurry away from the wolf. She watched their little hands tug at the wolf’s ears, and felt her heart ache with something sweet.  

In her arms, Allyria’s youngest started to stir. Tobias was hardly more than a year old, and so he spent a lot of time in someone’s arms. Maeve shifted him so he lay against her shoulder.

“Aye,” Jon nodded, casting his eyes to the children. Ghost let out a soft rumble and lowered himself down to the ground. “On the battlefield, he’s brutal. All teeth and claws.”

“Good then, that he knows the difference between an enemy and a curious child.” Tobias was babbling away against her shoulder, one of his tiny arms curling around her chest to rub the material of her scarf between his fingers.

Jon looked back to his friend, watching her watch the children, admiring her profile without realizing. "He won’t abide them for long." Jon said. “He’s still a wild thing.” Maeve turned back to look at him, blushing at finding he was already looking at her already. To distract herself from those eyes of his, Maeve shifted the baby in her arms, grimacing as her joints began to ache.

Jon spoke before realizing what he was saying. "I'll take him." The words were simple, but clumsy on his tongue. The last time he picked up a child that small was when Rickon was a baby, and even then the boy squirmed and whimpered in his arms.

But Maeve did not protest. Instead, she gently pried the baby from her shoulder and set him into Jon’s awkward hands. He didn't expect her to accept so quickly, but when she immediately started rolling her shoulders, he realized she must not be used to carrying something with weight for very long.

Tobias blinked, twisting his head around to get his bearings. What had happened? Who was holding him? There was the septa who always took care of him, except she wasn't holding him anymore. Instead she was smiling at his confused face, stretching her stiff arms. Tobias stretched his head up and looked up at the man holding him, his pudgy little hands resting on Jon's large fingers.

Tobias didn't like this. This wasn't comfortable. He was cold. He wanted to go back to the septa's soft, warm chest! He didn't like being held so far from Jon's body.

He started to whimper; sad little sounds and Jon stiffened and fidgeted as he began to panic, worrying he'd done something wrong. Maybe he was hurting him, or holding him too tight?

Maeve looked from Tobias then back to Jon. "Have you ever held a baby before?"

The children were distracted from Ghost at the septa’s words, the wide eyes taking in the sight of Lord Snow holding their baby brother. After a moment, they continued their animated jabbering to the direwolf, examining his enormous paws and daring each other to pull the animals lips back to see his teeth.

"Not in a long time." Jon admitted, praying that she would take the baby before he did something wrong and made the child start screaming. This was stupid; he was a man who had fought battles, and here he was holding an infant—terrified of the tiny thing.

Maeve sighed, her face smiling and her eyes tender. That was sweet. He was able to face the enemy in battle and kill men with his sword, but in the face of this small baby, Jon Snow flinched. That was precious. He was adorable.

"Here," she said, holding her arms out and turning the baby and shifting Tobias around so he sat comfortably in Jon's arms. Tobias and Jon both blinked, but Tobias didn't squirm. This was better. "Now you can stop looking like he's going to bite you." 

"Look!" Tally yelped, breaking Maeve out of her daydream. Maeve followed her terrified gaze and saw, up ahead, at the end of the road, a cluster of soldiers in red capes. 

Chapter Text

Maeve's hands shook as they approached the barricade of men, but the motion of the cart hid it quite well. Sweat broke out on her brow, cold in the gentle breeze. She gripped the reigns in her hands, so tight her knuckles stretched white over the bone. She could feel her heart race within her breast, one or two beats skipping in her terror.

Her eyes were locked on the terrible red of their cloaks, that ugly, evil colour haunted her as a child. She’d woken the other children with her screaming, she’d woken the septas, and it had often earned her a cold pale of water on her back, and a sharp switch being brought down on her.

Once, a younger septa had shown her kindness. She could not recall a name now, much to her shame, but it had been her that made Maeve realize that septas could be good and kind. The girl, only eight, had wanted to be like her—kind, sweet, gentle, motherly. And it was then she promised to be just like her—a septa, a godly woman but kind and sweet, gentle and motherly to children who no longer had mothers.

Memories she had long since shut away flittered through her mind, suddenly. The box had been opened, and there was no stopping the images that poured forth. She wanted to stop it, and instinct told her to bring herself pain, rather than to face that agony. Yet, her fear kept her still.  

Maeve hated that colour. Hated it and wanted all who wore it to turn to dust.

Heavy breathing, fear, screaming...acrid smoke flittered across her nose...the bright glow of fire outside an arched window, smoke dancing thorough the air as the flame raged upwards towards the heavens... three sets of small children's arms holding onto each other, little hands tight around their siblings... "Mama! Ma-ma!" the scream of a frightened child echoed through the air...blood, all down small legs, an arrow shaft, pain!...she looked up, men crowded around her, hard eyes filled with horror...an older man stood above her, nothing but cold hate written on his face... "Have her taken to a whore house. More mercy than a traitor's spawn deserves." he spat glaring down at her, blood stained across his breast plate, a crimson cape fluttering behind him as flames engulfed her home...

"Oh gods, please. No, no, no, no, no..." Maeve heard Tally whimper as she pulled Dorna close to her breast. Maeve blinked, the ugly flashes put to a stop. She ignored the probing questions that built inside her, the anger and hate and fear that gripped her heart as she remembered that cold face. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to think of it.

Forgetting where she’d come from was easier than remembering what she had lost.

But some things could not be forgotten, and sometimes a memory of a time before the sept would arise. A woman would most often come to mind, an abstract blur that made her feel safe. Sometimes she thought she knew the colour of her hair or her smile, but her face never became any clearer.

Perhaps that was her mother—in Maeve’s dreams, she was warm and gentle and loving. When she was still very small, she would sit on the steps and wait for her to come, watching the crowds, looking for something familiar. But she never did.

The memories she’d shut away were too terrible to think of. She used to pray to the Mother everyday to take them away, to let her only remember the good, so she could sleep without waking in screams. Dreams filled with terror, tormented her for months, memories of screams and fire and blood. All the while she thought, "Why not kill me too? Why am I alive?" For a little while, she thought perhaps others had survived too. Now, she could not remember who she’d hoped survived, but that hope had been a balm for a raw, open wound. She never would have healed without it.

But slowly, the nightmares faded and the memories of before were confined only to dreams. As time went on, she began to believe a life dedicated to the Seven would be more virtuous than any life she could have had before. She would still feel the ache of loss, but she could bear it.

The memories were in the past, and she had moved forward, but now she felt as if she was staring it in the face. The mule continued on, and she could now see the sharp angles and curves of the golden lion on their flags.

A branch snapped from somewhere within the trees attracting her gaze toward the line of bare trees where the sound had come. Ghost! She thought with wild relief. They would be safe with Ghost at their side, but Maeve didn’t want the wolf to attack the men ahead of them. While Ghost had torn apart six men easily enough, these men had more numbers and the benefit of daylight at their side. She wanted to avoid conflict where they could because Ghost was too special to put at risk. 

Ghost was not a dog, not even an ordinary direwolf. When he came close to her at night, he looked at her so cleverly she could swear it was a human's eyes that looked at her. Ghost was more than any pet, almost like a shadow of Jon's, like him in so many ways.

Stay back Ghost. Stay back unless I need you.

When they were together in Robb Stark’s camp, wherever Jon had been, Ghost was sure to be close by. Where there was Jon, there was Ghost. Where there was Ghost, there was Jon. Two halves of a whole.  

She remembered the curious way the wolf would stare at her for long moments of time, once even daring to nudge her foot with his huge paw. She had almost been asleep, and was sure the wolf had thought so too, why he had dared to come so close. The bump was gentle, and he was so close she could feel his hot breath on her calf. She had jumped awake, and startled them both. Looking up at her with those human eyes of his, he nudged the same spot again with his cold nose. He backed away again a second later when she raised her hand to touch him.

Maeve rolled her shoulders back, intending on sitting straighter as they approached the soldiers, but the stiff feel of the back of her dress send a sudden cold wave of panic through her.

The blood. The blood of the man who had hurt her. The blood that had dried on her back, the blood that was impossible to scrub out. The cloak she had been loaned now lay over Tally and her daughter, an extra layer of warmth to protect them from the icy air.

For a moment she could not breathe, she felt as though she were being crushed under him again. But he was dead. Dead and mutilated, his guts torn out, his face destroyed…dead. Ghost had killed him. Now he was rotting on the side of the road.

Her hair was long, it easily covered the upper half of her back, but it wasn’t enough. The brown, stinking stain wasn’t invisible and Tally’s gown was in a similar state. The blood had pooled on her front, but after their wash in the river, she’d put it on backwards so she wouldn’t have to look at it. 

The soldiers would see, they would ask questions and soon they would know their brothers were dead.

“If a scouting party doesn’t return, soon enough the other parties will take notice and go looking.”

Maeve took a deep breath, trying to settle the rising fear. “Tally…” the girl sniffled behind her, but did not reply. “Tally.” She said again, sharper. “You have to stop crying and put the cloak back on my shoulders.” She gently tugged the reigns, slowing the mule down to the slowest of trots.

“Why?" Tally croaked back, her voice laded with hopelessness. Maeve was in no position to treat the withered sounding woman with any tenderness at the moment.

“Do as I say.” She hissed. At the harshness of her elder girl's voice, Tally did what she was told, but did so rather slowly, her eyes still bleak with fear, devoid of the hope that they could pass the checkpoint without harm done to them. Tally didn't trust Ghost with his large teeth and claws to save them, even though he had last time.

With gentle hands, the younger girl laid the cloak over Maeve’s shoulders. She shrugged her shoulders to bring it closer, and hoped the men ahead did not noticed. She felt warmer beneath the cloak, and only then realized how cold she’d been. Puffs of dewy breath came from her mouth as she breathed. She had seen winter as a child, but she had never felt a cold like this.

Her child would be a winter child. They would know the cold and hardship before the sun and comfort. Perhaps that was better. Let him become strong long before he needs to be and face strife without flinching.

Let my baby be stronger than I ever was, she thought, praying to gods she hardly believed in anymore.

The men watched her with interest as she came closer. Maeve was not surprised. She was a woman, nearly eight moons gone with child and driving a cart without a man in sight. There were twelve of them she saw now, shifting closer together and strengthening their human wall. They watched her inquisitively; three or four of them leered.

If she had a great war horse pulling the cart, she would have urged it into a gallop, and rode all of them down. Alas, she had only a mule, and a wolf she did not want to see harmed. Maeve was tired of feeling weak in the face of strangers, if people lived through this world by lying to each other, then so be it, she would lie too if she must. She had to protect the child.

"Halt, woman!" a gaunt faced man without a helm shouted out to her as she came to a stop right before them. Maeve's heart jumped at his suddenly loud voice and she yanked the reigns, bringing the mule to a stop.

The helmless man stepped forward, looking up at her with accusing eyes. "What's a woman doing driving a cart with no man to keep her safe?" he inquired bluntly. Maeve fidgeted. He didn’t sound taunting as the last man had been, he didn’t sound as though he had other plans. It was only a question.

Still, it took her a moment to find her voice. “Er, there was a man traveling with us,” Her voice was more of a mumble, but he didn’t bark at her to speak up. “He-he died of fever a while back. He was too old to travel.” Septon Syvos came to her mind then.  

As she finished her sentence, three of the men stepped forward and inspected the mule, then the cart bed and the two girls huddled together there. She scarcely dared to breathe as they inspected further, piercing her with their quizzical eyes.

After what felt like an endless examination, the three men stepped back and nodded to their leader.

"A woman and child in the back. No supplies or nothin'." He grunt out.

Seeming satisfied, the leader spoke once more. "What is your business in Golden Tooth?"

"I want a safe place to have my baby.” She said without thinking, keeping her eyes trained on the man who was speaking. Her next lie was spun easily, the words falling from her lips as easily as every sacred hymn she’d ever sung. “The girl in the back is my sister her daughter.” Tally once told her that she and her family fled the war from Ashemark and that her father had a brother who owned a tavern in Golden Tooth. Maeve had no ties to the city, and if she said as much, they might be turned away. It was war, after all. "Our uncle owns a tavern in the city. My sister, niece and I came from Ashemark and fled when the rebels marched too close."

“Where’s your husband?”

Maeve paused, thinking of Jon. “Fighting the war.”

The man only grunted, nodding his head towards where Tally sat. “And hers?”

“Dead. Fell from his horse.” He regarded her a moment more, and the baby rolled inside her. The hand that she brought to her belly caused his eyes to break with hers to follow her hand. It was then that his eyes began to soften. Still, she carefully studied his face. He was older than the last Lannister commander she had the displeasure of meeting. His face was thin, the lines around his eyes and mouth ran deep, his hair was thinning and a light grey, showing hints of white.

His eyes betrayed little emotion, whereas the younger commander that came before him held a disturbing glint in his eyes, one that delighted in the terror of others, one who had no control of his disturbing desires. This older man was different: well controlled, practiced in battle and keen at sniffing out deceit.

"What's this uncle's name?" he asked sharply, his mouth hardening into a line. Maeve was acutely aware when he set his hand on the pommel of his long sword.

"Kip," Tally mumbled out from the back, quickly saving Maeve the trouble of making up another lie on the spot. "His name is Kip and he owns the tavern called 'The Creaky Wheel'." Maeve was a bit surprised at the girl's voice, she seemed so meek and small ever since that night, but was thankful she had spoken up.

The commander regarded her once again, eyes flashing down to her belly. Maeve tensed and flinched when he spoke. "You best not be lying to me girl." He warned.

“I wouldn’t—“ She was cut off when he stepped closer to her, settling a clenched fist on the seat beside her, leaning in so she could smell the sweat of him. She dropped the reigns entirely, then, and wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to protect it.

"I sent a group of my own men down this road a fortnight ago," Maeve's heart skipped a beat in its frightened haste. "They never reported back. You haven't seen them have you?" The way he spoke, made it sound as if he already knew they were dead and was now just looking for someone to blame. His eyes flickered to her neck. “Where’d you get that cut?”

Maeve felt herself tremble, and felt a burning in her eyes. She hardly had to lie, this time. “We passed them, paid our toll and went on.” She mumbled her response, ashamed.

"Ser," one of the soldiers spoke. "They're meek little women, this one's fat with a child. Tyr had his fun with them, its plain t'see. Him and his lot are probably taking the farmer's goods like ya told 'im."

The commander seemed to consider that for a moment, and for a moment, Maeve was terribly afraid of what he might decide. Finally, he sighed and said, "There's a fee to enter into the city. The price is ten silvers."

For a moment, Maeve was stunned beyond words. They had succeeded? The relief was almost too strong to be true.

There was shifting in the back of the cart, the soft clink of coins and then a gentle nudge from Tally as she held out a handful of coins to Maeve. She tore her eyes away from the murderous sword in the man's hand to look down at the two behind her. Tally sat against the cart's wall, Dorna drawn up against her bosom, the sleeping blanket held up around them. But one of Tally's boots was off, and a hopeful spark ignited in her eyes.

Maeve quickly took the handful of coins and held them out, eagerly dumping them in the elder man's rough looking hands.

After they’d wept, Maeve had forced herself to walk towards the body of the monster who had allowed his men to hurt them. She stared at him for a long moment, studying his ugly face with a grimace of rage on her face.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was stomping her foot down onto his groin, a ferocious grunt leaving her. She was startled at how good it felt to slake her rage, even on his corpse. She’d done it twice more, harder each time, and by the last, the strange elation abandoned her, and all that was left was disgust at the carcass before her.

She’d stolen back the purse he’d taken from Tally’s father. To keep what little they had safe, she’d told her friend to hide the money.

Maeve held her breath; the world must have slowed down for how could the light remain the same for what felt like hours, as he considered the money in his hand?

Finally, he said, "Get along, now." And smacked the mule's bottom with a firm gloved hand.

As the last of the farm lands gave way to woodlands, Maeve still sat in a relieved state of shock, clutching the reigns tight. When the first snows started, she was taken out of her silence and looked up to the sky, watching as the soft white flakes drifted down.

Winter, she thought in awe. Winter is here.

“Father told me they’d ask for money.” Tally said suddenly from behind her. Maeve turned and looked down at Tally's still bruised face, a sheepish smile on her lips. "Told me t' hide some in my shoes. No one looks in ya shoes."

Maeve smiled at the absurdity of the idea, her mind still swimming, her belly fluttering with light butterflies of unbelieving joy. No one ever thinks to look in their shoes! The thought was so ridiculous she couldn't help but utter an unladylike snort and break down into a fit laughter as they slowly rolled away from the danger behind them.

Tally soon joined her, both basking in the moment of warmth they had not had in so long.

Maeve had expected a short trip since they passed the final checkpoint, but it wasn't until the sun began to fall below the mountains that the cart emerged from the quiet forest and the large stone barrier that surrounded Golden Tooth came into view. Built between two high, rocky peaks, the Golden Tooth fortress seemed impregnable, but everything fell in the end.

Castles, men, families…nothing lasts, really. Everything returns to dust eventually.  

In the dying light of the day, Maeve could just see the arched doors at the center of the base, where the road disappeared into the city, and could just make out the pair of men keeping watch over the doors. The structure was larger than anything Maeve had ever seen, the wall so tall, the birds must not be able to fly over it. She wondered momentarily if the great Wall in the north was anything like that size. Inadvertently, she remembered the man who abandoned the Wall to fight in his brother's war, and remembered the few times she'd ever asked about his time there.

He avoided answering her questions, using a flat tone in his voice at first to try to avoid the uncomfortable topic. But she didn't let up, her curiosity too great to heed the growing annoyance of her friend.

She had read about the Wall, how after the Long Night, Bran the Builder brought up the Wall with the aid of giants and how it stretched for one shore to another. She read of the many castles that once lined across the ice structure, and how only three remained undestroyed. It was a fascinating thing, the Wall, and who better to satisfy her inquisitiveness than someone who'd actually been there?

She got to question three when he'd had enough. As Maeve thought about it she supposed it was tactless to speak so carelessly about such a delicate topic, but at the time she hadn't realized that abandoning the Wall bothered him at all. He broke his vows and he was a bastard, all the logic the sept taught her told her that oaths meant little to men like Jon Snow.

"Why do you keep asking?" he'd yelled at her, anger and annoyance clear as water on his handsome face. “Are you so bloody dull you don’t understand?”

"Why do you keep avoiding answers?" she had yelled back, her defensive walls coming up in the face of Jon's anger.

"Because it isn't your business to be asking!" It was half true. Jon didn't want to talk about something he still felt so guilty about. Blush flamed across her cheeks and neck, the humiliation of being reprimanded like a child stung. For some strange reason, the fact it was coming from Jon hurt worse.

The argument kept them from talking for days, both still simmering in the aftermath. Jon was the first to seek her out, but Maeve was the one to apologize, admitting she had been too much, too pushy, too insistent.

Jon did not say he forgave her, but when he grinned at her, and touched her shoulder, she knew it was forgiven. Thinking of it now, Maeve understood what the strange jump her belly had done. Attraction, she thought now, a wave of sweet melancholy rising inside her to remember that innocent little septa.  

It was a long time before they ever spoke of it again. Jon brought it up not very long after it began to snow, laying his pride and heart in her hands, trusting her to be gentle with them as he recounted his memories of his abandoned post. He told her about how he'd always dreamt about joining the Watch, ever since he was a boy back in Winterfell. He had wanted to spend his life venturing out beyond the Wall, to the Land of Always Winter keeping wildlings away with his sword, honored and respected, no bastard title holding him back. But life had called him back, to his brother’s side.

He told her how different it was at the Wall, how much of a shock it was finally be there after so many years of dreaming, and then finding his dream a mere shadow of what it once was. He told her about Sam, and how that cowardly fat boy became Jon's best friend—how he was kind and gentle and smarter than any man he’d known. He told her of Maester Aemon, and of the Lord-commander, and how he'd employed him as a steward to groom him for command one day.

"Those days are gone." He murmured. He spoke with such a nostalgic sadness to his voice, a downcast look to his beautiful brown eyes that Maeve couldn't stop herself when her hand reached out to rest on his cheek. Quickly, they both froze, both shocked by her forward advance. They marvelled for a moment at the warmth of the other's skin, before she pulled away.

I am a woman made for the gods, she had thought, hardly daring to think of how smooth his skin had been.

Maeve sighed. Jon had been coming up in her thoughts a lot as of late. She looked down at the swell of her belly. Perhaps it was because she was going to meet a part of him very soon that spurred on memories of him. She looked back up at the stone wall.

What lay beyond that wall? What would happen to Ghost when they reached it? Surely the direwolf could not go about prowling in the city...he'd cause a panic and people would hunt him down until he was dead. She wouldn't be able to hide him either; wild things could not be kept caged. The realization stung to know that she would have to leave Ghost behind. The creature that helped her and saved her life would not be able to stay by her side. 

He's better out here, Maeve thought, trying to bring herself some comfort. And why would he even want to stay with me anyway? Out there he can be free, within those walls, only death and imprisonment are offered for him.

Looking back to the retreating woods behind her Maeve whispered a silent goodbye to Ghost, praying that he would return to his master's side where he belonged. For a moment, Maeve was jealous of the animal, wanting to be him so badly it hurt. Without speaking, the two soldiers posted at the gates opened the wooden doors. The faint smell of roasting meat and garlic filled her nose, making her belly groan loudly and her mouth fill with water. She had forgotten how hungry she was, neither Tally, nor Dorna nor her, eating since daybreak the morning before.

Cracking the reigns down, hard in her haste to find that delicious aroma, Maeve drove the cart into the city of Golden Tooth, feeling a prickle of fear as the doors slammed shut behind her.

Ghost watched from afar, whimpering as the little lioness entered the lion's den. Danger, he thought, her claws were little, she can’t defend herself or her cub. Her claws were as long as theirs, her teeth as sharp, but those lions were much different from her. She was one and they were many. She wouldn’t be safe when it came time to find a den and give birth.

She would go hungry, her pack was far from her. He had to stay, he had to keep her safe until they came for her.

Ghost prowled the mountains, searching for somewhere to sleep. The little lioness would be safe, he would make sure of it, until her pack came for her and the cub she carried. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

They would march out soon, Jon could feel it. The air hung heavy with the excitement that came before combat, the sound of sharpening steel sounded from nearly every crevice of the army encampment, the loud, deep clinks of hammers on steel rang continuous through each hour. A bell that chimed to remind them of their bloody purpose.

However, it was a much different sight towards the north end of the site, where the refugees had settled themselves. While determination and rage could be seen in nearly every soldier, fatigue and fear was heavy in the presence of the broken-down men, women and children. They were the true victims of the war of the Kings.

The contrast between the two halves of the same horde was striking. A marvel it was, how an army set out for conquering, could live alongside a traveling village. But really, they weren't living beside each other, they were tolerating each other as best they could, What one needed, the other had.

The smallfolk needed protection, the soldiers needed comfort. When a man itched for the warmth of home, he most often would find himself among the homeless. If a man wanted a woman, there were plenty to fill the need for an hour or two.

In the stories and songs that people sang of war, none ever said how afraid you got, wondering before every battle if this was the one that would bring your death. None ever spoke of its ugliness, the amputation, the cauterizing, the infections. The wailing of widows and the bitter tears of heartbroken fathers were tales that went unsung.

Sansa had loved those songs and stories, Jon remembered the dreamy eyed thirteen year old he had grown up with, the ones who had loved songs about knights and ladies, love, glory and honor...he hoped that she still retained that innocent sweetness about her, even if it had been annoying before. He hoped she still believed in songs.

He hoped Arya was still as wild as she was when they parted ways, he hoped Maeve...

Jon froze. He bit his lip, eyes narrowing and focusing on the dirty snow at his feet. He...he hoped Maeve was happy and safe, even if he knew it was unlikely. He hoped she still read about everything from the fabled beasts behind the Wall, to the dragons the Targaryen's once rode. That had been her favorite thing to read of, mysterious creatures that man once had the privilege to behold, but had long since vanished only to be seen in the dusty pages of old books.

He hoped she still had that glare of hers, wondered if she still played with the sleeve of her dress, if she still sneered in that childish way when someone spoke down to her or teased her, if she still admonished others in that proud way of hers for disrespecting the Seven, a trait he both loved and hated.

When you loved someone, you notice little things; a slight hop to their step, a sigh, a smile, and when they were gone, the littlest facts are somehow the ones you think of most.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when someone knocked into his shoulder.

“Hey!” he cried out in annoyance.

“Pardon, m’lord.” The younger man bumbled as he tried to rearrange the massive bundle in his arms. Without another word, the young man disappeared, lost among the horde.

The unbidden forlorn thoughts of his long gone lover were pushed back as he remembered the plans for the weeks to come, and the unfortunate events that were unintentionally tethered to Robb's plans.

If they successfully took the west, the Lannister's hold on the throne would weaken significantly, especially if they tried to reclaim it. Or so Robb told his mother. Justice for father and Sansa and Arya, justice for the north, justice for the riverlands.

If it all went as planned, then the west would turn on the Lannisters corruption and tyranny. They would join Robb and elect a new Warden of the West. Garrett Reyne still had his eye on that seat, but Robb still mistrusted the man and so the next Lord of the Rock would be decided later.

When they took the west, they had to face the reality that more than half of the wests’ forces were stationed at the Red Keep to protect the Lannisters within. The smaller half of their armies were guarding the Rock. To march men against their brothers was a mistake so often made in war.

But if the Red Keep could be taken, and if the western lords were to be spared by Stannis, they had to march on the Red Keep, as a show of loyalty. Loyalty to Robb or Stannis, Jon did not know. Rather, the march would be proof of broken faith with the Lannisters.  

Jon hated the politics he found himself ensnared with; the bureaucracy the King dealt with everyday was filled with loop holes, lies, mistrust and so many twists and turns to the point where you couldn't tell your arse from a hole in the ground. When he was a boy, he always thought wars were plain—good versus evil, black and white...in real life, it was not nearly so simple.

There was one thing that brought a smile to his lips, even though it felt false as fools gold on his lips. Joffrey Baratheon was dead. The worm who had ordered his father’s execution, who made him confess to treason he did not commit, who reportedly abused Sansa at every turn, had died at his own wedding feast. Some reported that he’d choked and died, but others said he was poisoned by his bride, Margaery Tyrell.

In a rage, the Queen Regent had the newly widowed Tyrell girl arrested, along with all her cousins, grandmother and father.

Robb intended to use this deadly slight against the Tyrell's to an end. Loras Tyrell had not been present for the wedding and so remained free for now. If the young knight wanted to see his family liberated, he would need allies and Robb planned to make him an offer.

Jon thought the Tyrells untrustworthy, turncloaks and dishonourable. They turned their backs on Renly easily enough once the youngest Baratheon was dead. Jon was rather content to leave them to their fate, but he wasn’t the king. Robb was.

With the news of Joffrey’s demise and the Tyrell girl’s imprisonment, it grew silent once more. There was no new information about their sisters, and Jon knew his brother grew more anxious by the day. It did not help that Lady Catelyn walked with a solemn air of grief about her. After freeing Jaime Lannister, Robb had his mother under constant guard. It was a gentler cage than the woman deserved. Although she kept silent most oft, her despair seemed to scream from her very skin.

She should not have freed the kingslayer, Jon thought with sudden venom. With him, we had the greater advantage. Without him, we have only battles and wars, dead men, bloodied men, wounded men.

He wished for Ghost, suddenly. These days, he found comfort in thoughts of his wolf, and he grew more aware of his absence with each day that passed without him. Jon knew he was safe. Ghost was strong and cunning and no matter how far he roamed, he would always come back. But Jon did miss his companion terribly.  

It had been a long time since Jon had felt so alone.

He missed his wolf and he missed Maeve and he missed poor, betrayed Ned Stark. Time had passed since his father’s death, and so the pain was duller now. The anger remained, as did the bitter sense of loss. Their farewell had been gentler than his parting with Maeve—filled with something hopeful and bittersweet. He would never know who his mother was, now, but he might trade that knowledge here and now if it would give him back his father.

Even news of Joffrey’s death did not bring him the joy or relief he’d imagined. Maybe if he’d seen the death himself, there might be something more beyond numbness and indifference. The worm-lipped king’s death did not give life to his father. Nothing ever would. With the boy dead, his little brother would take up his crown, a child of eight. Jon wasn’t hungry to wet his sword with the blood of children.

Where parting ways with Ned Stark had been with a promise to meet again, his parting with Maeve had been more of a ripping. They tore her from his arms, they shredded her robes, they dragged her through camp, half naked.

How many times had he replayed that last day he had seen her? How many times had he cursed himself for not hearing Theon's approach? For not picking her up and helping her hide within the throngs of people buzzing about their camp? Too often to count.

All I know is that I love you. There it is. I love you.

Jon had not witnessed the Maeve’s humiliation himself, but the men had so effortlessly recounted the tale for days to after, and Jon caught snippets from his cot as his bleeding back healed. And though each one said something slightly different, two similarities remained the same; one, Maeve's dress was ripped to shreds and was dragged from the privacy of the tent to the horse a hundred feet away. And two, Robb had done nothing to spare her from such punishment.

Even if she were not Jon's lover, and had not brought shame to him, Robb should have protected a helpless woman. Should have, but didn't.

Weary, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging his sore eyes. Ghost was not there, so he must seek refuge elsewhere. Jon started towards his tent, knowing a cup of ale awaited him there, one that could stave off his dreams.

His dreams were horrible and wonderful all at once. Maeve was small, she was dirty, her hair was no longer lustrous, her skin was scarred. But, she was still Maeve, no matter how she had changed. But why did his memory of her change? Why did he see her swollen with child every night?

When she was still with him, when they were happy in the nights, and filled with bitter shame and longing in the light of day, he would dream of touching her in the sunlight, smiling freely, kissing her without fear.

Now, his dreams had been replaced with images of a more frightened, more downtrodden Maeve. He could feel the trees moving in the breeze around him, smell the snow before it started falling, feel his breath rumbling through his chest, hear the skittering of the animals preparing for winter. He would see her waddling around, talking in soft tones to the ones with her, holding her belly in her hands.  

Jon downed the last mouthful of the bitter ale he'd poured himself. They weren't real. Dreams were dreams, thin as wind, more meaningless than Joffrey choking to death at his wedding feast.

That night, Jon dreamt of great hard wall with gates that opened at the base. He watched as a cart entered and disappeared as the gates closed. A strange, sinking feeling consumed him upon waking, and the next night, dreams of Maeve and her pregnant belly gave way to his old dreams.  

"Tally, sweet-love," a plump woman said with a big smile on her round, red face. "So good to see you again, dear. Last I saw ya, you was six, with no baby!" the large woman pulled Tally against her plush breasts, tears of joy evident in Tally's closed eyes. "Now look a ya. Grown up, like a woman.” The woman rubbed her hand in circles around Tally’s back.

Maeve shifted awkwardly, fidgeting with the reigns of the donkey. Tally had told her where to go when they entered the city, twisting and turning and getting off the drivers seat and guiding the mule through the bustling streets.

She’d never seen so many people at once before. It was overwhelming, but she’d taken in all that she could, watching the different shaped people, the buildings around her, and the mountain in the distance that rose up in a great wall at the anterior of the front gate. Suddenly, Tally had cried out when she spotted a small building up ahead, before scrambling off the cart and taking the other side of the mule’s bridle and ushering them forward.

There was an old, broken wheel hanging above the tavern’s doors, and it was that she focused on as Tally and the woman reacquainted themselves. Maeve felt out of place for the first time in a long time.

She would not fit into this little family, and now wondered if they would send her away like so many had before. Maeve bit her lip and looked away, busying herself with stroking the donkey’s snout.

"Where's your father, the old cretin?" asked the plump woman jovially, standing back at arm's length from her niece.

Maeve’s belly jumped and a lump formed in her throat. She heard Tally’s breath hitch, a little sob coming from her. The elder woman’s face softened, her eyes becoming sad. She shared no blood with the girl—her husband, Kip, had been Tally’s uncle by her father. It had been short years since Kip had died, but even so, she did not want to turn away his niece.

"How?" she finally asked.

"M-m-men, they s-stopped us n' they...I said no—and father was on ‘is knees when they murdered ‘im! I told them stop, but—" her words became strangled and nothing more came out. Aunty Gin pulled the sobbing girl against her warm, comforting chest again, knowing all too well the pains she had suffered.

Drowsily, Dorna sat up and searched for her mother, and at not finding her in the cart with her, began to panic. "Mama? Mama!" she cried, her little head whipping back and forth in search of her mother, her eyes wide with frantic fear.

Maeve's gaze snapped back to the panicked little girl, and on instinct she twisted back and rushed around and put a hand on Dorna's head, trying to tilt her head to meet her eyes. Dorna whipped around, hoping to see her mother's familiar face, but only finding Maeve. But to her, Maeve could be a passage to her mother.

"Mama?" the child exclaimed in a high squeak, her wide blue eyes glistening with tears.

Maeve gave the child's back a little rub. "Hush, little. You're mothers over there, it's alright. She's just there." Maeve was absurdly annoyed that Tally had just left the child there without warning the little girl that she would be gone, but looking back to the small scene in front of the Creaky Wheel's front doors, Maeve felt an odd tug in her belly, and it took her a heartbeat to recognize it as jealousy. Tally could weep into warm, familiar arms without fear of rejection.

When Maeve had tried to do the same, to tell Tally what had happened with the man who’d tried to rape her, she’d been told to shut up and never speak of it again.

Maeve looked away from the women, digging her nails into her palm, trying to shove away the ugly, strange feeling.  

Aunty Gin turned her sharp, inquisitive eyes to the two strangers. For a moment, she thought they were mother and child just passing by, but then she saw the little girl's hair, the same shade of orange as Tally's. She thought, maybe, the other girl was her good-brother’s bastard. In his youth, he and Kip had been ginger. But the other woman’s hair was too dark. Her eyes hardened. Life had made Gin weary around strays, especially those who looked so weak. Despite what the world may think, women could be just as callous as men; even the pregnant ones, she thought looking down at the stranger's swollen belly.

Tally pulled away, her wet face turning to the two other girls. "That's Maeve and my babe, my Dorna." Tally explained. "Maeve traveled with us on the road, and helped us, after—"

“Come, now girl. Stiff upper lip.” Gin said when she saw Tally’s lips start trembling again. She cast another look at her nieces’ swollen companion.

Maeve bit her lip and met the woman’s mistrustful eyes. A flare of fear started up inside her, knowing that there was likely little else the woman wanted than to let her into her home. Where would Maeve go then? Her child would come soon enough and she had nothing to offer it, nothing to clothe it in. She imagined herself, suddenly, hiding down a darkened alley, a wriggling, screaming infant in her arms, her cheeks sucken with hunger.

The fear raged, and she was about to rush forward to fling herself at the woman’s feet and beg her for a place to sleep, when Tally spoke up.  Aunty," she spoke softly. "She's a good woman, she can help ‘round the tavern too, maybe take care o' the liddol ones. She's gonna have a baby too soon."

“Hmm.” She grunted in reply. “What happened to ‘er when your dada died?” It was a story heard time and time again: a lone, vulnerable woman found at the side of a road, begging for help from kindly travelers. Oh, they might take pity on her and feed her a meal or two, but in the night, the woman would be revealed to have been little more than bait.

Tally looked away, and Maeve felt as pained as the other girl looked. A hot, shamed flush spread across her face at remembering that terrible night, and she wanted to do something, anything, to forget it. The depth of this desire almost frightened her.

Minutes ticked by and Maeve grew more and more uneasy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep young Dorna from sprinting away from her to her mother. She could hear them whispering, and saw the plump woman glance to her every so often.  Fear ate away at her as she stood there, belly in hand as she watched the two of them. Fear ate at her as she sat there in the driver's seat, facing the tavern that she hoped to be her new home. Wandering women and men toiled around her in the early evening air, the city not settling even though the sun had set.

The lit torches and still noisy air shocked Maeve at first, as she had never been in a city. She never saw much of the town where she grew up, from her home sept's windows, but what she had seen was that everyone went to sleep when the sun did. In Robb Stark's forsaken camp men did whatever they wished at night, sleeping or otherwise. Looking around now at the people up from their beds, Maeve realized this city was no different from Robb Stark's camp, only there were no tents.

After so long of being alone, and then being in the company of a small family of three, Maeve found herself overwhelmed. Her muscles felt jittery, ready to flee or fight.

"Please Aunty, please let her stay." Tally whispered to Aunty Gin.

"If that girl wants to earn her stay here, she can come over and do it herself." Aunty Gin grumbled before she turned away and stalked back into the tavern, which only just now was starting to attract in customers. Maeve blinked as she heard the woman's reply. She thought she had been polite to stay back away from their reunion, not realizing she had been rude in letting Tally plead for her alone.

Maeve took a little step forward when Tally scurried back to them. The borrowed scratchy cloak was still hung around her shoulders, fluttering softly in the wind, and it kicked up when Dorna bolted past her and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“Tally, I’m sorry, I…” Tally waved her hand, and then reached out and took the bridle.

As they slowly walked to the stable attached to the side of the tavern, Tally began to speak in a soft voice. "Just be helpful, don't put ya nose where it don't belong, and if you want extra coin, make sure he isn't someone else's regular first. No one likes competition." Maeve swallowed. She expected to have to pay rent and hoped that she could make enough without having to resort to what Tally suggested.

“I-I don’t…I don’t think I can…” she stammered, fear licking up her spine and colouring her face pink. Tally shook her head.

“You can, but I don’t think you’d wanna. You won’t be able to after the child comes, anyway.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

There were eight others living in the tavern besides Aunty Gin, either in the loft above the tavern, or in the eaves above the stable. Aunty Gin lived down stairs, in the tavern just in the back in a closed off area where prying eyes could not peek in.

Three women lived in the loft above the tavern, all of them serving wenches or part-time kitchen cooks. What they did in darkened corners with men was of their own business, so long as they paid their rent and caused no trouble. Two small children belonged to two of the three women, a boy and a girl who were playing in the stables. They took care of small errands and chores, becoming cupbearers to help their mothers at night. The three men had yet to be seen, but they apparently lived in the small loft above the stables: one a stable hand, a cook and his helper.

Entering the tavern with Tally's bag of belongings in her hand, Maeve observed her surroundings with interest. Long tables and benches littered the open area, and to the left of her there was a bar where large kegs of mead, beer and wine sat. Torches dotted the walls, burning and lighting the enclosed area as good as the sun could. There were a handful of broken wheels handing from the walls. The tavern was barren, but the doors were open and soon the room would be bursting with life.

She had never been in a tavern before and a small thrill went up her spine. In her old life, a septa would not ever be found in a place where decadence had such potential to thrive. When she was four-and-ten, another septa novice had been brave enough to go into the village and creep into the tavern, curious as to why such a simple place was forbidden. Maeve had wished to be as brave as her friend, then, but afterward she called her cowardice careful caution, because the other girl had not been able to write for weeks after, for her punishment was so severe.

Like so many of her friends, she left the sept not long after. 

Eventually, these losses stopped stinging. It was a hard lesson to learn.

Maeve rubbed her belly as she and Tally climbed the steep steps, the child twisting and kicking relentlessly inside her, responding to her nervousness. Ahead of the two women, Dorna flounced happily ahead with Aunty Gin, jabbering away about all the things she wanted to do. In particular, she wanted to see the ocean.

“Yes, girl, when the war is over, I’ll take ye and yer ma to the sea.”

When they reached the top, they entered an open space with three beds pressed against the walls. It was rather plain for three women and two children living there, a burning lamp on a table provided light. A small chair sat by the window, a chest where clothes were stored was pressed against the foot of each of the beds, a small doll dressed in modified rags laid on one bed alongside some needlework. It was well lived in, warm, cozy.

Everything was in it’s proper place and Maeve found herself wondering if she and her coming child could fit into it.

Inside, there were three women, varying in age and appearance, who looked upon the new additions with expressions that Maeve could not decipher. The first woman was tall, delicate lines on her lovely face that proved the bloom of her youth was departed and her face framed with long, thin black hair. The second woman was of similar height with Maeve, but she had two chins, a round middle and her fair hair was pulled up behind her head. The third was the loveliest of the three, young and slender, her curls pulled behind her head while some fell loose, as though so full of life, that her very hair could not be properly contained.

Suddenly, her shabby dress and bulging belly were all too apparent. Her hair was dull and pelted with grime from the months gone without washing. Maeve was as young as the other woman, but far less beautiful. A petty notion that a septa should be above, but few women could set aside such pointless rivalry.

Maeve’s heart pinched at the way the girl’s eyes traveled up and down her form, appraising her and finding her lacking.

“You’ll seep here, and start work once you’ve bathed. Best be swift about it,” the two new comers cast her a look. “The men will be thirsty and hungry for company soon. You,” Aunty Gin grunted, pointing a finger at the girl heavy with child. “I have little room for kindness for your state. Work hard and keep hold of your child once it’s arrived. No one else will, unless you pay ‘em.” Even then, Gin herself would not trust a one of her workers with a wee one to mind.

But, a part of her embraced the prospect of a babe in the tavern with joy. Gin and her departed husband had never been blessed with children, and it had been so long since a babe’s soft, gentle cries sounded through the house…Perhaps the girl’s presence was not so unwelcome then.

Gin turned from them, returning to the tavern to prepare for their opening.

“I am Lena.” Said the black haired woman, a friendly smile on her face.

“Maeve.” The filthy girl managed to murmur. She felt uneasy, fearful. After being virtually alone for so long, it was hard to accept new company when her last encounter with strangers had been so terrible. What if that smile was a lie? What if she would turn on her at the first turn, have her thrown out into the streets?

“I’m called Tally. This here is my Dorna.” The little girl, holding onto her mother’s hand, waves at the women.

“You all need a proper wash. A simple touch would cake my hand in grime.” She said it kindly, but it stung all the same. She turned her head towards the blonde, plump woman. “Baba here will take you for a bath. I’ll sort where you’ll be sleeping.” She sounded so…proper. Far more refined than the madam of the tavern. Maeve wondered if she had ever worked for someone highborn.

“They reek of sweat and shit.” It was an utterance that the pretty girl had likely not meant to be heard. But it had been and the dark haired woman—Lena—whipped her head around to glare at her.

“And so will you, once this night is over. If the way you carry on is any proof.” Lena hissed. The girl’s face reddened, and she looked away.

To Maeve and Tally, Lena said, “Pay no attention to Flavia. She thinks because she has more devoted patrons, she is above the rest of us.”

A scoff came from the blonde woman—Baba, Maeve deduced. “Girl’s known more cocks ‘n either of us ‘nd thinks it makes ‘er a lady.”

Tally had the courage to laugh at that, but Maeve was silent, watching Flavia’s face contort with anger. She flinched and reached for the swell of her belly when the girl released an angry huff and stalked past them and down the stairs.

Moments fell away quickly and soon Tally, Dorna and Maeve were following Baba out into the stables. She was chatty, and her voice was tinted with something foreign, and Maeve reached deep within her memory to recognize it. Once as a child, she had gone to the market for some meat and the butcher had that accent. He said he was a Lorathi slave, former slave he said. "I'm free, free, free," he said, a toothless smile upon his face, "Can't tell me none different no more. Every day, no chain, no whip, it a gift." His joy was contagious, most often.

Since then, she had always been curious about Lorath. The butcher refused to speak a word about his life there, and he’d died before she could wear him down.

Now, Maeve had a little itch to ask about Lorath, but she could be easily shunned and thrown out of this new home, so she kept her questions to herself.

Laughter met her ears as they stepped into the small, stuffy stable. Children’s laughter, the sound of small feet running over creaky floorboards…it was a good sound, Maeve thought.

To the left was a set of pens housing a milk cow, a pig and a mule, and just at the end of the line there was a ladder leading up to the loft. To the right there was a series of tools to care for the animals hanging on various hooks, a bale of feed and water, a set brazier that kept the drafty stable warm, and a wooden tub.

The rasp of old floor boards sounded upwards, drawing her eyes away from the layout of the stable. Two small faces blinked down at her curiously from the lofts edge—two heads of fair hair and bright blue eyes. She was immediately reminded of Baba.

Indeed, when she laid eyes on the two, the plump woman called up, “Out you two! Hehlp Uris wit da cooking!” in her annoyance, her accent grew thicker, and Maeve rather liked the sound of it. The little faces disappeared and their little feet ran across the loft and down the creaking ladder. Two little boys appeared, skinny but tall for the age she estimated them as (she thought they looked about ten), and they disappeared before another word could be spoken. Baba took a deep breath and when she spoke, she sounded almost Westerosi. “My sons, Petyr and Yarik. Good boys, very helpful.” She looked back up towards the loft and this time her voice was more a screech. “You other two! Get out before I have an axe on you!”

A humourless chuckle sounded, and a man appeared, leaning down over the edge and looking down at the women, a scowl on his whiskered face. He was an older man, nearing forty with no hair on the crown of his head.

"Don't threaten me, woman," he warned, glowering at Baba. Maeve's stomach tightened, remembering rough hands, hot reeking breath on her neck, and fear so naked the gods would have flinched.

"I'll say what I want, Otis, now out!" she scolded. The balding man rolled his eyes and grumbled all the way down the ladder steps and stalked off to the tavern without another word. "You too Pox!" Baba shouted suddenly, making the three of them jump.

A scoff was heard, a brief rustling sound, and the creaking of the floor boards as the unseen man above walked across them. This man was much younger than the first, about twenty, with thin blonde hair, and a pointy nose. But most alarming was the pox scars that ran over his face. He looked them over once, and rolled his eyes. "Of course they'd have whelps," he muttered. Maeve bit her lip, feeling both annoyed by the boy's effrontery and naked at his judgement. For a brief moment she wondered why such a young and able young man wouldn't be fighting the war, but as he walked away, she saw his bad limp

"You're tired, I can tell," Baba said as the last of the strangers slipped away, her accent curling around the words. "I'll draw the water." And so she did, taking a bucket and making trip after trip to the well and back, patiently heating the water over the stove and pouring it into the tub. Finally the painstaking task was done and Maeve was thankful she was not charged with carrying out the task for once.

Instead, she sat on a stool, her legs parted to accommodate the girth of her belly. The baby was oddly calm, hardly a shift being felt in the last hour. She fancied the idea that it slept, that it knew it was safe and protected.

So distracted with the smooth curve of her belly, she did not notice Baba’s eyes upon her until she spoke. “When will the child come?”

Maeve’s eyes flashed up, watching as the woman walked back to the stove to retrieve another pot of hot water. “N-not long, I think. It’s hard to remember, these times are so hard.” She added.

Baba smiled as she poured more water into the tub. “I miss babies. They’re always so beautiful.” She all but gasped it and Maeve was inclined to believe her words and smiled in return. “So beautiful. My baby boys were so lively, sometimes I could throttle them with the need to sleep.” Maeve nodded but said nothing. The only baby she had ever cared for had been Allyria’s youngest—Tobias, who was slept soundly as his siblings had in the night. “Lena’s got a boy too!” She exclaimed merrily. “But he’s no suckling babe anymore. He’s a man now, old ‘nuff to have his own. But he’s off at the Rock, now. Defending it, you see.”

Baba prattled on about the others who lived and worked in the Creaky Wheel. By the time the tub was filled, she knew all about how no one knew Pox’s real name, and how he’d come to the tavern as a pock-marked little boy and immediately attached himself to Lena and her son. (Lena, in her opinion, was probably the kindest woman in the entire place.)

Dorna was kept occupied as the task was done, scampering over to the back of the stables to coo at the sow nursing her seven pigelts. Tally pulled Dorna away from the balls of fuzzy pink and both stripped down to their dirty grey under dresses. Maeve tried not to look at the fading marks on her friend’s body, pretending that if she did look back at her, the girl’s skin would be clear and unmarred. Like that night had never happened…

Tally groaned as they sunk into the steaming water. Beside the tub was a small stool with a set of sheets on it to dry them after their bath.  Before they’d departed for the waiting bath, Lena handed Tally a change of clothes, while Baba gave Maeve one of her dresses to use.

Baba left them to attend to the tavern, and Maeve sat back against a pillar, her empty eyes observing her friends as their fears melted away in the warm water. The way they played, Maeve could mistake them for sisters if she didn’t know better.  It struck her, then, how young Tally was. She’d become a mother far too young, but it seemed it did not cause her grief.

Her thumb ran over her belly, feeling a familiar nudge inside her womb. She flattened her hand against the place she felt it, a little grin pulling at her lips. And yet, she was still filled with doubts.

All of this pain, all of this fear, the dashed hopes, the shame…how could she embrace the life that came forth from it? The very day it was created, she had been frightened and humiliated. Any sane person would resent the babe whose existence grew from such a wretched place.

No, she thought vehemently. She had run away for it. She had run from everything she’d even known, ever believed in, because she had wanted to protect him from harm. And over the months, with every kick and every roll, she’d come to know the babe. She’d even decided it was likely a boy, though she hardly allowed herself to think it. Maeve had not met the child, yet knew it. Had not held it, but carried it and felt it move. She had not seen it, yet knew it to be beautiful.

She wondered if Lena or Baba or Tally felt this way. If they’d had these fears, these doubts. If they felt this love, and if they had been afraid it would turn into nothing once the child came into the world.

The longing for a love long lost flared to life again.

He had awoken love in her heart, and though she thought the childish infatuation would go as swiftly as it came, her heart remained with Jon's. Perhaps it was because she carried his child, or perhaps she was still in love with his memory. She knew not, but hoped she would forget soon. It would grieve her to forget; how he'd smelled, his warm skin against hers, they way they'd been together at first, so cautious and then so eager. She missed how he smiled at her, talked with her, how when she was upset and near crying, how he would just...hold her, a simple gesture that warmed her heart even now. Jon wouldn't pull away to kiss her, he wouldn't look at her face, his lips didn’t spill empty comforts like she was a child and there was no judgment in his embrace. He would just wrap her up in his arms and hold her tight, and let her know without words that she mattered.

Oh, how she wished for those arms now.

Dorna suddenly splashed her hands in the water, sending water flying everywhere, but none minded when seeing the smile on the child's face. It was free of the nightmare of that night, bright and full and happy. Maeve smiled to herself.

A hard kick landed in her side and she groaned at the strength of it, and then let out a brief chuckle. It was good that the children could be so lively while their mothers were gloomy with heavy thoughts.

Finally, Tally and Dorna stood from the tub and wrapped themselves up in the linens. It was Maeve's turn. Without hesitance or thought, she eagerly unfastened the cloak around her shoulders. The dried blood at her back reeked when it was uncovered, and Maeve grimaced.

They reek of sweat and shit.

The bath was still warm when she stepped into it. She enjoyed the warmth for a moment, and then began to scrub, a little sad that the water was not so pure and fresh as a stream, but happy it was warm. All too soon, the water turned cold and she stepped out, accepting the towel from Tally.

For the first time in months she tugged through her hair with the wooden comb and then slipped on the new dress. Thankfully it was one of Baba's and twice her size so it fit quite well in the front. It was a plain dress, grey wool, crude stitching, but it fit and it was clean...it was more than she could have ever hoped.

The three of them walked to the tavern, Maeve's hair dripping down her back. They walked towards the open door at the back of the tavern, the door leading to the kitchen. Warmth caressed Maeve's cold skin and the delicious smell of roasting spiced meat greeted her nose and made her mouth water. A second set of open doors in the kitchen led to the main floor of the tavern, where she could already hear laughter from merry patrons.

In the kitchen, chopping haphazardly at a carrot near the fire was the balding man who'd grumbled at Baba earlier, and standing beside the oven pulling out some steaming meat pies, was Auntie Gin, whose face hardened ever so slightly at seeing them. She looked down at the cooling pies and without looking back up at them, she began to knead the left over dough on the counter.

Still focusing on her work bid Tally to go upstairs and lay her daughter down for some much needed sleep, and then come down to work. This left Maeve alone with Aunty Gin, and the scowling cook who had yet remained silent.

Aunty Gin looked up from the dough, and the older woman's unwavering gaze made her cringe. She recognized that stare; it was one that elders used on the young. "You will earn your keep here, earn the food in your belly, the bed you sleep in and the roof above you. You don't work, you don't eat. You don't pay for your bed, you don't live here. After the babe comes, I’ll let you rest for a few days, but after, you’ll work.” She stated solidly, her gaze never wavering. "Understood?"

"Yes." Maeve managed although she was ready to say about anything to get the woman to stop looking at her like she was.

"Good. Now start serving those rowdy bastards out there and I'll save you and Tal a plate for later."

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

The work was easy, and Maeve had grown faster at it in the last few days. Pour a little wine and beer here and there, collect payment, cut the customers pieces of the roasted pig and repeat. Of course weaving her way through the sea of half drunk raucous men made her job quite a bit more dreadful.

She felt uncomfortable. Timid. One man had stopped her, his eyes glazed over and his breath stinking of wine. He’d asked her name and when she gave it to him, he started on about life and it’s many lessons, all of which he’d learned because of his wretched father.

Later, when Maeve finally found reason to leave (the pitcher she’d been clutching to had run empty), Lena pulled her aside and told her, “Finn thinks everyone who serves him another drink is his dearest friend. With him, just pour, tell him how much and move on. Be firm.”

Maeve had never had to be firm with men deep in their cups. Drunkards were shameful, kept distant from the holy order, deserving only of shaking heads and wrinkled noses. She felt like an outsider.

But some, she came to notice, were only merry. Some sang and laughed among a few friends, while others filled the entire room with their voices. It was a wider variety of drunk men than she’d ever expected. It was a strange comfort to know that some would be easier to handle than others.

When there was suddenly a shout for more wine, she hesitated briefly before stepping forward, weaving through the bodies, careful and timid as a mouse skirting around a cat.

Wine made tongues loose and fears fall away like leaves, she found out quickly. More than once she'd seen Baba pulled onto someone's lap. Constantly, men bombarded the pretty tavern girl with crass comments and invitations. But what left Maeve in awe, was the sweet way she rejected them—her lips pulling into a smile too sharp to be innocent, her words honied even as she told them no, and it left the men laughing and asking for another drink.  

Maeve faced the same comments with none of her grace.

"Oi! Girl! Over here and come sssit on me lap! I don care that yer fat!" called the old man that she had just served, slapping his meaty thigh. "From behind ya look likes a normal sized lass! Give us a kiss and I'll give ya a copper penny!" She ignored his slurred words and went on, blushing. He'd probably forget her as soon as he realized she'd refilled his cup. At least, she hoped he did.

Sweat wet the back of her neck from the heat of the pub and the constant blush that reddened her cheeks throughout the night. She hadn't expected their words to have such an effect on her still. Hadn't she grown thicker skin? Worse words had been hurled at her, words that were intended to wound and to shame. Still, Maeve cheeks were coloured red the entire night.

"More wine!" a deep voice called from the left of her. She kept her eyes away from the man's face as she scurried over to the table where he sat, a pitcher of wine in her hand. His large hand rested on the table, and on his index finger was a beautiful golden ring with a deep red ruby at the center. His hands were pale and smooth and the hair on his knuckles was a fine gold.

She didn't look up to meet the stranger's eyes. It was just easier not giving them a reason to talk. Men liked to talk when they're happy and seeing pretty faces made them happy. So Maeve simply poured the half empty carafe, filled his cup again with the dark bitter liquid and turned to move away, but suddenly his hand caught her wrist, the thick band of his ring digging into her skin.

A startled gasp came from her as he pulled her close, forcing her to look at his face, glassy blue eyes watching her quizzically. He was older, approaching the middle of his life, though it was clear life had been gentle with him. The lines around his eyes told his true age. His hair was the colour of dark honey in the dim light, a thin moustache lining his upper lip, fine angular features sculpting the comely face staring back at her.

"If I were a lesser man I'd think I'd seen a ghost." He muttered to himself, his deep voice slurred ever so slightly. Maeve could say nothing, still too stunned by his actions. The men had grabbed for her before, though not as vigorously as the other girls, and she had quickly gotten away from their loose hold quick enough. Theirs had been a mischievous gesture that held no meaning, their dulled eyes had held nothing of note. But this man, there was no good-humoured feeling in his hands or in his eyes.

"I'm notta lesser man though. I'mma Lannister and Lannister's don't act like fools." He grumbled in deep voice, no doubt mocking whoever said those words first. “But oh,” he sighed, his lips quirking upward. “You do have the look of that traitorous bitch, don’t yeh? Never got a proper taste of lovely little Violet Reyne, ripe as a peach even after milking like a cow.”

Violet. The name was a flower, soft and sweet. She had always been fond of them. But there was something painful in that short word, something that made something twist inside her—jolt, like a limb that was broken and healed long ago, suddenly feeling the damp and cold.

A light was uncovered, memories that were buried were suddenly restless. Violet. The name was a flower. The name was love and warmth and comfort.

…mama…

The man kept talking, though it sounded far away for Maeve. “Foolish tart. What a waste of a woman, butchered like a sow.” He reached up, fingers brushing a lock of hair away from her face. Maeve’s breathing quickened. Suddenly his hand was rougher, and a weight was crushing down on her, suffocating. “What a lucky man, am I? The cold fish refused me the first time, thought I were just ‘nother green boy.” He yanked his hand away and took up his cup, so harshly it made the drink spill. He glared at her face a moment longer, but then he grinned. That grin would linger in her mind for days to come.

He grinned, but there was no joy in his eyes. He grinned, and he yanked her forward with a harshness that revealed a jaded man. He grinned, and when her body was pressed against his, his voice hissed against her cheek. Maeve quivered against him, but found she herself too stunned to move.

“You could be her in the dark. You wouldn’t call me a green boy, wouldn’t act all coy and sweet, like you haven’t been fucked before, like your eyes don’t reveal your hunger for it. You’d be warm and wet and eager, wouldn’t ya? Will you scream for me?” At that moment Maeve found her wits and tried to wretch away from the man, but he held tight, his arm still firmly coiled around her swollen middle. She felt sick to feel him so close to the baby.

“Might be a bit fiery, but that always brings a bit of spice to it.” He sounded amused, his voice so low that his drunk slurs were muted. “Even with that belly, you could be Violet Reyne for a few hours and be the richest whore in Golden Tooth by the end of it.” He pulled her tight against him once more, and this time, the pitcher went crashing to the floor. “A Lannister always pays his debts, even to his pregnant whore. Just don’t come begging when you whelp, claiming the bastard is mine.”

I’ll put another son in your belly…something to remember me by.

Fury gripped Maeve’s heart, something so hot, she was certain she had never felt so angry. Perhaps she should have felt frightened, and deep down she knew she probably was, but all she felt in the second it took to hit him was rage, hot as dragon fire. Her hand suddenly flew on its own and slapped sharply against his cheek.

He snapped his eyes back at her, outrage written over his face. His hand was quick, strong and painful as it smashed against her cheek, sending her stumbling backwards into another table with its force. Instead of fear drowning her fury, her anger increased twice over, making her want to jump up and strike him again, harder and harder until her wrath was satisfied, until his rotten tongue could never again spill that filth.

Maeve never did get the chance to leap at him, because a hand suddenly wound itself around her arm, halting her, pouring water on the fire of her rage.

It all happened in only a few small moments so there was no time to think. Her feelings consumed her, like a sea storm over taking a fishing boat, only to release it once it entered calmer waters. She was faintly aware that things had quietened some; a few tables around her silencing their conversation to observe this violent transaction between the man in the finely crafted armor, and the serving wench who'd dared to strike him.

Suddenly, someone was brushing past her. Maeve looked up, and watched as Aunty Gin stood before the man, speaking gently and asking for his forgiveness.

She frowned. Maeve didn't expect to see a woman that once seemed as strong and unyielding as steel, bend and mutter false praise and apologies to this man who deserved none of it. She half expected Aunty Gin to throw the man out, but quickly realised it would be impossible. In business, you don't throw out paying customers for the sake of one woman—easily replaced, easily forgotten, not at all missed.

Fear prickled at her skin, her face warming as the first tiny pulls of regret settled on her. Her face hurt where he’d hit her, and her hand still stung hotly. And yet, it had felt good to hurt him.

But what if that one small act of release would cost her a warm bed? Worse, what if he had her taken, locked away as punishment. He said he was a Lannister, what if that hadn’t been the rambling lies of a drunk?  

Perhaps she should try to apologize, to plead like Gin, to make her a little softer. But the words were stuck in her throat, burning like bile at the thought of asking for the foul man’s forgiveness. What if he demanded her body in exchange for his forgiveness?

A bastard had more honor and grace than the man before her had in his entire body.

Her knuckles were white at her sides, angry and tired all at once. More than anything in the world, she needed her bed at the tavern, a warm, safe place to give birth to her child. Suffering through it would be risk enough, but to be alone, in the street, among beggars and rapers and rats…she could not bear the thought.

She hated him for running his mouth. Hated Gin, hated herself and her own pride. 

A home found and lost just as quickly. It was almost laughable in the cruelty of it. Even more so for the fact that it was her own fault.

"Please, my lord, she's deaf and dumb, didn't know what she was doing, doesn't understand what was happening." Aunty Gin spoke softly, and the lie drew Maeve's eyes upward toward the two. At that moment, she wished it was true. "It's all just a misunderstanding, please, have more wine and one of my special meat pies, no—" The older woman reached for his arm. Maeve could still see his chest heaving, his eyes burning into her. His rage was still bubbling, and he jerked his arm away from Gin when her fingers brushed against him.

"Don't touch me you old whore!" he shouted his face red with anger, eyes as bright and burning as wildfire. "A Lannister always pays his debts, and I swear to you, this bloody shithole will burn for this!" His rage nearly frightened her. Then he stormed out of the tavern, stumbling a little, and disappeared into the night air, taking his anger with him and permitting the men to go back to their cheerful activities.

Aunty Gin turned icy eyes on her as he disappeared through the door. Maeve bit her lip. When she was little, just starting her lessons at the sept, her impudence got her many harsh looks like that from the elders and most often, those looks were followed by pain. They'd throw water on her back and beat her with a long switch most often. Less often, they’d lock her in stores, alone for hours on end, the dim light of a single candle keeping the dark at bay.

After a while, she'd stopped expected grand meals, new toys to play with or pretty dresses to run around in. She forgot her old life, and felt safer for it.

"Clean this up! I'll deal wit ya later!" Gin yelled at her, motioning wildly to the scattered shards and wine soaking the planks beneath their feet. Then the older woman stormed off, leaving Maeve to dread when she next saw her.

When the floor was picked clean of the sharp clay pieces, Maeve disposed of them in the waste pot in the kitchen.

“You stupid girl!” A voice shrieked from behind her, so sudden it made her nerves jump. Whipping her head around, Maeve found the pretty girl, Flavia, rushing into the kitchen, her face contorted with anger.  A slow pain spread through her lower back, a cramp, much like the kind she experienced when her moonsblood was upon her. She made a small sound of pain and rested one hand on the counter and the other on the lower part of her back, hoping the ache would pass soon. It was probably the heavy weight in front of her that caused her back to ache like this, and there would be nothing to do about that until the baby was born.

As the pain reached it’s crest, and then slowly started to fade, Flavia started her rant, waving her dainty hands about her. “You’ve spoiled everything! Tyrek was mine! He listened when I talked! He would smile at me! He’ll never come back to see me now!”

The meaning of the words just barely registered to Maeve as the pain finally dissolved away.

“Gods above, he’s hardly worth much. If he were so devoted to you, why would he want me?”

“He’s a man! They have needs, they have desires. What man wants to crawl into the same bed each night!? I didn’t care about that. He always came back around and always paid me well!”

Maeve scoffed, his foul grin and his fouler words still fresh in her mind. “You’re better off without him.” What woman could be content with that thing in her bed?

Flavia’s eyes widened, her scowl turning to shock. “You foolish, ugly bitch. Lessons from you, too stupid to brew moon tea when you need it? You think anyone’s like to want you, even after the babe is born? You’ll be worn out and used up.” Maeve's jaw dropped in disbelief and anger as the words cracked against her chest. “He was good for me. I would have earned a house with the money he paid.”

"Have him then! I didn't want him! He grabbed for me!" Maeve cried; blush flamed across her neck and cheeks, her heart racing as she had it out with this girl.

“You should’ve fucked him. It’s not as though you’ll get with his bastard. Is that why you won’t do it? Can’t cry to him after and ask for gold and food and a home to raise it?” Her voice was mocking, cruel.

“I don’t let random men bend me over. I’m sure that’s a foreign concept to you, but I promise I don’t want him.”

Flavia glared, her mouth set in a hard line. She stepped forward, and against herself, Maeve took a step back.

“You think you’re better? We do what we have to, to survive.” The other woman’s voice was calm, but cold as ice. “I know that. I expect that. But I have claws too. It would be wise to remember.”

Maeve’s fist clenched. She imagined it flying, knocking into Flavia’s nose, breaking it, drawing a river of blood and making her so hard to look at, no man would pay for her. But she resisted. Gin was already angry with her. Instead, she replied, “You think I got here because I’m not willing to tear out an eye or two? I have faced far worse than a thing like you.”  

“You both gonna rip each other apart or go make the customers ‘appy?” The two turned to the man who’d spoken, the cook, a round man with a dusting of white hair on his head. His beard brushed his belly, and he watched them steadily, silencing the two. “’E were drunk, Flavia. Like to ‘ave forgotten by tomorrow.”

“You’re taking her side?” The other woman demanded, pointing a finger at Maeve.

“Yer screaming like a mad woman, at this rate, all your men will be happy the war is comin’.” The old man looked to be smiling behind the scruff of his beard.

Flavia scoffed, glaring at the cook before turning and marching off, muttering quietly under her breath. It was silent a moment, muffled sounds of laughter coming through the wall, when Maeve finally spoke, her voice low with embarrassment for having been caught in a row with the little chit.

“Flavia’s a hot tempered one.” He said after a long moment of quiet. Maeve wished he hadn’t broken it. “When ‘e comes back tomorrow night, she’ll be sweet as honey again.” She took a deep breath, trying to gather herself back up again, turning her head away. “Don’t take it too ‘ard. If we all wept for insults, nothin’ would ever get done. Now gettin’ hit, now that’ll take the shit out ‘o you.” He paused, and she could feel his eyes on her. “’Ow’s yer baby? Movin’ and squirmin’? Y’know, when my wife were carryin’ our girl, she was—”

“Will you shut up!?” She cried, her eyes starting to burn. “Please, shut up! Why won’t anyone just leave me alone? I do as they ask and it is never enough! It’s never done any good. Why can’t—” Her voice was caught in her throat, words escaping her. She wanted to be alone, with her thoughts, her worries, her fear. Wanted no one to see the memories she’d rather forget. She wanted no one to see it and turned her head away.

The cook, however stood in a shocked and stung silence as the young woman before him tried to pull the cracked pieces of herself back together again. Young little thing couldn't be more than twenty, swollen with a baby, hurt at Flavia’s jabs and cheek coloured red from a slap she’d earned. He hadn’t expected such an outburst; the girl had been quiet since she’d arrived, offering thanks when she got her breakfast, accompanying Lena and Baba when they went to the market, and when she went to work at night, she was timid as a maid.

He wondered, then, what had happened to the two women on the road.

Unwilling to incur her wrath, he called out into the hall. “Tally! I need you ‘ere!”

“Why!?” she called back.

“’Urry up, my pies are burning!”

When Tally came, the cook was back to kneading his dough and Maeve was still pressed against the wall, shoulders hunched to hide herself. The younger girl’s heart ached for her friend. Maeve was older, but Tally had thought there was something soft and green about her, like a child needing to be taught.

“Did you feel better after hitting ‘im?” She started, her voice stern. “Cos that’ll cost you a night’s wage.” Maeve was silent, stubbornly refusing to reveal what he’d whispered to her, the repulsive offer he’d made her. Tally sighed sharply. “Ye can’t be so surprised he hit back, now can ya? Does it hurt terribly? Might been worse if not for aunty.” Maeve shrugged, a hand reaching up to rest on the side of her belly, where the baby was kicking. Tally sighed again, softer this time. “Kicking?” Maeve nodded. “Shouldn’t be much longer now, it looks t’me. We do what we have to for our babes. We suffer and we work and we do things we shouldn’t for ‘em.”

Maeve understood her at once, and her ears burned at the gentle reprimand.

“Think o’that before you swing, next time.” Even with those words of caution hanging in the air, Tally wrapped an arm around the other girl, laying her cheek against the curve of her shoulder. The embrace felt good, and it would hurt all the more when Tally eventually left her.

After a moment, Maeve mumbled out. “It felt good. Hurting him.” She’d wanted to do more, wanted to hit until they were both bleeding. The desire was still singing in her blood, and it frightened her. Tally laughed softly.

“Don’t tell Gin when she come at ya.” She pulled away then, and Maeve felt cold. “’E won’t do anything. It’s just a tavern. He’d be laughed out of Westeros making such a fuss about it.”

Maeve nodded, a weak smile coming through as she ran her hands over her face. With a soft pat on her shoulder, Tally left again, the noise outside swelling when she pushed the door open, muting when it swung closed.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke gently to the cook, not daring to meet his eyes, because the words tasted false in her mouth. She was too raw to be apologetic. Her cheek still burned and when she moved her tongue, she could taste blood. She wasn’t sorry, not for slapping the drunken pig nor for snapping at the cook.

The old man grunted, and Maeve accepted that.

Quietly, she moved towards the back entrance, where the kitchen led into an open yard, directly across from the pens where the animals were kept. As the cold nipped at her skin, she brought her hands to her swollen belly. Torches burned, casting an orange glow upon the city, the cold night air smelling of snow and smoke. Through the breaks in the clouds, Maeve could see the stars.

Against her best efforts, Maeve’s faced contorted as she tried to hold back the tears that wanted to escape. She hid her face, sniffing once and wiping away the hot droplets that managed to escape.

The baby moved a little more, poking his little limbs through her skin, before finally settling. She should be happy it was quiet now, but she moved her hand to where she was sure little feet had been prodding, tapping her fingers gently until the baby kicked against her once more.

Her eyes burned, but this time there was no sorrow in it. She hadn’t even realized she was smiling until she said, "I should just name you Kicker and be done with it." Tally had brought up names, back when they shared the bed of a cart. Maeve had been avoiding thinking of names ever since. “I…I’m your mother. I was never meant to be one, but…” Poor child, she thought, with a mother like me. “Tally said the world shifts, when I see you the first time. I don’t know if that’s true.” She sniffed. “But I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you. No matter the cost, no matter what I have to do. I will love you, now and until the very end.”

She wanted to say more, but the words were lost to her. What more was there to say? The babe need not know anything more.

When she first found out she carried Jon’s child, it was surreal to her. Real and unreal at the same time. The baby's existence seemed abstract somehow. She cared about it, and had an overtaking desire to protect it from threat...but couldn't say she'd loved it. Yet she wanted it, wanted this creature kicking her all the time, making her fat. She fully abandoned the Light of the Seven Gods for it, escaped the justice the sept would have dealt her if she'd stayed, all to keep her child safe.

And she knew she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Maeve hoped when she saw her child the first time, all every doubt and fear would fly from her heart, never to return. She hoped a year from now, all the secret worries she’d tended to these last few months, would seem silly.

“Oi, girl!” The cook called out. “If yer finished watering the goats, toss ‘nother log on the fire, eh? Colder than a septa’s tit in ‘ere.” Biting her lip, and brushing a hand across her swollen cheek to rid herself of any stray tears, she straightened herself, and returned to kitchen.

The farmers looked so pathetic it humbled Jon to see them. A group of twelve commoners stood before them in Robb's tent, old men, young men, and two middle aged women with hollow eyes, the life taken from them and leaving shadows of what they once were. Their helpless, pleading eyes had tears in them as a broad man, middle in age, stood in front of his group, hands shaking around the pointed cap clasped in front of him.

He recounted a story of slow terror, of living day by day in fear of the lords meant to protect them but instead abused them, robbed them of their food and homes, stealing their loved ones in the night.

King Robb, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, Lord Reed, and Lord Umber stood about the tent, standing tall and proud, making the broken farmers look even smaller.

"Y-your Grace, they-they've raised our taxes, so high they've taken to stealin' our...our children, Your Grace! Our children, our wives...they can't take muh sons twice, they've already sent 'em off to war." the man before them sniffed. It was sad to see a man that looked like he ploughed the fields everyday of his life look so...hopeless.

The horror that accompanied this revelation was like a cold knife running up their backs. Their children? The lord's at Golden Tooth took children? By the Seven new gods and the Old, taking the children and wives of your people was an evil, a dreadful taboo that could be met with rebellion. A Lord's people served him, where was the sanity in stealing their children?

There was also the fact that these wicked lords had supposedly sworn to Robb. The lords that took these people's loved ones and crops and left them to starve were the ones that had sworn to help Robb sack the west. Jon's teeth ground together, and Robb's face turned cold, his hand clutching the sword at his hip as if he wanted to use it.

"When our coin, our food, our livestock isn't enough, they take what we love more than li-life..." he said. A woman cried helplessly, breaking off into inconsolable weeping. The other woman beside her wrapped her long bony arms around her, but the woman's sobs continued uninterrupted. "They killed men who refused to fight for King Joffrey, murdered mothers refusing to let their sons go..."

Robb stood there before them, expressionless but Jon could see the anger written on his face. "The men need to hear this. They need to know what will happen from Dorne, all the way to Winterfell if we lose to the Lannisters." He turned to the men who gathered around him. "Go, spread the word. Let no man, woman or child be deaf to the truths of these crimes."

"At once, Your Grace." Lord Reed nodded, and the three men shuffled out of the tent to so as Robb bid.

Robb turned back to the shaking farmers, pity sparkling in his blue eyes. "I cannot give you back your homes, I cannot give you back your children," the second woman sniffed, barely holding back tears. "But I swear to you, the ones who did this will die for their crimes. You will have justice."

Jon wondered if the mere promise of justice was enough. Would they be able to deliver it? They were supposed to be aligned with these men, not butchering them. How could they ever hope to claim the west if they did this? What was right and what was necessary for victory were once again on a scale, where they balanced so delicately, just the slightest weight tipping it one way or the other.

Robb motioned with his hand and Olyvar, his squire, came forward. "My squire will find you a hot meal and a comfortable bed to sleep on."

"Thank you milor—your grace." The farmer took a shaky bow and followed the young Frey boy out of the tent, his people clouding around him out of instinct.

Presently, they were camped five days ride from Golden Tooth, five hundred feet away from a depleted farm that looked as if it hadn't supported life for years. They were shocked when the half starved farmers crept from the farmhouse.

As they got closer and closer to Golden Tooth, Jon and Robb both grew uneasy. It felt too easy; no one gave up their home to army occupation without a bit of hesitance, without swallowing their pride and accepting defeat. Grey Wind was more on edge as well, growling at everyone but Robb, snapping his jaws towards the noble born sons of Golden Tooth who had been sent as a sign of good faith to Robb. Jon disliked the situation; he didn't like the smell of it, the look of it, the feel of it, he didn't even like the way Grey Wind had been acting as of late. Now he knew why.

"If word gets to the lords at Golden Tooth that you'll chop off their heads if they open their gates, no noble son we possess will get them to submit." Jon murmured to Robb, annoyed that his words were true.

Jon didn’t truly know if he would submit if he were a western lord, but preferred to think he would kneel before risking his son. But Jon Snow never dare think he’d ever have a son. "You..." Jon wetted his dry lips. "You must keep this quiet. It is the wisest option presented. " It was an ugly idea, a monstrous one, but it needed to be said. What hope could there be of a successful siege if Robb planned to kill his allies? If he killed all hope of a peaceful surrender.

He wondered, then, what Ned Stark would think. Take justice for the innocent or spare the lives of a city? Sacrificing justice and becoming as terrible as the men they fought against, or, balancing the scale with the suffering of a siege.

Our lord father would do what was right, he thought. But what was right? Justice or mercy? Jon’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

At once, his brother swung around to glare at him, looking offended at his words. “Are you mad?” He demanded the answer, the way a king only could. Jon had never heard such a tone before now.

"No," Jon grumbled, eyes narrowing as he tried to explain. "You can't expect the west to hold to you if you hack off the heads of their nobles!" he exclaimed tersely. What else could they do? They'd already come too far to turn away now, they'd put too much at stake. Too many of their own men had died in the battlefield, too many mothers had lost sons, too many northern wives lost their husbands, too many children were to live without fathers…the North remembered and they would never forgive Robb if he lost all of this only to fail.

“How am I to ignore this? They stood before me not a moment ago—!”

“So, pretend they weren’t.” Jon mumbled, indignant and ashamed.

“—Broken, and pleading, bled dry, expected to give more!” The king exclaimed. “They are the proof that our rebellion is just, that we are not traitors, because the Crown would do worse to us. They pillage their own people, steal their children when they are not satisfied.” The king’s voice was raw, and Jon could not identify the emotion it trembled with. But as much as Jon loved justice and truth, he loved his family more.

“And Tywin Lannister orders the slaughter of babes in their beds and Robert Baratheon steps over their corpses to sit on the throne. No man alive who has won a war, has hands that are clean.” He thought of their father, then, but dared not pursue that thought. “You start taking the heads of allies, soon we will fight the war alone. Or worse, they accept us only to betray us again.” He thought of his brother and his king, riddled with arrows, not a trace of armour to protect him and his resolve grew.

“You would have me be as cruel as Tywin Lannister? To win this war with innocent blood spilled?” Robb spoke lowly, as though a grave insult had been uttered to him. Jon bristled.

“I would have you win the West. Take Casterly Rock, strangle the Crown’s resources, shame the lions in King’s Landing and make them regret the day they put father in chains and named him traitor.” For a terrible and strange reason he thought of Maeve, and was shamed to think of what she would think seeing him now, advocating for remorseless brutality. He brushed it aside.

“At what cost? You understand those women were raped? That families had children taken from them, for who knows what purpose? They are more like our poor sisters than anyone else!” The words the king spoke left a great stretch of silence. The hideous reality the Starks faced was now given words, and so were made real. Jon could not imagine his sisters in the same terrible place as the farmers were, broken and hollow, not a thing left that the monsters had not taken. He felt his heart jerk, but the king continued on. “I don’t want any lord who kills and robs his own people loyal to me. If I let one lord do as he pleases with his people, who's to say another won't take the advantage I give him?"

It took a long moment for Jon to collect himself and speak. “The west does not want you to start with. Their loyalty is fragile as porcelain. You know as well as I what happens when a city is sacked.” His brother drew back at that, his throat bobbing. “Imagine these farmers, these women, a hundred times over.”  

The king was silent for a long moment, thinking. “What is it you suggest then? Pretending those people don’t exist?”

“Do not execute their lords. Let them keep their heads, for now at least. Take more testimony later, when the lion’s seat is taken by the wolves.” Robb, to his credit, seemed to think of it. There was a long moment of silence between them, one Jon believed was taken up by his brother silently trying to refute him. “I cannot see another option, Robb.” His brother shot him a glare, one that pinned other men like insects on a stretch of parchment, but not Jon. “Golden Tooth is too sweet a victory to risk. In taking the city, we are all the closer to taking the west, crippling the Lannisters.”

“Do not tell me what we will loose.” His brother growled, exasperatedly. Robb sighed and walked around Jon and lean his hands against the table, facing away from Jon. “If these people, if they were red haired, and grey of eye...” He trailed off, but behind him, Jon stiffened. “Would you care more for their suffering?” Jon had changed, Robb could see it. He was colder, a sharper edge to him now. But oddly enough, Jon remained soft to the refugees that shadowed the camp's every step, visiting them in their simple abode, rationing small amounts of food to them and often sending a maester to keep them in health.

Robb knew it must have been for that woman, that septa, why Jon gave them so much kindness because now, with these new people to avenge, Jon opted to ignore their suffering and go on and take Golden Tooth without acknowledging them. He cared for one, but not the other, all because of the influence of a woman that had shamed him.

“Everyone has suffered. No one is spared.” His baseborn brother eventually replied. “Them, in Golden Tooth could be, but at the sake of immediate justice for the farmers.” If they took the west, no one could say their cause had no power. Sansa and Arya might be easier to regain, and Ned Stark might be easier to avenge. A long silence remained. “Don’t ever talk about her.” Jon finally said his voice quiet but steady.

A part of Robb wanted to tell his brother that he had no place to order him, but the part that loved Jon kept him silent. If there was one topic that was most painful to Jon, it was of the woman he’d lost.

Instead, Robb chose to ignore the order and said, “I want you and Lord Reed, to lead five thousand of your swiftest men into the mountains surrounding Golden Tooth. Keep and watch until I get there. Until we have Golden Tooth in hand we will continue on as though nothing has changed." Robb commanded.

"As you will, Your Grace." Jon bowed and then promptly left the tent. As he weaved through heavy bodies of the men, now bustling excitedly with the horrid stories of the farmers already circulating through the camp, Robb's command really hit him.

Five thousand men to surround the city, to ambush it if their plans went awry. Jon listened to the chatter as he walked through the camp, snippets of the terrors the westerners were facing from their own lords flittering about his ears. Even as he hoped to avoid a difficult siege, to prevent anymore suffering and bloodshed, he felt as though he were walking into another battle already.

Chapter Text

Hello everyone! I know, long time no see, huh? But I am alive, and I do intend on coming back to this story, and, in fact, my dear friend Darkwolf79 kickstarted my inspiration! She is an amazing writer and I'm so thankful to have her input and support and guidance when it comes to this, and my other stories.

So, in light of this new piece of inspiration, I thought I'd come back to say hi and to let you know I'm not done yet. And despite several anonymous readers coming to me and asking and/or demanding that I end Vows off with a summary page of what was going to happen and how it was going to end, I refuse to let my first story end like that.

So, in reading back on this story, I realized it might seem pretty coincidental for a Lannister to be in the same tavern that Maeve found herself working at. And yes, it was. So, to recap, the entire root of Maeve's story comes to a incident of sexual assault from a Lannister to a lower born westerners's wife. Gafford Lannister, great nephew of Tytos, raped Olis Tarbeck's wife, Ima. Gafford had been enamored with Violet Reyne, Maeve's mother and wife of Eli Reyne, and had attempted to seduce her, but she laughed it off since he was about 16 years old at the time, and she was 25, and before much else could happen, Violet left the feast to be with her infant son, Garret.

Violet's rejection enraged Gafford, having been taught since the cradle that Lannisters were above all and to be with one was akin to being with royalty. It was only chance that poor Ima Tarbeck crossed his path and fell victim to his wounded pride. Ima told her husband, and he told his friend Eli, and they brought the issue to the reigning Lannister--Tywin Lannister's father, Tytos. Tyos Lannister was a weak, complicit man, wanting to please but also with too much of a soft heart towards his family. Much to the rage of Lord Tarbeck, it was suggested that his wife wanted it, and only cried rape because her husband caught her. Even so, the suggestion had not cooled Lord Tarbeck's rage, and he demanded the boy in question to appear, to beat him to death with his own hands to avenge his wife.

Tytos might have forgotten the insult, but Gafford Lannister was as arrogant as all his cousins but without the power to justify it, and had appeared at Lord Tarbeck's castle gates, knowing Ima was alone inside. But Ima had not taken the taunt and opened the doors, only to order her men to apprehend Gafford and his two Lannister cousins. Sadly, this act of defiance ignited a rage inside the men who would control fate--Tywin, Eli, Olis.

When word came on the wind that Ima had Lannister prisoners, Tytos had her husband taken hostage at the Rock. After a tense few weeks, Ima relented and released her prisoners, and Tytos released Olis. 

Tywin never forgot Tarbeck, who demanded Gafford appear to meet a bloody end by his hands. Eli's ambitious eyes saw an opportunity, a chance to rise. He loved his friend's wife, to be sure, but he loved the idea of sitting in Casterly Rock as it's lord even more. Olis only wanted Lannister blood.

When the Rebellion started, it began with hefty support, but ended with naught but the Tarbecks and Reyne's.

Which brings us to why Gafford Lannister was there at the Creaky Wheel, where Maeve Reyne (unknowing of her last name), was serving him. Tywin values his family and would not seem them besmirched, but the opinions of sheep are nothing to him, and if he can destroy a man as quietly and painfully as he can, he will. Afterall, he made Tyrion in charge of the sewage of Casterly Rock. For Gafford Lannister, he was promoted in the army, into a Captain, but he was so ineffective no one respected him. He was unfit for leadership--too demanding, too cruel, too uncertain when it came to advancing on the enemy. Gafford found solace with the drink, and the Creaky Wheel provided cheap enough libations to get him through a day.

Anywhoo, that's that :D 

I'll be back soon guys, I promise :D

Chapter Text

Chapter 20:

Maeve clung to the shawl around her shoulder, pulling the fabric just under her chin. Although the fire burned in the loft above the tavern, the cold of winter still seeped through the walls. Her breath came in white puffs, and her fingers were going to fall off soon, half way through their task. Still, she did not stop her slow, careful movements, weaving her needle through the fabric.

It was getting colder, and without clothing, her child wouldn’t last the winter.

It had been nine days since she'd arrived there at Golden Tooth, and since then life had...calmed somehow, nothing truly notable had happened for which she was grateful. At least nothing of note since her squabble with the jealous whore she shared space with.

Every day she got up, went downstairs and after breaking her fast on a slice of bread and lumpy porridge, she would go to the markets with Tally, Baba and Lena. Together, they would gather the things they needed to keep the business afloat.

Simple shopping, but Maeve quickly caught on that life in the city was difficult.

The butcher raised his prices from seven silvers for a whole pig, to three gold dragons. The baker didn't sell you flour until he saw a gold dragon and a parcel of meat to trade. The fishermen's catch went rotten in the crates, unable to sell with the price they set. The spice, jewel and silk traders from Lys, Myr and Pentos had left long ago from Golden Tooth for the people spent all their money on food. There was less hands for work as all the young men had gone off to war.

In all of Golden Tooth, there was less fish, less game, no blacksmiths, and little in the way of crops. People were slowly starting to feel their hunger as this war progressed, as boy kings sat on their thrones and ate their grandiose meals as the common starved.

Despite the growing hardship, Gin managed to keep her customers coming back with her stock of food and drink. Doubtless the women providing the service had something to do with their loyalty. But lately, Baba and Flavia had been complaining that some men had started crowing their love and devotion. At first, Maeve had thought it sweet, but then it became clear that their men tried to use their charming words as a free means to enter their beds.

“Cheap bastards,” Flavia had grumbled one night after counting her earnings. “Oadie tried to hold off paying me ‘till after I sucked him off. Gave ‘im a little nip after he tried insisting.”

“Ooooh,” Lena cringed, crossing her legs. “You’re cruel.” 

The pretty girl scoffed. “Crueler to starve and freeze than give a man a much deserved flash ‘o teeth.” Maeve, though she hated the girl, couldn’t help but agree. The girl gave a pleased grin. “He kissed and loved me all the more, after. Every ten men who want it for free, there’s one that’ll pay more to have his every desire met by a beautiful face.”

Maeve would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought idly about Flavia’s words. It sounded like easy money—lying back and letting someone rent your body for a short time, collecting more than she could earn in three nights at the tavern. She could save up more. Maybe her baby would have it’s own cradle to sleep in, soft clothes to keep warm in, shoes to cover it’s little feet. She could have a dress that fit her better, buy a pair of boots and return the ones she’d borrowed. Maybe she could hold her head up a little more if she had money enough to buy things she needed. These days, she just nodded and said her thanks, feeling small.

She liked to imagine it, feeling like a woman grown, making her own way, rather than one still living from meal to meal, dependant on another’s generosity. A sweet dream, one that seemed never to exist.

So very tempting, but Maeve brushed the thought away with a deep curl of shame. She had been chaste, and now she thought of making a living at sin. Maeve would weep in the night, heavy with longing, too afraid, too ashamed to ever make her dreams real.

She was oddly thankful for that terrible confrontation with that drunk wretch who had murmured such filthy, disgusting things to her as though they were sweet nothings. The horrible words and her brash action against them had seemed to cool whatever interest men had in her before. None of them had tried twice to gain her company.

Gin had seemed to forgive her well enough, though Maeve had begun to suspect her earnings were trimmed down in comparison to the other women.

In no time at all, her baby would be here, and she had nothing to offer it. No cradle or clothes, not even a toy to play with. What a disgrace she was, a sorry imposter of a mother.

Perhaps it might have been better to stay with her troop. If they’d let her keep the child long enough to bring it into the world, perhaps she would have had the comfort of knowing the babe had a true mother, one who knew what to do with it. One who could give it what she could not.

It was a sweet thought, but she knew the pretty promises which hid the truth. Her babe would have been given to the first person who accepted—be they high born, or the keeper of a whorehouse. A gamble she would not take, not in a thousand years.

In private moments, she found herself weepy, tears wanting to run in streams down her cheeks, heart breaking with shame and fear for the future that kicked and rolled in her womb. Maeve had gone to Tally in a moment of panic and the other girl had only said that she would know what to do when the babe came. “It’ll fall into place, it’ll all seem so small when you hold ‘im in ya hands the first time.”

Maeve had only shaken her head, wishing her hair was down so she could hide the redness of her cheeks. “No, I…” she sniffed. “I don’t know how to wash it.” She felt foolish, but Tally only laughed.

“I didn’t neither. Turns out it’s not so much diff’rent from washing yourself, only holding the head above water and making sure the neck don’t flop.”

Still, Maeve only felt a little more at ease when she came home from the market with a few strips of dried meat in hand. She’d hidden it away under her pillow, wrapped tight with cloth, hoping the smoky smell would not seep through into the room.

It was there if she was hungry, if a next meal did not come.

Maeve lifted her work, inspecting the quality of her stitches before turning it over. It was to be a little sleeping dress, something to keep the baby warm and covered. The material was soft and gauzy, and she would have liked a thicker fabric, but this was all she could afford. She had never been the best seamstress, always too slow and clumsy, her work always shabby. But she was happy enough with what she’d managed so far.

So proud was she, that it was easy to forget the money she’d stolen to acquire it. The first time she collected the customers’ fees, she’d been startled at how much coin she’d held in her hands. More than she’d ever seen in her life!

That first night and the next, she’d turned in every penny. The next, she’d forgotten one in  her pocket. It was innocent, a mistake she hesitated to rectify the longer she stared at the coin. So she decided to wait, reasoning that Gin would come looking and she would turn it in, no harm done. No one noticed and so the next night, she forgot another two.

Soon enough, a little sum accumulated in the tight space between her stocking and shoe, enough to buy linen.

Gin never noticed, she thought to comfort herself. How could she miss what she did not know was missing?

In the sept, insolence and sin was beaten out of her the first few months she’d been there. The life she’d had before the sept had been entirely different to the holy life she’d been thrust into. The result was a handful of tantrums and many nights of tears. She remembered how she’d scream for her mother, and the devastation of mother never coming. (Maeve was ashamed for forgetting the woman who gave her life, her memories tenuous as the memories of a dream. But the ache of forgetting was duller than the pain of missing her.)

As punishment for her childish fits, Septon Syvos had deemed it suitable to give her no meals for three days and seven strikes on her palms and seven on the backs of her thighs. Soon, she learned it was a standard punishment. There were worse things to endure.

The very first time, she hadn’t known that the hunger would end after three sleeps. After two days, she’d been so hungry, and afraid she would die. Noble born or low, when a child was hungry, the pain of hunger was smaller than the fear of punishment. Weak and trembling, she’d wolfed down the carrots and half eaten roll left on a meal tray she’d been ordered to clear off. It wouldn’t be the last time she’d had to resort to scraps.

Years went by, and Maeve changed. The nature of hunger changed, shifting until the pain of it was something to overcome, to pray through and gather strength of resilience for the spirit. Pain was a test of faith, of loyalty. Pleasure was weakness, sinful and decadent and worthless.

But perhaps it was the threat of pain that kept her quiet and dutiful, more so than the strength of her belief in the gods.

She sighed, anger bubbling low in her gut. Her babe would never know a hungry day. Not even if it threw a fit on the floor, she would not deny it a full belly.

A poor, shameful mother she would be, but she wouldn’t be a cruel one. Let any man or woman or god call her any name they wished, but she would fight them if they called her a cruel mother.

Her fingers tightened around her needle, focusing intently on her slow, methodical movements. She thought of all the things she’d done to protect the thing growing inside her. She regretted most of it, but she could not regret the reason she’d done it. 

The latest of her sins still bore evidence. The linen’s hadn’t costed a terrible amount, and she still had a little money left. She wanted to save for a maester’s visit, for when the child came. She was no stranger to the misery of childbirth, and had seen the aftermath of a birth gone wrong. Clothes, food and a cradle could come after, but first the babe needed a maester.

Pain suddenly jolted through her back and spread to her hips, so sudden and intense it halted her work and made her scrunch up her face in pain. A strangled grunt growled from her throat as she let go of the needle and clenched the fabric at her hips, instinct making her pant through the pain.

The pains were not strange to her. Eight days ago, she’d frantically shaken Tally awake in the middle of the night, telling her of the tightening, the pain. She had fretted for the baby, certain something had gone wrong inside her and that the babe needed help. A few sleepy questions later, Tally gently explained they were false pains, commonly felt when the woman’s time was near.

They were annoying little occurrences littered throughout her days. But over last two days, something changed, the reason for which Maeve hardly dared think about.

At first they just tore through her every handful of hours, waking her in the night and slowing her work efforts in the day. Then they occurred sooner and sooner, every few hours and now they ripped through her every hour, longer and stronger than she'd ever felt it. Maeve had never known anything like it, the pressure, the pain, the instinct that told her to do things she didn't know how to do, or didn't understand.

It’s only false pain, she assured herself. Only my body making itself ready.

At last the pain dissolved, leaving her heart beating hard in her chest and a slight flush on her forehead.

"Come on you bastards and fools!" a distant voice called gruffly from outside the closed shutters. "Them north'rn howlers won't wait if we ain't ready!" That was probably one of the reasons she kept her agony silent: the busy soldiers outside the tavern walls.

She remained still a while, gathering the strength and when she was ready, Maeve stood on her weak and shaky legs, and dropped her needlework down on the chair. Curiously she walked to the window (sidestepping the little pile of blankets on the floor that served her as a bed) and slowly pushed open one of the shutters. The cold air hit her gently, curling over her body like a gentle caress, making her shiver as she looked down into the street.

Down below, men and boys scrambled about, some awkwardly holding spears and axes and dull swords in their hands. The street was filled with them; stands and carts full of merchandise and foods had been pushed aside, knocked down or trampled to make way for the army gathering at the city walls. Very few civilian men could be seen, there was the odd street-child barely visible running through the countless bodies in the crowd, probably snatching what he could.

Women however, were confined to watching from windows, like her. A red banner with a golden lion flew awkwardly in a young man's hands, the pole crooked as though he did not have enough strength to hold to sigil for very long. Most of them had probably never had any training for war, or held a spear in their life, or even had any real care over who sat on the Iron Throne, but there they were, preparing for battle.

For a time, it had been easy to ignore the influx of men in armour, the whispers swirling through the air that there would be a battle soon. But then the whispers became chatter, the chatter became cries, and the cries were impossible to shut behind a door.

A pit formed in her belly, knowing a horde of northerners were marching right up to the gates of Golden Tooth.

Some, like Gin and the cook were unbothered. Gin boasted about being born and raised in the city, and in that time, there had never been a successful siege.

“The Tooth commands the Hill Road!” her loud, clear voice assured her frightened niece. “Our walls are hard ‘n strong, the Young Pup can throw a hundred thousand at us and still we will stand!” The tavern had lifted their cups at that, the cheer that followed was deafening.

Looking out the window at the men below, Maeve’s fear tightened it’s grip around her heart.

Robb Stark hadn’t lost a battle in the year she’d traveled with his camp, and she had seen the bloody aftermath of a war just as well as any soldier. Yet, a new kind of dread made her draw away from the scene outside. When—if the northerners won, she would not only bear witness to the aftermath of sacking, but she would have to suffer through one, and be vulnerable in all the ways a woman could be.

Her hand flattened against the side of her belly, back pressing tight to the wall behind her. Sometimes, she woke up thinking she felt him breathing on her, woke up thinking another knife was pressed against her neck. 

Maeve’s face contorted, suddenly, a scream wanting to break though, but sheer force of will keeping it silent. But she could not stop herself from striking her head back against the wall, a strangled grunt leaving her. She refused to think more of it, and the sharp ache of pain brought her away from such repulsive thoughts.

A door opened, and fast feet scurried up the stairs, and she quickly attempted to smooth the agony that had broken though.

Tally climbed up the steep steps, weary looking with her warm shawl wrapped around her and Dorna both. So many soldiers gathered toward the front entrance of the city, and so their usually peaceful morning was disturbed quite noticeably.

"Gods, what are they doin’ out there?" Tally asked tiredly, sitting on Baba’s bed and slowly rocking a cranky looking Dorna. Many nights, Tally crawled in with her aunt, a fact for which none complained. "Woke up my baby; she's hasn't got any sleep from last night neither." Maeve said nothing. Since that night, Tally kept Dorna close and Dorna seemed to agree it was best to keep her mother in sight at all times. And Maeve was close enough to Tally to know Dorna hadn’t been getting much sleep since the unspeakable incident had happened.

“I don’t know.” She replied instead, fist curling tight against her hip. She could feel another pain coming, slow and rippling from her lower back. Bloody bedroll, she thought. “Looks more like alter boys trying to make themselves presentable.” In truth, Maeve had a very good idea what they were planning, and had a feeling Tally did as well, but it was a common thing among women to not talk about these ugly things in front of little ones.

Tally bit her lips, head inclining towards her little one as she stroked her back. It wasn’t long before Dorna’s grip loosened.

“I…is it safe here?” Maeve finally asked, wishing she was the one who knew, who was certain. "They say Robb Stark's marching towards us, he'll be here at any time now." It bothered her to ask such important queries to a girl younger than her for some absurd reason, but there was precious little else she could do. Gin despised her enough already, the other women kept a careful distance from her, fearing Gin's animosity would catch onto them if they talked to Maeve.

Tally shrugged, her eyes wide and honest and frightened. "I don't know. I heard one of the soldiers down there, big ugly brute with armour made special, say that Robb Stark's a stupid little boy and the troop outside will crush him before the day is over." Tally exclaimed in an excited rush, the worry in her eyes heightening as she spoke.

Maeve found the courage to be honest with Tally’s fear. “We should leave. Go to the sea, to the ports of the Rock. We could be safe there.” All she wanted was to be safe, and that simple wish was getting harder and harder to achieve. It felt as though everywhere she turned, every step she took, led her deeper into an abyss where safety was a hope, not a promise. She felt trapped.

Tally eyed her up. "You can't. You're due any day, if we got caught up in travel—"

“I’d rather it come in a ditch than during an attack.” Maeve exclaimed, pain and terror slashing through her. “I…men don’t care! Just cause they see babes close to us—!" Maeve broke off, the notion unspeakable, the mere memory too sharp to bear. She sniffed, sighed and shifted, turning her head when she heard more loud orders from behind the closed shudders. "Tally, we can't stay here. I don't care if I give birth on the road, its better than staying here."

"Why do you want to go back on the road? Don't you remember how it was? I do." Tally hissed out at her, brows narrowing and eyes watering as painful memories came back again. It was the first time Tally dared talk about it since arriving in the city.

“Of course I do.” Maeve hissed, her voice low so no one would hear.

Tally’s snarling lips trembled, a breath leaving her in a shudder. Yet for all the fury in her body, her eyes were sad. Filled with a sorrow that made Maeve want to weep. Still, it was not enough to make her want to stay.

“I am more afraid of what can happen to us, than I am about your babe coming on the journey.” Her eyes filled with tears, eyes reddening. Maeve stayed silent, the burning of her eyes and blurring of Tally’s face rendering her mute.  “A babe, out there on the road is not so terrible. It’s what runs after us that is terrible. And we’d be too slow. You would slow us down.” It felt worse than the truth should have, because behind that fact, laid the fear that Tally herself would abandon her to that terrible fate to save herself and Dorna.

But then, in her terrible sinners heart, Maeve knew she would have done the same.

She stared at Tally, the friend she’d made, who shared part of her heart now that part of them was mangled by the same fate…and shook her head. Between a probability and a chance, she would take the chance if it meant that night may never happen once more.

“It might not come.” She mumbled, glancing down at Dorna, still curled up in her mother’s arms. “We could leave now, pay someone to drive us the way. The longer we wait, the more leave.”

“And if we did manage to make it, where in the Seven Hells would we go?” Tally scoffed, affronted. “What would we do? Become port-wives?” It took a heartbeat to understand what a port-wife was, and when she realized, Maeve flinched back. How could Tally even entertain such a thought? Men’s lust for blood and pleasure and power had been what mangled them, and left scars. Seeming to hear her thoughts, Tally leaned forward, speaking softly. “How can we survive without a penny to our names?”  

“Not like that. Not every woman needs to. Plenty find ways to feed themselves without letting men—”

“And women with bastards on their ‘ips?” Tally spat, knowledge and bitterness—both far beyond her small years—behind her eyes. “Men don’t want proof of another man scuttling beneath their feet. ‘Nd I certainly don’t intend to give up my girl. Respectable shops don’t need whores like us. Taverns like this one...” Again, Tally’s thin lips curled into themselves, a wretched look of anger and bitterness on her face. “You’re only ‘ere cause I begged Gin to let ya stay. There are a ‘undred other girls like you, y’know, in this city. Gin would’ve thrown you out, if not fer me.”

Maeve’s hackles rose as her heart started cracking. Tally spoke from a place Maeve could understand only a little, and for that, Maeve could never hate her. But for all that Tally thought she had paid Maeve kindness, Maeve knew that had it not been for her, Tally and Dorna would still be beside the corpse of her father, and far more abused. To Tally, Maeve was a stray dog she’d fed a few times and now expected obedience.

When would people stop thinking by showing kindness a handful of times, would be rewarded with absolute loyalty? There had only been one man in all her life who only wanted her—her heart, her soul, her body, her time, her smile—but he had never, not once, tried to make her bend to his will. He had begged for her love, even as she pulled away, but had never used those sweet moments of tenderness to make her obey him.

Jon was good. Jon was kind. Jon was the only one who was truly selfless with his affection.

Maeve’s mouth tightened, and her face became blank as the realization washed over her. Tally had been kind to her, but that kindness came with a price.

“Yet I stand here, and it is you who want to convince me to go with you. You must be afraid, that they’ll leave you.” Maeve studied Tally’s face, as keenly as she had once studied the pages of the Seven Pointed Star, watching at her brows turned downward, her mouth losing it’s harshness. “I would not leave you, Tally.” Fresh tears formed in her eyes then, the pain of this abrupt, unexpected blow washing over her. She had expected this from everyone, but never from Tally. “I didn’t before.” Her voice broke, and some small relief came when Tally looked away.

That Night had been the most horrible night of all her memory. She knew other horrors, had faced deeper pains that had formed her into the woman she was now, but this one was fresh. Every moment was there in her memory. She had thought Tally found some sort of comfort in having her there, to share the pain, the burden of the secret they’d take to their graves. She had thought the bond went beyond friendship, into something that lasted a lifetime. Maeve’s heart broke to think that night had resulted in nothing—no bond, no devotion, no friendship. Just fear and pain and perverse joy from the men who had hurt them.

But still, Maeve did not want Tally to be caught unawares. And if she thought Maeve would slow the retreat, she had to think she and Dorna (an able-bodied child), would be less likely to be left.

Yes, Maeve was more likely to be abandoned, but Tally and Dorna were not.

“That were before.” Tally mumbled back, voice bleak. “Things ‘ave changed.”

"If we stay here, and the northmen come though...imagine the road only ten times worse." A siege always ended like that—while the men were run through, those who couldn’t weild a sword were brutalized and left wishing for death. And, sadly, she had little doubt Robb Stark’s forces would eventually batter their way through.

The room felt too full, thick with nervous energy, with anger and words that should not have been said, and so, Maeve stood and hurried out. The air was suffocating, and her heart thundered in her ears the entire way down the stairs and into the tavern.

Another aching, slow starting pain flared inside her at the bottom of the stairs, her lips tight and silent so Tally would not hear.

A hour went by and Maeve found herself put to work by the cook, kneading dough with uncertain hands.

She had never made bread before, and her mind was still racing with thoughts of what she should do. Her body was there, moving and kneading, her belly clenching with pain, but Maeve’s mind was a thousand leagues away.

She didn't want to leave by herself, no more than she wanted to argue with Tally. Too many bad things happened when you were on your own and she felt a strange attachment for the girl and her daughter. They had saved her from starvation and loneliness and exposure, they gave her warm things to eat and a new dress and shoes to wear when hers wore away to nothing. They had given a place for her to stay and their friendship. It would be hard to be without them, to worry and fret over what would become of them if she were not there to see it.

But she also did not want to face the horrors of a siege for the two, either.

Idly, she found it strange to be making bread while the world outside prepared for battle. But then, the cook was old and she was swollen with a child—what else could they do? Perhaps when the northerners broke through, they might spare them in exchange for fresh bread.

Her knuckles painfully pressed against the hard clay of the bowl as she pressed and pounded, reminding her of all the times a switch had painfully beaten down on her knuckles as punishment, which made her think of the Faith in general. She thought of the seven gods she trusted, as a child trusts her mother, she thought of every time she prayed, of every time she fasted during the harvest celebrations, of every time her heart ached when she thought of the one thing she would never have: a family, a true flesh and blood family of her own. The gods are laughing at me somewhere, she thought as she beat the dough under her fists.

Suddenly the floor boards creaked just a few feet away from her. Maeve spun around expecting the cook to be closer to her than he should have...and found a dirty little boy standing in the kitchen. Maeve hadn't even realized the cook had left her alone.

He froze when she whirled around to face him, eyes widening in fear and shock. He was a small little thing, short mussed up brown hair which fell into his eyes, dirty, shabby clothing and, oddly, no shoes. He was girly faced with the small nimble fingers of a girl, not the broad fingers of a boy. And between his girl's fingers was a fresh loaf of bread, snatched off the cooling rack atop of the stove.

Maeve’s heart leapt at the sight, knowing that she would get the blame if bread was stolen under her watch.

With that in mind she thrust towards the boy but he was too quick, dancing out of the way, graceful as a cat and in a flash, stole out of the kitchen through the open doors, into the stable yard and out of sight, bread in hand.

Maeve waddled out after him as quickly as she could, a foolish attempt to catch the young boy when she could barely get up the steps to the loft without feeling absurdly tired by the time she reached the landing.

"Hey! Stop! Thief!" she cried uselessly. The boy was gone, and the cow only looked at her, chewing loudly on some feed with indifference. A short, distressed sigh left her.

The gods are laughing even harder, she thought dismally.

Suddenly, a warm gush came between her legs, happening so quickly and unexpectedly, she didn't have a moment to panic. Snapping her head down, Maeve stared in shock at the puddle of water she now stood in. Her mind went blank, unable to process what just happened, unknowing what it meant. It hadn't hurt—it was more of a gush reminiscent of her moons blood—but it came from inside her.

Not daring to move for fear movement would make it worse, Maeve looked up, hoping her voice would carry to the loft above. "Tally! Tally!" she screamed clutching her dress as tight as she could.

Jon watched from the jagged mountain tops surrounding Golden Tooth. It was oddly familiar, a little like watching from the Wall except this time there was actually something to see.

From above the city's buildings were just small square shapes, no bigger than his thumb nail. The people were just little specs, so insignificant by themselves, but Jon could plainly see where they amassed at the front gates of the city, a moving mass like ants of a mound of dirt. On the walls, he could see soldiers amassing great steaming vats of hot tar, ready to burn northern flesh from bone.

Part of him wanted to believe it was all just a farce, a show put on by the lords to prove that they are not weak when they surrendered easily to Robb, but in his heart he knew the truth the second he saw the growing army gathering behind the city gates. Robb had been betrayed, if he had ever had their loyalty.

The sons the nobles in the west had sent to prove loyalty were probably just decoys, or the second sons who held no greater value than a daughter. They had no intention of siding with Robb, no plan to dissipate House Lannister and elect a new Warden of the West. Tywin Lannister's might and wrath must have been too great for them to risk. Jon wanted to put a sword through their throats.

But he held fast and watched for three days as the city prepared for Robb’s arrival, three of his swiftest scouts taking word of this betrayal to their king. 

The loft was all but empty, the beds made, the fire lit. The shudders were closed, shutting out the noise of outside. The sounds of heavy panting filled the room from the girl standing by the bed, clad only in her shift. Her auburn curls hung down around her face, hiding the discomfort etched there. She was hunched forward, clinging to the bed post for support as the ginger haired girl behind her rubbed her back in hopes of providing comfort.

"Why didn't ya tell us you were having those pains?" Tally asked gently. The argument from before was forgotten and all that mattered now was surviving the difficult hours that lay ahead.

"I...I didn't know." Maeve gasped. Another contraction stuck her, clenching and agonizing, drawing a strangled whimper from her as her hands clenched so tightly on the post her knuckles turned white. Was that normal? Was it meant to hurt so much? "Ow, ow, ow-www-ww," she sobbed, tears collecting in her eyes, but didn't fall.

"Shh, shh," Tally soothed, rubbing Maeve's back in gentle circles. "It's alright, it's almost over, it's almost over. You're alright."

Finally it stopped and Maeve wanted to cry. “I just want it to be over.” She wept against the post, feeling like a child as she rubbed her cheek against the cool wood.

Behind her, Tally pried her cramping hands away from the post and guided her to sit down on the bed, earning a little groan from the woman. Maeve didn't know anything about birth; she didn't even know how to push! It felt too soon, too sudden. She wasn't ready! She didn't have the things he needed or a place for him to sleep or even a name to call him...or her. "Please make it stop." She pleaded to Tally.

"I can't. The pain is what the gods cursed us with, and pain is what you'll get." She said.

“Damn the gods.” Maeve heard herself utter, pain making her tongue loose. But Tally only laughed a mirthless laugh in reply. It had been so long since she had blasphemed and not been struck in response.

She picked up Maeve's abandoned dress, pooled carelessly on the floor and threw in on the chair. They'd been at this for nearly four hours, her and Tally. Maeve couldn't describe how grateful she was to have the younger girl there with her, holding her hand and telling her it was alright and that the unbearable pain was completely natural.

When Maeve screamed for Tally down in the stable yard, she, Flavia and Baba had come running outside to see what was wrong. Flavia rolled her eyes and walked back inside briskly when she saw the puddle of water beneath Maeve's feet. But Baba and Tally rushed to her side, taking her hands and helped her back up to the loft. They pulled her dress off and gave her a drink of water. Then Baba had to leave to serve the wine downstairs to the arriving soldiers and Gin very nearly called Tally to go with her, but Tally stayed. To give the two women some room, Gin took little Dorna downstairs and watched her in her private room since she was too little to be a cupbearer.

Now the sun was gone and the moon hid behind black clouds, and pain came so quickly that Tally said it wouldn't be long now.

"Here, lie down." Tally came forward and lifted her legs while Maeve settled down on the pillows. Baba had been kind enough to let her use her bed.

"Forward! The northmen will only get through those gates in pieces!" a voice roared outside, shocking Maeve into remembering what was coming. Her eyes widened and she tried to sit up, but Tally pushed her back down again.

"We have to go, we have to—" her voice sounded high and panicked to her ears. Outside, a thousand voices roared up in a thundering cheer that awoke the night from sleep and inspired fear in the common people.

"We can't go anywhere with you like this. We can't rush these things and we can't stop them, they happen as they meant to." Maeve began to cry. The careful stitched together life she had created was crumbling around her.

Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had never lost a battle. A moment later, another contraction came over her, stronger than the last. A scream erupted from her, filled with everything she could not put into words. Her belly clenched tightly and she felt the urge to bear down.

When it ended, she fell back onto the pillows. Why would any woman want this? And why hadn't someone somewhere come up with something to make the pain stop, if women had been doing this for thousands of years? She wondered why making children felt so good, when birthing the result was... excruciating.

Another hour past them by in a painful blur, the loft silent apart from Maeve’s panting breaths and the screams that ripped from her lungs with each contraction.

"Shhh, you're doing well, remember to breathe, it's alright." Tally soothed as Maeve hunched forward and cried out loudly. Her throat was raw from all her screaming, but she still had to cry out the pain of labour, there was no way out of that. She took Maeve's hand in her own but that was no good. Everything still felt upside-down. "Shh, just do what your body tells you to do, sweet, and you'll be—" loud footsteps coming up the stairs cut her off, coming so quickly she didn't have time to scream at the offending person to stay out of the loft.

The stable boy—the pox scarred young man they called Pox—came up the stairs, wearing his cap and boots and cloak, panting and fearful looking. Maeve tensed in Tally's arms. In all the time she was here, Pox only looked frightened when he nearly lost all his money in a dice game. He looked terrified now.

"Get out of here!" Tally screamed, thrusting her hand towards the stairs behind him to make the point clear. The pain began to dissolve again, leaving her breathing hard and tired and she almost didn't hear what Pox said next.

Pox paid no care. "Tally we 'ave ta leave! Gord just told me, the northerners just scaled the walls and they say there are more, coming over the side of the mountain, like ghosts!" The fear and shock that accompanied his words was so strong it froze them a moment. Maeve lifted her head, sweaty and clutching her belly and simply stared at him with an unreadable, steely look. Tally looked frightened but she did nothing, said nothing, and made no move to flee. "They say the rebel has twenty thousand men beyond the wall! Let's go!" he shouted, trying to get the two women to move.

Tally's first movements were small at first—pulling her arms away from Maeve's clutch, standing and walking to the chair where Maeve's dress had been thrown—but then all at once, her actions took on a hurried, almost frenzied, speed.

Clutching Maeve's dress, she hurried back to where Maeve sat on the bed, hauled her up swiftly without care of whatever protest the pregnant woman might have voiced, and yanked the dress over Maeve's head. Maeve simply stood there, too stunned and tired to do or say anything. But unthinkingly, Maeve got her arms in the sleeves herself, having dressed herself thousands of times before. Tally tied it up as best she could with shaking hands.

It suddenly occurred to Maeve what Tally was doing, and her heart swelled with gratitude and relief.

"What? With her?" Pox exclaimed with disbelief. "She'll just slow us down!" he cried.

“She’s ‘aving a baby!” Tally cried back, circling a skinny arm around Maeve’s back as she helped the other girl down the stairs.

The battle had started in a kind of odd way. From what he would be told later, Robb's men on the other side of the gate had scaled the walls and upon seeing them, the army of Golden Tooth soldiers had shot some of them down, most of their arrows being lost in the wind and darkness. On the outer edges of the city, above in the mountains on either side of the city gates, the five thousand men Robb had charged him and Lord Reed with, leased their arrows down upon the army in a surprise attack as they were occupied with the men atop the wall. And before they even realized where the enemy arrows were coming from, the men charged from the mountains, making their way to the gates where they would open them to allow Robb's men in.

The charge to the gates had not been without a substantial amount of difficulty. The horde in front of them was too stunned to realize a measly troop of two thousand before them could easily be trampled in close combat, but the arrows still flying from the mountains gave the illusion that their troop was bigger than it was. Still within the first few moments, a quarter of the two thousand men were dead and many others wounded. The gates were larger than they'd anticipated, wide enough to allow twenty knights to march alongside each other shoulder to shoulder.

Jon was among those down in the city, shouting orders for the men around them to cover the builders and smiths as they hacked and chipped and broke the wrought iron gates that held Robb's army out. Lord Reed remained above in the mountains, directing the arrow path to the front of the Lannister horde.

And then finally, the final axe blow was laid on the gates and their locks, and the gate opened, allowing the men on the other side to charge in.

It was unfortunate to say that many of the men, who had just opened the gates to their king's army, had died as a result of being trampled by the very army they just let in. Jon managed to stay head of the stampede running up behind him, and reached the terrified looking Lannister army just a scant second before they northmen behind him did.

The battle was bloody, as it always was, but this time he didn't see his brother or his Grey Wind in the crowd as he used to. For every battle they had fought together, they had never strayed far, even when things were tense and horrible between them. Jon watched out for Robb, and Robb watched out for Jon. Now Jon was on his own, and fearful of what had happened to his brother, why he was not there. Robb has his banner men, he thought as he slashed at a man raising a spear, he has Grey Wind, he's fine.

A blow abruptly landed on Jon's back, hard and crushing and he was immediately thankful for the armour protecting his back. The air was knocked out of his lungs at the force of the painful blow. How had he not seen that? He realized in the same instant, that when he lost sight of his brother in battle, Ghost was the one to protect his back. When Ghost had gone, Grey Wind had taken the role and now—

And then the second blow came, even more devastating than the first as the metal of the armour dented with the force. This time the attack sent him to the ground, gasping and in pain...defenceless, vulnerable, like a wounded animal watching, waiting for the hunter to come and finish him off.

The man raised his hammer; Jon didn't even see his face, only the weapon rising up, gathering strength behind it to give the last killing blow. Jon's hands shook with the shock of the pain in his back, he could not raise up his sword to defend himself. Was this it? Was this how he died? Alone on the battle field, bitter and angry and hurt, missing someone he had lost? Maeve's face flashed though his mind. He didn't want to die; he wanted to see her again, to touch her hair, breathe in her scent, hold her close, tell her he loved her. His hands shook so terribly that he couldn't even regain a grip on his sword. It seemed as though he'd never do any of those things...he'd never do anything again.

All of a sudden, a glowing orange blur knocked into the man about to bring down the hammer.

The man's screams were lost among the roar of battle and quickly his screams were choked by blood. Weakly, Jon rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow to watch what had saved him. Blood leaked from Jon's mouth from where he had bitten his cheek when someone punched him, and his face was shining with sweat.

The first thing he noticed, was that it was big, and it was an animal, judging by the way it stood on four paws as it ripped apart that man. The animal that had attacked the one trying to kill him, he realized. No wild beast was tame enough to do that. For a moment, he thought Grey Wind, but immediately the thought was gone as he stared at the glowing fur. Grey Wind's fur didn't glow in firelight; his fur was too dark for that.

The dire wolf turned, licking the blood from around his mouth, eyes glowing red in the fire light. "Ghost?" Jon gasped in disbelief.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

The narrow streets of Golden Tooth were swarmed with panicked people, old and young and feeble alike, some with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a small parcel of food, others with an entire cart of belongings and gaggles of children huddled together. Some were even soldiers, still in their armour, who had abandoned the battle after it was clear it was lost. The men and women of the Creaky Wheel tavern were amongst those who ran half blindly into the night, seeking refuge in the west. Hundreds of feet drummed against the half frozen earth with haste, shouts of fear and urges to hurry were all that could be heard, with the light whisper of heavy breathing and muffled sobs. The sounds of battle were growing closer, spreading from the city gates and outwards into the streets, adding more urgency into their panicking.

"Come on! Come on!" someone screamed. His order did not make the people go faster, having no power over the fearful mob.

Maeve struggled to move with the crowd, but each and every step was difficult. Horrible even.

At first Tally and Dorna had been beside her and stayed close, the others only a few steps ahead and for a moment she believed she could do this, escape as she had before. But the first time she escaped, she had been small, the baby—it had just been...an idea, something that couldn't be real, something that barely alerted her of its existence. But now, her womb clenched with pain and stopped her cold in her tracks, and made it clear that this was reality. By the morning she'd be a mother, to a living breathing infant, not just a moving bulge beneath her dress.

That is, if she survived the night.

Unlike the other times, there was no kind comforts murmured by Tally, although those hardly helped in the first place. Still, it had been nice to hear something soft and encouraging. Now she was alone, all familiar faces lost in the crowd, all kind comforts gone and dead.

Maeve whimpered and gave a loud cry as another contraction hit her, freezing her legs along the side of the street, as pain ripped through her lower extremities. Her body was frozen, and no amount of people pushing and shoving past her could make her legs move.

Suddenly someone heavy knocked into her side and pushed her into the stone wall beside her, but she hardly registered the action; it was almost a relief to have something keeping her up, and not having to rely on her shaking legs. Immediately, she curled forward and tried breathe deeply. She had been hit before, she had been cut, and had feet blistered so horribly that they bled and still walked on them, but this pain outmatched them all. It seemed to go on endlessly, with her unable to do anything to make it end or ease.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thought suddenly. Her life wasn't supposed to be like this. She had never imagined this kind of life for herself. She never thought she'd feel so liberated yet so entrapped, so sad and alone yet not alone at all. Some would even call her blessed, and she supposed she was in some ways, but how could she appreciate the good, when the bad seemed so big?

Her old dreams had flown away when Jon had crossed her path, replaced those hopes of favor and praise in her sept, with fledgling dreams that had been foolish and young.

She couldn't keep doing this—running, moving—it hurt too badly, and maybe she was doing more harm than good. Maybe something inside her would...tear in her haste, or she would collapse and hurt herself, or die, or lose her baby. She had to stop, but she couldn't. Moving could mean death, not moving could mean death. I'd be farther away by now if I had run sooner. Why didn't I leave sooner? Oh yes—because I am a stupid bloody coward, she thought regretfully.

The auburn haired girl gasped for breath as it finally ended and before she could gather her strength again and will herself to move, a familiar voice cried out, "Maeve!" It was like a lifeline thrown to a man drowning too far from the ship, a small star of hope that it was not the end, while the sea around him thrashed and pulled his body below the waves, still reaching for that star.

Tally held Dorna in her arms, blinking wildly at the on-coming rush of frightened people, desperately hoping to see red hair or a pregnant belly. Hamal their stablehand, Pox and Aunty stayed with her, but she could tell Pox was going to leave soon, he had a limp and it would take him a while to escape as it was and waiting any longer for the pregnant girl he cared nothing for would end up getting him killed. The next time Tally turned to ask Pox if he saw Maeve in the crowd, he was gone.

Her heart jumped. Her palms began to sweat. Dorna whimpered. Hamal was quiet by her side, fidgeting nervously, but carefully picking through the sea of faces, looking for the pregnant girl. Aunty kept screaming at her to forget the troublesome slut and run, yanking and tugging at her. A strange feeling crept up on her each time aunty pulled, one made up of nothing but fear and urgency—to do something, to move, to survive.

She couldn't leave Maeve to die—she was about to have her baby, an innocent little thing, helpless as a kitten—but her baby, her Dorna, had to be safe as well. The bruises on her child's skin still hurt her, knowing she had been hurt, had been afraid, and that she, her mother, was powerless to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep the bad things out. And when it came down to it, there was no one else in the world she loved more than Dorna...it was hard, and she might hate herself for it, but keeping her daughter safe had more strength over her than helping Maeve.

The others were gone, most of them having abandoned them after the second time Maeve had stopped their progress—Lena and Baba, and the children, Flavia and the cook, lost in gaggles of people and large wagons rumbling along slowly in the night. They were probably safe by now, right at the back gates of the city, while they searched hopelessly for a virtual stranger. It was the right thing to do, but it settled a terrible weight in her belly, making her feel sick.

Tally's feet tickled, she wanted to run. Dorna needed her; she couldn't let her baby be hurt, not like last time, not like last time...not like last time. Maeve would...she would be alright, someone with a cart would give her a ride, probably. People tended to have soft spots for babies, if not...

Tally frowned, tears of exhaustion coming into her eyes. Dorna sniffled and rubbed her face against the side of her mother's neck, tears wetting her skin. A lump formed in Tally's throat, her arms tightened around Dorna. Without a second glance she turned away and began to speed with the people around her, traveling west like a river, her aunt guiding her along. Hamal stood a moment in shock, turned back to the oncoming horde of frightened townspeople, waited a moment or two, and then joined them with a heavy heart.

No one stopped, no one tried to help her and Tally's voice was lost in the crowd.

The world had gone silent to her as she panted there against the stone wall, her heart pounded in her ears, loud and fast, her face hot and sweat dripping like vinegar into her eyes. Around her people swarmed and screamed, pushing and shoving towards some unseen finish line.

The screams scared her, touched something painful inside her, something from so long ago when other people had screamed in the night, when men came over walls and with bloody intentions, fire burning stone and when the smash and clang of steel had sounded so strange and foreign to young ears. Sadness and bitter hatred for some unseen, unknown foe engulfed her then, almost matching the naked despair growing inside her as minutes ticked by and the contractions grew stronger.

With a great amount of effort, conjuring up all the courage she had left, Maeve pushed off the wall, stumbling forward on her feet as quickly as she could. It was terrible, but still her feet moved. Then another wave of pain engulfed her being, she cried out because she had no more strength left to scream. I'm dying, she thought, I'm dying. Oh my child, my poor poor baby.

She collapsed once more, this time her side against sharp angular stone, her elbow holding her up, legs spreading apart by some baser urge. Her hand reached out, looking for leverage, and felt her fingers grip a ledge by her sides, the cold stone smooth and strong beneath her grasping fingers. Her body no longer obeyed her wishes, but did as it willed, instinct guiding it to do what needed to be done.

Maeve looked up, and hardly registered the impressive temple she laid before, or the Seven figures those strong marble pillars depicted.

Time was meaningless to her, she could have been there a few moments or hours, she did not know, didn't care. All she could focus on was the continuing cycles of pain, starting and ending and starting again so closely together she hardly had time to think.

Suddenly hands took her under her arms, hauling her up on weak legs.

Ghost mauled another man's throat as Jon collected himself on the ground, pulling himself up with all the strength he had. He lifted his sword again. His chest felt heavy, his heart was beating as though he'd run a mile, and he felt ready to do it again, his muscles poised and ready to pounce.

As the hands roughly pulled her up with an alarming strength, Maeve’s heart was gripped with a new kind of fear.

"Let me go! Let GO!" Maeve squealed as the owners of the hands pulled her up the stairs, her feet stumbling and knocking painfully against the hard stone. She tried vainly to twist a little, to get them off of her, but her attempts were weak compared to their unflinching steadiness.

"Quiet, you." The aged voice of an elderly woman admonished her. They pulled her up and up and up, to the last step and Maeve's feet dragged on smooth, gleaming stone.

It was suddenly a bit warmer as the strangers pulled her through the threshold. The sounds of screaming and battle outside were muffled some, but the sounds of whimpers and sobbing and hushed voices became amplified as they bounced off hard stone walls. She opened her eyes, and then closed them immediately as the strong, sudden firelight blinded her.

A familiar smell flittered across her nose.

The sword shone wetly in the firelight, stained with blood. Jon didn't know what was happening, who was winning who was losing. All he knew was to keep fighting, to cut down any man in Lannister colours. He was a soldier, and that is what soldiers do. He blocked out the faces, the noise...let them bother him some other time, some other night...not today.

Oils...spices... the scent of jasmine and lilies, of lavender and rose water and spices from across the Narrow Sea...she knew those smells, she knew them, she had inhaled them every day for years and years. Maeve knew them well...her heart dropped low in her belly. She twisted a little harder, and felt the hands clench tighter around her arms to keep her in place.

She had to leave, leave, leave! Run away as far as she could, somewhere they could never find her. They would hurt her, hurt her baby, she'd be thrown into the dark and never see her baby again. She gave another scream, strangled from her clenched jaw and tried once more to break free to no avail.

"Please, let me go, let me go..." she whimpered, a hand reaching down to feel her belly, trying to protect it. She opened her eyes again just as they pulled her through another doorway, but in the light, everything was a blur.

"Come on, Sister, get'er on th' bed." a voice sounded beside her. Maeve's unfocused grey eyes turned to the speaking, and could see the faint outline of a women, covered head to toe, only her face visible for modesty's sake.

"Please, please don't hurt me..." Maeve whimpered as they pulled her forward once more.

"We're not gunna hurt you, love. This will hurt, but not 'cause of us." The woman comforted in a matter-of-fact voice. Suddenly, Maeve was pushed down on something cool and soft.

He hardly noticed when they were suddenly deep within the city, pushing back Lannister forces and capturing half of Golden Tooth. His back throbbed with pain, a warm bead of sweat—or maybe it was blood—trickled down his temple and his heartbeat drummed in his ears, a fearsome war song.

He kicked away the wounded soldier, who had come at him with a mace, and looked amongst the quarreling bodies around him for that familiar streak of white.

"Ghost!?" he cried, his voice lost in the countless screams of ferocity and terror and the endless clangs of steel against steel. Jon's heart sank when he did not see him.

"Ahhhh!" the loud roar was not at all startling, but it drew his attention because the one screaming was also rushing at him with a sword. Jon lifted his sword instinctively, and deflected the blow, although not without difficulty.

Her vision cleared as they pushed up her dress. She could see the gorgeous paint of a mural above her, dark blue paint representing the midnight sky, with seven painted figures circling the candleholder, a portrait of the night sky and the sun, with the gods mastering the greatest power of all: light. It was common for wealthy septs to have sky murals painted on the stone ceilings of their dorms.

Maeve felt hands on her legs, prying them open and her heart leapt. Memories struck her like a blow from a fist; she remembered the sickening feeling of when rougher hands had yanked up her dress, and when a terrible weight had pressed down against her, trapping her, suffocating her. Maeve scrambled back up on her elbows, trying to push her skirt back down, but a sudden jolt of pain crashed back over her, freezing her movements. She felt something...gush out of her, out onto the bed linens and coating her inner thighs.

“Blood, sister.” A woman exclaimed softly.

The women pulled her back down on her back and spread her legs open, pushing up her dress without embarrassment or hesitation and without struggle from Maeve. She knelt on the bed, between the pregnant girl's legs and looked down to see how it was coming along. She saw blood, just as her sister had said.

Looking back up at the girl, whose face was screwed up in pain, she ordered, "Alright, push now, push!"

A strange foreboding feeling suddenly pulled at Jon, the feeling of impending danger, of worry for the ones he could not see.

When a man slashes his sword against someone, gets bloody, and nearly dies half a dozen times in battle, a strange frenzy grips him. He moves quicker, does not see the faces of the men he's killed...fire enters his blood, and won't let calmness take him until hours after the battle has been won. Jon had never had this feeling in the middle of battle before. It was weak as a whisper, but it commanded such attention from him.

Jon tried to ignore it, but the seed had been planted. He needed to see Robb, Ghost... Jon needed to know they were safe.

He turned on his heel, searching for Ghost, and roared in frustration when he didn't see him. How could Ghost come back so suddenly and vanish after a moment? Jon's thoughts were once against halted when an axe came rushing past his head.

"Yes! Good girl, now another!"

Maeve screamed...loudly. Her nails shredded the bedclothes beneath her, her back arched and her head flung back against the pillows. Gods help me...

"I can't!" Maeve screamed breathlessly, collapsing back on the pillows. "I can't, I can't do it!"

Propped up on her elbows she looked weakly at the septa kneeling between her legs—pleading her to help her, make it stop, to put an end to the pain already. She was afraid to look down, to look and see she had not moved along the slightest little bit.

"Yes you bloody well can! Push!"

The feeling did not go away, no matter how many axes, swords and hammers were swung his way, that gnawing feeling kept up. Jon pressed forward with the rest of his brother's horde, the fighting Lannister soldiers diminishing with each street they took. The calming battle made it a little easier for Jon to search for his companion, but not by much.

Jon's dark eyes darted around him, across the countless men and across the buildings. That damned feeling...it grew the longer he went without seeing Ghost, or Robb...he hated it. It was making him weak, vulnerable, unfocused. The last man who had come at him had gotten in a good swipe across Jon's side, and even through the boiled leather protecting his sides, Jon could feel the bruises form.

"Ghost!" Jon's gaze darted about, but this time he finally found the overly large figure of a wolf—his wolf—trotting up the steps to a grand temple, the stone shining even in the dim firelight, the orange glow bouncing off the strong marble pillars like gold. Jon frowned.

"Good, girl. Yes, that’s it. Almost, come on, come on, come on! I can see it!" Maeve lifted her head, clenched her jaw, and pushed her hardest, screaming between her clenched teeth...

...and then suddenly the pressure was gone...

Jon ran forward, weaving and dodging through thrashing bodies, hurrying towards Ghost. Direwolves were not dumb beasts; there was a reason for everything they did, much like humans. Ghost would not tuck himself away from battle without a reason, not when Jon called for him.

He took the steps two at a time, and when he finally reached Ghost, reaching out to touch his pale fur, Jon looked to see what the direwolf was staring so intently at...and dropped his sword with a clatter.

There, huddled tightly against one of the stone pillars, tucked so closely to the stone she was all but invisible to the world, was Arya. Dirty, hair chopped away, obviously grown since he last saw her, but Jon would recognize that long face anywhere.

"Arya." He breathed. The small girl stared at him a moment longer, wide eyed and unbelieving, before she launched herself into her brothers arms, just like she used to.

A cry that was not her own took up in the air, a soft wail, weak and helpless, and it took Maeve a long moment to realize who it was from.

She opened her watery eyes and gasped, her racing heart stumbling a second in sheer amazement. A small little thing, an infant laid cradled in the older woman's arms, wet with blood and purple, wailing loudly in the cold air...so tiny. She couldn't believe what was happening.

Her mind went silent as she stared at the baby. She stared at its little arms, its little legs, the small body and the slightly pointed head which had a dusting of dark black hair, sticking to his head. Maeve wanted him in her arms, wanted it desperately, but she could not find her voice to demand it, still too enchanted by the whimpering newborn, which was still in the arms of the septa cleaning him off. She did not notice the violent, uncontrollable shaking in her legs, or the soft trickle of blood still seeping out of her.

And then, finally, after what felt like forever, they laid him on her chest wrapped up in a warm blanket, and she really got a good look at him, the thing that just came out of her.

"It's a boy. Healthy and whole." She faintly heard someone say, but the voice was far off and distant. And the world went silent. There was no war waging just outside these cold stone walls, no death, no time, no sound, nothing...just this wonderful warmth, engulfing them, protecting them from everything else in the world.

Maeve cradled her baby, stunned at how light he felt and at how comfortably he fit into her arms. What surprised her even more were the clear, alert eyes that stared back at her. Blue, she noted. Maeve stared back, studying those tiny features and imprinting them to her heart, hoping she never forgot this moment for as long as she lived.

She counted the tiny fingers and toes and when she took one of those hands in hers, and one tiny hand closed around her finger, the tears came finally. He was so tiny. So fragile. Months and months of discomfort and pain had brought her this little blessing, something that she needed as much as he needed her.

How could something this perfect have come from her? Maeve smiled brightly for the first time in months, and knew without doubt or guilt or shame that this had been worth every second of pain, torment and guilt. She rubbed away the tear trailing down her nose, still smiling.

He would look like Jon, she realized suddenly, dimming her smile to only a grin. He had his black hair, the shape of his face, his long fingers, and while the baby's eyes would be bright like hers, they held something that reminded her of his father.

A morose feeling began to creep up into the warm joy of their world, and to stifle it, Maeve braved a touch to the soft head of the quiet baby. Gods he was so small, his head was so soft, and his hair was so thin and delicate. He was so...beautiful.

"Edrick." She whispered confidently, rocking her body back and forth, watching as those tiny eyes drifted shut. "That's your name. Oh...I love you so much. My sweet boy. You’re going to grow up so tough. But so good, I promise."

The world still turned, the war still raged like the hell-fires of the underworld, and she was alone with no one to help her take care of Edrick...but here in this tiny little world, her son safely tucked away in her arms, Maeve felt happy for first time in a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

Relief, joy and peace swelled within Jon all at once, intoxicating and wonderful. He had not known this in so long; it nearly brought him to his knees with the strength of it crushing down on him.

Arya. His sister, his baby sister who was almost as much a pariah as he, was here , in his arms, alive and safe.

He never thought he'd see her again; either he would die in battle, or she would be forever lost to them—in hiding or dead, name forgotten in time as kings rose and fell. Finding her now, even in the midst of all this chaos, was like going home after such a long time away. But suddenly, the sound rushed back to his ears as the girl pulled herself away, looking wildly up at her bastard brother with hardened eyes that had seen awful things.

"Jon, you need to help me! You need to help me!" Arya cried, her hands clenching at his arms, pulling him urgently towards the carved oak doors of the sept. He didn't hear Ghost snort beside him, nor did he see the way the dire-wolf's ear flicked up as he eyed the large doors.

A familiar scent stuck his nose, which piqued his curiosity greatly.

Suddenly, Jon's soul lifting relief was slashed by half at the look on his half-sister's face. "What? What is it?" He thought the worst—the kind of things that would take his sister away again, right out of his hands after he'd only just found her, like another cruel joke from the gods he no longer trusted.

"Th-there's children in the sept, and women too. And there's gold and jewels in there too! If the soldiers come, they'll kill them all! They’ll be in the way of their riches! Jon please, help!" Her voice was rushed with the need to tell him everything in only a few short moments. Urgently, she pulled his arm towards the carved doors again. Jon could hear the whimpers of frightened children through the closed shutters and doors.

Jon hesitated. Stopped long enough to think.

The city was almost lost; the sept was ripe for the taking by any desperate man with a spear in his hand.

But he needed to find his brother...he needed to get Arya where he knew she would be safe, where no one would take her away again to be used against them. Those people in the sept were not his problem, not his family, a part of him reasoned. But he would despise himself all the more if he simply turned away from the ugly scene. It would be as though he'd played a part in the deed. There was nothing right about leaving innocent women and children to be abused and slaughtered, especially by the men his brother commanded.

He pulled his blade up from the stone floor, and held it tight, pushing away the ache in his bones and the burn in his lungs. The bastard boy's feet moved with new life towards those doors as quickly as he could, one hand holding a bloodied sword, the other holding Arya's arm, to keep her close. In no time his gloved hands roughly shoved the doors open, earning a barrage of frightened shrieks from the women cowering against the walls with their children.

His little hands are so strong , Maeve thought as Edrick gripped her finger. Even as he drifted asleep, his hand held tight around the digit, like he was making sure she stayed with him.

His father had done the same when he slept against her, his arms coiled around her and tightening when the cold stuck them. It didn't feel wrong to think of those times now—Edrick had come from them, those happy times with Jon had all led to the baby in her arms. Her heart felt whole again, now as she stared at her baby—perhaps it would last, perhaps not, but she had a piece of Jon with her that no one could take away.

Edrick let out a big yawn, and Maeve smiled down at him.

“What work it is to come into the world, isn’t it, my boy?” She murmured softly, a finger trailing down over his tiny nose, over his little lips, curling beneath his chubby chin. He was so wonderful; she knew Jon would love him too, if he could see him—bastard or no. How could he not? “And yet I’ve never felt more awake than I do right now.” She smiled at her boy, briefly remembering how Tally had said he’d be beautiful. He looked like a baby inside the skin of an old man, and yet, she could not look away.

Maeve was rocking her sleeping baby when she heard a great crash just outside the door. Only wood splintering against stone made that sound, and only angry men broke open doors like that. The sound was so sudden, it brought her out of her sweet tranquility, and back into the harsh, ugly world with a startled jump.

Edrick was jerked awake, and suddenly the warm, comforting scent surrounding him, and the gentle arms of his mother, were small things compared to the bother of being denied precious sleep. A whimpery sound came from her boy, a sound that cut into her heart so quickly and deeply it surprised her. 

She wanted to take her baby away from this, to protect him from all the ugly sounds in the world—from wars, from cruel monarchs, and from murderers who held swords for a man they claimed to be the true king.

"Shh, it's alright, mama's here..." Maeve hushed, rocking him gently as she had with Tobias a long time ago, but it wasn't gentle enough, because her son's fragile little head moved too roughly on her arm for her liking. He snorted and whimpered as Maeve cradled his head better, hushing him when she pulled him closer to her chest. Her steely eyes flashed to the door, hearing muted cries from beyond it.

As the wood splintered against the stone walls, the sharp smell of burning spices and oils struck Jon’s nose. Maeve had always smelled like that—as though the years had permanently absorbed the sharp aroma into her skin—and for just a second his focus was lost from the task at hand.

He hated that smell. Hated how old memories that were once so sweet and meaningful, had turned against him so bitterly, if only to taunt him for thinking he could ever have someone for himself. Would that he could banish them from thought completely, forget them, forget her, and take back whatever part of him she'd stolen when she was yanked away.

The inside of the sept was large and wide and open, the roofing above them was high and curved with a large, circular window at the center and a seven pointed star painted in red around the window. There was another doorway directly across the entrance that led into the rest of the sept, a brazier burning part way between the doors. 

Burning torches lit along the marble walls, and seven stone figures stood along them, the firelight shining through the crystal bowls in their lifeless hands and along the walls brilliantly.

Clustered at one of the idols’ feet, dozens of women with time worn faces, and even more children of all ages crouched, praying fearfully for their lives. The tears on their cheeks and the wild look of fear in their eyes pulled at Jon, in a way, other men—battle hardened men—would call him soft for. 

The few men and women of the Faith he could see were at the feet of the Crone and the Father, praying silently, ignoring the other occupants of the room with an unflinching devotion Maeve had once possessed.

The crash, and the sight of a man in armor with a bloodied sword in his hand, made the smallfolk screech even louder, and flinch back roughly against the walls.

Ghost trotted in, his jaws still red, and his eyes studying his surroundings with far more intelligence than was due to a wild beast. The great animal was easily noticed beside Jon, and his presence momentarily struck the women and children dumb. At once, Arya rushed in, her feet quick and sure and steady as a cat's.

The girl's keen blue eyes darted about to seek a means for escape, for the front entrance led into open battle, where anyone weaker was fair game. And all these people were weak. Jon turned away from their frightened faces to shove the door shut again, flicking the locks closed as he did so.

The marble was cold beneath Arya's fingers as she poked her head through the threshold which divided the front entrance of the sept from the rest of the temple. As she stared down the darkened corridor, she could vaguely see three separate shards of firelight, indicating three doorways. She looked the other way, and another three shards of light cracked through the darkness. She could hear the whimpers of a baby, hushed voices of women, and the snap of a burning brazier. 

One of those six entryways, surely one led somewhere safe, she thought.

Ghost trotted forward, sniffing the air to catch the familiar scent of the little lioness that was round with a cub. He knew she was here, he could smell the sharp tang of her blood in their air, through the heady aroma of oils and spices. There was a need to find her, demanding and clear, and the animal didn't question it, only followed.

His sharp ears heard the wail of a cub, through one of the doors and keenly, he dashed forward, sniffing at the door. The smell of blood grew stronger here, and through the wood, the wolf heard the gentle murmurs of the lioness and the gentle whimpers of a baby. The direwolf gave a small whimper and clawed the door.

" Come on! This way!" Arya hissed, looking back to the frightened civilians. No one so much as moved, eyeing her warily, ready to pounce or to flee. Sometimes prayers are answered in unexpected ways, so oddly at times that one does not accept or believe it, and no one thought a little girl dressed as a boy, and a young man with a direwolf stitched to his chest and one at his side, would be the ones to bring them to safety.

"If you don't follow her, the other soldiers that come won't be as kind!" Jon bellowed out from the doors. The women flinched, the children whimpered and clung to their mother's tightly, and no one showed any signs of moving for one long, endless moment. 

Jon growled in frustration and made ready to grab up a few and shove them down the passageway, when suddenly, a loud bang cut through the temple walls. The doors behind Jon jerked violently, a few locks keeping the men outside at bay.

"Come, come, come!" an old voice cried. Jon watched as one of the septas stood from her place by the Crone and hobbled towards Arya. One woman raised her hand to touch the old creature's wrinkled hand as she passed, and at once, the old septa grasped it. "Hurry, dis way!" she pulled at the younger woman's arm insistently. 

The younger woman's eyes were wide and afraid, like a child looking up at her mother for guidance, and slowly, the woman stood, a little boy rising with her and clinging to her hips. Jon was relieved to see them move and disappear beyond the threshold. Almost at once, more women and children followed, running down the corridor after them.

His relief was short-lived, when another loud bang and a violent jerk behind him reminded him of the danger behind the doors.

Dread began to well up in Maeve as she helplessly rocked her son. It was the only thing she could do. She hugged Edrick close, when suddenly a strange scratchy sound filled the air, coming from the door. Holding her breath, ready to leap from the bed if she needed to, Maeve slowly turned her head to look at the door. A shadow appeared beneath the door, moving as though pacing, searching for a way in. 

And then, like some sort of demon come up from hell itself to tear her son apart, she spied the tip of a long pale claw peeking from under the door, scratching at the stone. 

But it surely could not be a demon – the world was full of them in the fleshy bodies of people. A dog? What was a dog doing—?

Suddenly another crash, more frightened shrieks, muffled shouts, and then feet running past the door. There was no time to question why there was a dog in the sept, scratching at this particular door. Perhaps it smelled the blood and sought a quick meal. 

The danger was great, the city was burning, and men were coming to kill them.

“S-septa!” She howled for help, her voice coming out as more of a broken, strangled cry than anything. The scratching continued a heartbeat and a half more, and Maeve knew no one was coming to her aid. They bring her son safely into the world, only to abandon him the moment he was in her arms? Where was the sense in that?

Her breath came short and rapid, fear dancing in her eyes like firelight. But how her body ached—the blood still leaked from her womanhood, her skin was wet with sweat, her legs still trembling from the effort. How could she walk, let alone run like this?

The terror brought on by her vulnerability tugged at old memories she had long since buried. Suddenly, Maeve felt like a child again, afraid and cowering in a corner at the sounds of war, unsure of what to do as they grew louder and closer. She didn't remember how she knew this fear, she hardly remembered how she survived past it, but she had, somehow.

Through the help of others, no doubt. This time, however, she was alone; no one would come for her, no one would hold her hand, no one would pull her up...she was alone and her son needed her.

Scratchscratchscratchscratch! Sounded from the door.

Maeve looked down at her baby, her heart swelling with love, and aching with despair as the impending sense of helplessness grew. His eyes were only half open, his little hands were flexing against his chest (searching for his mother's fingers), and peeking out from the blanket wrapped around him, was the cord which had joined them, hastily cut by the septas who'd left them shortly after the birth. He wasn't crying or whimpering, but he cooed gently as she watched him quietly go to sleep.

Her son, her baby. Edrick.

He was so new , not even an hour old and already, his life was in danger. Danger from men who killed because they were told to, from knights who killed the weak and innocent— those who they were meant to protect! —and all for a crown and a nice chair to sit in. Fury rose inside her, at herself, at the soldiers, at every man who called himself a king . At the gods for crafting them with the sin of greed in their hearts.

Edrick was hers ; she was mother to this innocent little boy, and no one would take him from her. She had to protect him, not wallow in her misery, or linger on the ghosts in her past.

And if, by chance, Edrick’s life was a short one, she’d make sure she followed after him quickly enough. She’d not have him cold or lonely in the afterlife.

Looking back at the door, Maeve closed her eyes and flung the blankets off of her legs, determination bursting from her heart. She scooted off the bed, cradling her son in one arm, biting back whimpers of pain the action garnered. 

Her baby would not fall to these greedy men. She would not let that happen, not in a thousand years.

She huffed as her bare feet reached the cold floor, the sweat still chilling her skin, and warm blood slowly drying on her thighs, only for a new river to flow fresh between them.

Maeve inched her legs forward to the bedpost, every step painful and burning. She longed to be back on the bed, asleep under warm sheets with her son in her arms, not passing one moment to the next in fear. When her fingers touched the wooden post, her legs slackened, bringing her cheek against the pole, her son jolting once again into a distressed cry.

“Shhh, sh, shhhh, my boy. You…” she gasped, groaning as she pushed herself against the post, gathering strength. “You must be…you must be quiet for mama.” The auburn haired girl hushed her baby, but it did nothing, Edrick continued to wail. 

Desperately, she looked for anything that may offer protection—a cupboard, a door she could slip through, something to hide behind— anything . But the room was small: a bed, a little desk and a chair was all that was afforded to whoever usually occupied it.

We’ve no need for opulence in religious life , a septa had once said to her. To live lavishly would make us little better than the men running pleasure houses.

Maeve wanted to scream in frustration...or in anguish.

Swallowing, the new mother pushed from the post, legs shaking and sore, and stumbled towards the desk. There could be something sharp there, something she could defend herself with if needed. A knitting needle, a writing quill, anything!

Her weak legs faltered again halfway to the desk, jarring her hip against its edge, clattering the pots and lamp about, and turning her son's cries into screams. It hurt to stand, and she was so tired...

With drooping eyes, she spied a clay pot on the table, one just of size to contain sweet incense, retrieved when needed to burn in a thurible during holy hours and festivals.

Pushing back her pain, Maeve reached out, grasping the unassuming pot the size of a melon, and smashing it down onto the table, the holy contents inside smattering about like  leaves at the end of summer.

Edrick's wailing made it hard to hear, but still she could discern the scratchscratchscratch outside the door, and the loud bangs that came from somewhere else in the sept . 

No, she vowed. Not today, not ever, not until his time comes with old age.

A long strand of auburn hair fell in her face as her deft fingers sifted through the dried flowers and herbs that had burst from the pot. It tickled her nose, but she ignored it as she pushed away the incense and drew up a small sharp blade of clay and held it tightly in her shaking hand.

Her legs failed her once more, and when her back met the wall, she let it take her weight. Her bleary eyes shifted back down to her son's red face, screwed up with terror and screaming, and Maeve began to cry.

Gods, she prayed, please let my son live past this day . Please ... please...

Her hip began to hurt where the edge of the table dug in, but she paid no mind as waited for the door to smash open, as she knew it would eventually, her palm beginning to bleed around the clay shard, dripping down her fingers and to the cold floor.

All those who thought they'd find untouchable safety in the sept were mistaken...there was no place a soldier's greedy fingers couldn't touch when they laid siege to a city. They desecrated the sept, a holy temple, without thought, slaughtering each other on the steps, crawling in through its windows and stealing gold and raping stray septa's in the far halls. 

Prayers and pleas for mercy fell on callous ears and silent gods. 

The front entryway was really the only safe place as Jon and Arya ushered more women and children out through the corridor. The other septon's and septa's left their post at their idols' feet, (although not without pause), and began to guide the common folk out of the sept.

Jon was hurrying an old man and his granddaughter down the corridor, when another thud crashed behind him, but with it came the groan of wood splintering, the doors were finally beginning to give way to whatever they smashed against it.

Jon's heart thundered in his ears, fear for his sister returning to the forefront in his mind. He drew his blade up and gripped it tight. He watched as another blow landed on the fragmenting door, this time feeling a cold brush of air on the hot skin of his neck and face. It wouldn't be long before that axe cut down the locks.

"Arya!" Jon called out to his little sister, backing away from the doors as his eyes scanned the entrance hall for her. The young girl in question appeared in the threshold where she'd led the others and blinked up at him worriedly. 

Jon Snow did not think, only acted. 

In an instant, he was racing towards her, another harsh thud echoing behind him as he went. When he reached her, his free hand shot out like a snake and locked around her forearm, hard and bruising. Her feet stumbled along as he pulled her away.

As Jon rounded the threshold, and prepared to make an escape with his sister at his side, a sharp distinctive sound reached his ears: a baby's cry echoing through the stone walls of that corridor. 

Horror cut through Jon like a knife and unconsciously, he jerked his head back in search of it. Had it been left behind by its mother, in the midst of all the madness? A flash of white caught his eye down in the opposite direction they were headed in. For a moment, in the dim light, he thought it was a phantom.

Ghost thrashed against the door, clawing and scratching at the barrier so aggressively, that he left long welts in the wood. He needed to get to the female on the other side; she was weak, small and helpless with a mewling cub at her breast. The lions would rip her to shreds if they found her. He growled low in his throat as his claws dug deep into the wood.

Jon frowned, and turned back to his sister. He needed to get her somewhere safe, with her mother preferably, but the baby's cries were loud and incessant and Ghost seemed very eager to get at it—because he was hungry or because he was curious, Jon knew not.

It would be so very easy to leave it, to pretend as though he hadn't heard the cry and flee with Arya in tow. He could choose to believe it was some imagining, or that it was the echoing of a far off babe in the midst of escape with its mother, but he knew the truth. That child was in one of those rooms, alone or not, and soldiers would either kill it or leave it to die in the cold. The thought was awful to even ponder.

He could go find it, but what would he do once he found it? What of Arya? He had no intention of losing her and setting out for what was only an echo might cause just that.

Robb's face flashed in his mind—his eyes hardened and aged, and then Lady Catelyn's. The woman walked with a thick air of sadness about her that even bothered Jon. How could she not be miserable? Her daughters were held prisoner, her youngest son's home in Winterfell hundreds of leagues away. Seeing Arya would lift their spirits; this would give them new purpose and hope now that one Stark daughter had returned to them. Arya was a wolf, and the lone wolf dies, while a pack survives. But the babe...

As Jon prepared to turn away from the noise and take his sister to her mother, Arya had already decided. She lurched forward in Ghosts' direction. Jon's grip on her arm kept her from sprinting forward without him.

"Jon, come on!" she barked, yanking her arm to bid him come. "It's a baby!" Another piercing cry came from the babe, and suddenly, Jon's feet shuffled forward, his sister running fast at his side, his hand still tight around her arm.

Then it finally came—a crash so loud it made her shove back against the wall and grip the clay shard so tightly that blood dripped down her fingers and wrist. The young woman clutched her son closer, and rocked him a little in the hopes of calming him. Her eyes flashed up, seeing a figure cloaked in shadows darkening the doorway and a streak of pale fur speeding towards her.

Maeve gasped and stared at the animal in fear, the bloodied jaws and size of the creature made her press closer to the desk in fear. 

But then it stopped right before her, staring up at her with familiar red eyes. 

The auburn haired girl watched the dire-wolf in confusion and wonder. What was he doing here? Would he protect her like before? She thought with a new found hope. Ghost was an impressive animal, strong and efficient. He had protected her for whatever reason those days on the road, sometimes catching small animals and bringing them to her to feed herself and her friends. She never knew why he stayed with her, but she hoped he would now. Eying his bloody snout, her lips tightened. He was still a wild animal, she had to remember.

"Ghost?" she gasped. His red eyes broke from hers, and came forward a little, sniffing at the bundle in her arms. Whimpering, she drew away. She'd seen Ghost attack; saw the strength his jaws possessed, and knew he could rip into her baby without even intending to. 

The direwolf paid no mind and came closer. Maeve thought of hitting the animal, of taking the shard in her hand and stabbing it into Ghosts' neck, but she couldn't. Ghost was calm now, and pain would make him angry, looking to kill. She held her breath as the direwolf nudged the small foot peeking out from the blankets with his cold nose. Edrick whined, clenching his toes and curling his leg away from Ghost.

A loud clatter drew her eyes up, and stole her breath away when she met the eyes of the man across from her. His eyes...those dark eyes she'd stared into so many times, that face she adored, that hair her son shared with him...Jon? 

Her heart clenched, shutting out the surge of hope that rose up from the grave.

No...No, it couldn't be. Her eyes were tricking her, surely. There was no way he was standing before her...none. She blinked...and there he remained. Her lips trembled and released a shuddering breath. Oh gods...this was a trick, a cruel jape, that's what it was...

He stumbled towards her, just one step, but when he stepped farther into the light and still remained Jon Snow, she gasped, and shifted Edrick in her arms.

"M...M-Maeve?" she heard him whisper. Maeve whimpered, her voice lodged in her throat under a painful lump. He stared at her, took in her face, her hair, her eyes...and then the infant in her hands, whimpering and snorting into the cold night air.

As Arya barked unheard pleas to hurry, and as Ghost licked at the child's small foot, Maeve hardly noticed the clay shard tumbling from her fingers and clattering to the floor.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: The Siege 

Maeve couldn't breathe. How could she? A ghost stood before her – a living, breathing ghost. Over and over, she had told herself he was gone, far from her in this life, that he might as well have been dead. 

No comfort came from such a thought, and she had done her best to avoid it. He wasn’t dead, she would think to herself on nights when the ache of losing him was sharp as bone piercing into her heart. Just...far away. The thought was comforting in its own, more so than the bare idea of him just...being gone. 

During those long, lonely days before she'd been found by Tally and her father, she had liked to think that after the war, he would go home to Winterfell, whole and happy, find a good woman to share his life with, and have darling children and be happy and live until he was old and frail. Any other scenario was awful.

So to see him here, not happy, but bloodied and battle frenzied, was as unsettling as it was wonderful. Oh gods , she thought, why here? Why now? Why at all?

Her thoughts came to an end with the fearful cry of the girlish boy at his side, and the sound of death breaking down the doors roared in her ears once more.

"Jon! Hurry!" Arya screeched. She heard men's voices growing louder, echoing off the empty stone walls. Panic ignited inside her when Jon froze, the worst running through her head as his sword slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the ground. For just a second she thought blood would spurt from his mouth and through his neck, she'd find an arrow or a sword. 

But she found no such horror looking up at him, only a curious look she'd never seen on anyone before. He said something to her, something so quiet she couldn't hear him above the roar of the siege.

Arya’s loud cry seemed to shake the girl with the baby out of her stupor, judging by the way she flinched back a little as the last of the sound was absorbed by the roar around them. 

Jon however, hardly moved. His hand didn't even twitch to retrieve his sword. Why had he dropped it? They would surely die if he did not have it in his hand. Why? The girl frowned, quickly looking back between Jon and the other girl. It couldn't be her , could it? The girl was a mess – bloody and worn looking, but Jon was not a stranger to blood. 

Arya thought of her sister, Sansa then. She’d always loved songs of romance and the like, and once a handful of years ago, she’d made them all act out one song where a knight had instantly fallen in love with a princess with just a look and a smile. 

Arya never recalled Jon having any real fancy for girls, even the giggly ones boys seemed to like so much. All the girls flocked around Robb like a gaggle of geese, anyway. But as she looked back at her older brother, she thought—just for a second at least—she saw something that reminded her of the way her father once looked at her mother. 

Another loud crash shook the room, the sounds of the door splintering bringing the danger back to the forefront. They had to leave. She had been on her own for too long, and father's words from long ago echoed in her head more everyday: the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives . They had to survive. Her family had to be together again, they had to kill the Lannisters. She had to see her mother , she had to see Robb . She had to go home, and she wouldn't go without Jon. 

Another violent crash seemed to shake the air as the doors began to give way under the axe and ram, the wood giving way and allowing killers to see through into the sept, eyes alight with the promise of women and riches. 

"JON!" Arya screamed again, her hands around his arm, desperately pulling at him, trying to get him to move. They found the girl and her baby, but now they all had to escape. But it was no good, he was stronger than she, and so he remained, frozen as stone, still staring at the girl and her baby, while the girl with the baby stared back.

Gritting her teeth, Arya moved in front of her brother, raised her hand and struck her elder brother as hard as she could across the face, her palm suddenly stinging and burning less than a second later.

The bastard gave a grunt that was more startled than pain filled, and finally tore his eyes away from the girl and her baby to look at his little sister with curious eyes.

"Come on! They're coming!" fearfully she yanked at his limp arm. Jon looked back at the girl and her baby, and then quick as a serpent’s strike, his hand reached down and retrieved his blade.

"Ghost," the direwolf's ears twitched, but he did not turn away from the girl. "Go. Tear them all to bits." Maeve's insides trembled at his deadly voice. Deep down she knew he was not the same, how could he be? Was the man she'd loved still there beneath that hard as bone exterior? Or had he gone, just as that septa had?

Maeve swallowed dryly as the direwolf gave the tiny babe's foot a parting lick and dashed off to do as his master willed. Once she'd asked Jon how he'd managed to tame such a creature so it never bit at Allyria's children. You can't tame a wild thing, he'd replied. She vaguely remembered how patient and gentle the wolf had been with her charges, how he never once tried to take a bite out of those bold and grabby children. 

It was clearer in her mind how he had been on the road, how he had torn apart those horrible, evil men and how he would sometimes bring her game to feed herself and her friends. Ghost was a good wolf, but he was still a wolf with a wild mind and sharp teeth and claws. 

Jon looked back at the trembling girl, and held out his hand. "Come on." His voice was gruff and strained.

In her arms, Edrick whimpered, finally breaking Maeve from the stupor of having her former paramour just a few steps from her. 

Edrick. Edrick!

She must do what is best for him. She stared at Jon's hand a second longer, almost—no, definitely —afraid to touch him for fear he would fade away to nothing, leaving her alone once more. If he stayed, every sweet, terrible, cursed memory would come flooding back with a vengeance, and all the trouble she'd gone through forcing herself to believe he was happy somewhere would fade away. 

But in the midst of a siege, the brutality swiftly approaching them, she could not cling to feeble dreams and false assurances. She needed to move, and weak and torn as she was from birth, meant she couldn’t hobble along alone.  

She couldn't properly protect her son, not like this.

But Jon would protect them, she knew he would. 

Even if he hated her for whatever humiliation their outing had brought him after she was sent away in disgrace, he was not cruel. She couldn't ever imagine him being cruel, especially not to a child. 

But if he would shun her afterward was another story. He did despise the circumstances of his birth with such vehemence it had been hard for her to still her tongue on the matter...would he despise the circumstances of her child's birth? 

So she reached out without thought, and Jon's bloodied glove clenched tight around her wounded palm, but she hardly felt the pain. She'd just given birth; she doubted a sliced open palm was going to be much of a problem to her.

He tugged her along at once, and she quickly realized how tired she still was, her legs moving sluggishly behind his own. A steady trickle of blood smeared on the inside of her thighs, drying quickly in the cold air as an awful ache settled between her legs. 

She had to keep up if she had hope of seeing the light of day. She had to, she had to. Tally and the others had abandoned her when she couldn't keep up, and if Jon did, this time there would be no septas to take her in. 

She moved her legs along. She was too abandon; she was cumbersome, a liability, but Jon...for a long time Jon had been her heart, even when she'd denied it to the high heavens during the day and snuck away to him at night. 

Admittedly, she hadn't been pleasant a good deal of the time and yet Jon had remained with her, even at a distance as she had still been a septa then. They'd somehow found love in each other, (a strange feeling), even though feeling as they did was a betrayal to everything they'd stood for before. They burned all their bridges together, but had he built them anew without her shameful shadow at his side? Could he abandon her easily, now? The thought was a painful one, and if it was true, she would not give him more reason to act upon it by slowing him down. 

Maeve saw the girl's back as she dashed out of the room, and just for a second, she wondered who she was and why she'd stayed with Jon when she could have run. 

They rounded the door immediately behind the girl, the sound of splintering wood and the foreboding thuds of the axes cutting it down made louder out in the hall. Edrick gave another disgruntled cry, but it was nearly lost in the noise. She held him tighter. 

They kept moving, the girl moving swiftly past the threshold leading to the front entrance and then to the end of the corridor.

Suddenly an agonized scream cut through the air like a blade, but she and Jon did not stop to find the source. Yet as they ushered themselves past the corridor which led into the main vestibule, she spied Ghost before the half crumbled wooden doors, a man's severed arm between his jaws. Maeve gasped, eyes widening at the horrific display. To think just moments ago, that same beast was sniffing at her son's tiny foot. Ghost had become wilder in their time apart, or had he always been like that?

Jon pulled her along, never glancing at the ugly scene as they passed it, never looking back at her. Her arm began to hurt as it remained curled under Edrick, but there was nothing to be done about it. 

…perhaps, if she found a stretch of fabric she could strap him to her chest…

Just before she lost sight of them, she saw Ghost’s jaws work around the arm in such a way it reminded her of chewing.

Endless halls they'd twisted and turned around, a grand catacomb that led to countless rooms filled with pretty things and chambers where septons and septa's laid their heads at night. 

She grew up in something far below this, with less gold and silver, and only seven stone pillars in the entire compound, but it had been just as windy and twisty as this one. Their rooms, instead, held bushels of grain and old tomes and furniture in disrepair. 

When she and the other children were free of lessons and chores, sometimes the old ones would let them some play time. Hide-and-seek was their favorite, but it was always hard to determine a seeker, the lot of them fighting for the chance to win (or lose), a meal’s share of fruit.

It seemed endless, always another turn, always another dead end, like a horrible, deadly maze. Twice they'd had to turn back, a mob of looting soldiers stopping their progress and giving them little choice but to turn back and find another way, or to press their bodies against the wall as they passed by. 

Her legs shook like leaves in a breeze, and every step was painful. She was so weary, she only wanted to stop and lie down a while, to be with her son in the peace he'd brought her the first moment she had seen him. But it could not be, not now at least. They had to find safety first.

Her poor little one was terrified by every loud crash and every scream that echoed off the walls, but thankfully, his shaking cries were lost in the chaos. To make it worse, he was probably hungry, and cold, since he was only shielded by a rather thin bundle of cloth and one of her arms. Her heart ached for him, and she tried to move her feet faster to keep up with Jon.

Never once did Jon look back at her; he turned back only to see if they were spotted or followed, but never once did he look at her . 

It faintly pulled at the still-healing wound to her heart. He must hate her—she carried his son and he hated her for it. If she were not so preoccupied, she might have cried. 

While he seemed to have gotten enough of a look earlier back in that dim room, she could not seem to stop looking at him. His dark curls, the curve of his cheek and the point of his chin, all called to her from days long past.

Once, she’d kissed that chin, held those curls as his mouth worked over her skin. She’d felt those hands all over her body, kissed those lips a thousand times. Maeve had never thought she’d see him again, and yet here he was in the worst way imaginable. 

He never did release her hand for a moment.

Suddenly Jon halted, so abruptly that her sluggish feet did not stop in time and she bumped her cheek against the cold, blood spattered armor of his shoulder. It struck her how good the cold metal felt against her heated– boiling –skin. 

It must have been the third time already since they'd begun their descent into the bowels of the temple, and she was half sure she would have a bruise on her cheek to mirror the one that Lannister sod had given her. Tyrek Lannister ...she remembered his face, and wished to see it no longer, but it remained clear in her mind. Something about the horrible, drunken prick drew her attention, reminded her of something ugly and for the life of her, she could not turn the memory of his glassy eyes away.

Jon tensed as Arya soundlessly scampered ahead, her feet as nimble and quick as a cat. He'd heard the trample of feet and feminine cries that were far too close. He didn't like that his sister went ahead; she was his sister, he had to protect her . But Maeve had his hand and a baby in her arms, and he could not find it in him to release her hand to scout ahead himself. And Arya moved as quickly and silently as any shadow, scouting out safe passages and darting back to them, to tell them to come or hide. They hadn't been spotted yet.

Maeve dared to lean her cheek against the cold plates of his shoulder as the girl scurried ahead once again, just for a second, allowing herself a rest. Jon heard her panting breath, and felt the gentle pressure of her against his shoulder, and he turned his head to look at her, only catching the sight of her auburn hair before he heard Arya hiss, " Hide ", amidst the growing rhythmic thud-thud-thud of running men.

Almost out of nowhere, Maeve was thrust out of her momentary languor as Jon sharply moved away to turn and pull her back. Her stiffened fingers curled tighter around Edrick as Jon pulled them back around down the way they just came. There was a hallway cutting through this corridor, creating an intersection they could hide themselves in as the soldiers passed. The corridor was long and relatively dark; most of the torches had fallen from the walls and guttered out on the floors, so if someone did pass, there was a good chance he wouldn't see them. 

Still, chance could never be relied on.

Jon released her hand finally, only to raise it again to wrap around her arm, guiding her into the halls of the intersecting corridor, and depositing her there. He didn't remain dutifully by her side, and when he pulled away to turn back to the intersecting corridor, she almost howled to have him remain with her. When he turned to spy for himself what may come down the stone archway, she nearly cried out his name, no matter that he’d only taken a step from her. It was only her baby’s whimpers that quietened her. 

“Shh. Shhh, little one.” She found herself humming, adjusting him – finally! – in her arms, relieving the ache. “Y-you’re alright, dearest. Shhhh.” She hurt . She only wanted to turn on her side and sleep. Until she woke and the pain was gone. 

Maeve leaned against the wall beside Jon, breathing heavily as though she'd run farther than she did. She took a brief moment to look down at her son, who had somehow managed to start to doze off in the small moment of quiet. She adjusted the thin cloth around him, tightening it and making sure his arms and legs were shielded from the harsh cold.

Maeve didn't notice how Jon's grip on his sword relaxed as the soldiers passed through the forward corridor. She didn't notice how he turned to look at her, finally noticing how exhausted she was. Her face was flushed and damp with sweat, hair sticking to the fine dew that coated her skin, her breasts heaved with heavy breath, the hands which held her child were darkened by blood and...he looked down at her dress...more blood dripped steadily onto the stone. 

Jon's eyes widened in horror as the horribly large red stain on the skirt of her dress came to view, fear flashing through him as he looked back up at her face. She looked unaware of the obvious danger she was in; Seven Hells she even smiled at the baby! Gods, he had to get her out of here, he had to find someone to make her well again. She had to be alright, she had to. She couldn't die, not like this, he wouldn't...he couldn't let that happen, not now, not when he'd just found her again. He couldn't stand to imagine it.

"Give it to Arya." He heard himself say in a voice gruff with resolve.

"What?" Both his sister and former lover sounded with bewilderment.

"Give the baby to her—"

"W-what? No! W-what if she drops—" Maeve protested, clutching the child closer and moving away on her shaky legs.

"You're exhausted and bleeding. You're going to collapse, and if you don't give it to her, you'll hurt it."

Arya seemed to understand now, and added, "I won't drop him. You're weak, we need to move."

"I can do it. N-no. I-it's nothing, it's natural to bleed—" Her protest was weak as Arya stepped forward and suddenly took the baby from Maeve's weak arms. "Give him back!" the auburn haired girl screeched, almost launching at the younger girl before Jon grabbed her round the middle. 

"It's alright. Stop it. Stop!" he growled when she tried to wriggle free of him to get to Arya. His sister stood a few feet away, her arms carefully closed around the stirring child, looking a bit surprised at her brother's... familiarity with the girl. Arya was no fool, there was something here she was not privy to and she wanted to know what. But the older girl looked ready to cry, staring at her baby as though Arya was taking him away forever, and she chose to leave it be...for now.

Her dirty, feeble hands pushed at Jon's but Jon wouldn't let up. "You'll get him back, understand? We need somewhere safe, a healer. Help me find one, and Arya will give him back." Jon knew it was horrible to use the child against her like this, but he only wanted to reason with her.

Suddenly, he was very aware that she was in his arms again after what felt like years. She wasn't as soft as she had been—he could feel the ridge of her ribs rubbing against his armored arm, but her belly felt swollen, although he could feel the point of her hip bones under his hand. He longed to relish in this, to let it go on and on, and let himself forget the last long months. But he couldn't, and he doubted he ever could. 

Things had changed; he had changed, and it was obvious by how she clawed for the infant that Maeve had changed, too. When the frenzy of battle was over, he would see in the telling light of day how much they had changed since they were seen by Theon Greyjoy. 

Maeve sniffled, her feeble fists slowing their pathetic assault on Jon's arms and hands. Edrick felt so far away in that girl's arms, and he didn't even seem to notice his mother's tumult. She almost wished he had, just so Jon could see he needed her like she needed him. 

But the girl who took her child from her seemed steady enough, holding Edrick securely to her without a tremble in her hands. Her arms were so tired...with that Maeve gave up; slackening in Jon's arms as the younger girl tentatively stepped forward, Edrick's small arms wriggling against his chest, half awake with the loud scuffling of his mother and his stranger father.

Slowly, Jon loosened his hold on her, releasing her and pulling away from her. He saw her tremble, her head falling forward and allowing the long, tangled mass of auburn hair to hide her frustrated tears from these two virtual strangers. Without thinking, Jon raised his hand, and brought it to her bony shoulder. His thumb immediately began to rub. Maeve looked up, surprised by the...intimacy of the gesture. No one—not Tally, not the old stable hand, not Gin, not anyone...no one had touched her so softly for such a long, long time. 

"When it's safe." He promised.

When it's safe , Maeve thought angrily. When was anything ever safe? And when she somehow managed to find somewhere safe, it was taken away again. When it’s saf e, he promised. Not bloody likely, she would not rely on the dream of shelter to have her boy back in her arms.

Jon pulled his hand away then, not wanting to touch her for too long. They needed to find somewhere safe, he needed to find her a maester and he couldn't allow himself to marvel in the sheer wonder of having her here with him after what felt like years apart.

Then they were moving again, Jon keeping Maeve from falling behind with one hand, and Arya holding the baby. After several instances with Arya moving too far ahead for Maeve's comfort, the younger girl grudgingly kept closer to the elder two so the auburn haired girl could keep a better eye on her baby. 

Maeve's arms didn't hurt so much anymore, but the other girl holding the baby did nothing to alleviate the pain in hips, legs and womanhood. Of all the times Edrick could have come, of all the times the gods could have sent him to her, he had to come in the middle of a war. 

One day, she might smile at the dark humor, but not for a very long time. 

They passed countless rooms where safety could be promised, but never once stopped to see if it was possible to remain there. Maeve didn't want to either; she just wanted to get out of this horrible place, where it was quieter so she could take Edrick back again.

After what felt like an age, a gentle breeze accompanied by the distant sounds of men dying flitted down the hall they currently sped down. The outside world called and offered both safety and threatened death, but at least it offered something more than what lay in the sept. They moved faster, turning one more corner, bare feet and booted sliding against the smooth stones, and there it was, a small doorway that led into the stable yards where the livestock owned by the sept were kept. 

The first thing Maeve noticed was the smell. Smoke hung heavy in the air, thick and dark, permeating through the small entryway and growing stronger as they jerked to a stop at the opening.

The lifeless bodies of cows and pigs lay strewn about the stable pen. Oh the poor creatures, Maeve thought, too exhausted to think much else. For just a short moment, the bloodied girl leaned against the arched doorway, pulling her hand out of Jon's to clutch the wall, her sweaty forehead chilling on the cold stone and her breath just barely visible in the smoky air.

"Come on." Jon grumbled, grabbing at Maeve's arm again and pulling her along.

The air outside was no longer cold with the fires currently destroying the shops and homes of Golden Tooth. Maeve could taste smoke on her tongue as she gasped, and distantly, she thought to cover her son's mouth so he wouldn't breathe in the foul smoke, but then she remembered he wasn't in her arms.

Who had him—oh yes! That girl did.

Wet mud squished beneath their feet, between Maeve's toes, and splattered as they sprinted past burning buildings and dodged wayward people. There were people everywhere, frightened or ravenous, fire everywhere, and Jon could almost taste the fear in the air with the smoke. 

For just a moment he had to admire the enormity of the destruction and chaos around them, huge and concentrated as it was, in what was once a prominent city, known to all of Westeros for being one of the few keys to the West. Come morning, Jon doubted it would ever hold much worth for many years to come. 

Shops burned, horses ran wild in panic without a rider to calm them, bodies lay on the ground without care, and those who still lived tried to kill each other. It was the ugliest and lowest point anything could ever reach, where things which took years to build up, crumbled with one jarring blow. The horror they saw now was confined to the back alleys, and Jon knew if he was fool enough to dare the main streets, they would be separated again and more than likely maimed or killed before they could find one another again.

But even as there were fewer soldiers in these narrow alleys, there seemed to be no a safe place: not a deserted shop that was not burning or being looted, nor dark private corner or crevice. Everything was gutted, laid bare. But still, Golden Tooth was a large city, and there must be a hidden haven somewhere, anywhere. He just had to find it.

Just as they dodged another frightened horse, he felt his arm jerk before he heard Maeve cry out in pain, falling to her knees finally after running for far too long. Her hand reached out to catch herself, and she was thankful that boyish girl had taken Edrick when she had. The pain pulsing through her legs suddenly flared to life, but it had hardly started when suddenly, Jon pulled her arm roughly, tugging her up to her feet as her legs shook beneath her bloodied skirt. An old part of her wanted to snap at him for being so rough with her, but she couldn't find the words with the ache in her knees and the exhausted burn in her lungs. She prepared to drag her feet again in a slow run, but then there was a quick flash of Jon's sword falling to the ground, and suddenly her feet were gone from under her, the backs of her knees curled around one of Jon's arms.

"What are—" she managed to gasp before he began to move again, jerking her around in his arms as he rushed forward. She was tense against him; the jagged bits of his armor were painful against her body. 

This wasn't right, he had to put her down; she could run herself...she didn't need him. But deep down she knew she did. She needed him, in more ways than one, and she wished she didn't. Need led to hurt. She would stumble, fall, and hurt herself...so who would fix her? Did Jon know how anymore? Or would he even want to?

But her hands did not fight him, and instead clung to him in some horribly trusting way. He was very comfortable compared to the tired soreness in her legs, and how alluring sleep was...

Jon ignored the pain in his arms and side as he held his former lover. He ignored the way his stomach ached with the familiarity of her body against his, he ignored the flip his heart gave, ignored how slight she felt to him. He remembered, then, every time he'd held her and wished secretly for the rest of the world to fade away, leaving only the two of them, without obligation or care.

He remembered the first time he'd seen her, truly seen her. He'd gone to the river to fill his water skin, and there she'd been, nearly bare but for the shift she'd worn, hair damp and wild. 

Her eyes were young—startled and afraid—but he realized she was far younger than others in her position. Suddenly he wanted to know why, why had she taken vows women twice her age took? She'd been bathing, and Jon's eyes immediately noticed the curve of her breasts before she'd hidden them from view with her discarded dress. His heart sped up as he watched a gentle blush rise from beneath her hands covering her bosom, up through that graceful neck and to her cheeks. It had barely been a moment, but it felt longer as he took in all these minimal details, and then he met her startled eyes once more. Jon reeled back, not daring to look at anything but her face. He stuttered a pathetic apology and retreated back to the camp, deciding better to fill his water skin with a bit of diluted wine instead.

Jon kept that memory; he didn't want to forget it although perhaps it would have been better if he had. When they'd been found out and disgraced, Jon locked those memories away, refusing to accept what brief, small comfort they'd offered. When he was miserable, he'd found relief in the arms of some tavern wench, whose name he could not recall. It had worked; he'd lost himself in the sweet scent of a woman, in her warm, soft body and all the pleasures the gods had blessed upon them. 

But he saw where it would lead him, and feared what kind of man he would turn into. Whoremonger, drunkard, man without honor, disgrace, embarrassment...so he'd never sought out another woman after, although it probably made him more than a bit prickly. It was not simply his loyalty to Maeve which prevented him from bedding another woman, but also his own fear that the ease he found in a woman's arms would become a necessity.

He would not become what people had always expected him to be. He would be the man his father had raised him to be.

A frantic scream cut through the air, and Jon felt ashamed for having delved too deep into his memories when the scene before him was so horrid. He jerked to a stop as a woman darted out in front of him, her shoulder bloodied and her eyes teary. Arya still hurried ahead of him, and Jon growled as he rushed to keep up with her. If he lost her in the crowd he would never forgive himself. 

He only just found his sister—Arya, who had never treated him, any different from Robb or Bran; he had given her her first sword just before she left for King's Landing and he for the Wall. Gods knew what kind of hell she'd gone through to make it back to them and now it was his turn to carry the weight and bring her back to her mother. And the small bundle she held was Maeve's...she'd despise him if he lost sight of Arya and her little one.

She wasn't very far ahead, and it was easy enough to reach her, but that was only because she'd paused to frown curiously at the set of buildings before her. The street was relatively untouched, although fires burned all around, and people and animals fled and screamed and died. This street, they would later find, was at one of the crevices of the valley city, built against the mountain wall and almost completely ignored by soldiers. Arya could see it, and her heart elated in hope as she eyed the little fabric shop set between a large tannery and bakery.

"Jon! Jon! Look!" Arya suddenly cried out as Jon reached her. She did not look away from her find, afraid that if she looked away, it would disappear in flames. The baby suddenly let out a scream, and Arya shot a fearful look down at it. She didn't know anything about babies really, and she was anxious to give this one back to his mother.

With that in mind, Arya rushed ahead towards safety, the motion making the baby cry louder. She heard Jon call out for her, and quickly she called back for him just as she reached the little shop. She slammed against the front end of the shop, and the baby hiccupped and continued screaming, her heart thundering loudly in her ears. She began to panic a little, fearful thoughts blooming in her mind as quickly as weeds in a garden. What if she'd hurt it? She didn't want to be responsible for the hurt of a helpless little baby! Worriedly, she looked up in search of Jon, hoping he would know what to do with the baby and at once she saw him, running towards her, the girl in his arms and no sword. Arya paled.

What...? How could he? How could he!?

" What did you do! " she screamed as he reached her. "How could— dolt! You'll get us—we can't—!" Jon did not seem to have heard her, and proceeded to prod at the door handle, which was difficult with the limp woman in his arms. For a moment, Arya resented her; if she could not walk, Jon could have left her, he should not have abandoned his sword; but as one of the baby's arms reached up into the air, shame and horror at thinking such an awful thought struck her in the chest. 

The woman, for however much of a hindrance, had a baby that needed her. Without much more thought, Arya wormed her arm out from around the baby, gripped the door handle and shoved it open with one rough jerk.

The air still smelled of boiled vegetables and spices from the missing occupants' supper, and it was pleasantly warm. Still, the smell of smoke was inescapable, as were the sounds of screaming and sword against sword. On the left, dozens of fabric bolts were piled against the wall, from floor to ceiling. In the right corner were a spinning wheel and the merchants desk was at the center of the room, and atop it sat an array of sewing supplies.

"Jon!" Arya cried out again, the small room making her voice sound thunderous. Even the baby's cries could not compare to his sister's furious yell. He looked back at her, seeing she had pressed herself against the wall with the rolls of fabric. Her face was red with either fury or exertion, he could not tell, but her voice trembled tumultuously when she spoke. "How could you drop your sword? I-I—"

"Arya, get the door." He cut her off easily. In his arms Maeve mumbled what sounded like a name, but he could not tell whose it was. With a huff, Arya did as she was bid, closing the door with a quiet creak. Jon looked down at the woman in his arms, finding she'd finally given into her exhaustion and laid her head against his shoulder, her hands slipping from their grip on his shoulder and armor, to rest limply against her bosom, but her eyes were open, and alert.

Jon could almost panic, she was quite pale, and it seemed she rested too peacefully for his liking, but he assured himself she was only exhausted. After all...he cast a look at Arya who sat quietly against the wall of fabric, the baby in her arms quieting but still fussing...Maeve had a baby. She must have, why else would she be so bloody exhausted and have an infant with his cord still attached> Jon knew not what to do with the thought.

"Maeve," he murmured gently. Her head rose to look at him, and Jon held his breath for a moment. She was still as gorgeous as he remembered her to be. As he dreamed her to be. His stomach ached. "We're safe."

At once she was squirming to get out of his arms. "Edrick?" she murmured, louder this time so Jon could hear. Gently, he set her down on her bare, dirty feet, his arms aching in relief. "Edrick!?" she cried, looking wildly for the baby.

" Shh!" Arya hissed from her spot on the floor. Maeve's eyes lit up when she spied the squirming bundle in her arms, swiftly moving her feet forward. She seemed a tad steadier since the last time she'd moved, and Jon supposed the short rest and the promise of holding the baby again must have renewed her energy.

"Give him to me." She croaked hoarsely. Him. Him. A boy. A son. A son called Edrick. Jon let the idea remain for a moment, before silently adding, Maeve has a son called Edrick . Jon's heart throbbed.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 24

Jon was as moveable as a stone statue, refusing the sweet lure rest in one of the two bedrolls they'd found in the loft above the shop. He refused the bread and smoked meat the girl-who-didn't-look-like-a-girl had found in the shop. He refused to even allow Maeve to remove his armor, to inspect the wound to his torso that troubled him. 

The way he refused to look at her, made her reconsider even attempting to touch him, knowing it would not be welcome, and fearing the pain of it. 

He only sat uncomfortably on the floor and watched out the loft's one window, his eyes peeking over the edge, wary of the danger still outside the little shop's walls.

Despite Jon’s orders that the two females take the most of the abandoned meal they’d found, the younger girl saved him a hefty bit of bread and meat for him, which made Maeve's empty feeling belly gurgle with envy. The girl unrolled one of the bedrolls and made up a comfy looking nest just beside Jon, unfurling rolls of soft linens and velvets stored against the walls of the loft, and assorting it into a cozy little bed.

Jon seemed to know the other girl; the way he looked at her with clear recognition and affection in his eyes was impossible to miss. They spoke softly to one another, so lowly Maeve could not hear as she unrolled her own bedroll far across the room—just opposite to Jon and the girl—and laid her son down. If they did not want her to hear their plans, then she wouldn't. Part of her didn't want to hear; if they were planning to leave her soon she didn't want to know when.

So she did what she wanted to do: study her little boy.

Sweet little Edrick squirmed a little on the cold fabric and gave an unhappy whine, and his withered mother hurriedly reached for a folded up bit of embroidered green linen, shaking it out roughly and wrapping her son in it. She hoped he was warmer. After she slept, she wanted to find some cotton to make up clouts for him, and a dress to change out of this disgusting bloodied one to gain some modesty.

She held her boy close as she settled down on the bedroll, falling back against the rolled up stretches of fabric on the wall behind her, a soft blanket draped over her sore legs. It was almost peaceful here, laid up in the soft bedroll and surrounded by warm fabrics...safe for the moment, with her little boy safe in her arms. 

Since he first entered the world, Maeve was able to allow herself to fully immerse herself in his tiny features, rubbing her dirty fingers up and down his tiny arm, feeling his soft, delicate skin beneath the rough tips of her fingers. She felt unworthy. He was good and pure, innocent. She was rough and worn and filthy. A holy relic held by a woman stained with sins.

He slept now, and Maeve hoped he did not wake until he wanted to. Let him sleep , she thought, sleep and dream and wake happy and hopeful. His tiny mouth was puckered as his head rested against her bosom, listening to the steady thrum of her heart as he slept, his small little hand gently clenching at her breast.

He was so beautiful. More enchanting than anything she'd known in her life.

He would need to eat soon, she realized. She had no notion as to how the act of feeding an infant was done, but how difficult could it be? Animals could do it. Still, she did not relish in the idea that she would have an audience of two, who would see every bumble and slip she made. Would they think she was an idiot? What mother didn’t know how to feed their baby? 

After she’d settled, Maeve became far too aware of how quiet it was in the closed walls. Endless quiet, filled to the brim with unsaid things that needed to be said. Dragging on at a tortuous pace, like a boulder around an ankle. Eventually, the girl curled up in her nest of blankets and soft things, falling asleep just as promptly. 

Speaking would shatter this awkward silence they resided in, and would allow the flood to come in. In some ways she preferred this quiet; it was safe, and she could almost believe the man across from her was not her former lover and father of her son. She could pretend he would not hurt her when he left her again, she could pretend that being without this particular man just across from her had not laid like a stone over her heart. It didn't hurt so much to act like he was just another soldier.

But once her son was asleep, and it was quiet, her eyes could not resist the urge to look at him. She began at his feet, clothed in dirty black boots, one leg drawn up while the other lay out in front of him. She remembered all the times they'd dozed off together, only to wake a short time later with one of those legs flung over hers. She'd teased him about it; for a man as serious and sullen as he during the day, it was surprising that he would be so affectionate by cover of night.

Next was his torso, plated with fine armour, bloodied and scratched and dented by the blows of hammer and mace and blade, the risen image of a direwolf head faintly visible on the face of it despite the dim light.

Resting on his drawn up knee, was his arm, his hand ungloved and loose, all five fingers present, all intact and straight and long as ever. Those fingers had once stroked her back, brushed away her hair, and touched her in other ways so sweet and wanting that a man would only do to his lady.

The wound on his side was not evident from this angle, but if he stood, and turned, she would be able to see the blood over his chain mail. The last time she'd seen him, he'd had the same hurts—he'd come back to her bloodied and in pain, but he'd taken her anyway. He'd loved her against a tree, held her tight against him and she'd told him the first time how deeply it would cut her if he came back to her maimed or not at all. 

The day he'd planted Edrick inside her, was also the last time she'd expected to see him.

Maeve blinked, those memories stunning her a moment with their clarity. She took in a deep breath and finally brought her eyes to his face, finally able to study him thoroughly.

His sweet face was changed—no less pleasing to the eye, but mature, hardened. No one could mistake him for a boy again. She spied a small scar along his cheek and a dried, smeared trickle of blood to the side of his forehead. His black curls had grown out a little and absently, she wondered if her son would have his curls. She hoped he did. However Jon was steely, hardened and changed—she could see it in his face.

The burning need to ask him how , how was he here, and why , why had he let her go, scorched the tip of her tongue. She had to ask, she had to speak. Seven hells, she held his son in her arms! There was no possible way she could hold her tongue any longer.

"Jon." She whispered his name sweet and heavy on her lips. So foreign. His head turned a little, but then stopped and returned his eyes out the window. As though he were about to look at her, but thought better of it. She ignored the way her heart ached at that. "H-how are you here?" her voice was small and pathetic, but in the stillness of the clothing shop, it was well heard.

The quiet was all that answered. She clenched her teeth, and was about to ask again, when he answered. "You need a healer." She frowned. "It doesn't matter how I got here. You need a healer, soon before...before childbed fever sets in."

She licked her lips. He spoke in a calm way, as though he were talking to just another woman. "I've no need for one. A bath, fresh clothes, and some rest will suffice."

His head spun around to glare at her, his eyes hard and stern. "Vows of poverty do not hold over you any longer." His eyes flashed over her. She flinched, his words as sharp and burning as the lash of a whip. It did not soften him. "You're bleeding . The," he hesitated, eyes flashing down to the bundle in her arms. "The babe, it needs to be looked at. We need to be sure it's healthy."

" He . His name is Edrick. And he is. He's strong."

"Fine, Edrick , needs to be looked at. Same with you." He hissed. Edrick , he thought with approval. A good, fine name. A strong one.

The auburn haired girl sighed in dismay. "I don't want to fight," she whispered tiredly. "I told you, I am fine . I've no need of a healer, nor does he. And if we did, where would you find one? The streets are burning. People are out there killing each other." Her voice was hard and factual, months of bitterness allowing her to spit out venom without even intending to. She thought she might feel guilty for this, but she did not.

"Have you ever birthed a baby before?" he frowned at her so incredulously that Maeve knew he was truly asking her. It burned. The question was as painful as though he'd just outright called her a whore. She'd thought he loved her, at least before the world shamed them for it. Had the shame of loving her turned him hateful? But, perhaps, he really was curious and not only looking to hurt her. After all, girls as young as fourteen could have children, and she was eighteen when they met. It could be, he believed her virtue was nonexistent when he first had her, added to the fact that she attempted to sound like she knew what she was talking about. Still, his doubt of her innocence irked her.

"No." She answered with a sharp glare. Jon did not flinch and continued to stare hard at her.

"Then you cannot be sure. I'll find one as soon as the looters diverse. By morning they'll be hiding away in their holes—"

"And all that will be left is the killers." She provided. There was a long quiet pause, and her brows pinched together in fear, eyes widening suddenly she lost much of the sternness that made her seem twice her age. Suddenly she was Maeve. His Maeve. The woman he'd known, the one he loved. "You would leave me, again ?" Her voice broke, and tears began to form in her eyes at the thought.

His mouth tightened, and he sat a little straighter. "I never left you at all." He spoke lowly. The scars on his back burned as he thought back to the day she'd left. When she left Robb's tent to be with the other members of the Faith, he and Robb talked further, unaware that as they spoke of political agendas, Maeve was being paraded through camp from the sept tent to a horse in her shredded dress. As they spoke, Robb explained that some men thought him taking too many liberties: to dishonour his vows to the Night's Watch and escape punishment from his newly royal brother, to become one of Robb's generals and advisors, and then to dishonour a septa ...the men felt that Jon should be made an example of.

So Jon was whipped, his back thrashed until he was bloody.

And while he lay up in agony and self loathing, a squire arrived to feed him milk of the poppy, and Jon had inquired about Maeve, half delirious with pain. Upon hearing the news, he remembered hoping that the squire had told him false as the soporiferous poppy milk took him away.

Maeve blinked, her tears falling and she hurriedly looked away, wiping the horrid little drops away with her fingers. She felt very heavy, and she looked away from him. He did leave her, he let her be sent away, he didn't fight for her...Had he even loved her? Thinking you loved someone and actually loving someone so were two dissimilar things. Had they been blinded by the beauty of one another? Had the pleasure they discovered in one another's embrace clouded their judgement? Together, they were free to just be a man and woman, two people who were together by choice rather than necessity or order. Had this tiny semblance of freedom been mistaken for love? Her heart throbbed, as though a pin were going through it. It would be a horrid, horrid thing to have lost all that she had, for nothing more than a child's fancy.

But it had felt real. The way he looked at her was real. The way he'd vowed to love her and be with her always was real. The way she'd felt about him, the way she kissed him, the way she'd given her virtue to him, that was real.

But he'd given her up so easily, and she'd been pregnant. That was real too.

The quiet stretched out between them again, for how long she did not know, but that girl curled up against him shifted once or twice. She wanted to ask him who she was and what she meant to him, but she thought it would only ignite further tension, and she was too damn tired to argue any longer.

"Who gave you that?" She looked at him, and he still looked angry, but as he gestured to his own cheek, she thought perhaps it was not at her this time.

She remembered the sting of the slap Tyrek Lannister had given her. She remembered his foul words, his reeking scent of wine and cheap women, she remembered why she'd hit him. Gin had nearly thrown her out for that, insulting a Lannister, a member of the wealthiest family in Westeros, was something no business merchant wanted to do. But Tally had saved her from that, she'd spoken to her aunt and had gotten her to allow her to stay. She wondered where her friend was now. She hoped she was safe.

"Some foul urchin who was too bold. I bruised him first." She answered with a touch of pride. "I think he was high born." The ghost of a smirk passed across her lips. Maeve hoped that toad Tyrek Lannister knew now that just having a famous name didn't mean he was untouchable.

A small smile was Jon's reply, which made her heart ease back from the anger of their earlier words, but not entirely. Yes, he could see her slapping a high born lord across the face for arrogance. "Knowing you, he probably skulked off, ashamed and disgraced."

She smiled in spite of herself at the ease with which he spoke. "He did...after he was done throwing a fit. Did you just make a joke?"

"I guess I did. If you ever see him again, point him out." For a moment she felt a little warm inside, because he had implied that he would stay with her, defend her if needs be. But it faded when Edrick squirmed and cooed sleepily in her arms.

"We're not going to talk about it are we? Him." Our son , she added silently. Or my son, if fathering him shames you so.

Jon's brown eyes lost their warmth, and were replaced with something she didn't understand. Something not quite sadness, and not quite anger. How can we , he thought. Where do we even begin? And how? Gods tell me how! Jon had never thought he'd be wondering if he fathered a child, he never thought he'd want to. A bastard's life of shame, a bastard's life as a pariah was no life for an innocent child. Maeve and her son deserved a man who could give them things he couldn't.

The Maeve he'd known was no whore, she could never be. But a lot of things can happen to a woman on the road, and she had been sent away for punishment. The idea was agony, to think that she had been abused so hideously and now carried some wretched little prick's bastard in her arms. He could not hate the child, he knew. He knew better than most that a child should not suffer the sins of its parents. He did not seethe out of disgust of her either—no, gods no, he could never fault her for something out of her control, something that hurt her.

No, he was more disgusted with himself , for if such horrors had befallen her, he felt to blame.

Just the mere thought of her in such a horrid situation made him want to cast all his guilt and anger aside and rush to her, to take her in his arms and never let anyone hurt her again. Even if she slapped at him, screamed out her hatred and ordered him never to touch her again, he could not leave her. His mind flashed to that dream from weeks before, the dream where he ripped out the throats of the soldiers trying to rape her.

For just a second he remembered their screams of agony, and the taste of their blood and how good it had felt ripping them apart, and his wrath was calmed for a moment.

This second thought had grown in his mind weeks before—when he saw her in his dreams, belly round and swollen, touching it tenderly without even realising—what if that child were his? What if they'd made a son the day Theon Greyjoy caught them? The idea was infinitely more welcome than the first, although frightening at the prospect of being a father. He looked down at him—down at Edrick —and wondered.

But knowing his name is enough for tonight, knowing the child is healthy is enough . Jon was too tired to think of much else, too tired to face the fact that she'd spent the last months heavy with child— his child. He didn't want to think of her alone and frightened, pregnant without him to see her through it. No , he couldn't think of that. He wouldn't. Not tonight.

"It's been a long day. Go to sleep, Maeve. You need it." Was all he said. Maeve looked at him, her large steely grey eyes bleary with fatigue although she tried to remain awake. "Sleep. It's alright. I'll keep you safe. I promise."

The disgraced septa blinked at him twice more, wishing it could be as it used to be between them, wishing he'd just...just wishing it wasn't so hard to be with him now.

When Jon looked away again in favor of keeping watch outside the window, she looked away, her eyes burning once more. With great gentleness, she scooted down onto the bedroll, lying on her back with Edrick lying in the crook of her arm.

Her body throbbed and ached in ways she didn't know were possible. Even so, sleep came swiftly, and Jon still watched well into the daylight.

When the smoke settled and the sun rose over the mountains, Garret Reyne stared out at the discord in the streets with far off eyes. Horses whinnied and bucked and raced left and right out of terror, and once or twice, he saw a limp body dragged behind it, broken legs still caught in the stirrups. Bodies had been piled away to the sides of the streets and the wounded and bereaved screamed far and near. His own wounds had been tended to, a healing salve spread over his mended shoulder to keep the rot at bay and milk of the poppy dulled his pain wonderfully.

But it was not the dull ache in his shoulder, the noise, the stench, the death...it was Garret's own mind that caused him discomfort as he sat there, on the back of an over turned cart.

His uncle had lied —the man, who had raised him like one of his own sons, had lied to him. Deceived him. Betrayed him. That small fact hurt a little more than the vengeance his uncle's lies had stolen from him.

His uncle—his mother's brother, Lord Ronald Ryger—had told the king that he'd turned his back on his oath to the Tully's with good reason. He'd pleaded with the Young Wolf that he hadn't come to fight for him because he'd been taking oaths from the western lords. Now was the time to exact ruthless, merciless vengeance on the Lannisters—while they were weak, when their forces were scattered to the field, when their reputation was irrevocably damaged by the whore queen and her dishonourable brother. It was perfect .

It was as if the gods themselves had devised this perfect lay of events which would lead him to mounting Tywin Lannister's ugly head on a spike.

Garret had waited half of his life for this—most of his life really. Every day since Castamere had been put to the torch, he'd imagined Tywin Lannister's face in each sparring partner, and each time he'd knocked them bloody into the mud he thought of his sisters and of his mother. Every time he earned a scar or bruise in the yard, he vowed it would only make him swifter, Every time he missed a lunge or stab, he swore it would make his blows harsher and more practiced the next time. Each city they took was another step closer, and to know his own uncle had tried to ensure that the army with which he would accomplish such a task would be crushed, twisted a knife inside him. Surely, Lord Ryger knew that by doing this, it would surely mean Garret's demise as well...the thought pressed the knife deeper.

His lord uncle had gotten the petitions; he'd seen the signed scrolls himself. He'd seen the Lord's heirs to their tents when they arrived at camp as assurance to King Robb that their father's would not attack.

He'd seen the men in Lannister colours attack them when they had supposedly vowed not to. Vows were as meaningful as a candle in the wind, fickle, and ready to gutter out at the slightest breeze.

He watched as a small band of north men robbed the bloodied carcasses of their enemies—taking boots, armour, swords, gold—whatever they could. Like a pack of wolves, he thought.

It had all been a falsehood. The surrender of the West, the promise that the lords would help them to take Casterly Rock and overthrow the monstrous fools who governed over them had all been a farce. One his uncle had been privy to.

Why , he wanted to know. Not how, or when. Only why . The Lannisters had killed his uncle's sister, his niece and disposed of their bodies by throwing them into the sea after hanging them above the gates of Casterly Rock for the rest of the summer. Why would his uncle help them? Was he mad, or did he hate his sister? Did he not care for the horrors that had been leased upon them, or for the way the Lannisters had savaged them? Perhaps the love of an adopted son was but a small, worthless thing compared to gold and position. Garrett clenched his fists, although his left shoulder meekly throbbed at the action.

He was alone now, he knew. There was no one else in the world he could turn to for companionship. His sisters were dead, his mother and father too. The world thought he was dead. The last red lion was a lone one, and when he died, the name Reyne would truly fall into the history books.

The squelching sounds of boots sinking into mud met his ears, and for a long moment he didn't pay much mind to it, since there was a lot of boots squishing into the mud, and screams and orders and jabbering on top of that. But those boots kept moving closer...and closer...and closer.

Garret Reyne's steel grey eyes flashed up to the left of him, and his hand twitched, wishing he had not lost his axe in the battle.

"Garret, my boy, I did not know! Gods help me, I did not know!" Lord Ryger babbled with a look of horror on his face. The young man was unmoved—all people lied, except others were a lot better at it. His uncle could be a king with how believable his dismay was.

Garret stood, wrenching away from the overturned cart and stalking towards his short and soft uncle. His uncle was old, in his sixties, and the years had made muscle turn to fat and cunning skill with a blade become lax and poor. He could kill him easily, but the thought made a shame filled wave come over him. He loved his uncle...he'd raised him really, alongside his cousin Dickon who he had fought with, played with, who somewhat filled the hole in his heart where his sisters once occupied. Lord Ronald...he'd never allowed Garret to forget his poor lady mother, or his poor little sisters. He had been his father for longer than Eli Reyne had, and Dickon had been his brother since the day he arrived at Willow Wood—his uncle's seat.

But a rage he'd only ever felt for Lannister's arose inside him, because he remembered his uncle had betrayed him, making the pain all the worse.

Lord Ronald paused and stared at his nephew, his face baring the terror rising within him.

"You lied to me; nearly every day of my life," Garret hissed, taking a step forward. "You told me I would have vengeance" step "for what the Lannisters did to my mother," step "to my sister and father. To my home. And you." step "You betray me. You cheated me."

"Wh-what? No! Never!" Garret's steps paused, but if he was swayed, he did not show. He only stared at the man but a few steps before him, his eyes hard and unforgiving. They looked at one another for a long moment, until his uncle seemed to gain a bit of composure and stood straighter. "No, I did not, I swear on Dickon's life. I loved your mother! I loved you and your sisters. Hearing what happened to sweet little Aleia, and Maeve she was just a babe , I—"

"Don't even speak their names! They were my sisters. I lost one because I let go of her hand and I lost the other when her wound festered. I lost them because..." of me. "Because of them." He kicked at a severed arm near his feet, clothed in Lannister crimson, the blood invisible in the revolting fabric. I was the eldest, I was their brother. I was meant to protect them, and yet I am all that's left. "I deserved my revenge against those evil fair haired shits, and you stole it from me!"

His uncle fell to his knees, his fine velvets dirtying in the mud and blood as he hobbled towards him on his knees, his arms stretched up towards him, imploringly. Garret bit back a flicker of doubt. He betrayed me , he thought. "Never! N-never, my son—"

"I am not your son, I never was—" although so many times he wished he was, if only it meant forgetting that terrible night where he lost everything.

"—I loved them, your mother and sisters. I love you! You're all I have left of Violet, you're just like her." he tried to touch Garret's hands, but the man wretched them away, staring down at his uncle with furious eyes, full of hurt. Lord Ronald pulled his crooked hands back, and looked down at his nephew's dirty boots. "I was sickly as a boy, you know? All the other boys would never play with me, but Violet, my sister, she always did—"

"Yes, yes, I've heard this story a thousand times! Is it supposed to make me pity you?" demanded the auburn haired man.

" No ! I never wanted pity. But trust me when I say I wanted this just as badly—!"

"Trust you?" Garret huffed breathlessly. Trust...who was there to trust? The northerners who didn't even believe his claim? The Tully bannermen who had not fought to protect his family? The Western lords who were akin to snakes in the mud? No. No one could be trusted and those who would help him did not do so for the sake of his justice. "Trust? A pretty idea that gets lesser men killed." Lord Ryger seemed to flinch. "You lied to me and plotted to have Robb Stark killed in battle. You planned for me to die here, didn't you?"

"I did not!" his uncle protested.

"Those hostages the Western lords sent are not even their sons, are they?"

"I saw to the negotiations myself! I was the one to convince the westerners that supporting the Lannisters was a horrid idea! They were sickened at Castamere, they feared the Lannister's above everything. I told them, ' now is the time, now is the time to do away with those false lords—! '"

"Then why did your plan go up in a puff of smoke? It seems you weren't very good at convincing."

Lord Ryger looked up at his nephew, his eyes wide and pleading as a child's. Garret nearly faltered and looked away, ashamed. He looked out at the ugly scene of the Stark wolves as they savaged discarded corpses, paying no attention as they plundered the city that now belonged to them. "I cannot say for sure, right now, if only you gave me time!"

"Your hesitation betrays you uncle. Go. Run fast and far . King Robb will be calling for your head soon enough for your treachery and I do not wish to see your head on a spike. For the sake of Dickon, who is dear to me. I give you this chance to flee." He looked at Ronald, his heart squeezing inside him. This was his father, his flesh and blood. And he'd cheated him out of the one thing he'd ever really wanted. In that moment, Garret hated his uncle. "Go."

He did not see him go, he couldn't. So before Uncle Ronald could make the first step, Garret backed away, and faded into the crowd.

Jon hadn't intended to fall asleep, but as the sounds outside quietened little by little, his eyes drifted shut. And after what felt like a few moments, he was startled awake by the strangest mewling sound he'd ever heard. As the dim grogginess of sleep lingered over him, the former Watchman tried to discern the soft sound. A bird? A kitten? It sounded small and vulnerable—

His world spun a little when he sat up, poor, exhausted Arya simply rolling over and curling up once more. His eyes remained settled on the lump curled beneath the uncut rolls of silk and cotton, a curled head of auburn lying on another roll, while her newborn son stirred beside her, in the crook of one of her arms. He blinked as she turned her head to the side, once again showing him that yellowing mark, the faintest hint of scar hidden beneath. If she ever pointed out who did that to her, he would give them a bloodied nose.

He squinted at the boy, studying him as he wasn't able to the night before. He was small, just a tiny little thing, puffy and red, a thin brush of soft black hair at the crown of his small head, as small blue eyes blinked sleepily. His impossibly small fingers flexed against his face. He cooed in the softest voice Jon had ever heard, and then grunted in a voice that seemed too loud for such a small thing. Maeve murmured in her sleep, and pulled the child closer to her side.

Such a sight made his chest ache. When he'd first been with Maeve, sometimes he'd think of what this would be like—sleeping beside her, making love to her every night in a warm feather bed, waking up with a face full of her tangled curls, walking in the daylight without care of who saw them.

He wanted it to be true, so badly. He wanted to be the boy's father, wanted to raise him, and teach him how to be a man. He didn't want his—Maeve's son to be called a bastard. Edrick had a father. He could be his father.

Jon blinked and looked away from the child. It shamed him to consider that another man could be the child's father. He could not believe that Maeve would give herself to another man so soon after being forcibly taken from him. No, she was too honourable for that—as honorable as a turn cloak septa can be. She was too good. She would never. She was not weak like he was. He remembered that night with that tavern girl, and a beat of shame moved through him. It wasn't disloyalty, he thought. We weren't together. Somehow, that made him feel much worse.

He dared a look back at Edrick when he cooed again. It almost felt wrong to look at the baby, as though he hadn't a right when he hadn't been there to protect his mother. Still, curiosity could not be denied. Handsome little lad, he noted with a smile. Strong lungs too. He wondered if he was heavy and was struck with the urge to hold the boy, although when he held the baby Maeve had helped care for during her days as a septa, he had been terrified of hurting the boy, he'd ended up making him cry. He wondered if he had that soft skin everyone raved on about babies having, he wondered if he looked like his mother up close, or if he could see a reflection of himself in that young face. His fingers twitched.

His brown eyes traveled from the child's blinking face, to his mother's, his chest tightening as he observed her. She was so pretty, still so lovely to him, dirty and bloody. High graceful cheekbones, pink lips, high arched brows, long curved nose, wayward curls brushing her skin...but he could still see the imperfections marked on her skin: a long scabbed line on her neck, a white line of a scar on her cheek (he remembered when that elder septon had struck her that last day so hard her skin split), and blood on her hands, a long painful looking gash on her palm.

He would fetch her a maester—

The baby suddenly gave a loud cry, his little face scrunching up as his toothless mouth opened wide. Maeve's body jumped; her face scrunching up as her bleary eyes tried to blink into focus. Jon turned away, back to looking outside through the bottom corner of the window. It was quiet outside, half a dozen bodies lying in messy heaps in the mud.

"Ed-Edrick?" Maeve mumbled groggily. "Jon?" he heard her pause, and he could feel her eyes searching his form. "Oh thank the gods." She whispered.

Faintly, he heard the old familiar rallying cry of his brothers in arms in the distance: "King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!"