Chapter 42

The ship had arrived at Tarth the night before, bearing a hastily stitched stag-and-wolf banner as a pair of barges with a handful of men-at-arms began rowing towards the shore. Ordinarily, such a ship wouldn't demand their attention, but the men had said they had defected from Renly's army, and had a gift for the king. It was for this reason that a hurriedly dressed Steffon was awaiting them in the great hall of Evenfall Hall, along with her, Edric, Waldron and Lord Tarth. He made brief eye contact with her for only a moment before quickly looking away, making Arya's heart sink into her stomach.

It had been a few days since Steffon had informally ended their betrothal. Despite that, she was yet to arrange transport home for herself. She'd figured that Steffon would come to his senses in a few days. Her thoughts were shaken from her mind as the men-at-arms entered the hall, two of them holding a basket. A tall soldier stepped forward, kneeling in front of Steffon.

"Your Grace, we have come to you this day to beg your forgiveness for what we have done. We raised arms against you, a most heinous treason." The man said, drawing his sword and laying it at Steffon's feet. Arya didn't even have to look at her former betrothed to know that his eyes were rolling ever so slightly.

"You are forgiven." Steffon sighed, gesturing for the man to rise.

"As a token of our gratitude for your mercy, Your Grace, we bring you a gift." The man said, gesturing to his comrades who were holding the basket. It had been covered with a rag, Arya noticed. What for, she couldn't initially tell.

Then came the stench.

One she had grown far too familiar with recently.

She looked over to Steffon, and it seemed he'd recognised it too. His face had turned to one of worry. The basket was set down and Arya covered her mouth in shock as the leader of the men pulled the rag off to reveal the head of Renly Baratheon. Evidently, the man had been dead for some time; there were already some signs of decomposition on the head, his eyes already pale and half-open, and his mouth agape in a frozen expression of horror.

She noticed Steffon's knuckles turning white. The anger was beginning to take him over now.

"How did he die?" Steffon asked quietly in a voice that sent a chill down her spine.

"We came to him in his tent after the Battle of Tarth and beheaded him." The man stated, almost with a hint of pride in his voice.

"You bring shame and dishonour on yourself and your entire family." Steffon spat. "You slaughter a defenceless man, and then parade his head to me as some sort of trophy?"

"He was your enemy, Your grace. We-"

"HE WAS A BARATHEON OF STORM'S END!" Steffon shouted, with enough venom behind his voice to kill the Mountain. "A BARATHEON OF STORM'S END, AND YOU SLAUGHTER HIM AS IF HE WERE SOME LOW THIEF?!" He continued. The soldiers were taken aback, their expressions shifting from humble to fear. "Edric, take them away. Have them executed immediately."

"No! Your grace! Have mercy!" One of the men cried.

"Mercy? MERCY?!" Steffon yelled. "The same kindness you gave my uncle?! Never!"

Arya watched Edric and several other troops grab the defectors and drag them out of the room kicking and flailing like children. It was a cruel fate to be certain, but the men had killed Steffon's own uncle. She then glanced over and saw that Steffon had covered up Renly's head with the rag and was now seated in the nearest chair with his head in his hands. Even if there was no sniffling coming from him, the slight shiver in his body was enough to tell Arya he was in mourning for his uncle.

While her mind was telling her to leave him to his grief, her heart told her to stay with him. Eventually, her heart had talked her into it. Arya grabbed a nearby chair and brought it over to where Steffon was sitting. Once she sat down, she reached out and gently took Steffon's hand in her own. The feeling of Steffon's hand awakened fond memories of intimacy and peace that had felt absent for quite a while. He looked up and his pale blue glistening eyes met hers. For a minute, the two of them said and did nothing. Finally, Steffon broke the silence.

"Did you… Did you mean all the things you said that day…?" He asked.

"No." Arya said, shaking her head, softly. "Did you?"

Steffon shook his head. "No."

Arya smiled gently, placing a hand on his cheek, gently brushing her fingers along the slightest trace of stubble upon his cheek. "I'm glad." She whispered. Then, she rose from her seat, her hand still holding Steffon's and pulling him up from his chair with her. Then, she stepped forward, placing her head into the crook of Steffon's neck and wrapping her arms around his chest.

"I'm glad as well." Steffon said.

"I still don't agree with what you did." Arya said. "And I think it was stupid… but I can at least understand why you did it."

"Does this mean our betrothal is back?" Steffon asked. Arya answered him by kissing his cheek.

He had been dreaming again, once again of the raven. Not that there was much else to do in his current state. The fall down the ravine had broken both of legs, but where the break was, no one could tell. None of them we Maesters. All he knew was that Hodor had to drag him around on a sled, and it was bloody humiliating.

"Were you inside the wolf gain, little lord?" Osha asked, sharpening a stick.

"No." Bran replied, "It was the three-eyed raven."

"Ah, so he's back."

"I tried to kill it, but there was a boy-"

"I don't want to hear about it." Osha cut him off. "We've already got enough worries. No need to pour black magic on top of them."

"I didn't ask for black magic dreams." Bran replied.

"I know you didn't, little lord." She said before turning back to her stick. Not the best weapon in the world, but Beran supposed it would do in a pinch

He looked over at Myrcella. The delicate King's Landing girl was not used to the hardship of the North. Her hair had gone badly tangled and she was thinner than she had seen before Theon had taken Winterfell, but he had to admire her spirit. He had half-expected her to give up sometime ago, but she just kept plugging along, even though she was woefully out of her depth. She had listened to their conversation in silence, though she doubtless thought it was all bollocks. Half of him was telling him it was bollocks too, but he could hardly deny what was right in front of him, could he?

"How are you faring, Bran?" She asked.

"I've got no legs, Myrcella." He said bitterly. "How do you think I'm faring?"

"Sorry." She said quietly. Bran felt contrite almost instantly.

"Myrcella, come here." Osha said. The Princess gave Bran one last look before heading over to join Osha; presumably the Wildling woman was going to give her some more lessons on survival. It was one thing she'd taken upon herself since they escaped Winterfell since Bran was unable to walk and Rickon too young. He was surprised when he saw her grab a hold of Myrcella's hair and press her dagger to it. He was about to yell out in alarm when he saw her cut the blade along the girl's hair, causing it to fall to the ground. She kept at it for another 5 minutes, erratically cutting the blonde girl's hair until it barely reached her neck. Bran craned his neck to try and listen.

"Now it won't get tangled or caught in a tree, little princess." Osha said with unusual tenderness. Maybe she was starting to develop something of a soft spot for Myrcella. Bran nearly laughed at the thought of Osha, of all people, developing some sort of strange affection for the blonde girl was hilarious.

He was broken from his train of thought by the sound of crows squawking.

"We need to move. And all I know is that the Wall's a long way off." Osha said.

"We don't even know if anyone's looking for us. No one even knows we're alive." Bran replied. "And I can't bloody walk anywhere."

"There has to be somewhere we can go." Myrcella said. Her short hair made her look even prettier, if that was even possible.

"Last Hearth?" Rickon asked.

"Hodor." Hodor replied, nodding his head.

"It's the Umber stronghold." Bran provided. "They were always loyal to my father." He added, hoping against hope Osha would decide that they'd go there.

Castle Black was an intimidating sight. The Wall itself even more so. He had heard the stories Old Nan told them when they were children, of course. That the Wall had been raised by Bran the Builder with the aid of Giants. All nonsense of course, like most of the shit she thought up.

He was snapped from his reverie by the sound of the recruiter ordering them off as they entered the courtyard. "Alright, you sorry bastards, out of the cart. You're not in the south anymore!" He shouted. A large man with a martial bearing approached them, a stern, almost sour look on his face as he slowly walked past the recruits, surveying them. He stopped at Jon.

"What's your name?" He asked in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Jon Snow, m'lord." Jon replied.

"Ah, Ned Stark's bastard." The man snarled. Jon resisted the urge to lash out; it would do him no favours and he'd likely be dead in seconds if he tried. "Why are you here, Jon Snow?"

"I did wrong by my King." Jon replied simply.

"And which King would that be, bastard?" He spat.

"Steffon Baratheon, m'lord."

"Steffon Baratheon, the boy king, eh? Snot-nose if ever there was one." He grumbled. "You at least look like you can swing a sword." He commented before moving on. After surveying the last of the recruits, he moved in front of them. "I am Ser Alliser Thorne, Master-at-Arms here at Castle Black. In the Lord Commander's absence, I serve as commander of the garrison. Whatever you were south of here, forget it. I don't give a fuck if you were a raper, murderer or you volunteered. Here, you're all equals." He looked Jon straight in the eye. "You will die here; how long you live is up to you." He drew back, scanning the recruits once more. "For today, you'll get a cot and cloak then armour up so we can see what you can do with a sword in your hands. Get moving."

That seemed to act as an informal dismissal. The recruits were led to the barracks and once they had claimed their cots and fastened their cloaks, they headed back out and were herded to the armoury. When the training cuirasses were fastened, they headed out and lined up once more.

Jon had been a little stunned at how quickly it had all happened. The Night's Watch was not exactly known for its heavy discipline or the quality of its recruits, but it seemed that a bit of soldier's discipline had cowed them into obeying orders. For now, anyway. Looking up at the Wall again, it was hard not to be intimidated by the size of it. He'd remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin that it was 700 feet tall supposedly. Looking at it now, it seemed far taller.

"Alright, you sorry lot, time to see if you fight." Thorne said. "You two," he pointed at Jon and another recruit, "Take a training sword from the rack and get ready. Everyone else, back away."

The first thing Jon noticed was about his opponent; he was tall and skinny, which would likely make him a harder target to hit, especially if he knew what he was doing. The second thing was that the training sword was surprisingly well-balanced, even if the blade had some serious nicks and scrapes on from its long use. He assumed an ox stance, with the blade held at head height and pointing down slightly. Straightaway, he saw his opponent was not used to the sword, trying to copy Jon's stance but holding the weapon at an odd angle.

"Fight!" Thorne ordered. Jon Stepped forward and thrusted his sword, beginning what promised to be a long day of training.

Affairs at her son's camp had grown more and more tense with his marriage to Jeyne. More of the lords were beginning to question his authority, but mainly Rickard Karstark. Karstark's sons had both been killed by the still-imprisoned Jaime Lannister; one at the Whispering wood and the other in a botched escape attempt. Just yesterday, she had intervened with Brienne's aid to prevent Jaime being executed. Another close call like that would likely result in his death. And Sansa's too, she thought.

"The Kingslayer won't last the night." Brienne said, giving voice to Catelyn's thoughts. "The drunker they get, the angrier they'll get. When the Karstarks draw their swords, who wants to be seen defending a Lannister?" She asked. Catelyn didn't answer; they both knew the obvious. No Northman would stand in Lord Karstark's way if he came storming up the gates of the Kingslayer's pen, and his death would mean that the Lannisters would retaliate by killing Sansa.

"Come." She said. The two of them made their way to the pen where Jaime was, and entered it after Catelyn had dismissed the guards.

"Ah, Last Stark, come to wish me goodbye? I believe this is my last night in this world." he looked Brienne over. "Seven Hells, is that a woman?"

"You strangled Lord Karstark's son while he was on duty." She spat.

"He was in my way." Jaime said coldly. "Any other knight would've done the same."

"You are no knight." She said with disgust. How dare he call himself a knight?! "You have forsaken every vow you took."

"So many vows." He said. For a moment, Catelyn thought she detected a note of regret in his vice. "They make you swear and swear. Defend the king, obey the king, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak… but what happens if your father despises the king? What if the king massacres the innocent?" He said. She thought she could a sadness in his eyes for a bare second. "It's too much. No matter what you do, you're violating one vow or another." He turned to Brienne. "Now, where did you find this beast?"

"She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer."

"And what a King Aerys Targaryen was." He replied sardonically.

"You are a man without honour." She spat with clear disdain.

"Well… I've never been with any woman but Cersei." He replied. "So in my own way, I have more honour than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of his bastard again? I forget."

"Brienne, your sword." Catelyn said. Brienne drew her sword and handed it to her and with a strength she didn't know she had, cut the rope that had Jaime tied up in the pen. She handed the weapon back to Brienne. "You are to take him to King's Landing and return him to the Lannisters in exchange for Sansa."

"Yes, My Lady." Brienne grabbed another piece of rope and bound Jaime's hands together. To stop him from struggling as they moved off. Catelyn would confess to her son when he inevitably came to her. What she didn't expect was that he was waiting for her in her tent.

"This arrived from Riverrun." He said, passing her a piece of paper. She unrolled it and it felt like she had been crushed by the entire Winterfell keep yet again. Her father, sickly for a long time, had finally passed away.

"I have not seen him in many years." She admitted, shameful as it was. I should've gone to Riverrun more often, and not leave Edmure to deal with this on his own.

"That cannot be helped now." Robb said quietly. "I've already sent a raven saying we'll attend the funeral." he added. Catelyn nodded, trying to suppress a few tears that were already rolling down her cheek.

"Edmure has been dealing with this by himself…" She trailed off.

"If he's as strong as you are, he-" Robb was cut off by a soldier who ran into the tent.

"M'lord, the Kingslayer escaped!"

"What? How?!" Robb exclaimed. "He was bound to a wooden post!"

"It was me." She confessed. Robb turned to her with evident shock on his face.

My fate is in your hands now, my son.

It was impossible not to think about what had happened. The soldiers had presented him with his uncle's head and expected him to be okay with it?

They should count themselves lucky their end was so quick… Steffon thought.

They had all been beheaded minutes after their arrival and their valuables stripped before their bodies were tossed into the sea. They would not receive any dignity that came with burial.

Steffon could still remember the good times with his uncle. It was Renly who taught him the value of treating others as equals, and paying attention to the lives of those below you. Then there was the fact that Renly had always made time for him when he was still young, and indulged his appetite for knowledge and books when his father was off drinking or whoring. As much as his grandfather and uncle Stannis had been both heavy factors in expanding his knowledge of war and politics, it had been Renly who had taught him about people.

It was dark now. He would hopefully be able to return to the mainland tomorrow, pending the Maester's assessment of his condition. He was faring fine for the most part, provided he wasn't doing anything strenuous. He did have to admit though, staying inside a castle while a war was going on was not something he was ever going to get used to. How could he ask men to go and die for him when he was living comfortably back here? It wasn't right.

Sighing to himself, he stripped down to his tunic and breeches and climbed into the bed that awaited him. It had been odd, sleeping in an actual bed again, though not entirely unwelcome. Just as he was pulling the covers over, the room door opened. He recognised the small frame almost immediately.

"Arya? Why are you here?" He asked.

She didn't say a word, slowly walking toward the bed and climbing in next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm curled around her almost instinctively. He desperately wanted to kiss her, but refrained from it. Instead, he simply enjoyed the feeling of holding her again. He opened his mouth to say something, but Arya's soft breathing gave away that she had already succumbed. Steffon could feel himself drifting off as well, and closed his eyes.

Things were finally beginning to turn for the better.