JEYNE
The Neck was the nearest thing to hell that Jeyne Westerling had ever seen in her life. She knew that the septons customarily preached about the seven hells as places of fire and sulfur and torment, but if the Neck was what lay between the north and the missionaries of the Seven, she was not at all surprised that the old gods still held such deep sway up here. As a child, she had practiced a sort of earnest unformed faith, attending the sept on holy days and lighting a candle to the Maiden every so often and memorizing parts of the Seven-Pointed Star, but she had never contemplated it much beyond that. Yet during her brief marriage to Robb, she had seen for herself how the deep-rooted, unswerving belief of the northmen in their silent trees formed a fundament of who they were, a very part of saying that they were Stark or Karstark or Flint or Umber or Mormont or Glover or Cerwyn. To keep to the Old Ways, and to stand strong, were the bones and blood of the north so much as its snow or stone, and Jeyne often found herself mouthing quiet prayers to her husband's nameless gods.
They had reached the first fringes of bogland about a week ago, after a harrowing, back-and-forth zigzag past the Twins and the kingsroad. The countryside was crawling with heavily armed Freys, frothing for vengeance on account of the outlaws doing in Ser Ryman and his men; the Blackfish thought it was far more the principle of the thing, the slur on the family name, rather than any personal grief for Ser Ryman himself. "As if that's even possible," he growled. "The stain of the Red Wedding will never be scrubbed out. And considering now that only Edwyn Frey stands between Black Walder and the Twins, I'll judge there's a deal more staining to come."
My stain. Time and time again, Jeyne had tried not to blame herself for the Red Wedding. But the fact remained that it was incontestably her involvement which had driven the elderly Lord Walder to such bloodstained extremes. When the Stark army had stormed and taken the Crag, the last thing she or anyone had planned was to find the Young Wolf himself injured by an arrow in the victorious aftermath, though he insisted it was nothing. Yet from the very moment he looked at her she had been struck through the heart, and ordered him taken to her own bed for care. My fault. I knew all the tales about beautifully romantic star-crossed lovers, and I thought we would be the same.
Their attraction had bloomed quickly, conducted at first only in shy touches and tender glances. He was a young man, she was a young woman. Neither of them were uncomely. He was hurt, she was caring for him, and the forbidden nature had appealed to both of them, children that they still were. Even in the face of her mother's first, relentless disapproval, Jeyne could not have cared less. She lived for the hours she could sneak away to spend with Robb, fussing over him when he no longer needed fussing, trying to decide if she should act mature and worldly or innocent and sweet, and finally only able to act like herself.
And then, that night. When Robb received the news that his friend Theon Greyjoy had betrayed him, taken Winterfell, imprisoned and mistreated its men and women, and slaughtered his little brothers, mounting their heads on their own front gate. He and his lady mother had trusted in the strength of the walls of Winterfell, the ironclad loyalty of its lifelong household, the sword of Ser Rodrik Cassel and the counsel of Maester Luwin, to keep the boys safe. It had not been unwise or irresponsible in any way – Bran and Rickon would be in far more danger on the field with him. And it was Robb himself who'd ignored Lady Catelyn's counsel not to send Theon as emissary to his father.
Robb was unable to speak, so great was his agony. Jeyne really, truly had only meant to comfort him. But from the moment she had sat down beside him and put her arms around him, and he had turned to her with savage unthinking need and crushed his mouth to hers, they had both known that this was something different, that there was no going back. Soon her hands were beneath his tunic and his were on her breasts, and he pulled her down beneath him to the bed.
She had given him her maidenhead that night, and gladly. The blood on the sheets had only been its seal; she could never have known how much more blood it portended. When they were finished the first time, his seed still wet on her thigh, she'd held him as he sobbed so hard she thought his back would break, and then later he'd slid inside her again, shaking, clawing her, almost hurting her, though she knew it wasn't her that he wanted to hurt. It was himself, even more than Theon. They had drifted off to sleep at last, naked and entangled, her hair loose in clouds and his arms tight around her. But when they woke in the cold light of morning the dream was over, and he was his father's son again, aghast at what he had done. Grim and solemn, he told her that he would have never dishonored her that way if he had been in his wits, and offered, if it was her will, to marry her at once.
The deed had been done that very day in the Westerling family's small sept, with the aged septon who had consecrated Jeyne at her birth presiding. He had been so shocked that he could barely proceed through the nuptial liturgy. Robb married me in the name of my father's gods, not his own. For her, he had done that. And afterwards, while Lady Sybell was storming with rage, he was the one who stood before her and quietly accepted all the blame she could throw at him.
I should have known something was amiss when Mother turned meek as a kitten, Jeyne thought bitterly. When she came out of her solar looking so pleased, and said that it wasn't what we planned but now the milk was spilled, so we should attach ourselves to House Stark with all conscientiousness and loyalty. I did, I did.
She tried to remember if she knew that Robb had already been engaged to marry a daughter of Walder Frey. The shameful truth was that even if she had, she wouldn't have cared. The nameless daughter was far away in the Twins, and she was here, she was with him, and their naïve young love would prevail over every obstacle. As for Lord Walder, well, he was the Late Lord Walder after all. If he hadn't been so perfidious and untrustworthy in his earlier days, mayhaps he wouldn't have had so much trouble marrying his children off.
No one could have known that the old man would slay the King in the North, his wolf, his mother, and all his court at his liege lord's wedding, while they were his guests. No one. And Lord Walder will experience the deepest of the seven hells, with all the fire and sulfur there is to offer. Jeyne's grief these days had turned to a simmering, soul-deep rage. It gave her the strength to hide out with the Blackfish and sleep in some of the most desolate places imaginable, to be exposed to the cold and wind and weather, to eat only when they could find it and to lie tensely low whenever the Frey patrols passed nearby. She still did not know if she was with Robb's child. She still had not bled.
They had seen their first snow just north of the Cape of Eagles. They were clambering along the rocky shore, keeping a sharp lookout for any ships of the Iron Fleet that might be circling the mouth of the bay, when Jeyne felt the frosty kisses on her hair and nose. The Blackfish had stopped, eyed the sky dourly, and finally lowered his head and continued on, without saying a word. No words needed to be said.
There had been Lannister patrols as well, and one had come perilously close to finding them. Apparently word had spread that they had escaped from Riverrun – or at least that the Blackfish had, as Jeyne had no idea if her sister had maintained the deception well enough to deflect suspicion. But her mother had said that both she and Elenya would be married off to lords, and the time would come when they realized that there was only one Westerling daughter to hand. It would have been several years for me, to avoid any child being claimed as Robb's, Jeyne tried to reassure herself. We may have time.
And now, the Neck. Jeyne supposed she ought to be grateful that they had even made it this far, but the place unnerved her completely. Marshweed and ghostgrass grew thickly in the reeking bogs, there were no trees for cover, and the rocks were slimy with evil-looking lichen and sprawling vines. Food was even harder to come by than before, and a misstep would send them to the bottom of a fathom of sucking quicksand. Strange creatures croaked and cried at night, and Jeyne had woken up more than once in panic that a snake was slithering into her bedroll. The air was cold enough to see their breath, but it never snowed, merely froze, leaving thin, dangerous veneers of ice for them to slip and slide.
Even the Blackfish was unfamiliar with the myriad perils of the Neck, though he bore it as stoically as ever. "Your lord husband sent Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont to find Greywater Watch, before the Red Wedding," he reminded her. "It could well be that they are with Lord Howland even now. They also carried a copy of Robb's will, so matters should get much easier for us soon."
Or they could be dead and rotting in a swamp, their bones gnawed by lizard-lions and crocodiles. That was another of the dark thoughts she was having a harder and harder time banishing. The constant fog of the Neck acted as an enervating force, a grey miasma over the memories of everything that was good or beautiful or worthwhile in the world. No matter how bad the nights were, Jeyne rarely wanted to get up when they were over. Just lie here, and perhaps soon it would start to snow. Cover her, wash away her mistakes and her impurities and the ultimate price she had paid for her dreams.
It was Ser Brynden Tully who kept her marching onwards, as always. He was never other than gruff and determined, but he seemed to sense how much she was struggling. Sometimes, if they had met no one for days and the going was not too rough, he would tell her stories as they walked. Some were of the amusing foibles he'd gotten up to in the days of his youth, all of which seemed to end with his elder brother Lord Hoster pulling his hair out, and others were tales of adventures he'd had during his years in the Vale of Arryn, fighting the wildlings of the Mountains of the Moon and matching wits with Corbrays and Royces. The Blackfish was not a natural raconteur, but he had a dry wit and an eye for detail, and in time she shyly shared a few anecdotes from her youth at the Crag, the mischief she had made with Elenya and the times they stole cakes after feasts, crawled under the covers together and whispered until dawn. Tales of valiantly idiotic things that Raynald had done, or funny things that little Rollam had said. But no matter how hard she tried, eventually she had to stop speaking of her family. It was too painful.
Now they were deep in the crannogs proper, and the challenges had changed yet again. They sometimes saw flayed corpses of ironmen dangling from trees – there were trees now, stunted slimy black things with stripped branches. Narrow waterways snaked through the glades, and sometimes Jeyne would think she caught a glimpse of a little skin boat vanishing through curtains of vegetation. They had to be extremely careful where they put their feet and hands, and where they slept at night. She couldn't remember the last time she'd washed or been warm.
The Blackfish had woken her that morning with a treat: a chunk of roasted meat apiece. Jeyne didn't know what it was – one of those great hairless rats, most like – but she was so hungry that she didn't ask. It was stringy and not very flavorful, but it was better than the tough roots and mashed acorns they'd been subsisting on until now. She thanked Ser Brynden sincerely, and asked when he thought they would reach Greywater Watch. A question she had asked a hundred times before, and which she knew still had no answer.
The Blackfish shrugged. "It shouldn't be long now," he said. "Come on."
"How can it move?" If that was so, they'd meet the fate of every other army who tried to conquer the Neck: wandering around in circles until they went mad and died, one way or the other.
"I'm not clear on the details, but I believe it's built on stilts. It's not a castle as you and I would think of it, but huts constructed over the marsh, with nets and bridges to connect them. I do not think we'll find it on our own – they'll have to find us."
"Will they?" Jeyne both desired and dreaded that.
"Child," Ser Brynden said, with a half smile. "The crannogmen are known for seeing things. They call it greensight. It's not a skill particular to them, but they are oft the ones who show it the most strongly, for they live the closest to the land, the nearest to the Old Ways. It is said that those who develop it are struck with the greyfever in early childhood, and lie as if dead, before awakening as if much older than they are. Such power drains a man. Their lives are short."
"Greyfever?" Jeyne knew of grey plague and greyscale, but not this.
"Marsh fever, it's otherwise known as," Ser Brynden explained. "Not everyone who does get it develops greensight – in fact, most of them die. But it seems to be a constant. Those with it can see the past, the present, the future."
Who would ever want to see the future? Jeyne was uniquely poised to appreciate the lost bliss of ignorance. Yet her mother's grandmother had been a witch from the east, a maegi, who was rumored to see morrows in drops of blood and wisps of smoke. She had never met the old woman, who had died before she was born, and her mother had always tried to curtly downplay her origins as some Essos spicer's get. Yet it was terrifying to think that this disease might be somewhere in her as well.
The morning was grey, as usual, and Jeyne fell a few lengths behind Ser Brynden as they toiled through a broad, marshy plain. Dark peaty water squelched around her boots, and her hair unraveled from its braids, curling madly in the damp. She had long since given up trying to hold her skirt out of the mud, and tied it away as best she could with strips torn from the hem. There was not a breath of wind, so despite the cold she wondered if she was sweating; the air was thick and close. Her own breath felt like a dull, rhythmic stab under her breastbone. She wondered if she would die and keep on walking.
She skirted a tangle of suspect-looking weed. She began to count steps, wondering idly how many she would have taken by now, but quickly lost track. Anything but –
Ser Brynden uttered a short, sharp outcry.
Jeyne looked up wildly. She could only think of the tales of will-o-wisps and marsh ghasts and other fell creatures that sucked the life from a man, but the Blackfish was beating something with his knife. "Jeyne!" he shouted. "Get out of the water!"
Petrified, she instinctively clambered up onto the nearest rock, getting clear of the peat. The Blackfish continued to struggle, then swore violently and kicked the water. She thought she saw something shooting off just beneath the surface, leaving a ripple, and her heart shriveled in her chest.
The Blackfish cursed again, then took a few swaying sideways steps and sat down hard. "Well, seven hells," he snarled. "That's just the thing, isn't it."
"What?" There were only a few yards separating them, but the last thing Jeyne wanted was to climb back into that water and confront whatever had attacked him. Be brave, damn you. Be brave. Gritting her teeth, she jumped in and struggled over to him. "What happened?"
"Viper. Moccasin, I think. It got away before I got a good look."
"Did it. . . bite you?"
In answer, the Blackfish pulled away the cloth of his breeches. Sure enough, two neat fang wounds perforated the flesh just below his knee, already dripping blood. "Get my knife. Here." The old knight struggled to draw it with his left hand. "Now cut. Deep, child. A cross."
Jeyne placed the edge of the blade to Ser Brynden's leg, but could only think of how this was very like to cripple him; cut the muscles and tendons of the knee, and he would be done for. She stared at him in horror.
"Cut, girl. Now!" The Blackfish put his hand over hers, and forced the knife into his own flesh. "Both ways!"
"Aye." She was almost in tears. Robb wouldn't have reacted like this, he would have been able to do what must be done. She reoriented the knife the other way across the Blackfish's knee and pressed it in. More blood welled around the blade.
"Now. . . I'm sorry, girl, it's the only way. Put your mouth to it and suck."
This time Jeyne did not hesitate, even though the task was the most gruesome of all. She put her lips to the wound and drew a mouthful of the Blackfish's blood. It tasted tangy, metallic, with a faint burning bite to it that must have been the venom. This will help, this will help. She turned her head and spat on the mossy sward, then took another.
She repeated this twice or thrice more until the Blackfish said, "Enough, that will have to suffice. Here, tear me a bandage off – " His hands were not as deft as usual as he fumbled out his dirty cloak. "Bind it."
"Not that." Jeyne finally had a sensible thought, discarding the cloak and reaching down her bodice to tear off a swath of comparatively cleaner cloth. She bandaged his leg up, but it turned red within instants. "Here, I'll help you." She crouched, pulled him heavily to his feet. "Are you all right?"
"I'll do." The Blackfish's face was pale, and cold sweat was starting on his brow. "We have to keep going. There's a path there, it will be easier."
Jeyne started toward it, looking back every few moments to be sure that the Blackfish was following. He was, but so gingerly and slowly that she had to stop and wait for him after every dozen yards. His teeth were gritted, but he made no word of complaint.
Some interminable time passed after that. She took the lead, doing her best to assess potential obstacles and guide them around. She had to go back and help Ser Brynden through a jungle of boulders, when the gorge fell off on either side into a tree-choked hell, and he groaned, a small sound that frightened her more than the accident itself. Afterwards, he did not take his arm off her shoulders, and she half-carried him through the next portage. He insisted on clearing the way for the next few miles, but by then, he was tottering so badly that they had to stop.
"Jeyne," the Blackfish said, in between gasps. He beckoned her closer. "Take this. In case. . ."
She didn't want him to say it. "No. We'll rest some." The afternoon was ending, and the marsh had grown wilder and more impassable than ever, tangled to all sides like a giant spiderweb. She heard splashing, saw ghostly lights bobbing in the near distance. Someone is watching us. Someone knows that we are here.
"No," the Blackfish said stubbornly. He groped in his filthy surcote and handed her a sealed roll of parchment. "Here. Your lord husband's will. The Reeds will find you, if you can survive a few more days. As for me. . . the water, the river, as House Tully has always done. . ."
"No! You're not going to die, you're not! We didn't come so far and endure so much just for some – some snake to kill you!" She would suck out all his blood and all the poison if it came to that, die herself instead, but she was the one he had risked this for. "I'll make you something. I don't know what, but I will. I'll carry you. I will!" She was sobbing.
The Blackfish stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Jeyne," he said at last. "My lady. I've lived a long life, and if I can see you safe, perhaps I too will feel somewhat less as if I have failed Robb unforgivably. We share that burden, you know. Do not stay with me. Go. Go."
"No." She was not going to leave him behind in this place, in hell. "We'll go together."
"I can't go any further," the Blackfish said simply. "Take my sword, knife, cloak, anything else you think you'll need. Jeyne. . ." He grimaced in pain, and shifted his leg, now discolored and swollen beneath the stained bandage. "Please."
She hunched in misery, looking at him in a wordless plea, but he looked right back. So at last, she got up, accepted the swordbelt he handed her, buckled it around her waist and had to pull it tight to prevent it from slipping off. Then she took his cloak, which was thicker and warmer than hers, and tied it around her neck. She was almost blind with tears.
"Go," the Blackfish said. "Don't look back."
Jeyne nodded. She bent down and kissed his cheek. The weight of dagger and sword were unfamiliar, clumsy, but she felt better for wearing them. Then, keeping her promise, she stepped down from the rock, left him, and plunged into the night. She did not look back.
The path was comparatively straight, though she lost it a few times in the heavy growth, and the strange faraway lights meant that she did not stumble into anything she would rather not have. She clambered on hands and knees through the densest thickets, catching occasional glimpses of the horned moon through the thorns. I am a Stark, she told herself, even if she didn't know if she was or not. I am strong.
At last, the path dipped down into a soft, muddy lowland. Starlight glimmered on the waterways. And ahead, something that was not shaped like a tree or a scrub or a rock rose above the marsh. Stilts. She saw stilts, she was sure of it. And huts, certainly huts, rounded, woven of grass and driftwood and chinked with mud, a golden light in the middle of the depths of the blackest, foulest despair, so that the breath went out of her and she whispered prayers to all the gods she knew, Robb's gods and her own, and clutched the swordbelt as she began to run.
She had found Greywater Watch at last.