Chapter Text
Robert and Ned gazed out over the ranks of warriors gathered in the camp, the best and the brightest of the country, or at least the wealthiest and most powerful, who had been summoned to escort the King on his long ride North. There were many faces new to Ned, of families he’d never heard of, which worried him—too many unknown loyalties and characters.
“The red wolf banner,” he pointed out suddenly. “Is that—Sharl Morganos?”
“No, no, he’s been dead five years now,” Robert replied, squinting into the crowd. “That’s his son, Jak.” The young man turned briefly in their direction, as though he knew he was being spoken of, then sauntered off into the crowd with his large yellow dog at his side. “Only seventeen, but already quite the prodigy as a warrior,” Robert went on, his voice a mixture of pride and unease. “And just as cunning as his father. More, I think. Bit odd though, not much for society.”
The two men shared a glance that said that level of cunning wasn’t necessarily a good thing, especially when combined with oddness. Ned noted the name, adding it to the long list of people he was keeping an eye on.
**
Arya drew up short in the yard of the inn, her gaze trailing up the black tunic in front of her, emblazoned with a red wolf. When she reached the face above it, she was moderately relieved to see it belonged to someone not much older than her eldest brothers; still, he gazed at her with a peculiar mixture of patience and intensity.
“Jak Morganos,” he introduced himself, bowing slightly. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem hostile, either.
“Arya Stark,” she replied, with a matching gravity.
“Sulfur,” he returned, and for a moment she was confused. Then she realized he was gesturing towards the enormous yellow dog who sat by his feet.
“Nymeria,” she replied, and the grey and white direwolf cocked her head curiously.
“Is Nymeria allowed treats?” he asked, still with such total seriousness. “I have some dried lamb tidbits. Sulfur loves them.”
“Well—certainly, I suppose,” Arya decided.
He nodded and pulled a small chunk of dried meat from his pocket. Immediately Sulfur began to whine. “Hush,” he chided. “For our guest.” He handed the meat to Arya and pulled out a second one. “And this is for you.” This chunk he fed to the dog, as Arya gave hers to Nymeria.
“Thank you,” she told him, not sure what else she ought to say. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then stepped aside and let Arya go on her way.
**
“Oh dear,” Jaime Lannister remarked, glancing down on the inn yard from his window.
“What is it?” Cersei questioned, alarmed by his tone.
“I think Jak Morganos has his eye on the Stark girl,” Jaime reported, watching Jak stare after her.
“Not the redhead,” Cersei hoped, coming to the window herself. There was nothing to see by then, however.
“No, the younger one,” her brother corrected.
Well, that was a relief, at least—the lovely and well-behaved Sansa would be a perfect match for Joffrey soon. Still—“We don’t need another—difficulty,” Cersei pointed out.
“Maybe she’ll manage to stay alive longer than the last one,” Jaime mused, no longer concerned about it beyond the momentary surprise. “She is rather feisty.”
**
Sir Baelish had an ingratiating manner that put Sansa at ease but Arya on edge. She often had cause to wonder what was wrong with herself lately; and this instant distrust of a man who’d done nothing but identify important court figures in the tournament crowd for them was just one more flaw to add to her list.
“Who’s the young man across the list from us?” Sansa wanted to know. “The one all in black, with the yellow dog?”
“Ah,” Sir Baelish replied with relish at revealing a new piece of information. “That, my lady, is—“
“I know who that is,” Arya interrupted. “That’s Jak Morganos.” Although surely he couldn’t hear them above the noise of the crowd, Jak turned in their direction and inclined his head slightly.
“Exactly right, Lady Arya,” Sir Baelish replied. Was Arya just imagining the hint of patronizing in his tone? “They call him the Red Wolf,” Baelish went on knowingly. “He may be young, but he’s quite a dangerous fellow, and rather… odd as well.”
“What do you mean?” Sansa wanted to know, intrigued and wary at the same time.
“Well, there’s a story about a village called Edgemere—“
Arya snorted, interrupting Baelish again. “He’s alright,” she judged. “He gives me treats for Nymeria—“ There was an awkward pause. “Gave,” she corrected herself softly, and Sansa turned to her sharply, wanting no reminder of how they’d both lost their pets. She knew better than to mention that he’d also helped her practice swordfighting on the road.
“What was your story about him, Sir Baelish?” Sansa prompted after a moment. “I do see him about quite often, his stare is so queer.” Jak’s gaze flitted around the crowd, landed on them not so briefly, then roamed again.
“Oh, nothing of interest right now,” Baelish demurred unexpectedly, noting the glance with interest. Suddenly the story about Morganos’s revenge for a young girl’s death didn’t seem so entertaining—not with the looks he was giving Arya Stark. A very intriguing turn of events, Baelish decided.
**
When the King returned to court there was always some jostling for positions in the Great Hall of the Iron Throne, with some determined to be close to the seat of power and others realizing that, given the capricious natures of the King and Queen, it might be better to remain a little more distant.
And some realized that the real seat of power was not the throne at all, and duly focused their attention elsewhere.
Queen Cersei was in her element, dispensing gifts to her followers and fawners in her husband’s absence, with her brother Jaime smirking over her shoulder as if to warn the recipients that such largesse carried hidden expectations. Ned Stark shuffled around the room uneasily, impatient to get back to his real duties, casting nervous glances towards his two daughters with their matron—though whether he feared their own behavior or that of the crowd was hard to say. There were many watchful eyes in the crowd, though who they were watching, and for what, differed greatly.
A large man, some minor knight from a distant province, swaggered towards the benches near the fire. “Move, boy!” he sneered, deciding he liked a spot that was already occupied.
Jak gave him a quick appraisal. “No,” he replied. “Find another seat.”
It was really not difficult to predict what happened next, even though the man’s more prudent companions were trying to draw him away. “I said, move, boy!” the man repeated loudly, trying to shove Jak off the bench.
Cersei looked up in annoyance. “What’s that noise over there?” she wanted to know.
“Looks like some idiot picking a fight with Jak,” Alexia observed with a smirk. “I hope he’s no one important.” Cersei glanced at Jaime, who didn’t recognize the man either and shrugged.
Jak grabbed the man’s arm in an unexpectedly painful grip. “I’m not going to move,” he informed him coolly. “So quit bothering me. It’s better for your health.” After a final squeeze Jak released him with a shove.
“Why you little—“ Steel rang as the man drew his sword and the room repositioned itself, to either get out of the way or get a better view. Ned tried to signal to the matron to take the girls away, but the crowd cut off their view. Jak found himself jerked up and thrown across the table, the sword pressing against his throat, even as his hand reached for his own.
“Stop!” Cersei commanded angrily, springing to her feet. “You dare draw your sword in the presence of your queen?”
The man hesitated, and Jak was not one to stand on ceremony. In a whirlwind of activity involving feet, hands, a burning log from the fire, and a particularly heavy tankard of ale, Jak not only disarmed the man but left him a bleeding mess on the floor. For once even Cersei couldn’t think of what to say.
Jak brushed himself off and gave her a slight bow. “No sword necessary, my queen.” Alexia and Jaime made the mistake of meeting each other’s eyes and snickered.
“Well,” Cersei decided, sitting back down, “carry on then.” The musicians struck up their tune again, no one having really noticed that they’d stopped.
Jak turned back to his seat and noticed the area quickly cleared for him. Unfortunately, his vantage point allowed him to see that one of the people he’d been keeping an eye on had disappeared.
**
Arya ran heedlessly around a corner, as matron often scolded her for doing, and nearly ran into someone. For a second she thought it was Jory all in black, then she recognized the red wolf crest and jumped back.
“Are you alright?” Jak Morganos asked her politely.
Arya glanced around but didn’t see any other members of their household about. “Are you here to see my father?” she inquired, loudly.
“No, I’m here to see you,” he corrected.
“I didn’t hear you announced,” she pointed out.
“I wasn’t,” he agreed. “I came in my own way.” There was a pause and Arya thought furiously. “Do you want to continue your swordfighting lessons?” His tone was so calm, his body language so relaxed—but surely he would get in trouble, if he were found in the house without permission to be here.
“I…” Arya trailed off with uncertainty.
“Are you thinking about the fight in the great hall today?” he inquired. Slowly he straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, then sat down on the floor rather unexpectedly, his movements as lithe as a panther. It seemed a safer position to Arya somehow and she relaxed a fraction. “What did you think about it?”
He seemed so terribly interested in her thoughts, which few people were these days. “Well, it was very—“ Jak tilted his head, waiting patiently. Arya knew she ought to say it was shameful or unnecessary. “It was very exciting,” she finally confessed, and a corner of Jak’s mouth quirked up. “How did you get away from him, when he had a sword to your throat?”
“I can show you sometime,” Jak promised. “But it’s a bit more advanced. Shall we go back to work again?”
Still Arya hesitated. “Lord Baelish said you were dangerous,” she threw out.
Jak shrugged slightly. “There’s lots of dangerous people here.”
She nodded slowly. “My father said this was a dangerous place. And that we have to protect each other. Our family, I mean.” Jak blinked at her silently. “Yes, I’d like to keep learning,” Arya decided firmly.
Jak stood smoothly. “Alright. Here?”
“No,” Arya replied, as though that should be obvious. “Not in the house. My father wouldn’t like it at all!”
“Do you want to ask his permission?” Jak inquired. Arya wasn’t sure if he was joking or not; Jak took her expression as a ‘no.’ “My house isn’t far away,” he suggested. “I know a way to get there without being seen.” He nodded ominously towards the open windows. Arya thought of Bran and his climbing, and his fall. But somehow she knew Jak wouldn’t let that happen to her, and she nodded.
**
This was not the man Ned knew, the man he’d gone to war with, the man he’d helped win a throne for. This was a tyrant, plotting to kill a girl and her child, all to prevent an unlikely invasion on the word of a traitor—no better behavior, to Ned’s mind, than that of the king he’d replaced.
“Careful, Ned,” Robert warned in a dangerous voice. The comparison was a low blow, but Ned stood by it.
“I agree with Lord Stark,” said a voice from the front of the room, and everyone looked up to see Jak Morganos leaning casually against a pillar, in full view of the council. Ned wasn’t sure if he welcomed the support or not.
“What are you doing here, boy?” Robert snapped, ignoring the question of how he’d even gotten in.
Jak strolled forward carefully. “Offering my opinion,” he replied, bowing formally at the king. “There’s always been a Morganos on the Small Council.” He glanced around as though suddenly noticing there wasn’t. “Until recently,” he added pointedly.
“Your father’s dead,” Varys reminded them. He had not been sorry to cease working with the ever-plotting Sharl Morganos. “And you don’t quite meet the age requirement.”
“Actually my father’s just on a pilgrimage to the Nine Sacred Shrines,” Jak corrected casually. Which was functionally the same as being dead, given the danger of the journey.
“Must have a lot of sins to atone for,” Lord Baelish commented cattily.
“And I do have uncles and cousins,” Jak went on, as though it were no great matter to him. “In fact my uncle Gendron would be ideally suited for the job.” There was an expectant pause.
“What were you saying about Daenarys Targaryen?” Robert demanded instead.
Jak took the subject change in stride, but only a fool would think he’d forget about it. “Lord Varys is not the only one with contacts among the Dothraki,” he claimed. “Though Viserys Targaryen would love to lead a Dothraki army across the narrow sea, Khal Drogo couldn’t care less. Kill his wife and child,” Jak concluded in a warning tone, “and he will care, very much.”
Varys harrumphed at this appraisal. “Contacts, indeed! Which Dothraki ghost whispered that in your ear?” he sneered.
Jak gave a small, tolerant smile. “The spirits protect us,” he replied instead—the Morganos family motto.
“Whatever Khal Drogo’s inclinations,” Ned put in, now very uncertain about the worth of Jak’s support, “killing his wife and child can only strengthen his desire to attack us, not weaken it.” It was a good argument, though, since Robert wasn’t listening to appeals to his honor and humanity.
But the psychological angle wasn’t working either; Ned could see his friend—former friend?—teetering on his throne, balanced atop seven kingdoms and desperately, hysterically trying not to be knocked off, as he had knocked off the previous king. “The girl. Must. Die,” he ground out.
“Perhaps we could send young Lord Morganos here to assassinate her,” Lord Baelish suggested with dark humor, “since he’s so good at skulking in the shadows.” Jak’s expression was unnervingly calm.
“I’ll have no part of this,” Ned decided fatefully, removing the Hand’s badge from his tunic. In the end it was not a hard decision, really; he felt relieved, actually, to think of returning to Winterfell, where his word was law and the old ways held sway. He didn’t even hear the clang of metal as the badge hit the table, Robert was ranting so fiercely.
When the shouts had faded into the distance—turning your back on the king and walking out was surely almost as poor form as resigning your post due to a point of honor—Ned realized he wasn’t alone. “Why are you following me?” he demanded of Jak, turning on him.
“I’m not,” he claimed. “I’m headed to your house.”
So was Ned. “Why?”
“Because you’ve made a lot of enemies today,” Jak pointed out matter-of-factly, “and I want to make sure Arya is safe.”
There was only so much Ned Stark could take in one day. But if Jak was surprised to find himself shoved roughly against a wall, he didn’t show it. “Morganos. I’ve heard about you, about the girl in Edgemere,” Ned growled. “I don’t know what your game is, but stay away from my daughter.” Perhaps he wasn’t through making enemies for the day.
“My intentions are completely honorable,” Jak insisted. “I only want to protect—“ Ned turned away in disgust, so Jak tried another tactic. “If you think I would ever hurt Arya, then you’ve been lied to,” he stated fiercely, and something in his voice made Ned glance back. Lord Baelish had told him the story, though with so many unspoken hints and implications that the details were hazy—and perhaps the conclusion was, too. “There was a girl,” Jak began, “beautiful, strong, fierce—“
“How old?” Ned snapped, unimpressed by the brief, soft expression on Jak’s face.
“Not very,” he replied dryly. Then his gaze hardened. “She wasn’t quick enough about her chores one night, so her stepfather beat her to death with his bare hands.” Ned refused to flinch. “I was gone… I should have been there to protect her,” Jak went on, regretfully. “The village wouldn’t give him up to me. He was Tywin Lannister’s man, and they feared his wrath more than mine.” He paused, not blinking at Ned. “That was a mistake.”
Jak was young, not much older than Robb, but Ned knew better than to discount him because of it. “What happened?” he prompted.
“When Lannister’s men arrived, there was no man left to protect,” Jak told him simply. “Or village.”
Ned had heard rumors about some village razed to the ground a year or two earlier, something about the Lannisters and—but rumors from the south were often greatly exaggerated. Most of the time, anyway. “And Tywin Lannister didn’t have your head for it?” he asked rhetorically. “Nor the king?”
Jak shrugged slightly. “It was beneath their notice,” he claimed cynically.
“So you’ve cleared up the story, then,” Ned surmised after a moment. “Was it supposed to make me feel better?” Because it hadn’t, really.
“I would do anything to protect Arya,” Jak vowed, and his gaze was so intense Ned had to look away. It almost made him feel inadequate as a father.
“Teaching her swordplay?” he accused instead, more weakly than he liked.
“She wanted to learn,” Jak replied easily. “She’s very spirited. And it came in handy.”
Ned couldn’t deny that. “She’s too young,” he stated fiercely, and that could also not be denied.
“To learn swordplay?” Jak quipped. Ned narrowed his eyes, unimpressed at the double entendre. “I agree,” Jak assured him, and seemed sincere. “She needs protection now, though.” And this time there was no second meaning.
There was one other point Ned needed to satisfy himself about. “Your connection to the Lannisters—“
“Is useful sometimes, but obviously not absolute,” Jak finished. “My sister’s mother may have been a Lannister, but we’re both of House Morganos. She left for the Wailing Wood yesterday, as soon as I heard about your wife and Lord Tyrion.”
“How did you hear about it yesterday?” Ned wanted to know. “I only heard it this morning!”
“Spirits travel faster than horses,” Jak said levelly.
Frankly Ned wasn’t sure if Jak was just a very good liar, slightly mad, or—somehow had an understanding of the world that Ned couldn’t conceive of. Arya liked him, at least, and seemed untroubled by his behavior. She was a headstrong child, no doubt, but she knew what she wanted and was not easily influenced by others.
And his list of allies was rather thin at the moment.
“We’re leaving the city before nightfall,” Ned told him, abruptly turning back to his path home. He’d wasted enough time already and there was no telling when Jaime and Cersei Lannister would learn of their brother’s capture.
“I’ll meet you there,” Jak promised, heading for a sidestreet. “I know a shortcut.”
Somehow, Ned was not surprised.
**
He had gotten distracted last time, not thought things through. That wouldn’t happen again. The King was out hunting, he was the King’s Hand once again, and he’d dispensed the King’s justice. He was not fool enough to think Gregor Clegane and Tywin Lannister would come quietly. He could not walk away, he could not play the games they played, he could only do what he knew was right.
But that didn’t mean he had to put his children in danger.
Ned limped into his living quarters, unsurprised to see Jak Morganos reading a book in the corner. Given an inch the young man had practically moved in, not that Ned didn’t appreciate another strong sword at his side. Curiously, though, Jak had dismissed most of the men under his command in the city, sending them home to tend their lands. Lord Baelish thought that foolish; but then, Lord Baelish was eager for war, and you couldn’t have a war without armies.
Arya and Sansa looked up from their lessons, surprised to see their father home in the middle of the day. “I’m sending you two back to Winterfell,” he announced without preamble. “Get packing,” he added to the matron. “Quickly.”
“No, you can’t!” Sansa protested immediately, a whine in her voice. “Prince Joffrey has been so kind to me!” Ned wasn’t sure what to say to that; the delusions of teenage girls were better handled by their mothers, he felt.
“Are you dying?” Arya burst in, distressed. “Because of your leg?”
“What? No,” Ned assured her.
“You can’t send us away now, I’m going to marry Prince Joffrey!” Sansa insisted.
“What about Jak?” Arya wanted to know. “I can’t stop my lessons now, I’m just getting good!”
“I would be happy to escort the girls to Winterfell, Lord Stark,” Jak volunteered, to no one’s surprise.
“Who cares about your stupid sword lessons?” Sansa scoffed at Arya. “I have to stay here and marry Joffrey!”
“When the time comes,” Ned tried to tell Sansa, after acknowledging Jak with a nod, “I’ll find you a husband who is kind, and gentle, and loyal—“
“I don’t want someone kind and gentle and loyal, I want Joffrey!” Sansa demanded, near hysterics. “I’m going to be his queen and we’re going to have little blond princes and princesses!”
“Seven h—ls,” Arya swore, slightly alarmed at her sister.
If Ned was moved by his oldest daughter’s display at all, it only confirmed his belief that the atmosphere at court was slowly poisoning her. “Pack,” he commanded stonily. “I want you out of the city tomorrow.”
**
Ned was not a plotter. He supposed that much was obvious. He didn’t think he was an unintelligent man, nor a naïve one; but he was not used to wading in the ever-shifting sands of court intrigue. The liars he dealt with were the liars of the North, who told simple lies for simple purposes. Here, nothing was simple.
“You heard Lord Baelish say this?” he questioned Jak, knowing the answer already. “You heard him tell the City Watch commander to only feign allegiance to me, while in truth supporting the Queen?”
“Not me personally,” Jak insisted, frustration coloring his tone. Ned usually thought of him as preternaturally calm, and the change was itself unsettling.
“Then I want to talk to whoever did,” Ned replied reasonably.
“You can’t, she’s dead.”
“How?” Ned frowned.
Jak took a deep breath, reining in his impatience. “Her name is Camarie Lilly. She was a servant girl in the castle who was killed by an official for refusing his advances.”
“Wait, what official?” Ned wanted to know. “When did this happen? Just now?”
“About seventy-five years ago,” Jak admitted, and Ned couldn’t keep his exasperation from showing. “The spirits protect House Morganos, they talk to us—“ Jak added rapidly.
“Look, I’m not dismissing your religious beliefs,” Ned interrupted. “There’s old gods, new gods, spirits, who knows what else. But I’m not going to throw everything away based on them.”
“You’re throwing everything away if you don’t listen to me,” Jak told him earnestly. He had the light of a zealot in his eyes; Ned didn’t doubt his sincerity. Only everything else. “You’re going to walk into that throne room and deny Joffrey’s right to wear the crown, and there will not be a single sword raised in your support.”
Ned sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Lord Baelish swore to my wife he’d help me,” he pointed out simply. “They go back a long way, he and Cat. Didn’t your spirits tell you that?” He did not say this unkindly.
Jak crossed his arms over his chest, anger tightly coiled within. “He fought a duel with your brother for her and lost. When your brother was killed, you swooped in and got her before Baelish could. The seven h—ls hath no fury like a man told he’s like a brother to the woman he loves.”
“Pithy,” Ned remarked dryly. “You couldn’t have warned me about him sooner?”
Jak knew he was only being humored. “Lord Baelish keeps his thoughts to himself,” he admitted, perhaps with a touch of grudging admiration. “He doesn’t make grand speeches laying out his plots and motivations. Who would he make them to, the whores in his brothels?”
There was a long pause. “You’re taking the girls to Winterfell?” Ned checked.
“Yes, as soon as I walk out of here,” Jak assured him. “I want Arya well outside the city before the Lannisters storm in, slaughtering everyone in their path.” His tone was accusatory, as though he felt Ned was doing something very foolish, and that put Ned on the defensive.
“Joffrey’s not Robert’s son, he’s not the rightful heir,” he protested. “The Queen—and her brother—“ He didn’t like to put it into words.
“Well you’ll pardon me if that doesn’t offend my delicate sensibilities,” Jak returned sarcastically. “D’you think that’s the first time a king’s been cuckolded? The first time a lover’s child has been passed off as the royal heir? I don’t much care who’s king, as long as they leave me and mine alone.”
Ned sighed. If Jak were his son he would lecture him about duty and honor at this point, the importance of standing for something greater than oneself in this world of darkness and chaos. But it wasn’t his place to do so, and he felt the effort would be wasted anyway; Jak might be young in years, but he had been making his own decisions for a long time.
“You’d best go soon,” Ned finally said. He pulled some folded packets from his desk drawer. “Letters for my wife and my son Robb. You can deliver them?”
Jak tucked them immediately into his pocket. “Anything especially incriminating?” he inquired sharply.
“Not more so than what I’m about to do,” Ned replied heavily.
Jak nodded once, then regarded Ned for a moment. “I’m sure I’ll see you again, Lord Stark,” he said formally. “One way or another.” Considering Jak’s belief in spirits, Ned didn’t find that very comforting.
**
All Arya could hear was screams and shouts and crashes. She gripped Jak’s hand with one of her own and in the other she held Needle, automatically holding delicately, with flexibility, the way she’d been taught. She had never considered her swordfighting lessons a mere game; but now the thought of actually putting them to use made her stomach churn.
“Don’t worry,” Jak was telling her as he led her through the hallways, “I know a way out of the castle, they’ll never see—“
“What about Sansa?” Arya demanded suddenly. Arya wanted to strangle her sometimes, but couldn’t bear to think of her being hurt. She didn’t have anyone like Jak to protect her, only the matron, and she couldn’t even run very fast in her silly shoes. “What about Sansa?” she repeated insistently.
Jak gave her a look. “Alright, we’ll try to get to her,” he conceded, changing direction.
It didn’t take them long to realize they were too late. Jak jerked Arya back around a corner as soldiers in Lannister red streamed past, blocking their path to Sansa’s rooms. Another contingent began to gather in the stairwell they’d come from, cutting them off.
Jak was still and thoughtful for a moment. “Put away your sword,” he told her, sheathing his own.
“Why?” she hissed as she did so. She was desperate to know whatever Jak’s plan was for getting them out of this.
“There’s an awning under that window,” he said, nodding towards the opening across the corridor. “We run across, jump out, roll down the awning. Grab the edge so you don’t roll off.”
He made this all sound ridiculously easy, like a new dance step. “Are you sure there’s an awning?” Arya wanted to know.
“Yes,” Jak replied. “Try not to scream. Ready?”
She looked across the hall at the wide opening, the untroubled blue sky above them, and wished suddenly that her House sigil was a bird of some kind, like a hawk or an owl, that she might hope to fly away from all this. Then she looked back up at Jak and nodded.
Hand clamped to her own, he raced across the corridor and leaped over the windowsill as lithe as a panther, while Arya scrambled and stumbled behind. There was a moment of sickening freefall; then she hit the canvas awning and rolled, both hands outstretched to grab the edge when it came. She clung to it when she caught it, heart pounding as the rest of her body tumbled over the edge, suddenly envisioning the fall to the cobblestones below.
“I’ve got you, let go,” Jak ordered, so she did, blindly. He set her down on the ground and picked up her hand again. “Come on, we have to get out of the city. My horse will be waiting—“
She couldn’t spare the energy to listen. She ran until her legs ached, her feet numb from pounding them on the rough streets, her fingers tingling in Jak’s tight grip. They ducked, wove, climbed, crouched; finally Jak hoisted her over a low wall and there, indeed, was his big black charger and his yellow hound.
“Hang on to me,” he commanded, pulling her onto the horse behind him. She squeezed the creature tight with her legs, locked her arms around Jak’s waist, and pressed her face against his back as they began to ride. The shouts and smells of city life gave way to the fresh country air, and then suddenly it grew dark and damp and mossy.
Jak slowed his horse to a walk and Arya opened her eyes to see they were in a forest. She loosened her arms from his waist and was surprised at how stiff they were; how long had they been riding, while she replayed all the tumultuous scenes of the last few days behind her eyelids?
“We’re not—“ She coughed, her throat scratchy. “We’re not in the Wailing Wood already, are we?”
“No, this is the Forest of Crace,” Jak replied. He stopped the horse beside a small creek and slipped off, lifting Arya down carefully. “Are you alright?” he asked seriously, kneeling before her. He turned her around, looking for any sign of injury.
“I’m alright,” she decided. It seemed a woefully inadequate assessment.
“Have a drink,” Jak advised, and Arya eagerly scooped up some water from the creek, beside Stony and Sulfur. The icy coldness cleared her head somewhat and she glanced over to see Jak resting on the moist ground, lost in thought.
“What about Sansa?” she asked tentatively. “What about my father?”
“Lord Stark’s been taken prisoner,” said a new voice, young and uncouth, and Arya whirled around.
“Who’s talking?” she demanded, when she saw no one.
“What did they say?” Jak asked her curiously.
“Something about my father being taken prisoner,” she repeated dubiously.
“Lord Baelish betrayed him,” the voice went on.
“Lord Baelish?” Arya parroted. “Who are you? Where are you?”
Jak slipped his arm around her carefully. “You see that ray of sunshine over there?” he directed patiently, pointing to a shaft of light peeping through the leaves. Arya nodded. “Don’t look through it, look into it,” he went on. “See the dust floating in it.”
Arya didn’t understand what this had to do with anything, but a lot of Jak’s swordfighting lessons began in the same inscrutable way and made sense later, so she tried to do what he said. Specks of dust floated lazily in the light, uncaring of the troubles of the world—and then suddenly a person emerged, transparent like he was drawn on a piece of thin gauze held up before the fire. He was a teenage boy in rough clothes with a gawky overbite and unflattering haircut.
“Hullo,” he said, waving at Arya. Her jaw dropped.
“Lady Sansa is being held by the Queen,” said another voice, that of a beautiful and richly attired woman striding partially formed from the shadows. “There’s still some hope she’ll marry Joffrey, or at least make a valuable prisoner. She won’t be harmed if she’s agreeable and docile.”
“Who are you?” Arya demanded in astonishment.
The woman turned a disdainful gaze on her. “I am Princess Etheldreda, first daughter of King Kennett the Bold.”
“And I’m Paul,” the boy added, with a toothy grin.
“Are you ghosts?” Arya asked.
“Yup,” Paul replied.
“Naturally, Lady Arya,” the Princess answered, with both more formality and more disdain.
“You know my name!” Arya remarked, amazed.
“The rest of the Stark household?” Jak inquired before they could respond.
“All dead,” Paul reported. He was neither gleeful nor sad at the news; but merely interested, in the way one is interested in the outcome of a friendly sporting event. “Even the unarmed servants and that old matron—“ A gasp from Arya silenced him and he looked suddenly guilty.
Jak tightened his arm around Arya. “And the rest of the court?”
“The Queen played the game well,” Princess Etheldreda answered, with some admiration. “All her pieces were in place, awaiting the King’s death. If Lord Stark has any supporters left at all, they’re keeping very quiet.”
“Everyone’s looking for you,” Paul added, and now he did sound a bit gleeful. “Even that eunuch’s spies didn’t catch you leaving the city.”
“Me?” Arya asked tentatively, since he was looking at her.
“Your absence has been noted as well,” the Princess added, and she was definitely looking at Jak. “The road is full of riders.”
He nodded slowly. “Make sure Wolf Hall is informed of everything,” he told them. “I thank you for your service.” The two apparitions nodded and melted away, like a snowflake on a hot kettle.
Jak took a breath and thought for a moment, but his expression was confident and Arya took comfort from that. “What are we going to do?” she wanted to know.
Jak made a decision and stood. “We’ll go on to the Wailing Wood,” he told her. “It’s a hard ride, but it’s closer than Winterfell, and you’ll be safe there.”
Arya nodded. “What will happen to my father, and Sansa? My mother and my brother Robb, they’ll—“ She broke off, not knowing what they’d do.
Jak swung up on his horse, then pulled her up behind him. “We’ll find out,” he promised.
**
Although she felt horrible thinking it, Arya was a tiny bit glad they hadn’t managed to rescue Sansa—she would’ve made every moment of the promised hard ride and subsequent rough camp miserable. More so than it already was.
They were in another forest now, north of King’s Landing, huddled around a small fire in the remains of a burned-out farmhouse. Jak had killed a rabbit for dinner and there was a clean creek nearby; the walls protected them from drafts and hid their fire from prying eyes, and Jak had produced a warm cloak from his saddlebag that Arya was wrapped in. Between Jak and Sulfur she didn’t fear anything in the forest, so in many ways she was doing well.
But inside her head, she was miserable. She saw her father rotting in a dungeon; Sansa confronted by the Queen and treacherous ministers, forced to write a letter to Robb about their father’s sins; the matron lying dead on the stone floor, a defenseless old woman slaughtered by six armed men. These were the things the spirits had reported to Jak along their journey—and to Arya, when she demanded to know about the matron. They even talked about Khal Drogo declaring war on Westeros and vowing to conquer it with his horde of Dothraki riders because the late king had tried to kill his wife and unborn child.
Arya didn’t understand all of that, only that it was more bad news, more hate and violence in a world already mad with it. It all made her feel so sick that she almost wanted to throw Needle into the nearest river and take the veil as a Sister of Light. Then she remembered that King Kennett the Bold, Princess Etheldreda’s father, had warred with the Horned Men, whose favorite tactic was to attack and loot the abbeys, and kill the Brothers and Sisters they found there. So they didn’t necessarily offer any refuge, either.
“Arya,” Jak said, not for the first time, “you’re not eating.”
**
“So, is it the Riverlands, or the Moor?” pressed Lord Umber, as Robb stared at the map before them on the table. His eyes darted back and forth, from one icon to another—he knew he could make the decision, but he couldn’t make it instantly, he needed time to think. But that would surely be counted as weakness by all the more seasoned commanders who stood around the table, staring at him. As would glancing at his mother for advice.
At that moment a page burst into the tent. “Riders from the forest, my lord!” he reported excitedly, and Robb took the opportunity to leave the map behind, striding authoritatively outside.
There were just two men, a banner flying from the rear horse. “A red wolf sigil,” Robb noted thoughtfully. “House Morganos of the Wailing Wood.” He even knew their family motto, thanks to Maester Luwin’s quizzes.
“Must be Jak Morganos, his father died a few years ago, or disappeared,” Lord Umber harrumphed knowledgeably.
Use the strengths of those around you, Robb remembered his father saying. “Tell me about him,” he commanded, as the riders drew closer.
Umber shrugged slightly. “Fought beside him and his father at the Battle of Grey Ridge five years back,” he replied. “Odd. Off, the whole lot of them, holed up in their dank forest. But they showed up when called, fierce fighters. Crafty, cunning,” he judged with slight distaste.
“Dishonorable?” Robb wanted to know.
Umber shrugged again. “More like—hardscrabble brawlers. Use any advantage they can. Father had a bit of polish, didn’t see much of the son. I think he was wounded in the battle.” Considering Umber was a man who literally laughed off having two fingers bitten off by a direwolf, Robb took ‘wounded’ to be a serious injury indeed.
“I heard Jak Morganos was one of the best swordsmen in Westeros,” Lord Glover put in. “Killed Ranulf the Orange in a duel. Over his sister’s honor, I think.”
“I thought it was Kelvin Windstar?” countered Lord Zebaro.
“It was both,” Umber determined. “His sister gets around a lot,” he added judgmentally, “but what do you expect, she’s a Lannister.”
Robb’s head snapped around. “A Lannister?”
“Father’s second wife, I think,” Glover recalled. “So Jak’s not one, but there’s several younger half-siblings with Lannister blood.”
“He’ll turn that way, then?” Robb questioned, expression changing to one of grim resolution for meeting the enemy.
“Hmm, don’t know,” hedged Zebaro. “House Morganos always goes its own way. There was some trouble with Tywin Lannister not long ago—“
“Morganos destroyed a village on a Lannister estate, I think,” Glover agreed. “Something about a girl he’d fallen in love with. It was quite the scandal at court.”
Umber spit to show what he thought of court scandals. “Bunch of superstitious barbarians, little better than the Hill Tribes,” he summarized. “Still,” he added, confident tone faltering slightly, “it’d be better if they sat this fight out, than if they opposed us. Takes a lot to make them leave their trees.”
“Well he’s left his,” Robb remarked darkly as the riders pulled up near them.
Both dismounted, one obviously a squire slightly overawed by the vast assemblage of tents. The other strode with confidence and purpose, though he couldn’t be much older than Robb. He gave a brief bow of greeting. “Lord Stark. I’m Jak Morganos, Lord of the Wailing Wood.”
Robb cringed inwardly as he heard Umber take a breath behind him. “Another boy!” the older man sputtered in outrage. “Next we’ll be led by infants!”
“War is a game for the young,” Morganos shot back without missing a beat. “Lord Umber, isn’t it? I was thirteen when I led that charge that saved your men on the Grey Ridge. I took six arrows that day.” He said this matter-of-factly, almost with some amusement, as though he were making fun of Umber without actually saying anything inflammatory. Robb liked his style.
“You consider war a game, Lord Morganos?” asked Catelyn Stark suddenly, emerging from the tent to see what was taking so long. The disapproval in her tone was obvious.
Jak swept her a low, respectful bow. “Absolutely, Lady Stark,” he replied, his tone still carefully balanced between sincerity and cheek. “A life-or-death game. Like politics.”
“And which side are you playing for, lad?” Lord Umber demanded.
Jak smirked tolerantly at his use of the diminutive term and pulled some folded packets from inside his tunic instead of answering. “Letters from Lord Stark, and Lady Arya,” he announced, handing one of each to Catelyn and Robb.
They grabbed at them eagerly. “Arya!” Catelyn repeated in surprise. “Where is she? Is she alright?”
“She’s my guest at Wolf Hall,” Jak informed her pleasantly. “Ned wanted me to escort the girls to Winterfell. We should’ve left earlier, as soon as we heard about you and Tyrion Lannister,” he added in a grimmer tone. Catelyn gave him a sharp glance, sensing disapproval in his tone; but perhaps that was only her own guilt talking. “We barely escaped King’s Landing when the Lannister men attacked the household.”
“He says Lord Baelish and the City Watch support him—“ Robb read with a frown.
“Baelish betrayed him,” Jak clarified bluntly. That was the news which had trickled north from the city but Catelyn hadn’t wanted to believe it, had clung to the idea that there had been some misunderstanding or confusion. “I suspect it was his plan all along.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a good friend of my father, Lord Morganos,” Robb remarked, skimming his letters quickly. The one from his father was welcome for its sentiment but contained only old news; that from Arya confirmed she was alive and safe but wasn’t exactly of strategic value.
“Actually I’m not sure he likes me very much,” Jak countered breezily. “I’m more a friend of your sister.”
Both the Starks caught his meaning immediately. “Arya?” Robb confirmed in amazement.
“You’ve been—teaching her swordfighting?” Catelyn sputtered, shaking Ned’s letter at him.
“Lovely girl. Very spirited,” Jak commented to them. He waited a beat. “I’d like to marry her.”
This set the bannermen off with a chorus of knowing guffaws, as they felt they finally understood Jak’s position. A man wasn’t likely to take up arms against his in-laws (unless the man was a Lannister of course). The bannermen hadn’t seen Arya Stark in years and probably couldn’t pick her from a crowd if asked; Catelyn took a far dimmer view of the matter.
“She’s just a child!” she reproved Jak, outraged.
“We’re well-matched, then,” he quipped, with a chummy glance at Lord Umber.
Catelyn did not see anything to be chummy about and glared at the bannermen. Robb’s position was more pragmatic. “How many men have you got?” he questioned, ignoring his mother’s protest.
“Twenty thousand,” Jak answered, and Catelyn’s protest died on her lips. That number would more than double their army; it would be foolish to pretend they could turn him down and still keep the rest of their supporters.
Robb tried to keep the eager flare of hope from his face. “And you’ll pledge them to our cause?” he checked.
“I will,” Jak confirmed. “Provided we have an understanding about Arya.”
“Agreed,” Robb told him quickly, then added, “For my part.” With his father still alive and Lord of Winterfell, Robb couldn’t actually arrange marriages for his siblings.
Jak acknowledged this. “Lady Stark?”
All eyes turned to Catelyn and she tried to rise to the occasion. It made her sick to think of trading one of her daughters for military support; but if she forbid it, she knew she would be dismissed as an emotional woman who couldn’t see what had to be done to rescue her husband and the realm. “I would have to speak to my daughter about it first,” she announced finally.
Glances shot back to Jak. “Fair enough,” he shrugged, and several people tried not to look too relieved. “I know the Starks will do everything they can to honor their commitments.” Robb tried not to find his words too ominous.
Alternative
The page burst into the tent, interrupting the latest heated planning session. “My lord—riders!” he announced, though it seemed he was uncertain if this was the correct description.
Robb was not in the mood for riddles. “Who? From where?” he demanded.
“Well—ah—“ The page was unable to think of the proper answers.
Fortunately he was relieved of this duty by a familiar, unexpected voice from outside. “Let go of me! I want to see my brother!” Arya burst into the tent. “Mother!”
“Arya!” Catelyn knelt to embrace her fiercely, and even Robb couldn’t resist when she threw her arms around him.
“What are you doing here?” he wanted to know. “How did you get out of King’s Landing?”
“Jak and I escaped together,” she replied, looking back towards the tent entrance, where a young man stood flanked by guards.
“We took his sword,” one of the guards reported, handing it to Robb.
“And you are…?” he asked, though the red wolf emblazoned on the pommel began to give him a clue.
“Jak Morganos, Lord of the Wailing Wood,” he replied, a bit pointedly. “I don’t usually bother with ceremony, but I’d appreciate not being treated like a prisoner.” He glanced significantly at the guards.
“Woodmen are all thieves and assassins,” Lord Umber declared contemptuously, spitting on the floor of the tent.
“Yes, but we managed to steal one of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jak shot back dryly, “so I actually outrank all of you.”
Robb gave Umber a look that suggested he keep his mouth shut and handed Jak back his sword. “My apologies, Lord Morganos,” he said formally, nodding at the guards to step back. “How did you come to escape King’s Landing with Arya?”
Unexpectedly Jak gestured for the girl to answer. “Jak’s been teaching me swordfighting,” she chose to begin.
“What?” Catelyn asked with disapproval as Robb’s eyebrows shot up.
“Father said it was alright,” Arya insisted defensively. “Jak was hanging about helping Father. He was going to escort me and Sansa to Winterfell, only…” She broke off with a troubled expression.
“We should’ve left as soon as we heard about you and Tyrion Lannister, Lady Stark,” Jak added, and Catelyn flinched at the slight accusation in his tone—or perhaps that was only her own guilt. “But we didn’t. Ned confronted Joffrey, Lord Baelish and the City Watch turned on him, and Lannister men slaughtered most of the household.”
“They killed the matron,” Arya told her brother in a soft tone. “Why would they do that?” He could think of no response, so he just squeezed her shoulder.
“Lucky you managed to get out,” Umber remarked sardonically.
“Lucky for Arya,” Jak reminded him.
“I thank you for rescuing my sister, and returning her to me,” Robb cut in quickly. “You’ve done us a great service.”
“Ned gave me letters for you,” Jak revealed, pulling the crumpled packets from his tunic and handing them over. They contained only old news at this point but would at least confirm his association with Ned Stark. He gave Robb and Catelyn a moment to glance over them before continuing. “The Wailing Wood doesn’t have much of an army”—Lord Umber harrumphed at this—“we don’t need one, the Wood’s never been conquered,” Jak added to him pointedly. “But those of us who grew up there do have certain skills. Sometimes one man can do what an army can’t.”
“What do you mean?” Robb questioned with a frown.
“Lord Umber called us thieves,” Jak reminded him. “And you have something you need stolen.”
“He’s going to rescue Father from the dungeons!” Arya announced excitedly.
This declaration was met with scoffs from the bannermen. “Arya, why don’t you go…” Robb tried to think of a respectable woman in camp who could look after her—aside from their mother, of course, who had no intention of going away.
“No,” Arya contradicted, but in such a grown-up tone that Robb was startled and decided to table that debate.
“You would rescue my father from the Queen’s dungeons?” Robb checked. “How?”
“That’s my business,” Jak demurred.
“The why is our business,” Catelyn countered coolly. “What do you want for this service? Gold? Land? You’ve not come to the Lannisters, who buy all of their support,” she added, a mixture of pride and bitterness in her tone.
“The Lannisters don’t have what I want, my lady,” Jak assured her. And his eyes slid significantly to Arya.
Catelyn’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in suspicion. But it was Robb who answered. “You want to marry Arya?” he asked, deliberately emphasizing the ‘marry’ part. “Is that all?” he added, perhaps a bit tactlessly.
Jak smirked slightly. “It’s enough for me.”
Considering Catelyn had promised away both Rickon and Robb to drippy daughters of Walder Frey to get passage across the Twins, she could hardly object to this agreement on principle. But it was awkward with Arya standing right there. “Excuse us a moment,” Catelyn announced, drawing her daughter to the back corner of the tent.
“Really, is that all?” Robb checked again.
“Yes, that’s all,” Jak assured him. “I’ll marry Arya when she comes of age. She’ll be the Lady of the Wood.” There were some not-quite-whispered comments about whether this was really such an honor, but objectively, Lady of one of the Seven Kingdoms was quite an exalted position, on par with her mother’s, and more than a second daughter could usually aspire to.
“My sister Sansa is still at court, and still engaged to Joffrey,” Robb pointed out. One of the bannermen spit at the mention of the young King’s name. “Any chance you could rescue her as well?” And how much would that cost, was his underlying question.
“I was just about to mention that,” Jak agreed. “I’m familiar with the dungeon security, but my sources say Sansa’s situation changes almost every day. If I can get her out, I will, but I’m more certain about your father.”
“What sources, then?” prompted Lord Umber. Jak’s inscrutable look was reply enough, or at least all the reply he was going to get.
Catelyn and Arya rejoined the men, Arya with a peeved expression on her face. Catelyn gave her son a discreet nod. He tried to think what his father would have done and crouched down at her eye level. “Arya, Lord Morganos has asked to marry you, when you come of age. What do you think of that?” It wasn’t necessarily about getting her consent, but about judging the level of her resistance—Robb was fairly certain the agreement was going to happen, but it would be years before it would come into effect.
“Oh, he’s alright,” Arya replied in an exasperated tone that suggested she’d repeated this several times. “But he’s going to get Father out, and we’re just wasting time standing here!”