They rode under a sky the color of old pewter. The column stretched thin along the rutted road, lances tilted like a stand of winter-bare saplings, banners limp in a grudging wind. Hooves beat a steady drum on frozen mud. Pack mules snorted and trudged. The smell of damp wool and horse sweat carried farther than any song.
Lyanna kept her seat between two Crownlands men-at-arms. Her wrists were still bound, but loosely now, a concession Dacey had bullied out of them with a stare and a few dry words about broken bones and bad tempers. Winter took the slow pace well, ears flicking, breath steaming in white clouds. Dijkstra rode the air above them in widening arcs and then settled, pale as a scrap of cloud, on a high branch to watch them pass. He kept his beak shut for once.
Jon Connington set his courser alongside her. His posture was exact, a man poured into his armor rather than wearing it. He studied the road ahead, then Lyanna, then the road again.
"You are not what rumor promised," he said at last.
"What did rumor promise?" Lyanna asked.
"A sobbing girl. A scheming seductress. Even a savior of small folk. It never picked just one."
Dacey let out a short laugh. "She can be all three, given an afternoon."
Connington did not smile, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him for a heartbeat. "My men will ride tighter for a while," he said, as if that answered something else. "You will be treated cleanly. Fed, watered. If a guard bothers you, he will never hold a cup again."
"You say that like a prayer," Lyanna said.
"It is one," he replied. "The Warrior keeps order. The Father keeps justice."
"Trees are the only keepers," she said. "They see the truth what was done and what will be paid for."
He glanced at the leafless hedgerow, as if a weirwood might rise from a ditch to judge him. "No trees here," he said. "Only men trying to stitch a realm back together."
"Some men," she said. "Others pull threads loose."
They fell silent while the column negotiated a narrow bridge over a black run of water. On the far bank a burned cottage crouched among frost-browned cabbages. The well still stood. A little girl watched them pass with her thumb in her mouth and ash in her hair. A woman dragged her back behind a broken door frame. No one waved.
"They will blame the prince for that," Lyanna said quietly.
"They will blame any banner that is close enough to see," Connington said. "And sometimes they will be right."
They rode in silence until the road widened. The wind pushed at the pennons and then died.
"Why take me to Rhaegar?" Lyanna asked. "Aren't you supposed to serve the King?"
"Because the prince asked for you," Connington said, flat. "Because half the kingdoms are shouting that he stole you, and the other half says you ran. Rhaegar deserves to clear the accusations of snatching women. He would never do such a thing."
"You serve him closely," Dacey said, watching his face.
"I follow whatever my Prince wishes of me," Connington said. "Ser Arthur won't leave his side, so someone has to."
"You don't like Ser Arthur?" Lyanna asked mildly.
"I respect him," Connington said. He didn't add anything else.
A rider cantered back from the van with word of a ford. Connington raised two fingers; the column slowed a notch.
They forded at dusk, cold biting up through boot leather, before stopping to dry. In camp, Connington walked the lines, checked the pickets, sent a squire with stew. He stopped by Lyanna's fire and loosened the rawhide at her wrists with his own hands. "If you run," he said, "I will catch you. Don't make my men burn themselves out on a chase we don't need."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "Rhaegar and I need to talk."
"Good," he said. He moved on.
Dacey muttered under her breath "It's not like you could keep us if we actually tried to leave."
When he came back, he didn't sit. "You think the prince a villain," he said. "Or a fool."
"My greatest fear is that he shares his father's madness," Lyanna said. "Whenever we talked in the past he looked at me like a tool to use."
"He may be a dreamer," Connington said. "But he does care about people. He cares about me."
"Does he listen?" she asked. "To anyone who isn't himself?"
"He listens to what helps," Connington said. "That's my answer."
——————————————————
Howland Reed kept the road and his anger in the same tight grip.
Frost clung to the ditch grass. The false spring had faltered here, all grey light and thin wind. Beside him, Tom o' Sevenstreams rode a shabby bay with a talent for stopping at every tuft of green. Tom coaxed it along with a tune and a promise of oats that did not exist.
"You scowl like you're chewing an acorn," Tom said at last. "Bad for the teeth."
"I led them into a trap," Howland answered. "There's no song that makes that better."
Tom spread his hands, reins pinched between two fingers in a way only fools and good riders manage. "You followed a hint and found a snare. Happens to cats and clever men both. The snare-maker is the villain, not the mouse."
"I swore to serve her," Howland said. "When she stood for me at Harrenhal, I swore it. We had a perfectly safe refuge after we left the God's Eye, Raventree Hall. I chased bells from a vision instead of a gate I could trust. Tytos Blackwood would have opened his hall. He's a good friend to me and a devout follower of the Old Gods. We could have watched. We could have waited."
Tom whistled a bar and let it die. "Could have fills a sack quickly. Heavy to carry. Light to tell about."
They rode in silence. Hedgerows gave way to stubble fields. A mill stood with one arm torn off. At a ford, Howland dismounted and found the shallow by touch, leading both horses while water licked at his boots. Tom stayed in the saddle and sang to the cold like a man bribing a stingy god.
They kept to the lesser lanes. Tom liked them for gossip and fewer taxmen. Howland liked their cover: old hedges, willow copses, shallow cuts where floods had eaten the road and men had patched with fieldstone. He rode quiet, a marsh man out of place on dry ground yet moving through it as if he had always known the trick of it.
At an alehouse that smelled of onions and damp straw, Tom played three quick numbers and came back with bread and a rumor.
"Riverrun's tying ribbons," he said, handing Howland half the loaf. "A wedding. Soon."
"A wedding?" Howland frowned. "Now, of all times?"
Tom shrugged. "Tullys like their knots, always talking about family. No names given—only that the sept's being decorated so it must be someone important."
Howland chewed, mind ticking through possibilities. Catelyn widowed. Ned already wed—if quietly. Who, then? And why now?
"Then we arrive today or tomorrow," he said at last, "hopefully we arrive while Ned is still there."
They slept in a hay loft that stank of mice and sheaves. Howland lay on his back and watched dust float where moonlight found a crack. He thought of the Isle, of Grandmother's low song, of Maple's steady sense. He thought of Lyanna's chin lifted at Riverrun and her chivalry in arboreal armor. Lyanna could take care of herself, he knew that deep down. He let the anger ease a little. Hurt stayed. It would stay until he put new weight on the other side of the scale.
Before dawn he tapped Tom's boot rather than call his name. They were on the road while roosters were still thinking about what to shout. By midday, riders in Tully colors crossed a ridge and vanished down the far side. Howland took note of whence they came and followed.
A brace of Riverland levy marched past with spears on their shoulders. A boy at the rear kept step with the wrong foot and flushed when Howland looked. Farther on, a peddler muttered that Darry fields had burned and Whent men were seen drilling again in Harrentown. Tom gathered each scrap without seeming to; it was a skill as neat as any knife trick.
Afternoon light flattened and brightened at once. They felt the river nearby as humidity rose. They topped a low rise and stopped. Below, two waters braided toward one another. Where they met a keep rose with red-and-blue banners snapping neat in the wind.
"Riverrun," Tom said, for once without a jest.
Howland let out the breath he had been holding since Harrenhal. His failure settled into something tangible. Not forgiven. Not forgotten. But perhaps he could still fix things. "Let us find Eddard Stark," he said.
Tom tipped two fingers to his brow. "Find him and do what," he asked, though he knew.
"Tell him," Howland said. "All of it. And then start making plans."
They crossed the last mile at an easy trot. The outer lanes smelled of wet wool and barley mash. Men in trout badges checked carts with more weariness than zeal. Tom gave the nearest a grin that said he belonged everywhere and nowhere. Howland gave his name and kept his voice level.
Inside the first gate, Tom leaned close. "Let me do the introducing," he murmured. "You do the talking once the door opens."
"Do not sing at him," Howland sighed.
"Only if he insists," Tom replied, eyes bright.