The Brittle Bloodline | Part Two of The Way of Winter.

III - THE LETTER

WHATEVER ENERGY HAD EXISTED AMONG the survivors was gone. They had been turned away from their last hope of shelter. With nowhere to go, they ended up huddled inside an abandoned cottage by the side of the road. The roof was gone, the stones blackened. The open sky above was nothing but black.

Ser Brynden had not said a word for some time. Now, he allowed Aryadne to hide in his embrace, sharing what little body heat they had. His chin was scruffy and dug into the top of her head, his hand rubbing soothing lines along her back. Her vision half-obscured by the darkness of his clothes, she stared into the fire that weakly burned at the centre of their pitiful circle.

Nearing footsteps had everyone on edge, though they were soon followed by a whispered exchange with Marwyn Mallister, who stood guard outside. His brother, Osric, appeared just moments later, his arms laden with bags and fabrics. "There's a town not far from here. Found us some provisions."

Their meagre supper of roasted buzzard and had barely been enough to share, and had only been preceded by what little they had found in the cart — the merchant from whom they stole seemed to be a peddler of trinkets, only possessing enough food to last his journey. As Osric tossed around a few blankets he had found, the others scramble to get a look inside his bag. Out spilt several apples, a wheel of cheese, a bottle of ale, and a leg of smoked ham. The second she set eyes on the feast, Aryandne's mouth began to water. All sense of propriety evaded her and she lunged for one of the apples. The juice rose under her teeth. Her eyes closed in a brief moment of pleasure. She had not tasted anything so sweet in months.

The others were just as quick to satiate their hunger with the apples. Keeping his between his teeth, the Greatjon took his knife and clumsily began to cut small portions of meat and cheese to be divided out. His hands trembled in the cold, even though gloved. It was no easy task to cut with such precision using his left hand, but he rested the heel of his right against the ham to hold it steady. Aryadne eyed the hand as she ate, curious as ever with the sight of the stumps where his ring and little finger used to be.

Robb had told her the story one night after their first shared dinner with his advisors. The first and only time the Greatjon had ever spoken harshly against him was the night he called his father's bannermen — a disagreement over who was to lead the vanguard. Robb had been a little drunk and was somewhat outspoken in the face of challenge. When the Greatjon went to draw his sword in outrage, Grey Wind leapt across the table and bit two of his fingers clean off. After that, the man never spoke out of turn again. It was not out of fear, no, but rather respect. He liked a man who was willing to risk his anger to prove a point.

But the thought of him was enough to turn the apple sour in her mouth. It wasn't a funny story anymore. Not when she thought of what had become of both him and that sweet wolf of theirs. Wrapping the blanket tightly around herself, she hung her head and silently prayed for the memories of him to relent, just for a night.

"Hold still." At Brynden's command, she looked up once more, confused. He held the bottle of ale in his hand, as well as some fabric torn from his sleeve. He did not bother to explain before soaking the fabric and taking her hands in his. In her exhausted state, she had numbed to the pain, having badly skinned her palms and knees in a fall. She winced as he dabbed at them, gently lifting the thin dress enough to clean her scabbed knees too. Such pain did not matter to her anymore. Physical matters seemed so meaningless now, so ephemeral. But she allowed him to continue. He needed to feel useful. It was strange to think, but they were the closest to family either of them had now.

At last, with their hunger temporarily sated, the question came. It was Aldred Snow who spoke it, glancing anxiously around at his companions. "Where do we go now?"

Nobody said a word for some time. It was too daunting an issue to consider. They would not survive like this forever, living in the wilderness, scavenging when they could — certainly not Aryadne. With a baby on the way, there was limited time to find a safe enough place to deliver. But these men had never so much as witnessed such a thing. She would need at least one midwife with her, a woman experienced enough to help her through and ensure the child's wellbeing. What came next was just as much of a concern. There was no doubt that news of her pregnancy had spread, and if she bore a son this time, he would be the heir to both the North and the Iron Throne. Everyone she considered a blood relation would want them dead. They needed protection, and fast.