XVI.

Formally requesting to meet with a Maegyr yielded no results when approaching the Black Wall; attempting to slyly insert the request when meeting with Adario Nahiris, an Elephant up for elections and already campaigning, just had him smirk and say that was unlikely – although they did have a potential trade set up between Nahiris' import business and the North's export of ironwood fir.

Arya skinchanging into a parrot she had fed on the roof of the Merchant's House to gain its trust had been a rather large letdown when she reported that the letter was delivered but neither Maegyr did anything beyond reading it.

That had been a week past, and Robb had black smudges under his eyes, his curly auburn hair was a riotous mess, and he had brought everyone to the end of their patience with his moodiness, outdoing even Jon at his most broody. The one who seemed immune was Connington, who, when

asked, said: "Rhaegar was worse."

"That's it," snarled Arya. "We're getting out of this damned inn and getting some fresh air and you're going to make a plan regarding your foreign wife else I am suggesting we cut our losses and leave this stinking city!"

Robb glowered, pouted, whined a little, but ultimately settled on a scowl, arms crossed, as the large group left the Merchant's House. Jon and Connington rented a flat-bottom pleasure riverboat for a few days, with the decision to travel up the Rhoyne and for them to explore the ruins of Sar Mell and find a residence in its west bank sister-city, Volon Therys, for the duration.

Between Jon's odd encounter at the Temple and Robb's despondency, everyone had agreed getting out of Volantis to plan their next move was necessary. Between the contacts the Widow in the Merchant's House suggested, and Connington's own knowledge, Sansa and Bran were able to source provisions for the riverboat journey, and Rickon and Loras were the ones, six hours upstream from the Valyrian city, to suggest they stop at the bank where a few other pleasure boats were docked, just past the Volaena river met the Rhoyne.

The water was calm there, the shore pebbled and sandy, despite the width of the Rhoyne being a wide stretch where the western shore was a haze on the horizon. The air was warm and humid, but nowhere near as oppressing as it was in Volantis with a mild northern breeze, and the shore was dotted with tropical palm trees and droopy branches from trees that looked like willows, their thin leaves dropping into the water, except that the leaves were a pale yellow. Thick grass spread from the sandbar out toward the east, turning into swampy marshes and then into the Dothraki Sea.

The ramshackle dock that stretched wide was made half of wood, and half from stone, with a tiny settlement of dockside inns, a brothel, and two taverns, but the rest of the buildings were shipping docks to send Qohor timber south and Volantine beets north.

Despite the worn nature of the settlement and the busy dock with Volantine slaves, the Starks, Jon, Loras, and Connington were able to find a moment of quiet past the settlement near the northernmost stretch of the demon road, a broken, black glittering thing surrounded by sand, stone, and grass.

Sansa picked a spot near the demon road surrounded by the pale-yellow leafed willows, creating a shady sanctuary against the heat. There was a buzz of insects in the air and the rubbing of the grass against one another, as well as the gentle lapping of the Volaena against stone.

Bran was gamely, but miserably, wheeled across the bumpy surface by Robb, and soon the entire party was ranged around him and Sansa, with Jon and Loras bringing their picnic and Arya spreading the blanket.

Rickon threw a few pillows Sansa claimed were necessary on the ground and threw himself to the grass equally huffy, bringing his tunic away from his chest by plucking at the fabric and whining, "Gods, I'm so hot."

"So, go for a swim then," suggested Sansa, doing her best to not roll her eyes. She delicately folded her legs underneath her – but only after kicking off her boots.

"Fine," said Rickon, standing. "I will!"

He strode toward the bank, shucking his shirt as he walked and negligently tossing it behind. In Sansa's direct line of vision, Loras was covertly watching Rickon, a flush on cheeks. She glanced at Jon and saw the amusement in his eyes and the press of his mouth as he tried to hide his smile.

Rickon whooped as he dove into the water, rising only a few meters from where they sat. He sprayed water everywhere as he shook his head, then turned and faced his siblings. "It's brilliant! Nice and cool! Come in!"

There was a moment's pause as those under the shade all looked at each other. Then, it was a flurry as both Loras and Arya stood and shucked clothing – Loras far more than Arya, who kept her bottoms on and her breastband but not her top – and Jon who had stood and was in the process of hopping on one foot as he yanked his other boot off.

Robb sighed, looking forlornly south toward Volantis instead of the water.

Jon paused. "Aren't you coming, Robb?"

"No... I... I'm not in the mood," he sighed.

Sansa did roll her eyes this time, sharing an exasperated look with Bran.

With Robb moodily staring out toward the horizon, he failed to see the look shared between Jon and Connington, who smirked in response.

"You know what would help?" began Jon rhetorically, boots off and hovering just at Robb's shoulder as he pulled off his top, his pale white chest with its stab wounds on display between a smattering of curly black chest hair.

"What?"

"A nice dip," finished Jon, diving at Robb.

Robb yelped as Jon came at him from behind, his arms hooking under his arms and lifting him. Connington was there then, and together they bodily carried a squirming and shouting Robb until they were knee-deep in the water.

They threw him in, with Loras, Rickon, and Arya laughing loudly at Robb's plight.

Gasping, Robb rose when he managed to find his feet. He glared at Jon, looking like a sodden cat with his tunic heavy and dragging through the water. "You bloody bastard!"

Jon grinned. "Must I remind you that my parents were married, my Lord?"

Robb continued to mutter, struggling in the water as he walked forward toward the shore until a face full of water hit him. He spluttered, staring at Arya. "Oh, is that how you want to play, little sister?"

He launched toward her; Arya squealed and scrambled backward, and then it was a free-for-all as the Stark siblings ganged up against Loras and Connington and Jon until they all lost sight of who was on whose team.

The group made a lot of noise, but they were happy. There was a smile on Robb's face – something that had been missing for some time now – and Jon's shoulders seemed relaxed and not tense for a change. Rickon caught Loras around the neck and pulled the younger teen toward him, rubbing his knuckles in his curly blond hair to the teen's protestations, and Arya grabbed Connington's arm and hung off it, lifting her legs so they were above the water, dripping.

They were not the only ones enjoying a break in the water, though. There was a similarly sized party nearby, mostly slave adults but a few freeborn children, playing next to the river and further

up the Volaena and away from the Rhoyne, where there were fewer trees and more swampy grass stalks. The groups ignored each other, as that party was clearly Volantine.

Eventually, Sansa called at them to return; Jon – the palest of the group – was turning a worrying shade of red along his shoulders and chest. Tiredly, the rest followed, dripping water, and caking their feet and legs in sand and grass.

The picnic meal was quietly devoured with minimal conversation. After consuming a few cold slices of meat and finger foods, Loras and Rickon wandered a bit away, poking at stones and pebbles on the shoreline. Jon fell asleep where he sat in the shade and began to snore. His mouth was very slack, and he had the tiniest bit of drool beginning to pool at the corner, making Arya sort and fondly comment, "Ah, look at his Grace – all poise and refinement, he is," just as he snorted a loud snore.

Connington glanced at him, the pull of a smile on his weathered face. "Rhaegar snored like a demon. We used to joke that he dreamed he was a dragon, with all the noises he made."

"We?" asked Sansa curiously.

"Yes, Arthur, Richard, Myles," answered Connington, leaning back against the tree as he reminisced. "Rhaegar and Arthur were the best of friends, of course; but I squired with Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms of the Red Keep – he knew my father, you see. And Rhaegar soon squired for the man too—"

"Not Ser Barristan or Ser Gerold or any of the others?" interrupted Arya.

Connington shook his head. "They had their duties to the kingsguard and king. Oh, they took the time to teach us when we were all in the yard together, but not to dedicate their time toward squires."

"And Richard and Myles?" prompted Bran, leaning forward, eager to hear of the famous kingsguard that held so many brilliant warriors. When he was younger, he had such dreams and thoughts about the men – about Arthur Dayne, Barristan the Bold, even Jaime Lannister. After all that had happened to him, even before returning in time, there was still a part of him that yearned for the boyish dreams of becoming a knight.

"Richard Lonmouth and Myles Mooton," sighed Connington. "Myles... he died. At the Battle of the Bells. The... Usurper killed him." There was something hard on Connington's face. "He was only eight-and-ten, just recently knighted by Rhaegar."

Sansa, Arya, Robb, and Bran were quiet. "And Lonmouth?" asked Robb, finally.

Connington shrugged. "Disappeared during the Rebellion. He was one of Rhaegar's squires, the same as Myles. We were all close, a tight-knit group with the prince. We loved him—"

He broke off, looking away.

A sombre mood fell over the group, prompting the returning Loras and Rickon to ask, "What's happened?"

"Nothing," said Sansa quickly, mustering a smile for their youngest sibling. "Nothing at all, Rickon."

He eyed her, as though sensing the lie, but nodded. Instead, Rickon turned to Bran and asked, surprisingly free of any kind of bitterness or spite, "Did you want to go swimming, Bran? If you sit in the shallows and do not venture further out, you'll be fine. There's an undertow further that would drown you, but if you remain near the shore and with Loras and me, you'll be fine."

Bran, utterly surprised by the offer, stared at Rickon. "I – uh –"

"That's awfully kind of you, Rickon," said Robb, albeit, suspiciously as he eyed him. "What made you think to offer?"

Rickon shuffled a bit on the spot and then blurted, "It was Loras' idea!"

All eyes swung toward the youngest Tyrell son, who flushed. "Um... after... after Willas' accident, he had trouble swimming in the Mander. We learned what worked for him with his leg and what didn't. I know it's not the same as Lord Bran's, but, uh..."

Sansa beamed at Loras. "That's a lovely thing to share with us, Loras!"

His flush deepened.

Between Loras and Robb, they managed to bring Bran to the shoreline even with Rickon hovering behind them. There was a permanent look of stupefied amazement on Bran's face when he finally sat in the water, deep enough that it lapped against his stomach.

When Bran trailed his hands through the water, he began to silently cry. Everyone politely ignored it, letting him have the moment.

It was broken when one of the Volentine adults from the other party began to frantically shout, the same word over and over again while the slaves rushed up and down the shoreline.

"Banquo! BANQUO!"

Robb turned, eyes wide, and caught a man around his age flounder in the water, ducking down and

then up again, searching for something – or someone.

Caught in the undertow, a murky figure quickly approached where the Starks were, much further downstream than the Volentine group, near the mouth of the Rhoyne. Robb quickly dove in, away from Bran and Loras and Rickon, much further than where they had all played in the water earlier.

The Volanae was not nearly as wide as the Rhoyne itself, but it was still a fast-flowing body of water with deep, dark pockets. Robb immediately felt the crush of the current pull at him as he dove further, eyes open and searching for the figure he spotted.

There was nothing in the dark of the water, and Robb's lungs burned.

Just as he was about to push up and get another gulp of air, his eyes landed on something – he swam closer – and reached—

His fingers caught on fabric.

Clenching, Robb didn't stop the look, but instead pushed off from the muddy floor bed and rose, kicking as hard as he could, fighting against the current that tugged and pulled at him. He was the strongest swimmer of his siblings – their mother, raised in Riverrun, had taught them all – he gasped, bubbles escaping his mouth as he struggled for air.

Then hands caught him, pulling at him, and his head broke the water. Connington and Jon were there, sloughing him through the deeper parts of the river together, a tangle of limbs with the extra weight of the boy Robb had in his grasp.

Jon and Connington dropped Robb on the bank, the boy on his back, pale-faced despite his naturally darker complexion, with a blue tinge to his mouth.

"C'mon," muttered Robb, leaning over the boy and beginning chest compressions. He ignored the loud, approaching noise of the boy's companions, leaning down and breathing for the boy.

Connington was the one speaking to the group – the only one who had the best knowledge and fluency of High Valryian – so Robb ignored him the best he could. Compressions, breathe; compressions, breathe.

The boy sputtered, water spewing from his mouth as Robb helped him on his side. The boy curled, choking on the expelled water, and mixing it with bile as he threw up.

"Banquo!" the man who had been shouting the boy's name earlier dropped to his knees next to him, gathering the boy into his arms and crying over him. They shared the same dark hair and curls, and the same long nose. He rapidly spoke in Valyrian, with the boy giving a muffled reply.

The others in the man's group arrived, including a girl who fell to her knees next to them. Robb gave them privacy, slowly easing backward and toward his family when the girl looked up at him. All the blood drained from Robb's face, and he swayed on his feet, Jon coming to his side and holding him up.

The girl spoke, her words grateful even if he didn't understand. When he didn't react, she frowned but tried again, in accented Common Tongue, "Thank you. Thank you for saving my brother."

Jon shot Robb a strange look but replied for him. "No thanks are needed for saving someone's life."

The man, still clutching the boy, shook his head as he rose, passing Banquo off to a slave, who wrapped the shivering boy in a blanket. "It is a matter of honour."

He bowed at Robb. "I am Maerros Maegyr. This is my sister, Talisa. You have saved our little brother's life. I would have the name of the man who did this miraculous deed."

Jon's mouth dropped open. Robb cleared his throat, and shakily, said, "Robb Stark of Winterfell."

There was a moment of stupefied silence, with Maerros and Talisa staring at Robb, Robb staring back at them, and the Stark group looking between the two.

Lamely, Robb finished, "I, uh. I've been trying to arrange an audience with you." His blue eyes were wide, shock settling in, even when they skipped past the two older siblings to look at the youngest, shivering, wet, and miserable but nearby.

He gave a tiny, hysterical laugh. "This, uh... this wasn't how I wanted to meet. But, um..." He looked back at Talisa, and then quickly shifted his eyes to a gaping Maerros. He gave a limp wave and a wobbly grin. "Hello."

The palace behind the Black Wall where the Maegyr family lived was different from all the places Robb had seen and visited since leaving Winterfell – in either life.

The room was large, imposing, and lonely, made more so by the fact that although Maerros and Talisa had agreed for one of the Starks to join Robb, he had wanted to do this by himself. Sansa's face had gone blank, and Jon had a grimmer disposition than normal when Robb made his announcement, but they supported his decision against Rickon and Arya's refusals.

He was just slightly regretting that now, standing in the cavernous room. The walls were a cheery yellow-orange, with white marble columns lining the length. Between each column was an archway that led elsewhere in the palace. At the very end of the room sat an elevated platform throne, several meters off the floor with stone steps. On the floor, on either side of the platform, were statues of sitting tigers, made entirely of white marble.

Directly above the platform was a glass dome, letting in the afternoon light. Despite illuminating the location and the bright quality to the throne room itself, the air was neither as stifling as it was elsewhere in Volantis nor was it overly humid – which might have had something to do with the floor-to-ceiling climbing trellis behind the throne, lush and thick with tropical plants.

Some were blooming, pink and white flowers that sweetly perfumed the room to a pleasant degree, given the size; but mostly, it was climbing vines and leaves. Running down the middle of the trellis was a man-made waterfall, ending in a square pool that surrounded the elevated platform.

Maerros and Talisa stood off to the side, with Tigers surrounding Robb. They remained silent, the tinkling and splashing of the water from the waterfall the only sound in the large room, echoing slightly.

Eventually, from one of the archways, an older man and woman appeared, the man walking briskly toward Maerros and Talisa, ignoring Robb completely. The four had a hushed conversation before breaking apart and lining up on the right of the throne.

There was some fanfare near the back, but Robb did not turn to see what was happening. Instead, he hid his sweaty palms by curling his hands into fists and situating them behind his back. A palanquin passed by him, carried by slaves. There was an elderly man seated in the middle, his dark eyes familiar and cutting as they viewed him briefly.

The palanquin turned, and the slaves splashed their feet in the pool and then began to ascend the platform, carefully carrying the man until they were able to place the palanquin down.

Talisa's grandfather was imposing. His hair was long, tied back, and a mix of salt and pepper while his neatly trimmed beard was all white. He had thick, bushy greying eyebrows that furrowed as he stared down at Robb with the same dark eyes his grandchildren had, from a square face and square jaw. His nose was on the wider side, and the wrinkles and lines on his face only made him look all that sterner and foreboding.

He wore a pale linen tunic and an elaborate, bright yellow over robe with orange and blue trim, a thick matching belt around his still-trim stomach. His fingers were adorned with rings that glittered in the sunlight.

Maerros' father spoke loudly in the receiving hall, despite the small number of people in it; Robb assumed it was more for his benefit. "All hail for Malaquo Maegyr, Triarch of Volantis, Leader of the Tigers!"

By some unspoken and unseen signal, Maerros stepped forward and stopped directly before his grandfather, kneeling. "Grandfather, I present Robb Stark of Winterfell, from Westeros. He is the one who saved Banquo's life."

Malaquo Maegyr surveyed Robb coolly. "I believe that is not all you have done, Westerosi."

Robb swallowed, glancing at Maerros who rose to his feet and stepped back into place with his family. Eyes back forward, Robb nodded. "Uh, aye."

Malanquo's eyes narrowed. "You may address me as Triarch Maegyr, Westerosi." The room chilled. Robb swallowed and gave a short nod.

"Now, you wrote to my granddaughter as well," continued Malanquo. "Why?"

Robb shifted a bit, working his jaw, as he wondered how to best begin. Malanquo seemed to be a rather straightforward man, which Robb appreciated. With a sigh and a slump of his shoulders, he began, "Five years from now, my father was executed..."

He tried to keep to facts, succinctly explaining how the War of the Five Kings began and the decisions he made, and for the most part, he succeeded. But when he spoke of meeting Talisa Maegyr on the battlefield, her ordering him to hold a man down while she sawed his leg off, emotion began to leak into his voice.

It continued, in how Robb tried to avoid her, trying to keep to his vow to marry a Frey girl, but Talisa fascinated him, challenged him to be better, and that admiration was obvious in the retelling of his life. He did not dare glance over at her, at her father and mother, but he could feel the rising incredulity coming from their end of the room.

When he spoke of their wedding, the joy he found in his wife who was a partner in all ways for him, Robb could not suppress his love. His voice did harden, though, when he spoke of the Twins.

"I should've known," he said, bitterly, choking a bit. "Gods, I should've known. I angered Frey in breaking our agreement and then flaunted my new wife in front of him. But I was too blinded, and I..." he blinked back tears. "I led us to our deaths."

Malanquo leaned forward, over his knee. "Go on."

Robb swallowed thickly. "Talisa had just told me she was expecting – and I was... I was so overjoyed with the idea of a child, of starting that life with her. She said... she said we could name him Eddard, after my father, if it was a boy."

He cleared his throat. "Everything was going well, I thought, but... but then that godsdamn song began – the Rains of Castamere. It... it was a blur, after. Everything happened so quickly. The musicians were assassins, archers. I was shot, several times. Talisa..."

He bit back a sob, gasping in air as he slightly hunched over, feeling the phantom pain from the arrows but it was nothing to the terror of seeing Bolton come up to his wife and stab her through the stomach, where their child grew. Somehow, he managed to stutter his way through that, to explain it to those in the room.

Distantly, he heard Talisa's mother let out a cry.

"I tried to get to her, I did," he swore, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay, but he tasted salt in his mouth and realized that was futile. He sniffled. "Gods, I loved her, I loved Talisa so much."

He harshly rubbed at his face with his hands, scrubbing it clean. "Why did you come here, Robb Stark?"

It was not Malanquo who spoke, but Talisa's father, a man who shared much of Malanquo's bearing, except his face was longer, not as square. His hair was dark, but there were hints of grey at the temples and in his beard, but more importantly, sorrow was etched on his face. He had his wife in his arms, holding her to him as she desperately tried to stem the flow of tears on her face.

"I—" Robb's mouth opened. "I wanted to... to apologize."

"Apologize?" echoed Talisa's father.

He nodded. "Aye... it was... it was because of me that she died. It was my decisions, my path that she joined that led to her death. I wanted... I suppose all I wanted was the chance to say I'm sorry. To see her one last time – happy... and not... not..."

He cut himself off, realizing he was close to gasping, searching for air. His nose burned and he struggled to maintain some dignity. Refusing to say more, the hall fell into silence.

"Robb Stark of Winterfell," began Malanquo slowly, staring down at him from his elevated position.

Robb tilted his chin up, waiting for the next words.

"What a pretty tale you spin, Westerosi," the man spat.

He blinked in shock. "Triarch...?"

"Pfft!" the man cut Robb off, an angry noise punctuated with an angry gesture. "Who are you to come to these shores, boy? Who do you think we are, to believe that bakavaas?"

Robb physically took a step back, rocking from the venom in the older man's voice as the words were spat down at him.

"How dare you think you are good enough for my granddaughter, boy? In this world or any other? She – the granddaughter, the daughter of a Tiger – whose bloodline goes back hundreds of years to Valyria?"

Something burned in Robb, spreading through his body as he stared up at the man who, in another world, would have been family. A bitter, dark part of him was desperate to shout back: your daughter was lucky to marry a King of Winter, whose bloodline went back thousands of years, to men who were kings and conquerors long before your people were mere beet farmers!

But he wanted to leave the Old City alive; so, he bit his lip, hard, tasting blood. Still, the old man continued, his voice cruel.

"I do not know what magic you say brought you back to life," the man sneered, "nor do I believe it. I think you are a fool, a greenboy, a young upstart from nothing who sought to overreach with my granddaughter's hand, coming to claim it."

"No, that's not true—" "SILENCE!"

Robb drew back, eyes wide.

The man's face settled into a scowl. He didn't rise from his seat, but leaned forward, looming menacingly. "Boy – I thank you for saving the life of my youngest, beloved grandson, Banquo.

And for that, you have my gratitude."

Robb swallowed, knowing there was more to come – and it did, each word falling like a blow.

"For that, and that reason alone, I will not kill you for this paagal, this outlandish tale you have told," the man snarled. "But you are hereby banished from the Old City, and... and it would be best if you and your kin left Volantis – soon, else an accident befalls you and yours."

It wasn't quite shame at failing to convince the Maegyr family of their future, or at least, Talisa's, but something like anger and humiliation coiled together that burned through Robb's body and left his cheeks flushed. After so long – to have tried – he just wanted absolution—

He gave a stiff bow, eyes forward and on the Triarch and not the family of five just off to the side of the throne platform.

"Thank you for your time, Triarch," he managed to mumble, and spun on his heel, allowing the tigers that surrounded him to walk him from the throne room, his boots slapping heavily and echoing through the cavernous chamber.

Coming to Volantis was a mistake, he realized that now. What a foolish, stupid boy he had been; in both lives, he thought, feeling his nose clog up again as angry tears threatened to overwhelm him. A stupid, green boy who pissed green he was that fresh and naïve.

Instead, he sniffed, threw his shoulders back, and set a bruising pace with him practically leading the tigers through the palace to escape. The Tigers struggled to maintain his pace, but gamely escorted and moved him down the correct passages until they were out of the palace and then at the wall, and soon he was through it.

He made it to a nearby alleyway, one Rickon had mentioned before he hunched over and retched, taking deep gasps of air as the smell of sick wafted toward him on the humid air.

Foolish, stupid boy. You deserved your fate, he thought, and then let himself collapse to his knees in the dark alleyway, grief overwhelming him for the first time since he returned.

The docks were crowded with the faces of those from all over the known world. Tongues clashed and spoke over one another, and between the throng of people trying to either leave or disembark and those unloading or loading cargo, it was a busy place.

"What's the ship called again?" asked Jon, turning to Connington.

"The Starfish," replied the sombre man, eyes darting around and his hand on his hilt as he stood at Jon's side, practically pressed against him.

Robb watched, rather impassively, from behind the group where he was. Jon pushed Bran's chair, with Rickon and Loras just behind him and Connington, and then Arya and Sansa. Robb knew he was dragging his feet, but he couldn't help it. Jon had success since leaving Winterfell, retracing Lyanna and Rhaegar's path to Summerhall and the Tower of Joy, gaining much knowledge of his Targaryen heritage, a crown, a famous sword, and even dragoneggs!

He wasn't being fair, he knew. Robb had asked to come to Volantis to say goodbye to Talisa, and he had done so; he had even helped save her little brother. Maybe the change would be profound; instead of a servant in Talisa's story, who would have died despite saving Banquo's life, it would be a strange foreigner from the North of Westeros. His actions and circumstance were different from the slave's – there would be no reason for Talisa to become a healer and journey to Westeros,

now.

At least she'll be alive, thought Robb, tinted ever-so with melancholy.

So lost he was in his thoughts that he failed to realize that they had reached the boat, as well as the beginning of the conversation Connington had with the Braavosi captain. But he certainly heard Jon's low rumbling, a warning of an oncoming storm of annoyance and anger.

"What do you mean, we're no longer passengers on your ship? We paid an advance!" Robb's head jerked up, his hand sliding to his side and sword.

Jon's glower was thunderous, and Connington looked seconds away from running the Braavosi captain through, for all the man was confused and protesting.

"I have your coin! I have it! Here, take it!" the man shouted, shoving a pouch at Jon, who took it, testing its weight and quickly checking the interior. "You have a different ship!"

"We don't have a bloody different ship!" snapped Jon, cutting his eyes at the captain.

He nodded furiously. "Yes, yes. The Black Diamond!"

Jon gave one last glower before turning sharply on his heel, Connington striding after him.

Robb, at the back, fell easily in line, with Rickon and Loras taking the back of the group and Sansa and Arya pushing Bran. "What was that about?"

"Someone paid the captain to remove us from his passenger list," muttered Jon, in Old Tongue. Robb's knowledge was weak, but he did his best to understand the language with the lessons he and Rickon gave in the evening. He didn't understand all the words, but enough to understand the gist of what Jon said. "We've got our coin back, but it worries me."

Robb nodded. "Danger?" "Perhaps."

"There," interrupted Connington, jerking his chin at another ship, much further away and down the dock in a quieter area with less traffic. As the tallest of the group, Robb was silently resentful at how much they relied on the man's height and shoulders to move them through a crowd.

As the three men approached The Black Diamond, Robb spotted a figure directing several crates of chicken, and two barrels of beets, onto the ship. There was something familiar to his bearing...

The man turned as they approached, a wide smile on his handsome face. "Ah, Starks!"

Jon's response was a grumble. "Maegyr. What's this?"

Maerros extended his arm in a wide sweep. "My ship! She is beautiful, is she not?"

"No, I meant why did you stop us from boarding our ship to Qohor?" asked Jon through gritted teeth.

Maerros blinked at them. "Why, because I am joining you, of course!" "What."

Even Robb grimaced at the short tone Jon used.

Maerros turned his grin on Robb, who froze under it. "I could not let my goodbrother go on an adventure without me!"

"What," echoed Robb, just as flatly as Jon.

Maerros' grin widened, and he stepped forward, hands on Robb's shoulders. "Ah, my little brother —"

"I'm twenty—"

"What adventures we shall have!" finished the man dramatically, placing kisses on either side of Robb's stunned face. "And think, my dear goodfamily, with the Maegyr name, and our numbers, our journey to Qohor will be, ah, how do you say? Smooth sailing!"

"Are there beds?" asked Sansa suddenly.

Maerros nodded. "And mattresses filled with feathers."

Sansa and Arya shared a look and then took off toward the boarding ramp, leaving the boys behind, to Rickon and Jon's protestations.

Loras slowly trailed them, a hunch to his shoulders. Sheepishly, he said, "There's more space, my Lord..."

Jon sighed, turning to Bran. "Safe?" he asked in the Old Tongue.

Bran blinked. He tilted his head to the side, and his eyes went white for a moment; thankfully, he was blocked by Jon, so Maerros did not see what he was doing. When he came to, he nodded slowly, a tiny furrow in his brow.

"Safe," he confirmed, though.

Jon sighed, turning back to face Maerros. "Fine," he agreed darkly. "But if you do one thing—"

"Yes, yes," said Maerros, waving a negligent hand. "Come, see your rooms! There is space for everyone!"

Connington snorted. "I think not, I'll be sharing with you," he said, glancing at Jon, who huffed his own sigh, aware that he'll never have the same kind of privacy he had treasured in the past.

Resigned, Robb watched his siblings slowly make their way on board, leaving him with Maerros on the dock. "Why are you doing this, truly?"

Maerros mocked an overly affected face of confusion. "Whatever do you mean, goodbrother?"

"Shut it," snapped Robb, stepping forward, into Maerros' space. Although Maerros was taller, Robb had width to him and managed to crowd the Volantine man. "I laid bare my heart and soul before your family, trying to absolve myself of the guilt and fear I felt in Talisa's death, in our child's death. And I was mocked for it by your grandfather. Mocked, Maegyr! Are you here to say more? Tell me how pathetic I am? That I am a liar? Hmm?"

Maerros' face shifted into solemnity. "Robb... no."

His eyes drifted past Robb, to a figure behind. Robb whirled, partially, keeping Maerros near to his

left, and the new threat to his right. But it wasn't a threat – it was Talisa, standing near on the dock.

"Lord Robb," she said, her voice higher than he remembered, but the accent was the same.

"Tali—Lady Maegyr," choked out Robb, swallowing thickly.

She stepped closer but was still a meter's distance from him. Maerros slipped away, toward the ship.

"What are you doing here?" he asked gruffly.

"I came to say goodbye," she said – and Robb understood.

He nodded. "I see."

"I believe you," she said after a few moments of silence. "About... about your past. The future. No man could express the pain you did and it not be real."

Robb looked away. "I led you to your death."

"Perhaps," she said. Then, with a tiny curl to her lips, "Were we happy?"

Robb blinked back the tears that were forming and looked up at the sky, wanting to bite down on his lip to stop its trembling. "Aye," he rasped. "For the few, short moons we had... we were happy."

A soft hand touched his. Robb's eyes flew down and saw that Talisa had moved forward and stood before him. Her eyes, dark, were sympathetic. Then she was on her toes, stretching up. Her smooth lips touched Robb's cheek and he held his breath, eyes fluttering shut.

His cheek burned where she touched.

Then she was stepping away. "I hope you find happiness again, Robb Stark."

"My Lady," he whispered, eyes intent on her as she stepped back again, and again, until she reached the few Tigers who had come with her to the dock, and the rest who were waiting with a litter.

And then she was helped onto the litter and gone, disappearing into the crowd.

A shuddering breath escaped Robb. He clenched and unclenched his hands, shaking them out, and then turned on his heel, striding up the gangplank to the ship, where Maerros stood, watching.

He stopped Robb, drawing him to the side of the deck. "You understand now, yes? We believe. Truly, it was that parrot but--" he trailed off, forcing a weak smile on his lips. "I am here for you, goodbrother. This future may not exist, but the past does. Tali wants you to find happiness. And I will help."

He paused, a hand on Robb's shoulder. "Because that is what family does." Robb, throat tight, nodded. "Excuse me, Maerros."

Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the bow of the ship, away from any sailors who were testing lines and unfurling sails. His hands clenched on the rail, and he remembered doing the same when they left Oldtown, staring out at the horizon, the heat of the midday sun bearing down on him as it was now. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, even after the captain and crew

expertly maneuvered the ship from the dock and through Volantis to move up the Rhoyne.

He stared at the horizon, then blinked, and then it was evening, and the stars were out, twinkling brightly above him. Like before, Jon stood silently at his side, a sentinel, a firm presence of comfort and home.

When Robb turned his eyes to his cousin – brother – Jon stepped a bit closer and asked, lowly, "Is everything well?"

Robb took a moment to think before responding. "Eventually. I think."

Jon reached out, an arm around Robb's shoulders. Robb took the comfort, with a small sigh, and slumped against Jon's chest.

Eventually, he reminded himself. He was never going to get his Talisa back. While he might see their unborn child in his dreams – a boy with her dark eyes and auburn curls, or a girl with dark curls and blue eyes – it was a life and future taken from him.

He had to close the door to Talisa. He didn't have to forget her and the past he lived, but it wasn't healthy for him to continue holding on to her; oh, the hate for the Freys, the Boltons, he'd hold onto forever... but Talisa didn't deserve being lumped in with those emotions, a tangled web. He had to let her go. She wanted him to let her go.

But he could build a new future, find happiness again.

Eventually, he thought, once more, then turned and with Jon, left the deck to find his room and get some rest. It was long overdue.

TBC...