Howland Reed had never enjoyed attention.
In the Neck, eyes were something you avoided. One never knew what dangers would be on the other side of the mist and reeds in a crannog. Those who lived there learned early that the safest life was the one no one bothered to notice.
Unfortunately, Howland's anonymity was now gone.
He was a public figure now because he had stood at the Trident and watched Arthur Dayne cut through bodies like wheat, and then, through luck or the will of gods, Howland had helped bring him down. Word of it had spread faster than ravens. Stories always did.
Sword of the Morning. Slain. By the lord of the frog eaters.
The last week had been a parade of hands on his shoulder and cups thrust into his palm. Men who had never spared him a glance at Harrenhal now wanted to hear him speak. Worse, women wanted to speak to him.
Howland could not decide which was more unsettling.
Jyana Fenn met him behind the horse lines where the mist from the river curled between tents and banners. She wore a cloak of mottled greens and browns with purple trim. Her hair was dark and wet at the ends from morning dew, and when she smiled, it was with the quiet confidence of someone who had been raised among hidden waters.
"You look like a man about to flee his own wedding," she said.
Howland snorted. "You would find me if I did. You are a good tracker."
"I would," Jyana agreed, and stepped close enough that her warmth cut through the chill.
He kissed her once, quick, like a promise he did not trust himself to linger on. Then he kissed her again, slower, because the second kiss was easier than saying what he felt.
Jyana's fingers slid into his sleeve and found his wrist. "You're leaving," she said, not a question.
"I am," Howland replied. He kept his voice low, the way he always did. "With Lord Stark."
Her gaze sharpened. "To Dorne."
"Yes."
"And you mean to come back."
"Yes."
"You are a man of few words."
"…Yes"
Jyana studied him for a heartbeat longer, then released his wrist and tilted her head toward the line of crannogmen waiting beyond the tents. Men in reed cloaks, small and quiet among the taller northern soldiers. Their faces were half-hidden, but their attention never wandered.
"How many should I take with me," she asked.
Howland glanced toward the command tent where Maester Walys had been seen going in and out like a man who belonged. The chain at Walys' throat caught light as if it were trying to be admired.
"No more than half," Howland said. "The war is done but we should still have a presence in the host."
Jyana's brow rose. "Half the crannogmen with no one to attack? That is a strange errand."
Howland leaned closer until his mouth was near her ear. "I need Maester Walys to disappear along the way," he whispered. "Some questions need answering."
Jyana went still.
"Question him," she repeated, softer. "About what."
"About his loyalties," Howland said. "About what he thinks the North is, and what he thinks it should become."
Jyana's eyes narrowed. "You heard something."
Howland's mind flashed to the night before. To his lizard body clinging to the crate. To words about unity that tasted like chains.
"I heard enough," he said. "And I do not like him."
Jyana exhaled once through her nose. "The North has had maesters for centuries."
"But we of the neck do not," Howland reminded her.
She looked at him, waiting, but Howland was reluctant to spill secrets of the swamp.
"There are reasons," he said quietly. "The Citadel does not love what we are. It never has. I shall speak more when I am home."
Jyana's mouth tightened. "So I take him. And if he lies?"
"Then you will know," Howland said. "You always seem to sense the truth."
For a moment her expression softened. Then it hardened again into purpose.
"I will do it," she said. "For you."
Howland felt something warm and unpleasant in his chest. He wished feelings were easier to say, but he never learned the words for such things. He wanted to tell Jyana to avoid danger, but wasn't he trusting her to pursue it?
Instead he nodded once, because he couldn't put his thoughts into sound. Howland gave up and gently kissed her again.
A shadow fell across them.
Ned Stark stood there with a pack slung over one shoulder and that grim, steady look he wore when he was trying not to let grief show. He looked older than he had at Harrenhal. Older than he had any right to look.
He clapped Howland on the back hard enough to jostle his ribs. "Let's hit the road, Starkiller."
Howland flinched. "Don't call me that."
Ned's mouth twitched. "The men already do."
Howland grimaced. "It sounds like something a boy would carve into a tree."
"It is certainly a pompous name," Ned agreed, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. "But it makes the men feel proud to have you among them."
Howland glanced toward the camp beyond. Men moved like ants around a wounded animal. They were preparing to march. Preparing to fight again. They wanted heroes. They wanted names.
He wanted mud and quiet.
"Fine," Howland muttered. "Call me whatever you like. Just don't say it in a tavern."
Ned's eyes flicked to Jyana. He inclined his head, polite. "Lady Fenn."
Jyana returned it with a calm that reminded Howland why he had chosen her. "Lord Stark."
Ned looked back to Howland. "We're taking the Prince's Pass," he said. "Through the Reach. Then to Starfall."
Howland touched the bundle strapped to his marsh pony's saddle. Dawn was wrapped in oilcloth and plain canvas, made to look like a piece of lumber rather than a legend. Even so, he felt its presence like a weight in the world.
"Yes," Howland said. "We return the sword. We speak to Doran Martell. We try to end what we can."
Ned climbed onto his horse without grace. He was still a northern rider, not a tourney knight. He settled and looked ahead as if the road were something he could stare into submission.
As Howland swung onto his pony, Ned spoke again, quieter. "What do you think I should say to Ashara?"
The question hit like a stone in still water. Howland did not answer at once. He watched a curl of fog slide past a tent rope and disappear.
"I think you should tell the truth," Howland said finally.
Ned's jaw tightened. "The truth is a tragedy."
"It is," Howland agreed. "But duty is the death of love. Ashara is a noblewoman. She understands duty."
Lord Stark swallowed. "My father promised Lord Tully a grandson," he said. "A Stark heir. The next Warden. If I… if I did right by Ashara instead…" He did not finish. He did not need to. Ned glanced sideways at Howland, and for a moment he looked young again. A boy asking if the world could bend.
"How do the old gods look on a man taking two wives," Ned asked.
Howland almost laughed. Almost. The question was too desperate for laughter.
"The old gods do not keep a book of laws," he said. "They do not have tenets written in ink. They remember oaths. They remember blood. They remember what you do, not what you name it."
Ned's eyes searched his face. "That's not an answer."
"It is the only honest one I have," Howland replied. "If you took two wives, it isn't the Old Gods you should fear. The Faith of Seven would howl, and southern lords would howl with them. They would call you oathbreaker, heathen, savage. Even if the trees stayed silent, men would not."
Ned's shoulders slumped a fraction. "Then what."
"Bring her North," Howland said.
Ned blinked. "What."
"The North has empty land," Howland continued, practical now. "Keeps that sit half-staffed. Towers that could be repaired. You could give her a place near Winterfell."
Ned's mouth parted, then shut. He looked as if the thought hurt and comforted him at once.
"How would Catelyn take such? You know her better than I." Howland asked, and did not soften the question. "She seemed… rigid. Dornish openness isn't Riverlands custom."
Ned's eyes went distant. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just… want to see Ashara's face again."
Howland felt his friend's grief like a cold hand. He let silence sit for a few breaths, then pushed it aside with the only tool he had left. "We need to keep a low profile for this journey," he said briskly. "The Reach will not welcome us. We should wrap the horseshoes in linen. It muffles the sound on hard ground."
Ned blinked, dragged back to the present. "Will that work?"
"For a time," Howland said. "But we must take the wrappings off at evening. If you leave them wet, you'll rot the hoof. Trenchfoot, but for horses."
Ned's mouth twitched. "You sound like a maester, Starkiller."
"How dare you," Howland said, and made his voice as offended as he could manage. It earned a soft huff of laughter from Ned. Not much. But enough.
Jyana stepped back into the mist, already moving toward the waiting crannogmen, her face set with purpose. Howland watched her for a heartbeat too long, then forced himself to look away.
Lord Reed gave his marsh pony a pat on the neck, urging her into a trot. Together, the lord of Winterfell and the man of the bogs rode out from the rebel camp and into the morning fog, heading south.