Chapter Text
JAIME
The mists of the Neck clung to Greywater. The castle moved, they said, drifting upon its watery moorings, as fleeting as a whisper, as elusive as a dream. And yet Jaime Lannister, clad in steel and gilded pride, found himself there all the same.
“Do you feel the ground shifting beneath your feet?” Brienne broke the silence. She rode beside him, the blue cloak of Tarth sodden with must, her frame shadowed in the murk. Jaime’s mouth curled into a slight smile. “A Lannister stands firm, even on floating ground.”
It was an empty boast. The earth felt queer beneath him, the wooden planks of the causeways creaking like old bones. The reeds murmured as they passed, whispering secrets in a language only the crannog knew. He glanced at the crown that hung from his saddle, a gloomy thing of iron and direwolf snarls. Ironic, he thought, a crown with no head to wear it. Greywater Watch rose before them like the carcass of a forgotten beast, its towers draped in moss and its halls quiet as tombs. There were no guards at the gate, only the stillness of the marsh, the unseen eyes watching from behind curtain walls of green water and grey stone.
Inside, the hall was dim, the air thick with dampness and the scent of moss and peat. It was a place as quiet as the mists that cloaked it, where time seemed to move at a slower pace. The fire in the hearth burned low, throwing weak orange light onto walls green with age and moisture. At the far end of the hall sat the lord of the swamp they had walked into. His frame was slight and wiry, a man as much a part of the crannog as the reeds and water itself. His hair was greying, his face lined, but his eyes--deep green, full of keen intelligence--shone brightly beneath the shadow of his bow. He rose as the two knights entered, moving with surprising ease for a man of his years.
“My lord and lady, I had word you were coming,” Howland Reed said. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath the surface. “You carry the wolf’s crown.” To Jaime’s expectations, Brienne was the first to act, bowing her head and addressing their host with proper courtesies, “My Lord.” The crannogman nodded to her, and she looked towards Jaime. With a small bow, Jaime stepped forward, cradling the iron crown in his hand. “My Lord, Robb Stark’s crown,” he said. “We thought it best that it not fall into unworthy hands. We were told you were a loyal friend of the late Lord Eddard Stark.”
Howland’s gaze flicked to the crown, then back up to Jaime. “Loyalty does not end when the man is gone,” he said simply. His eyes turned then to Brienne, pausing on her damp blue cloak and the sword at her hip. “You are the one they call the Maid of Tarth.”
“I am,” Brienne said stiffly. “And you are Howland Reed. I have heard many stories of you, my Lord,”
Howland smiled faintly. “Good ones, I hope.” His eyes returned to Jaime, lingering longer this time. “And you, Ser Jaime Lannister. Last I saw you, you sat the Iron Throne. You must understand if I am wary in your presence, Ser Kingslayer.”
Jaime snorted at this. “Tales, no doubt. I assure you I have little interest in my sweet sister’s fairings, yet my reputation precedes me wherever I go. Not always to my benefit, my Lord.”
“A reputation is a heavy thing to carry,” Howland said softly. “Like a crown.” He gestured to the iron circlet still clutched in Jaime’s hand. “Come, you are weary. I will not turn you away, though you have brought ghosts with you.”
Moments later, a handmaid appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and showed them to their chambers. Jaime found himself in a small room, wooden panellings running along the stone walls. There was no moss or dampness in this room, but there might as well have been. Jaime stepped out of his armour with help from the handmaid and quickly dressed in simple clothes for the dinner awaiting them. He did not yet know whether to trust the men of these swamps, but what else could he do? He had no men, and his loyalty was to Brienne now. Soon after, he was shown towards the Great Hall, and waiting were the crannogman and his knight.
At word from Howland, servants appeared--thin, quiet folk, their movements as fluid as the waters outside. They brought food, a thin stew of fish and roots, and cups of pale green ale. The three sat at the long--though rather small--table near the hearth, where the warmth did little to banish the chill that clung to these walls.
It was then she entered. A woman, slight of build, her dark hair streaked faintly with silver, cascading down her back in loose curls. Her steps were soft, almost hesitant, yet there was grace in the way she carried herself. Her gown was simple, though well-kept, dyed the colour of twilight. “My wife, Jyana,” Howland said, rising briefly.
She inclined her head to them. “My lady”, Brienne said with a nod, though Jaime kept his silence. “Welcome,” she said gently. Her voice was warm, though guarded, and she lingered a moment on Jaime’s garb, the red of Lannister hard to overlook. “You have come far.”
Jaime’s hand stilled on his cup. There was something familiar in her face, though he could not place it. It was in the tilt of her chin, the shape of her mouth, the softness of her eyes--a violet so deep they might have been black in the dark. His brow furrowed as he watched her, and he felt Brienne shift beside him, no doubt sensing the tension that hung unspoken in the air.
“You are kind to offer us your hospitality,” Brienne said, breaking the silence. “Lord Reed, your halls are not easy to find.”
Howland Reed smiled faintly, “The Greywater keeps its secrets.”
“As does your ladywife, it seems,” Jaime said, more to himself than anyone else. He turned his gaze back to Jyana, who had taken a seat beside her husband. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and to his surprise, she did not look taken aback by Jaime’s words.
“You look at me strangely, Ser Jaime,” she said softly. There was no accusation in her tone, only a quiet wariness.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Jaime replied, leaning back on his chair. He forced a smirk on his lips, faking confidence. “I have seen many faces in my life. Yours… reminds me of one.”
The flicker of something passed through her eyes then, a memory, perhaps. Her gaze darted to Howland, who said nothing. Jaime thought he saw something unspoken pass between them. He could feel Brienne watching him, wary and impatient.
“Your ladywife seems familiar to me,” Jaime said, pressing further, his golden hand tapping absently on the armrest of his chair. He was certain now. “I have travelled the realm, after all. Harrenhal, for instance.”
At that, the woman smiled. For the briefest moment, her expression seemed to falter, but she recovered quickly, hands folding tighter in her lap. “Harrenhal was many years ago,” she said quietly. “Aye,” Jaime replied. He held her gaze, unblinking, though his smirk had faded. “Many years, and many lives, it seems.” He heard himself say.
Silence fell then, broken only by the sputter of the fire. Brienne shifted again, frowning at him, but it was Howland who finally spoke. “You are in my hall as guests,” he said, his voice steady, “You are not enemies of House Reed, and so you will accept that the past will find its time.”
Jyana’s gaze fell to the fire, her violet eyes flickering with it. When she spoke again, her voice was a mere whisper. “Perhaps that time is now.” She looked up, meeting Howland’s eyes. “If you would hear the truth of it.. of Harrenhal, of what was and what was not.. then I will tell it.”
And so, the mists of the Neck seemed to close in around them, as though the Greywater itself understood the weight of the tale about to be told. Jaime sat still as stone, Brienne beside him, her face scrunched in confusion. Across from them, Howland watched his wife with soft eyes, his fingers interlaced with hers as though he held some fragile thing.
Jyana--no, Ashara, lifted her chin then, her violet eyes glowing faintly. “Howland, it is as much your tale as it is mine.” She said, gesturing towards her husband.
Howland nodded. “It began at Harrenhal,” he muttered. “The year of the false spring. Do you know it, Ser Jaime? You were there, though I do not believe you saw me.”
Jaime smiled. “Long ago. I was squiring for your ladywife’s brother then.”
“And I was walking among giants,” Howland replied. “A crannogman, far from my home, far from the reeds and waters that had cradled me all my life.”
The crannogman smiled, as though remembering a boy he had not been in many years. “I had come from the Isle of Faces,” he began. “I wished to see the world, to walk the lands my people had long abandoned to men of greater size and shorter memories. And so I found myself at Harrenhall, the great towers looming high, the banners of half the realm flying proudly in the wind.”
HOWLAND
The air was bright with spring that day, though a cold wind still swept through the grass. Howland walked cautiously, his steps light as a heron’s, his garb simple and strange amongst the lords and knights who crowded the grounds. It was then that he heard the laughter--sharp, cruel, echoing off steel and stone. Three squires, tall and broad, their jerkin sleeves stitched with the sigils of knights sworn to great lords. Boys who did not yet know how small they were, Howland had thought later. But in that moment, they were giants. They shoved him hard, one catching the strap of his pack and pulling it free.
“What’s this?” One sneered. “Did we find ourselves a frogeater?” Howland had no chance to answer before another kicked his legs from beneath him. He fell, landing hard on his hands and knees, the world spinning as boots lashed out, driving him back into the dirt. They laughed all the while.
“Enough,” said a sharp voice, cutting through their pretence. Howland turned his head, blood trickling from a split lip. She stood there--dark-haired, grey eyes blazing with fury, a sword gripped in her hand as though it belonged there.
“Run, you cravens,” Lyanna Stark told them. “Or do you need me to find your lady-mothers to fight your battles for you?”
The boys stammered and hesitated, but Lyanna gave the sword a swing--wild, but hard enough to make them scatter like roaches. When they were gone, she knelt before Howland. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “Come. Let’s get you out of this mud.”
She took him to his tent. And there Howland Reed met the starks.
Brandon was first, bold and brash. “A crannogman!” He exclaimed, as though Howland were some curiosity brought forth for his amusement. “The Neck’s grown shorter men than I thought.”
“Mind your tongue, Brandon,” Lyanna snapped, wrapping Howland’s lip with a cloth. “He’s a friend.”
Eddard Stark spoke more softly, his voice calm. “You are welcome here,” he said. “My name is Ned.”
That night, Lyanna insisted he join them for the feast. Benjen brought him a doublet of dark grey velvet, though it hung loose on his slight frame. “You will look a proper lord,” Benjen teased. “Or as close as a crannogman can.” Howland only smiled.
ASHARA
Ashara’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. She had gone to many feasts before, but this one was the most pleasant yet. The lady of Starfall thought she looked especially striking that night, and though a true lady should not think such thoughts of herself, she knew it were true. She wore a low-cut gown in shimmering violet, the colours of her house, but much like her eyes as well. Around her bodice and shoulders were silver stones embedded into the delicate fabric, and her sleeves hung low and seemed to merge into the gown. Many men had asked her to dance, and she had floated across the floor. Prince Oberyn had stepped so lightly she thought she might have flown from his arms. Lord Jon Connington had been proud and stern. Others had led her take the lead. But now, Eddard Stark was taking her hands. He had come to her at his brother’s urging, too shy to ask for himself, she assumed. Ashara thought it strange that a Stark of Winterfell would ask a Dornish lady to dance, but Eddard would not have been her last pick.
The Stark boy danced properly and with stiffness. She found it boring at first, but more was nought to be expected of a Stark. They did not speak, and he rarely met her gaze, until now. While leading her across the floor, he lifted his eyes and tilted his head. She smiled politely. “My friend is fond of you”, he said. That, she had not expected. “Fond of me?”, Eddard nodded. “Howland Reed. He is too shy to speak, but he would hope to meet you tonight. To speak with you alone, that is all. ”
It was sweet, that was what struck her. In a hall filled with knights and lords boasting their valour, there was something pure in it, and so she went. Many had seen her enter the tent shared by Howland and Eddard, she found out later. The whispers started there, though no one thought to look for the crannogman.
Inside, the large tent was warm, the oil lamps soft with yellow light. Howland Reed sat cross-legged on a pallet, looking up with wide, nervous eyes. In a corner lay Eddard Stark, fast asleep from the exhaustion of the evening’s endeavours. “You… came,” Howland said finally.
Ashara’s lips curled into a smile. “Eddard Stark tells me that you are fond of me,” Ashara replied, lowering herself to sit beside him. “Is it true?”
His cheeks flushed red. “I am not bold like the others.”
“Then it is fortunate I do not care for bold men,” she teased. That night, they did not speak of grand loves or desperate passions. Instead, Howland told her of Greywater--of lizard lions lurking in the dark waters, of the way the reeds bent in the wind but never broke.
She listened, and in turn, she spoke of the stars, the ones her house wore and the ones she loved most when they embraced the dark ocean at night. The tent grew silent as dawn neared, save for their voices and the soft rush of their breathing. Ashara looked at him then, her face close to his. “I wish the night would never end.”
“So do I,” Howland whispered.
HOWLAND
The morning after Ashara Dayne had stepped into the tent shared by Howland Reed and Eddard Stark, the dawn brought with it a hushed stillness. The world outside Harrenhal was waking, but within the canvas walls of the crannogman’s borrowed shelter, time had stilled.
Howland woke to find her sitting beside him, knees drawn close to her chest, her dark hair falling loose like a veil of shadow and silk. She looked almost otherworldly in the soft light, a spirit come to life from a whispered song. Her violet eyes turned to him as he stirred, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Did you sleep at all?” Howland asked softly, his voice still rough with slumber. Ashara shook her head, a faint, wistful smile touching her lips. “I did not wish to miss a moment. When I return to Dorne, who will believe I spent a night talking to the crannogman from the marshes?”
“Talking,” he echoed, unable to stop the warmth that rose in his cheeks.
Ashara laughed, soft and silky. “What else would you call it? You spoke of poisonous flowers, of glowing moss and water that shines like stars, of forests that no knight’s boot has trampled. It was the sweetest night I have ever known.” She tilted her head playfully, watching him. “I think I dreamed of your marshes.”
Howland looked at her then, a long look, as if trying to capture his face in his mind. He knew he was foolish to feel as he did. She was Ashara Dayne, the violet-eyed beauty of Starfall, and he was but a crannogman, a boy small and strange among the lords who tilted at one another on the tourney grounds. And yet, it felt real. Can the greatest romance of your life last only one night?
“I should not have kept you,” he said at last. “Your name will be on every man’s lips today.”
Ashara shrugged, graceful even in such a simple gesture. “Let them whisper. They will whisper of me until my dying day, no matter what I do. That is the way of things for women like me. But I care little what they say--so long as you do not send me away.”
Howland opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He feared if he spoke, she might vanish into thin air, like waking up from a dream. At the sudden silence, Ashara broke into a laugh, and he could not help himself but smile.
“You think too much, crannogman,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers were cool against his skin, feather-light and fleeting, as though she feared he might pull away. Her touch sent shocks through him, and he allowed himself to believe they could just be Ashara and Howland. He looked at her, his quiet green eyes meeting her violet ones, and at this, she smiled. “I think I like you, Howland Reed.”