AN: I have had this idea floating around in my head for a while now. I know the trueborn Baratheon daughter plot has been done before, but I do intend on making it original. This is a Robb/OC story mainly, though the first few chapters will contain a good bit of Jon/OC. For me, the most important thing in a fanfiction is the OC and her development, and ultimately many of the events that happen in this story will contribute to her development. At the beginning, she might not be the most likeable person, and she's a bit of a spoilt princess who whines all the time, but she will grow out of all that eventually. Things will stick to the original plot for a while – with a few minor changes – though in a couple of chapters it will be completely AU. I'm not too sure about this, so do tell me if you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the places or characters in this fanfiction save for Sybil. All the credit goes to the wonderful George RR Martin and David Benioff and Dan Weiss
"Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."
~ Maggy the Frog
The Chasm
As her handmaiden tried, and failed, to untangle the tangled mess that was the princess' hair, Sybil stared out of the wheelhouse's window, taking in the scenery of the North. It wasn't a vibrant as the South – nor as warm, unfortunately – and wasn't nearly as vastly populated. In the southern lands, it would be considered odd to go half a mile without spotting some sort of settlement. The last settlement the royal party had seen was a few miles back, where they had spent the night at an inn.
"I wish I could ride a horse instead of being cooped up in here," Sybil complained as her brother came into her view. Joffrey, while his other siblings were inside, smirked smugly at his elder sister, as if he could hear her, though Sybil was sure he could not. "What is the point of learning how to ride if I am never actually allowed to get on a horse? It is not as though I'm going to slip off the horse, or be carried away because I do not know how to control him. I was taught well enough. If anything, Joffrey should be the one in here. Not me. He fell off his horse many more times that me. Or is it that I seem delicate? Taena, do I look delicate?"
She did not answer the question, much to Sybil's frustration. "Your hair has become more unruly than ever," Taena commented as she attempted to pull the comb through Sybil's hair, puffing as she did so and muttered something in Valyrian. For all her knowledge of the language, Sybil failed to know what she had said. Maesters always did forget to teach their students the important things. "Perhaps I should cut it."
"You will do no such thing," the queen interjected, a sharp coldness in her voice. Taena visibly shrunk. Their was something about her mother that made even the strongest of souls tremble with fear. "Long hair is considered to be a depiction of beauty, the most important attribute for a princess." Sybil suppressed a scoff at that. She was too well trained to express distaste in front of the queen; even if the woman was her mother. Cersei narrowed her eyes at Taena in the notorious glare that many had grown to fear. "If you cannot keep my daughter's hair, then perhaps I should find another young woman who is able to both entertain the princess and manage her hair."
"Mother, this is not-" She stopped herself when she saw her mother's warning look that commanded silence. If there was ever a woman born to be queen, it was Cersei Lannister. Sybil honestly couldn't imagine her mother in a different position. She tried to imagine her mother as a peasant, and almost laughed at the visualisation. Had the situation allowed it, Sybil would have been engulfed in a fit of giggles.
The queen set her blazing eyes on Taena again. Had she been a braver person, Sybil would have defended her beloved friend and handmaiden. Alas, she was not that person. "And, pray tell, why does a lowly handmaiden like yourself see it fit to speak to your mistress so informally?" Taena did not reply, sensing that the queen did not want her to. "Do you not realise that she is a princess, not some common born girl you met at the market?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Taena replied, bowing her head respectfully. Tears had formed in the corner of her eyes. Sybil felt her stomach churn with guilt because she had done nothing. "All of the issues that you have informed me of will no longer happen. On my honour."
Scoffing at the last sentence, the queen regarded Taena carefully, as she would a snake. "Good," was all she said then, and Sybil quietly let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She was glad, for Taena's sake, that her mother had not abused her handmaiden further. Oft times, girls were brought to tears while in the queen's presence. Not that Sybil could blame them – any of them – what with her mother being as she was. It was not rare for Sybil to have to push back tears at her mother's criticism, which came often.
"Look, Sybbie!" Myrcella exclaimed suddenly, pointing her finger towards the window on her side. The large castle of Winterfell was becoming near, with only a few feet in the distance. There was only one word to describe such a castle: magnificent. Though it was not as large and decorated as the Red Keep, Winterfell's castle had a sort of old charm about it. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"It's wonderful, 'Cella," Sybil replied, pulling her little sister onto her lap as they both stared out the window. She bit her lower lip when Taena found another knot in her hair, and began to mercilessly brush it out. "Did you know that it was built over eight thousand years ago by Bran the Builder? With the help of giants?" Her little sister gasped with awe, and Sybil noticed that Tommen was staring at her too. "It's true. And it is also rumoured that he helped build Storm's End with King Durran when he was a boy."
Tommen was wide-eyed, his jaw slacking ever so slightly. "So giants exist?" he asked. Sybil was about to answer him when he turned to their lady mother and asked her instead. Because she was such a reliable source. "Do they, Mother?"
The queen scoffed and rolled her emerald green eyes. Like Taena before her, Sybil visibly shrunk. "Of course not, sweetling. These are tales told by those batty northerners who simply want to sound more fierce than they are." She placed a motherly hand on Tommen's shoulder, wearing a rare, genuine smile. "None of it is true. Maesters have disputed Bran the Builder's existence for the last few centuries, so how could he have built all of these magnificent structures if he did not exist?"
"There is no proof to say that he definitely did not exist, Mother," Sybil informed, straining to keep her head from going backwards because of Taena's fierce brushing. "These structures did not build themselves, surely the North is not that magical. All of the sources detailing the building of Winterfell and the Wall mention Bran the Builder. No one else."
With her eyes narrowed challengingly, the queen was obviously testing her. She had seen that look before, with her uncle Tyrion and her grandfather Tywin. Intelligence was prized in the Lannister family, and Sybil always did hate to disappoint. "I suppose. But there is no written evidence to prove that he did exist. Nor any inscriptions in stone. The only proof that Bran the Builder existed is in word of mouth, which can be exaggerated and twisted over the course of eight thousand years. Never believe what you hear by word of mouth, Sybil. Unless it is from the source."
Sybil almost huffed. Of course her mother would turn a harmless children's tale into a life lesson. When she was younger, every tale her mother told her involved animals – lions, wolves, stags and the rest – fighting for the title of 'King in the Forest.' She now knew that those tales were more than just stories, the animals represented the houses of Westeros, and Cersei wanted to make sure her children knew that lions – the sigil of her maiden house – were the strongest out of them all.
The gates of Winterfell were drawn open for their arrival by the guardsmen. The courtyard was black with people, both highborn – like the Stark family – and lowborn. It seemed that all of Winterfell's household had gathered to greet the royal party. Such a fuss was made for their arrival. Sybil felt a twinge of guilt because of it. Surely they did not ask for a visit from the king, though they would insist it was an honour? The cost of a royal visit was exuberant, and an expense one could do without.
At the front row of the crowd of northerners stood the Stark family. There were seven of them in total. From right to left, there was a small boy that Sybil supposed was the youngest; then there was his mother, Lady Catelyn Stark. Beside the Lady of Winterfell was her husband; the Lord Eddard Stark, her father's close friend and the Warden of the North. His eldest son and heir – Robb Stark – was next, and gods was he handsome, as many had already told her. The ladies swooned over the eldest Stark, despite having never seen him. Tales of his good looks were enough to make them fall in love with him. His eyes were startlingly bright blue, and his hair was a reddish brown. Underneath all the furs he wore, Sybil guessed that he had a toned body too.
Beside him was the red haired Sansa, the girl Father hoped to marry off to Joffrey. Watching her then, Sybil didn't think that she would be too disappointed by her betrothal, since she was staring at Joffrey on his horse with a lovestruck love in her eye. If only she knew... But she wouldn't know. Not until it was too late.
The second eldest Stark girl was next in the line, looking utterly displeased to be there. She was not as pretty as her older sister, what with a long face and dark colouring, and was rather small and thin, though most children her age were. Except for Myrcella, who was already developing a womanly figure at the age of eleven years old. Lastly was the second youngest child, Brandon Stark, who seemed around Tommen's age of nine years.
A guard offered her his hand as she hopped out of the carriage. The cold air hit her immediately, sending a shiver down her spine and causing her to fasten her cloak around her frame. As her eyes scanned the crowd, she found two men looking at her – no, examining her – in two separate rows. The first was Robb Stark, a small smirk plastered on his lips as he observed her. Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly diverted her eyes from his handsome face, landing them upon the second man.
His face resembled what Sybil would have imagined a young Lord Stark to look like. His face was long, his eyes were a sad grey and his skin was pale. The doleful, solemn expression he so religiously wore mimicked the Lord of Winterfell's, which was what drew Sybil to the conclusion that he was Jon Snow; Lord Stark's bastard son born from his one dishonourable act. There was something about Jon Snow that drew Sybil to him. Few men had attracted her attention, and few men succeeded in keeping it. Willas Tyrell almost had during his brief time at court, though Sybil found that something wasn't quite right. That something was missing. It was all too simple; all too organised.
She ducked her head shyly when she realised she had been staring. It wasn't suitable for a lady to even look at a bastard, and scandalous for a princess to do so, though Sybil found her heart racing because of that exact reason. If someone had seen them, which Sybil prayed they hadn't, the whole of Winterfell would be swarming with rumours with little to no truth.
The king spoke to each of the Stark children individually, with quick comments, silent nods and booming laughter. He then moved to Lord Stark and with a gruff voice said to him. "Take me to your crypts. I want to pay my respects."
Her mother, a tight lipped smile forced upon her features to hide the frown, edged beside the king and in what could be considered a soft voice argued against him going to the crypts. "We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead could wait."
With merely an empty look in the queen's direction, Sybil's father said the Lord of Winterfell's name, and Lord Stark obeyed, leading the king to the crypts, where he would no doubt be paying respects to his old love – the Lady Lyanna Stark – who was taken from him during the rebellion by Prince Rhaegar. The queen masked her hurt, though Sybil doubted if she felt anything, and strided over to her brother; Jaime Lannister, also known as the Kingslayer.
She braved one more glance in Jon Snow's direction, and found that he was looking at her too. A shy smile graced her features, feeling slightly disheartened when he didn't return one of his own. Though Sybil could understand. He seemed shocked that she had smiled at him – a good shock, but shock nonetheless.
Taena appeared beside her then, glancing between the two of them. Wearing what could only be described as a disapproving look, she ushered her mistress to her rooms. "You ought to rest before the feast tonight," she said, giving Sybil a slight push away from the boy she had been staring at. Sybil tore her eyes from him, reluctantly, and let Taena guide her to the royal rooms.
They would get lost on their way there, since both had forgotten Taena's lack of knowledge of Winterfell castle.
"Lannister va moriot zyha gelyni addemmis."
For years, Sybil had asked Taena for help with High Valyrian. Her handmaiden was quite secretive about her past, sharing only that she came from Myr and that she was once a noblewoman from a noble, rich family. How she came to be in a princess' service was a mystery to Sybil, though one she knew she would never uncover.
"Lannister va mario zy gelni addemmis," Sybil tried to mimic, though judging by the laugh that came from her handmaiden, she had not done so correctly. The phrase 'a Lannister always pays his debts' was a popular one within her mother's family. She knew that it would not impress her mother much, her love was for a different kind of knowledge, but the phrase was the first to come to mind. "What? What did I do wrong this time?"
"So many things," Taena commented, shaking her head in amusement as she laced Sybil's corset. Her accent when she spoke the common tongue was perfect and without an accent. Had it not been for her olive skin and dark colouring, Taena would have passed for a Westerosi noblewoman. "You are mispronouncing the words. And when you do not mispronounce the word, you stress it too much. High Valyrian is a beautiful language. It is meant to flow."
Sybil sighed heavily in exasperation, becoming very frustrated with the language she had been learning since childhood. Grand Maester Pycelle insisted that it was important for anyone to know High Valyrian, since many poems and old scriptures were in the language. Taena's mother-tongue was a bastardised form of Valyrian, as many of the Free Cities didn't speak High Valyrian exactly but the tongue they spoke was rather close to it. Apparently, noblewomen in Myr learned the same things noblewomen in Westeros learned; etiquette, embroidery, dancing, singing, history and High Valyrian.
"I am trying," Sybil insisted tiredly, a grunt escaping her lips as Taena stuffed her into her corset. Corsets give you a shape, and tidy your rough edges, her mother had told her when she started wearing the damn things. Since then, when she was nine, Sybil hadn't went a day without wearing a corset. Not that she liked them. Quite the opposite, actually. "Gods, has this grown smaller? Or have I grown larger?"
A powerful laugh came from behind Sybil as her handmaiden led her towards the vanity and began combing her hair, which proved to be easier this time. "Well, you certainly devoured the lemon cakes on our way here." This caused Sybil to scoff, though she flashed a one-sided smile to Taena through the mirror. "Honestly though. Your hips have become wider since we left King's Landing, as has your bosom. You're a true woman now."
"I've been a woman since I bled at the age of twelve according to my lord father and Jon Arryn," Sybil commented sadly, staring at her reflection in the mirror with a distant look in her eye. "If they had their way, I would be already married and in Highgarden. My mother would never allow it, of course. She prefers to have her children close to her."
"Your mother frightens me," Taena said, styling Sybil's hair by plaiting two pieces of hair on either side and then tying them together. When she noticed her mistress' forlorn, pensive expression, Taena huffed lightly and bent down so that Sybil could see her reflection in the mirror. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are a princess, for goodness sake! Many have had it worse." She smiled then, her expression becoming brighter with kindness. "Stand. Let me look at you." After smoothing her purple, silk dress, she stood up and gave a twirl, causing Taena to laugh heartily. "You look beautiful."
"I think I will be cold," Sybil mused, taking the thin, soft fabric and rubbing it between her fingers. Few of her dresses were suitable in this weather, and the ones that were simply did not appeal to her, being either too dark or too bulky. By the way Taena's mouth opened, Sybil guessed that her handmaiden was going to offer to help her change, so she quickly continued. "I can manage, Taena. Beauty demands pain sometimes, and Winterfell is heated by springs anyway. I'll be fine."
As she wrapped the princess in a warm, grey shawl, Taena wore a teasing grin and inspected the dress carefully for any marks or creases. "Is there a certain reason you are so eager to dress nicely?" Sybil hid her surprise quickly and scoffed, rolling her blue eyes away from her handmaiden. "One would hope that it would be Robb Stark you were so incessant on pleasing, but somehow I know that's not true."
"Why must a lady's reason behind dressing nicely always be a man?" she asked, a tint of annoyance in her tone. Whether Taena was right or not she would not say, but the Myrish lady already knew the answer. "Perhaps I simply want to look nice. Or perhaps it is because a comely appearance is of paramount importance for a lady, as my lady mother has drilled into my head."
"As you say, princess." Quirking an amused, disbelieving eyebrow, Taena was still smiling knowingly as she spun Sybil around and tidied her gown. Though it was an excuse, Taena understood that appearances were vital for a royal lady – especially a princess – and thus the Myrish handmaiden had made it her duty to see that the princess' natural beauty was accentuated. "I believe it is time for you to leave for the feast. You don't want to be late, do you?"
"Of course not," Sybil agreed, though she had no interest in pleasing the Stark's. In all likelihood, after the visit north she would never see them again, and all her efforts would be gone to waste.
Whoever said that northerners were a boring sort obviously had never been to a northern feast. Or outside of one.
As her mother fussed over her appearance, fixing her hair piece and her necklace, Sybil listened to the yells and roaring laughter coming from inside. Barbarians, she had heard her mother whisper in a hushed, disapproving breath that only Myrcella, Tommen and her eldest child could hear. When her mother was finished 'perfecting' Sybil's appearance, she moved onto Myrcella's and told her to adjust the clasp on her dress.
"Robb Stark is to be escorting you in, Sybil," the queen told her with a side-ways glance towards the Stark heir. Sybil followed her mother's line of sight and found Robb speaking with Theon Greyjoy, the Stark's ward, and Jon Snow.
Quickly, her attention switched from Robb to Jon. She wasn't sure which of the two was more handsome, only that she was attracted to Jon in a way she was not attracted to Robb. It was strange, to feel such a way over someone she had not even spoken to. Strange, and foolish, as any sensible person would tell her.
The queen, thinking that it was Robb who she was staring at with such interest, stepped closer to her daughter and whispered into her ear so that nobody else could hear her, not even her younger siblings. "Do not let your father see you looking at the Stark boy like that, or you will be married before the morrow."
With furrowed brows and eyes narrowed in confusion, Sybil turned to look at her mother, searching her any sign that she was jesting, but found none. It didn't surprise her too much, as the king would leap at the chance of tying their houses together by marriage. But he was already receiving that bond by marrying Sansa to Joffrey. Surely, he did not have any interest in another marriage that would achieve no alliance and only strengthen an already strong friendship.
When the time came for them to enter the Great Hall to eat, Robb Stark approached her with a kind, gentlemanly smile gracing his features. From the corner of her eye, Sybil saw her mother studying him with calculating eyes. This seemed to put him off slightly, though his smile did not leave his face, and Sybil offered a smile of her own.
"My lady," he greeted, giving her a slight bow as he visibly tried not to look towards her mother. Though when it was called for, as her mother was the queen, he flashed a slightly uneasy smile in Cersei's direction. "Your Grace." The queen inclined her head politely, but paid him little mind. It didn't seem to bother Robb, as he quickly turned his attentions to the princess. "I believe it is time for us to line up for the entrance."
Sybil graciously took his outstretched arm and allowed him to lead her towards the door. When she observed him closely, she noticed that his proper demeanour did not suit him well, and he was obviously not used to such formal events. Manners and grace and all the skills that came along with it were engrained into her mind from a young age, but – despite the Stark children being taught the same skills, judging by Sansa Stark's splendid manners – such skills did not seem to stick with Robb. Perhaps it was from a lack of practice.
"Do you like the North, my lady?" Robb Stark asked her in an effort to start a conversation. She had been so lost in her thoughts about Robb that she had forgotten that he was actually there.
"It is most beautiful," Sybil replied, smiling brightly towards the Stark heir. It was a lie, though she hoped Robb Stark couldn't see through her falseness. Years at court had shaped her into a skilled liar, if one was to consider false pleasantries as 'lies.' He didn't seem to see through her, anyway, as he was staring at her with a familiar look in his eyes – one that she had seen too many times before. "And the people are very kind. Very honest too, which is a welcome change from where I am from."
Hopefully he would take that as a hint. Sybil actually did like the people of the North. Their good humour was infectious, and their kindness never ending. Her judgement was proven true by the laughter coming from the hall, which was accompanied by loud jests and bawdy comments. Sybil mentally noted to cover young Tommen's ears for the majority of the night.
"They say that King's Landing is a snake's pit," Robb remarked as they stopped in front of the tall door leading into the Hall. "My grandfather and my uncle went there and never came back. Lord Rickard Stark was set aflame while his son, Lord Brandon, strangled himself trying to reach for his sword."
"That was under a different king," Sybil reminded him immediately. Though she would acknowledge the corrupt ways of her father's court, she would not let the present day monarchy's – or her father's – honour be put down. "Nothing so cruel and unjust would happen during my lord father's reign. Especially not your family. My father adores yours."
"Aye, he does," Robb agreed, his eyes wandering towards his father as he chatted with the king before returning to the princess, a worried expression etched upon his face. "Are you not cold, my lady? Would you like my cloak?" He made to unfasten it and put it on her, but Sybil raised her hand in refusal.
"There is no need. I happen to be warm-blooded, my lord," she told him with a courteous, small smile on her lips. Robb frowned as he eyed her again, but rested his arms by his sides nonetheless. If Robb was anything to go by, northerners seemed to be nothing like the 'barbarians' her mother had described them to be. He was just as courteous as any southern boy, but not nearly as furtive. "I assure you; I am fine. We will be inside soon, anyway, and the inside of Winterfell is surprisingly warm."
"It was built upon a warm spring," he said to her, eyeing his home almost fondly. If Sybil had a home as magnificent and rich with history as Winterfell castle, she was sure that she would be just as proud and fond of it as he was. Although, Sybil didn't think that she could stand the cold. "Which is lucky, really. We'd freeze our arses off in winter if it wasn't for the springs." Realising his improper language, he promptly snapped his head towards her. "Excuse me, my lady."
She liked it when he dropped his lord act. It didn't suit him at all, and Sybil found that the person beneath the armour was far more interesting. "It is quite alright," she reassured him. All of the other lords and ladies – Lady Stark and King Robert, Sybil's mother and Lord Stark, herself and Robb, among others – lined up in front of the door as the minstrel announced them inside. "Anyway, I have been blessed with Robert Baratheon for a father. Believe me when I say that I have heard the term 'arse' more than once."
Robb snorted, causing his mother to whip around and cast him a warning look before turning right back around, a polite smile plastered upon her features once more. "And I have received that look more than once."
As she masked her laugh with a cough, the door were pulled open and the royal family, escorted by their Stark companion, walked through the threshold and into the Hall. It wasn't as big as the Hall in King's Landing, but it was still extremely large and capable of holding a large amount of people. Robb led her to her seat in between Joffrey and Myrcella and kissed her hand, his lips lingering too long to be considered an act of courtesy, before taking his seat on the other side of the table.
"Looks like you've charmed Robb Stark, sweet sister," Joffrey observed once they had taken their seats. Why on earth have they put me beside this wretched boy? Her night was going to be filled with his cruel remarks and his vicious comments. At least Myrcella was on her other side. Joffrey was staring at Robb Stark – or rather glaring – when Sybil turned to look at him. "It was surprisingly quick, I must say. I suppose you're not hideous and he is a half-witted northerner."
"I will take that as a compliment, darling brother," Sybil replied, scoffing, and now eyeing Robb Stark herself. The Greyjoy ward must have said something funny, as Robb was laughing his head off. It would not have been the worst thing if she was to wed him, she supposed. He was young, handsome and kind, but Sybil was tired of doing her duty. Of being the quiet, dutiful daughter. "If I didn't know any better, I would think that it was Robb you fancied, and not your intended."
Scoffing indignantly, Joffrey tore his eyes from Robb and set them upon Sansa Stark. The girl was only three and ten, as the queen had informed her, and though she looked and acted every part the noble lady, she still held an air of naivety that would perish with age. When she caught Joffrey looking at her, she began giggling and whispering with her friend.
"Even in the North, my charms succeed in swooning every woman in the vicinity," Joffrey said smugly, an arrogant smirk on his lips. It was true, much to Sybil's chagrin. In King's Landing, all of the young ladies swooned over Joffrey. Mostly because he was the crown prince, though Sybil had to admit that her younger brother was quite handsome, with his golden hair and his bright, green eyes. "It looks like I will not be the only one married to a Stark. I wonder when your wedding will be. You have bled, haven't you?"
"What are you talking about?" Sybil asked, snapping her head over to look at him with a bemused frown etched on her features. Her brother looked happy, and her brother was happy... that was when Sybil began to worry.
"Haven't you heard?" he questioned, visibly relishing the fact that he was the one to tell her. Guarding her expression as best as she could, Sybil merely shook her head and waited for Joffrey to enlighten her. "Father wants to marry you off to Robb Stark. He hasn't made any plans, only myself and Mother have been informed-"
"You mean you were eavesdropping on their conversation," Sybil corrected with a roll of her eyes. "Again."
"If I didn't eavesdrop on their conservations then how would we know anything, sweet sister?" Joffrey snarled irritably, and Sybil reluctantly agreed that he had a point. Their parents didn't tell them anything. Whether it was because they were too young or because their parents had simply forgotten, Sybil did not know. "Lord Stark believes that Father only wishes to marry Sansa to me, though I suppose that he will make arrangements soon."
"Lord Stark might not accept," Sybil stated, sounding naively hopeful. "He might not want his son to marry..."
"...a princess?" Joffrey finished. A scoff escaped him as he shook his head, making Sybil feel like the stupidest person in the world. Her brother had that effect on people, especially his siblings. Years of being spoiled and let away with anything had turned Joffrey into a cruel, ill-natured boy, who would one day rule all Seven Kingdoms. His eyes bore into Sybil's, narrowed and glaring. "Lord Stark would have to be stupid to reject a king. I will marry Sansa, and you will marry Robb Stark. I'm afraid that there is no alternative."
Sybil's shoulders fell as she realised how, for once, Joffrey was right. If her father wanted her to marry Robb Stark, she would marry Robb Stark. He was handsome and kind and good natured, not at all bad material for a husband, but Sybil had seen the effects of an arranged marriage with her parents, and then again with her uncle Stannis. It seemed that those in her family were without luck when it came to arranged marriages. Sybil did not want to be another powerless wife trapped in a loveless marriage, and she did not want her future to be planned for her.
The evening was relatively boring until the youngest Stark girl – Sybil had yet to learn their names – flung some peas at her elder sister, Sansa. With a look of shock and revulsion on her face, Sansa Stark screamed her sister's name, which happened to be Arya, as her friend wiped the peas off her face. From the corner of Sybil's eye, she could see Joffrey crinkling his nose in disgust.
"Barbarians," he uttered, displeased, as the rest of the Hall erupted with laughter, despite Sansa exclaiming that it wasn't funny more than once. Sybil didn't laugh. She wasn't sure what to make of the whole situation, in all honesty. Such a thing would have never happened in King's Landing, though her younger siblings found it hilarious. "And this is the family we are supposed to marry into? Well, at least I won't have to stay here. Good look with that, Sybil."
Apparently Robb had been tasked with solving the problem, as he rose from his chair and scooped Arya from hers before setting her on the ground. Still grinning from the events, he glanced towards Sybil, but she could not muster a smile of her own. Once Robb and his sister had left the Hall, Sybil pushed back her chair and exited through the large doors, a goblet of ale gripped tightly in her hand.
The air was colder than it had been when she entered the Hall first. Sybil shivered and wrapped her shawl around her tightly before chugging down the rest of her ale in one quick motion. The ale made her hazy. She leaned against the wall for balance and shut her eyes. Being drunk was not something that happened often to her, but after two or three goblets, Sybil had found herself in the same situation as her uncle Tyrion and her father often had.
A sharp sound of the clash of a sword was what brought her back to reality. Sybil, the ale having granted her some rare bravery, decided to search for the source. Obviously, there would have be a person wielding the sword. Swords couldn't move on their own, could they? The sound became louder as she neared the courtyard, where a man was belting a practice dummy with his sword.
Panting, both from anger and from fatigue, the man turned around, unaware that anyone was there. Sybil's eyes widened when she recognised his face from that morning. He was even more handsome up close, and even more solemn and sad looking. Instantly, Sybil was overcome by sympathy for the illegitimate son of Lord Stark, even though she wasn't the most sympathetic person by any means.
Once his breathing had settled and his rage somewhat quelled, Jon Snow glanced in her direction, freezing when he saw her face. His mouth opened, as though he was about to say something, but then he closed it, having found nothing to say. Sybil never thought that she was so frightening – obviously she was wrong.
"My lady," he finally said, bowing clumsily. Apparently she hadn't been the only one who had a bit too much to drink that night. The man seemed clueless, and unsure of how to act. His drunkenness only enhanced his uncertainty. "Why are you not inside?"
"I don't like feasts very much," Sybil told him, smiling sheepishly. The man observed her tentatively, making Sybil slightly uncomfortable. She received the impression that he could see right through her, somehow. Perhaps it was his eyes. Gods, she had spent way too much time analysing his eyes. "All the dancing and the music..."
"I thought that a princess would enjoy such things," Jon Snow countered, raising an eyebrow. Of course a princess would enjoy such things. There was a feast at least once a week in King's Landing, due to her father's love of ale, food and kitchen wenches. Growing up amongst dancing ladies and chattering lords had made her fond of feasts and dancing. "In all the stories Old Nan told us they did."
"Well, perhaps princesses in real life are different from fantasy." Her tone was biting, and it caused Jon Snow to flinch. Her stomach churned with guilt, knowing that she was the one in the wrong. He was only being polite, and stated an obvious fact that had made her lie transparent. With a small smile, she altered her previous statement. "Or maybe they're not."
A small smile appeared upon his face. Something told Sybil that it was the most one received when chatting with Jon Snow. He didn't appear to be the most joyful of people, though strangely Sybil found that she liked that about him. At least he was not trying to be somebody he wasn't, unlike most of the people she had met in her short life.
From behind Jon Snow, a white wolf appeared, and began to bark at her. Sybil flinched, though she tried not to. Few would be so brave when confronted with such a terrifying – yet somehow beautiful – creature.
"This is Ghost," he told her, stroking the wolf's fur. His eyes peered up at Sybil suddenly, startling her. The wolf's eyes were a bright shade of red that resembled the colour of blood. Even the wolf's size didn't frighten her as much as his eyes. "He's a direwolf."
She did not remove her cautious gaze from the wolf – or direwolf – in fear of him catching her unawares and lunging at her. "How did you get one? I thought that they didn't come south of the Wall?"
"They don't. Not usually." He looked fondly at his wolf as he rubbed his ear affectionately, causing the wolf to happily lean into his touch. "Does he startle you, my lady?"
"Not much," she lied. In truth, she was terrified of the beast. Any sane person would be. But Sybil was too proud to admit that she was scared. It was another thing her mother had drilled into her head. Jon was watching her closely, not entirely believing her statement. She took a deep breath and, in order to prove herself to him, she offered her hand hesitantly to the wolf. He sniffed it for a few moments, before licking her hand with his warm tongue. Sybil laughed, her heart beat slowly going back to normal. "See? I wasn't afraid."
Jon chuckled with her. "I can see that."
She knelt down to meet the direwolf's height. Surely, he couldn't be so horrible if he was someone's pet? She slowly moved her hand to place upon his head. Once she was sure that he wasn't displeased with her, Sybil stroked the fur on the top of his head. The wolf made a sound that was similar to a cat's purr, causing the princess to laugh.
"I thought direwolves were supposed to be beasts," she mused, continuing to stroke his ghostly white fur. She felt Jon Snow's eyes on her, but she only looked at his wolf. "But he is beautiful."
"As are you," he blurted abruptly. Sybil snapped her eyes to meet his, unsure if she heard him correctly. He was not brazen, nor did he seem to be a flirt, but judging by the blush that spread across his cheeks, Sybil had not been mistaken.
It wasn't the first time she had heard those words coming from a man's lips. Since she had reached the tender age of nine, Sybil had been praised because of her looks. They said that she looked like her mother, only with her father's black hair and his blue eyes, which was obviously a compliment considering that her mother was the most beautiful woman in Westeros. But somehow, those words meant more coming from Jon Snow.
She diverted her eyes away from him, a warm blush dispersing across her face. "He likes you," Jon said, after coughing in an attempt to end the awkward silence. Sybil smiled as she graciously got on her feet again and straightened her skirts. "I haven't seen him take to anyone quite as well."
"Perhaps I was born to be a wolf whisperer," she jested. "Perhaps the gods were mistaken in making me the daughter of a king."
"I don't think being a kennel master's daughter would suit you, my lady," Jon commented, letting himself laugh.
Sybil laughed quietly. "No. I don't believe it would."
"What is your real reason for being outside on your own? Unescorted?" Jon asked, his voice taking on a teasing tone. She narrowed her eyes playfully at him, which he seemed to take as her not liking his informal attitude, as he quickly lowered his head respectfully and added a docile, "My lady."
She frowned at his sudden alteration back to his more formal, solemn self, but said nothing of it. She pressed her back against the wall behind her, leaning against it, as she let out a small sigh. "My dear brother can be quite irritating sometimes. I had to get away."
"They say that the prince can be a right royal prick," Jon commented, his features scrunched in thought.
Sybil wasn't sure as to how she should react. If her mother was there, Sybil would have defended Joffrey in an instant, simply to please her mother. Her relationship with Joffrey was not a bond that most siblings seemed to have, and not at all like the bond she shared with Myrcella and Tommen, but in the end he was still her brother – her blood – and it was her duty to defend him.
"That 'right royal prick' is my brother, and the future king of the Seven Kingdoms." Again, her tone was harsher than usual, and the words felt strange coming out of her mouth. Upon seeing the wounded look on Jon Snow's face, Sybil immediately rethought her outburst.
He was quick to sombrely apologise, for as soon as he had recollected himself, Jon had went back to his cold formalities. "Excuse me, my lady. I forgot my place."
Was it is intention, she wondered, to make her feel utterly terrible? Whether it was or not, he had succeeded in doing so effortlessly. "It's no matter. I suppose he is a right royal prick sometimes. Perhaps all the time." Jon chuckled at her brother's expense, and Sybil joined his laughter after a few moments of observing him silently. "Why are you out here in the cold? Surely you'd be better inside." He opened his mouth, no doubt to insist that it was not something she should worry herself about, but Sybil cut him off before he could. "I told you my problem. It's only fair that you tell me yours."
Instead of responding, Jon Snow only studied her as he had many times that night – as though she was of some other race. When he finally spoke, what he said was not a response to her question. "Why are you being kind to me?" She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, her lips parting in order to answer his question before closing when she realised that there was nothing to say. "I'm a bastard, and you're... well, you're a Lannister princess."
All of the confusion and pity she had experienced melted into anger with the word Lannister. She straightened her back and narrowed her stormy eyes at Jon Snow. It wasn't the word itself, but rather the way he said it. As though it was the most horrible thing in the world. "I am not a Lannister. I am a Baratheon. You would do well to know the difference."
As it had been before, his apologies came swiftly, as though he had them prepared before anything happened. "I didn't mean to offend you, my lady. I only mean that you're different to how they said you were. How they said your family was."
"And do you believe everything you hear and read, Jon Snow?" Despite him meaning to calm her, his apology only helped to ignite her fire. The Baratheon temper was famous throughout Westeros, though Sybil was well able to keep it at bay. This time, however, was somehow different. Though she did not become visibly furious, her tone was seething. "The world is not black and white, contrary to your belief. House Lannister is known for its brutality, and I will not deny that atrocious acts have been carried out by members of my mother's house. But does that mean that anyone who bears the name Lannister, who has Lannister blood flowing through their veins, is unquestionably evil? And that every else is, by default, good? That kind of thinking will get you killed, because some man – some northerner with the name of a noble northern house – will sneak into your room at night and stab you in your belly."
Somewhere during her impassioned rant, she had stepped closer to the bastard born son of Lord Eddard Stark. There was only inches between them, and Sybil could feel his hot breath upon her cold cheek. The chilling air was enough to make her shiver, though she knew that it was not the only thing causing her to do so.
The sharp, loud, familiar whistle was what caused Sybil to jump away from Jon. Her cheeks reddened and warmed, and she was suddenly glad that, in Winterfell, it became darker earlier in the night. Her uncle Tyrion – her preferred uncle, since her uncle Jaime never thought to give her the time of day – swaggered towards them then, whistling merrily as he did.
"Darling niece, what are doing out in the cold with... questionable company?" her uncle asked her, sending a pointed glance in Jon Snow's direction. Being reasonably offended by Tyrion's comment, he had set his glaring eyes upon the smaller man. "I mean no offence, bastard." After his swift apology that wasn't much of an apology, Tyrion turned back to his niece. "My, you look frozen. I do believe your lady mother desires your company inside. You know how inattentive your kingly father can be."
"Indeed," was all she said, grimacing ever so slightly. Inattentive was a polite way to describe her wandering father who had eyes for every woman other than his wife. She sent a quick, discrete smile towards Jon before walking into the Great Hall again.
The laughter had not ceased, nor had her father's dalliance with the kitchen wench. Her mother watched her daughter closely as Sybil approached, as did Lady Stark. She briefly wondered what Lady Stark must have been thinking. Was she wondering if Sybil would be the wife her son deserved? Or if she could bare him sons, as was a wife's main function?
"Sybil, darling." Her mother's dazzling smile caught her unawares. The only person to have frequently received such a smile was Joffrey, for some bizarre reason. Sybil knew her mother better than most, and she knew when her mother was wearing her guarded façade. Surprisingly, this was not one of those times. "Come, sit on your father's seat. I doubt he will be sitting any time soon."
The queen glared resentfully at her father as he patted the arse of some woman. Sybil cringed at the sight. She should have been used to it, having seen more disturbing sights of her father, but somehow he never failed in both shocking and repulsing her. As a serving boy filled her goblet with more red wine, Sybil shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was too large, and it made her feel out of place.
Once Lady Stark was in deep conversation with her husband, the queen leaned closer to her daughter though her eyes were glued to Robb Stark. "He is quite handsome, is he not? Any woman would be lucky to be his wife."
Feigning ignorance, Sybil replied. "What are you talking about, Mother?"
Her mother sighed heavily and took a large gulp of wine from her goblet. Licking her lips, the queen seemed distressed by the news she was going to tell her child. Sybil was almost glad to see it. At least one of her parents didn't see her as a goat to be bartered and sold.
"Apparently, your father is not satisfied by one marriage tying us to the Stark's, and seeks to give your hand in marriage to Ned Stark's heir." Though she already knew this, Sybil felt herself falter. What little hope that she had was taken from her. She didn't want to stay in the frigid North when she was suited to a much warmer climate, but that didn't matter to her father. Nothing mattered to the king save for his precious Stark's. "I have tried to make him see reason. Not only will this marriage take you from me, but it is also a stupid political move based on his own whims rather than on forming an alliance."
Does he ever stop laughing? Sybil thought as she watched her betrothed – or soon to be betrothed – laugh merrily with their Greyjoy ward. He would be a good husband, that she knew, but it didn't feel right to her. And the North was too different for her to ever adapt. She would fight this marriage as much as she could, she decided. Her father would have to drag her down the aisle.
"I don't want to marry him," Sybil admitted, sounding utterly vulnerable and weak. The thought of leaving her mother frightened her, though the thought of being isolated in the North with a race of people so vastly different from her own frightened her beyond words.
In a rare display of maternal affection, Cersei rubbed her daughter's arm comfortingly. "And if all goes well, you won't have to."