WILDFLOWER
MAELLERY
5 YEARS PRIOR
Her spirit won't be broken. She repeats this to herself when the nights seem darkest, when hope seems fleeting. She was sent here to break, she remembers. Her father would have prefered another son, or at least an obedient daughter. But instead his youngest child only brought him turmoil and disappointment.
She's been at the motherhouse in the Reach for over a year and while she is not forced to take vows to the sept, she still feels like a caged bird in the midst of women who bestow their judgement on her. She is no maid and she is reminded of that with their chastising glares. It is rare that she is allowed the pleasure of the outdoors and even in her chambers she feels as though she been locked in a dungeon for her sins.
Her room consists of a small bed, a cot really, that seems to creak every time she thinks about moving. There is a small table in the corner and a pitcher for washing. Her cloak hangs on the wall by the door next to her one plain dress of faded brown. The others wear white, dresses of modest design that show their purity and devotion to the gods. She is meant to look like an outsider, a cautionary tale of a wayward woman.
Most nights she stairs at the ceiling, imagining she can see the night sky. She can almost see the stars if she squints hard enough. She lists constellations until her eyelids grow heavy and she succumbs to sleep. By morning she will feel the wind on her skin again.
She's not sure how long she's been asleep when the shouting stirs her. There is only ever deafening silence in the night and she wonders if she's overslept through breakfast. But the shouts are of pure agony, and more surprisingly, they belong to a man.
She climbs out of bed quickly, slipping her boots over her feet as not to feel the damp stone floor beneath her toes and quickly pulls her cloak over her nightgown as she emerges from the room. There is candlelight flickering from the down the corridor and she hears the bustling of the sisters as they try to calm the man's cries.
"What's going on?" she whispers as septa Marta rushes down the all, her usual white plaited hair is instead flying about her as she comes to an abrupt halt at her words.
"Be of some use, child," she scolds. "Grab some cloth from the storage room. Cleanest you can find. And be quick about it."
She does as she's told, bolting in the opposite direction of the screams, though her eyes wander back over her shoulder as she races through the halls. The storage room is neatly organized, she ought to know since she's the one who keeps it this way. She grabs as many clean scraps of linen as she can carry, stacking them snugly in her arms as she grabs several nearly worn wax candles as well, shutting the door with her back as she rushes back down the hall.
The motherhouse is small, it doesn't take too long to get from one end to the other. She feels her footsteps falter as she comes closer to the cries and she pauses completely at the doorway to the infirmary where Septa Marta and the others stand over the man, crowded by men in dark cloaks as well.
"Don't just stand there, Flowers. Get over here," Septa Bronwyn hisses, reaching out for the linens, her hands already covered in blood.
Maellery walks closer, determined not to look like a dumbstruck idiot and so she rushes through the crowd to hand over the cloth. Her eyes widen at the man on the cot. He's covered in wounds so angry the could have only been earned through violence. They aren't fresh, days old, perhaps even a week. But still they fester and they bleed with every poke and prod of the septas as they work over him.
He cries out again, his arms waving around him wildly when Septa Bronwyn uses her tools to reach inside one of the holes in his chest.
"Hold him down. I'll do more damage if he isn't still," the gruff woman shouts.
Maellery realizes this order includes her and she crouches down onto her knees as she tentatively grabs the man's right arm. She's careful around the cuts and she winces when she realizes she presses down onto an angry bruise. His cries of agony elicit real tears that trail down his filthy cheeks and she feels an ache inside of her at the sight of them.
"Why you brought him here, I'll never understand it," Septa Maud grumbles to a man in the corner. "He's been like this for too long. You should have sought help elsewhere."
"Only following orders, Septa," the man says, his tone more concerned than overbearing as he keeps glancing at the man whose hand wraps around Maellery's wrist. "We did what we could to get him here in one piece." The woman scoffs. "There was nowhere else we could take him."
"Do you realize the danger you put this establishment in?" she says, this time her voice an almost whisper. "If he's found here…"
"He won't be, we'll see to that."
The man's hand squeezes at hers now, so hard she is certain it will leave a mark but she does not cry out, knowing he doesn't not realize the pain he is inflicting due to his own. She wonders who this man is and why he's made to suffer in this way.
"Lerie, hold this linen here," Septa Bronwyn cries, grabbing Maellery's free hand and placing it hard upon a blood soaked cloth over the man's chest. "Press hard. Don't let go until I tell you, do you understand?" Maellery nods.
The woman's voice is as steady as her hands. Meanwhile, Maellery's shake atop the linen and she tries to pull her free hand from the man's arm but his fingers grip her hand tightly to his own. She uses what leverage she can manage, leaning over the wound as she presses down on his chest and while his cries die down slightly, his breaths are uneven and his skin is damp with fever.
"Septa," she says in concern.
"Not now, girl." She glances back at the man and this time his eyes are open, locked with her own. They are blue, beyond blue, like the sea near the Arbor. "This is going to hurt, my boy. Brace yourself."
She's not sure why, perhaps out of comfort or sympathy, but she tugs at his hand slightly so that his hand is now wrapped around her own. And when Septa Bronwyn's long tools lower down towards the bloody opening in his chest, she squeezes. He nods once, his eyes still locked with her own. He squeezes back.
And this time he doesn't scream.
PRESENT DAY
MAELLERY
Her hands are raw. The water has wrinkled them past recognition and they ache from scrubbing. Though she's been doing this for so many years now, she forgets what it's like to have soft hands. She wonders if they'll ever get used to it. The water is hot enough that it nearly scalds her as she plunges the linen down into it upon the washboard but she welcomes the heat on her sore muscles.
Across the courtyard she hears the sound of a hammer that has been at work since before dawn. Even without a window the sounds of progress in the early morning crept through her walls and eased her out of bed with her own sense of purpose for the day.
She suppresses a yawn with the back of her arm, damp with sweat in the morning heat. With this she earns a disapproving look from Septa Marta who hangs the clean linen on the line nearby. Marta is nearly always finds a reason to disapprove of Maellery, likely due to the fact that no one else seems to mind her.
It's been six years since she's come to the motherhouse and despite her being an outsider to the lifestyle of the women she lives with, they seem to have taken to her. But Maellery doesn't want to feel at home here even though it's become one. She wants to go back to Highgarden. She wants news of the world that doesn't come second hand through secret slips of paper from her brother.
She's sick of being caged.
The hammering is louder now, so much so that it startles her slightly and she slips when she tries to stand and knocks over the bucket of water and soap. She doesn't bother looking up to see Marta's smirk, but instead searches out the source of the hammering and notices a paused hammer hovering over the roof of the motherhouse.
There, Robert Webb is perched precariously atop the establishment, hammer in hand, looking down at the cause of the small commotion. Her.
"You alright there, Lerie?" he shouts and Maellery fumbles as she picks up the bucket and the wash which is now covered in mud and grass. She clears her throat as she glances back up at him and nods.
"Just fine, Webb. Don't mind me!" she shouts back and with her confirmation, he manages a chuckle as he returns to his work on repairing the roof.
Nearby, two novices are sitting folding dry linens but their eyes are focused elsewhere, towards the roof where Webb and his hammer work and one of them blushes a furious shade of red. She can't blame them. Underneath the dirt and grime of his injuries upon arrival was a man of beauty. But his handsome features are clouded by his usual brooding, the deep-set frown on his mouth a constant reminder of whatever misery that was his life before the cottage at the edge of the motherhouse property. When he does smile, there is still a bitterness hidden behind it.
She's not the only one who notices the girls and their blushing faces because for once Marta isn't glaring at her and the woman clap her hands. The girls are jolted back to reality.
"Come, girls. It looks like rain. Bring the linens," the woman says, her voice firm and they do as their told.
Maellery looks up at the sky and while it does indeed have the feel of a stormy morning at hand, she knows she won't be let off duty quite as easily. The novice girls follow Marta inside whilst Maellery starts the process of hauling more water. She carries her bucket to the small well located at the south part of the courtyard.
She ignores the creaking sound of the ladder as Robert descends towards the ground. She's not weak by any means, but hauling the water is a chore she still finds daunting and she groans as she struggles with rope that drags water up from the well in her oversized bucket. She pauses to once again wipe the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her dress and before she can grab the rope it slips from her grasp. She tries desperately to hold on but it rushes through her grip so quickly she feels the burn of the rope as it rips past her skin. She hisses, using what is left of her strength to stop it before it reaches the bottom and curses when she fails.
"It seems you're having a tough morning," she hears from behind her but she doesn't turn, only begins the long haul once again. "Here," he says and his hands grip the rope with ease from around her.
"I've got it," she insists.
"I know."
"No, really. I can do it on my own."
"Yes," he says again, tugging with limited effort. "I know."
"Don't you have a roof to be fixing?"
"Aye."
"Well I expect you ought to fix it before that cloud breaks open, shouldn't you?" She is frustrated that her words sound angrier than she means for them to. She is angry, but not at him, angry that she knocked over the bucket in the first place, angry that her hands now sting from the rope burn on her palms.
"Probably should," he admits as the bucket appears over the edge of the well and he steps around her to grab it. "But as it happens, I needed a break."
She doesn't respond with words, only gives him a once over with her eyes and realizes his face is indeed red. She reaches for the bucket but he doesn't give it to her, only hauls it over the edge and carries it back over to her washboard and pile of soiled linens. She's rubbing her hands together when he sets it down and he spots her discomfort and grabs one in his own.
He's direct, Robert Webb. He wastes no time with pleasantries and certainly doesn't bother with motherhouse protocol. Not for her, anyways. He knows she doesn't belong here, just like he doesn't. Yet here they are, standing in the courtyard of a home of pious women with her hand in his and his closeness likely has the novice girls squealing with disbelief.
"You'll survive," he says, and his voice isn't harsh but he doesn't smile either so she's not sure if he's attempting a joke.
Her hands aren't as hard and calloused as his, but it's clear she is not idle from the wear on them. Five years has changed them both and yet still she knows very little of this man before her. She glances over his tunic, soaked in sweat from the morning heat, and sees a dark patch on his side. Her brow furrows as she pulls her hand from his and reaches out for it, noticing the hole where he's clearly been cut.
"What happened?" she asks quickly, lifting his tunic without hesitation. Her lack of decorum will be the talk of supper.
"It's nothing," he says, glancing down at it. "I barely feel it. I must have cut it earlier in the barn."
"You're bleeding, Robert," she says sternly, using his given name which she rarely does. The sound of it causes his eyes to snap up to her face curiously.
She grabs a linen from the clothesline, pulling it down and ripping a piece of it off with enough force that it does not snag. It's still damp from the wash but it will do well enough, she thinks. She places it against his wound and he flinches slightly, a small hiss under his breath that he tries to hide and she's glad to know underneath all of the brooding that he's human somewhere.
She stands there, placing pressure on the wound as she's been trained and she can see familiar scars from a time when she had done this before. He's taller than her, but not so much that she has to strain her neck should she look up at him. She doesn't though. She can't take her eyes away from the scars, the mangled flesh from wounds that nearly took his life and she realizes things could have been very different for the both of them had he not shown up here that night.
"Hold this," she says, her voice soft, caught slightly in her throat but he hears her and he does as he's told.
She reaches for the rest of the cloth, tearing it in a much longer strip and she pulls it around his back and then wraps it around his chest. It's just long enough that she can tie the end and it will do until he sees Septa Bronwyn for a proper dressing. At least this way he won't bleed all over himself before he gets there.
"You should go to infirmary," she explains.
"I would rather not bother anyone for something so small," he says quietly as she adjusts his hand, putting it back down at his side while she fixes the cloth covering the cut.
"Bronwyn was just complaining that she didn't have nearly enough to do this morning," she says. "She'll be glad for the company."
"Glad for someone injured?" he asks and this time she's certain he's joking despite the lack of change in expression.
"Your gender certainly makes you a more appealing patient," she says, meeting his eyes and though she hopes it will be enough to break his stony features, his lips barely move from their straight line and she let's her own fall deeper into a disappointed frown.
The rain clouds above break loose and thunder interrupts whatever he's thinking about saying and perhaps that's for the best. She turns back to her washing and while the water is no longer boiling she can get a few more things washed before the storm gets too bad.
"You coming?" he asks and she glances over her shoulder as she crouches down over the bucket.
She doesn't hide the small smile at the corner of her lips when she answers, "I'll survive."
ROBB
He does eventually finish the roof though he's certain it will need repair in another week due to the storm's delay. The leak in his own roof will have to wait until the storm has passed and he can fix the patch he's started in the barn.
His side starts to pain him as he rests, sitting at the table with his bread and his parchment. He signs the letter, the ink smearing slightly as he signs his name, his real name, at the bottom. The only reason he signs it is because he has confidence no one will ever see it. He'll just place ita way, folded in the chest with the others, letters he's written to those who will never see it.
Jon, his mother and father, Bran and Rickon. He pauses, tracing his fingertips over the name at the top of the paper and he swallows. Talisa.
Five years worth of thoughts and regrets stuffed away in the worn chest under his bed and he wonders when he will begin to feel like a new person. Already, he knows he's changed. He's not the same naive child he once was, though perhaps that is for the best.
Thunder rumbles in the distance and the rain picks up outside his cottage. His dwelling is nothing to complain about and yet he does still long for home. He tries not to think of Winterfell and of winter that has surely arrived by now. Instead he does his utmost to remain here, in mind, inside the cottage on the edge of the motherhouse land that he stands caretaker for.
The septas saved his life. The septas gave him shelter.
He knows part of that is a lie. This shelter, this home of sorts that he's made for himself, isn't exactly a home. It's a cage of its own to keep him away from the world. Out of sight of men who might want to kill him. They all think he's dead anyways, he remembers. Robb Stark, murdered by the Freys. He knows little of what they say, only that they say he's dead due to his own stupidity.
They aren't wrong.
Here at least, he can be Robert Webb, a lowborn steward of a motherhouse in the Reach. Here he has very few people relying on him. Here is not King in the North. Only a coward.
Robert Webb is no fallen hero. He is the son of a wool merchant, a peasant who is little more than a failed soldier in a war that has long since been over. The War of the Five Kings, he recalls. He wonders how many kings are even left.
He has thought about leaving, but not for years. There is no reason to leave now. He doesn't even know if there is anything to go back for. The septas are good at keeping news from him, what little news they receive of their own. The last thing he remembers hearing is that Joffrey Baratheon died at his own wedding feast.
Robb can't help but find it disheartening that the evil prick met his end nearly the same way as Robb. Murdered at a wedding. Betrayed by people he thought were loyal. All because they were both too stupid to see the truth.
A knock at his door pulls him from the dark thoughts of what might have been and he glances up to see Septa Maud through the small window of his cottage. He motions for her to come in.
Maud is gentle old woman. She's small, draped in the plain robes of her order and yet the shadow of great beauty shine through her eyes. He has only ever known her in her older years but Robb knows she must have once been breathtakingly beautiful. Her face has wrinkled with age but the whisper of a young woman is still there.
"Septa," he greets as warmly as his voice will allow. He clears the ache in his throat away with a cough as she sits down at the table across from him.
"Good Evening, Robert," she says with a smile and shakes her head when he offers her a cup.
"It must be important if you're out in this weather," he mentions and she pulls the hood from her face though her wimple still covers the rest of her hair.
"It's Lerie," she says softly. "I sent her over to the farm some time ago. Were it any other day, I'd not spend so much as a second thought to worry over her, she likes to take her time. But with this storm and it nearly being dark I had thought perhaps you could take one of the horses and help hurry her on her way?"
Of course it's Lerie, he thinks. Septa Maud's words are too kind when she says the young woman likes to take her time. Lerie likes to dawdle. She is a hard worker but any time spent away from the motherhouse might as well be an excuse for an extended trip.
"You know the second I find her she'll say she can take care of herself," he says and Maud smiles.
"Stubborn girl, Lerie. Always has been," says Maud. "Even so, it would bring me peace to see her arrive back safely."
"Of course," Robb says, standing from his place at the table and folding the letter to Talisa and placing on his bedside. "I'll go at once."
"Thank you," she replies and stands as well, pulling her hood back over her covered hair as she starts towards the door. "Do take care, as well. It'll do us no good to have you both out of sorts and sick with fever."
"Yes, Septa," he replies and she rewards him with a kind smile before leaving.
Robb waits until she's gone to place the letter in the chest, amongst the others and his fingers linger over the rows of parchment that lie unopened and unread.
-
He could be in bed, he thinks. He could be in bed, resting his overworked body after a day such as this and yet he finds himself following Lerie Flowers into the forest per Septa Maud's instructions. He doesn't like to concern himself with the women of the motherhouse but because they have been kind enough to save his life, he reasons that he owes her his help whenever the woman calls.
Dusk hung over the valley when he found her. He was content enough to shout out to her when he saw her crossing the field. But as she continues to look over shoulder as she descends into the cover of trees, his curiosity gets the better of him. And so he doesn't shout. He leaves the horse at the edge of the woods and when she is a safe distance away, he follows her.
Lerie thinks she's quiet as she makes her way through the trees. Truth be told, Robb doesn't even need to follow too closely because he can hear her stomping around with as much grace as a bear.
He stops when he sees a lantern, bright and held by a man of considerable height who stands next to a steed as dark at the night that now surrounds him. Robb does not move from his place behind the large tree, for fear that perhaps his own steps will be heard in the thicker brush so he stays a fair distance away and only watches.
He is not so far away, however, that he misses the joy on her features as she wraps her arms around the man's neck. He is taller than her, by some distance, and his arms wrap around her small frame as well. But his expression does not match Lerie's, not even when he places his lips to her forehead.
Robb doesn't see her smile much, though he has no real right to admonish her that when he can barely remember the last time he found anything worth smiling about. But it suits her, as if a piece of her had been missing and suddenly Lerie reunited with a grin on her lips makes him understand her more. But the smile soon fades and whispers out of earshot cause a whole new expression that Robb only remembers seeing on the night of his arrival in the Reach.
Fear.
She is shaking her head as she backs away and Robb feels something inside of him that makes him want to inch closer. But he stops himself, holds his ground, as she suddenly falls to her knees. Even from his hiding place, he can hear her cry out and Robb's brow furrows in confusion. The man crouches down, his knees bury themselves in the mud as well and then pulls her to his chest.
He's known her for five years. Both of them seemingly trapped in this place against their will and yet he willfully keeps his distance. He doesn't not want friends here. But the sight of Lerie in pain reminds him that while their interactions are few, she's as close to a friend as anything he's got. He may not want to know her, but he certainly does not want to see her this way either.
Robb spends so much time debating what to do that he doesn't notice when they both stand. Lerie still sobs but she no longer seeks comfort in the man's arms as she urges him to leave. But the man doesn't want to leave, not without her, and Robb sees him mount the horse as he begs her to come with him, reaching his hand out to pull her up behind him.
Robb's heart races. How long will it take him to reach her? He can't be sure. But he's only certain he can't let her leave like this. He doesn't get much time to consider this, however. When the horse leaves, she's not on it. She stands, emitting silent sobs, as she clasps her throat and watches the man leave. He only looks over his shoulder once before the lantern, and his figure, disappear.
He doesn't move, doesn't breath, for several moments as she then wails into the darkness. The heartbroken cry tears at something inside of him and he starts to feel hints of things that were buried long ago. He waits as she cries and despite his reluctance, he leaves her with her tears in the darkness until they grow nearly silent.
The storm has nearly arrived, thunder and lightning rumble through the skies and he feels cold raindrops as they fall, in warning, of what is to come.
When he shifts slightly, it's enough to draw her attention and her eyes shift, wide, as she searches the darkness for the source of the sound. Robb doesn't bother hiding, preferring not to frighten her more than she already seems and so he steps out into a clearing. She lights her lantern and holds it up, squinting.
"It's me," he says, his voice loud enough that she can hear and she relaxes only slightly.
"Did you follow me?!" she asks, her voice corrupted by her cries and he steps closer.
"Septa's orders," he admits and she sighs, lowering the lantern as she grabs hold of her dress and starts towards him. Her frown is twisted in anger.
"You had no right," her voice is soft, hoarse, despite the fury she wishes to emit.
"I had no right to refuse," he says as she nears him and as she steps closer he can see the redness in her eyes, tearstained as they are. She wipes at them with the sleeves of her tattered gown.
"Leave me alone, Webb," says Lerie, her words more of a grumble, and shoves past him.
He reaches for her arm, his brow furrowed in concern but she rips it away from his grasp.
"I said, leave me alone!" she shouts this time and as she steps backward she stumbles, sliding downward onto rain-soaked leaves.
He doesn't reach her before she slips, the lantern falling and the dim lit candle fizzles out on the damp forest floor. He runs after her as she rolls down the side of the path, careful not to slip himself. He discovers her face down, auburn hair strewn about her and covered in leaves. She winces when he helps her up and though she doesn't pull away this time, her eyes represent the same challenge.
"You're hurt," he says, lifting the hem of her dress and he sees the blood dripping down the stockings on her leg from the cut on her calf. "Can you walk?"
"Of course I can walk!" she says, her voice rising. Her first step is more of a limp and he doesn't allow her a second before he scoops her up into his arms, ignoring her protesting. "I said I was fine!"
"Stay still, will you? It will be quicker and less eventful for us both if you just let me carry you," he says, feeling his own voice rise to match her own. "If you weren't out here stumbling around in the dark…"
"Well if you hadn't followed me…"
Neither bothers to finish their sentence. Silence has always suited them better and so they let it hang between them instead of half-hearted insults. The only sounds are Robb's boots as twigs crunch beneath them and Lerie's half-sobs as she tries to hide them behind Robb's shoulder. He doesn't bother asking her if she's alright because she'll only scold him if he does.
And it's obvious she's not alright.
It's obvious that whatever the man on the horse told her is ripping her apart.
It's a fair distance to the motherhouse and the weight of her starts to aggravate his bad leg. It doesn't act up often, but he's already spent most of the day crouching atop a roof and with the added weight and the circumstance of hiking through the woods, the pain is expected. But he doesn't put her down, only holds her as she sobs and carries on through the forest until he reaches the horse he's left at the edge of the valley.
He helps her onto the horse and places her hands around his waist as they set off. She doesn't grip him but she does not move her hands either as they sit at his hips and her head slowly leans against his back as she stares out into darkness.
It's a short ride back as the low light of the cottage come into view, but by the time he sees it the clouds have erupted the storm heavily promised and both are soaked through when they reach the barn. She doesn't protest, perhaps lacking the strength, when he lifts her back into his arms and carries her towards the cottage.
"I'll just set you down here while I fetch Septa Bronwyn," he says to her when he steps through the door. Lerie's head pops up.
"No," she says, her voice is quiet but there is urgency in her words. "Please don't."
"If you're worried about what the sisters will think...," he tells her.
"It's you who should be concerned if they catch you with a woman in your cottage. No doubt they'd prefer you a celibate tradesman whilst living on their property," she says.
"They know I'm of no harm there," he answers. She raises an eyebrow.
"You said you were on Septa's orders," she recalls. "Who sent you?"
Robb sets her down on the chair, of which he has only two in the small cottage. He takes the other, lighting the candle on the table so he can once again see her and her red eyes.
"Maud," he admits and she sighs.
She pulls at the hem of her dress and slides the stocking down her leg. Robb watches the fabric reveal her pale skin and forces himself to glance away. Lerie, however, stares down at the wound and her brow furrows at the sight of it. But she only lets the discomfort take over for a moment before she is ripping at her sleeve, the cleanest part of her dress, to create a bandage.
"I don't suppose you'd reconsider letting me wake Bronwyn?" he asks and she shakes her head.
"Don't bother. It's not a scratch worth all that effort."
"Maud will want to know where you were."
"And you'll not tell them what you saw," she instructs and he looks at her curiously.
"What makes you so certain?"
She doesn't speak as she wraps the cloth around her calf, much like she did earlier that day with his own wound. She's concentrating, not quite as effortless as the healers at the motherhouse but she has learned enough to take care of things such as these.
"You'll be doing me a kindness," she says, her voice softer this time and her eyes meet his.
Robb knows Maud will ask him what he saw in the forest. He prefers honesty but he knows he harbors his own secrets he'd prefer kept to himself. He gains nothing by taking away whatever Lerie wants hidden from them as well. And he's not entirely certain it will do the Motherhouse any harm either.
"What's it to me if you sneak off to see your lover?" he says, agreeing to keep her secret but her tension does not ease. "And anyways I doubt they'll find any reason to disbelieve me when I tell them that when I found you, you'd fallen into a ditch."
"Is that a jest, Webb?" she asks and he can feel a small tug in the corner of his mouth but he does not allow himself a smile.
When he glances back to her she is pulling her dress back over her legs and he feels his shoulders relax at his sides. She glances up at him, the momentary laughter gone and replaced by the weary look from the forest and she places her hand at her throat. She tries to clear it with a cough, but it sounds weak as it leaves her, more like a broken sob but she stops herself from erupting into more tears.
"He's not my lover," she whispers when she can and he shrugs.
"It is not my concern, Lerie," he replies and she reaches over and he watches as she places her hand, slowly and hesitantly, over his arm.
"He's my brother," she says finally and Robb's furrowed brow rises as he considers her words.
"Highborn brother," he mutters as he tries to remember the interaction in the forest and the face of the man with the light colored hair who held Lerie Flowers with his lips to her skin.
"Bastards tend to have those, don't they?" she says, her voice catching and he stares down at her hand that distracts his curiosity for only a moment before he takes her hand in his and places it back in her lap.
"Why the secrecy? I'm sure the Septas know you have a brother?"
"He's not allowed here. If the Septas knew he'd come, that he'd seen me…" she starts but then trails off as she looks at the floor, her eyes searching. He watches her, waiting for her to continue but her words never do. He is ready to speak when she stands abruptly, hissing as she stands on her injured leg but limps towards the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I have to leave," she says quickly.
"Let me at least walk you back. I won't tell the Septas what you…"
"No, Webb. I have to leave the motherhouse."
He pauses, letting his eyes meet hers.
"What do you mean, leave?"
"I'm not bound to this place any longer. I have to go."
"Why didn't you just go with him, then?" he asks, referring to the man she called her brother and she shakes her head.
"He's not going where I am," she tells him.
"And where is that?"
She doesn't answer right away and he wonders if she's deciding whether or not she can trust him. He doesn't try to convince her though he's already made up his mind he wouldn't reveal to the Septas what he's seen in the forest. But the long she stares, the more he feels his heart pounding, waiting for the answer and wondering if it will be the truth or a lie. A lie would hurt, he thinks, though he's not entirely sure why it should matter. And yet still, he waits, hoping for the truth.
"North," she whispers, swallowing hard. Her eyes rise, this time they are hard as they lock with his. "I have business in Barrowton."
The word stills his breathing. North, she had said. He hears it again in his mind and she watches him carefully.
"Barrowton?" he asks, forgetting not to shift in his seat but it creaks as he does.
"You should know it well," she says, her eyes narrowing. "Northman," she adds and Robb feels his chest sink.
How long has she known, he thinks. What does she know?
"I…"
"Don't look surprised," she says, cutting him off. "I knew you were a Northman the moment I heard you speak."
"I'm…"
"You don't have to explain your secrets to me, Webb." He doesn't respond, only looks to the ground and she sighs. "Now, I have to go. Tonight. Tell the Septas if you wish, but can't…"
"Wait," he finds himself saying and it comes out of him so abruptly that it startles the both of them. He steps closer. "Not tonight," he whispers and her brow creases. "They're already worried about you. If we both don't show up soon they'll have people looking for us."
The crease in her brow grows.
"Us? What do you mean, us?"
Robb swallows, watching her red eyes search his own.
"I can't stay here either. Not if you're gone."
"Me?" she asks. "Why would it matter if I were here?"
"You're the only one like me, here. You don't belong here. Neither do I," he explains. "Give me two days and I'll take you to the North."
"I don't need your help, Webb."
Robb looks away at the sound of the name she uses and momentarily wonders what his name would sound like on her lips. He hasn't heard his name in five years. He's starting to wonder if it was ever his name at all.
"It will be much easier if we travel together."
"What do you gain from this?" she asks him and he can hear the tears returning in her voice. The sound catches in her throat and his hand clenches at his side to keep him from reaching out to comfort her.
"Home," he says simply. "I get to go home."
UPDATE 5/17/18: I have already noticed discrepancies in my own story thanks to a reviewer with a keen-eye so I went back and fixed them. Also, the same reviewer pointed out that the time between season 7 and the Red Wedding is probably closer to three years. That's probably true though it's so tough to find a timeline that is accurate or anyone who agrees with it so I opted for five just because there is such a huge amount of content between season 3 and the present day of my story. So as is the nature of fanfiction, I took some creative liberties...namely that Robb is alive and that he's been "stuck" in the Reach for five years. At this time, Jon has just been pronounced King in the North (he does not know this yet). Please feel free to ask me to explain anything else, though hopefully more will become clear in my writing.