Thanks for clicking on Forgive My Sins! I hope you enjoy :)
A/N (05/03/18): Thanks to everyone who has waited around for me to get my shit together and continue this story. I had to take some extended time out from fanfiction writing, but I'm slowly getting back into it now. For anyone still wanting to read this, then here's what you need to know:
I've almost finished editing all the chapters I previously had posted and the other chapters should follow. I didn't particularly like the direction I was heading in with Sybel, hence the reason for the editing. For those of you who had read my original chapters, you'll notice that the edited chapters have much of the same happening - some parts completely changed, some parts slightly changed, some new parts added in and some parts completely deleted.
As well, given the length of the show and my intention to follow the episodes, at least at first, I have made the chapters longer.
The next couple chapters will be posted in the next couple of days as I go through and finish editing them, and from there it will be new stuff. As always, please let me know your thoughts.
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Forgive My Sins | Chapter One: Brothers and Flowers (Winter is Coming)
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Sybel Stark was regarded by many as the hidden, effervescent jewel of Winterfell.
This had nothing to do with her appearance, though she could be considered to have a somewhat contained, non-traditional beauty about her with her thick, reddish-tinged brown hair, a curved frame and eyes the colour of dispersing soot. It was not the stunning kind of beauty, the kind that was glorious in its perfection and too lovely to look at, nor was it the kind that immediately drew the eye and was so blatantly obvious that it marked her out. Rather, it was the subtle kind that crept up on people and hit them suddenly; without warning; without notice, until they found themselves unable to look away, until it ensured their eyes would return again and again. It was the kind you found, rather than it finding you.
No, instead, it had more to do with the fact that she had a warm smile and a genuine concern for anyone she encountered. And even more to do with the fact that she was innocently oblivious to the way people orbited her, were drawn to her, and that un-pinpoint-able quality she held. A mix of soft cheerfulness, open amiability and a compassionate nature, that was altogether endearing to those she met.
So it was no surprise that, as soon as she stepped out into the frosty air, she had people clamoring to take the opportunity to speak with her, if only for a moment. They were all rushing to finish the last few preparations for the arrival of the King in the next half hour. When she was spotted, despite the urgency with which her mother, Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, had given instructions, they still found themselves passing within conversing distance of her.
She didn't realize the awkward smile Joseth the burly stableman gave her was awkward because it was so rare that he smiled at anyone. She didn't realize that the young, pregnant kitchen-hand, Janna, who had spent the morning scavenging for some flowers to brighten Sybel's room, didn't mind because she knew Sybel's reaction would be to gush at how thoughtful and sweet it was of her.
She didn't realize that the cheery grins and exchange of laughs between her and a few of the guardsmen were usually followed by talk of what it would be like for her to warm their beds. Especially once they noticed that the eldest Stark daughter had grown sizeable breasts.
She was oblivious and affable, probably more so than she should be.
Perhaps this was why her black direwolf pup, Inferno (aptly named, if she did say so herself), was wild and near-uncontrollable, quick to bare her teeth and attack anyone who came too close to her master too suddenly—as a complement. Inferno's suspiciousness and protectiveness complemented Sybel's trusting nature. The pup's gangly legs trotted along beside her owner, the white strip along the length of her snout flashing silver. Inferno was only a pup, and yet her back already reached to Sybel's thigh. So far, she was the largest of the pups, seeming to grow visibly bigger with each passing day.
Up ahead she spotted two of her brothers, Robb and Jon, and her father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, walking across the yard, and she hurried after them. All three of them were handsome; Robb, with auburn hair and a keen sense of honour and justice, Jon with near-black eyes and a solemn, guarded face, and Theon, with dark brown hair and an arrogant, cocky attitude.
White puffs of air formed in front of her face as she breathed the sharp Winterfell air in and out, shivering slightly. She wrapped her red coat trimmed in grey fur more firmly around herself, but the cold wasn't a shock. She was used to the bite in the icy air, and the way the land seemed to be permeated with a grey light, regardless of whether the sun was hidden or not.
She fell into step in between her brothers, glancing at them as they glanced at her. She smiled suddenly as she noticed they'd been shaved and sheared for the King's arrival, probably against their wishes. It wasn't uncommon for Northernmen to have longer hair and beards, giving them a wilder look that went with their lands; untamed and dangerous. Though, it had more practical advantages. Keeping warm, for one. Less hassle, for another.
The lack of beard highlighted Robb's prominent jaw.
"Who would have known my brothers were even remotely handsome under all that…" Sybel gestured at their newly shaven faces where their beards had been. Then she laughed, finding the word she wanted, "Scruff."
The people of Winterfell were moving to congregate in the courtyard to meet the King's arrival, and that was where her feet were taking her. She laughed again when Jon scowled, dancing her fingers lightly on his smooth cheek. Jon had a mop of curly black hair which, according to Robb, he loved more than any girl he'd met. And right then, it was cropped shorter than he'd ever had it before, his expression somewhat dismal. Sybel thought it funny that simply shaving their beards made them look younger, sweeter, softer.
"Oh, don't worry Jon, it will grow back." Sybel's own hair was pulled back in the typical northern fashion; the sides pinned back, the rest tumbling messily down her back in thick, dark copper waves. She had pinned a small red flower behind her ear, one of the ones Janna had picked to brighten her room, to go with her pale red dress and coat. It all matched with her reddish-brown hair, and served to make the pale ivory of her skin and the cool grey of her eyes stand out.
"I hear the Prince is a golden haired little prick," Theon taunted her, an overconfident, brash smirk pulling his lips as he teased her in the way her brothers teased her, though his teasing was usually cruder and blunter and not really befitting the brotherly kind at all. But like the universal intention behind all teasings, he just wanted to get a rise from her, and Sybel always, always rose to the bait, still far too easily provoked for a girl with two brothers about her age and Theon Greyjoy to contend with.
Most girls were anxious for the arrival of the young Prince, at nearly fourteen namedays, and Theon assumed she was just as excited as the rest of them. This time though, he missed his mark and Sybel snorted a laugh. Though her response wasn't altogether a surprise, as she spent most of her time laughing—a pleasant tinkling sound that was neither forced nor high-pitched—it was not what Theon wanted, and he wrinkled his nose in disappointment. Her reply did not dissatisfy, however. "If you are so desperate to gossip about the Prince, Theon, then maybe you should seek out Sansa. I have no interest in boys."
And they chortled at her then.
"'Boys'?" Robb mimicked, quick to grin. "Your taste runs more towards men, then?"
Sybel scrunched her nose at him, her cheeks pinkening as she shoved him lightly, "Shut up, Robb."
He made to shove her back playfully, but was interrupted by a vicious growl as Inferno darted forward, tackling Robb to the ground. Her jowls smacked dangerously close to his face, her claws digging through the thick material of his coat to scrape his skin as she stood on his chest.
"Inferno!" Sybel demanded, reaching forward to wrap her arms around the direwolf's neck and bodily yank her off Robb. Jon and Theon didn't move to help, knowing the wolf's temperament—they would be more of a hindrance, more targets that Inferno would try to attack. If Inferno listened to anyone, it was Sybel, but even then she found it difficult to completely tame the animal. She tried to make her voice a warning. "Inferno! No!"
There was a low whine, and Inferno let Sybel pull her off Robb's chest. The pup continued to watch Robb though, ready to make a move, should he attempt another attack on Sybel. Jon helped Robb to his feet, and he brushed himself off, annoyance flashing in his eyes and perhaps a hint of fear. "You need to learn to control her."
Mostly, Sybel thought the pup was all growl and no bite—she had never actually bitten anyone seriously; she was just fierce and protective. Sybel shook her head ruefully, smoothing the fur of Inferno's face back and holding her head so she was forced to look Sybel in the eyes. Intelligent amber eyes blinked back. "Stay."
Inferno sat on her haunches and remained there as the four walked away. Sybel lifted her chin pointedly at her older brother, saying in a lofty voice, "Perhaps you should not have tried to attack me."
He grinned, glancing behind him swiftly to find Inferno had wandered off, before moving to try to shove her again. She darted away from him quickly, moving to the other side of Theon, who was walking beside Robb, putting the most distance between them as she could. "You're the one who made us tease you, saying you have no interest in boys. What do you want with a man?"
They laughed at her again, and Theon leaned down to say in her ear, his voice low so as not to carry to her brothers, and resonating with a hint of suggestion, "Do you want yourself a man, to show you how to fuck?"
Her eyes flashed up to his in surprise, though she supposed she shouldn't be—she had heard him talk with Robb about his conquests with Ros and the other women at the brothel, in great detail, and it was not the first time he behaved more intimately with her than he should. He found it fun to taunt her, and his sense of humour was sometimes a bit cruel, but Sybel knew he was harmless. He just liked to get that reaction, the indication that his words had an effect. Knowing that, she still couldn't stop her blush.
Theon grinned pointedly, smug at the red colouring Sybel's cheeks. The way she puckered her lips slightly in indignant embarrassment had him imagining what those lips would look like wrapped around his cock, and Theon knew he was not the only man to notice how her body had curved into that of a woman's. He considered paying a visit to Ros to sate the thoughts Sybel provoked.
She was a proper noblewoman, and was therefore meant to be unexposed to the foul language of men. If her mother or father had been present then, Theon would be reprimanded for speaking in such a way in front of her, and to her for that matter. But Sybel would not tattle on him, he knew, ever one for keeping the peace in her home, and so he found his tongue far more liberal around her than it should be. It gave him a debauched sense of excitement to watch her blush when he said words like fuck and cock.
It reminded him of her innocence. And he doubted there was a man who would not want to bed a virgin.
He spoke again, just as low as before, for he was not stupid enough to test her brothers' limits when it came to their sister. Particularly Sybel, who was both considered a woman and unaware of what that really meant to the men around her. "Or do you mean to say it's girls who get you excited?"
The flush crept down her neck to disappear under her dress at his implications, and she regained her composure. She tried for a lofty voice again, attempting to tease him back, as if she was unaffected by the way he spoke so calmly of such things and thought him rather unsophisticated. Unfortunately, she lacked the conviction needed to deliver a scathing remark or mocking statement well, and it came out sounding more self-conscious and mortified than the pretend, haughty-superior voice she was trying for. "Watch your tongue, Theon. If it keeps flapping about like that, one day someone will take it upon themselves to do us all a favour and cut it out."
His grin widened as she skipped away from him to where Jon and Robb had pulled ahead of them slightly. Her brothers eyed Theon suspiciously, having heard her words and wondering what he'd said to her to make her say that. Then Jon and Robb looked at each other, seeming to be thinking much the same thing, before Jon looked to Sybel and gave her a smile that spelled more mocking for her. When her brothers wanted, they could sure tease her like they would never get the chance to again.
"We've seen you looking at the captain of the guard." Jon began.
"Is Jory man enough for you?" Robb finished.
As Sybel spluttered, embarrassed at having been caught—for he surely spoke the truth, and her attempts at denial would be useless, considering her poor ability to lie—Jon's usually more somber face cracked into an even wider smile. He laughed softly at the way his sister brought their teasing on herself, quite by accident. They all knew she had been commenting on the fact that the prince was younger than herself, and nothing beyond that.
"Robb!" She cried, swatting his hand away as he reached around Jon to tug playfully on her hair. Of late, Sybel found herself more attracted to older men, than the boys running about Winterfell. She didn't know why, nor could she puzzle it out properly in her head, and for a second, she wondered if it was as Theon had suggested. Was it really the experience a man had that she craved? She blushed harder. "I had only meant that Prince Joffrey is of no interest to me."
"Because he's a boy," Robb reminded jokingly.
She grumbled, though she wasn't particularly annoyed. Sybel rarely became livid—she could remain remarkably calm in most situations, and where others would yell angrily at their insulting and taunting, she would just laugh it off.
Jon was usually the one least likely to mock her with the insinuations her poor choice of words could create and usually the first to comfort her when her face became so hot he feared it would catch fire. "We're only teasing you."
She'd much rather hurry away from them, but she knew that would only incur more laughter at her expense. So she jerked her chin up and ignored them as they entered the large courtyard. It was already full of people, and they made their way to the front of the crowd, Jon clearing a path for her to walk through more easily, to where her family would stand.
Her siblings lined up in order of descending age beside their father—save for baby Rickon, who stood beside their mother on the other side of their father—so Sybel stood between her older brother Robb and younger sister Sansa. Jon was relegated to the row behind them, with Theon, as he wasn't her mother's son and did not get the Stark name. Though, Sybel held him in the same regard she did for her true brothers.
There was a commotion about Arya, the youngest Stark girl, being missing right before she turned up wearing a helmet and causing laughter at her antics.
There's no taming that child, Sybel thought, her lips twitching, trying to form a smile on her frozen face, as she watched Arya shove their younger brother Bran out of the way so she could fit between him and Sansa. Her youngest sister detested anything ladylike; she was the wild daughter, who would rather be a knight than a lady. She was a complete opposite to their other sister, Sansa, who was delicately beautiful and proper, with flaming red-orange hair and an ability to glide places on a graceful cloud, like the winds had picked her up and carried her there.
Sybel was neither as graceful as Sansa nor as rough as Arya. She couldn't profess to have any interest in wielding a sword—though, she had learnt to use a bow and arrow when she was younger than Arya, but she had long since forgotten how and currently had no inclination to re-learn—but sometimes she found being a proper lady to be exhausting.
Just learning to do the things she would one day be expected to do was exhausting and complicated. She didn't know how her mother managed it, most of the time. A lot of effort went into dressing right, and wearing her hair right, and even more into learning to be graceful, knowing how to run a household efficiently and manage the people working for her, and to be proficient in ladylike tasks, such as needlepoint. There was also the art of speaking—it was a delicate line to tread when speaking to people of power. Causing offence could be disastrous, which was why there were right things and wrong things to say and do. Those were the topics Sybel's lessons consisted of with her Septa, and all were important for her to know. She looked forward to the day when she would wed and bear children, and have the sound of childish giggling and little feet running echo down the halls of her own household to manage; it was her duty as a woman. But it was more than a duty. Sybel wanted to be a mother, a wife. She could picture herself, her babies and children clinging to her and laughing and playing. That was what she looked forward to most. She adored children.
Her brother's lessons with Maester Luwin were more likely to be on topics of war and strategy and battle training. Differentiating between right and wrong, acting with honour, and governing a people with justice. As a woman, she had little use for such lessons, and she had never been particularly jealous of that. She did not want to learn about war, or how to wield a sword, and she did not especially want to govern a people or have the responsibilities associated with that.
Perhaps the only thing she envied of her brothers' lessons was the history. Her Septa taught her Westerosi history—the important periods where change began, the important figures who instigated that change. The history of their people was an important topic for everyone to know, and so she knew what she needed to know. But she was never expected to read as deeply and thoroughly as her brothers were, and she was never taught much more than that or beyond that.
When Sybel heard the sound of horse hooves, it knocked her out of her musings and she straightened slightly, her hands nervously brushing down the front of her coat. It was an unconscious habit she had; smoothing down her clothing—there was something reassuring about touching the familiar, thick material of her coat or dress. It helped clear her head when she was thinking, or calmed her when she was nervous or anxious.
She didn't know why. It just helped.
The sound of hooves was getting closer, louder and she thought there must have been many travelling in the king's company. Their visitors poured through the castle gates, a steady stream of shiny steel and horses. At the front were soldiers, then came Prince Joffrey, lean and golden-haired, who took in his surroundings with an uninterested expression. Though, that expression became a smirk when he spotted Sansa, his eyes lingering on her. Sybel could hardly blame him and nor was she surprised, not when Sansa cast such a graceful picture of feminine beauty.
Sybel glanced at her, then at the prince, and back again. They continued to watch each other, and Sybel had to press her lips together to stop from grinning. She subtly nudged Robb, who spotted her poorly-suppressed smile straight away, looking in the direction Sybel nodded her head in. His face remained stoic as he eyed the Prince and their sister.
Then the royal carriage rolled in, followed closely by King Robert Baratheon, who was rather fat, with round cheeks and a bushy beard that tangled with his hair. He was helped off his horse and the courtyard lowered to one knee. The King stomped his way straight to her father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, before indicating that he could stand up. They all stood up.
"Your Grace," her father said gravely, in deference.
"You've got fat," was the King's reply, and Sybel had to suppress a grin. They laughed and embraced, old friends, and Sybel's eyes moved to rove over the large group, feeling the weight of many stares back at them, too, assessing the Northerners.
The carriage door opened, and the Queen and the two other royal children, Mrycella and Tommen, stepped out. All the royal children were blonde and attractive, just like their yellow-haired mother.
Behind Prince Joffrey was a huge, heavily muscled man, with a gaunt, severely burned face. Sybel thought she could see bone under the marred, cracked flesh. She inwardly winced, eyes stuck to his scars. She looked away before he noticed her staring, feeling queasy at the kind of pain he must be in.
"Where's the Imp?" Arya wondered, referring to one of the Queen's brothers, who was well-known around Westeros to be short and lame, but incredibly clever.
"Arya," Sybel warned, looking around Sansa's form to pin her with a serious stare. "Don't call him that."
"Why not?" She asked, not thinking to lower her voice. She frowned, not understanding, while being stubbornly defensive. "He is an Imp, isn't he?"
"Will you shut up?" Sansa whispered hotly, nervous. "Why do you embarrass me?"
"I don't—!"
"Hush now," Sybel cut in gently, her eyes on the Queen as she approached, before their argument could escalate. Because it could; it often would—Arya and Sansa were just too different to see eye-to-eye, with Sybel often the peace-keeper between the two. And it would be no good for them to insult the Queen's brother.
"What have we here?" The King asked, walking to stand in front of Robb and extending an arm to him so they could shake hands. "You must be Robb."
He moved down the line of children, saying to Sybel next, "You have your father's eyes."
"Yes, my King," she replied, her full lips rounding up into a smile and she curtsied.
And when she looked back up, the King had moved past and she was looking straight at the newly arrived Jaime Lannister, his helmet under his arm as his horse trotted toward his twin sister, the Queen. He was the one they called Kingslayer, with hair of beaten gold and wide, well-muscled shoulders like he'd been training to walk through a battlefield and claim victory since he was born. He probably had been, now that she considered it.
She felt her stomach dip to her toes, and suspected many of the women in the courtyard were experiencing the same thing. He was absurdly attractive—a balanced mix of beauty perfectly fitted against a backdrop of masculine features. Tall, and strong, and everything a knight ought to be. He was just as handsome as they said, she mused to herself. Maybe even more so.
Definitely more so, she thought when his lips twisted into a smirk and she had to bite her lip to stop from sucking in a harsh breath and drawing unwanted attention to herself. Absurdly so.
His face picked up and carried an expression of arrogant disdain, eyes roving over the sights of Winterfell like he found them lacking and disappointing and all together not worth his time. And Sybel suddenly felt defensive of her home, the feeling welling in her chest (she noted, though, that even contemptuous, he was more beautiful than any other man she'd ever seen in her life.).
It was not an uncommon reaction from a Southener, though. The Northeners loved the North, and the Southeners loved their South, and the two were so vastly different (both the people and the land) that it could hardly be surprising. She could not help but frown at him though. If he just gave Winterfell a chance, if he was really looking; he could find the beauty in it; he could find what kept them there. If he would only look. From the outside, the North was rather drab and grey, but there was a harsh magnificence to the North that was only visible if you let yourself see it.
She was still frowning at him when his eyes swept over the Stark family, and she quickly looked away, her heart hammering for a second at the possibility of being caught. She studiously ignored the feeling of eyes on her, a prickling sensation over skin that made her uncomfortable, and instead she looked around at almost anything else. She spotted Jory, standing in the row behind her, beside Theon and Jon. He was a rugged man, with the kind of appearance that always left her in the middle of a decision as to whether he was handsome or not.
She smiled warmly at him when he saw her looking, and he winked at her. She flushed and quickly turned her head to face the front again, ever so slightly irked at the way people seemed to like to make her blush. Perhaps, she pondered, it is just too easy to make my skin warm as if I'm standing beside a fire.
She was most certainly the epitome of a blushing maiden.
Then the King demanded to be taken to the crypts, and her mother was left to finish greeting the visitors herself. The feeling of being watched left her.
She was startled out of her head, when her mother laid a hand on her arm, "Seek out Maester Luwin and make certain he has seen to my last instructions. And have him tell the serving girls to begin to boil water; I assume our guests would like to bathe after such a journey."
"Yes, mother," Sybel nodded and turned to move back through the crowd, not needing Jon's help to forge a path. This time, facing the people, they could see her coming and they parted easily for her, murmuring greetings to her and dropping their heads in a respectful nod to her.
A little girl, no older than three namedays perched on her mother's hip reached a hand out to touch Sybel's hair as she passed, her small fist curling around the spiraling tendrils as she looked at the red sheen of them with wonder. Coppery hair wasn't the most common trait in the North—most had hair in varying shades of black, brown and dark blonde. It was her mother Catelyn who had brought the colour to the North.
The mother—Ilia, if Sybel remembered correctly—apologized profusely, attempting to untangle her daughter's tiny hand from the strands. Sybel laughed, waving off her apologies as she smiled at the little girl, making faces until the girl laughed. She pulled the little red flower out from behind her ear and showed it to the girl. The little girl's eyes watched the flower closely as Sybel gave it to her, tucking it behind her small ear, and she giggled childishly.
Ilia untangled her daughter's fingers and Sybel tickled the girl's neck, making her burst into another round of contagious, childish giggles, before continuing on her way.
.
.
.
Sybel turned the page of her book slowly, the leather binding creaking just slightly, and the pages emitting a faintly musty odor. It was a strikingly familiar combination that always shot to her stomach and gave her such a strong sense of home and comfort that sometimes she thought maybe she read just for that feeling.
The book was propped up by the pillows on her soft bed as she lay on her stomach, pouring over the scribbled black ink and intricate sketches, fingers lightly trailing over aged parchment. She had borrowed the book from maester Luwin, and it was among the many that currently resided in her room, some stacked in little piles and others sitting by themselves, still open at the last page she was reading at.
Whenever she got the opportunity and when she was not too tired, she would spend her nights reading, on any topic she wanted. Her interests tended to shift so that she would get part the way through one book before choosing another, and so there was never fewer than four books in her room at any one time. She liked to look at maps and see just how expansive the world was and just how much of it she would never see. She liked to discover the intricacies of different trades and customs of different people she would likely never encounter. To be perfectly honest, she would read anything because more than anything, she just liked to learn.
She did not overly like the forced learning that her Septa conducted, with the quizzing and the structure, but she liked to know things. Random things; little things about many things; like which species of horse had a disposition most conducive to hard racing and discipline, or what combination of spices and herbs could wake someone from a dead faint.
Her mousy-brown haired handmaid, Alyse, chattered effortlessly in the background as she moved around the room, tidying and straightening. She was tall and lithe, her body conveying that she was not unused to manual labour, and she moved with a practiced swiftness that Sybel doubted she would ever master herself. "Janna said maester Luwin said that she only has two months before the baby comes you know, she thinks they're going to name him Joseth after her father if it's a boy, or Adela after her mother if it's a girl, but Janna told me she's sure it's a girl."
Sybel frowned, shifting her eyes away from the book in front of her and twisting to look over her shoulder at Alyse. "But how can she be sure?"
"I don't know, m'lady," the slightly older woman shrugged, organizing some of the books around the room. She slipped pressed flowers between the open pages as markers—to which Sybel smiled at her thoughtfulness—before neatly stacking them in order of most recent addition to Sybel's room. "But you know she guessed that her first child would be a boy and she was right about that, too."
She barely gave Sybel enough time to mull this over, before she started speaking again.
"She's in the kitchens right now, and I don't know how she's managing it in her condition, m'lady—it's absolute chaos in there at the moment, what with the King's visit and all. Hilda is half-crazed, I swear it, and she keeps raving to the other kitchenhands that if she gets thrown out on the street for their ineptitude then they would regret it," at this, her lips quirked up at the cook's antics, highlighting the light, almost washed-out blue of her eyes, and her perpetually cheery disposition. "But in truth, m'lady, the kitchenhands need the encouragement otherwise they'd stand around and gossip all day. Honestly, it's shocking, m'lady, even the lads join in. I was there before I came here. Janna said she hopes that if her babe is a girl, that she's as beautiful as the Queen."
Alyse sometimes spoke like that—in large chunks, and with little pause. She would go off on tangents and become distracted by another circumstance or situation or event she wished to discuss, before following it along and working her way back around to her original topic. It seemed like she always had so much she wanted to say, and not enough time to say it in, and so she had taken to talking in circles like that so she could at least say a little of everything.
And so her handmaid was usually talking, and really it was one of Sybel's favourite things about her; how easily she filled the silence with her melodic voice that was neither unpleasant nor tiring to listen to, and how she could talk about anything that took her fancy. She liked to listen to Alyse talk—Sybel herself had always been more of a listener than a talker, and she especially liked listening to those who tended to say exactly what was on their mind exactly when it was on their mind, like Alyse.
Sybel, over her years, had come to discover that she was an especially dependent person. That is, she constantly sought out contact and communication with others—which was not to say she didn't enjoy moments to herself, but it was more so that she thrived best on social interaction. She was not entirely sure how she would fare if forced into solitude, and she was thankful she never got sent to her chambers for being troublesome when she was little. And so, relying as she did on making connections with other people, her approach to conversation usually consisted of her asking more questions than answering them, which did not bother her in the least. People liked to talk about themselves, and Sybel liked to listen. She liked to know the people in her life.
Alyse sighed wistfully, her attention now on Sybel's wardrobe so that she could help her prepare for the welcome feast, flipping through the hanging dresses as she spoke. "I wish I could've seen them arrive—but oh! M'lady, of course—you did!"
Sybel nodded her head absentmindedly, Alyse not really needing her to respond much more than that, never really needing much more than a small comment or sound of agreement or encouragement to continue. "Mm-hm."
It was almost calming in the comfortable flow of words Alyse created, though it had taken them many months to be able to do so with ease. But years later, they were especially fond of each other, and considering their fairly similar ages and consistent proximity, Sybel supposed this easy, trusting companionship was a natural byproduct. So it really was all too easy to hear the grin in her handmaid's voice without needing to look at her. "Before I left the kitchens, they were also talking about how attractive they thought ser Jaime must be."
Sybel chortled, partly in surprise, partly in embarrassment, and her eyes flashed up to look at Alyse, a flush fighting to cover her cheeks. She supposed though that there were plenty of women working in the kitchens, so it shouldn't be such a surprise that this was a topic of conversation. Alyse's light blue eyes were on her, gauging her reaction with intent, searching for some give-away, some morsel of information relating to that particular ser, before prodding Sybel further when she was not so forthcoming. "Oh come now m'lady, don't tease me by keeping quiet. Is he as handsome as they say?"
At the question, Sybel felt the need to look away under the other woman's scrutiny, and so focused anew on the somewhat withered pages of the book. She sat up and crossed her legs, pulling her book back into her lap and flipping through the pages with no real intention—more so that she had something to do with her hands—in a bid to buy her time before answering. Sybel's head dropped down to stare blankly at the open page. Was he as handsome as they said? Thinking back to the tall knight she'd seen ride into the courtyard, with the beautiful golden locks of hair, green eyes, and altogether disdainful look, she knew the answer without needing to really contemplate it at all. He was far more handsome than any man ought to be.
"More so," Sybel said conspiratorially, almost brazenly because she trusted Alyse not to spread what she said, pinning her with her wide grey eyes. It had always slightly unnerved Alyse that eyes that should be so cool, that should hold a cold glint like the steel of a sword, could actually hold warmth instead. "He is more handsome than any man I have ever seen. But I don't think he thinks much of the North."
Alyse made an unimpressed noise in the back of her throat, defensive of her home, and that was enough to dissuade her of any further mention of Ser Jaime Lannister. Instead, her eyes fell on the book resting in Sybel's hands and her overactive mind moved to the next topic. "What're you reading there, m'lady?"
Sybel's face lit up as she flicked back a couple pages with intent. "It's a book of flowers; you know they have many uses beyond just purely visual beauty. Lowering fever, helping with headaches, aiding with digestion. They're so much more than just pretty flowers sitting in a field. Come, look at this!"
Her handmaiden wandered over to the bed, bending at the waist to properly inspect the pages Sybel was holding up for her to see. Where the book was opened at, the two pages side by side held similar drawings of what looked like the same flower. Alyse squinted and frowned, not grasping what Sybel was so intent on her seeing. "They look like the same flower, m'lady."
Sybel nodded. "They are, in appearance. But they're completely different plants. This one—" she pointed to the flower on the right page, "is poisonous, but this one—" she pointed to the flower on the left page, "is perfectly harmless. Isn't that fascinating?"
If she thought about it, Alyse would think that what she liked most about Sybel was how easily she shared; toys, knowledge, love, food. Her charge, younger by only a few years, was always eager to forge connections in the simplest of ways, sharing among them, and she did it with everyone, as effortlessly as breathing.
"It is m'lady, but how are you supposed to tell them apart?" Alyse agreed.
Sybel grinned like she was glad Alyse had asked (though Alyse always asked the right questions—it was almost an uncanny knack she had). "The poisonous one has tiny little pores on the underside of the petals, the size of needle pricks, that make it feel a little rough to the touch."
"Seems a good thing to know, if one can kill you," Alyse nodded slowly, before moving back towards Sybel's dresses, simultaneously judging the material and colour, and it was a subtle reminder that they needed to begin to get Sybel ready for the welcome feast. Sybel closed the book and watched her pull out a long, blood-red dress that reminded Sybel of roses. She could've chosen the dress herself and made an appropriate choice for the occasion, but she usually left these decisions to Alyse who had a better eye than her, a better vision for how something could look. "I think the red dress tonight, m'lady. It'll look lovely with your eyes."
Sybel stood, moving behind her dressing screen and Alyse followed, hanging tonight's dress over the wooden paneling of the screen before unbuttoning the fiddly ties on the back of her day dress. Sybel held the length of her auburn curls over her shoulder, out of her handmaid's way, the material slipping down off her. She stepped out of the material and Alyse picked it up, brushing off lingering dust before moving away to re-hang the dress. Sybel was pulling on the blood red dress as there was a knock at her door and she heard Alyse move to answer it.
The door was pulled open and she vaguely heard the low timber of a man's voice before Alyse called out, "it's your lord brother, m'lady."
"Which one? The bothersome one or the broody one?" Sybel grinned to herself, fixing the sleeves, before poking her head around the dressing screen, curls tumbling down and swinging in an excited manner, for a moment to see Robb step into the room. "Ah, the bothersome one."
Alyse retuned, grinning, and finished fastening her dress as Robb grunted incredulously, "the bothersome one? Why am I the bothersome one?"
Every now and then, Sybel managed to be the teaser, rather than the victim of their teasing. She rather enjoyed those moments.
"Because you ask whiny questions like 'why am I the bothersome one?' and because you tease me incessantly, and," Sybel laughed, "because you are bothering me."
Unfortunately, those moments were often short-lived.
"Are you still mad because we know you think very highly of Jory?" Robb laughed, easy going and practically immune to any and all of her attempts. She honestly didn't know why she tried, when he always found a way to turn it back on her. "Don't worry, sweet sister, your secret is safe with us."
When Alyse finished, Sybel stepped out from behind the screen and fixed her brother with an agitated stare, placing her hands on her hips. He was reclined on her bed, hands braced behind his head, as he regarded her with an expression that said he could out-tease her. He also did not miss the red of her cheeks, and it made his grin grow.
She shook her head, deciding against a retort. Her brother knew her far too well and was much more inclined to use that knowledge against her for teasing purposes than she liked. And that was why she was less likely to be the teaser; because she was also less likely to go in for the kill. "Can't you see Alyse is attempting to make me presentable for the feast tonight?"
Her brother's eyes softened then as he looked at her, just as sweet to her as he was taunting. "Red has always been your colour."
She blushed at his praise, eyeing her feet, her lips twitching into a shy smile; she never properly knew what to do with compliments. She knew the correct response was thank you; had been taught over and over the correct way to reply, but she still had difficulty uttering those two, simple words. Instead she said, "Don't be silly."
He opened his mouth to respond, but she quickly cut him off. "Did you come to see me for any particular reason, or just to bear witness to Alyse's talents at work?"
Alyse beamed with pride and tutted at her, moving around her in a circle and pulling on bits of the dress to make it sit right.
Robb's expression, however, turned grim as he sat up, and she moved to perch next to him on the bed when Alyse was done. "Mother and father have been fighting about whether Jon should be at the feast. Mother doesn't want him there and says that a bastard's presence would only be an insult to the King." Sybel winced at the callous word in reference to her gentle brother. "Father managed to talk her down, but Jon doesn't want to cause any trouble so he says he won't go. He's so stubborn and won't listen to me, and I thought maybe you should talk to him, convince him to go. He deserves to be there too, just as much as we. I don't see why he should brood in his room while we have fun—and you know what he's like, he will brood."
Sybel looked doubtful that she'd have any luck at this, considering Jon's history of being just as stalwart as their father. "Of course I'll try, but he can be impossibly obstinate; if he won't listen to you, I hardly think he'll listen to me. What can I say that you have not?"
There was a cunning glint in Robb's eye, and Sybel thought he was possibly more strategic than she'd given him credit for. "Maybe nothing… but then, everyone has a hard time saying no to you, sweet sister."
Sybel frowned at her older brother, but before she could get any words out, he stood and walked towards her door.
"I will let you finish preparing in peace, dear sister." And then he winked right before he closed the door behind him, "you will need all the extra time you can get if you're going to look even remotely presentable."
She threw a pillow at him, but it bounced against the door instead and he left laughing at her terrible aim. Sybel groaned at the further embarrassing information her brother now had against her and flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mind quickly jumped to the task Robb had laid at her feet.
What could she do to convince Jon of anything? He was well known among the Stark children to be stubborn and brooding, and so very nobly self-sacrificing. Once he got a notion in his head, he'd stick to it and follow it through, even if it wasn't what he wanted.
Alyse interjected softly, moving forward from where she had been hovering in the background. "I'm sorry m'lady, but I really should start your hair now if you are to go in search of your brother."
She guided Sybel over to a chair to begin tightening and pulling at her hair. It wouldn't take long to shape her hair to how Alyse wanted it to sit considering how simple Northern hairstyles were, and all the while, Alyse chatted away and let Sybel think.
.
.
.
Sybel found Jon hiding in the stables. Or, well, he wasn't so much as hiding—Jon didn't hide from anything; he was no coward and he'd likely be mildly offended if she ever uttered such a thing to him—as he was sequestering himself away to be out of sight and out of mind.
"Here you are," Sybel said brightly, holding the ends of her dress up just enough so that it wouldn't brush over the straw and dirt strewn around. If Sybel got her dress dirty so soon after Alyse had gotten her ready for the feast, the handmaid might just murder her.
The smell of horse and hay was thick in the air and she understood why Joseth always smelled so strongly of it whenever their paths crossed. Currently the stable housed more horses than usual, as the arrival of the King and his party also meant the arrival of all the horses carrying the King and his party. Stable boys ran about quickly, trying to tend to as many of the magnificent beasts as quickly as possible, feeding and watering and grooming, and a few sent her friendly smiles when they noticed her, asking if they could help her with anything.
"Sybel," Jon said, surprised. "What are you doing?"
He stood in one of the end stalls, running his palm down the strong neck of his horse. The tall beast nickered at the attention and Jon's calm presence among the busy workers before pressing his black head against Jon's hand for more.
"Well," Sybel began, side-stepping a pile of manure and coming to lean against the stall door to fix him in her sights. His Stark eyes, the exact same steely grey as hers, were watching her closely, and she was hit with an unsettling feeling of seeing herself. She wondered if it unsettled him too. "I was going to pick some flowers for Sansa and Arya to wear in their hair to the feast—or well, most likely for Sansa to wear in her hair," she added when he gave her an odd look at the mention of both Arya's name and the word flowers being used in the same sentence that did not involve her crushing them underfoot. "I saw Sansa eyeing the one in my hair earlier today and I thought I'd get some for them too," she explained.
The gesture did not surprise Jon, because if any of the Stark children were to do something unthinkingly kind-hearted for any of the others, it would likely be Sybel. Jon nodded, "I'm sure they will appreciate it."
He was not sure whether Arya would appreciate it, to be perfectly honest, but he doubted Sybel was unaware of how Arya would react to the suggestion she put flowers in her hair.
"I'd have asked Alyse to go with me, but she's busy with preparations for the feast, and Septa Mordane is no doubt busy wrangling Arya into a clean dress, so I was wondering if you'd escort me. If you're busy though, I will ask someone else. Maybe Robb or Theon…" she trailed off.
"No, I'm not busy," he shook his head and pat his horse in farewell. His horse didn't seem too pleased at him leaving, and Jon shrugged as though there was nothing he could do. "I'm never too busy to help my sister pick flowers."
Sybel felt the need to add, almost as an apology for taking him away from the animal, "it is only to the godswood and I've been there many times by myself, but mother wouldn't be especially happy if I went alone when we have so many visitors at Winterfell."
He nodded as though this was a smart action, and as he stepped out of the stall she automatically and unconsciously linked her arm through his, resting her cheek against his arm for a moment in a show of affection. He watched her do this, watched how easy it was for her to touch and hold and express, and felt a sudden shot of panic, fleeting and momentary, grip his gut. "If you ever need an escort anywhere, then all you have to do is say; I'm never so busy as to say no."
As soon as the feeling disappeared, he felt foolish at the urgent way he'd spoken, but his reasoning was solid. She was gentle and kind and sweet; it would be far too easy for her to be taken advantage of, and with so many strangers at Winterfell, so many people he didn't know, whose attentions he didn't trust, she was also too readily available; too accessible. The numerous unfamiliar faces they passed on their way to the godswood was just further proof of this, and he thought that in the end, it was better to be overly-cautious than to be retrospectively regretting not being overly-cautious.
"You are so sweet to me," she smiled happily, reaching up to cup his cheek with her free hand. She sent him a playful look. "When you're not teaming up with Robb and teasing me, that is. I think he's just a terrible influence on you, you know, because you rarely tease me when we're alone."
His lips quirked up in his version of a smile at her mock-offended tone; the expression was small, but the corners of his mouth shifted upwards enough to make a noticeable difference to his usual serious expression. He smiled the way their father smiled; seldom full-bodied or hearty, and never taking up too much of his face. Which was not to say the smile was not genuine; only contained in the face of someone with bigger things to worry about that were not so easily pushed aside. Things that lingered on his face, in his eyes.
He led her across the courtyard, and she continued to ponder on this. "Or perhaps you don't tease me when we are alone to lull me into a false sense of security and make me trust you. Make me think you're on my side to catch me unawares and attack when I'm least expecting it."
He exhaled though his nose in a short chuckle. "You make me sound underhanded."
She widened her eyes at him. "You're not denying it."
"Well…" he trailed off playfully, shrugging and grinning at her, and after a second she dissolved into laughter, not able to keep up the charade and he shook his head at her pitiful attempt, that smile pulling at his lips again. "You are terrible at pretending."
She did not even bother denying it.
They made it to the godswood then, and it was silent, almost eerie. She knew her father liked the godswood, liked the solace he found there, so Jon probably did too considering how alike they were, but it had always seemed… cold to her. There was an old, earthy musk that settled in the air, and the trees, fat and mossy, had roots that were embedded deep in the soil, connected to the very beginning. The godswood was different to the forests around Winterfell—that forest was lively, it was younger. The godswood was ancient and thick, it was sacred land, it was worshipped land, and there was a density to it that made it seem dark and strong and wild. The trees had been there for many ages and would be there for many more.
Sybel didn't let go of Jon's arm as they entered. She couldn't figure out what it was exactly that seemed to stop her from feeling completely at ease among the old gods her ancestors prayed to. Perhaps it was because she walked among the trees idly, rather than falling to her knees in reverence, or becoming pensive and somber like Jon. She did not go there to pay homage to her gods, but hummed among the trees and felt the old life tingle her skin, and perhaps they shunned her for that. She did not know.
But she thought it was the weirwood tree, the heart tree, though, that caused her the most unease. Or specifically, it was the face carved into the primordial wood. It seemed to watch her closely, and Sybel did not like to be watched. She preferred to do the watching.
"This way," she said, avoiding the heart tree and instead ambling along the path slowly in the opposite direction until she came across a small pond, not daring to wander along much further. The Godswood was massive and uncontrolled—she could not be sure she would not find herself off the path and lost amongst those eerie trees. "I like those ones."
She pointed to the dark blue flowers that tended to grow around the pond, with the thin stem that curved and bent so that the petals were upside down and shaped like a bell, as though the medium sized flower was too heavy for the delicate stem to hold up, and she wandered over to pick them. "Blue always looks lovely on Sansa."
Jon nodded in agreement, crouching down beside her to help. His larger hands looked awkward trying to carefully pick at the flowers without ripping them up, but she appreciated it nonetheless. When they had enough, they stood and looked around for Arya. Anything too big and she'd outright say no.
She'd likely say no, anyway, Sybel decided. No, she knew Arya would say no to the flowers; the very idea was so very un-Arya that Sybel thought she may die of shock if her youngest sister were to agree. In fact, Arya would likely yell at her for even suggesting it. So while there was really no point in bothering, Sybel did it anyway, simply so that Arya knew she'd thought of both her sisters when looking for pretty things to put in their hair. The last thing she wanted was for Arya to see flowers in hers and Sansa's hair and for her to think that Sybel hadn't even thought of her.
"Those ones?" Jon asked, pointing to a thicket of tiny white flowers with five petals that seemed to be the ones least likely to cause Arya offense.
Sybel moved towards them, only to step on the ends on her dress and trip herself; it was her newest dress and her seamstress had left it just slightly too long; longer than usual and longer than she was used to, probably in the vain hope that she would spring up to be tall and elegant like Sansa already was. She fell forward, her hands shooting out to brace herself, coat shifting to her sides, and she landed on her knees with a painful, jolting thud that would bruise. She groaned, partly at the jarring, unexpected pain, partly in shock that she'd managed to fall over herself.
"Sybel! Sybel, are you okay?" Jon asked quickly, bending down to reach for her and help her to her feet. Her knees throbbed, her legs suddenly feeling weaker and shakier than before.
"Tripped by my own dress. I almost feel kind of betrayed." Sybel groaned and looked down at her dress, brushing at the dirt only to find it packed down into the material and not budging. She sighed at her luck before glancing up at Jon, "If I am not at the feast, it is likely because Alyse has finally had enough of my clumsiness that ends up making more work for her and has decided to just off me and save herself the hassle."
Jon snorted at her and pulled Sybel to her feet, making sure she was steady before kneeling down to pull at the white flowers. They really were so simple and so beautiful; perfect for Arya even if she would refuse to wear them.
"Are you excited for the feast?" Jon asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, very much so." Sybel smiled, before turning her head away and biting her lip. She wasn't sure how she was going to get Jon to attend the feast. She didn't want him to miss out on the festivities; hated how sometimes he was excluded from things because they didn't have the same mother. Sybel would never had noticed her privilege if she didn't have a half-brother, and being so conscious of it now meant she always tried to make sure Jon knew that she wanted him there, wanted him included, loved him like she did her other brothers. The same went for everyone she knew though; if Sybel could include them, she would. In fact, she would often include others when she probably shouldn't.
The silence extended between them and Sybel saw her chance of convincing Jon to attend the feast slipping away, so she blurted out, "you will dance with me, right?"
He looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. Jon favoured Arya; everyone knew it, saw it, how he doted on her, how everything she did made him vaguely proud. But Jon had a soft spot for Sybel and he felt his resolve wilt slightly. Just slightly. Even so, he didn't look at her as he replied, knowing what he'd see in her big grey eyes. "I don't know, I think I might not—"
Sybel cut him off, knowing what he was going to say.
"But you have to," she pleaded. "You know Robb will not dance with me; you know he will not, he's so stubborn about it – he'll just laugh and drink with his friends, and Theon will dance with me, but you know how he stands on my toes – I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"I'm not such a great dancing partner either." Nor would she be short of partners.
"Yes you are!" He raised an eyebrow at her disbelievingly. "Okay, but you're better than most. Besides, I like dancing with you. At least you've never dropped me."
Silence followed her words. And then he sighed, "Alright then."
Sybel frowned, feeling a little guilty. "I don't want to force you, Jon. I only meant that I like when you are at celebrations too."
"I know," his mouth sipped into a lopsided grin, "it will be a good time. I only sighed at how persuasive you are."
Sybel beamed brilliantly.
...
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