Title: "Cat of a different coat"
Summary: Arryn Baratheon wanted to be a just man…a good man.
Characters/Pairings: Arryn Baratheon.
Warnings: Arryn Baratheon might make you feel feels.
Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise. None. At all.
A/N: This is an AU, it's based on the babe that Cersei Lannister lost, the only true child she had with Robert Baratheon. I just had an idea, and wanted to explore it, so here. Arryn Baratheon and I hope you like it.
The cool air was soothing to Arryn Baratheon's face. His cheeks were still hot from the fever, the very same nearly took him from this world as a babe. His ladymother often reminded him of it, especially when he would slip up and disobey, when he'd act no better than the butcher's boy.
His hands shifted over the bed, fingers grasped the furs tightly, "Please…" He whispered, hoping someone might—
A cloth slipped over his forehead. He opened his eyes partially; a smiling face stared at him. His ladymother was there, to heal him once again. She smiled. Her smile was beautiful. Arryn could actually see her eyes upon him, with such kindness she never saw him give his father. He wondered if his mother even loved his father, he knew Cersei loved Ser Uncle Jaime.
"Oh, my sweet boy." Cersei Lannister touched his cheek, caressing. She was warm, quite like him except her warmth wasn't making him dizzy.
"Your grace—" Someone spoke, interrupting.
"You had us worried. Your fever came on your name day." Arryn's mother informed her son, her sweet boy, just as she was sweet—and soft too. Robert would never describe her as either.
Arryn Baratheon tried to speak louder than a whisper but his throat was sore. It ached, much like most of his body. Had he fell asleep? The time passed quickly when he took to bed from an illness. Too often, his grace would say. It made Arryn blame himself often.
If he was stronger…he'd be better.
Cersei ran the cloth from his forehead to over his cheeks, dampening them even more. His tears and sweat had done that, even his hair were stuck to his face. He could barely pay much attention to that, his gaze on her face.
She made sure to always watch over his illnesses, like she did for the others. That was her greatest virtue—her love her children. What was it Uncle Tyrion said? Not virtue…redeeming! That was it. Her redeeming quality. It'd made Arryn smile some. Uncle Tyrion was full of well knowledge, no matter what his ladymother said of him. Arryn didn't like the term imp at all…though he never corrected his mother out loud, did he?
"You knew better than to be in the cold." Cersei spoke again, glancing to the side. Her face changed some, that same look she used when in thought, whenever his mother was in deep thought—it made his fingers twitch, like tiny needles pricked them. Lannisters deep in thought never ended well…
"Rain is not cold." Arryn disagreed, a slight frown that faded just as it had come. The raven prince was finally able to shake his head without feeling dizzy. His lips twisted some, in a slight frown, to stop from coughing.
She had looked at him that time, a look he was familiar with. Disapproving.
He glanced away. He realized who was in the room with them. Oh Gods. Not the Grand Maester. Not Maester Pycelle. Anyone but—…The man had on a cloak that made him mirror a monk and a beard to have one think him a wizard. It was ridiculous. The elderly man smelled of something sour, it made everything feel bitter on Arryn's tongue.
Arryn stared for as long as he could muster the sight of this inside his head.
This actually wasn't that long, after he felt his mother's fingers tilt his head back. Still gentle but determine, if that even made sense anymore. It was hard for him to properly think with the throbbing inside his head and the warmth spreading through his chest. It hurt.
"You mustn't spend so much time outdoors during storms." Cersei frowned when Pycelle cleared his throat, "What is it?" She looked at the elderly man with great distaste.
"It's just…The boy, your majesty."
Prince Arryn Baratheon is sick. That's what the man meant, Arryn had heard it from different faces but it was all the same.
If he had died as a babe, then King Robert Baratheon wouldn't have to waste time on him.
"What about him?" Cersei asked with a look of contempt.
"You understand he is still fighting the fever, you touching him could-"
"I think I understand when my son is sick. I've been at his side since he took to bed." She still wore a disgruntled stare upon her face.
The fair lioness that his mother was still held a very sharp tongue—even his grace was not spared from it. No matter even if it was Robert Baratheon himself. She still held onto the cloth, pausing in her actions. Her free hand, fingers were curled into her palm.
Her hair was pinned up today, one of the few things he began to notice. That and how he wore a loose red shirt, strings undone. Lannister Red. That's the first thing that came to mind.
The sounds of birds were heard. Was it morning? He glanced at the window while his mother berated the most annoying man ever.
He licked his lips; they'd feel dry again eventually. Arryn sighed softly. No, regretfully, it wasn't morning. The moon was still out and the stars still twinkled.
His eyes shut again. A sudden burn went through his chest again. He coughed, harsher this time. All eyes on him once more, as Cersei sighed too.
"You need to rest. To regain your strength, my lion." Cersei tried to smile again yet something was different this time.
Just as Arryn took another deep breath, the door opened. In stormed King Robert Baratheon. Arryn felt his shoulders stiffen right away, trying to sit up but a hand pushed on his chest; it made him lay back down.
What a sight Robert must've had, Arryn all covered in furs, paler than a Stark and wearing Lannister Red again. His freckles barely visible, even with the visible shirt he wore. Arryn tried to make his breathing seem less rough, to not appear as sick as he really was. He wanted to be strong like Robert was, Jon Arryn was. To not be weak.
"Ah, boy's awake." Robert near looked relieved but then he looked at his sweet ladywife. Cersei stared at the furs, deep in thought.
"Why in blazes didn't you tell me, woman?"
Cersei lifted her gaze, to look at her husband. His grace's frown deepened, which made Arryn's heart only beat faster.
"Because he just woke up." Like she was speaking to a child, "I didn't have time to run to you, Robert." Her tone was unnaturally calm.
"Where were you?" She challenged, "Not here. Like I was. No, we all know his grace is too busy…defending the weak, protecting others." His mother looked away sharply, back at him. The cloth moved over his chest.
Arryn gasped softly. He hadn't expected the cold on his chest. The raven boy fluttered those long lashes, glancing at his grace. The room was filled with tension. The Prince was use to it.
Robert still glared daggers at Cersei before he shook his head.
"Gods, woman. You never change." Robert didn't spare another look at either of the trio as he headed to the door.
"And change that shirt on him. He doesn't need to be wearin' that damn Lannister red all the time." And the door opened only to slam shut.
Arryn hadn't expected much either way, last time Robert showed any affection to him was when he embarrassed Littlefinger in front of the council and Robert slapped him on the back in approval. He was eight.
So much for a family comfort, Arryn groaned. The cloth was removed from his chest, damped quickly in the bucket beside them. He felt his forehead chill again then the cloth was put back. A sigh of relief escaped him. It was nice, to feel even the slightest comforts when ailed with trouble.
The room was quiet, exception being his heavy breathing.
"Get his medicine." Pycelle moved as fast as he could, which wasn't much really; handing her the vial.
"Leave."
"Your majesty—"
"Leave." Her tone raised some. It sent a chill through Pycelle most like, Arryn saw the flinch.
He did as told that time.
The vial was opened a moment later, her hand on his shoulder, "Drink this." She nodded.
In a place like Westeros, most would be distrusting of this…suspicious of the bottle. Which Arryn was, because just look how blue it was.
"What is it?" He made a face. His lips pursed.
"It'll make you better. Please. Drink it, let me." The vial was placed at his lips, and after a moments' hesitation he parted those lips. Cold liquid went down his throat, and everything felt cool inside him for the time being.
His mother smiled still, from what he could see, she was genuinely concern. She brushed his raven locks from his face, tucking them behind his ears. She showed concern for his well being, as any mother should.
"Sleep, my son." Fingers brushed his jaw, to his chest. Her hand was placed over his heart, and could she feel how fast it was beating?
"Rest." Cersei pulled away, nodding. She was missing her smile, her lips pressed together so firmly that it looked out of place. Her stare blank but he couldn't exactly tell where she was heading. His eyes shut again.
His chest raised some, and fell. He felt a heaviness in him, which grew and grew until his eyes shut again. Sleep overtook him, much like the majority of battles he couldn't be the victor.
And Prince Arryn slept.
When those who sleep, sleep with fever they dream. Much like Arryn Baratheon did. It felt odd, his dream-was it a dream? It was still odd and cold, but he was walking through fog. His fingers brushed the fog, trying to capture it in his palms but to no avail, he failed.
His feet brush the grass, and it feels wonderful on his flesh. It soothes him; it suppresses the fire within him. But then…his feet are colder, something more than grass beneath his feet. Arryn looked down, and saw that snow was at his feet but he's never seen snow before—
A flutter above him, he looked up quickly. There was nothing although the clouds in the sky, he could scarcely manage to see those, the sun was not anywhere to be seen. Where was everyone? Where were the castles and his family, his books—? There wasn't in the place he was, besides trees and fog.
He continued forward, trudging through the maybe woods. He felt his hands scrape along the trees; the roughness of them, not smooth like the ones outside King's Landing at all. They were tall, and he could barely see the sky because of their greatness. They're grey, and look like they've been here for years.
It's so cold; he's never felt this way before. There's a sense of…something made him wanting more—curious. He's sure the drumming in his ears is just his heartbeat. Boom, boom-it actually scares him. BOOM. He wanted to cover his ears, to block out the drumming but his fingers dug into his trousers. His eyes glanced at what he wore, it was all red. Lannister Red.
Arryn stopped subtly when he came to open patch of grass, trees surrounding it. There's…There's spikes. They look so rusted and stuck to them are heads. He couldn't make out the faces of the heads, who they were, or why they were there. They smell like death. He wasn't sure how he knew that. Mother didn't like him being around the dead for too long, especially in King's Landing. The smell is like rust, he can taste it, and it's like smoke and something bitter. Arryn finds he doesn't like it too much and couldn't figure out how his father, King Robert Baratheon, could flourish in it.
Was Robert in love with battle?
He heard the breeze whip through then near silence save for his heartbeat. He's stepping onward, solitary step, after that another. When he stopped, he noticed the gloominess. A shadow that wore a crown had its' back to him and it made his mind thrash violently that time.
"Pardon?" Arryn spoke, finding his voice. His eyes flickered to the left, then back. There aren't any animals that scamper, no deer, or rabbits. This wasn't the woods, was it?
Why were their spikes-? Who are these-Who? This was wrong, all of this, there was something amiss—he couldn't place it yet there was that tickle in his belly, it spread through him. His fingers, palm, both felt like needles were prickling it. It was very cold, when he took a breath, and it was in the air. He stared at it for the longest, a shake of his head, distracted.
"Pardon, sir, could you tell me where I am?" He tried again.
He took another step but stopped suddenly when his foot kicked something. He looked down, hair in his face, and he had to brush it back to see. It's too foggy. Rubbing his eyes, he looked once more, oh gods—a wolf? Was that a wolf? It was too big, and it lay limp on the ground, at his feet. He shuddered, his breathing shaky. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his knees. His shaky hands brush the gory fur of the creature he found with all the further darkness of the woods.
"What happened to you?" It was so soft, and it looked so innocent. Did the Shadow do this? And the heads on the spikes…was that the Shadow too? He looked up, at the shadow with the golden grown. The Shadow didn't move, kept its' back to the Raven Prince.
Gods, he didn't ask for this. Why was he being punished? Where was he?
A high pitched screen from the Shadow came into all of the clearing. He yelped with his gaze upon the Shadow again. Arryn's eyes widened dramatically. The raven prince felt truly and completely alone. Baratheons stand against the darkness and the Lannisters defeat it. He didn't want to be a Baratheon or a Lannister—he wanted to survive.
Arryn began to realize the heartbeat he hears isn't a heartbeat, it is drums. War drums. They pound louder, louder. It felt like he was being deafened.
The Shadow rushed him. He covered his face quickly, whimpering. He feared ravens and heights, but this…this was something beyond natural order.
Arryn Baratheon's eyes shot open. Birds chirped outside his window, and he looked. Time had passed again, hopefully not more than a few hours. He looked at the ceiling of his bed chambers, deep breaths. He closed his eyes again; hand on his chest and Arryn prayed to the Gods, the Old and the New. For safety, for dreams and no more of the nightmarish things he saw in his slumbers. He didn't want to think of that anymore.
"It was just a dream." Arryn reminds himself, whispering, "It's just a dream, Arryn. There are no shadows here, they are gone." He nodded even, as if this would confirm those words. He opened his eyes, looking down. Where were his beads—? He hadn't thought of earlier, then again he was still very hot earlier and dizzy.
His beads. Arryn needed those beads; Jon Arryn gave those to him. Hands pressed against the furs, he forced himself up, along with a deep breath followed the action.
Arryn looked around; hair was in his face, not stuck to the sweat from the heat at least. He moved, slow as possible, to get his legs over the bed. When the warmth from the furs left his legs, and the breeze hit them it felt more than wonderful, maybe that's why he felt like he was suffocating, those damn furs. His palms rubbed his knees, and after that he rubbed his eyes. He didn't like to curse as much as Robert did, and even in thought Arryn felt a bit dirty doing that. It wasn't in him to be loud; his voice wasn't a roar like a lion's either. Was he a mistake?
"You're being pathetic, boy." He told himself, thinking of how Tywin Lannister would react to him moping like a lost pup. Lannisters don't act like lambs, they are strong. That's what lasts, like Grandfather said. It was the family name, not the people, or the conquests or the gold, however the memory of the name. Arryn found that hard to believe at times, for how everyone in their family treated Uncle Tyrion lower than nothing.
It things difficult for him to truly think the Lannister name was as great as people made it sound. Arryn wasn't like Tywin Lannister though, or Ser Uncle Jaime. The only thing Arryn believed was when an Uncle Kevan said he inherited his mother's love.
His bones still ached, though not like before. Before, he could barely move a muscle without a spasm of needle pricks hitting his body. Arryn's eyes drooped a little, while he began yawning. He was still tired, even if he nearly all but slept for days. It's cold again, he rubbed his arms fiercely.
Feet were careful to place firmly onto the ground as he stood; holding onto the bed's headboard then pushed him away from the bed. A few stumbled steps away from it, then he stood still again. A noise interrupted his worrisome mood on standing, a purring from the window.
Arryn looked again, noticing a cat lying on the window's sill. What in seven hells—? He stumbled some forward, still getting use to reminding himself he needed to walk. Arryn couldn't stay in bed. He settled on the idea of not to stay in furs, for not a second longer. When sickness found him, he never hated beds and furs more.
His fingers gently brushed the cat's fur, and he picked it up, pulling it into his arms.
His lips brushed its' head, kissing just as gently.
"What are you doing here, kitty?" Arryn knew he must've sounded like a child but he didn't care.
"What if Joff sees you, hm?" He couldn't have that…
Arryn smiled at the cat, holding it still as he walked back to his bed.
"Let's keep this our secret." The Raven Prince made a new friend, and he no longer felt alone.