Winterfell looks like it will live forever. I'm itching to have a look at the original blueprints for the place. I'm numb. From the moment Robb kissed my hand in the great hall back home to the second he pulled himself out of me on our wedding night to right now as we inch ever closer to the castle I have been comfortably numb. Not nervous or worried or the slightest bit addled by anything around me.
To be honest, I had been rather put out when he'd taken my hand. When you realize at thirteen that you'll never leave, you start to plan things for the long term. Make arrangements of the permanent sort. Like the adjustments that I'd made to my chambers back home. The mosaic tile bathtub designed entirely in pearl blue custom made in Pentos? Yeah, that thing cost me an entire year's allowance. Demolishing the left wall and setting up a drawing studio? It took four months. The walk in closet? Another month. Every single adjustment I'd made was in preparation to grow old and die living in that room, living in the Twins. No husband, no prospects, no change or even the promise of change. I was engineering my life for long term spinsterhood. Robb's gone and thrown a wrench in the works now. I'm in a position I'd never have dreamed of only a year ago. I was expecting to turn forty in the Twins, but I've been sent out with a ring on my finger at seventeen.
So the married life is strange. Strange as in 'what the fuck is going on here?' Because that's the question I find myself asking most of the time. It's definitely the travel schedule that is making things confusing, unless Robb really does start his day shortly after sunrise on a regular basis. He rides with his men, I ride in the carriage with Lady Catelyn. We talk and then we sit in silence and go back and forth like this for long stretches of time, then we stop and camps are set up and I bid Lady Catelyn goodnight and get into my oversized tent with Robb and he keeps me up maybe half the night because that's just what newlyweds do. They fuck. From dusk till dawn. And then he falls asleep relatively easily and I do, too—less easily—and then I get in maybe four hours or so before a maid is waking me up because it's time to get moving again. What have I learned from all this? Robb can go for hours. Like a fucking rabbit. I think I've learned more from him when the sun is down than I could have learned about any other topic in the library back home.
Oh, and travelling sucks.
It's not until we arrive in the castle that the comfortable numb—which I had been sorely counting on—chooses to disappear and leaves me with a hollow, twitchy, nervous churning in my stomach. Oh, fuck. So the entrance courtyard is huge. Like huge. The place is, apparently, smarting from the damage it took at the hands of one Theon Greyjoy a little while back. As if that's not clear enough just from looking at it. It's in need of some serious work. It's livable, that much is true. But livable is as far as I'd go. So now it's clear why an architect was needed. The carriage stops at last and the door is opened. Lady Catelyn steps out and I can instantly hear the laughs and muffled words that tell me she's locked in an embrace. The footman holds his hand out to me.
"Your Grace," he greets me.
I take his hand and get to my feet, stepping out onto the courtyard. I look down. Ground. Dark brown, maybe some grassroots shooting up every few feet. Real, solid ground.
Um…ew.
Note to self: first adjustment—stonework on the courtyard.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," says Maester Ormond, sinking into a deep bow.
I give him a smile. "It's good to be here," I say.
From inside, I can see that the damage is (thankfully) mainly external. Not much to be done in the way of adjustments, right? Well, I thought so, too, until I got into my—our—new bedchambers.
All in all, it's Northern through and through. Fur spread bed, warm hearth, ample living space. The parlor is nice, I suppose. I'm definitely putting in some new woodwork furnishings. It's actually the bathroom that upsets me the most. There, in the very center of the room, sits a huge brass tub. Brass. Fucking brass. For two years I've been bathing in that charming mosaic work of art that I sacrificed an entire year's allowance for, and now I'm a queen who bathes in brass.
Note to self—send for my mosaic tub to be taken apart and brought here immediately.
So Robb doesn't stick around for very long, which is definitely a good thing because it leaves me to address a few obvious problems around the place without him looming nearby to freak me the fuck out. The truth is that we don't do much talking. I wouldn't recognize his voice very well if I heard it without looking on account of the fact that most of the noises he makes are sort of the kinds you get when you tease them out of him in bed, which is actually where we've been doing most of our interacting since we got married. But I'm lucky, because now that we've arrived he's leaving for Riverrun to tend to some business of his, which leaves me here, alone, to do what I do best. Well, I haven't got much choice, have I? I was brought here for a reason. Winterfell needs rebuilding. I may not know much about marriage, but if there's one thing I do know, it's building. And with Robb gone for who knows how long, I've got ample time to make myself comfortable before he gets back. I can't work on being the queen and being his wife at the same time. Too much work. First, I'll take advantage of him being gone to adjust to being a queen, and then once he returns I'll worry about my marriage. Seems like a good plan. I collapse onto the enormous bed and even though I have serious trouble falling asleep in strange places, I fall asleep easily tonight.
When I awaken, it's because there's this knocking on my door. I sit up and look around. Two young ladies' maids are shuffling about the area. They both curtsey when I rise, deep and foreign gestures that make me do a double take before I remember that it's normal for them, surely. I'll need to get used to that. I pull on a robe and let the maid pull the door open.
"Good morning, Your Grace," says a deep, clear voice. I look up…and up…and up.
I'm one hundred percent sure that this is a woman. There's not a doubt in my mind. She's female. That's an absolute. But she seems so hell bent on projecting this obvious masculinity, from the strange fit of her armor to the close cut of her pale blonde locks.
"Good morning," I say back, smiling as she tips her head respectfully.
"I am Lady Brienne of Tarth," she says. "I am here to escort you to Lady Catelyn in the Great Hall. She will be giving you a tour after breakfast this morning."
"Of course," I say, nodding. "I'll…I'll just be a moment. Come inside, will you?"
Lady Brienne steps into the room and closes the door behind her. I have to bathe and dress quickly—the maids are helpful here. I recognize the sigils on the little chains around their necks. One is of House Forrester. The other is of House Mormont. Perhaps a cousin of my Aradel's?
"What are you names?" I ask them.
"I am Mira Forrester, Your Grace," says the first.
"And I am Julia Mormont, Your Grace," says the other.
Mira and Julia. I watch them both as they help me pull my hair up. Pretty girls. I like their faces. They're…sweet.
"Do either of you have a clue what time it is?" I ask.
"It's a quarter to eleven," says Julia.
"Gods, I'm late," I murmur. "I'm sorry," I say to Brienne. "I don't usually rise this late. Have you been waiting for me long?"
"The first rest after a long journey is always a long one," Brienne says. "It's a long trip from the Twins. You are hardly at fault."
Which is a really nice way of saying that she's probably been waiting outside my door for an hour. Nice. First day on the job and already I've slacked off. I don't even know what to say to her. All I can do, it seems, is get my cloak on and hurry out the door beside her.
She's not much of a talker, this Brienne of Tarth. I can tell when I'm around a talker. And I'm sort of grateful that she's not the conversational type because now I have a little time to address another issue.
"Mira, Julia," I bring them in closer to me. "From now on, I rise at nine sharp. Alright?"
"Yes, Your Grace," they say in unison.
Brienne has her hands folded behind her back. I like this lady. I like the clean cut attitude she's got. I almost wish there were more people like her in the world. But if there were, then the world would be sort of gray.
"Tell me, Lady Brienne," I say. "How did you find yourself in the service of House Stark?"
"I first encountered Lady Catelyn whilst serving Renly Baratheon," she says. "After his death, I swore my loyalty to House Stark. I have been with her ever since."
I don't want to know anymore, because I feel like whichever way the conversation goes, it'll take us back to that one event Catelyn mentioned in passing. Renly Baratheon, murdered by a shadow. I'd stop to dwell on it. I really would. It's just that being murdered by a shadow sort of falls into the category of half-truth—gray. I don't work with gray.
Thankfully, Lady Brienne doesn't seem interested in sharing anymore, so we walk in silence to the Great Hall. Catelyn is there with Bryndon Tully. They're whispering, but about what I don't know nor do I care—at first. But I can't deny that I do get a little curious, mainly because they hush up conspiratorially when I approach them.
"Good morning," I say.
Lord Bryndon tips his head. "Good morning, Your Grace."
"Good morning," Lady Catelyn smiles at me.
"I'm so sorry I kept you waiting," I say. "I had no idea I'd slept in so late."
"Not a problem," says Catelyn. "You're not accustomed to such long journeys."
"Well…let's not delay the tour, shall we?"
"Would Your Grace not like to breakfast first?" asks Lord Bryndon, gesturing to the table.
"Oh, I never eat right away," I say. "Perhaps later. How about that tour, then?"
It's not a lie. My stomach churns up a storm when I first awaken. I don't eat anything until at least two or three hours after I first open my eyes. And my constitution is especially sensitive right now with how nervous and worried I've been since I set foot in this castle.
The tour doesn't last very long. The Keep is mostly intact—keyword mostly. Other parts of the place have been sealed off for reconstruction and some are too dangerous to even think of going into. The rest just burned. To the ground. It's almost sad. Almost. But the sight of so much to be done just calms my stomach a bit. The thoughts that go whirring through my brain are thoughts of my blueprint book back in my room, the empty pages waiting to be filled with sketches and notes. I can work with this. This is familiar. I'm a builder.
Lady Catelyn walks me back to my bedchambers when the tour is done. She's kind, though she doesn't speak much. Being back here after so much hardship must be strange for her. I feel bad for her, but of course since she's the mother in law I have to magnify that sensitivity for the sake of not appearing totally cold. As soon as she's gone, I go into the chambers and pull out my book, turning to a fresh page. I instinctively turn to the left, but pause when I recall that I'm not in my room in the Twins. I'm in my bedchambers in Winterfell. I emit an aggravated sigh and drop onto the bed, spreading out the book and taking a charcoal pencil into my hand.
Note to self: have the drawing station brought along as well.
Robb comes into the room long after the sun's gone down. Grey Wind comes in behind him, silently lying down on the space right in front of the hearth. I pretend I'm engrossed in my work, but I'm more focused on the way Robb goes to the closet, pulling off the layers of clothing he's been wearing all day. He's tired. Exhausted. Well, honey bunches, that's what happens when you roll your pretty ass out of bed just after sunrise when you're running on fumes because you've been sleeping for maybe three or four hours every night for the past three weeks. It tends to catch up with you. He emerges from the closet and splashes his face with water from the basin.
"Evening," he greets me briskly. His eyes pass over the sketches all over the bed. "Are those…?"
"For the Maester's Tower," I say.
His eyes gloss over the drawings, the words. "You don't waste any time, do you?"
"No time to waste," I say. "Winterfell has been in ruin long enough, wouldn't you agree?"
Robb nods. I pull the hem of my skirts away to give him room to sit down and get a better look. He pulls a page closer and his eyes scan it quickly.
"Double bracers…quarry stone?"
"It's more secure than wood. And it won't need to be replaced since it'll never rot. And the best part—it doesn't burn."
"That is a good point," he agrees, looking at the next page. "Is this a…an infirmary?"
"We'll need one, won't we?" I ask. "And I suppose it'd be best to have it near Maester Ormond."
"But the dispensary will be made of wood?"
"It's a temporary set up," I tell Robb. "Since the likelihood of us needing so much room for medicine is going to go down in the next few months as the wounded are treated and discharged. Then we can take the structure apart and use the wood for something else. Specifically…this." And I hold up the sketch I just finished.
"The barracks," he says, nodding. "Of course."
"How many soldiers do you want stationed in Winterfell at any given time?" I ask.
"Four hundred," he says quickly. "At least."
"If we use ironwood to build the dispensary, in a few months' time we'll be rid of most of the medicine and then we can use the ironwood to build the inner braces for the barracks. The outer walls will be eulid stone, since it's so much stronger than quarry stone. The watchtowers will also be lined with eulid stone, but only the lining. Eulid is expensive and we need to purchase and use sparingly. I prefer we only use it in areas that actually need serious protection. Barracks, watchtowers, rooftops, and I'm still debating on the war room—ceremonially, of course."
I look up at Robb, but he's closed his eyes, rubbing them slowly. What did I tell you? Kings can't command themselves to only need three or four hours of sleep. Looks like I'm not getting any ass tonight. No complaints here. I need to be up bright and early to properly sketch out these plans. But still. Ex-fucking-cuse me? Are you seriously falling asleep while I'm talking? Last I checked this was your kingdom that I got dragged into to help repair.
"Good idea," he says quietly. He pauses when he sees me looking at him. "What?"
"It's been a long few weeks for the both of us," I say. "Why don't you get some rest?"
"No, keep going," he says, shaking his head as I gather the pages and close the book. "I want to know about the barracks."
"I'll tell you tomorrow," I say. "You need to sleep. You're no good to anyone like this."
Robb sighs and allows me to push him gently under the furs. I blow out his candle and hurry to the shelf to put my book away. I don't need very long to change into my nightgown. I roll into bed beside him in minutes, shaking my hair loose. By that point, he's asleep. I take a look at him—really look this time. He's about twenty three. But there's something in his face—some strange ghost of dust—that has settled into his skin that makes him look so much older when he's awake. It seems that it's not there when he's asleep. So that's it, then. Robb needs more sleep. I turn over to face my nightstand and blow out my candle, and at last the room is dark. In a few seconds, an arm snakes around my waist and Robb is pulling me closer against him, enveloping me in warmth and the faint scent of wood smoke. His lips brush against my scalp gently. I lay my hand atop his own and roll over so my face is buried in his neck. He just holds me closer. The nerves that I've had since I came into this castle have been centered around him and I know that. But right now, his warmth seems to be melting all of those fears and worries away, and despite myself, I smile. We've spent every night that we've been married touching each other, holding each other, being near each other, but this moment feels closer than any moment we've shared since our wedding night. There's so much more he's putting into this embrace than he's let on in the past three weeks. His breathing slows even more as he goes deeper and deeper under and his lips find my brow. He's just so lovey dovey tonight. I can't say I'm not enjoying the attention. I am. If this is what happens after the awkward phase has passed, then hell—marriage is the best damn thing that a girl could ask for.
"Talisa," he whispers.
Nope.