Chapter 2: ... se avy ōdrikosy lī hīghari morghūlilzi.


A/N: A note, just to address a few points that were brought up:
Regina is pretty young (17 y.o.), like most women are in G.O.T. when they get married off. For example, Daenerys was 15, I believe. (I'm aware that it's awful, so I won't go that far. Even though I'm pretty sure Regina was 17-18 anyway when she was forced to marry Leopold in cannon.) Robin is in his mid twenties, still pretty young (for a man), and a bit of a scoundrel, as we can see. There are loads of double standards to play with in this trope. Especially since men visiting brothels is not a very big deal, or something that they're necessarily looked down upon, in many backgrounds. It appears to be more shameful if you actually conceive a bastard child (this is mostly my interpretation) though they know it's not something they would generally boast about. (What's there to boast about when you have to pay for sex, really?) In King's Landing, they just seem to twitter about. (Not the social media site). However, in Dorne (where Regina's from), sleeping with a number of people is quite common for someone of Robin's status, and sexuality is viewed as something very open and free.
Cora raised Regina a lot differently than every one that we've seen in the Martell household because Cora's not originally from there. So with that come different customs which she's passed down to Regina. If anything, Cora thinks that sleeping with whores is beneath him, but Regina obviously takes it more personally.

Chapter title is High Valyrian, meaning "... and those who would harm you will die screaming."


When he can't for the life of him piece together her anger towards him, he sneaks into her bedchambers once more, though this time, it is well past sundown and he suspects her to be asleep. His beliefs are confirmed when he sees her beneath the heavy duvet, her chest rising slowly with every breath she takes, eyes closed.

Robin tells himself that he is content with watching her, just being in her presence (it had been akin to torture when he hadn't spoken to her for so long, and he knows exactly what that particular endeavour is like) until she mumbles in her sleep, turning her head to the side and exposing the long column of her neck. He pictures kissing her there, nipping with his teeth and soothing with his tongue and marking her as his. Her tiny moan echoes in his mind, the moan she'd let slip past her tightly controlled manner when he'd expressed his want. (He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget it.) He wants to hear it again now, and imagines how that moan would change pitch and grow louder when he would slip between her thighs and lap at—

"Robin?" Her voice shakes him from his thoughts and he's glad for the darkness of the room for he feels his skin flush from how far he'd gone in his mind. He won't deny how mad she drives him. "What are you doing here?" She's sitting up now, staring at him.

"I wanted to see you," he says, voice soft with honesty.

"And of course you always get what you want. Why should my intension of what I want get in your way?" she snaps and it makes him focus his eyes on her expression, taking in her furrowed brows and pinched lips. But it's her glare that is the most telling.

"What's this about?" he asks, because he's genuinely perplexed by her hostility.

"This— your presence in my bedchambers inappropriate."

"You didn't complain the last time."

"You took advantage of my illness," she presses, lips pinched. He tilts his head forward, lifting a brow, and she looks away because they both know that to be a lie.

"Regina," he whispers, and it's just short of exasperation, watching as she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.

It takes her a few moments, moments where all he can hear is her hesitant breaths as she searches for the words to tell him. "You told me… that you wanted me," she says finally, still refusing to meet his gaze. He shakes his head, confused.

"I did say that. I wasn't aware that you were offended—"

"I thought that meant just me."

Oh.

"Regina…"

"I know… Please, don't speak. I know it's… foolish and naïve to think that you wouldn't…" she struggles, her discomfort as clear as day, and he's reminded with a startling intensity how young she really is. There's only handful of years separating them in difference but it seems like so much more when she's only on the cusp of becoming a woman.

"I didn't know…" he says quietly, when he feels that she won't continue. "Didn't think you'd hear about it either," he adds, because if she's being completely honest then so should he. Nevertheless, he isn't surprised; there are always whispers around the kingdom, tracking the doings of everyone with a considerable rank. She shoots him another glare, making him smile sheepishly and he accepts it because she's finally looking at him again with those eyes that look pitch black now in the darkness. After a moment of quiet, he sits down next to her, pulling her to him as he rests back against the headboard.

He wonders how she would react if he told her the reason he had gone to the brothel in the first place, what she would do if she knew that he'd tried in vain to bring his fantasy of her to life, but just as soon as the thought enters his mind, he pushes it away. It's pointless to make excuses— which is surely what she'd make of his explanation, and he's apprehensive of enraging her. What's done is done.

"Is that what you wish?" he asks after she's settled against him, relaxed and warm partially atop him. She lifts her head from his shoulder, her expression slightly bewildered as looks up at him. "For me to abstain from visiting the brothel?" he clarifies and she drops her head back down.

"All brothels," she says after a beat, her voice commanding, and he laughs. He thinks she would make an even better queen one day than the one that currently occupies the Iron Throne.

"Alright."


A ball is held for the Queen's name day, the grandest hall is filled with nobility from near and far, the walls decorated in scarlet and gold. There are banquets being served with some of the most exotic dishes Robin has heard of and, likewise, tasted. He is quite taken with a platter of some sort of smoked fish, topped with poached eggs and a savoury sauce, when he hears the distinct click of her heels just next to him. He raises his eyes, gaze catching on the deep colours of red, a corset, exaggerating a slim waist, and they travel all the way up her slender neck, to full lips and dark brown eyes.

"Regina…" It's with a gasp that he says her name, almost leaping from his seat to offer the one next to him. It is against tradition for a pair to sit beside one another during meals and he's surprised that she is forgoing such a rule. Although when he looks around, her mother seems to be no where in sight, and he gets the answer to his unspoken question.

"Good evening," she offers with a private smile, sitting down in the seat that he has pulled out. There's an ornate gold necklace resting against her chest, and it catches the light as she moves, drawing his gaze down to the tops of her breasts, amplified by the corset, his mouth watering at the sight, food immediately forgotten. Though her movements seem to be a bit stifled by the tight fit of the Western dress, she is mesmerizing in the colours of his house. The colours bring out the deeper tones of her skin, her dark hair braided and pinned up on the top of her head, putting her elegant shoulders on display. He thinks her akin to a temptress; dangerous, delicious.

"You look radiant, my Lady," he says, taking her hand and laying a kiss on the back of it.

"Thank you, Ser. You are quite dashing yourself," she responds and he takes note of the way her eyes sweep over his frame. He catches the hungry look in her dark orbs when they sweep back up and meet his own blue ones. He imagines she's seeing something of a similar nature in his.

Regina breaks him out of his lust filled daze when she reaches over and plucks a grape from his plate, slipping it past those painted lips, and the act is so indelicate that it has him grinning immediately.

He watches her then, as attentive as ever as she speaks of her day, the smile never leaving her face. He has never seen her behave so freely, and it only serves to soften him, content to just be in her presence, for she is as captivating as the burning sun that lies in the heavens. Robin spots her father a few paces away, though he never sees a look of admonishment on the older man's face— just a small smile whenever his head turns from whomever he's speaking with to seek his daughter out in the sea of different shades of red. It's usually when her laughter rings out, full and magnificent, that Enrique looks over, and Robin has a hard time tearing his gaze from her sparkling eyes and reddened cheeks to be as observant as he usually is.

Robin thinks that perhaps they've had too much wine when he requests a dance, but he wishes to hold her, to touch her freely, and as undignified as they had already behaved at the table, he is more than willing to take any of the attention she will offer him. To his delight, the guests around them do not seem to notice their puerile behaviour, too enamoured in their own conversations to pay them much attention— but even then, he knows better, for there is always someone with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He brings her to the middle of the ballroom, amidst all the other dancers, delicately taking her hand and laying the other on her waist. For once, she is the one that steps forward, removing nearly all of the space between them, with a lecherous grin and he wonders for a moment if she is as innocent as she has lead him to believe. His fingers skate across the material of the dress, and as beautiful as it is, he finds himself missing her usual attire, the Dornish dresses that would allow his touch to land on her bare skin.


Regina's panting, a thin sheen of perspiration causing the skin of her chest to glisten, and the yearning he feels for her almost makes his resolve crumble. They round another corner, nearly causing one of castle servants to topple over from fright, and Regina lets out a peel of laughter, her eyes dancing in the light offered by the torches. They are close to her chambers now, though they had taken a rather unconventional path, through servants quarters and darkened hallways, constantly detouring from their intended destination— if only to lengthen the time spent in each others' presence (or so Robin hopes). It's late, the banquet having ended hours ago, though here she is, crooking her finger at him while she walks backwards. He notes, with a wide grin, that she is moving in the opposite direction of where she should be headed.

"My lady, I believe that you're purposely getting us lost," he says when they reach the gardens, the wine lowering his reservations enough for him to easily pull her closer. He knows he's right, only because he remembers how she'd complained to him of the way her mother had her learn the castle grounds within the first week that they'd arrived to King's Landing, and though she doesn't complain often, he knows of the many pains she is forced to endure, just from the tales from other women, and her rather loquacious handmaiden. Regina hums, an impish expression on her face before she starts to giggle.

It's with a wide smile that she says, "Well, I believe that if you had any reservations about that, you would have lead me back to my quarters a long time ago, Ser Robin." And then her hands are flat against his chest, traveling upwards to wrap her arms around his neck, bringing her supple body flush against his.

"You overestimate my chivalry," he says, his voice quiet, for her lips are only a fraction away from his own and it's taking all of his restraint not to do anything brash.

"Would you return me to my chambers if I asked?" she whispers back, her eyes hooded, flickering from his lips back up to meet his gaze.

"I will do whatever it is you ask of me, my Lady."

She seems to contemplate something then, a look of curiosity crossing her features before she comes to a conclusion and her face settles into another one of her mischievous expressions. He has to wonder then what she was like as a small child and thinks that if the both of them would have grown side-by-side, they would have caused their caretakers utter grief.

"Kiss me, Lannister." And he has to blink several times, processing her words, to make sure he hadn't misheard her in his lust-addled mind. He steps backwards then, having enough sense to be more discreet about what he is about to do, bringing them underneath the overhang of the balcony above, and shielding them in utter darkness. He promised her, he thinks as his head dips, forehead resting against hers and eyes closing on their own accord. He had promised to do what ever she'd asked, and even if he hadn't, he wants to kiss her— wants her— and he'll take whatever she'll give to him and hopes that she will let him return the favour.

He wants to be slow and tender, and at first, he is. His lips press against hers, and he takes his time, letting her grow accustomed to his kisses. Even so, it doesn't take very long before her hand is cupping the back of his neck and her lips are parting just enough for him to slip his tongue inside her mouth. She gasps at that, and he opens his eyes to see hers fluttering just before she's giving back as good as she gets, flicking her own tongue across the roof of his mouth, a move that causes his knees to almost buckle beneath his weight. There is absolutely no way that she's never done this before, he realizes with a start, and his hands grip her waist possessively, spinning them around and pressing her into the stone wall that had previously been behind him. She groans, her fingers tangling in his hair and he breaks the kiss for a lungful of air before he's swooping back in, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the elegant column of her throat, where he can taste the salt of her skin and whatever fragrant oils she has slathered onto herself. He wants to mark her (he's had this thought too often as of late), pull her skin into his mouth and leave a big purple bruise to prove that she is his and only his. In spite of what he wants, he knows better then to do something so foolish, so he continues his decent, teeth lightly nipping at the tops of her breasts. One of his hands stray from its position on her waist, lower until he has a grip on her thigh and soon he is pulling at her skirts, hitching her leg up, around his hip and Regina is moaning at the press of him between her legs. When he looks up to see her lips parted, eyes closed, with her head lolling to the side, he almost drops to his knees to grovel at her feet because she is beautiful and he yearns to know exactly what she looks like when she's on the precipice of falling. He craves to see her wild: begging and screaming and — Gods, she is driving him absolutely mad with want.

"Regina," he huffs against her skin, resting his head against her shoulder in an attempt to calm his arousal.

"Again," she says to him. "Kiss me again."

It is inevitable that their lips meet for a second time. There in no way that Robin can deny her. He is the moth and she is the flame. The only problem with that is the unavoidable situation where he is bound to get burnt.


Robin doesn't see her the next day, nor the day after that, or for many subsequent days for that matter. Finally, after eight days of her noticeable absence, he spots her in the gardens where he had kissed her the evening of the ball. He beams, lips automatically pulling into a grin at the sight of her but he doesn't receive the same response, only a tight-lipped smile. When he settles down next to her on the bench, brows pinched in worry, she lets out a small sigh.

"I do not think we should spend so much time in each others company anymore—" she stops him before he can protest, lifting a hand, "at least, not until the wedding."

"Why?" he asks then, truly baffled.

"It is what I want," she says, her voice devoid of any emotion. He frowns, studying her. He wants to keep his promise, to heed to her requests, but he can't help but feel as though this isn't what she, herself, wants.

"Did I do something wrong?" But he knows he has. He has made a great deal of mistakes.

"No, Rob— my Lord," she dips her head, and that's when he notices the way she's wringing her hands in her lap, fingers coasting over the bruises on her wrist. Grasps at her hand, careful to avoid the marks on her skin, and though they are barely visible now, he knows what a bruise looks like.

"Did someone hurt you?" he whispers passionately, rage bubbling up in his gut. Regina flinches, the expression on her face fearful as she tears her hand out of his hold.

"No! Please, Robin. Just— I think we've been spending far too much time with each other then is appropriate. I will not let my reputation be tarnished because you can't keep your paws to yourself." Though she is practically snarling at him, there are tears threatening to spill over in her eyes. They both know he sees those treacherous tears, (he has always been rather perceptive when it came to her,) which is quite possibly the only reason she stands abruptly and leaves him with a, "good evening," her voice thick with emotion.

He vows to himself, that whomever dares to touch her with the intent to harm, will be torn apart, limb from limb.