Forgive My Sins | Chapter Three: Night and Day (Winter is Coming)
Sybel stood up, her belly satisfyingly full, and walked away from her table, ready to engage in talk with anyone and everyone. She loved feasts; the lively atmosphere and the way people would talk and laugh and shout and dance. They were times of happiness, and she thrived on them, on the energy of so many people.
Men exchanged war stories and jokes, women gossiped together. The children permitted to attend ran between the adults in games. Sybel had already finished the one glass of wine her father permitted her at feasts, the liquid warming her cheeks and making her laughter come easier, as she made her way around the tables. A light sheen of sweat settled on her forehead, making a few strands of her hair stick to her as she moved into the throng of people.
At one point, she was diffusing glares between her sisters, the next she was chasing a little boy who had pulled her into a game. The long skirts of her dress twisted around her legs so many times she was surprised she hadn't fallen yet, but there was always someone there to steady her. A serving boy, no older than herself, was always eager to fill her cup with water when she ran out, and many times she found herself pulled into conversations with people she walked past.
Eventually, she found herself towards the back of the hall, when one of the doors swung open and a familiar sight greeted her. She paused mid-sentence, trailing off in surprise before offering a quick apology as she dashed away.
"Uncle Benjy!" Sybel cried happily, launching herself at her uncle. His arms, used to the weight of a sword and the brunt of combat, wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet easily and spinning her around until she was dizzy. She laughed, and when he placed her back on her feet gently, she swatted his arm lightly, "I'm much too old for that."
He grinned down at her, the hardened look to his eyes softening slightly in the face of his niece. "You'll never be too old for me to swing you around like a sack of potatoes."
"A sack of potatoes?" She asked incredulously, planting her hands on her hips. She smiled happily up at him as she scanned his face for injury or changes; new scars or more lines etched into his face that spoke more than he would. He seemed older than his years, his skin cracked and weather-beaten from the harsh cold. What made her frown, though, was the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "How are you?"
He never lied to her, she knew. Partly because she could tell when he was, and partly because he found it surprisingly easy to talk to her. Her eyes seemed to encourage the truth from him, coaxing it out. "Tired. And exhausted."
"Have you not been sleeping enough?" She demanded, her tone almost reprimanding. "Or eating enough – I'm certain you've gotten thinner since I last saw you. And why did you not tell me you were visiting?"
His truthfulness only stretched so far, though, and he never spoke to her about the horrors he had seen, guarding the Wall as man in the Night's Watch. He did not wish to worry her, because he knew she would. Without fail, every month he received a letter from her, about trivial things; keeping him updated on his brother and nieces and nephews, ending with her customary plea to stay safe and warm. He placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head ruefully, and teasing her, "You pester like a mother hen after her chicks."
She opened her mouth to comment that he hadn't answered her questions, but he cut her off. "I didn't know I would be visiting until right before I left, so there was no time to send word. We will talk more, but now I should greet my brother."
"Fine," she conceded. "But we must go riding tomorrow morning, before you leave."
"We will," he promised. "At first light, I'll meet you at the stables."
He smiled at her again before walking past her towards his brother, his black clothing standing out clearly in the hall. Then she turned to face the next person beside her, ready to continue with her festive mood, when she was met with Robb's irritated expression. Before she could even ask what was wrong, he said, "Why does the Kingslayer watch you?"
Her gut tightened at his words, but she pushed it aside. Her eyebrows had shot up in surprise, about to tell him how ridiculous he sounded with his you-can't-trust-Jaime-Lannister attitude, when her smile faded and she followed his glare. Sure enough, Jaime Lannister stood to the side of the crowd, his expression masked, staring straight at her. He didn't look away and she shifted under his gaze.
She swallowed, a frown on her face as she stared back. She couldn't fathom any reason for his gaze to be on her, still. She glanced back at Robb, who was watching her expression carefully. Forcibly, she relaxed her face, laughing. "He is watching you, Robb, not me. Perhaps he finds your prominent jaw rather attractive. Or perhaps it was your pretty blue eyes that have caught his attention."
"Sybel."
Apparently, he wasn't in a playful mood anymore, and Sybel sighed. "I have no idea, Robb, but what does it matter? He is doing no wrong that I can see."
"I don't like it."
Evidently.
She looked back at Jaime again, to find him still watching them. He continued to stare. And stare. Never dropping his eyes. She frowned, feeling her festive mood slowly slip away. She didn't know why he was watching her, why he continued to watch her, even when she'd obviously caught him. It was clear he wasn't trying to be sneaky or surreptitious about it; he didn't care if anyone noticed, if she noticed. Instead, he watched her blatantly, his eyes like pressure on her skin, heating it to a prickly, tight degree.
Was he trying to make her uncomfortable?
Suddenly, the hall was far too stuffy, too heated and filled with too many bodies. It was too loud, an almost-painful pressure on her ears, and she felt her skin crawl with the need to get out. Mostly though, it was from his heavy stare that she needed to get away from, and her brother's questions she couldn't answer.
She needed a clear head, to think, and all she felt was a hazy sort of unfocus that made her head pound sorely, her thoughts coming to her like she was wading through a swamp of thick mud. She spun around, pushed the door open and stepped into the frigid night air. To her right and left were the covered hallways, and in front of her was a courtyard, smaller than the one where they had met the King's arrival.
She breathed deeply, the air so cold it burned her nasal passages on the way to her lungs. But it was a cool relief, and the prickly sensation on the back of her neck disappeared. The hairs on her arms raised under her dress, her skin seeming to pulse with heat as the cold rushed around her. She stood there a moment longer, eyes closed, letting the cold clear her head. It seeped down to her bones, but Sybel hardly noticed.
Her mind seemed to be buzzing, more alert than any other part of her as she gazed unseeingly upwards. Clouds must have been covering the sky, she concluded distantly, because the moon was shielded from her vision. The few torches hanging on the walls seemed to cast the world in shadows, the only proper source of light until something shifted and the moon was revealed in all its silvery brilliance.
Away from the overwhelming atmosphere of the hall, she felt foolish. It had only been a bit of staring—harmless. Completely harmless. And yet she'd run out of the hall, and now standing out there in the cold, she couldn't really figure out why she had. Perhaps it had been the wine, or the festive mood she'd been in that made her hands shaky with the need to laugh and dance and smile, pushing her to one thing after the other as quickly as possible. Or perhaps—
"Lady Stark?"
Sybel let out a squeak, jumping in fright at the familiar voice interrupting her thoughts. She hadn't detected the short, stumped figure coming into view, stopping right in front of her, as she watched the sky. Her hand flew to rest above her rapidly beating heart.
"Lord Tyrion!" Blushing, she wondered how long she had been ignoring him for. It seemed he had a habit of startling her out of her thoughts, and her wide eyes assessed his expression for any hint of irritation.
His lips were curled in a tempered smile, not much more than an upward twitching of lips meant to convey reassurance to her that he was not angry at her accidental rudeness. In fact, he appeared to be sunk deep in his own musing, internally reflecting on something that bothered him, and Sybel suspected that her presence had knocked him from his thoughts just as he had hers. The smile was really only for her benefit. "I apologise if I startled you, my lady."
Sybel shook her head, brushing aside his apology with her own. "It was my fault. I was lost in my own thoughts." She eyed the wineskin hanging from his hand, and the lines around his eyes, before pressing her lips together. It was not her business, and she barely knew him to ask what occupied his thoughts. But she couldn't help the concern, and couldn't stop her own tentative question. "Are… are you well?"
His eyebrows rose. "Quite."
Sybel bit her lip, not believing him but also not sure whether she should press him on the subject. She wanted to, if only so she could help. Instead, and with great effort, she attempted a smile to change the subject. "Why are you not inside with the others?"
He grinned at her, leaning his head to the side to rest against the wooden post as he looked up at her. "I could ask you the same thing, Lady Stark."
"Oh, well…" Sybel trailed off when he folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head, and quirked his lips in a smirk. It reminded her very strongly of his brother, despite the fact that they looked so different, and it brought that fact to the forefront of her mind—that they were brothers. It didn't seem like a good idea to admit that Jaime Lannister was the cause for her hiding—because that was surely what this was—right to his own flesh and blood. "I just needed to breathe."
He raised an eyebrow, pausing for a few moments to let her know that he knew she wasn't telling him the whole truth before he replied. "Is that so? I can imagine that it's quite unbearable in there. Starks and Lannisters under the same roof."
The distrust her family had of Lannister intentions was clear in her father's tense stance, and the Lannister clear dislike of her family was just as obvious in their upturned noses, she supposed, judging from what she had seen of the night so far. It had been there in the tight line of her father's and brother's mouths as they regarded them. It had been there in the green light of the Queen's eyes as she judged the North and its people on their arrival. It had been there in Robb's glare and Jaime Lannister's returning smirk.
"But that's not the reason for your escape out here," Tyrion deduced easily, reading her like he would a book.
She huffed a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "You are most certainly cleverer than what they say."
"My dear lady," he grinned ruefully, his tone carrying a note of self-deprecation, "as a dwarf, my wit is all I have." He rubbed his hands over his arms, and set his jaw. "I should return now, and help my family through this night."
She nodded at him as he walked for the doors, pausing to take a swig from the wineskin as if steeling himself, before slipping inside, gone just as silently as he had arrived. She stared at the door where he had entered, frowning to herself as she considered just how similar the Lannister brothers were, despite outward appearances.
The steady thwack…thwack…thwack made her turn back around, her eyes darting around the darkened courtyard. She didn't realize anyone else was out here—but then, she had not even realized Lord Tyrion was out here. She crept along the hallway, the ends of her dress sliding over the stones with a quiet rustle, her breath coming out in white puffs. Her fingers met the frozen wooden posts as she spotted Jon. She smiled as she watched him bring a sword down on a wooden cross, draped with a tunic, that was used for sword practice.
She closed her eyes again, leaning her head against the wooden post, letting the thwack-ing become a familiar rhythm. As the cold air danced along her equally cool skin, she thought again about her hasty escape from the feast, a red blush heating her cheeks at how foolish she must have seemed. He had only been staring, after all; she could've just ignored it.
"Sybel?" Her eyes flashed open, as Jon noticed her there. He frowned at her, walking towards her, his face as solemn as ever. "Is something wrong?"
"No," she smiled at him, and as soon as she pulled her lips into the gesture, her teeth began to chatter. She didn't realize just how cold it was out there, how deeply it was permeating her body—extremities first and working its way to her core.
He was still frowning as he bent forward to see her face properly, assessing her as he reached out and held her two smaller hands in his. "Your hands are frozen."
She glanced at her fingers, surprised at how her usually pale skin seemed to have a blue-ish tinge to it. "I just came out for a moment to myself. There are so many people in there, I can hardly breathe."
"You love feasts," he pointed out, making it clear he didn't really believe her, but not calling her on it. Was she really so transparent? It perturbed her then and she wondered just how much of what she was thinking was obvious to those around her. How many of her private thoughts were actually not so private?
She grinned reluctantly though, at how well he knew her. "I do."
None of this seemed to be adding up for Jon, because he kept frowning. "Perhaps you should return to where it is warm, then. You could catch your death."
"What about you? Will you return with me?" She gestured over her shoulder at the doors to the hall, trying to shift his attention off of her. "You promised to dance with me?"
The thought lifted her mood considerably and she thought herself even more silly now.
Jon shrugged, shaking his head "I do not feel in the mood." Sybel's smile slipped and she sighed. She knew what he meant; that her mother did not want Jon there. Jon was never one who liked being pitied, and this moment was no different as he continued talking so she would not. "Besides, you will not be short in dance partners."
Catelyn Stark detested Jon's presence at Winterfell, and he did not want to cause strife. "I'm sorry, Jon. But you promised."
Jon's expression told her he thought she was inviting trouble. She may very well be, but she would not let her brother sulk and exclude himself just to avoid her mother's icy gaze. She sympathized with her mother, she really did—Jon had to be a daily reminder of her husband's one un-honourable moment; his one infidelity that he couldn't let remain in the past. But it was not Jon's fault and she felt the injustice of her mother's treatment in her very bones, as though she were the one being treated thusly—every glare, every harsh word, every stony silence; she felt it slice into her too. And she felt the guilt roil in her gut, too—and the shame too, that it was her mother who could not forgive. She found it unfathomable sometimes that anyone could not love Jon as much as she did. He was her brother; he had promised; and she would shield him from whatever her mother sent his way—deflect it as easily as he would a blow from a sword.
Her brother graced her with a small smile when he saw the stubborn pout on her face and he sighed, nodding in the direction of the hall. "Go on then. We best get in there before they gather a search party to bring you back."
"I don't think my presence is that sorely missed," she scoffed, linking his arm with hers and leading them both back towards the warmth. Pulling the heavy wooden doors open, the sound of laughter and music and shouting hit her suddenly, along with that welcoming warmth.
They slipped inside, her fingers and toes feeling like they were melting, and immediately she pulled Jon into dance. They fed off each other's confidence until Sybel no longer felt the eyes on her and Jon didn't even notice the glare.
.
.
.
The hour grew later, and the numbers inside the hall had diminished by a few—not many, as the hall was still loud and full—but enough so that the bitter night air had managed to leak inside and find a hold. Her feet ached, the sheen of sweat cooling on her skin, and her voice felt raw from shouting above the roar all night. She was ready to retire to her chambers, spent, when she spotted Rickon, in a corner, eyes drooping heavily.
She was surprised he wasn't in bed yet, for even Arya and Bran had been sent back to their chambers, and Sansa looked ready to sleep on the table at any minute. She walked over, scooping him up and immediately her arms protested at his weight as she placed him on her hip. His head automatically rested on her shoulder, his arms going around her neck easily, and she leant back slightly to compensate for his weight, swaying back and forth.
She turned her head to the side, her cheek pressing to his and her lips near his ear as she murmured softly, "Bed for you, my little pup."
He wriggled half-heartedly in protest, as he was known for doing. He never wanted to go to bed when others were still awake, even though when he was taken to bed, he would be asleep before his body hit the mattress. His voice was groggy and full of his impending unconsciousness. "But I'm not tired."
Sybel laughed softly so that she wouldn't wake him any further. If he woke properly now, he would never let her take him to his chambers, and would spend the rest of the night running around, before waking early tomorrow and spending the day walking around in a grumpy, grouchy stupor. "Is that so?"
He grunted an affirmative, but Sybel could hear his breathing deepen as he slipped between waking and sleep. He smelled faintly of sweat, mixed with the same thick air of wine and sweat and too many bodies pressed close together that filled the hall, his grubby hands gripping the material of her dress. He needed a bath, but there was no chance of that happening tonight. Sybel glanced up at the table where her mother sat with the Queen, indicating she would take Rickon to bed, when her mother widened her eyes and nodded her head towards the woman beside her. She made her way towards them, shifting Rickon every now and then, trying not to jostle him too much. She could hear him snoring softly.
Stepping up onto the dais, Sybel bowed her head and dropped slightly in an awkward curtsey for the Queen. "Your grace."
The Queen smiled at her, eyebrow slightly raised. Despite her smile, her face seemed pinched, like she was suppressing anger. None of it entered her voice though, which was nothing but honeyed kindness. "You would be the eldest Stark girl."
"Sybel, your grace," she supplied, nodding, and smiling back warmly. Up close, she saw that the Queen was remarkably beautiful, with her spun gold hair, and her rich robes of gold and red, embroidered and tailored so perfectly. She looked beautiful in those colours—the Lannister House colours, her mind informed her—and Sybel couldn't help but feel her own red dress was dull in comparison. The Queen stared at her, and she was hit with the familiar unnerving feeling. Her eyes were just as green as her twin brothers', and seemed to find it just as easy to make her just as uncomfortable with the way she stared intently.
"Quite pretty," the Queen said, almost to herself. Though her tone wasn't really that of the complimenting kind—more observational, as if she was taking notes. "Will you also be joining us at the Capital?"
"I suspect so, your grace," Sybel nodded.
The Queen thought about this, before leaning forward slightly and asking in a conspirator-like voice, as if they were close friends and sharing secrets. The motion was enough to beguile Sybel into leaning in as well. "And how did you like being escorted by my brother? He is very handsome, is he not?"
Sybel blanched, face stricken, eyes darting to her mother for direction, before looking back at the Queen. The Queen watched her closely, and Sybel's mind raced to figure out what answer would be most pleasing for her to hear. She couldn't very well admit that Jaime Lannister was by far the most confusing man she had ever met, and that he seemed to be both arrogant and provoking, and aware that he was these things. Sucking her lips into her mouth, deliberating, she answered, "He was polite and courteous towards me, your grace."
She deliberately avoided answering her last question, and the Queen noticed.
"Such sweet politeness, I find it mysterious that you are yet unmarried," the Queen smiled. Sybel held her breath and blushed, seemingly amusing the King's wife. "Have you found a potential husband, then?"
"No, your grace."
"There have been offers, your grace," Sybel's mother interjected and Sybel's eyebrows raised in surprise—this was news to her. she felt her face get hot with embarrassment. Who had offered for her hand, and why had she not been told? She had always thought her father would consult with her if such an event should occur, but now… well now she didn't know what to think. Her mother was deliberately not looking at her and instead responded to the Queens questioning expression. "She is my lord husband's first daughter—I believe him not quite ready to let her go. He is quite soft on her as fathers often are with their daughters, as I'm sure you know, your grace."
The queen's face suggested that she did not, before she turned to evaluate Sybel. Her eyes ran over the material fitted across the curves of Sybel's breasts and hips, causing Sybel to shift before looking her in the eye again, "Such a prize should not be hidden away in her youth. We shall have to find you a suitable match then, won't we?"
"Yes, your grace," Sybel nodded. Rickon groaned slightly, turning his face so his other cheek rested on her shoulder, and Sybel ran her fingers through his wild hair gently. Curtseying again to the Queen, she said, "I hope your stay with us is enjoyable, your grace."
The Queen smiled again as Sybel retreated from the table, holding Rickon to her as she winded her way through the crowd towards the door. On her way, she stopped by Sansa, gently brushing a hand over Sansa's drooping head. "To bed for you soon as well I think, my lovely flower."
Sansa thought on it and nodded, seeming to decide Sybel was right. Sybel left her at the table to finish up her night and heading back for the exit. She stuck close to the wall, deciding it was the easiest way to exit, rather than trying to battle her way down the middle. She'd made it to the door, when an arm reached over her shoulder and pushed it open for her.
Stepping out, she turned to smile gratefully as the Captain of her father's household guard followed her out. "Thank you, Ser Jory."
"Shall I escort you to the little lords' chambers, my lady?" Despite the smell of wine on him, he had clearly not been drinking enough that it had inebriated him. In fact, he looked alert, and she supposed his training had taught him that. "Wine has been flowing freely tonight, Lady Sybel, and many men have partaken."
"Of course, Ser Jory, it would be greatly appreciated."
They walked in silence a few moments, before Sybel groaned. Her arms were aching from carrying Rickon's weight—he was hardly so little that Sybel could cart him around with ease, and he was beginning to pull her arms towards the ground. Seeing this, Jory quickly lifted the boy from her arms, and she sighed in relief, smiling gratefully at him again as she rubbed her sore arms. Rickon did not seem fazed by the change. "I've got him, my lady."
"Have you enjoyed yourself tonight, Ser Jory?" They passed empty corridors and hallways occupied by men in guardsmen uniforms, standing around and drinking. The men laughed loudly as they passed, and she was suddenly glad Jory had insisted. Not that she felt unsafe in her home, but his presence beside her was comforting.
"I have, my lady."
"And did any beautiful women catch your eye?" Sybel teased. Jory had been among her father's household guard for years, and not once had Sybel ever seen him talking with a woman for any reason other than to pass on messages. He'd never spoken of taking a wife, either, which Sybel found confusing. He was not old or ugly, and his many years training with a sword had only layered his body in thick muscle.
His lips twitched as they began their ascent up the stone stairs. "Only one, my…" He trailed off when they reached the first landing. It was dark, the torches burning low that they could only just make out the outline of a figure leaning against the small window right in front of them. Sybel quickly lifted her brother out of Jory's arms, frowning. No one should've been all the way up here—this way led to the family chambers, and the only family she had big enough to fill that outline was her father, and Sybel remembered seeing him as she exited the hall. With his arms now free, Jory's hand rested on the pummel of his sword. "Who's there?"
"Don't draw your sword," the figure sighed, turning around, and Sybel recognized the voice. "It's only me."
"Ser Jaime?" Jory asked in surprise, before his eyes narrowed. "What are you doing up here?"
Jaime Lannister stepped closer, into the faint circle of light the torch provided. His posture was relaxed, and not at all like he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't. "I left to take a little stroll, and lost my way."
Sybel nodded, knowing that his brother had also found himself lost earlier that afternoon, as the halls of Winterfell could be confusing. She glanced at Jory and couldn't tell from his expression whether he believed Jaime Lannister or not. There was a tense silence that the Queen's brother seemed to enjoy more so than Jory, before Sybel spoke up. "Ser Jory was escorting me to my chambers."
"Indeed," Jaime Lannister said, looking between Sybel and Jory. There was another pause, before he continued speaking, his lips quirking into a not-quite smile. It wasn't particularly warm or welcoming, but rather, his smile was… sharp, and Sybel didn't understand what he wanted to achieve by wearing it. "I can take her from here, if you wish to return to the feast, Ser Jory. I'm sure I saw you eyeing a kitchenmaid before, and I wouldn't want to take you away from her for long lest some other man occupy her attention."
Jory shifted uncomfortably, and Sybel suspected the kitchenmaid to be the woman who had caught the Captain's eye. "I promised Lady Sybel that I would see her and her lordling brother safely to their chambers, ser, and so I will."
Sybel placed her hand on Jory's arm in reassurance, surprised at Jaime's kind offer, guessing at the genuie-ness of it. Given her earlier experiences with him so far, she held a certain amount of doubt and thought he liked to wield his power and position wherever he could, ordering whomever he wanted about, even if they were not his to order. Who would dare deny the Queen's brother? She weighed her options; she certainly felt most comfortable with Jory as she had known him for years. Jaime Lannister, however, made her more uncomfortable than anyone else; he was most definitely arrogant and entitled and incredibly sure of himself. But he was a knight. He was not a danger to her.
She was curious what Jaime wanted though.
"It's quite alright, Ser Jory, if you wish to return to the feast. I'm sorry to have kept you from the kitchenmaid, and Ser Jaime has kindly offered, so you can leave me here and consider your duty fulfilled. Besides, the chambers are not far." She leaned over towards him and whispered in his ear. "Wait here for him to come back though please, if you can prolong your absence from the kitchenmaid just a minute longer."
She grinned teasingly and he nodded. Jaime was not impressed at being left out of the exchange, if his next words were anything to go by.
"You heard her," Jaime intoned, his voice mocking. "Run along."
Sybel frowned and pursed her lips as Jory shuffled backwards slowly, before he turned away to walk down the stairs. Sybel turned on her heel and continued up the stairs, ignoring her companion and hugging her brother to her.
Beside her, Jaime Lannister grinned.
"Have I upset you, my lady?" He sounded like the prospect only entertained him. Sybel pursed her lips again and decided against speaking. If she left it long enough, surely he would voice his cause for 'chivalry'. When she continued to walk in silence, he sighed, "well go on, tell me what I did to anger you."
That surprised Sybel. "What makes you think I'm angry?"
"Your silence."
She bit her lip; she was not angry, per se really. She merely thought him arrogant and confusing and she did not like the tug in her chest that seemed to link her curiosity to him. He grunted at her continued silence and so she chose her words carefully. He was the Queen's brother, and she could not reprimand or scold him or do anything of the sort without repercussions. "You were quite rude to him, ser, and I'm not sure he deserved it." She prettily played the ignorant child, like her Septa had taught her, "But I'm sure I do not understand the whole story."
He rolled his eyes. "It was just a few harmless words exchanged between fellow guardsmen." She didn't know whether to believe him this time, about this specifically, considering his previous acts of provocation. It seemed instead to her, that he could be rather mocking when he wanted, particularly towards those who he held in distaste. "Do you always jump to the defense of your household guards? Or is this one special?"
She missed his intended implication. "Ser Jory is like family, you understand. He has served us since—"
"Since you were but a child, I'm sure," he said drily. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, and she glanced at him to find him looking directly at her, for the first time since they had crossed paths at the stairs. His eyes widened in a smug way that made her feel like that now his mocking was directed at her. "He really should know better than to be lusting after the daughter of his lord employer, then, shouldn't he?"
Sybel stumbled in absolute surprise and froze in her place, a blush rushing across her face and down her neck, and his eyes seemed to track the spread along her skin, encouraging it almost. Of all the things she would expect of Jaime Lannister, his words just then were not among them and her mind was a complete blank except for his words racing around. She did not know how to respond, didn't know why he said it in the first place—
She eyed him then, the thought that he was trying to goad her like he did her brothers suddenly occurring to her. He had seemed plenty pleased to irritate them earlier that day, with his smirking and charm, and Sybel abruptly felt played, like she was tied to strings and he was dangling her around. She certainly didn't like it, and her tone was far more guarded than usual when she asked, "Do I amuse you, ser?"
"Quite," he said bluntly, as if he said exactly what he thought, and did not censor himself. "Particularly your reactions."
"So you are provoking me, then?"
He smiled that same, sharp smile that made no sense. "It seems I've upset you again."
As though the very thought thrilled him.
Sybel stared at him, her brows puckered in a confused frown. She just didn't understand him, and she didn't know how she felt about that. Jaime Lannister didn't give much away, and she found she really didn't see all that much when it came to him. He smirked and smiled and mocked, but she couldn't see why. She couldn't read him.
That same tugging curiosity gathered in her chest, and she found herself staring intently at his face, like the force of her gaze would open his mind to her and reveal it all. But instead, she saw nothing more than that smile and his unreadable eyes, and she realized she knew nothing, really, about him either.
Suddenly she felt the exhaustion in her bones, and her brother's weight heavy in her arms. And she did not especially feel like being played any more tonight. "I can walk the rest of the way alone from here, Ser Jaime. Thank you for kindly escorting me this far."
The corners of his mouth tightened, his nostrils flaring, as Sybel turned around and walked the rest of the way to her brother's chambers. She didn't come across anyone else that she was aware of, though it would've been easy for her to miss them when her mind was swirling with thoughts on the Lannister's she had spoken to that night. She could almost see why her family was so wary of them all—whenever she conversed with one, she was always left feeling like she had revealed more of herself than they had. If they wanted, if they tried, she didn't doubt that they would be able to prompt her into revealing all of her secrets, and the knowledge unsettled her.
By the time she made it to her chambers, Inferno was warming her bed and she was far too tired to think any more.
.
.
.
The morning air was sharp as Sybel breathed it in.
The chestnut coat of her favoured mare, Faith, gleamed when the slowly rising sun broke the horizon and sent streams of light through the trees to land on them. The horse was gentler than the others, her rebellious streak dulled with her age—and the only one Sybel was allowed to ride, as she was the least likely to bolt if Sybel slackened on the reigns because she wasn't paying attention. It was after the second time Sybel was thrown that her father had forbidden her from riding any other horse, for fear that the next time Sybel wouldn't get up.
It was far too easy for Sybel to let her mind drift as they trotted down the winding path. Her uncle rode beside her atop his own gelding—a powerful beast with a dark coat that seemed to blend with his rider's cloak. From a young age, Sybel had found they shared a mutual appreciation of the woods right around sunrise, and these early morning rides had become almost a tradition for them.
Years ago, he had caught Sybel wandering the castle, far earlier than she should have, as he made his way towards the stables, his training in the Night's Watch and the shift work they did meaning his body woke with the rising sun. He had attempted to send her back to bed and Sybel had protested adamantly—or as adamantly as any five year old could when facing down a near stranger.
After they had stared each other down, her uncle seemed to realize he was trying to best a child, and instead bent down to her level—something she appreciated greatly—and asked, "do you like horses?"
She had thought about it for a long time, longer than she needed to, but she wanted to be absolutely sure in her answer, before declaring that she liked them very much, and he had held his hand out to her. She'd easily slipped her smaller hand into his calloused one, the roughness similar to her father's hand, and they continued the way he had been going. When they reached the path through the woods, he'd leant forward, the whiskers of his beard tickling her cheek, and told her to just listen. He'd shown her how separate the woods felt, like it was a different world, so completely undisturbed. All the nocturnal animals had just gone to sleep and it was just before the day foragers woke up. It meant everything was so still.
So peaceful.
When they'd returned later that morning, the whole castle was looking for her. Her mother had chastened both of them—by the Seven, Benjen, what were you thinking? She could've died! She could've slipped off that beast of yours and broken her neck! And you, my daughter, why didn't you tell anyone where you had gone? I thought you'd been taken! I thought you'd died!
But the next time her uncle had come to visit, they had gone for another ride, and continued to do so every visit after that. They rode in companionable silence. Neither of them spoke, both lost in their own thoughts, and Sybel found her mind to be preoccupied with thoughts of the Lannisters again.
Or more specifically, one particular Lannister lion, and the way he seemed to enjoy interacting with her in an entirely unconventional—and improper—manner. It had only just occurred to her, because she had been much too focused on the meaning behind his words, to realize that his words themselves would be considered inappropriate.
And as they rode silently through the woods that morning, it progressively dawned on her that despite meeting a small handful of times, each conversation had been loaded with inappropriateness. It lingered in every word he uttered, every implication in his tone, every arrogant smirk, and she hadn't even noticed until now. She could hardly believe she'd focused so thoroughly on trying to figure out what he wanted, that she had missed the blatant-ness of it. So now her thoughts were preoccupied with nothing else.
She could not figure out why he acted in such a way with her. He had been entirely civil—perhaps over-charming, even—to her mother, or Sansa, when they had interacted briefly. He'd worn that arrogant smirk, every bit a prideful Kings guard, but not an ounce of mocking had dribbled into his words to Lady Catelyn Stark, nor had he attempted any kind of taunting.
There was definitely that second layer to his words—the disdain and possible taunts he could make coloured his voice, etched into the expression on his face. That was the layer that his smirking hinted at, that his overconfident, practiced tone could clearly deliver on, with a flourish. But he never let what hovered at that second layer to pass from his lips to the ears of those around him. Except with Sybel—and she didn't know what she'd done to make him do so.
She couldn't figure it out—had she offended him? Was that why he mocked her with his words and taunted her with his eyes? Was that why he stared—on purpose—until she was uncomfortable, why he was so very blunt with her? But Sybel couldn't remember a moment when she'd been rude, when her words could be mistaken for insults. She had not slighted him. She had not even said a bad word about him—she had even defended him, against her brother.
What made Sybel any different? What made him think he could be any different with her? What had she done?
Slowly, the morning wore on, and the woods transformed from the silent still world she had entered, to a place that vibrated ever so slightly with life and movement. She couldn't see it, couldn't see any animals darting about—especially not when she rode through—but she could feel it there, in the air. She couldn't really pick out any particular movements—maybe some rustling of bushes or the sound of tree limbs groaning under weight—but individually, they were so miniscule to her eyes and ears, that it blurred all together to give the distinct impression of life.
As they turned onto the last stretch of path, back to Winterfell Castle, Sybel's mind began to circle back to her first meeting with Jaime Lannister. Their very first introduction. An emerging kind of possibility hit her. Perhaps that was it—the way they'd met.
She had walked over to him and informed him that they were to enter together. She had introduced herself. She had been the one to do it, when every good, proper young lady knew better, knew from a young age, that that was not how it worked in their society.
Upon a first meeting, it was the lord's prerogative to present himself to the lady.
He had to introduce himself first. That would be wrong. Proper decorum dictated so, and there was a set order to how these first meetings should play out and be enacted. There were whole tomes dedicated to explaining the proper deportment for a young lady—it was one of the first things Septa Mordane had taught her.
The lord would introduce himself, and the lady should then curtsey according to their rank before engaging the lord in the first subject of conversation—most typically the weather. Other allowed topics included conversable points of interest in their immediate environment, their mutual acquaintances and the harvest—but only should the harvest have been good. Always, a lady should be demure and diplomatic, elegant and attentive.
And that was simple enough.
But Sybel had broken that protocol—and she suspected that the lack of propriety between them, was all because Sybel completely forgot all of it when she introduced herself to Jaime Lannister. It was her own fault.
She'd been the one to initiate a different kind of relationship between them—she'd been the one to imply that they need not be polite and adhere to what was socially appropriate for people of their standing with their level of acquaintance. In a moment of idiocy where she'd tried to prove a point to Robb, she had flounced over dramatically instead of waiting for someone to introduce them, and made it seem like she was as improper as they came. It was not his fault at all, he had simply been copying her own actions.
She was certainly a fool, and it would explain why he had been smirking so obviously when they first met. She'd had no clue why he'd be looking at her with such smug, haughty superiority, and the whole time he must've been thinking she had not a single idea as to proper etiquette.
She had undoubtedly made an embarrassing scene, and she groaned out loud at this realization, her cheeks reddening. Her uncle glanced at her curiously, eyeing the flush spreading across her face, and seemed to debate whether he should question it. Thankfully, he turned back around, and they continued on in silence. This allowed her to return to her thoughts and her own embarrassment that came just a bit too late.
It had been years since she'd ever needed an introduction—it'd been years since she'd met anyone new. She knew the men of Winterfell, she knew those she spoke to on a daily basis—most of whom were below her own station and were not a lord, therefore requiring no introduction. She spoke with the peasants and the butchers and the bakers, the servants and the farmers and the soldiers, and that relaxed atmosphere to her conversations had made her forget herself. Had made her forget how she was supposed to speak to someone who was a lord or a ser, who she had not known since she was a child.
Septa Mordane had even gone over it all before the Royal party arrived—what to say, how to say it, the proper way for a lady to be seen. But Sybel'd spent most of that time trying to get Arya to pay attention—Sybel's youngest sister was wild and needed the lesson more than she. She had been so confident that she would not embarrass herself. But she had, and now she had landed herself in this mess of an acquaintance with a man she really shouldn't be so indecorous with.
She honestly had no idea what to do about any of it.
"Uncle?"
He glanced at her side-long when she urged Faith to catch up to him so she was not shouting up to him. "Are you going to tell me what has you so very pensive this morning?"
Sybel bit her lip. "Have you ever… behaved in such a way that it created a wrong impression of how things should be?"
He blinked at her. Then he frowned. "On a few occasions." He grinned at her lopsidedly, and it was a surprisingly boyish expression. It made him seem much younger than he actually was, thinning the haggard lines inscribed in his flesh. "I am not one for long conversations."
Sybel laughed at what could be considered an understatement. In that respect at least, she could say that her uncle Benjen was exactly like her father—reserved. Which made it easy for others to mistake him as being disdainful, and made it easy for miscommunications to arise. "And what did you do then to fix it?"
He frowned again, and the lighthearted expression vanished from his face. Sybel wished that the men of her family were not always so burdened, to be weighted down with so many concerns and their honourable solemnity, that it made smiling a rarer task. He shrugged, "the few whose opinions I care for know me well enough that such… miscommunications do not occur."
Sybel sighed. "That does not help me, but thank you uncle."
"Perhaps if you told me what it is that you did, I could be of better use to you?" He suggested, and Sybel contemplated this, before quickly and easily deciding against it. If she told her uncle that Jaime Lannister spoke to her in the way he did—even if it was from her own doing—he would undoubtedly tell her father, and that would not end well. All Eddard Stark would hear was that Jaime Lannister mocked and taunted—and all together acted inappropriately—towards his daughter, and no amount of explanations or determined it-was-my-own-fault's would make him hear anything else.
Sybel shook her head, "It matters not, uncle."
They made it out of the woods shortly after, and when Roderik Cassel approached Sybel's uncle, she left them to their conversation with a reminder for him to break his fast, because he was still so thin and gaunt, and it concerned her to no end.
.
.
.
Princess Myrcella was no better or worse at needlepoint than Sybel, but from the way Septa Mordane praised her, one might think she was perfect. Sybel did not particularly care; she knew she was an adequate sewer, and the shy happiness the princess displayed every time she received such praise was not something Sybel wanted to take away. Arya on the other hand, Sybel had noticed, found this frustrating beyond belief, and had lasted barely an hour before she threw her project down and stomped out like the angry storm cloud she was.
Septa Mordane's eyes locked with Sybel's in a grimace, and she immediately understood the meaning. It was not the first time she had been sent after her youngest sister to collect her and then return her to her lessons, and so with a practiced ease, Sybel stood and curtsied to the princess. "Princess Myrcella. We're all very pleased to have you here."
The gold hair girl smiled shyly at Sybel in gratitude, and so Sybel grabbed her fur-lined coat and left the heated room in search of Arya. Sybel liked to think she knew her sister well enough to know where she'd go first, and so Sybel hurried along to the practice courtyard where the men would be training for the day, eyes roaming around and seeking out a short, irritated girl with dirt perpetually smeared on her face.
In the courtyard, a large gathering of men had formed a circle around the edge, jeering and yelling as they watched the different fights take place. Sybel couldn't see anything over them, and wondered if Arya had pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She would have no problem doing that, she knew; if Arya wanted to watch, then she would, but she would do it from the best seat in the house. She glanced at the crowd; she could probably slip between the large bodies easily, she was so quick on her feet. And considering she was too short to be able to see anything properly, with so many men congregated in the yard, she might have done just that.
Sybel frowned, pulling her coat around her tighter against the cold. The men to the back of the crowd began to notice her then, grinning and nudging those next them to get their attention too. One of them, in Lannister red and the lion House symbol, grinned down at her. For a reason she couldn't pin down, she did not particularly like the way he smiled at her. "Would the little lady like a better seat to view the fighting from?"
Sybel smiled at him, ignoring how calling her little only highlighted to her how much smaller she was in comparison to these men with their broad shoulders and corded muscle from years spent training, and instead noted how his hair was not quite the spun gold she had become accustomed to from a Lannister. It seemed to hover between gold and brown. "No, thank you Ser."
He took a step away from the circle of men watching the sparring, and closer to her, tilting his head to the side. His mouth widened, but she wasn't sure it was in a smile so much as it was to bare more teeth. "Then what are you doing here, if I may ask, my lady?"
"I am looking for my sister—have you seen her?" Sybel frowned. "She is about this tall and—"
"Lady Sybel?" A surprised voice cut her off and she glanced over to find Jory hurrying towards her, his brow creased in worry. Sybel's lips twisted into a smile of relief as he approached. "I was just about to go looking for you. Lady Arya is here and won't let me take her back to her lessons. She shouldn't be here, my lady… though," he paused for a second, raising an eyebrow at her, "neither should you—your lady mother will not be happy."
Whenever Jory encountered a problem with one of her sister's, either Arya misbehaving or Sansa doing something she shouldn't (though, that was a rather rare occurrence) or when they started to fight, rather than disturbing her father and mother, he came looking for her instead, to deal with the problem first. Even problems with Rickon or Bran, he seemed to come to her first. And Sybel thought it might be because, when her siblings weren't in a rage, she handled them well enough to calm the situation down and return everything to normal without needing her mother or father to intervene.
Sybel placed her hand on his arm in a not-to-worry gesture, shaking her head, "I am only here to collect my rogue sister, Jory, I promise." He nodded easily, neither of them even noticing anymore how she dropped his formal title of ser and instead used his name in an affectionate manner. She had known Jory for so long, that she had a habit of dropping his title in familiarity, and he never said anything against it. "Where is the little—" she pursed her lips before grinning at Jory, "—vagabond?"
He grinned and pointed up to a window in the small tower overlooking the courtyard, and Sybel followed his gaze up to find her sister sitting on the window, her feet dangling over as she viewed the sparring partners below with enthusiasm. Sybel shook her head and sighed, and began to work her way around the outer courtyard to get to the stairs of the tower, ascending them as quickly as she could without falling over the ends of her dress and coat.
When she made it to the top, Arya turned her head around and Sybel threw her a stern look, which only made her younger sister turn back around with a glare, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms around herself. She shivered in the cold, and Sybel hurried over, the wooden floor creaking under her weight as she sat on the ledge, her feet firmly braced on the tower floor rather than dangling out in the open, and pulled her sister close to her until Arya's back was pressed to her front and Sybel could wrap her coat around both of them.
Sighing again, she looked down at the courtyard below. Despite the frigid air, the men were sweating from exertion as they trained, wielding swords and shields, the more experienced teaching the less. She said, "you can't just run out like that Arya. Especially when our guest is the princess."
She grumbled under her breath about their Septa and stitches and needlework, and Sybel could guess at the direction of her thoughts easily enough. "What did you expect her to say, Arya?" Sybel hugged her sister tighter to her, arms wrapped around her thin waist, and rested her chin on Arya's shoulder so that when she lowered her voice in an imitation of their Septa's, she could hear it properly, with the rushing wind so loud in their ears. "Tsk tsk, princess, you need much more practice than that. I will have to speak with your mother, the Queen, and inform her that her daughter is only very adequate at needlepoint."
Arya grumbled some more, though she was sure her scowl lessened, lips twitching. Sybel turned her head, placing a kiss on her sisters cheek and saying seriously, "it was an honour the Queen even allowed our Septa to instruct the princess today."
Arya kept her eyes locked firmly on the courtyard below and Sybel resisted the urge to shake her head. Arya longed too much to join them, to learn swordplay and archery, and to run and roll in the dirt. She gave her sister a moment longer to watch, standing up, though trying to keep the ends of her coat wrapped around her sister's slim shoulders. When she was about to tell her that it was time to go back, for her to apologise to the princess and remain there for the rest of her lesson, she was distracted suddenly by a flash of gold, and the words dyed in her throat.
Jaime Lannister was training, sparring with another man she didn't know, and he looked so completely comfortable with a blade in his hand that she stood there, rooted to her spot, transfixed. He brought his sword down on his opponent, who flew backwards from the force, his shield flying away, and the tip of his sword soared down to hover over the man's neck as he lay sprawled in the dirt.
Then he removed his sword, exchanging words with the other man and laughing as he helped his opponent to his feet, swinging his arms about in a loosening movement before dropping into a ready stance. He lunged at his opponent in a startlingly fast movement, the sword an extension of his arm, his motions fluid. And there, in the surety of his strokes and blocks, there was a dangerous kind of precision. He shifted on his feet, agile and graceful, and every time his sword hit his opponent, Sybel was sure there would be bruises left behind.
There was a flawless, practiced control to his movements as he baited his opponent into moving one way or another, and Sybel couldn't help noticing the likeness in his swordplay to how he had conversed with her. His blows and strikes seemed to be just as well thought-out and precise as everything he said, hitting their desired mark perfectly and inducing the exact reaction he expected to garner from his attack, if the self-satisfied grin he wore was anything to go by.
He had the other man sprawled in the dirt again after five hammering blows, the clang of steel on steel sending vibrations up her back even from this distance, and he paced a little, swinging his arms about again to get rid of the lingering reverberations running up his arms. And then, as though he felt her puzzled gaze, his eyes swept up to lock on her and she froze. A heated blush worked its way over her skin at having been caught staring.
The golden strands around his face clung to his skin, damp with sweat, and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. His eyes had become a vivid, burning green, the colour brightened by the physical activity, and Sybel thought she had never seen such beautiful, dangerous eyes before.
And then his lips curled into a cocky, arrogant smirk at having caught her staring at his impressive display of swordsmanship, at having made the red flush spread over her cheeks. And very purposefully, fuelled by the blood pounding through his body in a heady rush and his light, victorious mood, he winked at her.
Her eyes widened in shock, body flinching in surprise, and his smirk only grew when she blushed harder. She averted her gaze, suddenly extremely uncomfortable being under his burning green one, and she frowned, her eyes dropping to the stone floor, her mind darting back to their conversation last night and how he liked to provoke people. Irritation flashed through her at this, at his brazen, bold move, and the sudden knowledge that he did it simply to make her react as she did, made her huff in annoyance. She was not his opponent; she did not want to be purposefully baited into a reaction.
She didn't understand why he did it; he seemed intent on making her uncomfortable. On making her feel like she needed to shift on her feet and get away from him, even as she felt the urge to move closer, to learn more and push aside his wall to show her something real, settle in her chest.
Even as she turned away, tugging on Arya's arm to get her sister to follow, she felt the Lannister's arrogant expression follow her and remain on her until she was out of sight, moving down the winding stairs. After a reluctant moment, Arya followed, but not before she frowned over her shoulder, looking at the practice yard and then at her older sister's red face, asking, "did the Kingslayer just wink at you?"
"Of course not," Sybel tried to laugh, but the sound was uncomfortable and weak, and the blush on her cheeks did not die down despite the cold air. "And don't call him that."
"Why not?" She demanded, in the obnoxious way some haughty children had. "Everyone else does."
Sybel frowned at her, and the younger girl wilted somewhat under her disapproving gaze. Softly, she implored, "It is not a nice name and just because everyone else calls him that, doesn't mean you should."
"But he did kill the king," Arya insisted, her statement almost a question, like she thought no one had told her the full truth about anything and so maybe she did not really know what she thought she knew.
"Yes," Sybel said, looking straight ahead and staring unseeingly at the walls of her home, the yelling from the courtyard getting quieter and quieter the further she moved away. "He killed the king and broke his oath and so everyone calls him Kingslayer because of it." Then she looked back down at her younger sister seriously, "But they call him that behind his back—how would you feel, if people called you names behind your back?"
Arya frowned, watching her feet pass over the grey stones as they walked back to their lesson room, and said no more on it.
