Disclaimer: I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in A Song of Ice and Fire. I do not earn any profit from this.
Author's Note: Hello dear friends! Before anything else is said, I must say that I am very, very, VERY sorry that this update took months—and it isn't even exactly what I promised you. There are a host of reasons, but mainly I'm a working student in the middle of law school, so there's very little time for me to write in between work, studying, and extra-curricular activities. This past semester in particular was extra vicious, so what little time I did have to breathe was spent in recuperation.
Remember that milestone that I promised back in Chapter 2? It was supposed to be the ending for this chapter—but I can't seem to write it the way I want it, grrr! I've tried and tried, but it is just not cooperating. It's the bridge between this chapter and the next one (which is already half-written), but since it refuses to be built at this point I've decided to start with it in Chapter 5 and just recalibrate the grouping of events. I don't think any of you would have forgiven me if I'd waited until Christmas break to post this. So no dramatic cliffhanger in this chapter, I'm sad to say. And no Jon Snow (I'm really sorry!). I promise to make it up!
On a different (but equally important) note: This is a mature chapter. If you're very uncomfortable with sex as a topic, I don't think you'll be pleased with it. Fair warning!
Sorry again for the delay, and as always, responses to reviewers who weren't logged in are at the end of the chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you again for your continuing support!
I discovered many things that night, and the days and nights after.
The first was that my husband was a rather wicked man once one managed to strip off the dour exterior of the King in the North. I suppose a part of me knew that he had been a boy once, as mischievous and incorrigible as most lads, but that boy had had to grow up. Lady Catelyn had once said that the day after Lord Eddard's execution she had gone looking for her son and found that the child he had been was simply nowhere to be found, and that in his place was a hard-faced, bitterly determined man.
I saw none of that man as I woke one morning to find my husband kissing me in a place that I never imagined a woman ought to be kissed. Before I could protest my body went up in flames, and it was a while before I realized that the light shining into my eyes was the cold light of dawn. The king kissed his way up to my mouth, and I started a little when it occurred to me that on his lips I tasted myself. He settled himself over me, around me, burying his fingers in my hair and setting about the task of trying to kiss me thoroughly. I shifted my face away, still disoriented from being so abruptly woken—and peeved as a result.
"Your Grace, do you not know how to wake someone in the ordinary fashion?" I asked faintly, the annoyed tone vanishing from my words as I looked into his face. He looked incredibly pleased.
And smug. "It seems like the only way to wake you is to make love to you," he answered with a smirk. "I'm happy to oblige, of course, Your Grace."
"Forgive me, it's been difficult to get some sleep of late," I shot back, the annoyance returning. He chuckled darkly and hitched my legs up on either side of his hips. I tried to scramble back but his grip on my waist was firm. I stared up at him, torn between astonishment, apprehension, and anticipation. "Your Grace, we spent all of last night doing this. Haven't you had enough?"
"Of this?" He slid inside me and we both groaned. His next words came out on a pleasure-filled hiss. "Never."
It was a strange time in my life, perhaps because I was never quite certain what to feel. The night my husband first made love to me—indeed, my mind is compelled to distinguish it from our first time together on our wedding night, when we had simply been married, not lovers—was almost entirely without rest. He had learned secrets about my body that even I had been unaware of, and we had delighted in the shared discovery until sleep refused to be kept at bay any longer. When I awoke the next morning, it had been to a feeling of strange well-being—a reluctant sort of happiness that I did not know what to do with. The expedient solution had been to simply lock it away, but it persisted as the days passed and the space between me and the king lessened.
The physical intimacy we gained had a profound effect on our relationship. The extent of it occurred to me one day as I prepared for a bath. A storm had lashed its way through the North and my husband had ridden out two days before with nearly a hundred men to see what could be done for the farms and villages nearby. Winterfell had held quite well under the onslaught of nature, the work we had begun almost five months before nearly complete. I had stayed behind with Beric and Lady Catelyn to attend to the few repairs necessary. Before my husband had left I had wished to accompany him, but as ravens arrived with reports from his bannermen I had seen the wisdom of staying. Some roads had been nearly washed out, familiar paths made impassable by trees felled by the wind and mires borne of the deluge.
The loneliness had caught me off guard, bringing forward the unease that had lingered even as I found growing elation in my husband's arms. After sharing a bed with him for almost two months—nearly one of which we had spent constantly intertwined—it felt unnatural to lie in bed alone. It had been difficult to fall asleep without the shelter of his body around mine, the brush of his hot breath against my hair. I had found some solace by sleeping on his pillow, hunting for his scent on the linen, but the sleep that came was shallow, and I awoke feeling like I had been afforded no rest. It was worse by the second night, and I found my temper sorely strained after the third.
There were words for the tumult that I was experiencing, this riot of mind and body against my husband's absence, but the only ones I knew were crude ones. I wondered if it meant that I was a vulgar woman, to be so at the mercy of desire that I was hardly myself. The smallest things upset me, and on the fourth day after the king's departure I confined myself to my room, trying to occupy myself with writing correspondence, mending, reading—anything that did not require me to interact with another person. I had done my best to keep my feelings contained, but it seemed to me that at any moment I might snap at someone—something I almost never did—and I knew that when even Lady Catelyn grated on me it was necessary to keep to my own company.
I sank into the bath, the scalding hot water doing nothing for the fire beneath my skin. I ran my hands over my arms, my breasts, the length of my thighs. There were slivers of sensation, but they were nothing to the response my husband's hands solicited. I tipped my head back, drumming my fingers against my belly, sighing at what a difference another's touch could make. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind.
The sound of the door opening jarred the quieting of my thoughts and I bit back another sigh. Tall painted screens shielded the bath from view and the heavy steam that rose from the water afforded me enough covering that the instinctive spurt of modesty inside me was quickly shushed. I reminded myself that the young serving girl my husband had brought in for me was not to blame for how I was feeling and it would be unkind and unfair to be sharp with her for doing her work. Still, as much as I was dissatisfied with my own touch, I did not want anyone but my husband's hands on me.
"It's all right, Lyla," I said as the soft footsteps approached. I was proud of the evenness of my tone. "I can wash myself. You may leave the toweling and go."
The footsteps did not falter. I straightened, eyes snapping open and more cutting words on my tongue, but the figure that stepped out from behind the screens was not my slight, shy handmaiden.
The king said nothing. I do not remember exactly what I had meant to say, or what exactly passed through my mind when I saw him. I do remember my knee knocking painfully against the edge of the copper bath as I scrambled up, the bite of cold air against my skin as I rose out of the water. I remember slipping, the feel of my husband's arms around me as he caught me against him, the breathless, dark little chuckle that rumbled through his chest before his mouth was on mine. He smelled like wet earth and sweat and horses but in my delirium I wondered if I could bottle up the scent so it would ever be at my disposal. I was shivering, my body running hot and cold as his hands—still gloved—caressed places that seemed to weep for his touch. The sharpness of our need was matched only by the sweet pain that was release, and in the aftermath it seemed like I would never have the strength to rise again.
But as the moments lengthened I became conscious of the unrelenting chill in the stone beneath me, which grew even cooler as the water that had splashed onto it frosted over. My husband was a welcome source of heat, particularly since he was still clothed in his cloak and furs, but it was no recompense for the cold radiating into my back. I tugged gently at the curls at the base of his nape, trying to lift his head off my chest.
"Robb?" I ventured, trying and failing to get onto my elbows. "Please, get up."
The leather of his glove scraped against my skin as he ran it up the length of my thigh to cup my bottom. I bit down on a squeak and slid my foot off his own bottom, where it had been resting in defiance of my brain's instructions. I planted it onto the floor to get some leverage as I dug both hands into his shoulders and tried to push him off me.
He huffed in laughter, rolling obligingly off me and onto his back, but his arms came around me so that I rolled with him. My bones sighed with relief but the cold worsened and I squirmed in vain before I collapsed onto his chest.
"Robb, I'm wet," I pointed out plaintively, half a second before I realized how the words would be taken. True to form, he slid his hand into my hair and tugged my head back so he could look at me, the leering grin I had come to be familiar with spreading across his face.
"Are you, wife?" he purred, stroking my nape. "And how might I help you with that?"
I buried an elbow into his ribs, making him cough, and I reared off him, clutching at the rim of the bath for support when my knees buckled. He let me go more out of surprise than pain, which annoyed me somewhat since, the brief "Ooph!" aside, he did not stop laughing. He sat up as I gave him a narrow-eyed stare.
"You interrupted my bath," I said sourly, as it occurred to me how I had behaved. I clambered carefully back into the water, peering resentfully over the side at him where he sat on the floor. Considering his unrepentant, self-satisfied grin, I was certain that I would never hear the end of it.
He rolled to his feet in a singularly graceful move that made it difficult to remain annoyed with him. He tugged one glove off, swirling his hand in the water an inch away from my breasts. I swatted at it.
"The water's still hot," he commented, withdrawing his hand. "No reason to complain, wife."
"Well, you finished rather quickly, didn't you?" I said unwisely, turning my embarrassment onto him.
One strong brow arched towards his hairline. "Is that what you're complaining about?" he asked, amusement gone. He tugged off his other glove. "Well then, my lady, prepare for some company."
I consoled myself with the fact that the servants did not need to take care of the tedious task of emptying the bath. One of the lovely painted screens had been permanently damaged by water, unfortunately, and I hid under the covers and feigned sleep as the maids who had been tasked to mop the floor and replace the rushes giggled about their tasks.
My husband did not need to feign weariness. After the servants had gone and I had the courage to creep out from under the furs I saw that the days we had been apart had been harder on him than they had been on me. I traced the shadows under his eyes, rubbed gently at the imprint of a frown that had marred his brow. His mouth, at least, was relaxed, his lips slightly parted to allow a soft purr to escape. Or was that purring sound me?
I curled into him, and as his arms came around me—deep in his dreams as he seemed to be—I found the first real sleep in days.
For the first time in a long time I did not wake to my husband's scalding kisses. When I opened my eyes I found that neither of us had really moved in the night, and that my husband was still slumbering. It was difficult to tell the time even if some discreet servant had come in to open the shutters, since daytime was now composed of minute variations of gray and gloom. But if someone had already come into the room, it was likely that both my husband and I had slept past the expected hour.
"Robb?" I whispered, stroking a finger over his bottom lip. His hot breath puffed against my hand and I felt a curl of wanting in my belly that made me forget about why we ought to be out of bed. I stared at him as he continued to dream and realized that this was my chance to experience something only he had enjoyed thus far.
I moved the leg I had hitched over his hips off him, folded my arms between us and pushed him slightly. He rolled onto his back with only the slightest of grumbles, and I stifled the urge to squeak when his arms—still around me—tightened, rolling along with him so that I was on top. I grinned, since he'd managed to position me perfectly, and I lowered my mouth to his throat.
It was different, tasting my husband's skin at my leisure. The salt, the heat of him, the smell of spice and musk—when we made love I was often too overcome with passion to separate the sensations into parts. This was my first opportunity to savor him, since often when we came together we hurried each other to the finish.
The only thing I knew about love-making was what the king had taught me, and so I did the things he did to please me. I licked and nipped, scraping my teeth over the manly protrusion in his throat. His breathing roughened ever so slightly, and I slid my hands under his night shirt and over the hard planes of his body, delighting in the way the muscles jumped reflexively under my touch. I pushed the fabric as high up as it would go and pressed my mouth onto the exposed flesh.
As I dipped my tongue into his navel I heard him gasp, and I gloried in the sound. I could feel the heat of him against my breasts, bent over him as I was, and as I shifted over him so that I could pull down the confines of his trousers I felt his hips buck slightly. I understood then, why Robb was so determined to wake me with lovemaking every morning. I found I could not decide which was more pleasurable: making love to someone or being made love to. It was a heady feeling, pushing someone to higher peaks of desire and fulfillment.
Even so, I felt a flutter of nervousness as I pulled the fabric down and set that part of him free. Then my gut clenched when my gaze skittered upwards and I saw him watching me. His eyes were like slits of stormy blue, their color heightened by the flush that filled the sharp blades that were his cheeks. His chest was rising and falling in rapid breaths and I saw that his hands were bunched in the sheets. I waited for him to speak, to move—to do anything—but he only groaned when I timidly wrapped my hand around him.
Yet when I touched him with my tongue he cursed so viciously that I pulled away, embarrassed and frightened. His hands clamped around my arms, stilling me before I could rear back completely. At first look I was convinced he was angry—and since he spoke through all but gritted teeth it took more than a few moments for me to realize that he was not.
"Please, Morgan," he bit out. "I need you."
When I understood what he meant I was clumsy in my eagerness to do as he asked. But the desire that burned through both of us only cared that the need be met, and I pushed down onto him greedily, anchoring my hands in his thighs and driving us to our peak, spurred on by his bucking body and his hoarse—and coarse—exclamations of pleasure.
It was noon when we left our chambers, and I could not decide if I wanted every day to start as this one had, or if I never wanted to do the things we did again. My body was still humming from our earlier activities, but my mind was whirring frantically by the time we were seated by each other at our table in the great hall. I found myself glancing almost sharply at the faces of those who were nearby: the servants who set the dishes before us, those seated at our table (Beric, Maester Osmund, Lady Catelyn, a Karstark cousin who was visiting), and even those who were taking their meals in the other tables. When nothing seemed amiss my mind quieted in relief, and I happily allowed my husband to fill my plate, secure in the belief that I would be able to eat in peace.
And then—
"You look remarkably restored, Your Grace," the Maester commented just as I spooned some egg into my mouth, and while I was not looking at him I heard the laughter in his voice and I felt my spine stiffen.
"Yes, she does, does she not?" my husband concurred, confirming my suspicion. My eyes shot to the Maester and I found him looking at me—clearly his first remark had not been intended for my husband. I felt the heat gather in my face as I heard the nearby chortles. He was a good man, but his manners would never count in his favor and my husband did little to correct him. I slanted a look at the king and struggled to keep my expression smooth when I saw he was grinning at me in a way that only a man could.
The passion we shared was not secret. As in most households, gossip was a favored pasttime for servants, soldiers, and highborns alike, and the night after we'd first made love more than my relationship with the king had changed. No one was as blunt as Maester Osmund, but somehow I had noticed that it seemed everyone in the keep was aware of what had transpired between my husband and me. It was the small things—the knowing, almost congratulatory looks they had given me as I left our chambers following that night; the eager, almost expectant way they watched us in the days that followed; and worst of all the whispering and tittering that floated in the air around us and always seemed to die away the moment my head whipped around.
It did not help that my husband did little to be discreet. Those first few weeks after that night I had learned to dodge him during the day because he was forever backing me into corners, demanding his rights from me in the most inappropriate places and times. My refusals seemed to amuse him and only served to spur further attempts. After a meeting with Beric and Maester Osmund he had managed to pin me onto a table, dislodging a great many important documents and making me curse my diminutive size. When the Maester had suddenly returned, having forgotten something, all the king had done was laugh and ask him to shut the door. At the Maester's conspiratorial wink and encouraging leer I'd lost my temper—perhaps the first time I ever had with my husband—and had managed to bring my knee up against my husband in exactly the right place. I had expected him to be furious, but his response—other than a grunt of pain—had been something akin to admiration. When he had breath enough to speak he had teased me about how he liked it when I played coy.
I had been instantly offended. I never envisioned myself as the sort of woman who played coy. It wasn't that I found my husband's overtures repulsive, but neither was I comfortable with him extending them so openly. The king had a way of catching me off guard, and when I was rattled it had always been my response to strive all the more doggedly for control. He took a roguish delight in this, and for a while it felt as though our days were spent with him toying with me until the prim, calm exterior I had lived with all my life cracked and I was sniping at him in frustration. It was a wonder that any of our tasks got done.
There was only one kind of rejection that my husband did not accept with good humor. I had been in the ladies' sitting room with Lady Catelyn and several other ladies, setting about the task of making warmer clothing for the coming winter. Furs and heavy material lay about the spacious solar and as I did my best to do justice to the rich fabric and the poor animal who'd been divested of its pelt I thought of Alys and her nimble fingers, experiencing once again the sharp pang of melancholy that still descended upon me now and then.
My husband had walked in, declaring it was time for our noontime meal. We had risen out of respect and at his announcement my companions had made to file out, even Lady Catelyn not stopping save to give her son a reproving look. I found myself smiling at the gesture. King though he was, Robb had clearly spent the better part of the morning out on the practice yard with his soldiers and he was filthy with sweat and mud—and careless of getting any of the fine things in the room dirty as he strode toward me.
He had pulled me close, his mouth descending to mine, and I had turned my head so sharply that our heads almost collided awkwardly. My eyes had been on the ladies who were casting discreet glances at us as they left the room, but I should have been looking at my husband. When I had turned back to him after the distinct closing of the door I found he had straightened and was looking at me with ill-concealed fury.
"And what, my lady," he had asked in a quiet, dangerous voice I had never heard before, "was the point of that little display?"
"D-Display?" I'd repeated nervously, unnerved by the anger in his face. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"
"Are you trying to bait me? Why did you not let me kiss you?"
His sharp directness had thrown me, and though now I look on that moment with fondness and the warm feeling that comes from being flattered, at the time I was only conscious of feeling alarm—and defensiveness. "You know why," I had said shortly, rallying my courage and trying to give him the stern look I'd often seen Lady Catelyn give.
"If I did," Robb had said in that awful, quiet tone that still seemed to make every word feel like a whiplash—and proving to me at that very moment that I would never get anywhere by trying to behave like his mother—"I wouldn't ask, now would I? Now, explain yourself."
"Perhaps I didn't want to be kissed at that very moment, Your Grace."
"Liar." He took a step towards me as though to prove it. "You've tolerated my tongue shoved into your mouth well enough before."
The sudden outburst of crudeness had stunned me—and had given me refuge in anger. "Why must you drag this out? Surely you were taught that doing such things in the company of others is rude and unbecoming."
"Considering that the others you refer to go out of their way to catch us, I don't think they really mind."
"That isn't the point, Your Grace, and you know it. Simply because others don't mind or even delight in such missteps does not make such behavior any less improper."
And then he had taken it too far. "This, from Walder Frey's daughter?"
It was one of the rare times in my life that I had actually seen red. "And what is that supposed to mean?" I had hissed, though I knew exactly what he had meant. "How dare you?"
"Do you really think they don't know what we do together?" he had asked me derisively, shifting the focus of his attack. "Do you really believe that they don't know what we've been up to when you have difficulty walking in the mornings or when they hear your wails all the way to the rafters?"
"You are a great big lecher of a man!" I had snapped, furious and humiliated. "No, I should sooner call you a boy for all the self-control you have! Isn't it enough that I yield to you every night? You may have your rights to my body, Your Grace, but that does not mean you may paw at me as you please, even if I am Walder Frey's daughter!"
I had seen the instant when I had gone too far. The fire in his eyes gave way to ice, and no sooner had the words left my mouth that I had the urge to bite off my tongue.
"Very well," he had said coldly. "Forgive my eagerness for your mouth, wife, but rest assured that all taste for it has fled now."
And then he had turned on his heel, leaving me alone in the solar.
I had stood rooted to the floor for what had seemed like an age, trying repeatedly to achieve equilibrium. When I had at last mastered myself enough and gone down to the great hall, I was told that the king had had but two bites before he had left. A part of me had been relieved that I did not have to see him yet, when we were both still furious with one another, but a greater part was consumed with worry. I barely ate, and as a result I had been starving by the time it was time for dinner. Hunger was not what brought me down to the great hall with haste that evening, however.
The king had not sought me out for the rest of that day. The discussion in the solar had been our first real quarrel, and I had no idea how to set things right. I had wanted to apologize, as the afternoon had worn on and I had come to see my actions with embarrassment, but the king had been nowhere to be found. I had sent Lyla to look for him, but she had returned only to tell me that the king had ridden out with a small company of men, without leaving word as to where he meant to go. Inwardly I had gone into a panic, but after a brief discussion with the cooks and storage managers I was assured that the king had not left for a long journey.
But when I had reached the great hall that evening, it was clear to me that the king had yet to return. If I had managed to convince the people around me that this did not bother me, it was difficult to make light of it when I had climbed up to our chambers alone. I had slipped into a fitful sleep, awakened only when my husband's weight settled beside me.
Though I had spent the better part of the day rehearsing my apology and wishing he would return, at that moment I found that I had not the courage to open my eyes and speak to him. I had simply lain quiet, listening to his breathing and finding that it did not lack the deep, quiet sound of sleep. Not for the first time that day I had cursed myself for the things I had said to him and what I had done. There had been no real reason for us to fight but things between us had become ugly so quickly that I had barely been able to comprehend the change.
And then his voice had broken into my misery. "May I kiss you now?"
I had barely whispered "yes" before his mouth was on mine, and though at first felt that I had conceded something to him that night, his subsequent behavior led me to believe otherwise. While he still looked at me like something he would like to devour, he ceased making attempts to do so, and save for a few leering comments whispered into my ear now and then, I had begun to think that my husband had seen my point.
He undid that presumption now, as his hand came to rest familiarly over my rump. I leveled the coldest look I could muster on him, but he again proved that expression ineffective by squeezing my flesh and winking.
My appetite evaporated, and I set down my spoon with as much dignity as I could and stood. I winced inwardly when everyone else rose respectfully as I excused myself and lied about feeling unwell, but that feeling went just as quickly when I heard someone laughingly whisper that I'd either didn't get enough or had too much. I didn't have to look back to see that my husband was following me. It was all I could do not to dash away or slam the door in his face as I walked back into our chambers with him at my heels.
"Morgan," he started in a voice that failed miserably at being placating because he was clearly still too close to open laughter.
"Spare me," I cut in coolly, resisting the urge to fling the nearest heavy object at him.
"You are making a great deal out of nothing," the king went on regardless, his smiling countenance not managing to buffer the hurt from having my feelings dismissed.
"Am I?" Between the stupid urge to cry and the pressing urge to do him bodily harm I managed to force myself into a state of calm. "We've spoken about this," I said quietly, "and you know how much it upsets me but you are determined to be difficult on this point, Your Grace."
The humor faded from his eyes and mouth and his voice matched mine in its seriousness. "Remind me of this conversation, my lady, it seems to have slipped my mind."
My mouth dropped open slightly. "You don't remember us quarreling about you kissing me when others are around?"
"I would hardly call that a conversation. It was a silly argument, and apart from insulting one another and hurting each other I do not recall anything being settled between us."
"It may have gone too far, but it was not a silly argument for me. Robb, before that day I spent most of my time rolling out from under you every time you decided to pounce on me."
His expression turned frosty. "What do you want me to say? Acknowledge that my wife is a prude?"
Tears stung at my eyes with a sudden viciousness that I lowered my gaze. I had only been called that once before, by another man who was as important to me as this one. What was I doing, complaining to my husband like this? Had I not promised him—and myself—that I would be the best of wives to him? I had had an idea of what our marriage was going to be like, and what my part in it would be, but sometime in the two months we had spent getting closer I had forgotten myself. Blinking the tears back slowly, I cleared my throat so that I could apologize.
He pre-empted me by placing his arms around me. I stiffened, because the tears threatened with renewed force, and the only way to beat them back was to feel angry. I tried to step back, but Robb held me fast and tried to kiss me. I turned my face away, ready to get into another argument about not letting him kiss me, but he surprised me by laughing softly and settling for a new target.
"Morgan," he murmured, nuzzling my neck in the spot that made my knees buckle, unprincipled cheat that he was. I swayed against him, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he employed the strategy of placation through seduction—something I had scoffed at as insulting and improbable to work on me until I had been married to him. "My wife, do you not enjoy my attentions?"
"You know I do," I grumbled, biting down on a mewl as he bit me, scraping his teeth lightly over the sensitive point. "But Robb you..." I lost the thread of my own thoughts when he suckled that tender point and I clutched at him even as my mind flailed desperately to recover what I had meant to say. "Robb, it isn't proper."
"It isn't proper to let people know that I want my wife?" My dress sagged and I realized that he had undone its lacings. His hands smoothed over the chills that chased over my back, making me arch. He continued to speak into my ear as he stripped me and brought me even closer against his hard body. "I confess that my mother's lessons about propriety have not been forgotten. But when I see you—" his hands cupped my breasts—"I find I cannot make myself care. And after not seeing you for the last few days, propriety is even less of a concern. I missed you sorely, Morgan."
Hideous man. The tears finally spilled even as a strange, mindless panic gripped me. Did he want me to admit that I had missed him as well? But had that not been abundantly clear when I had all but leapt on him when he had arrived?
"Don't cry." His lips brushed over my tears.
"You made me," I whispered furiously, glaring up at him.
There was something different about the way he was looking at me. His eyes were soft and serious, but his lips had curved into a mischievous smile. "Then I will make amends."
He sank to his knees before me, surprising me, and I clutched at his shoulders as he began to press kisses over my belly, his hands circling my hips.
"It is a very good thing," he teased between kisses, "that you were in your chambers when I arrived. If I'd found you in the hallway, I don't think you would ever have forgiven me."
"You wouldn't," I said weakly, the stern disapproval in my voice burning away when I felt his tongue dip into my navel and his mouth trailed lower.
He pulled back, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Is that a challenge, wife?"
I looked down at him, and whether it was fear or some manner of trust that finally forced it out I do not recall, but I quietly gave voice to the troubled thoughts that had haunted my mind whenever I felt that my husband was trying to make a spectacle of us. "Is it really so enjoyable, letting everyone see what you can do to me?"
It was the oddest thing, but I saw from his expression that he understood in an instant. If he had been unable to see my point of view before, everything fell perfectly into place with that one question. There was no need for me to explain that my father—and other lords like him—had come to mind. Most women were objects to them, things to be used for pleasure and badges of their virility. My father, as much as I loved him, had no real respect for women save for a handful of his own kin, and even then he had been convinced that the gods had meant these rare exceptions (myself included) to be men. If my father's penchant for young girls were not scandalous enough, he gave no real thought to the conventions he flouted when he met such urges whenever and wherever he pleased. If we caught him with another young woman in the stairwell, or in the stables, or wherever he happened to be, he seemed to expect praise rather than censure. Daughters—or at least this daughter—got away with walking on by and a hearing only a muttered curse on said girl's prudishness, but my father expected his sons to leer and cheer—and fawned on those that did. That my father declared almost all my brothers to be disappointments is a twisted testament, I suppose, to my brothers' principles.
Of course, my husband could not be expected to know such things. Most people expected us to be inured to vulgarity, or to be vulgar ourselves, considering our parentage. Even my husband had apparently harbored such a thought. As I saw his grave, contrite face I knew we were thinking of the words he had said before: "This, from Walder Frey's daughter?"
Yet he understood now, and I did not even have to tell him about what it had been like, catching my father with a girl even younger than me, seeing her frozen expression as my father did not stop what he had been doing. He had simply grinned at me and told me that I would have another sibling on the way.
"I wish you had been franker with me before, wife," Robb said gruffly, and I yelped when he pulled me down so that I was straddling his lap. "To think you have been comparing me to your father all this time! I would ask you to forgive me, but I find it difficult to accept that I have anything in common with that old goat."
He was so disgruntled that I let him refer to my father as he did.
"I'm sorry," I said meekly. I gave him a watery smile. "I know I shouldn't be so upset when you do those things, but I've always been a prude. I-I promise I'll try to change, Robb."
Robb's response was an exasperated sigh. "I was wrong to call you a prude before. I'm sorry. I said it to hurt you, but if you think about it, I've always enjoyed your prudishness—if it can be called that."
"You said I was playing coy." It was still insulting.
"And I knew it would annoy you because you weren't playing." His expression softened and he gave me a brief, hard kiss. "I have never enjoyed playing games with people's feelings, wife, but something about you makes you a delight to tease."
"So you've only been teasing me all this time? You would never actually have followed through all those times before?"
"Are you disappointed?" At my affronted stare he burst out laughing. "You make it too easy."
"Robb!" I hissed indignantly. "Answer the question!"
He sobered slightly. "Did I really intend to make love to you publicly all those times? In truth, I don't know. But I wasn't pretending to desire you, and I didn't do those things in those places because I wanted us to have an audience."
"No?" I asked hopefully, mesmerized by the tender gravity in his tone.
"No. As much pride as I take in you, Morgan," he said gently, stroking my nape soothingly, "if I cannot keep my hands off you it is not because I am trying to flaunt you or myself. The simple truth is that the nights are too short for me to have my fill of you and the days are too long for me to wait patiently. As you once said, it seems I am a boy for all the self-control I have—when it comes to you."
I bit my lip, frowning at the reminder of my harsh words. "I didn't mean what I said then."
He lifted his brows and grinned at me mischievously. "Neither did I mean it when I called you a prude. But you enjoyed throwing it in my face the way I did your insult."
"I did not—" I thumped my fists against his chest when he started to laugh again. "When I learn how to tease you back, you'd best be ready, Your Grace."
"I look forward to it, Your Grace," Robb shot back, smothering any further threats with his mouth.
As it happened, it did not take me very long to come up with a way to tease my husband back. We spent the rest of that day in our chambers. Despite my protests, Robb ordered that we be left alone, save for the meals that were brought up. When the next morning came I was deliciously sore everywhere, resigned to the teasing that was bound to come after I stepped outside our door, and desperate for a way to get some of my own back from Robb.
It took us a while to dress because Robb took it upon himself to wash me, lingering to press a kiss here and there. By the time he was helping me put on my dress I saw his eyes were smoky with want, and that he would rather be helping me take the garment off. But we both knew there were important tasks that could not afford to be put off much longer, and I knew at that moment how I would get my revenge.
"Robb," I said timidly as we stepped outside.
"Hmmm?" He turned towards me, his eyes distant now, not desirous. Clearly his mind was already on the matters ahead.
I kissed him, and for all its effect it was as though I had punched my poor husband in the gut. He took a step back, bringing me with him because I had wound my arms around his neck, and groaned when I took advantage of his sharp intake of breath by slipping my tongue into his mouth. His arms locked around me so tightly I thought my ribs would crack—and then he pulled back so abruptly that I might have tumbled to the floor if he was not holding me so securely.
"To tide you over until tonight," I said with a smile, finding his astonished expression highly pleasing.
He narrowed his eyes at me, one hand sliding down to pinch my bottom. "Or rather, to keep me hard until you see fit to tend to me, you mean," he growled. "You saucy little wench."
There was a cough of laughter and we turned to see that Lady Catelyn and Beric were standing nearby. I reared away from my husband in shock, but he held me fast and grinned at our two witnesses.
"Once more," he whispered, and before I could protest he was kissing me as fiercely as I had been kissing him, except that he seemed to know much more about it than I did. At least my husband had held his footing when I had kissed him—I all but melted against him as he shifted his lips restlessly over my own, courting my tongue and suckling on it when I gave. When I moaned he pulled back, and I found that he had all but bent me over his arm.
He set me back on my feet, steadying me by my shoulders when it seemed I might fall over, before he turned to the two who had come to see us. Lady Catelyn tutted us like we were still children, but I could see that she was pleased. Beric made no attempt to hide his amusement, clapping Robb familiarly on the back as my husband started forward, not looking back at me once.
The rest of that day dragged on as my revenge turned against me and I began to think longingly of the night that was to come. I had once thought that lust was a thing that could easily be dealt with—once sated one could move on to other things. But it seemed that with my husband each time we met our needs I only became more insatiable.
I reflected on this when night had finally come and we had come together again. As I lay in his arms, content to have him stroke my back and listen to his voice as he told me about what he had done that day, I had the distinct impression that what I was feeling was no longer simply lust. It was a sinking feeling that Robb seemed to pick up on, because halfway through his worries about how ravens were no longer reaching their proper destinations he stopped to ask me what was wrong.
I kissed him, desperate not to answer and desperate for the sadness to go away. He followed my lead, and if he did not think that I simply wanted to make love again he said nothing about it. There was no more talk between us that night, and when morning came I found the strength to dismiss what I had felt—much like any child belittling shadows in the bright of day.
The sense of foreboding and unease that our lovemaking had pushed away that night bore fruit several weeks later, when—contrary to my husband's fear that we would have to send out riders to get any word out—a raven arrived from King's Landing.
Author's Note #2: Usually I answer chronologically, but there are a few special mentions because you guys have been so dedicated—
SirenaErmosa: PLEASE MAKE AN ACCOUNT HERE SO I CAN PM YOU ALL MY LOVE. You are an awesome reader and I am really, really glad you like my story. Every time you left me a review for Chapter 3 alone (did you post four or five?) I felt both guilty for not updating and really pleased that you haven't forgotten me. Thank you so much, darling! It's been a tough couple of months, but seeing your reviews made every day better. I hope you like this update—I was going to hold off posting it, and then I saw your last review and said, "No, no more waiting."
Nina/Guest: I'm really flattered that you would make an account just to get my updates—thank you! I hope this update makes your day again.
And, SuziQ22: Here it is! Thank you so much for checking up on the story as much as you did—it was really motivating! I hope you like it even if it wasn't what I said I'd put in.
Also, before anything else is said, I want to thank all of you who asked about my health following that dreadful dye incident. I can't dye my hair ever again now since my doctor thinks it's too risky (even if I never had a reaction before), but at least my hair and scalp are healthy again. May such a thing never happen to anyone else!
mrk010585: I wonder how you'll feel about Robb after this chapter, haha! Let me know! rikka21: Thank you again! I hope I can send you pms now, because when I tried to send one to you again way back in June, I couldn't yet. Please let me know what you think of this update, thank you! browneyes: Thank you so much! I hope you still like Morgan after this chapter. There was a lot of discussion about how her character was changing/developing (yes, still with my evil editors, haha) and I don't know if she'll still be as appealing. Please let me know! Rachel: I don't want to spoil it, haha! You'll see in the next chapter! Thank you for reviewing, and please stick around until then! I'd love to hear what you think about this update. Delphine862: I'm sorry this chapter is only half the length of the last one! And I'm really sorry that Jon isn't in this one yet! I promise he will be in Chapter 5 A LOT. And yes, the long-awaited Jon and Morgan with Robb there will also be in it! I'm really glad you like how I wrote Robb—there's plenty of red-blooded male in him here, so I pared back a little in Chapter 5—but I won't spoil it for you, haha. Thank you again! Elle: Well, this chapter was mushy, I'm sure! I hope that's still okay, haha. And as to Jon/Morgan—wait and see, hahaha! Thank you again, and I hope you see this update soon! Anna: When I first read your review I actually blushed! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope to hear from you again soon! Sara: Ooh, I hope you're still reading this! Thank you for leaving me a note, and I hope you like this update. yaz216: Hahahahaha, I don't know how you guessed that was coming, but I'm glad to fulfill your wish! Thank you! Tsuki: Nothing really exciting in this chapter, but it may get a bit outlandish in the next one—I hope it won't, though. Thank you for leaving me a review, and I hope you like this! Lisa: Thank you, thank you! I hope you like the update! Anon: I did, haha! Thank you very much!
I hope I didn't miss anyone—if I didn't reply to you, do let me know. I know I hate it when I don't get replies, haha. THANK YOU GUYS, BLESS YOU ALL!
Next Chapter: More Jon Snow (for real this time), the milestone (I'm really serious about it now), and no more mushiness. Well, a little, but in case you guys were wondering, the inspiration for Chapter 5 was Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know"—at least the Walk Off the Earth version, haha. Make of that what you will.
