Chapter 7
Lyla couldn't move, couldn't breathe, only feel where her skin was burning from his touch. "I'll make you beg for me." He whispered huskily into her ear. "You'll be screaming my name. Lancel, Lancel, Lancel." His golden hair looked more piss yellow than anything she'd ever seen and the green eyes that once reminded her of Jaime looked empty and almost black, they were so dark with a powerful lust.
"No!" she cried as he shoved her against her chair, seeing nobody around as her eyes darted, searching for someone, but finding no one. No one but Lancel, who began placing sick and feverish kisses on her neck, hands on her wrists, grasp hard and painful.
He pulled back and almost hissed his, "Shut up!" as he tore her dress and ripped his breeches off. "Now sit still!" She was about to wiggle away but his hands moved to her hips and she strained not to see him as she tried to close her knees, but his body was between them too quickly and-
Lyla woke up with a start, gasping for air as she jolted from her bed and tumbled onto the floor. Her eyes darted until her breath steadied and she was secure with the thought that she was alone in her room- aside from Rose, who lay only feet from her, head cocked to the side and one ear flopping, the other alert and pointed towards the ceiling.
"Damn nightmares," she murmured, rubbing her jaw. She could feel a bruise forming from where it smacked the edge of her bedframe. She could still feel his breath on her, feel his fingers icily wrapping around her hand and dragging her close. Ser Jaime might have stopped him from physically touching her, but who could save her from her mind? While it scared her, she knew very well why she froze the way she did.
Lady Catelyn Stark, her lady mother, was as fiercely protective of her wolf pups as Cersei Lannister was of her lion cubs. She shielded Lyla, Sansa, and Arya from any knowledge of men outside that of what she knew from her marriage to Ned, and that of what her mother told her.
"You will be married one day,"she would tell her daughters as they sewed or knitted by the window, "and your lord husband will be very good to you. I promise, you'll only know a man's soft touch."
While Sansa had soaked that thought in and relished it, Arya sneered at the thought of marriage, and Lyla simply didn't think much of it. And now, looking back, she wished she could scream at her past self, sitting so scared at the touch of a man. She wished she would have struck him like Ser Jaime had, or at least said something. But she didn't. She couldn't have.
A knock on the door allowed her escape her thoughts, and she called a quiet, "come in," as she rose from her seat beside the bed. A maid rushed in, dark grey eyes wide with panic.
"M'lady, are you alright? I heard a noise as I was passing by, and-"
Lyla raised a hand slightly as she sat on the edge of her bed and waited for her vision to regain itself from the black splotches she saw from rising too fast. When they were gone she looked to the window, where faint silvery traces of light poured onto the floor. "What time is it?" she asked, arching a brow.
"It's early, m'lady Stark. About dawn." The maid was a pretty girl, Lyla decided, as her eyes whipped back to the sound of her voice. She had a thick, not uncomely body, and long straight black hair with dark eyes. As her mind registered itself, she realized it was the same maid that King Robert was kissing the night of the feast.
She figured no time should be wasted sleeping in rather exploring the castle and the grounds, being as the next few days would be the last she would see of Winterfell in so long it pained her. She asked the maid to fetch her a dress and some smallclothes, feeling too exposed in only her thin robe, and changed behind the screen when handed a long, thin, wispy gown of silver and white embroidery. It was more of a southern style, with lace crawling from the heart shaped bust until it graced her neck. It was of Lady Catelyn's taste and it reminded Lyla all too well of her mother. The mother she hadn't seen in almost two weeks.
After tying a cloak of ivory around her shoulders, a thick one to balance out the light gown, Lyla and her direwolf, Rose, wasted no time in reaching Bran's room, where Lady Catelyn was sure to be.
"Mother?" She knocked quietly on the door, watching as a figure beside the little lordling's bed jumped, gasping.
The body turned and she could faintly trace the figure of her mother, wearing the same gown she had worn the day Bran was carried into the castle by ser Jaime. My betrothed, she thought softly.
"Mother, might I come in?" She was cautious of course, always on her guard with her mother when she was distraught. Lady Catelyn had a way of being spiteful when she was upset.
Regardless of what Lyla had been expecting, her mother nodded to a chair across from her on the other side of the bed and turned her attention to cleaning her son's face with a fresh, damp towel.
Drawing in a slight breath, Lyla watched her mother for a while before speaking. "Maester Luwin said that Bran would be okay, you know." Lady Catelyn tensed, glancing at her daughter for a split second before resuming her work. Her mother seemed so engrossed in taking care of Bran, cleaning him, working over him as though she were a silent sister preparing his corpse- it sickened Lyla almost to the point where she didn't know if she wanted to be there anymore. Almost.
"He said that Bran will recover and be healthy again soon, mother. He said that there's no need to worry. The worst is over."
Lady Catelyn exhaled sharply. "If the worst is over, why is my son still asleep?"
"I…" She had no idea, and was scared of telling her mother that, in fear of her reaction. "Maester Luwin said it was so he could recover in peace. So that he wouldn't have to worry about being sad when we leave for the capitol."
Her mother's eyes grew for a moment. "You're leaving with the girls?"
Lyla nodded, saying a meek, "yes," when she realized her mother's eyes were glued to Bran, and she didn't catch the movement.
"You're to marry a southerner?"
Had her mother not been told of her betrothal to Ser Jaime? Or even of the king's offer? Lyla tried to hide the surprise in her voice as she spoke. "Father hasn't told you?"
Lady Catelyn shrugged and shook her head slightly.
"I am marrying a southerner, yes." She was careful with her words, knowing fully of her mother's weariness of the Lannisters.
A look of despair drenched her mother's velvet blue eyes- her velvet blue eyes- and for a moment she thought her mother was broken, from how sad and vulnerable she looked. "I'm losing four of my children."
Lyla's dark brows slowly knit together. "Mother, only Sansa, Arya and I are leaving. Bran Rickon and Robb will be right here."
"Bran isn't here." Lady Catelyn said simply. Sadly, but simply. "He's gone. I fear he'll never return." It pained her to no end seeing her mother cry, and she forced herself to look at her brother, if only to avert her eyes from the steams of water that now ran down her mother's cheeks.
He looked thinner than she remembered him to be, cheekbones growing gaunt, hair dulling, skin paling even snowier than before, leaving the gentle brown freckles that splattered across the bridge of his nose looking ever darker and almost sickly sparse.
She bit her tongue to keep away the tears and sudden urge to run away again, looking down at her twiddling thumbs. "Mother, I know this is hard but-"
"You don't know." Lady Catelyn retorted almost menacingly slick with a hardness Lyla had never heard from her mother before. "You have no idea what it's like to lose a child."
"Mother, Bran is not lost to us-"
She tried to reason, but it went for naught when her mother's glare turned to her. Her blue eyes had never looked blacker with icy anger. "You've always been so difficult. Lighting the sept on fire, going on hunts with your father and brother… You've been so difficult. Bran, though. Bran's good. I don't see why they have to take him over-"
Lady Catelyn seemed to realize her words as soon as Lyla's eyes began to drip burning hot tears that stained her cheeks.
"Lyla, I'm sorry …" There was no need for her to continue, for Lyla had already stood, brushed a soft kiss to Bran's brow, and took her leave.
"She didn't mean it, Lya."
It was midday. The sun was roiling in the pale blue, cloudless sky, and Lyla was sitting under the deck with Robb as they watched Jon and Theon swordfight. In the heat of it all, she'd hidden below the balcony in hopes that nobody would find her, but as soon as the sun had clawed its way to its peak, Robb found her and forced the words of her earlier confrontation with Lady Catelyn to spill from her.
"Her eyes, Robb, I could see it in her eyes. She meant it."
Robb sighed and went to pat her hand, but she recoiled it quickly, mind diving into the memory of her dream and making her shudder uncomfortably. "Lyla, she's just upset about Bran. She's stressed is all."
Lyla shook her head, blank, tired eyes focused on Theon and Jon as they danced around each other in a storm of steel and iron. "She was going to say the gods should have punished me for being so difficult, and not Bran."
"She's grieving, Lyla, give her time. You know she didn't mean it."
"She's neglecting Rickon." Lyla countered, watching as little Rickon giggled by the Maester's with Arya and Sansa. "I won't be here to mother him for very much longer, Robb."
Her older brother shot her a look of confusion that melted into something she couldn't read. "So, what Theon said… it's true? You're marrying the Kingslayer?"
Lyla lifted her gaze, looking at Robb with eyes matching his own even in shape, with a slight annoyance. "He does have a name, Robb."
"Jaime Lannister, if my memory serves."
The voice came from behind them and they both turned slowly. There he was in all his golden glory, knuckles still bandaged. He was smiling, not smirking, as he looked down on Lyla with burning green eyes. "Might I have a moment alone with you, my Lady Stark?"
Robb looked at Ser Jaime with eyes as hard as Valeryian steel, and, saying nothing, rose and nodded curtly before taking his leave. His seat was quickly filled by Jaime, who fixed his eyes on the spar before them for a moment.
"I heard something about you having a bad dream. Is that what caused this?" His finger was feather light on the swollen, ugly violet bruise that had formed on her jaw, and she shrugged.
"I fell." While honest, her answer didn't seem to satisfy Ser Jaime, whose golden brow was arched.
His brow lowered when her eyes dropped and he draped an arm on the table, sinking into the cushioned chair. "I spoke with Lancel."
Lyla's eyes lifted quickly and narrowed. "What did I tell you about being rash?"
"Calm. I only told him to be careful." He looked to her and shrugged at her uncertain gaze. "I'm not one to trifle with."
"Nor am I." She sat up straighter.
"Didn't seem that way yesterday." Ser Jaime said with a frown. "You looked like you were about to be sick."
She narrowed. "I could have handled it."
"And I could have let him further his advances."
"Why didn't you?"
Ser Jaime laughed at that. "And here I thought ladies liked being rescued by knights."
Lyla held her chin higher and looked him in the eyes. "Have you forgotten? I'm not quite a lady."
"No." Amusement was slick in his voice. "You best become one fast, then, my dear. Casterly Rock doesn't take well to wildlings- even the ones from Winterfell."
His remark made her flinch and she shrunk back into her seat. She was pulled into a sadness then, eyes raking across the beauty that was her home. The cold, wonderful beauty she would have to leave behind for the hot, strange south. Her mind wandered to her mother then, born and raised a southern lady, and she fell even more a prisoner to her emotions.
"Lady Lyla?"
Her eyes rose up slowly and she blinked back the forming tears that threatened to drip at the memory of her mother's words. "Sorry. It's rather dusty down here." She gave him a slight smile as she took note of the steady concern in his eyes.
Ser Jaime ran a hand through his golden mane and for a moment, and Lyla wanted to feel it for herself, wanted to grace her fingertips over the strands to see just how silky they were- but she snapped out of it when she felt something pounce at her.
Her eyes widened and she looked down, sighing at the little one that was playing in her dark brown ringlets. "Morning Lya!"
Rickon was dressed in their House colors, grey and white, looking up at her with his big, blue moon eyes and grinning wolfishly. Lyla smiled softly, kissing his cheek. "Hello, little wolf."
Her brother grinned, his growing red locks bouncing with his shoulders. She looked to where Ser Jaime sat and noticed how amused he looked, smirking. "Rickon, this is Ser Jaime," she announced, wrinkling her nose when Rickon fisted her hair and tugged on it to lean in and get a better look at the knight.
"His hair looks like sunshine!" Rickon whispered through his giggles, bouncing on her knees. Without warning, he hopped from her lap and into Ser Jaime's, running his chubby, baby fingers through the masses of thick blonde waves.
"Rickon!" Lyla gasped, trying to grab him back, but Ser Jaime only laughed.
"It's alright," he insisted, ruffling Rickon's thick locks as he settled into his lap and watched Arya challenge Jon at a duel from where she sat with Sansa, still by the Maester's.
Lyla watched as Ser Jaime and Rickon both fixed their eyes across the yard and couldn't help but smile. They looked like a natural pair, the wolf and lion, laughing at the same times, with Ser Jaime bouncing Rickon on his knee.
While she'd been thrust into motherhood of Rickon in the past near two weeks, Lyla had to admit that she would miss him terribly, though he would probably miss her a million times more. Poor dear, she thought softly, won't have a mother to love him and kiss him goodnight. Lady Catelyn certainly wasn't going to do those things anymore, now that she devoted every second of her day to Bran, making Lyla sometimes question her mother's sanity.
Regardless, she was confident Robb would take care of him, the way Robb took care of everyone. Her big brother, Tully of look, and Stark at heart- he always made sure everyone was happy, made sure everything that could be done was done. He was a man of honor, like their father, and one of the most dutiful men she'd met, next to Jon, Theon, and of course her father. Yes, Robb would take care of Rickon, and well- he'd take care of him as well as he'd take care of Winterfell, of that she had no doubts.
"Take it back!" Lyla heard Arya cry in frustration as Jon slid from her swing with her wooden sword.
Jon looked amused, and tired from his long spar with Theon, but he'd never let Arya in on that secret. "You'll be a good, proper little lady," he coaxed as she swung at him more.
The two were laughing, the Snow- by birth, but still her brother by heart- and the Stark, as they both missed swing after swing of their thick wooden swords.
Sansa was scowling with disapproval, standing beside Theon, who was cheering on Arya. She would miss Theon something awful, she realized, watching him laugh in that oh so comforting way. Before she had even turned twelve namedays, Theon had claimed her as his, and they were so close, best of friends-more so than he was with Robb or Jon at the time- but that was years ago, and things changed as they grew older and Theon turned into a man and Lyla a woman. While she still felt they were close, she longed for the late night talks they used to share, musing about the glory days of their childhood.
In all the thoughts she'd relished in, she hadn't even noticed how Ser Jaime's hand lightly rested on her own until she was pulled from her mind by Arya thwacking Jon's shoulder with her fist.
A hot blush creeped up from her toes to her cheeks, and she swallowed it down, though didn't pull her hand back until Rickon crawled back into her lap and sprawled out sleepily. She ran her hands through his hair and hummed subconsciously as she watched Arya and Jon, barely aware of Ser Jaime's watchful green eyes on her.
"It seems you're a natural mother," he commented once Rickon was asleep and a maid came and wrapped all four years of him in her arms to carry him to bed.
Lyla raised a brow, rising to stretch her arms out and running her fingers through her hair. "I find it hard not to be. I do have four younger siblings, you know."
Ser Jaime smiled and stood as well. "I know. I also had a younger sibling- just one, but Tyrion was a handful."
She tried to imagine a little golden haired boy with bi-colored eyes running around and screaming with joy in the wind as Rickon did and laughed. "Hard to picture that. He seems so… mature."
"And he is," Ser Jaime offered her his arm and she hesitantly accepted it, "In fact, sometimes I think him more mature than I will ever be."
"Perhaps I should be marrying him then," she mused, laughing when Ser Jaime released a sharp gasp, the way that Theon did so often when they jested. Maybe he wasn't so much a stranger after all, she thought as they walked in the way that seemed to lead to the gardens. He japed with her as Theon did, and was protective like Robb, but even more so. He had a smirk that was all his own though, and Lyla caught herself admiring it before she looked away.
"I'd be shamed forever," -Ser Jaime laughed almost like Jon. Thick and hearty but soft- "My younger brother marrying before I."
Lyla raised a brow then. "How is it that you can marry, anyways? You're in the Kingsguard. You've taken vows."
Ser Jaime thought on it, weighing his words in his mind, and she noticed the way he furrowed his brows and his forehead wrinkled as he thought. "His grace is relieving me of my position and restoring my title as heir to Casterly Rock, where we'll live out the rest of our days- rich and happy and warm." She did not miss that he mentioned them as we and us, meaning he must have learned of her acceptance of their betrothal.
She'd heard of the Rock, studied it with Maester Luwin, but she still preferred Winterfell over anything. Winterfell was happy and warm, and what it lacked in obscene riches of gold, it made up for in riches of the land. "And I'll be the Lady of the Rock," she commented, more to herself than to Ser Jaime.
"And one day we might even have little lions," Ser Jaime mused, though his arm tightened around hers nervously at the mention of children.
Lyla rolled her eyes at that, then caught sight of Sansa and the Prince Joffrey walking with the Hound in tow. "He seems fond enough of my sister," she observed with hawk-like eyes.
They strolled much too close together for her ease and Sansa was blushing too beet red for them to be speaking of trivial things. "Yes, my sister tells me the Prince is rather infatuated with the young Stark girl."
She felt a hand warm on her cheek and realized Ser Jaime was pulling her hair gently back behind her shoulder, smiling, and she smiled too, worries melting away. He seemed so calm and casual, and Lyla started to think being his lady wife wouldn't be so terrible after all.
