The smell of wood smoke has inflamed my nostrils and watered my poor eyes. Robb is half asleep at the table while Ser Garret prattles on about the boom in taxes collected and Robb's hair looks oddly brighter than usual because the rays of sunlight peeking in from the open window are shining right onto his ginger head. Ser Garret is looking put out because he's just noticed that his king isn't really listening to what he's saying and he's clearly just a little bit insulted.
How do you like it?
I send Julia to give Talisa the summons to the Gray Room with the allotted time, and I'm not even the slightest bit worried about her. All that's left is to get Robb to come. It's around dinner time when Robb finally admits that he's bone tired. He doesn't say it outright, but he looks at me with this exhausted death stare and it's immediately clear to me that he's slipping further and further to the point of no return. He doesn't get any better as the days pass. People are starting to notice how out of it that he is. I can hardly blame them for being freaked about it. It's fucking freaky.
Don't worry, Robb. Israel's gonna take good care of you. One romp in the sack with your lost lady love to clean out the old pipes and you'll be good as new. If only that freak of nature Hogarth would hurry his boney ass up getting that lock made. He can't work during the daylight hours lest we draw any suspicion, so he tinkers at the observatory tower where he usually likes to sketch. Sometimes I go and sit there with him when Robb is annoying and his tossing and turning keeps me awake.
"Where do you go?" he asks me sometimes.
"The observatory," I tell him truthfully. Don't really see what lying will get me. The only thing I'm interested in lying about is the fact that I'm setting him up to cheat on me.
Hogarth keeps his face so close to the lock as he tinkers with it that his nose is touching the metal. I just stare out at the grounds or the sky or whatever I can see in the dim light of the candles at this hour of the night.
"Do you think Ser Garret would squeal?" I ask him.
"In what situation?" Hogarth asks back, eyes still on the lock.
"If someone penetrated him."
"Like…from the back?"
"Yes."
"He probably would. What brought this about?"
"I've just taken to wondering lately what sort of people would squeal and what sort of people wouldn't."
"Well…I suppose most men are sort of squeamish about things going into their backsides. Unless they're pillow-biters. Pillow-biters aren't too squeamish about pointy things going into that general area."
"Do you think Robb would squeal?"
"Is he a pillow-biter?"
"No."
"Then he'd squeal."
And then we're both silent for a moment and I can tell from his face that's just lit up in realization that we're both trying to picture it. And then we're both laughing so hard our cheeks hurt.
"Now you've put it into my head it's all that I can think about," Hogarth laments as he holds up the lock. "All done."
"Really? You're completely done?"
"Completely. So where did you say you wanted it?"
"The door to the Gray Room. How soon can you install it?"
"Tomorrow afternoon maybe," he says. "I'll let you know once it's in. Just out of curiosity…what is it that you're planning on doing with a door that only opens from the outside?"
"Ask no questions, hear no lies," I say. "I can't thank you enough, Hogarth."
Robb is back in his half-sleep when I crawl into bed beside him. I tuck in quietly and close my eyes. It takes less than a minute before he's wrapping his arms around me, pulling me closer to him, burying his face in my neck. Well, this is almost over. Hogarth will install that thing by afternoon and I'll have executed my plan by midnight. This is the last night I get nuzzled. Thank the Gods for that. Insomniac Robb is worse that Horny Robb.
Hogarth is right on time. He's standing there in the Great Hall at breakfast looking at me pointedly, and that would have been sufficient but he's jerking his head towards the door like he's got something to say to me. He ducks into the hallway, and I can see the fabric of his tunic hovering by the doors. He's waiting.
Dammit I have no time for this nonsense. Robb is overly attentive because he's subconsciously compensating for his abstinence and it's not going to be easy slipping away from him during the daylight hours when he's clinging to me like a toddler. But Hogarth is still standing there. I can see the fabric of his clothes. Crap.
"Where are you going?" Robb asks as I rise.
"I'll be right back," I say to him. And I can feel his eyes on me as I go to the door. "What is it?" I ask Hogarth.
"I've installed the lock," he says. "But there's a slight problem."
"What happened?"
"It works," he says. "But it locks instantly the moment it closes. I've tried to fix it, but it won't budge. So whatever you're planning on doing with it, just keep that in mind. It'll lock the moment it closes and it won't open unless someone comes along and opens it for you."
HA! That's PERFECT! Now I won't have to risk having my cover blown by locking it myself once they're inside if it locks on its own!
"Alright," I say. "Thanks, Hogarth. I'll keep that in mind."
"Right, then," he says, and then he stiffens and sinks into a bow. "Your Grace."
The smell of wood smoke is already halfway up my nose when I turn and smile at Robb. And then I hear a discreet snort. We both turn. It's Hogarth.
"Apologies, Your Grace," he says, coughing.
Robb ignores this and takes my hand. "Hello, Master…?"
"Hogarth, Your Grace."
"Master Hogarth. You're with the Ironrath company, are you not?"
"I am, Your Grace."
"Well it's a pleasure to have you here in Winterfell."
Hogarth snorts again. Oh, Gods. Do not. Do not tell me that you are picturing what I think you are picturing. His pupils seem to have dilated. Oh, yeah—he's thinking it.
He's picturing the King in the North squealing as he takes it in the ass.
Abruptly, I snort, too. Shit.
"Master Hogarth and I are working together on the observatory retouches," I tell Robb, trying to hide my smile. It doesn't work. Hogarth and I glance at each other conspiratorially and it looks so bad. Robb's eyes dart between us suspiciously.
"You're the one with the sketches?" Robb gives Hogarth a half smile. "They were impressive."
"Thank you, my King. That means a great deal coming from Your Grace. If you'll—pray, do excuse me. My Queen," he tips his head to us both before he dashes away. I can hear him cackle as he turns the corner.
My facial muscles hurt trying to keep the smile off of my face when Robb turns back to look at me. "Hogarth?" he repeats. "What kind of name is Hogarth?"
"Not a clue," I say. "But he's a good person."
"He's a terribly funny character," Robb says. "When did you two meet?"
"A few days after he got here," I say.
"You seem awfully close," he points out.
"Well, we've gotten to know each other well over time," I say. "You know he spent some time in the Riverlands when he was young? He's quite well-travelled." And then I smile at Robb as sweetly as I can and kiss his cheek. "Look—we have to discuss medical supplies later—you, me and Talisa."
"The three of us?" Robb asks, looking kind of like he has smelled something really rotten—like maybe his slowly decaying will to live.
"The three of us," I say. "Meet us in the Gray Room. You know the room, don't you? In the South Wing?"
"Sure, sure," he says, nodding.
"Excellent," I kiss his cheek again. "I'll see you there at sunset. Don't be late!"
I dash off as quickly as I can. I have to furnish the fucking room myself because no way in hell am I going to get anyone else involved and risk all of Winterfell knowing what I'm up to.
I enter the room slowly. No one's here yet. Fucking duh. Neither of them would show up this early. I use a little piece of wood to stop the door and then I lay out the tray of wine, the goblets, the extra cushions and light the incense. The hardest part is going to be mixing the macau bean into the wine. Too much and it'll be obvious from the taste that it's been tampered with. Too little and it won't have any effect. I sit there stirring the beans around at the bottom of the pitcher for an hour, tasting drops at a time as I go, but the beans seem stubborn today. Of course I've been holding onto them since last night. Usually when you pull them out of their bucket you're supposed to use them right away or they'll just dry up again. These things have dried up because they've been out of water for so long and it's taking forever for their juices to infect the wine. I sit there stirring until I can hear the footsteps echoing in the hallway. This is when I panic, you see, because it's nearly sunset and surely one of them must be intending to arrive early. I guess that this mixture will have to do. I pull out the beans with a spoon and shove them back into my pocket, pouch be damned, and try to calm myself down to think this clearly through.
Okay, Israel. You've been a little delayed, and it's time for a change of plans. You can't go out the door because whoever is approaching will see you leave and then you'll have to come up with some excuse to be leaving before the meeting has even started and send this whole plan up in smoke. You can't stay inside because then nothing will happen between them. And you can't disappear because that's physically impossible. So you can either sacrifice your plan and stay where you are or…you can hide in that little storage compartment there and have to witness the hookup.
They both sound so enticing.
The footsteps are getting louder. Well, it's now or never, honey pie. Pick your poison.
Staying where I am means that they won't get any ass. It also means that I should probably dump the wine out the window before the meeting starts. I don't think I'll be very comforted if either of them get hot and bothered while we're discussing alternative nettle and mustard uses. Ooh—samba poisoning—how sexy.
But on the other hand, I have no interest in watching a phreaky peep show hosted by Robb Stark and Talisa Maegyr. I already spend half of my time trying to forget about fucking Robb—I don't want to have to endure the agony of sponging the memories of him fucking someone else as well. And If I'm in here hiding, then I can't burst in later and open the meeting, and that means that we could all conceivably be here until morning. I have no interest in squatting in the compartment watching Robb and Talisa phuck for twelve hours straight.
On the third hand, people really need Robb to get his shit together. The whole palace has made note of how out of sorts he is and while that's taken a lot of pressure off of me, it's not good for the general kingdom when their new leader is suffering from such intense self-inflicted cockblocking that he can't even sleep at night.
Well, Israel—it looks like the time has come for you to take one for the team. Get into the fucking compartment. I hug my knees to my chest. I'm packed like a dried fruit and it ain't pretty. But at least I'm so concentrated on how uncomfortable I am that I probably won't be able to hear anything going on out there.
The footsteps enter the room. Judging by their lightness, I'd guess at Talisa. It takes maybe two minutes until the scent of honeysuckle reaches me and I know that I'm right. I watch through the crack of the closed compartment door. Gods, it smells like dust and old paper in this thing. I squint through the crack and try to get a look at the girl. She enters slowly, looking around the room. That's right. No one's here yet. Pour yourself some wine. More. Good girl. That's it. Look out the window. Nice view, huh? As if you've never seen that green field before. Yeah.
And here comes player two! Enter Robb Stark, doing that thing you always do where you tip the door shut absently with your other hand. It closes lightly, and with that we're all locked in. Talisa turns around.
"Robb," she says, but she doesn't tip her head. No point now. They're all alone—or so they think.
"Talisa," he greets her, pouring himself a goblet, too. "How has your time in Winterfell been so far?"
"Fair," she says. "Everyone is as kind and happy as I remember them being."
Ugh. I'd have been alright with watching them grease each other's assholes if I wasn't crunched in this hole like a packed fucking pudding tart.
They're both nervous. I know this because suddenly their wine glasses are both empty, so they reach for the jug to pour out some more. Oh—wait. You've both reached it at the same time and your fingers have brushed. And now you're both sort of frozen there with stupid looks on your faces and then Robb clears his throat and Talisa looks away and Robb refills both of your glasses and you've drained them before he's even set the jug down.
The macau beans don't work like magic. It takes a few minutes—especially because they were dry already because somebody (and I won't say any names (me)) didn't have the foresight to wait until this morning until they pulled them out of the bucket they were soaking in. But after maybe ten minutes in silence, I can distinctly spot Robb tugging at his collar. I suppose he'd be on edge—more so than her because of his sex drive and the lack of any real activity in the past few weeks. Talisa lasts a little longer, though. It's at least twenty minutes and two more goblets of wine before I notice her fingers stretching, fist clenching and unclenching.
"It's awfully warm in here, isn't it?" asks Robb.
"I suppose," Talisa says. I smile. Look away Israel—audio is bad enough.
Let's rock, motherfuckers.