I betcha didn't think I'd pump out another one so soon, huh? Well here it is and here I am. I hope you enjoy it, as always, tell me what you think if you have time and feel so inclined. Initially I had hoped to do the wedding here, but I felt one more chapter of bonding and character development was necessary. Some sparks fly. If you get my meaning... Also, I had a very scary thought as I was writing this chapter and the one previous - what if Cersei and Roose Bolton did get together? Now THAT would be a force to be reckoned with and I challenge someone to write a piece with that pairing. Anyway, enough of my prattle. ONWARDS!
Theon
"I spoke to Lord Stark."
Pryskilla's head shot up when he entered, her hand, the one adorned with the grisly Bolton ring, went to her chest.
"Gods, you startled me!"
"My apologies." Theon said brusquely. All morning he'd searched for her, only to find her hidden away in the library, pouring over an old map, "But I did as you suggested."
"What did he say?"
"What do you think?" He snapped, harsher than intended, and immediately reproached himself for it.
"I am sorry."
"No, I ought to have expected it," A rough, bitter scoff escaped his lips, "The honorable Lord Stark won't give up his war trophy that easily." In truth, Stark had been annoyingly magnanimous about it, even going so far as to apologize for the situation. Theon, I am ever so sorry for ripping you from your family, making you an outsider, and condescending to seek forgiveness nine years later. Can you ever forgive me? It had been an incredibly heartfelt conversation and Theon felt so much closer to Ned Stark for it, the bastard.
"What are you doing in here?" He asked suddenly, eager for a distraction, but also genuinely curious. Pryskilla had never indicated that she was a bookish sort, nor had she expressed any interest in the library in the time Theon had known her. He had been comfortable in the knowledge that she was his equal in that regard.
"Escaping. Hardly anyone comes in here, and I've grown tired of sewing." Theon huffed his agreement, nose turned up at the dusty shelves and old tomes. He'd never cared for pursuits of the scholarly sort. It was boring, and no appropriate past-time for a healthy, virile young man. They had maesters for a reason, and Theon always supposed he'd rather make history than read about it.
"Is that Essos?" He gestured to the map his bride had spread out before her.
"Yes," her smile beckoned him closer, "I want to go there someday. To Bravos, and Pentos, and all the rest."
Theon nodded, more consumed with the subtle scent of roses wafting from her hair as he leaned over. He decided then that he wanted a taste of her. Just a sample, something to know what their wedding night might hold.
"We can go anywhere you like." This he said lowly, into her ear like they sometimes did at meals. He didn't care about being seen – Chayle was out cold over his book, "Anywhere in the world." She turned her head to face him directly. They were so close, he could hear the soft sound of her breath catching in her throat, see the slight flush on her high cheekbones. She wanted him, undoubtedly, and just that knowledge set his heart racing like a startled rabbit beneath a hawk's shadow.
"Do you promise?"
Theon, ever a man of action, laid his hand on her cheek before she even finished her sentence. He wouldn't take her, but by Gods he was tired of waiting. Her skin felt feverishly hot, her lips even more so when he moved forward and kissed her firmly.
Sweet, was his first thought. She tasted sweet, like the first spring berries he used to enjoy as a child, and best yet she did not resist him. Her fingers grazed the hand on her cheek, and she went where he led her, her mouth moving with his in a simple dance. Though there was timidity, he found that it had his blood up faster than if she'd been an expert in the practice.
It was something strange, kissing lips that had not been kissed a hundred times before, or by anyone, save, now, for him. Is this what marriage would be like? A new discovery, a new experience every day, wherever and whenever he wanted? He recalled something Ros had once told him, about getting himself a wife. He wouldn't have to pay and he wouldn't have to share.
"Oh, am I interrupting something?" Pryskilla gasped and jerked backward out of Theon's reach when Tyrion Lannister entered the room, a mockingly innocent smile upon his unsightly features. Theon glared murderously at the half-man.
"Yes, actually, Imp."
"My apologies then," but he did not sound sorry at all, instead Theon was quite sure he heard him muffle a snicker, "Since you both seem so interested in matters of an academic nature, would one of you happen to know where Ayrmidon's Engines of War is located?"
"Over there, I think." Pryskilla said awkwardly and gestured towards a huge tome on the shelf behind them. Her face was redder than one of Cersei Lannister's gowns.
"Ah, thank you, Lady Greyjoy."
"Erm… it's Bolton, still, my lord."
"Really? You had me fooled." He grinned as he said it, making the both of them look elsewhere in embarrassment. Theon felt the indignation coil like a snake in his gut. He detested being made a mockery of by a deformed little beast.
"You've got your bloody book, Imp. Now leave us in peace," he growled.
"I think I'll stay awhile," the little man sauntered over to the empty chair directly across from them and plopped down as if he owned the place, "It is always enlightening to visit with those of the generation next in line to inherit the realm. Tell me, young Greyjoy, what plans do you have for Pyke? What needs do your people have, and how will you service them? Indeed, what do you know of managing a lordship. Or any ship, for that matter."
"I know well enough," Theon snarled, fists clenched. How he wished he could hit the half-man, show him what Greyjoy's were really made of.
"I am sure you do," Tyrion chuckled, and looked then to the map, "Planning to travel, are we?"
"That's none of your concern." Theon snapped, but was ignored as the Imp looked to Pryskilla.
"I myself am planning to visit the Wall before I depart for King's Landing again."
"Is that so?" she stumbled over her words only once, but it was enough to betray her lasting humiliation.
"It is. Young Jon Snow will be accompanying me as well. He plans to take the black."
"How fascinating." Pryskilla intoned, her voice tight and irritated now.
"You don't approve, my lady, of a bastard making his own way?"
"I don't approve of any bastard, my lord." The imp narrowed his eyes at her, almost imperceptibly, but Theon had been watching him closely.
"Jon Snow has done you no wrong."
"No, he hasn't. But a bastard will always show his true colors."
"You'll find that is true for any man, my lady. True born or otherwise." Tyrion smiled then and Theon did not think it a coincidence that he looked directly at him as he did so.
"How dare you-" Theon began, but Pryskilla was quicker.
"This has been a lovely discussion, Lord Tyrion, but I am afraid we must depart. I promised Lady Sansa I would meet her for lunch." She looped her arm through his, eager to be away, and started for the door. Theon sent one last scorching glare the imp's way.
"I wish you luck in your marriage!" Tyrion Lannister called, "You'll need it!"
His mocking laughter resounded, following them into the hall.
"What a horrid little man!" Pryskilla exclaimed when they were well away from the library tower. Theon concurred.
"Half the size of a real man and twice as bitter," he shook his head, "Now I know why my father burned Lannisport." Pryskilla hid a laugh behind her hand.
"You ought not to let them hear you say that."
"Why not? What can they do to me?"
"It is not what they would do to you, but what they would have their dog do to you." Theon cringed inwardly at the thought of Sandor Clegane, his horrific visage, and his monstrous size. One lucky hit and Theon could find himself with a snapped neck and a broken skull.
"Are you really meeting Sansa?" He asked, changing the subject.
"Yes, that was not a lie. She asked to see my gown," Pryskilla rolled her eyes good-naturedly, "I suspect she desires inspiration for her own one day," after a moment she added, "I do not envy her."
"Nor I. I pity any woman who would have that bloody little swine." He hoped the edge of bitterness in his tone would go unnoticed by her and was quite relieved when it did.
It amazed him to no end that Lord Stark had deemed him an inappropriate match for his daughter, and yet did not bat an eye when she was promised to someone considerably worse. Theon may have been promiscuous, but he was not cruel or demeaning like Joffrey Baratheon. He would have treated Sansa Stark well, if they gave him the chance.
Likely the case was that Lord Stark had no idea of the boy's true colors, so blinded was he by the veneer of a royal match. Or his wife's ambitions. Either way, and regardless of the insult inherent, Theon wasn't entirely unhappy with the situation. He was getting a pretty wife who tasted of springtime, and Ned Stark's beloved daughter would have a spoilt, vindictive twat for a husband. The irony almost killed him.
"Perhaps Lord Stark will have a change of heart. I could think of ten better matches for her off the top of my head. The Tyrells, for example. Or even the Arryns."
"I suspect that this was the design of Robert Baratheon, more than anyone else. And what great lord would say no to their daughter being queen? Speaking of which," Theon narrowed his eyes at Ned Stark, Roose Bolton, and Jory Cassel as they came around the corner. As always when confronted with a high lord, Pryskilla dropped her gaze and became perfectly demure, as though they hadn't just shattered the bounds of propriety a few minutes ago in Stark's library. Theon wondered if it was intentional or habitual.
"Greyjoy, Lady Bolton, good afternoon." Lord Stark greeted them with a curt nod of the head. Roose Bolton just stared, as though he were trying to peer deep into Theon's soul to get the raw, untampered measure of him.
"Good afternoon, Lord Stark. Father." Pryskilla answered for both of them. If either lord noticed their lack of chaperone they did not comment on it. Jory, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow suggestively at Theon from over Stark's shoulder.
Usually, the Greyjoy heir could coexist perfectly well with Stark's Captain of the Guard, but recently, the man had proven to be a near omnipresent annoyance. He teased him mercilessly when they were in the yard, joined often enough by Ser Rodrik and a number of other Stark guards. The Lannister's were little better, though they at least limited their snipes and petty jabs to mealtimes. Wouldn't want to waste all the good japes on a single audience would we? Theon was starting to think he preferred the Bolton guards, who, while terrifying, were also silent. The Leech Lord would not tolerate any of his men-at-arms making a mockery of his future good-son.
Gods… in all his life, never had he imagined that he might one day call Roose Bolton 'father.'
"Where are you off to?"
"To visit your daughter, my lord. I promised Lady Sansa I would lunch with her. Lord Greyjoy was kind enough to escort me." She met the Lord of Winterfell's eyes only once, allowing her gaze to speak in ways her words could not. Theon watched as she did it, and knew that if he were Ned Stark in that moment, he would have absolutely no inkling of her ability to throw propriety out the window. His theory was proven entirely correct when the man shifted his countenance from slightly suspicious to fatherly.
"Well, you'd best be off then. I am glad my daughter has found a friend in you, Lady Pryskilla."
"It is my pleasure, Lord Stark. Lady Sansa is a kind girl, and I am honored to have her friendship." The words rang false to Theon, but only because he'd grown accustomed to hearing her speak. She tended to shrink into herself slightly and raise her pitch when telling an untruth. Or at least an embellishment, in this case. Judging by her father's raised brow, he knew as well.
They exchanged parting pleasantries, much to Theon's annoyance, and were at last given leave.
"I can manage from here, Theon," she said when they reached the deserted great hall, "You don't want to know the words I would receive from Lady Catelyn were we to be seen together. Alone." There was a slight dusting of pink on her cheeks and Theon knew she recalled the library. Good.
"I can imagine."
Before she could protest, he leaned down and stole another kiss from her lips. Just as sweet as the one before. He left without another word, sending only a secretive smirk over his shoulder at her indignant visage.
Pryskilla
Sansa Stark was all smiles and courtesies when Pryskilla met her that afternoon, but that all fell away in favor of open mouthed awe when Pryskilla brought out her wedding gown. It was lovely enough, though not nearly to the extent that Sansa Stark's expression would have you believe. Lord Bolton insisted on a modest design - though in the North, how could it be anything but? – and Pryskilla complied, but not without making certain it was a garment worthy of envy.
The fabric was a heavy silk brocade of cream and taupe, shot through here and there with threads of gold – a homage to her new house. The sleeves were flowing and graceful, embroidered with tiny white beads, and the skirt obscenely long. It would be an ordeal to dance in, but a joy to look at.
"It is wonderful, my lady. Did you make it yourself?"
"With plenty of help, I assure you." Pryskilla smiled as warmly as she knew how and found that it was not entirely forced. Sansa may have been young and painfully, sometimes aggravatingly, innocent, but she was kind, and she was good-intentioned.
Joffrey Baratheon would ruin her.
Everyone seemed to have their own little euphemism to justify his behavior (boys will be boys, he is an energetic child, he has no real outlets, he just takes after his father etc. etc.) but oh, Pryskilla knew quite well, thanks to Theon and Sela, what kind of man Cersei Lannister's golden child was turning out to be. He was twice as conceited as a Lannister, and thrice as spoiled, brash as a Baratheon, and cruel enough to rival a Bolton. Apparently, his pastimes included butchering small animals and the occasional servant, and humiliating anyone he deemed lesser than himself, as Robb Stark had unfortunately found out shortly into their visit.
He was unquestionably horrid, but so far, the only one willing to speak candidly in front of her on that fact was Theon, whose opinion of him ranged anywhere from the more affectionate 'daft little shite prince' on a good day, to 'bloody unbearable cunt son-of-a-whore' on a particularly bad one. The latter had Pryskilla howling with laughter when he'd uttered it under his breath one evening and made the whole table stare at them in confusion and disapproval. Her father had harsh words with her later about making a spectacle, but privately Pryskilla did not apologize for her actions. She hadn't laughed so much in years.
"Tell me, Sansa – may I call you Sansa?" The girl nodded eagerly, "How do you find the prince?" Though she expected it, Pryskilla was still quite amazed by the girl's answer.
"Oh, he is most charming. And so very handsome! I love him with all of my heart."
"But you've only just met!" The gravity of the statement was hidden beneath a playful, joking veneer.
"I know, but that must mean our love is that much stronger, if I am to know of it so soon and so acutely." Pryskilla only sighed.
"Perhaps so, Sansa."
She sat at her desk while the girl continued to move about the dress, examining every bit of embroidery and every pearl sewn into the fabric. She was careful not to touch, even though Pryskilla wouldn't have cared if she did. Sansa was not the Stark sister whose sticky fingers and dirty hands were the bane of any fine garb.
"Lady Bolton?" she said after a time, "May I ask you something?"
"Of course." Sansa's gaze turned coy and conspiratorial. A girlish grin pulled at her lips.
"Do you love Theon?"
The hard, reflexive 'no' caught in Pryskilla's throat, nearly choking her. All she managed was a strangled, "Pardon me?"
Sansa giggled.
"I asked if you love him."
"I don't, Lady Sansa," back to formalities again, "But perhaps with time, I may grow to."
"Are you certain?" Why are you asking me this, Sansa Stark?
She was infinitely sure that the feelings she held for the Greyjoy heir were nothing of the sort Sansa suggested. Equally as certain was that there did exist some. She liked his company, and the way he made her laugh, and Gods she liked the way he kissed her. He was bold as brass, but she did not find it off-putting; it was rather gratifying to piss on the prescribed order of things. She thought she could very well come to love the heir to Pyke, but it is far too soon to be thinking of any of that nonsense.
Her father would tell her that love was a weakness only fools shared, even that for one's kin, as proven by Domeric and his doomed attempt at integrating the bastard into the Bolton fold. Even then, Pryskilla always had trouble believing that completely, but then she thought of Sansa Stark. Look what love has done to her!
An equally insistent voice stated that hers was not true love, not in any sense of the word. Love for stories and titles perhaps, but not for the prince. Daft little shite prince. She felt the smile turning her lips again and quashed it immediately. No need to give the girl more to gossip about.
"Quite." She said with finality.
Next Chapter: A wedding long awaited...