A/N: contains sexual content.


The Rains of Castamere

"All men should keep their word, kings most of all."


"Then, I stripped, all the way down to my smallclothes and . . . he stopped me."

Rose frowns. "Stopped you?"

"He's promised not to touch me." Sansa fidgets with her necklace, anxiously. "Not unless I want him to."

Rose exhales, a weight lifted from her shoulders. "See? I told you. Tyrion's a kind man. Who knows how you'll feel about him in a month, or a year. Perhaps your feelings will change."

Sansa turns her head from the mirror. "How?"

"Never mind how." Rose rolls her eyes, grinning. "Sometimes, you meet people, build a certain impression, and don't realise just how important they'll be to you." She flinches, filled with memories of herself and Theon. How strange she'd found him, the first day she met him. How everything had changed as they'd grown. It aches to think of him. "If not now, then someday."

Sansa stares, considering this. "I'm sorry, I — I just can't see it," she confesses, sounding guilty. "I can't see him meaning anything to me. At least, not in that way." Slowly, she gets to her feet and sits at the table, opposite Rose. Her eyes narrow as she peers, closely at her. "What is it?"

Rose blinks, snapping out of her trance. "Nothing."

Sansa smiles, a small smile. "I can always tell when something is bothering you." Leaning over, she tugs Rose's bottom lip out from between her teeth. "You bite down on your lip."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do." Sansa giggles. "Septa Mordane used to rap your knuckles when you did it." Her smile fades the longer she stares at her sister. "Tell me," she pleads, clutching onto her hand.

Rose sighs, shaking her head. "I've had trouble sleeping, is all."

"I can have the Maester bring you Essence of Nightshade."

Rose smiles, timidly. "You're sweet. But, I'll be fine, thank you."

Sansa nods, unconvinced. Silently, she rises to her feet and crosses the room, heading back towards her mirror.


Rose sinks back into the bath, letting the steam of the warm water envelop her. "I needed this," she whispers.

Shae pulls up a wooden stool and sits down, next to the basin. Concerned, she stretches out a hand and brushes her thumb across her cheek. "Dark circles under your eyes," she mumbles. "You haven't been sleeping."

Rose shrugs. "There's been a lot on my mind. I wake up exhausted, and I go to sleep wide awake."

She watches, quietly, as Shae dips the washrag into the water, and squeezes it out. Gently, she tugs on Rose's arm, drawing her forward. Rose lets out a sigh as she begins rubbing the cloth in soft circles over her back. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she complains. "Ever since I came back to King's Landing, I've been . . . restless. Yet, it seems there's nothing to do around here except eat lemon cakes and talk with the same high-born ladies about sewing, and dancing, and men. Not that I've been with a man in . . . over a year—?" she finishes, startled. "Has it really been that long?" Her cheeks flush, with the sudden awareness of present company. "I'm sorry, if I'm boring you."

Shae grins, shaking her head. "It's alright. I like your funny accent."

Rose lifts an eyebrow. "To me, you're the one with a funny accent." She leans back against the basin, whilst Shae squeezes the water from the cloth. "If you think I sound strange, you should hear my brothers. Mother and Septa made it their life's mission to tame our dialect, us girls." She hums a laugh. "Didn't want us sounding like the harsh Northerners we grew up with."

"You are a Northerner," Shae insists. "A beautiful Northerner. Your mother should be proud, no matter how you speak."

Rose beams. "You are my favourite person in King's Landing," she sighs.

"Hmh." Shae grins. Carefully, she starts running the cloth over Rose's head, allowing the water to seep over her scalp and through her locks. "Your sister has red hair, like your mother and brother," she muses. "And your father, he had brown hair."

Rose nods, her eyes closing. "When I was little, I was frightened my golden hair meant I was a bastard," she confesses. "I didn't look like a Stark, nor a Tully. It was Jon who reassured me. He must have thought I was so narrow-minded, going to him with such a concern." She opens her eyes again, an ache filling her chest. "Gods, I miss him."

Shae pauses. She hangs the cloth over the edge of the basin. "My Lady, if you are feeling restless, there are ways to remedy that," she says, quietly. When Rose angles her head to look at her, a small smile tugs at Shae's lips. "You think you need a man for pleasure?" Her movements cautious and slow, she reaches into the water and picks up Rose's hand, plucking out two of her fingers. "All you need, are these."

Rose holds her breath. Steadily, her eyes fixed on her face, Shae draws Rose's hand back under the water and guides it between her legs. Her breath comes out in shallow gasps. The moment Rose's fingers are pressed against her womanhood, she jumps. "I couldn't—!" she stammers, tugging her hand away. She feels heat rising to her cheeks. "I've never . . . not by myself."

Shae frowns. "Then, how do you know what it is you like?" she asks. Searching her eyes, she takes Rose's hand in both of hers, their soft skins rubbing together. "When you're with a man, a man who cares for your pleasure, he expects you to know your body. To know what it is that excites you, and what doesn't. A true lover cares for her own delight, moreover the delight of her mate."

Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. With a soft sigh, she tugs herself free from Shae's grip. "Go and tend to Sansa," she orders, gently. "I can finish by myself."

Shae peers at her, curiously. Her face setting, she stands, bows her head and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her. Rose watches her leave, rubbing her hands together. Although the thought of pleasuring herself was intriguing, her mind trails back to her assault. Every sexual impulse draws her back there, to Lorren, to Winterfell. Even if the pain has passed, the memories are still haunting.

But, when Littlefinger had kissed her that way, his lips trailing down her body, his tongue against her skin . . . that had felt so wonderful. And the longing to be back in Theon's arms again, however badly it hurt to think of him, was still there. To be naked with him. To feel him inside of her.

Rose blinks. Somehow, her fingers had ended up between her legs, grazing her entrance, responding to the rising heat in her body. Was it just possible that she could want someone so desperately after everything that's passed? Is there life, or true pleasure, after what happened to her?

All those years ago, if someone had told her that she'd fall so deeply for an Ironborn, a Greyjoy, her father's hostage, she wouldn't have believed them. But, then that one night . . .

She was fourteen, the first time they'd been together, not much younger than Sansa is now. He had just had his sixteenth name day. They'd shared a kiss or two, and his hands had touched her, once or twice. But it had never gone anywhere further than that.

It changed, one night. When they'd climbed their usual trail up the cliffs, just beyond Winterfell. It had become their place, where they could kiss and hold hands without anyone watching. Catelyn had spent the entire day lamenting about marriages and handsome lords who longed to meet Rose, all of them too old for her, none of them she'd ever met. Rose remembered how it felt, to escape the castle long enough to breathe, to have a few quiet moments to herself.

With Theon.

They'd watched the sun set beyond the battlements, the day darkening, the stars appearing. It was so beautiful, that night. Theon listened, quietly, whilst she complained and cried. Then, without a word, he'd wiped at her tear-streaked face and pulled her head closer to kiss her.

This kiss had felt different. Like he was trying to draw as much of her in as possible, fearful that she would suddenly disappear. Rose closed her eyes, loving the feeling. Then, she felt herself drifting backward, until she could feel the hard rock beneath her back. Theon's hands held her steady, as he positioned himself between her legs, balancing steadily over her. Her eyes opened, perplexed, but he looked deeply into them, a small smile on his lips.

She'd been a bundle of nerves, her insides in knots. Surely, this was wrong. Mother had always said, this was what married couples did, that ladies should never . . . not before they're married. But, he'd simply kissed her again . . . he leaned deeper into her, and for the first time, she felt it. His hardness, pressing right between her legs. A surprised gasp escaped her, but the friction sent waves of pleasure coursing through her as they moulded together. How can something that's supposed to be wrong feel so right?

They'd undressed one another, in the cold night air. But, their bodies kept one another warm. Rose hadn't the nerve to look down, to see what was about to be pushed inside of her. But, she knew she wanted it. She knew, because his hands felt incredible, wandering over her body, kneading her tiny breasts, his thumb circling her nipple, extracting whimpers from her.

Then, Theon's hands found her thighs, hoisting them upwards so her legs were wrapped around his waist. "If I hurt you, please tell me," he whispered, looking her, dead in the eye. She nodded, but remained silent, feeling him pressing against her soaked entrance.

Slowly, he had slipped into her. Rose gasped at the sharp twinge, burying her face in his shoulder. But, something else stirred in her too, something she'd never felt before. It was almost euphoric. Theon quickly took her face in his hand, cradling her. His lips found hers, brushing her with soft kisses. Carefully, he pulled back and sunk into her again, testing the waters.

The pain hadn't lasted, not as long as she'd expected. Soon, she was whimpering his name into her lips, pleading him to go faster, go deeper. It was paradise. The feeling of him pressing into her, his mouth claiming hers, every part of him claiming her, just as she was claiming him . . .

Rose blinks, shudders of euphoria pumping through her body. Her back arches against the basin as she reaches her climax, rubbing herself with intensity until it evanesces. The room echoes with her soft, needy whimpers, the water now lukewarm around her. When she opens her eyes, they are filled with tears. Shae was right. She doesn't need Theon to feel pleasure.

But, she wants him. Gods, she wants him.


The door swings open. He sits at his desk, scrawling on a piece of parchment, brow furrowed. Rose sucks in a determined breath, and steps into the room. "You wanted to see me, Lord Tywin?"

"Ah, yes." He sets down his quill, gesturing her forward. "Lady Rose. Please, sit."

She crosses the room, listening to the door shutting behind her, the guard's footsteps retreating. When she sits down, opposite him, the first thing she notices is the flagon of wine on the table, with two goblets. A small smile tugs at Tywin's mouth. "You're welcome to some if you wish."

Rose giggles, nervously. "I fear I'm becoming too reliant on it."

"Many girls in your position do." Tywin rises from his seat and rounds the table towards the flagon. Slowly, he begins pouring the two glasses. "My daughter, for example. I remember how she used to sneak wine from the kitchens when she wasn't much younger than yourself. She had the entire staff at Casterly Rock wrapped around her little finger." He extends a glass towards her, scrutinising the sour look on her face. "Though, I imagine the idea of turning into Cersei is rather horrifying to you."

Rose blinks, stunned, and takes the cup. Then, she plasters on a smile. "The Queen is — she's strong, and . . . and gentle," the words tumble out of her mouth, sounding forced. "She's been nothing but kind to me since we arrived in the South."

Tywin slumps back down into his seat. "She's bitter and overbearing, at the best of times," he grumbles. "Tell me; how can you mark the difference between a girl of the South and a girl of the North?"

"I don't know, My Lord," Rose whispers.

"Southern girls oft waste time petulant over their circumstances. Northern girls, such as yourself, take their burdens on the chin, without too much fuss."

Rose stares down at her lap. "I've certainly tried to."

"Hmh." Tywin takes a small sip of his wine, watching her. "I admire resilience. You have it in spades." Rose peers up to meet his gaze. Needing to muster her courage, she takes two gulps of her wine, relishing in the feeling of it burning down her throat. He waits until she's pulled it away from her lips, before speaking again. "D'you know why I've summoned you here?"

Rose nods. "You're going to ask me to marry your eldest son, should he return."

"He will return," Tywin says, sharply. "And you will marry Jaime, thus securing his claim to the North."

Rose's eyes narrow. "He won't have a claim. He took an oath to the Kingsguard. Tyrion is your only true, male heir."

A dark look crosses Tywin's face. He's truly frightening. "My son will do as he's told," he snaps. "If I tell him to renounce his oath, he will do so, without question. Putting a child inside the eldest Stark girl will further this cause." He leans back in his seat, fixing her with a stern glare. "I am not asking you to marry my son, Lady Rose. I am informing you that the wedding will occur the moment he returns to King's Landing."

Rose feels anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "I'm not fit for marriage."

"I'm not looking for a virgin. I'm looking for a high-born girl with the right family name. Your brother will be dead soon enough, and you shall be the rightful heir to the North." Tywin drains the rest of his cup and sets it down on the table. He picks up his quill, turning back to his work. "I would remind you to keep yourself out of the King's reach for the time being. He's clearly taken an interest in you. Do not encourage his amorous advances."

Rose scowls. "You think I ask for him to grope me under the table? To threaten me with—?"

"I think you have a wild temper," Tywin interrupts. "Wild tempers tend to provoke unwanted responses."

He glances up, and their eyes lock. Rose stares back at him with nothing but contempt. "Am I dismissed, My Lord?" she spits.

"Yes." Rose swallows the rest of the wine and sets it down, with a loud clang, onto the table. She pushes herself up from her seat and crosses the room to the door. "And, Lady Rose?" Tywin calls. Rose stops, looking back over her shoulder. "I've received word that a certain Greyjoy took the black a few short months ago. Lie to me regarding the whereabouts of a traitor again, and I will have you executed. Are we understood?"

Rose blinks. He took the black. He's safe. He's with the Night's Watch, with Jon . . .

"Are we understood?" Tywin repeats, louder, making her jump.

She nods, eyes stinging. "Yes."

"Good."

Rose quickly turns on her heel and hurries out of the room, her entire body going numb.


When Rose opens her eyes, the bed beneath her is gone. She's lying on the cold, dark floor, with the leaves prickling against her scalp and the back of her neck. With a gasp, she straightens up into a sitting position, looking wildly around her. She knows these woods. The clear lining of trees, oddly neat. The grey storm clouds peeking through the canopy. She's in the Godswood, back in Winterfell.

Breathing laboured, Rose pushes herself to her feet. Her movements feel slow and weightless. She's dreaming, she knows it. The sound of paws padding across the forest floor makes her turn. At first, she's startled. A direwolf, with fur as grey as smoke and bright yellow eyes, stands in front of her, so large, their gazes are aligned. It stares back at her, a low whining sound escaping it.

Rose begins to tremble. "Grey Wind?"

He takes a small step towards her, those yellow eyes bearing into hers. Her heart slams against her ribs. Slowly, cautiously, she stretches out a hand, towards his muzzle.

There's the sound of an arrow leaving a bow. It shoots into Grey Wind's side, causing him to whimper in pain, his legs buckling beneath him. Rose staggers back, horrified. Then, more arrows come flying, from all around the forest, somewhere in the treetops. A scream escapes her as she watches them pierce the wolf, in its side, in its face, in its back . . .


Her eyes crack open. The ground beneath her turns to soft sheets and pillows. The treetops turn to the canopy above her bed. She splutters as her lungs fill with air, snapping upwards into a sitting position. For a split second, she searches her surroundings, looking for him. For Theon. He'll comfort her. Like he did the last time she had a nightmare . . . then, she remembers. She's no longer curled up at his side, at that inn, the one in Ironrath.

She's in King's Landing. And he's at the Wall.

With trembling hands, Rose brushes aside the strands of hair sticking to her clammy face. She hasn't had a nightmare in so long. And even then, they'd been plagued with the memories of her rape. Why was Grey Wind suddenly appearing in her dreams?

Unsettled, she sinks back into the sheets and stares, wide awake at the canopy.


A/N: I think we all know what that dream means . . . honestly, I'm sad that I won't be able to have more Robb/Rose, Catelyn/Rose interactions because I loved writing them all together in earlier chapters. But, the red wedding is such a huge turning point in the series and I simply couldn't leave it out. How do you think Rose will react to the massacre? What will her first instinct be, as a sister, as a daughter?

ALSO, someone mentioned character ages to me yesterday, and I just wanted to clear that up. At the start of the series (season one), Robb is 17, Jon is 16, Rose is 15, Sansa is 13, Arya is 11, Bran is 10, and Rickon is 6. This would mean that Rose is 17 by now. I'm not sure whether this is accurate to the official timeline for the show, but all websites that I looked at imply that a year passes between each season, so that's what I'm sticking to for this fanfic.

Only one more episode to go (bloody hell, that went quick!)