Part 1
she wore ice on her skin as diamonds while the heat in her veins kept her from freezing
She'd asked Lexa and Luna for help in herding the children to the godswood. Their complaints had almost made her change her mind, but seeing them now she could not regret it. She knew they had tired during the day, having spent most of it splashing in the springs, but this was needed.
They needed the closure. They all did.
Tasking each of them with finding something Ned had given them, she had made sure they understood it would not be something they could see again. That had stopped Rickon from choosing one of his toys soldiers, at least. She did not want to even think about the headache he would cause her, asking for it back.
It was a simple ceremony and it could not even be called a funeral. When a Stark died, the funeral was an extensive process ending with the family members seeing the body interred in the crypts below the castle, but they did not even have Ned's body and even if they did, Robb, Sansa and Arya deserved to be there as their father was laid to rest one final time.
Instead, Rena had come up with the idea for each of them to bury something in the godswood, basing it off a tradition held in the Eyrie. According to her, all Arryns were supposed to throw a belonging of the deceased into the Weeping Woman's falling waters when an Arryn died. They were burying them instead of throwing it into the abbyss, but it still held a feeling of finality. And the children needed it.
Vi,
Forgive the lack of formality and the length of this letter, but I thought it best that I relay this message as a husband would to a wife and not as a lord to his lady or as a king to his queen. Yes, a king to his queen. We received word today of my father's murder and immediately converged to discuss our next course of action.
Some wish to pledge for Stannis and others for Renly. But the Greatjon had the idea that was most-liked. The Starks only bowed down to the dragons and those dragons are dead now, my love. I have been raised from Lord Stark to King Robb the First of His Name, with you as mine own queen.
Robb
"Mama, look! We 'ave new dolls to play with!" Leila held out a cloth doll, dressed in an orange gown.
"It's beautiful, my sweet," Vitoria said, crouching down carefully. "Have you named her yet?"
Leila nodded enthusiastically and Vitoria asked, "What are you calling her?"
"Meria, like the warror 'een," her little daughter said, remember the tales her mother told her sometimes before bed. Her heart soared in pride.
"That's perfect," she said softly, reaching out to smooth Leila's hair. "So tell me, what adventures have Meria and Alia's new doll gotten into?"
"Vitoria, did you have to ask that at the same time I did?" Lexa said, sounding exasperated, as Leila and Alia launched into a tale of how Meria and Sera – Alia's doll, dressed in gray – had gone to a feast, and Artos's toy soldiers had come, and they all stayed up for the entire night because no one was allowed to tell them that they had to go to bed.
"Do you want to play now, Mama?" Alia asked hopefully. Vitoria looked over, intending to let her daughter down gently, to say that she actually had to leave, but one look at her daughter's big gray eyes and the words died in her throat.
Once more, the Northern forces completed their assault on the Lannister encampment and won. Robb walked through the aftermath of wounded men and horses crying out amongst the dead. Roose Bolton and a handful of other Northern soldiers followed behind them.
"Five Lannisters dead for every one of ours," Lord Bolton said to the soldiers following them. "They're dead. Take everything they've got. We've nowhere to keep all these prisoners. Barely enough food to feed our own."
Robb held out his hand to stop the men from moving. "We're not executing prisoners, Lord Bolton."
The man's smile froze on his lips. "Of course, your grace. The officers will be useful. Some of them may be privy to the Lannister King's plans."
"I doubt it," Robb replied. He remembered what Vitoria had taught him of the South and realized the plans were made too sloppily to be the work of the Old Lion. If anyone was making plans it was most likely Cersei Lannister, perhaps the Imp. If Tywin Lannister was making plans, he would be more careful than whatever it was these bought forces were doing.
"Well, we'll learn soon enough," Lord Bolton continues. "In my family, we say: A naked man has few secrets. A flayed man none. "
Robb frowned. "My great grandfather outlawed flaying in the North."
"We're not in the North," Lord Bolton countered.
"We're not torturing our prisoners. You forget that my sisters and my cousin are in King's Landing. They had no fear of taking my father's head. I shall not give them a reason to harm the girls."
"The high road's very pretty," Lord Bolton warned. "But you'll have a hard time marching your army down it."
"No, don't!" A cry interrupted Robb's conversation with Lord Bolton and the two turned to look and found a wounded Lannister soldier struggling as a tanned woman removed his bloodied tattered pants to reveal a severely wounded leg.
"The rot's set in," the woman said.
"No, don't! No, don't!" The woman tried to calm him, but the soldier would not listen.
"Please, don't! It'll get better. It doesn't even hurt."
"The rot will spread if we don't take the foot now," the woman cautioned.
"No, you can't!"
Robb approached the man and withheld a wince as he saw the extent of the injuries. He knelt down and got a better hold to keep the man down while the woman worked.
"Ser! Please, ser. I can't lose—"
"You'll die if she doesn't," Robb cautioned.
"I don't want to be a cripple, please!"
"My goodfather would be called a cripple by most," Robb said, thinking of what he had heard said of Doran Martell. "Yet he is still highly regarded."
"Surely one of our men needs your attention more than this cub," Lord Bolton said to the woman.
"Your men are not my men, my lord," she replied.
Rob held out the rag he used to clean his sword. "Put this in your mouth and lie down. You don't want to watch."
"No! You can't!"
"Bite on it," Robb ordered. "It's better than biting your own tongue, believe me."
His father always said he should look a man in the eye when they were beheaded, when it was on his own orders. So, he watched as the boy's foot was sawed off, barely holding it in as it came off.
Luna and Sansa have both bathed and just finished dressing when Joffrey, the Hound, and two Kingsguard arrive. Luna is wearing a gown of the darkest green she could find, and Sansa is wearing a lighter shade, and the swell of protectiveness she feels is such that the girl could almost be her own daughter. They might be cousins and she might only be a few years older, but Sansa is only just realizing the cruelty of the world, while she was exposed it young.
"Oh, good," Joffrey says, thin lips curling as he looks them up and down. Draco stands just beyond them, expression entirely stoic. "I was afraid we'd have to drag you out of bed, my betrothed." His tone implies that he would have rather enjoyed that. Sansa cringes away from him, backing into Luna, who stands firm and tense. She should have slit his throat with her hunting knife at the Ruby Ford. He was a monster then, and he is a monster now.
The king's green eyes narrow. "And where's the little wolf bitch?" He glances around as if expecting Arya to drop down from the ceiling and maul him. It is probably one of the wisest things he's ever done. Luna thinks.
"My cousin, the Lady Arya is still missing, my lord," Luna says, her tone meek and she hates herself for it, but it's the only way to remain alive. "I pray constantly that the gods return her to us safe."
"She's a savage," Joffrey snaps, "just like the rest of her traitor house." He eyes Sansa cruelly. "If your sister ever tries to strike me again, I'll take both her hands. She'll learn to obey. Just like you."
"Please, Your Grace," Sansa begins in a voice barely above a whisper, but Luna digs her fingers into the girl's shoulders, and she goes silent, bowing her head.
"I should have had your father flayed," Joffrey continues, "or torn apart by dogs or horses. You should be thanking me for giving him such a clean death, my lady. Your cousin will, won't she?" He looks directly at Luna, who does not flinch, and says in a voice entirely devoid of emotion, "My thanks, Your Grace."
Sansa has enough of Arya in her to whisper in open revulsion, "I hate you."
Luna freezes, Joffrey's expression grows even crueler, if that is possible, and he sneers, "My mother tells me it isn't fitting that a king should strike his wife. Good thing I'm not marrying your cousin. Ser Meryn." Sansa blanches in horror and clings to Luna, who barely has enough time to try to turn away before the knight is upon them, shoving Sansa out of the way with one hard push, and grabbing Luna by the hair.
She instinctively tries to rip away from his grasp, but he backhands her across the face. She staggers and nearly falls, and Draco rushes to her side. "Don't," Luna says thickly, wiping at the blood dripping from her ear, as he moves towards Trant. Joffrey is nearly smiling. Draco stops, reluctantly.
Sansa fell to the floor when Trant pushed her, and now she struggles to her feet, weeping openly once more. "Don't hurt her, I'm sorry, I won't say it again, I'm sorry Your Grace, please-,"
"Will you obey me now?" Joffrey asks.
"Yes," Sansa says fervently, grabbing Luna's hand with her own, "I swear I will, my lord." To Luna's shock, she moves in front of her as if to shield her from another blow, crying as she is.
"Your Grace," Joffrey says after a long moment. "You will address me as Your Grace. All of you. I shall look for you in court."
This might be the last update for a while. Inspiration struck for the other Game of Thrones story I'm writing and I've been writing like crazy for it. I will try to continue writing for this story, at least until we reach the end of Part One since we are nearing it. Most likely, I will place it in a small hiatus when Part One ends, so I can get ahead in writing Part Two.
Here is an overview of my other Game of Thrones story:
Standing Outside The Fire
Face Claims: Elieanora Arryn (Anna Popplewell); Elethea Arryn (Sarah Bolger); Olivier Arryn (William Moseley); Robert Baratheon (Clive Standen)
Summary: She was not meant to be remembered in history. She was the youngest daughter of a third son, meant to marry a low lord or a knight. Instead, she finds herself in the middle of the court since her youth and playing a significant role in the politics of Westeros.