Choices | Winter is Coming
Unsurprisingly, Arya had declined the flowers, though Sybel could have sworn she saw her face soften at the knowledge that Sybel had also picked them for her. Her younger sister had been scowling when she'd entered her chambers, and she quickly realised that Arya had probably already argued with their mother and Septa Mordane about her clothing and her attitude and her behaviour. About how she needed to be more like her sisters, more lady-like. Sometimes Sybel thought that if the gods had been kind, Arya would've been born a boy because she certainly had no interest in being a Lady despite—and maybe sometimes because of—her mother and Septa Mordane's ire.
Sansa, however, had brightened and quickly asked Sybel to help her put them in her hair. So Sybel sat on the soft bed, trying not to ruin the hairstyle their mother had perfected in Sansa's pretty orange hair, pinning the blue flower in place. As she did, Sansa had recounted, in a clearly enamored voice and with painstaking detail, the exact way the light had hit the prince's hair in the courtyard and made it appear to be actual, real spun gold.
Sybel wasn't convinced, but she made no comment other than to nod and agree that the prince was very handsome. It had been a long time since Sybel had sat on Sansa's bed and talked like that—more often, Sansa shared everything with her friend Jeyne, so Sybel was not about to mess it up.
"But what if he thinks the flowers are stupid?" Sansa asked suddenly, worriedly. "Boys don't like flowers."
Sybel just shook her head, shifting slightly on the bed. Her hands smoothed down Sansa's arms where she squeezed them in a comforting gesture, both signaling she was done and giving reassurance. "Nonsense."
Sansa started to turn towards her, eyes wide. "But-."
Sybel's voice was adamant as she leant forward to peck a kiss on her sister's head before getting up and placing her hands on her hips. "A pretty flower for a pretty girl, what could possibly be stupid about that?"
Sansa stood too, just about looking down at her older sister with how much she had grown in the last few months. The appreciation at her older sister's words sat there in her smile. "You think so?"
"You look beautiful, and if Prince Joffrey doesn't see it, he is most certainly a fool."
Sansa reached up to feel where the flower was sitting in her notably Southern styled hair. Sansa had told her she asked their mother to style it that way, after the Queen, and Sybel thought that was quite clever. Sansa could certainly be the epitome of a lady sometimes—thinking and saying and doing all the right things. Sybel didn't make a terrible lady, it was just that Sansa was better.
Clearly having been put at ease by her words, Sansa returned to her previous topic when there was a knock at their door. Sybel opened it to find the Capitan of her father's guard, Jory, standing there. He gave her a half-smile. "Lady Sybel. I have been looking for you. I thought you would be getting ready in your rooms."
His easy gaze was inspecting her face in a way that made it hard to keep eye contact—not when Robb's words of is Jory man enough for you rang out inside her head at the sight of him. Patches of pink splotched her cheeks as she tried not to follow that thought too far. She could have cursed her brothers and their teasing's.
Sybel just felt awkward even looking at him, when she'd never felt anything but comfort and familiarity before. But now her heart raced and she felt very confused inside her own body. She managed to find her words just before the silence extended too long and became noticeable. "I'm ready, only helping Sansa with her hair."
Sansa helpfully twirled to show him the flower in her hair, and he smiled at this, though his eyes quickly pulled back to her, subtle as they took her in. She knew Alyse had picked well with her choice in dress, the deep red complementing her well, but she hadn't thought about what it would be like to see other people notice it too; notice her. She thought she saw approval in Jory's eyes that she maybe wasn't supposed to see and she certainly didn't know what to do with that.
But before she could really be sure of anything, he was looking at Sansa again. "You look lovely, m'lady."
Sansa beamed prettily at the compliment.
Seeming to remember his purpose, he looked back to Sybel again. "Your Lord father wishes to see you before the feast. I will accompany you to him."
Sybel nodded, feeling far more able to settle herself knowing she had a task, something to do with herself, even if it was only going to her father. She followed Jory after giving her sister's hand a squeeze. She almost didn't want to leave—though she wasn't sure she could take much more about how truly handsome the prince was.
Jory fell into a silent step beside her and she felt her heart ease back to its normal pace, everything tilting back to normal, feeling silly for the way she'd reacted and thankful in the knowledge that it was mostly all internal. They didn't speak as he led her to her father's study, which was perhaps the only odd thing about their interaction now. But he looked just as deep in thought as she had been.
A few torches were already burning to provide additional light as the sun set, a bright orange glow clinging steadfast to the horizon line. The welcome feast would start soon.
As they neared the door, she thought she could see indecision on his face as he slowed down. He rubbed the scruff of his jaw roughly, eyeing her again, and Sybel thought he maybe looked somewhat uncomfortable before making his decision, voice gruff. "You also look lovely, m'lady."
Her mouth parted slightly in surprise. There was something about what she thought she saw in his eyes before being put into words that made her straighten a little, her chest warming, suddenly feeling much surer of herself than mere moments ago. "Oh...That's kind of you, Jory."
He nodded once and then left her to stare after him down the hallway. It wasn't any different to the compliments she'd received before—especially when she was younger and would twirl in her pretty dresses just like Sansa did—but it felt different. Then again, everything felt different from when she was a child—as it should, she knew—but she also wasn't entirely sure she was quite ready for it.
It would just be easier if she put it from her mind and didn't think on it again.
So she knocked on the door instead and entered when she was welcomed, stepping into the room to find her father leaning his arms against his desk, deep in conversation with her mother and Maester Luwin. They were all dressed in their best clothing for the king and queen. Her father's eyes softened when she entered, and the three of them turned to her with enough seriousness that she actually paused, standing still.
"My daughter," he considered her, waving her further into the room. "We wished to speak to you."
The pressure from the three sets of eyes was a bit much. "Am I... in trouble, father?"
She hadn't done anything to be in trouble for, she was sure. But why else would they be staring at her like that...like there was something very concerning happening. Her parents chuckled and it eased some of the pressure.
Catelyn Stark was a beautiful woman—it was where Sansa got her own budding beauty and Robb got his shining eyes. But she was also a woman dedicated to her family, her children. She walked over to Sybel and kindly held her hands in her own. "No, my sweet. You are not in trouble."
She glanced at Sybel's father, and he nodded. "No, Sybel, we wished to speak to you because the King has indicated his desire to honour us with a union between our Houses."
It was perhaps the last thing Sybel was expecting to hear come out of her father's mouth, and so Sybel didn't really comprehend the meaning of his words for a moment. "Oh?"
Even her mother's tightening grip on her hands didn't help her make the connection. But with each word, her father appeared more set and serious. "If I accept, Prince Joffrey will be wed to one of my daughters. Arya is too young, but Sansa is of an age to be betrothed and Sybel, you are already of an age to be married."
Sybel got it then and the first thing she thought was that it was ridiculous. Surely there would be better houses for the heir of westeros to marry from. House Tyrell was rich—their family seemed an obvious contender. It took money to run a kingdom. But of course, politically, House Stark was a good match as Wardens of the North; there was power for the crown in having a hold on their land in the North.
Her mother spoke then, "We wanted to speak to you first, dear."
First. She then realised they were considering her potential marriage, and Sybel's stomach felt like it was flipping over itself. Of course, they were talking about her potential marriage—why else would she be there? But it was so unexpected, Sybel couldn't wrap her head around it.
Her parents had never even spoken to her of betrothals before. Sure, she'd thought about marriage and wanted it; wanted a husband and a house her own and children. But that was all in the safety of her own mind; not thrust upon her without warning. Her father must have seen it too, because his voice became softer. "I always promised to take your opinion into consideration."
Which was far more than most other fathers in Westeros would do, she knew, and her stomach settled some.
"My Lord," Maester Luwin cut in carefully, smiling at Sybel. Sybel had known the kindly, wise maester since she was born—in fact, he had been the one to help her mother birth all the Stark children—and Sybel felt a high regard for his lined face and greying hair. "As I mentioned before, it would be wisest if Lady Sybel were betrothed to the Crown Prince. Lady Sansa may be considered a rejection on Lady Sybel's part, and would not be taken well by the Queen."
Her father's lips twitched in agreement before Sybel could process what it really meant. But then he continued speaking and it suddenly felt that rather than being a part of the conversation, she was instead a spectator to it. "Robert has given me permission to choose a daughter for his son. And Sansa is younger than the Prince; that is on her side."
Maester Luwin nodded in acknowledgment of this, though continued with his own argument, "Lady Sybel, however, is capable of bearing children presently." Sybel blanched. They didn't notice, however she thought the great and honourable Lord Eddard Stark looked momentarily horrified in a fatherly way at the idea of any man touching his daughter in the way necessary for the begetting of children. "And being older, she would be more likely to survive the birthing process."
"The King and Queen are not old and will most likely live for many more years yet," her mother pointed out, "there is no rush for marriage immediately, nor for children. This would give Sansa time to mature and age further."
Maester Luwin nodded slowly, the three of them having nothing further to say on the matter of the best political match for House Stark. It seemed to Sybel that they had probably argued and re-argued these points already, going around in circles, with no conclusion reached. "Perhaps then, my lord, you should put it to your daughter."
Her father's eyes landed on Sybel again, steady and warm, and she could no longer watch, detached, as they argued over who would be the next Queen of Westeros, as though it did not involve her. "What is your wish?"
Sybel didn't know what she wished. She didn't even know what she thought on the matter. Gods, she'd only known about it for a minute, how was she supposed to know in such a short amount of time, without having even spoken to the prince? She heard her sister's voice in her head then, gushing about the prince, and she could just picture the heartache and disappointment in those big blue eyes if she found out Sybel was betrothed to the object of her affections. Sybel felt her chest clench in reaction. She had always been so responsive to other's emotions; when someone cried, she found it hard not to as well, when someone was happy, their joy was infectious, and when someone was hurt, Sybel felt it too. She felt it deeply.
She took a breath to think. Sybel could say with certainty that she had never wanted to be a queen. Not even when she was little and they played games about knights and princesses, not even in passing daydreams or fantasies. So really there was no reason Sybel should want a union with the prince, while it seemed there was every reason Sansa should. By the gods, she had just listened to the girl talk incessantly about him. But besides that, if she really thought about it, she knew Sansa was undeniably born to be a Queen. Even at thirteen, she was far more proper than even Sybel, who had several namedays on her.
Sybel bit her lip. "It is surely an honour upon our house to be chosen by the king to marry his son, but it's not an honour I would wish for, father."
Her mother's grip on her hands relaxed.
He gave her a small smile that made her think he'd already known what her answer would be. "You will not receive such an advantageous offer again."
The twisting of her stomach had eased with her answer, if she needed anything else to let her know she'd made the right decision. "I know."
"I will take it into consideration," he nodded solemly. "We haven't spoken much about your betrothal before, but perhaps it is time we do."
"Yes, father." Because what else was she supposed to say? Talking about it now, out loud, made it feel suddenly very real. She didn't know what she wanted but everything seemed more confusing to her than ever before and now she was trying to find her feet when it seemed everything was ready to shift and change on her.
Her mother smiled warmly. "A daughter on the cusp of womanhood is a nightmare for all fathers."
Her father grimaced, and Sybel could only nod.
.
.
.
Sybel's mind was whirring when she made her way to the Great Hall. It almost felt surreal to her, that she'd had such a brief discussion about a significant decision regarding her future. But then, she didn't know what she should expect; it was never her decision to make—she should probably consider herself grateful to have been able to say anything on the matter before it was decided in the first place. It was a brutal reminder of how little control she had over what happened to her; but she knew her father would never do anything that would hurt her.
Thankfully, Robb was a steady presence beside her amid the roiling of her mind and the rush of their mother hurrying about, explaining who would be escorting who into the feast. Lannister's, Stark's and Baratheon's milled outside the door, waiting, and Sybel stood to the back with him, observing it all and feeling thoroughly disconnected. When she realised she seemed to have so little space in her mind for anything, she tried to get a grip on her wild running thoughts.
Sybel's eyes darted sideways to look at her older brother, frowning when she noticed he seemed to be just as consumed by his own thoughts as she was. "What's on your mind, Robb?"
When she properly looked at him now, he seemed to her to be a silent mass of peeved contemplation. He blinked, like she had startled him, and took a moment to collect his thoughts enough to give her an answer. "Nothing."
When she went to call him on his lie, he seemed to purposefully relax his tense shoulders and add, "Why is your wolf here? You know mother said they're not allowed at the feast."
Sybel glanced down to find Inferno sitting on her haunches, slightly shielding Sybel from the commotion in front of them, her own fingers wrapped in her fur. Sybel hadn't even noticed. "Sometimes, I think I am more her human than she is my wolf."
Robb rolled his eyes, but any sign of his previous preoccupation disappeared. He looked at her then. "Did you speak with Jon?"
Sybel smiled, brightening at the success of that conversation. "He will not be sulking in his rooms tonight."
Robb grinned. "What did you say to him to make him change his mind?"
Sybel frowned before shrugging, not really sure what it was that had changed her brother's mind. "I asked if he would dance with me at the feast."
Robb blinked and then the grin spread back across the shaved expanse of his jaw as he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I pity your future husband, I really do."
She raised her eyebrows at him, feeling irritation rise—maybe more so at him broaching that particular subject right then rather than his actual words. Her tone of voice became a warning of the verbal scolding he would receive if he didn't choose his words carefully. She was in no mood to talk about anything related to marriage or husbands or betrothals; not when everything still felt off. "And why is that?"
"It was not an insult, sweet sister. I had only meant that I would pity him because he will undoubtedly fall to your beck and call, see out your every whim, and do anything you ask of him." He nudged her softly with his shoulder when she frowned, his voice lifting to be clearly teasing so she knew it was fine. "We're taught how to protect ourselves in battle, but what they should be teaching us is how to protect ourselves against women like you."
"Women like me?" She asked, indignant now that she was sure he was teasing her and not trying to talk to her about husbands. She placed her hands on her hips and swiveled her body around to pin him with a be-careful-what-you-say-next kind of stare that had him bringing his hands up in a placating gesture one might use to calm a skittish horse. He grinned widely because predictably she rose to the bait.
"You haven't noticed how things always just seem to work out for you?" He grinned, shaking his head and lowering his arms. "It doesn't work like that for everyone and certainly not as often as it does for you."
She rolled her eyes. "Perhaps you aren't the bothersome brother—perhaps you are the dramatic one, Robb."
Robb shook his head, face twisted in an annoying expression that he tended to make when he was about to launch into a lecture about how trusting she was, how naïve she was, how oblivious she was. It was the exact expression of I know something you don't know. She rolled her eyes again for good measure so he knew she knew where he was headed. "I have a theory about it."
"You have a theory? By the gods, you are ridiculous. I simply asked him to dance with me tonight and he was just as likely to say no. Perhaps he was just in a better mood when we spoke."
He grinned, completely ignoring Sybel's remark and probably pretending he heard tell me about your theory, Robb. Brothers really could be the worst sometimes. "It's your eyes."
Sybel rolled her eyes again, pointedly. She was going to make herself dizzy at this rate. But Robb's grin just widened.
"They're witch eyes. They get so big and you look so earnest that people just find themselves agreeing to whatever it is you've asked of them before they've actually thought it through."
"That... is the silliest thing I have ever heard." Sybel folded her arms across her chest, almost daring him to challenge her on that. "You really ought to be embarrassed."
He just shrugged, seeming to be content with having said what he wanted to say. Heknew how tonight he would watch her flit from person to person and slowly, one-by-one, they would all fall under the spell of her eyes; gravitating to his sister in a way that was entirely unconscious and altogether binding. He knew she was right and it was a tad dramatic, but he also knew he wasn't all that off track either.
They continued to watch their mother prepare for their entrance into the hall for the feast. Sybel's eyes landed on her father; he commanded a presence despite barely moving or making any noise. But what she noticed most then, however, was the stiff way her father stood beside the yellow-haired Queen. His smile was polite, though almost as rigid as his posture and completely different from the soft one he always had for Sybel. He was uneasy, Sybel realized. Unsettled—it was far too familiar of a feeling to her right now. There was something about the Queen that made her father distinctly uncomfortable.
She recognized the reason quickly, though; the Queen was a Lannister. And Sybel's father did not like that particular family. Judging from the distasteful flaring of the Queen's nostrils, the feeling was mutual. Sybel knew there was an inherent mistrust between the Stark's and the Lannister's that Sybel was just beginning to notice was hovering in the air; a definite animosity that Sybel could practically feel creeping over her skin.
Sybel knew from her lessons with her Septa that during Robert's Rebellion, the Lannister's did not join with King Robert until the end, and not through the most noble or honourable routes. But her father tended to hold every other man to the same standard he held himself to, and when they fell short, Sybel could see it on her father's face. And it was far too easy to fall short; so she found it hard to expect more from the Lannister's when they made the right decision in the end and helped them win the war. She certainly didn't know who played what role in all of it, but what did know from her Septa's lessons was that in wartimes, orders are given by the few and carried out by the many, and who was she to pretend to have any kind of clue about that.
It somewhat unnerved her that there were times—more and more of late—where she was finding herself conflicted and almost at odds with her father's opinion despite having always trusted his judgement. Admittedly, it had been more to do with his opinion of her nature than any other topic, but here she was again, diverging from his judgement and considering that maybe he had too much judgement for people he didn't really know. And maybe she was wrong, and her father was right, but she couldn't find it within her to hold so much enmity.
Her mother came to a stop in front of her and Robb then, interrupting her musings. "Robb, you look very handsome. Princess Myrcella will be pleased to be escorted by you."
Robb nodded and said nothing in reply. Sybel supposed she'd be by herself as Sansa was closer in age to the prince than she; or perhaps she would escort the prince until her father made a final decision. Arya would be with Tommen, as she was closer to his age. But her mother's blue eyes held Sybel's for a moment longer. She saw replicas of those eyes every time she looked at Rickon or Sansa or Robb; the beautiful, crystalline blue that she imagined the seas to the South were. "My sweet, you will be escorted by the Queen's brother, Jaime Lannister."
Robb's head whipped around, eyes flashing with an argument as he hissed out, "Jaime Lannister? The Kingslayer?"
Robb was almost as surprised at his own reaction as Sybel was. His brotherly protectiveness was usually reserved for Sansa, who prettily caught many young boy's eyes. But maybe what surprised her most was the harshness of his condemning tone as he said Kingslayer—or maybe it was that he'd said it in the first place. Either way, she couldn't stop the admonishing, "Robb!"
"Yes." Their mother answered Robb, giving him a pointed look. "He is the Queen's brother."
That closed the matter, and their mother hurried off again, throwing her daughter one last look. Robb grumbled beside her. Sybel pursed her lips. "Don't you think you're being dramatic, again?"
He rolled his eyes but this time it had more of an edge, just a bit sharper, than his usual teasing did. "Of course, you wouldn't see the problem with it."
She wanted to ignore him and the heavy implication he intended. But she couldn't help herself; she always rose to the bait. Jon and Theon approached them as she tried to suppress the scathing in her tone. She was clearly unsuccessful because it was still enough to make them pause, though, and seem to reconsider walking over. "Sometimes, I get really sick of my own brother acting like I'm a complete idiot, too stupid to know better."
His jaw tightened in annoyance. "He's called Kingslayer for a reason, Sybel."
The name carried an unspoken accusation. Oathbreaker. It made Sybel wrinkle her nose.
"You'll have to excuse me for thinking I'll be safe for the brief time I'm walking beside him this evening," she snapped.
Robb was not impressed. But she didn't care, quickly turning on her heel and walking away from him. Inferno didn't need any instruction to follow her. She wasn't walking anywhere with purpose, only getting away from him. She easily spotted a flash of gold amoungst the mostly brown and black heads of others gathered around and she was surprised to find the tall, handsome figure of Jaime Lannister leaning lazily against the wall. His arms were crossed in front of him, one ankle hooked around the other, as he watched her approach, her face flushed in frustration, stride deliberate.
She came to a stop in front of him and suddenly realised she didn't know what to say. His lips were pursed in a wicked line, his eyes hooded and slightly narrowed, an air of arrogance surrounding him as his eyes seemed to miss nothing. She stumbled over her own words. "Ser Jaime Lannister, welcome to Winterfell."
"Lady Stark," He pushed himself off the wall, and reached for her hand to kiss the back of it in a sweeping gesture. Sybel was caught off guard, sucking in an uncomfortable breath, feeling the need to yank her hand back as his lips whispered across the soft flesh of her hand. It was probably because his eyes were locked on something somewhere behind her and when she turned to glance back over her shoulder, she saw her brothers glaring, postures tense. She spotted the tight-jaw stance of her father watching them too.
She did pull her hand back then, surprised. She had never had a lord kiss her hand with the sole purpose of being used to taunt others. But Jaime Lannister's lips only quirked up in amusement. Her chest tightened, stomach twisting. He raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking over her shoulder again, "The elder men of your family don't seem to like me."
He sounded the furthest thing from worried about their opinion of him. Instead, it seemed like he desired nothing more in this world than to be the source of their ire. The obvious antagonism contrasted with the pleasant smoothness of his voice and it made her feel distinctly uncomfortable in her own skin, like a kind of nervous tickle. "Perhaps you should not rile them, then."
She snapped it at him, unintentionally—or maybe it was intentional considering she wanted him to know she wasn't fooled by the innocence of his statement. It was only then that he seemed to actually notice her, deep emerald eyes shifting to her. They were intense eyes, seemingly despite the indifferent air he carried as he draped himself back across the wall.
His smirk was still firmly in place, and Sybel guessed he wore it often, considering the way it settled so easily across his features. "But where would be the fun in that?"
He watched her intently, closely, and she swallowed at her complete loss for words, cheeks hot. There was something about his stare that made her think he was mocking her rather than the playful teasing of her brother's she was used to. Maybe the Lannister-Stark hostility was imbedded in him just as strongly as with her father; maybe he did not like her; maybe he was just altogether disagreeable. Either way, his reception of her was completely different to anything she had ever experienced from any other lord or nobleman she had met.
She decided to ignore what he'd said. "We're to enter the feast together."
"Very well."
She pursed her lips when he dismissively glanced away. Thankfully though, she did not have to worry about thinking of something to say because there was a loud creak of the large wooden doors to the hall opening, making her jump. She twisted to find everyone partnering up in line so she hurried over, not brave enough to look back to see if he was following her.
Her father stepped into the hall, the Queen on his arm. Then her mother and the King, Robb and Myrcella, and then her and Jaime. He slid up beside her just in time, quickly lifting her hand to rest on his arm. She stared absently at her small, pale hand, against the red material of his own robes, and it was the first time she realized they wore matching colours.
Stepping into the hall, she looked up to his face, her chest tightening as she realized that Jamie Lannister created a striking figure. It wasn't just that he was handsome; tall and golden and muscled, with a chiseled facial structure and a strong jawline. No. It had more to do with the air he carried himself with. Infinitely amused, charmingly haughty and yet also indifferently superior. The subtlety of it creeping out in his slightly raised eyebrow, his relaxed posture, the proud lift of his sculpted chin. It almost could be mistaken as lazy.
She must have been staring too long or too obviously because he smirked down at her. He said in a low voice, lips barely moving, "Smile."
Her lips felt stiff on her face, as she regarded the sea of heads turned towards them. The hall was filled with people of Winterfell and members of the King's company. Then she caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd, smiling at her, and she found her responding smile came easily again, naturally.
When they reached the raised dais at the end of the aisle, they moved to opposite ends of the table. She sat in the familiar chair beside her brother Robb; he eyed her for a moment, still displeased with her. But she smiled at him, he smiled back, and they fell back into their usual, casual chatter. Food was brought out, speeches were made, and then, hours later, the real fun began. Musicians played their instruments loudly in the corner of the room, alcohol flowed freely and conversations rose in volume.
This was the part of the feast she loved the most.
