Stare | Winter is Coming
Princess Myrcella was no better or worse at needlepoint than Sybel, but from the way Septa Mordane praised her, one might think she was extraordinary. Sybel did not particularly care; she knew she was an adequate sewer, and the shy happiness the princess displayed every time she received the praise was sweet. Arya on the other hand found this frustrating beyond belief, and had lasted barely an hour before she threw her project down and stomped out like the angry storm cloud she was.
Septa Mordane's eyes locked with Sybel's in a grimace, and she immediately understood the meaning. It was not the first time she had been sent after her youngest sister, and so with a practiced ease, Sybel stood and curtsied to the princess. "Princess Myrcella. We're all very pleased to have you here."
The gold-haired girl smiled shyly at Sybel in gratitude. Sybel grabbed her fur-lined coat and left the heated room in search of Arya, thinking she knew her sister well enough to know where she'd go first. She hurried along to the practice courtyard where the men would be training for the day, eyes roaming around and seeking out the familiar small, irritated, perpetually dirt-smeared girl that was her youngest sister.
A large gathering of men had formed a circle around the edge of the training courtyard, jeering and yelling as they watched the different fights and drills taking place. Sybel thought she could see the subtle passing of coins between some of them, betting on the outcome of the sparring. She stood up as high as she could to try to see over the tall heads of the men but couldn't see anything to give her some kind of clue as to which direction Arya had disappeared in. Though Sybel was still sure this was where her sister would be despite not being able to see her. She wondered if Arya had pushed her way to the front of the crowd, slipping unnoticed among the larger bodies of the guardsmen and knights, as she would have no problem doing, in seeking out the best seat in the house.
Sybel frowned, pulling her coat around her tighter against the cold. The men to the back of the crowd began to notice her then, grinning and nudging those next to them to get their attention too. It made her face heat when they grinned at her like that, like they saw her despite the thick coat wrapped around her body.
One of them, in Lannister red with the lion House symbol, grinned down at her. "Would the little lady like a better seat to view the fighting from?"
It was irrelevant, but all she could think was that his hair was not quite the spun gold she pictured when she was reminded of Lannister's. She shook her head, both in response to the knight but also to clear her thoughts. "No, thank you Ser, I'm not here to watch the training. I am looking for my sister, have you seen her?"
One of them muttered something to the men beside him and they snorted amongst themselves, all grins and heavy stares. She would have to be blind to miss the way they looked at her then; in the way she had increasingly noticed she was looked at lately; in the way she didn't know what to do with and certainly wasn't prepared for. It made her throat feel tight and her cheeks feel warm. One of them finally answered her, when she was feeling just uncomfortable enough to leave. "We have not seen her, m'lady, but why don't you join us and—?"
"Lady Sybel?" Jory appeared by her side then, saving her from any further interaction or exchange of words. There was a quick clearing of throats as the men dispersed and disappeared into the crowd further, leaving Jory to frown after them in confusion. When he looked back to her, his creased brow softened. "I was just about to go looking for you. Lady Arya is here and won't let me take her back to her lessons. She shouldn't be here, my lady… though," he paused for a second, raising an eyebrow at her, "neither should you—your lady mother will not be happy."
Sybel couldn't help her smile. Whenever Jory encountered a problem with one of her sister's, rather than disturbing her father and mother, he came looking for her instead. Sometimes, he would even for problems with Rickon or Bran—or even, on the rarest of occasions, when he was concerned about Robb or Jon. For the situations that didn't require her parents, Sybel was usually well-equipped enough to handle it and return everything to its balance, or show care when it was needed. It was one of her roles, as the eldest daughter, to help look after the younger children.
Sybel placed her hand on his arm in a not-to-worry gesture, shaking her head, "I am only here to collect my rogue sister, Jory, I promise."
Jory smiled, reassured, and Sybel looked at her hand resting on his arm, unable to stop herself from thinking of Jaime Lannister's words from the previous night. Neither of them seemed to notice when she would drop his more formal title of ser, or Capitan. Neither of them seemed to notice how she used his name in an affectionate manner. And neither of them seemed to care that she touched him lightly, without thinking. Were these the things that Jaime Lannister noticed that gave him the wrong impression?
But she shook her head then, for it was no different to how she would behave with her brothers or sisters. And she had known Jory for so long that of course she had a habit of dropping his title in familiarity. He'd certainly never said a word against it, and while he never initiated physical contact with her, he was not rejecting of her doing it either.
Jaime Lannister just liked to get a rise or cause a stir. She felt responding irritation rise in her belly at the thought of him.
Still though...she couldn't completely banish his words from her mind right then as much as she wanted to, and she dropped her hand from Jory as she let him lead her to her little sister. "So where is the little vagabond?"
He laughed on an exhale of air, seeming not to notice how she was making a concentrated effort to keep her hands to herself, and pointed up to a window in the small tower overlooking the courtyard. Sybel could make out the dangling legs and feet on the window's ledge and Sybel smiled at how Arya had found the best seat in the house. Sybel began to work her way around the outer courtyard to get to the stairs of the tower, ascending them as quickly as she could.
Arya sat on a ledge cut into the stone wall of the tower about half way up the spiral staircase. She turned her head to look at Sybel but quickly turned back. Arya glared out the window, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms around herself. She shivered in the cold, and Sybel sighed, sitting sideways on the ledge, feet firmly planted on the stone steps, and scooting closer to Arya to pull her in to wrap her coat around the both of them.
They sat in silence for a moment and Sybel looked down at the courtyard below. Despite the frigid air, the men were sweating from exertion as they trained, wielding swords and shields, the more experienced teaching the less as their warm breaths fogged in the air. She looked at Arya then, giving her a gentle squeeze, "You can't just run out like that Arya. Especially when our guest is the princess."
Arya grumbled under her breath about their Septa and stitches and needlework, and Sybel could guess at the direction of her thoughts easily enough.
"What did you expect her to say, Arya?" Sybel hugged her sister tighter to her, arms wrapped around her thin waist, and rested her chin on Arya's shoulder so that when she lowered her voice in an imitation of their Septa's, she could hear it properly over the occasional rushing of wind. "Tsk tsk, princess, you need much more practice than that. I will have to speak with your mother, the Queen, and inform her that her daughter is only very adequate at needlepoint."
Arya grumbled some more, though she was sure her scowl lessened, lips twitching as she fought a smile. Sybel turned her head, placing a kiss on her sister's cheek and saying seriously, "it was an honour the Queen even allowed our Septa to instruct the princess today."
Arya kept her eyes locked firmly on the courtyard below and Sybel resisted the urge to shake her head. Arya longed too much to join them and never have to see their lessons room again; to learn swordplay and archery; to run and adventure in the dirt—so much so that it could only end in heartbreak given that she was a girl.
She gave her sister a moment longer to watch, standing up, though trying to keep the ends of her coat wrapped around her sister's slim shoulders. When she was about to tell her that it was time to go back, for her to apologise to the princess and remain there for the rest of her lesson, she was distracted suddenly by a flash of gold, and the words dyed in her throat a moment longer to watch, her interest suddenly piqued.
Jaime Lannister was training, sparring with another man she didn't know, and he looked so completely comfortable with a blade in his hand, his movements graceful almost like he was dancing, that she stood there a bit transfixed. He brought his sword down on his opponent, who flew backwards from the force, his shield flying away, and the tip of his sword soared down to hover over the man's neck as he lay sprawled in the dirt.
Then Jaime removed his sword, exchanging words with the other man and laughing as he helped his opponent to his feet, swinging his arms about in a loosening movement before dropping into a ready stance. He lunged at his opponent in a startlingly fast movement, the sword an extension of his arm, his motions fluid. And there, in the surety of his strokes and blocks, there was a dangerous kind of precision. He shifted on his feet, agile, and every time his sword hit his opponent, Sybel was sure there would be bruises left behind.
There was a flawless, practiced control to his movements as he baited his opponent into moving one way or another, and Sybel couldn't help noticing the likeness in his swordplay to how he had conversed with her. His blows and strikes seemed to be just as well thought-out and precise as everything he said, hitting their desired mark perfectly and inducing the exact reaction he expected to garner from his attack, if the self-satisfied grin he wore was anything to go by.
He had the other man sprawled in the dirt again after five hammering blows, the clang of steel on steel sending vibrations up her back even from this distance, and he paced a little, swinging his arms about again to get rid of the lingering reverberations running up his arms.
Arya, watching a different match between Robb and another guardsman that Sybel hadn't even noticed, cheered out loudly in support when their brother won. The few men between sparring and not needing to concentrate looked around for the childish cheering and found them up in the tower. Robb grinned, striking a victorious pose for Arya. Sybel didn't even smile in response before her eyes darted back to the flashing gold, unable to help herself.
His green gaze, brightened by the physical activity, swept up to lock on her and she froze in having been caught watching. A heated blush worked its way over her skin that only intensified when his vivid, dangerous eyes remained locked on her, his lips curling into another cocky, self-satisfied smirk. His chest rose and fell quickly, golden strands clinging to his face that was damp with sweat, and then, very purposefully, he winked at her.
She startled like he'd threatened her with his sword rather than with his eyes, her own grey orbs widening in shock that only seemed to make his smirk grow. She averted her gaze, shaking her head like he was a naughty child all the while feeling suddenly extremely uncomfortable being locked in his burning green sights. She hoped Robb hadn't noticed, or anyone else for that matter, hoped the majority of them were still glancing up at them in the tower than at him, but she wasn't brave enough to look.
Irritation flashed through her at his brazen, bold move, and the sudden knowledge that he did it simply to make her react as she did. She huffed in annoyance; she was not his opponent—she did not want to be purposefully baited into a reaction. She ought to be nothing to him beyond the daughter of a different house—certainly not his plaything.
She tugged on Arya's arm to get her sister to follow, still feeling the Lannister's arrogant expression follow her and remain on her until she was out of his line of sight, moving down the winding stairs. After a reluctant moment, Arya followed, but not before she frowned over her shoulder, looking at the practice yard and then at her older sister's red face, asking too-loudly, "did the Kingslayer just wink at you?"
"Of course not," Sybel tried to laugh, but the sound was uncomfortable and weak, and the blush on her cheeks did not die down despite the cold air. "And don't call him that."
"Why not?" She demanded, in the obnoxious way some haughty children had. "Everyone else does."
Sybel frowned at her, and the younger girl wilted somewhat under her disapproving gaze. She softened her tone. "It is not a nice name and just because everyone else calls him that, doesn't mean you should."
"But he did kill the king," Arya insisted, her statement almost a question, like she thought no one had told her the full truth about anything and so maybe she did not really know what she thought she knew. Like she needed to check.
"Yes," Sybel said, looking straight ahead and staring unseeingly at the walls of her home, the yelling from the courtyard getting quieter and quieter the further they moved away. "He killed the king and broke his oath and so everyone calls him Kingslayer because of it."
Arya grunted like she knew she was right. It made Sybel look back down at her younger sister seriously, raising her eyebrows at Arya like she ought to understand better, "But they call him that behind his back—how would you feel, if people called you names behind your back?"
Arya frowned, watching her feet pass over the grey stones as they walked back to their lesson room, and said no more on it.
.
.
.
They feasted every night, with music and delicious food and loud conversation, though none with the same kind of formality as the Welcome feast. At first, she had made a conscious effort to avoid him at all costs. The ease with which he had winked at her from the training grounds, in front of the other men—though she was sure no one had really seen—made her worry that he would do it again. In front of the crowd in the hall. In front of her father. And that was the last thing she needed.
But a whole week passed without any kind of confrontation or conversation with that particular Lannister, which of course would be the case, given she had no real reason to speak with him and he had no real reason for seeking her out. The tension she carried settled quickly when she realised that.
He stared, though. His eyes following her; settling on her; clapping down on her and not letting up; intent on making her uncomfortable. And for the most part, she ignored him and the burn on her skin, irritation flaring at the same knowledge that he was trying to bait her and it was working, pushing her to do her best to pretend he did not exist.
When she would chance a quick glance at him though, she always found that same self-satisfied smirk that let her know she was unsuccessful.
.
.
.
She made her way to sit with her brothers and Theon. It was a quieter night by feast standards—though still loud enough to make it hard to hear her own thoughts. But the hall was not so crowded, the air not so stifling.
She sat across from Robb as he talked, his reddish-brown whiskers twitching as he tried not to laugh. Jon was beside her and he furrowed his brows as Theon clapped him on the back and cried out, "liar!"
Robb laughed and took a large gulp of his ale. Sybel had to concentrate to hear them better and realised they'd been drinking, and had turned it into a game. By far, Theon seemed to be the most inebriated, his laugh louder and more obnoxious than anyone else's.
They easily included her in conversation, pausing in their game at her arrival, but when she didn't join in or even so much as make a single comment about the state of Jon's unruly hair, Robb eyed her in confusion. "You're very quiet tonight,"
He was right to be confused, she knew—it certainly was odd behaviour for her at a feast. But it was harder to join in festivities whole-heartedly when half her concentration was split on the tingling in her lower back telling her she was being watched and her efforts to not react.
She grinned quickly and shrugged off-handedly, as though she didn't know what he was talking about. "Maybe I just don't have anything to say."
"You always have something to say," Theon snorted, his teeth visible through his expression of mild disbelief. Sometimes Theon stared at her with such intensity, despite the playful quirk of his mouth, that she thought she might catch fire.
She was certainly getting a lot of practice in the art of pretending not to notice, and rolled her eyes—his teasing, at least, was familiar and easy to manage; harmless and born of a silly boy's excitable lust. "That's because I usually have to compensate for your lack of stimulating repertoire, Theon."
Robb snickered. Theon grunted, unimpressed, but he leaned forward and found his lips twitch up on their own accord under her warm stare. He snarked at her in reply, "You are a witty one, aren't you?"
She pursed her lips to stop herself from laughing. "More than you, anyway."
"Alright then," he grinned widely, as though she had challenged him and he was taking her up on it. He lifted his mug at her and nodded his head at her own, barely touched cup. "You think you're so clever. Let's see you win at this. You have to tell us something—about you or something else—and it can be real or a lie—but we have to guess which it is. If we guess right, you have to drink. If we guess wrong, we drink. Simple."
They hadn't ever included her in their games like this before, ever conscious of Lord Eddard's one-cup rule at feasts. She figured the alcohol had disappeared some of his fear of how her father would react if he found out. Jon, though, started to protest, ever conscious of consequences and outcomes, but Robb waved his concern away, in his own jovial mood likely equally spurred by the alcohol. "Let her play, she'll be fine. She might just stop being so somber like she's imitating you."
She nudged Jon with her shoulder reassuringly, "See, I'll be fine. Besides, it can hardly be difficult to fool Theon."
She couldn't help the little quip, and Theon narrowed his eyes, focused on her face and giving away just how eager he was to best her. "Go on then,"
Sybel thought for a moment. "My favourite colour is green."
Robb laughed and Theon rolled his eyes. "That's the best you can come up with? Maybe this is why we've never invited you to play before—you'd make us pass out from boredom instead of drink."
Sybel placed her hands on her hips, leaning forward in annoyance. "What am I supposed to say, then?"
Theon grinned wickedly. "Let me show you." He thought for a moment before his mouth split into another pointed grin, eyes stuck to Sybel's face. "I've seen Joseth fucking a kitchenmaid in the stables."
Her face immediately went red and didn't Theon just love it. Jon started to reprimand him but Theon told him to shove off, and Robb couldn't stop laughing, though Sybel thought that was less to do with the humour in the current situation and more to do with how many cups he'd been through already. Sybel placed a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder again. "It's OK Jon, Theon just likes to be vulgar to be an ass. He's a liar."
Theon's grin spread wider. "Drink."
She flushed and tried to cover it by pursing her lips in annoyance. Theon motioned at her cup, looking at her like he expected her to back out and leave the table. She tilted her chin up in challenge, lifting her cup and taking a mouthful.
The game went on, and Sybel found that the more she drank, the more relaxed she became, the less she noticed anyone staring at her. She was laughing and conversing just as loudly as the boys, worries forgotten. Sybel found she was actually having a lot of fun in spite of Theon's attempts to make her blush on his every turn. At some stage, Robb surreptitiously filled her cup with more ale, though no one seemed to care what they were doing or how much noise they were making. Sybel quickly found it to be one of the most entertaining games she'd ever played.
There were some obvious lies. "I took on three widlings at once and won."
Some accusations. "Liar!"
There were some challenges when it seemed like one of them was denying they were lying for the sake of self-interest. "When have you ever come face to face with a wildling, Robb?"
Jon and Theon fought more than any others, as Jon was far less tolerant and forgiving of Theon's…well, crass tongue and general rudeness. Which was also not really a surprise when it was more often than not also directed at poor Jon. (For Theon was a ward of Ned Stark, stolen from his father, family and homeland when he was too young, and for all intents and purposes, an outsider inside the walls of Winterfell; a kraken among wolves; a sea creature stranded on dry land. And while they had never mistreated Theon, and in fact treated him like something akin to family—at the very least, a trusted companion—it still carried a weight of dissonance, a level of internal conflict that meant on the occasions when Theon needed to restore his mind's balance, he sought out the person lower on the societal hierarchy than himself—a bastard.)
Eventually the game came to an end when Robb fell backwards off the bench and their father gave them all a stern stare, looking surprised to see Sybel sitting with them and contributing to their merriment. Sybel wasn't too sure how much she had drunk but when she stood up, the world didn't feel entirely steady the way it usually would. She gripped the table and took a deep breath, preparing to walk across the hall to leave but promptly burst into laughter when Theon's leg got stuck on the bench he was standing up from and he joined Robb on the floor.
"I think I might just stay here for a couple minutes," Theon choked out around his laughter, climbing his way back up onto the bench. Robb and Jon agreed, but Sybel felt fine enough to head back to her rooms, schooling her features into a pleasant expression taught to her by Septa Mordane, as though nothing was amiss. Her smile was genuine though, rather than politely coy the way every woman of good breeding was taught, as she made her way towards the back of the hall.
"Shouldn't you wait for your knight in shining armour to escort you out of the hall?" A voice smoothly interjected into her happy buzz of thoughts. "He's bound to show up any second now with you in need."
Sybel glanced up, surprised to find she had been so completely unaware of her surroundings that she hadn't even noticed passing Jaime Lannister, leaning languidly against the wall seemingly without any care in the world, in the spot he seemed to frequent at some point every night. She didn't remember making the decision to walk towards him, towards what was her best guess of where he would be, but as she looked up at his handsome face she couldn't be sure she hadn't either.
There was a part of her—perhaps a bit bigger than she would have liked—that noticed just a bit too much about him. Noticed he was social enough; conversing with others, engaging in recounting old battles and funny stories with the other important guardsmen—the younger ones especially seemed to seek these stories out. Noticed the slightly off smile that wasn't quite a sneer. Noticed that he preferred to sit with his brother and drink. It should perhaps bother her to know that maybe he wasn't the only one staring just a little too much, or that she found him just a little too interesting. Or perhaps she was mixing up interesting with frustrating.
"I beg your pardon," she frowned when she registered his words, hands going to rest on her hips the way she did when she was giving Rickon or Arya a second chance to better choose their words. She narrowed her eyes when she only seemed to amuse him. She felt more confident—or maybe more impulsive and without forethought—than she had before and it spurred her to words too easily. "I don't appreciate the implication of your words, Se Jaime."
His smirk widened as he slowly looked her up and down, seeming to miss nothing. And she thought that perhaps the thing worse than his arrogant smirks was his focused scrutiny, the way it travelled over her skin like green fire and made her tingle and hot. So much so that she had to look away, her cheeks red. "No, I suppose you would rather pretend not to notice. But it can't have escaped your notice that every time you need something, there he is, eager to serve."
She rolled her eyes and took a second to decide not to play along, to not give him the reaction he was doing his best to induce from her. "What hasn't escaped my notice, Ser Jaime, is that you watch me far too closely for comfort and far too closely than someone of our acquaintance should."
The unspoken explain yourself hovered in the air.
He was quiet a moment, one side of his mouth tightening into a lopsided smirk. Then, smoothly, lowly, he asked, "Did it ever strike you that perhaps I simply like to watch you?"
Even though he hadn't moved, the intensity of his stare made her feel like he had leaned forward, like she needed to lean back to compensate. She didn't know what she was expecting but perhaps she should've been expecting him to just toy with her further. "I think… I think you like the unease that settles inside me when you do, far more."
He quirked his lips as if they shrugged, an eyebrow lifting. "Perhaps."
She squinted her eyes at him. "Why?"
Maybe he was just bored here, in the North, and wanted something to play with to keep him occupied, and there she was, an almost perfect target; a Stark, a woman, achingly innocent. Perhaps it was simply because she was too available and too easily provoked.
He considered her then, and his gaze was unblinking, but his next words weren't a reply to her question. In fact, he ignored her question altogether. "Your youngest sister is a wild thing, and your other sister will be very beautiful, but you… I would bet everything I own that you have every man here wrapped around your dainty little fingers."
"You would lose everything you own if you made that wager." Sybel frowned and looked down at her hands. They were small, her fingers somewhat stubby, more clumsy looking than anything else, like they weren't particularly suited to delicate, dexterous tasks. Perhaps that was why her needlepoint was only very average. "And they're not that dainty."
He shook his head but his eyes never left her. It was unnerving to not be able to read them. "But I wouldn't."
Sybel frowned again and made no reply. She didn't know how to respond to his words, didn't know what he was trying to gain from them, and so she just stared at him until she noticed her mother looking in their direction, and she moved away from him.
"A pleasure as always, my lady."
Her head spun suddenly, her stomach shouting its unhappiness with her, and she decided just to go to bed. A headache was beginning to form.
