Fall | Winter is Coming

It was the morning of the thirteenth day of the King's visit to Winterfell and men filled the courtyard. They were readying horses while young squires sprinted about, passing riding gloves and collecting spears and swords. There was to be a hunt.

Sybel stood to the back of the courtyard, on the way to her lessons, watching the commotion. She saw Robb astride his horse next to their uncle Benjy, the elder's face long and solemn and vigilant. Uncle Benjy always looked like he was alert and searching, ever ready for whatever came at him. Robb in comparison looked youthful and soft; he did not have the pockmarked skin or the dark eyes of the battle-hardened. That was something Sybel was grateful for.

Ahead of them, the King and her father were talking together like old friends, despite the amount of time it had been since they saw each other last, and Sybel saw her father grin—fleeting though it was. Sybel's thoughts drifted to the offer the king had made her father; to be his Hand and help him rule the Seven Kingdoms.

It was a glorious honour and Sybel could not think of a man better suited for the responsibility. Since the King's entourage had been with them, Sybel had heard snippets of stories as the men and women passed her by, of the King's partying ways; of his proclivity for drink and women and lack of concern for coin spent and all things requiring his attention and time as ruler. Sybel supposed he was the King—that was why, after all, he had the Hand and his council; to advise and guide him where needed; to assist him in his kingly duties. Sybel's lord father had been advising and guiding her whole life, never leading her astray, always there with a solution or a listening ear. He would make a perfect hand for the King.

"Don't tell me," A familiar voice jolted her out of her musings, her stomach dropping because she thought she'd be able to pick that voice out anywhere and that fact concerned her. She turned to face Jaime Lannister, his slanted position leaning against the stone wall, arms across his chest and a smirk twisting his lips. Sybel rarely saw him without that smirk; it seemed to be a permanent part of him. "Your delicate feminine sensibilities make you squeamish at the thought of a hunt."

Today, his whole body screamed how completely disinterested he was in anything she had to say. He drawled his words out, his tone faintly making fun of her but mostly spelling his boredom. And he said it like a statement rather than a question; as though he knew her so well; as though her thoughts and opinions were so predictable and common that he hardly needed to ask, exactly the same as every other noble lady's and he couldn't be more uninterested. A quick flash of irritation flared through her at his arrogance and clear dismissal of her.

Her voice was prim with exaggerated politeness in reply, almost as a rebuttal for his assumption of familiarity. "You should not presume to know me so well, Ser Jaime. I'm late for my lessons. Have a good hunt."

She made to walk away, saw the responding displeasure tighten his eyes at her words—sweet and polite and false.

"Am I wrong?" He challenged, voice a scoff, but calling after her nonetheless, pulling her back as effectively as if he had grabbed her arm. Sybel couldn't understand why, if he was so bored by her—if she was so uninspiring and uninteresting—why he kept bothering to speak to her at all when it would be so easy for him to just walk by her and ignore her presence. Her eyes narrowed, brow furrowing in concentration as she looked at him. Watched him look away from her eyes and nonchalantly brush nonexistent dirt off his shirt. Waiting on his words. "Should they be expecting you to join their party then?"

His appearance and attitude this morning reminded her how much he seemed to enjoy saying anything that might get some sort of reaction from her, because his words and questions were surely unimportant to him. She felt confused as her brain puzzled out why he was always on the offence, always insistent that she tell him what he wanted to know even when he simultaneously expressed how little she interested him.

Sybel could safely say that she had not met a man so intent on causing her ire. Sure, her brothers teased her, and Theon tried his hardest to make her blush. But he felt different to that; caused a tension in her body she couldn't place and had a way of making her mind feel off-balance, leaving her scrambling to make sense out of it.

It made her want to switch it around and feel like she had the upper hand, like she was controlling their little dance of words. To not just react but also to provoke for once and see what he did. Before she really thought about it though, before she thought better of it and could channel the composure of her mother, she couldn't stop the words slipping past her lips. "My brother doesn't trust you."

His jaw tightened, eyes hardened—the only indication he felt anything, especially when the smirk returned. "I'm wounded, really." He pushed every bit of sarcasm he could into that one word. His eyes did find her then and Sybel's breath stuck in her throat. His smirk showed too much teeth, more biting than mocking now. "Is that what you think, little pup? Am I untrustworthy?"

She pushed down the urge to roll her eyes at his little names and made herself meet his eyes even though it did strange things to her stomach. Sybel considered her answer, drawing out the silence, searching for what felt the most true and what would be the most irritating to him. "I think you've built a lot of walls up around you. I think it's easier to be mocking and arrogant."

His nostrils flared in a sneer, made his voice as mocking as he could, tried his hardest to be intimidate her with his eyes. She felt herself lift her chin in responding challenge. "How insightful you think you are."

She didn't miss the line of discomfit in his body though.

She had to purse her lips to stop a gloating smile, but couldn't stop it leaking through in a small, uptilted corner of her mouth. She felt victory surge in her chest, her heart beating faster than she realised, hands tingling.

He was quick to follow-up, not allowing her any more opportunity to push her point. He delivered his words with that practiced flourish of his, seeming to deliberately relax his body, watching her closely. "I'm surprised you are without your little Capitan today. Surely, he wouldn't miss an opportunity to escort you around."

The victory was gone in an instant, irritation flaring up in its place. She did not appreciate the implication in his tone even though she knew it was so calculated of him to bring their conversation to familiar ground—ground that would surely get a reaction from her. "What matter is it to you, where Jory is?"

"Jory, is it?" He raised a brow at her. His response was far too practiced, too exaggerated, to be any kind of believable. "Any good knight would be concerned for a lady's safety when she insists on getting about on her own."

He was being facetious she knew and it made her narrow her eyes again. She looked away from him, needing a moment to think from the quick back and forth her delivered. Her eyes met Robb's glaring stare on them. Of course. Robb had eyes as good as a bird of prey's when it came to his sisters. She wondered how long he had been watching them and then suddenly wondered how long they had been standing there together, in their back-and-forth and she thought that it was probably longer than a brief exchange of pleasantries appropriate to their level of acquaintance.

She felt herself blush lightly, not brave enough to look around and see if anyone else had noticed them at the back of the crowd. Feeling the weight of potential prying eyes, she considered her words more carefully than before and schooled her expression into a demure composure she'd been taught. She smiled softly, lowering her eyes away from his face and fixing on the sword fixed at his side. "I thank you for your worry about my safety, ser. It is very kind, and you are surely as true a knight as any."

She missed any response on his face but saw his fists clench in anger, for just a second. "And you're back to speaking those pretty words."

Sybel could hear the displeasure in his voice. Her septa had taught her to speak charmingly, as a noble lady should, with care and reserve and flattery. Sansa was far better at it, as Sybel had an annoying habit of slipping in and out of those proper manners—but it seemed that Jaime Lannister did not appreciate it, and she did not know what to make of that. She refrained from pointing out he did the same thing just moments ago, and instead looked up at him through her lashes, "Do my pretty words bother you, ser?"

"Hardly." He looked away in dismissal, unperturbed, but she watched his fingers dance a tune of agitation on the pommel of his sword.

Trying to keep her smile to herself, she dropped in a polite small curtsey, wishing him a good morning, before hurrying away and keeping her eyes down until she was far enough away. She continuing on to her lessons, sure she may be reprimanded by her Septa for her tardiness. She saw Bran run by, his direwolf pup close behind and she called out to him to be careful. Undoubtedly he was on his way to climb the walls as he always did. Bran liked to watch the procession of people enter and leave Winterfell and Sybel thought it was because he liked to be the first to know everything, curious little boy that he was. She smiled on her way to her lesson room.

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The sun hadn't even reached its apex in the sky when Bran fell from the tower and everything seemed to just… stop.

She had been in the middle of her lessons when she heard the commotion outside. The running footsteps. The muffled voices. The lone howling direwolf that set off the others. That was when she thought something had to be very, very wrong and she shot up, dropping her needlework to the ground without a thought and hurrying towards the heavy doors. She thought Arya was close behind her.

Her heart thumped in her chest and she thought maybe she was being silly and overreacting. But she had never heard the ominous, unified howl of seven direwolves and she felt a pit form in her stomach where everything inside her dropped to, leaving her feeling lightheaded, hands clammy.

She thought her heart had stopped when she found Jory and saw the alarm on his face. He answered the question written so clearly on her face. "Your brother, Lord Bran… he's taken a fall, my lady. He's not waking up."

When she thought back on it later, she couldn't remember much after the howling started, at least not until later that night as she was laying in bed completely awake. Arya and Sansa had crawled in with her hours before, but they had only recently settled as Sybel stroked their hair and hummed softly to them, their breathing turning deep. Rickon hadn't stopped clinging to her all night and refused his own room, so he was tucked into her side too. She stared up at the canopy above her bed and the day came back in fractured moments as the direwolves continued to howl.

Holding Arya to her, her face whiter than usual as the blood drained to that pit in her stomach. The long wait outside the chamber doors as the Maester and whoever else worked to save her little brother. Sansa's crying and her mother's praying, Jon and Robb's helplessness in the face of needing to do something to help and being unable to. Rickon's screaming, confused at what was going on and being scared because no one was reassuring him. When she realized later, the screaming finally registering in her mind, she cuddled him to her then, mumbling and rocking. Her father was in the godswood. The Maester's worried face. Their mother sent them to their rooms when it grew late. There was no feast that night.

The only thing she remembered with stunning clarity was the thought repeating over and over in her mind.

My fault.

Their mother hated when Bran climbed the walls, ramparts and towers of Winterfell but Bran would always be at it regardless, stalwart as a mule and digging in his heels when there was something he wanted to be doing that he knew he wasn't allowed to do. Sybel and Robb and Jon always seemed to be warning him of the scolding he would receive if their mother caught him, but he was never deterred and so they let him be. Because he never fell. Not curious and stubborn Bran. Not sure-footed Bran.

How wrong they had been. How wrong she had been.

She felt guilt slither into that pit in her stomach that hadn't gone away, because she'd seen him. Not long before he fell, she'd seen him clearly on his way to climb and she didn't stop him.

And she knew it didn't make much sense to blame herself, but it was all she could really do. She wasn't a Maester trained in healing, and she was no septon who could speak to the gods and beg. She could do nothing but torture herself with if-only's.

If only she had watched him closer, but she hadn't even considered that falling was a thing that could happen for Bran. If only she had of been paying more attention to him; if only her head had not been clouded with thoughts of Jaime Lannister. If only.

Then her sweet, innocent little brother would not be lying broken and bleeding on his bed, fighting for his very life.

She felt the tears then, leaking out the corners of her eyes and making tracks down the sides of her face to dampen her curls and pillow.

It was early morning when she finally fell into a fitful, restless sleep.

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In the weeks that followed Brans fall, things felt grey and muted. Dull. Time was passing, but it seemed as though everyone was going through the motions of everyday, just waiting. Waiting for Bran to wake, waiting for the wolves to stop howling, waiting for the world to right again. Nothing felt as it was supposed to for Sybel.

Her mother was absent from the day-to-day activities of their home, never leaving Bran's bedside if she could help it. Baby Rickon was constantly underfoot, just as uncertain and searching as the rest of them. Sybel really didn't know what she should do, so she did the only thing that there really was to do. She soothed Rickon, she settled Arya and Sansa's disagreements, she reminded her father to eat. She sat with Bran and told him stories. She pushed her mother to sleep, if only for a couple of restless hours. She consulted with the cooks and maids.

She kept herself busy and in doing so, she did all of the things she could to stay out of her own head.

She was so focused on her family that she realized much later that she had also never done a better job of ignoring Jaime Lannister. She hadn't noticed any staring, and in fact, she didn't even know if he was anymore. But she pushed that further from her mind and kept on with the business of helping her mother run the household. She did not need that sense of guilt on her too, not when they were all only just staying afloat.

She found it utterly overwhelming. And when she made it to her bed at the end of her day, always at least one of her siblings curled into her side while her hand stroked their hair soothingly, she felt it bubble up inside her and spill out in quiet tears.

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The reality of the world continuing on hit her rather brutally one morning, as she found Jon with the blacksmith. Arnye was a weathered and wrinkled man of solid stock, who had spoken only a few words in total in his life that Sybel was aware of, and who best communicated through meaningful looks. He and Jon stood together admiring a small sword as Sybel passed, strolling slowly and with no real purpose other than to take a break in the crisp morning air and soothe herself.

Jon smiled somberly at her questioning stare, and easily allowed her to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest, seeking comfort. He had watched her care for everyone the last few days, that it was the least he could do in offering her a simple gesture of support in return. "It is a going away gift for Arya, for when we leave tomorrow."

She joined Jon's smile, head tilted up to see the wisps of a beard creeping back onto his face. She didn't think there was a more perfect gift for her littlest wild sister. Unfortunately for the rest of them, Sybel could see that no future gifts would ever compare to this for Arya. His words settled properly into place in her mind then and she frowned, leaning her head backwards to see his face properly. "Who is leaving?"

Jon just looked confused. "We are heading out for the Wall. And you for Kingslanding"

There was a long pause as this churned in her mind, over and over, and an unsettled, roiling feeling in her guts made itself known to her. She knew this; had heard this being spoken about—not that she'd been able to take in a lot of it—but it hadn't occurred to her that this was happening now.

But of course it was happening now—their Septa was making them pack, her home busy with packing and readying themselves. Sybel had seen it all and knew what it meant, but a very large part of her didn't actually think that day would arrive; didn't actually think anyone would go anywhere. Not when Bran was… And surely, now was not the time to be leaving their family. Surely the world could not keep moving on quite so quickly.

Her chest felt tight because it clearly was. And now, standing in front of Jon, she suddenly felt like she had no time to prepare herself or come to terms with it, despite it being discussed for the last several weeks. She suddenly felt her heart being pulled in different directions.

She slowly pulled away from him, immediately missing his familiar warmth, and then, eventually, the only thing Sybel could manage to say was, "You're really leaving?"

She did regret it as soon as the words were out of her mouth, especially when Jon winced, his eyes guilty and pained like she had sliced him with a knife, his arms falling limply to his sides. But she had never felt as completely unsteady as she had in the last few days, or so confused by the easy way everything continued to move forward when she just wanted things to go back.

The hurt in her voice cut at him enough that no knife was necessary. "Don't Sybel. Don't say it like that. I'm not - "

"But you're leaving Winterfell…and taking the Black. You'll say goodbye and then you'll be gone, and I'll barely see you, just like Uncle Benjy. By the gods, how is that not leaving?" That overwhelming, unanchored feeling intensified. At first, she was processing it slowly in her mind, but then she grew angry, the tightness in her chest a burn, her throat hot. Was she really the only one feeling stuck in this? The only one experiencing the need for everything to stay the same until it was fixed?

Everything would be different with Jon gone. But then, she supposed, she also would be leaving soon too, with her sisters and father, and everything would be different regardless of where Jon was. It kept replaying in her mind—she just didn't think they would actually leave before Bran woke and things were better.

He tried to make it a joke, reaching for her arms. "You make it out like I'm trying to get away from you all!"

She struggled to find it funny and leant away from him. She didn't think she'd ever been quite so unkind but she also didn't think she'd ever been quite so lost, her mind repeating how everything was changing and it was all so uncertain and what about Bran. "Are you?"

"No! Come on, of course not, Sybel! There is nothing here for me -"

Deep hurt flashed in her smokey eyes and Jon winced again. "We're here. I'm here, Robb is here, Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon – we are here!"

She let him pull her to him when she felt the tears in her eyes, and he softly spoke into her hair, firm in his words but gentle and kind. Sybel always took on other's internal world so easily, and always gave everything to try to make it better. And he'd seen her try so very hard to make it better the last few days when everyone else's internal worlds were in chaos. "Tomorrow you'll be off for Kings Landing with your sisters and father too. I can't stay here."

She sucked her lips into her mouth, staring at the ground hard and let herself feel the sadness of Jon's loss. She took a deep breath, sniffled, and pulled herself up to her proper height, holding herself like a proper lady. "The Nightswatch better bloody appreciate what they're gaining."

She felt him chuckle. And after she settled herself and let her hurt melt, he efficiently got to the root of her increased emotional distress. "We're not going to lose Bran."

Her lip quivered, throat tight this time, holding onto all the words she couldn't say because if she spoke them aloud, it would suddenly be so real and true. Jon continued to hold her calmly and slowly the tightness wasn't so obstructing anymore. "Maester Luwin said he may never wake. And now we're all leaving, Jon."

"It's something we have to do, Sybel."

She understood that, she really did. She understood her father had to help the King rule the realm, she understood her and her sisters had to charm the court and make advantageous matches, and she understood Jon had to find his place in this world. Her heart twisted for his plight. But she didn't feel ready to leave half her family behind in Winterfell, and she wasn't ready to lose a brother. Her whole life, all she knew was Winterfell. Her family cared for her, loved her, the people knew her. She wasn't ready to leave them all behind, and she wasn't ready for Jon to decide he wanted his own life.

She sighed. "I know I'm being selfish."

He didn't even bother responding to that. "Everything is changing and it's scary."

She looked at him. A wave of loss washed over her again and she didn't think she could be more grateful for her brother. Someone had finally voiced out loud what was going on inside her head, and made it feel like it made sense why she was so lost and confused; sad and stuck. She hugged him again. "Did I ever tell you that you are my most astute brother? Nothing will get past that Wall without you knowing about it."

He half-grinned at her. "I'm glad someone is confident in me."

He still did not see that Sybel thought the world of the men in her family. But then, she had been exposed to possibly the most dutiful, honourable—though sometimes rather vexing—and kind men in the Seven Kingdoms. "I challenge you to find a single person who would disagree."

"That may be easier than you think." He snorted, and so did Arnye, quietly working in the background while the Stark children continued their conversation.

The noise made Sybel think that she had missed something, and she wrapped her coat tighter around her as she crossed her arms in front of her. "What has happened?"

He shook his head dismissively. "It is nothing, Sybel."

"Tell me," she demanded. "You know I do not like secrets."

He laughed. "Of course you don't—you tell everyone everything, as though everyone can be trusted with everything. No one else shares as genuinely—or sometimes as without thought—as you." He thought about it for a second. "It's a wonder someone hasn't taken advantage of that yet, now that I think about it."

He could think of many numbers of people who could do just that, but thankfully he couldn't think of a single person who would. Not to Sybel, at least. Surprisingly, her honesty and innocence had been met with the same. Jon knew it did not work like that in the rest of the world. But Winterfell had been a safe little bubble for Sybel and thinking about her leaving it gave him pause for concern.

It was a worry for all the men in their family.

"What a clever way of changing the topic of our conversation away from my question." She said pointedly, hands moving to her hips.

His lips quirked. "It is nothing. Jaime Lannister found me before and made it pretty clear he thought the whole thing was ridiculous."

"What did he say?" She said, much quicker than she thought she should've—and perhaps a touch too interested.

"Nothing, really… he was just… mocking." He said it like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

It was one thing for Jaime to direct that at her, but another to direct it at her sweet, noble brother. Jon tolerated a lot of nonsense from a lot of people and it irritated her that now Jaime had added himself to that list.

"You know what?" Sybel started, continuing on without giving her brother a chance to respond to her question. A fierce sort of protectiveness warmed her chest. "When I see that particular ser next, I will tell him how idiotic he is to suggest that you would not be a great Nightswatchman."

He shook his head. "Don't get involved, Sybel. Just leave it be."

She sighed before hugging him again, taking care to commit this hug to memory. This felt like a goodbye embrace. She squeezed tight and he did too. "I will miss you."

"I will miss you too."

"I'll write you."

"You had better."

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She was walking the quiet hallways towards the kitchens, her steps echoing around her. Additional sets of echoing joined hers and she looked up to see ser Jaime Lannister, dressed in his flawless white Kingsguard robes, walking towards her with a group of other guardsmen. One of the guardsmen was eating an apple and they all had the flush of men who had just exerted themselves, probably in training, and were re-energising themselves.

It felt like it had been months since she had last seen him and she was again struck by how beautiful he was. She had never met someone so gold and shining. The guardsmen smiled at her, some in a rather cheeky and too-familiar way, but his voice rose above their light chatter in a way that forced all attention to them. And just like that, it felt again like no time had passed and it was only yesterday that he was confusing and taunting her.

"Lady Stark," he said politely, bending in a half-bow that Sybel couldn't quite tell was mocking or not. "You seem in a hurry. Best not detain you from undoubtedly important business."

Sybel was headed for the kitchens to confirm with their cook that the necessary provisions for the travel to Kingslanding had indeed been packed. Her conversation with Jon had pushed her back into reality enough that she didn't shy away from her mother when she set the task for Sybel. And the sunken look on her mother's face only set her to purpose more; she could do nothing for Bran but she could do something for her mother, father and siblings. Even Inferno was doing her bit; rarely leaving Bran's side, right there with Summer, waiting for her pack to heal. It comforted Sybel somewhat knowing Inferno was there.

She frowned at the Lannister knight. It did feel rather important, but when he teased her like that, she couldn't help but feel a bit silly for being in such a rush. But then, it actually was rather important that they had enough provisions for the month-long journey, and she hated that he could make her second-guess herself like that. So easily and without thought.

She didn't think he realized the extent of the havoc he created in her.

She squinted her eyes at him as she realized he seemed to almost be showing off in how much he could tread the line between politely charming and rudely offensive. How well he could play the part of thoughtful, chivalrous knight. The other men were younger and they jostled each other at the prowess of their leader, all silly from the rush that physical exercise brings. All silly from being fresh and male, to begin with.

Sybel did not like the showmanship and did not appreciate the audience Jaime allowed. She did not appreciate being made to feel so young and foolish in front of so many. She gestured at the others, "It is good to know that you don't reserve your impressive wit solely for me, good ser."

His lips quirked up. Of course they did, Sybel thought. Her retort made it even more of a game for him. The other knights jostled each other again, and when Sybel made to leave, Jaime gestured for the guardsmen to go on without him and they begrudgingly left them standing, alone, in the hallway.

Sybel refused to be the one to speak and refused to apologise for her words, as much as her good breeding told her she should. He picked up her refusal to speak and broke the silence, deliberately unperturbed and conversational. As though they were two close friends.

"I heard that you and your sisters are to join us in returning to Kingslanding. In search of marriage prospects, I would presume." He looked as though the notion bothered him—likely anything smacking of propriety was bothersome to him.

"That is certainly the last thing on my mind." She almost thought she saw what could've been a hint of guilt in his features, though it was gone so quick she could've imagined it. He seemed to be trying to coax a response from her and she didn't feel like playing into that for him today. "I was hoping to speak to you alone, though, Ser Jaime, if you have a moment."

Jaime was loath to admit that he was quickly finding he had a lot of time when it came to this particular Stark. He would not pass an opportunity to provoke her out of her trained manners. "Oh?"

"Yes. I heard that you were rather unkind to my brother earlier today, and I wanted to know if it was true." She did not think her brother was lying. She was quite certain Jaime had been mocking and offending. She wasn't sure why she was asking him though, or what she was hoping to get out of it. She thought perhaps she just needed someone to direct her frustration at—someone she could be frustrated at without feeling guilty later. Particularly, as he seemed to enjoy it so.

A victimless crime.

He looked confused. "You may have to narrow it down for me, my Lady. I say a lot of unkind things to a lot of people. Which brother do you refer to? The one who thought me untrustworthy?"

Her guts seemed to flip around inside her when he said my lady. He grinned like he knew it too, like he was having fun. She could only muster his name in response, holding back her frustration. "Jon."

"Ah yes, going to take the black, isn't he?"

She nodded. "He is. He will make a great Nightswatchman."

"He is an idiot."

Her mouth dropped open in an 'O' of surprise. Maybe she thought he would try to deny it, but she should've realized by now he didn't seem to care much about what others thought of him. "You think my brother an idiot?"

"For taking the black. What a pointless vow. I meant what I said to him."

He was so matter-of-fact that it really threw Sybel. He didn't even have the good sense to seem embarrassed.

Sybel didn't know what to say but slowly, his words were stoking the frustration in her chest. "So you were rude then."

"I was honest." He said simply, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall so casually that it made her huff.

"You know people can speak truths without being mocking," she snapped. He was so unconcerned with his own behaviour, it irritated her. She knew it wasn't just irritation swirling inside her, expanding and growing, but it was what she held onto. Seeing him made her feel that guilt again, made her feel the helplessness of Bran's situation, the sadness of the future. He made her feel everything she was trying to hold onto as she focused on her jobs and chores and helping everyone. But the anger was the easiest to grip onto.

"But that would suggest I care." He squinted at her like he thought she was the one not understanding, so he added on, "which I don't."

Sybel couldn't believe his words—not really. Not when he stood before her in a very physical reminder of his own vow to service—his Kingsguard robes. He sprouted off about not caring but it was so at odds with himself and everything swirling in her own body. How could he be so unaffected. "But he will be swearing an oath to protect and serve…to keep the Kingdoms safe…how—"

He cut her off by actually rolling his eyes. "Oh yes, I think they do a marvelous job of keeping us all very very safe."

Sybel really understood why children had tantrums—it was a palpable feeling in her chest that seemed like it just needed to burst out, no direction, just feeling. She was so incredulous that she couldn't find any words for a minute. She just stared at him, almost dumbstruck by the fact that he could be so completely inconsistent.

Jon was a bastard—no lands, no titles, no warm home without their father there to ward off their mother. Jon had very little options in life, and the Wall gave him the best opportunity for purpose and brotherhood and honour. And Jaime stood there mocking it. Mocking it when he himself had taken a similar vow. For all he implied about the Nightswatch not protecting anyone, it was almost hilarious he couldn't see his own hypocrisy. He stood outside a door all day while the King ate and drank and fucked about, then he followed the King when he finally left his chambers to hunt or visit the crypts before being told to fuck off. Sybel had seen it—everyone had seen it. He was doing about as much protecting as what he thought the Nightswatch did.

She pointed her finger at him the way mothers do when they scold their naughty children, and she angrily told him exactly that. "You, Jaime Lannister, are the idiot."

He just raised an eyebrow at her, not moving an inch. She didn't know if it was in challenge or in warning. But she really didn't care either way.

"You stand there in your privileged white knights robes but you're nothing more than a…glorified nursing maid."

"Glorified nursing maid?" He repeated back, now seeming just as infuriated, pushing himself off the wall. It gave her a sense of pleasure to get that reaction from him, that it urged her on. "What a ferocious little pup you are."

He tried to laugh at her, but she could see she'd hit a sore spot by the tightening of the corners of his mouth, the hardening of his eyes. He practically turned to marble right before her and she realized here it was; a vulnerable spot; a chink in his otherwise perfect armour, his wall.

"And you hate it, don't you?" She was guessing, but when he stayed statue-like, she knew she was on the right track. "So you just mock everyone else doing something more meaningful than you are, to make yourself feel better."

"More meaningful? You can't be serious." There was only a warning at how perilously close she was walking to the truth of it.

She took a step towards him, as though this would help her words hit their mark. "I'm extremely serious. The Nightswatch are lucky to have Jon. I really don't know what the Kingsguard thought when they got you, though."

She could see immediately that she might have gone a touch too far. His eyes flared like green fire and it burned. Burned right down into her core.

"I will have you know," he growled, taking a step towards her. She swallowed a bit hard, her words catching up to her, "that I am one of the best swordsman," another step that made her stumble back into the wall at his proximity to her, but he kept coming, his face crowding hers, arms braced on either side of her head, blocking any easy exit.

"In the whole fucking Seven Kingdoms," he practically spat it at her and if it wasn't already clear she'd gotten carried away in having a target for all of her overwhelming feelings, it was then. She swallowed again, both of them breathing heavy. Sybel could feel his warmth, his breath, even in the cold of Winterfell.

His hard emerald eyes stared into her swirling smoke-filled ones and her mind went curiously empty. He didn't move as she floundered for words, for a reply—for anything, really. The best she could do was faltering nothingness, "…I…uh—"

He was still fuming and she felt her cheeks flush in a rosy hue that matched his. "Not so ferocious now, are you?"

All she could see was green and gold. "You're crowding me."

He didn't look bothered about this and he seemed to have no intention of moving. Instead, he just took a small step closer, seeming almost in spite of what she'd said, until there was barely any space between their bodies. She took a quick breath in and her mouth felt suddenly dry. She'd never been this close to a man that she wasn't related to and it was very different from hugging her brothers. There was a tension to it, like a leather strap being pulled tighter and tighter, about to snap. She didn't know what would happen when their tension snapped. But everything felt warm and foggy to her.

"Jaime…" Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip and pull it into her mouth. His eyes dropped down to watch the movement closely, staring at her mouth. She breathed in three times with him frozen there, her chest rising to almost imperceptibly brush against his chest in a way that made her tight and tingle, her neck blooming heat. When he met her eyes again, he jerked back so quickly Sybel almost thought she'd shoved him, it was such a full-body reaction. She gasped, startled.

A second later, she was alone in the hallway, flushed and red, a foreign throb between her legs, confused by where he'd gone and by her reaction. Perhaps she should have listened to her brother about not getting involved because she was sure now she'd only complicated things for herself.

She didn't know what that was, but it was very different to any of the comparatively distant interactions they'd had up until that point. Her mind puzzled over it and her curious reaction while she continued on to the kitchens, almost in a daze. His closeness felt intoxicating, stronger than any wine she'd tasted, but as the feeling faded and she was able to think more clearly, she had the good sense to turn an even deeper shade of red in her embarrassment.

Thank the Gods they hadn't had an audience. As her mind played it over and over, she groaned out loud. She rarely agued with anyone, let alone argued with so much heat and tension that it made her forget how to speak. And forget how to act—she shouldn't have allowed him so close, she shouldn't have been able to see the different greens in his eyes. And she certainly shouldn't have been agreeable to the idea of him getting even closer.

A small part of her wondered if that was how intense not-touching felt, imagine what actual touching…

She shook herself out of that thought. That was not a thought she was allowed to have. Gods, imagine the gossip if anyone even suspected she'd entertained any kind of thought of touching Jaime Lannister. Or of him touching her.

She knew neither would serve her any kind of good.