The Wolf Maiden
295 AL
Rosarra Stark
Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Half-Year Queen, had been declared heir to the throne by her father, King Viserys I. He had summoned all the high lords and ladies of the realm to swear fealty to his daughter, and even when his second wife, Alicent Hightower, birthed healthy sons, he did not amend this decree.
Rosarra traced her finger around the sketch of Rhaenyra on the page. She was a young girl in the sketch, not much older than Rosarra herself. She wondered if she resented her brothers as Rosarra did Bran, if she had failed as Rosarra had to open her heart to the little brother whose existence threatened to tear her future – one meticulously crafted, planned for and yearned for – into diminutive, tiny shreds.
Bran was five now, having just celebrated his nameday a moon ago. Each year, Rosarra was not reminded of the joyous birth of her baby brother; a birth to celebrate and rejoice. No, Rosarra was reminded of what could have been – a life as an heir, the future Lady Paramount of the North, a lady who would have her own lands and titles and who would not have to rely on her husband to give her scraps of power and authority, even though she would doubtlessly be far cleverer than her.
Had Rhaenyra acted as coldly towards to the birth of her brother as Rosarra had? Had she viewed him as the thorn in all her plans, all her desires? The knife that would carve her role, her identity, into pieces and leave her useless and without purpose? At ten, little Rosarra had been so frightened of the uncertainty that now clouded her future – who would she marry? Would he be kind? Would he be cruel? Would he allow her to help him rule, as she had been raised to?
Her father said that most of the realm had acted without honour during the Dance. The lords had sworn fealty to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and therefore should have supported her ascension to the throne, but Aegon II was the rightful heir, according to the laws and customs of the Andals, the First Men and Old Valyria. If Rhaenyra had been a woman of honour, her father had said, she would have stepped aside and let her brother peacefully take his rightful place on the throne, sparing the realm much bloodshed.
While Rosarra admired her father and desired to be just as honourable as him, she didn't think he could understand Rhaenyra, not as she could. Rhaenyra saw herself as more than just a dutiful daughter, to be sold off and wedded and bedded. She had desires too, just as all women do, though many men may begrudge women their ambitions. Rosarra had ambitions. Once, she wanted to be her father's heir. Now, she wanted…
What did she want? Rosarra placed her book upon her lap as she contemplated the question. Not power, specifically – she did not desire to usurp her brother, nor did she desire queenship or anything most men claimed ambitious women would want. Status, yes – she wanted to be able to make some of her own decisions and have a say in her future.
But most of all, Rosarra wanted recognition, for she was not a woman – or a girl, as her father claimed she still was, even though she was to be wedded in four moons turn – to be dismissed or whose thoughts should be ignored.
Her father listened to her. When she suggested a trade deal with Braavos to White Harbour, upon reading that animals with fur were not common in Braavos, nor were stronger woods like ironwood, her father had listened to her patiently. He had supported her suggestions and praised her. He even let her propose the idea to Wyman Manderly.
Rosarra also knew the North boasted large deposits of silver, not as much as the Westerlands, but still enough to earn them a good deal of profit. Rosarra suggested they invite miners from the West to Winterfell to set up camps near their reserves, as well as prospectors to help source new deposits of silver.
Her father had been very pleased with her findings and had done as she had suggested. Rosarra had become his 'assistant' these last few years, acting as his cupbearer and his right-hand, brought to all the keeps of the high lords of the North. Her mother had scorned it, but Father had ignored her, only asking Rosarra not to bring up her role around Lady Stark lest she spark an argument.
She was supposed to stay in the North for a lot longer, but instead she was to be cast off to marry some honourless man her father despised.
There was a knock on her door, and Sansa stepped into her room looking sheepish, clad in her nightgown and slippers.
"My room is closer to Mother's chambers," Sansa said quietly, looking at the floor. "Can I…?"
"Of course, you can," Rosarra replied immediately with a kind smile, pulling the covers down on the other side of her bed so Sansa could slip in beside her.
She understood immediately. Their mother was birthing her fifth child, likely to be another boy according to Maester Luwin. But Sansa was supposed to be a boy, and so was Arya. Rosarra was sure that he must have claimed she was a boy as well, because all mothers want to hear that the babes in their bellies were going to be boys. What use was a little girl, after all?
"She did not scream this loud with Bran," Sansa whispered, voice shaking with fright.
Rosarra froze as well. There were times she could also hear her mother's screams from her room on the other side of the castle. She had picked up her favourite book The Queens Who Never Were to distract herself.
"You were only five when Bran was born," Rosarra reminded her with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though it felt more like a grimace. She smoothed a loose strand of Sansa's red hair, a shade lighter than Rosarra's own, behind her hair. "You can't remember Bran's birth well enough to compare."
"I remember Mother's screams. I don't remember much else from being five, but I remember those. I didn't understand… how dangerous it could be, though," Sansa told her nervously. Rosarra wrapped an arm around her. "Women die in childbirth, don't they?"
There were tears in Sansa's eyes. Rosarra felt her eyes well up too, as she had considered that possibility as well. It was made even worse by the strained relationship she had with her mother. Rosarra had refused to speak with her since her lady mother had threatened her, and had no intentions of speaking to Lady Stark before she was carted off to Casterly Rock like the broodmare she was.
"Not our mother," Rosarra tried to say firmly. "Lady Catelyn Stark will not be taken from childbed fever."
"Why do women have so many children if it is so dangerous?"
Rosarra thought on that. Because we have to, she thought to herself, but that was not the answer she would give her little sister.
"Because mothers love their children," was the answer she gave, hoping her small smile hid her lie. "Father says a woman's battle is in the birthing bed. Men ride off to battle all the time, even though it's dangerous. There must be a reason both women and men are drawn to their 'battles' like that."
"I hope Mother does not have anymore children," Sansa said quietly. "I love Bran, and Arya too, sometimes. But I don't want to lose Mother."
She squeezed Sansa's arm reassuringly. "She will pull through. She always does."
"Are you nervous about giving birth?"
Rosarra snorted. "I am not with child, Sansa."
Sansa scowled at her laughter and amended, "But you will be wed soon. Ser Jaime will want heirs. And you must want children."
Yes, she did. She really did. She loved taking care of her younger siblings and playing with them. When she was younger, she used to pretend they were her children, and she played the part of the doting mother. She had never done that with Bran though, she realised with a familiar startle of guilt, only her sisters.
"I do," Rosarra admitted honestly. "I always have. I want as many as Mother."
"Even though they might make you scream as Mother is?"
Foolishly, Rosarra nodded her affirmation. She was surprised at herself even. "Yes. It's crazy, isn't it? That we willingly put ourselves through that."
"What would you call them?" Sansa asked, becoming girlishly eager to talk about their future as mother and wives. "I've picked names. Eddard for Father, Brynden after our uncle because he's so valiant, there would have to be a Catelyn too, for Mother… but also a Serena, an Alysanne for Good Queen Alysanne and a Jonquil, for the lady in the song."
"Will your lord husband get to name any of his children?" Rosarra commented in amusement, not having the heart to tell her sister that he would likely be the one choosing the names, unless he had the heart and the respectfulness to allow her some input.
Sansa smirked cheekily. "Only if he has good suggestions."
Rosarra smiled widely at that.
A fervent knocking disturbed them from their peaceful revelry. Rosarra bid the person to come in, thinking it was going to be Arya or Jon. When she saw it was her father, she sat up immediately, her eyes wide and fearful. She realised with a start the screams had stopped.
"Rosarra, your mother has been asking for you."
"Is she…" Rosarra asked fearfully, glancing nervously at Sansa who seemed close to tears.
"She's… this child will not come out as easily as you and your siblings did," Ned explained cautiously. Rosarra wondered if he would have spoken more plainly to her if Sansa had not been there, or if he would have strived to honey the truth for her as well. "Please, Rose," he began to plead with her, looking pale and like a ghost of the fierce father she knew. "Put aside whatever grudge you hold against your mother. You may regret it."
Rosarra paled, understand well what he meant. She would not want her mother to… she could not bear to think nor say the words. But whatever happened, Rosarra would not let her grudge or anger define the last chapter of her relationship with her mother.
So, she nodded, and pulled the furs off her body. She quickly turned around to press a kiss to Sansa's forehead. "It'll be alright, Sansi," she told her, using the nickname that Sansa despised, but it seemed to bring comfort to her sister.
"Can I stay here, Rosy?" Sansa asked hopefully.
"Of course you can," she said. Rosarra would be relieved to find her sister in her bed for comfort should… things go south. Rosarra gave her a reassuring smile. Once again, it looked more like a grimace. "Try sleep."
"I won't be able to."
She gave her another sad smile, before leaving her room with their father.
They walked in silence, the sounds of her mother's screams becoming louder and louder as they got nearer. Rosarra smelt… blood. She wanted to turn around and run away, but the fear of what could happen and the regret that would eat at her afterwards forced her legs to move forward.
Her father entered the birthing chamber with her. It was rare for men to attend the births of their children, but Ned Stark was no ordinary man. He loved his wife and would do all he could to comfort her. Rosarra wondered would Ser Jaime attend her births. Though she had never met him, she didn't think a man branded with the fearsome title Kingslayer would spend hours at her bedside, holding her hand as she birthed him an heir.
Her eyes settled upon her mother. Sweat had glued her beautiful red hair to her forehead and her skin had paled to an awful yellowish white colour. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying from the pain. Rosarra had only seen her mother cry once before, when her father was away fighting Greyjoy's Rebellion.
All rage for her mother abated in one moment, and she rushed to her mother's side, all anger forgotten.
"Mother – " she began, but Catelyn cut her off.
"I am glad you're here, Rosy," she said, forcing a small smile on her face though it was laced with pain.
"I should have been here from the beginning," Rosarra replied, and it was true. Rosarra was of an age to tend to her mother during childbirth. "I had not thought…" she trailed off regretfully, and grabbed her mother's hand gently to hold. "I am so sorry, Mother."
"And I, too, daughter. Please forgive me. I only ever – " She was cut off by a scream and a cry as she writhed and cringing in pain. Rosarra stared at her in alarm, sharing a worried look with her father. "I only ever wanted what was best for you. But I should not have… but it is right, you know that? Promise me, you will… promise me…"
"I will marry him," Rosarra told her, understanding her mother's meaning. Her judgement was correct, judging by the relief that had washed over Catelyn's face, mingled with the pain. "None of that matters now, Mother. You will birth my little brother or sister, and all will be well."
Catelyn turned away from her and to her husband, looking at him pleadingly. "Why will the child not come, Ned? All the others… even Rosarra did not take this long to come."
"He will come soon," her father promised, though they all knew his words were meaningless.
"I feel like he is both trying to tear himself out of me and refusing to come," Catelyn explained. "I have heard… of men having to make a choice for their wives… Mother or son."
Her father paled. "Cat…"
"The child, Ned," Catelyn said firmly. "The child."
Rosarra held her mother's hand for hours more. There were a few minutes she was alone with her mother as Maester Luwin and her father spoke outside of the birthing chamber. She had been scared out of her wits. Her mother, her strong, brave mother, seemed to be slipping away from her before her eyes. Every time she closed her eyes, Rosarra bid her to wake.
An hour later, Maester Luwin could finally see the child's head emerging, and no choices needed to be made.
Their mother's screams became louder and more pained, her grip on Rosarra's hand became almost unbearable, her nails digging into Rosarra's skin deeply enough to draw blood. Rosarra dabbed a cloth on her mother's forehead.
"You are doing so well, Mother," she praised, trying to keep calm. "The babe will be here soon."
Catelyn released another roar of pain in response, throwing back her head back in sheer agony. Rosarra dipped the cloth back into some cold water and dabbed it upon her mother's head once again, clearing up beads of sweat and hoping to cool her down.
There was so much blood. She glanced down at the sheet, then to her father. They shared a look, but dared not mention their worries as to not alarm Catelyn.
When the babe finally came, her mother's entire body slacked. Luwin cut the cord, then wrapped the babe in furs.
"A boy," Maester Luwin said joyously.
"Rickon," Catelyn said tiredly, a minute smile on her lips as her eyelids drooped heavily. "Just as we agreed, my lord," she told Father, who smiled broadly at her.
"Rickon," Father announced.
"Would you like to hold him, my lady?" Maester Luwin asked.
"No," her mother drawled, head lolling to one side. "Just rest."
"Cat?" her father called worriedly. He looked to the maester in alarm. "Is she – "
"She needs rest," Luwin said, but his face showed that he was worried to. "If I may, my lord…" he gestured to outside the room.
"Of course," her father affirmed, but visibly paled.
Rosarra became alarmed at that. If he did not wish to speak in front of her mother, it meant he did not wish to alarm her. She gripped her mother's hand tighter, and continued to tend to her by making sure she was cool.
"Rosarra, would you take the little lord?" Maester Luwin asked her, smiling kindly.
He did not wait for her answer, and her little brother was shoved into her arms. The maester and her father left, leaving her alone with the newborn babe and her mother. Rosarra realised that she was the first to hold baby Rickon. He had not been fed yet, and curled into Rosarra's breast, trying to find a nipple to drink from through her dress.
Rosarra chuckled fondly at the babe. "You will not find anything there, baby Rickon," she told her, rocking him gently in her arms. She had not held a babe since Arya, for she had never held Bran. He felt so fragile in her arms. "You have Mother's hair," she commented, running her fingers gently through the short tuffs of red atop Rickon's head. "I think you've her eyes too, just like me. I think you'll be more like Arya, though, a wild, crazy little thing."
The babe gurgled at her, barely able to open his eyes fully. Maids piled into the room to change her mother's sheets, taking away the blood-stained rags and replacing them with clean ones. Once they were gone, Rosarra started muttering to baby Rickon again.
"You will not remember me," Rosarra said sadly. "The others will tell you about me, I hope, but I won't be here when you grow older. I have to marry a southern lord. But you'll love this family. This is your mother," she propped Rickon up carefully so he could look at Catelyn, fully understanding that he likely did not understand what she meant. "She can be annoying, but she loves us fiercely. You took a lot out of her, but she's going to be alright. She has to be," she murmured to herself, trying to reassure herself more than the babe who could not understand her.
"Rose," her father spoke, and Rosarra blushed when she realised he had heard her, "we must give the babe to the wet nurse."
"Of course," Rosarra said, handing the babe over to Father. "Will Mother be alright?"
Her father nodded, giving her a relieved smile. "Maester Luwin seems to think so. If she – when she survives the next few hours, we can be certain she will remain in good health." With Rickon in one arm, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Rosarra's brow. "You did well, Rosy. I am proud of you."
Their mother's recovery was slow. A month later, and Lady Catelyn Stark had only just found the strength to get out of bed and take a few steps. Rosarra spent most of her time with her mother, and when she was not with her, she was taking care of the younger children – even Bran, though it pained her to do so despite the child's sweet temperament.
Exactly a moon after Rickon's birth, Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at Winterfell. The reason for his visit had bewildered her, until her father had clarified it for Rosarra – it was to inspect Rosarra herself. After all, what man would purchase a broodmare without inspecting it first?
"You must not allow him to intimidate you," her mother had warned her that morning as she ate her breakfast slowly. "He is lucky to have you marrying his son. Though you must be polite and courteous, make sure he does not forget his luck in securing you for a good-daughter."
Rosarra allowed her mother's words to echo through her head as she approached her father's solar. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Rosarra knocked timidly at the door. You are a Stark of Winterfell, a wolf, she kept repeating to herself, as she often did when she was nervous.
Her father bid her to come in, and Rosarra entered the solar, finding Lord Tywin sitting opposite their father, half a dozen sheets laid out between them. Contracts, trades and dowries, most likely, for Rosarra knew a marriage was as much a trade deal and a business transaction as it was a marriage. Rosarra hoped her father had succeeded to negotiate for Lord Tywin to send his best prospector north for a few months, to search for more silver mines, and that he had not allowed the Old Lion to extort the North.
"Lady Rosarra," Lord Tywin greeted, standing to address her. "Well met."
He was trying to size her up, from her looks to how she held herself, and soon he would examine her every word. Rosarra had never disappointed anyone. She held herself confidently, as her lady mother had taught her, and stood tall and proud. She met his examining stare evenly, unperturbed – or hoping to be seen so, as being analysed like this would be a source of discomfort for anyone.
"And you, my lord. It is an honour to meet my future good-father," Rosarra told him smoothly with a smile. Her life would be much easier if she could charm him, though Lord Tywin was not like other lords, easily endeared by a pretty smile and smooth words.
The look he gave her was one of appraisal though, as he bid her to take a seat as he returned to his.
"Your father tells me you have impressive knowledge of diplomacy and stewardship," Lord Tywin informed her. "You've had an extensive education that is incredibly rare for young ladies who do not stand to inherit their father's lands."
Rosarra bristled at that, but attempted to hide the bitterness that rose to the surface at the mention of her inheritance, or lack-thereof. "I was my father's heir until the age of ten, and given a lord's education as well as a lady's. When my little brother was born, my father allowed my education to continue to be as extensive and broad as it had been," she sent her father a grateful smile. "I hope my education will be a benefit to House Lannister, though I still have much to learn about your lands."
Lord Tywin seemed pleased by her answer. "As you are just five-and-ten and have another year until you reach the age of majority, you will be completing your education with us. My sister Lady Genna will be seeing to your education and well-being. She is learned woman, like yourself, and the acting Lady of Casterly Rock since the death of my wife. Your willingness to learn is… reassuring," he admitted, a dark look on his face that Rosarra could not place. He turned to Lord Stark. "I should like to speak with Lady Stark before I leave, on matters of your daughter's fertility."
"My wife is still recovering from the birth of our last son," her father replied quickly, a scowl on his face on the question of Rosarra's fertility.
"I should like some reassurance that Lady Rosarra is capable of bearing sons for House Lannister," he said, and turned to her then, as though expected reassurance.
She frowned, unable to hide her displeasure at being branded a broodmare. "I see no reason why I should not be able. I flowered at two-and-ten, and was always tall for my age. I've been told my hips are wide."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks, though she attempted to hide her embarrassment the best she could. She was a wolf; she would not cringe before the lion.
Lord Tywin nodded, satisfied. "Good," he declared, and rose to stand. Rosarra and her father stood as well. "The wedding will be in three moons. I should like you to arrive at Casterly Rock in two moons. That would give us time to organise a fine wedding gown for your daughter."
"Yes, Lord Lannister," he replied, a grim look on his face.
"We will organise the making of the gown and pay for the materials. A Lannister bride should look the part."
Her father scowled again. Rosarra felt insulted too. House Lannister may be wealthy – wealthier than House Stark, by all accounts – but it was not as though they were paupers!
Lord Tywin continued on without giving her father or Rosarra time to interject. "I will take my leave. I came to see the future Lady Lannister and assess if she was worthy of the title. You have raised a fine daughter, Lord Stark," Lord Tywin complimented.
"She is a credit to us," her father said fondly.
The elder lord hummed in agreement before turning to Rosarra, a serious, stern expression on his face that never seemed to go away. "Before your wedding, it would do you good to learn about the lands you will someday help govern," Lord Tywin told Rosarra. "Winterfell's library is extensive, I hear, and you do not seem like a person who likes to be unprepared."
"I am not, my lord," Rosarra replied, chin held high. "You will find me well-prepared when I come to Casterly Rock to marry your son."
The corners of Lord Tywin's mouth curled upwards in a ghost of smile. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Rosarra."
And then the Old Lion left, with the promise of being a permanent fixture in her life very soon. Her father left with him, but not before giving Rosarra's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and a smile of approval. She had done well, even Rosarra could tell. Perhaps she could be happy in Casterly Rock. At least she would have a place there; lands to help govern and a household to run.
She lowered herself onto her father's chair, and began to look through the contracts and agreements he had signed.
Two moons passed, and Rosarra was preparing to leave her home to go to Casterly Rock. The girls were accompanying her. Bran and Rickon were too young to travel, and her mother had only just recovered fully and did not want to leave little Rickon. Rosarra did not mind. Though their relationship was more cordial than it had been before Rickon's birth, Rosarra still resented her mother, and their relationship had always been strained.
She would be glad to have the girls with her, though, even if taking care of Arya would add a great deal of stress on the bride-to-be.
"That gown will be too hot," Rosarra commented as her handmaiden Marena Snow, the baseborn daughter of Lord Glover, went to pack a grey dress with thick, fur-lined skirts. She was a small girl, half a foot shorter than Rosarra who was of average height for a woman, with dark hair and brilliant green eyes. She was comely and shapely. Rosarra had envied her shape when they were younger; Marena was two years older and had matured quicker, much to Rosarra's chagrin.
She used to catch boys' eyes more often than Rosarra had, before Rosarra had grown into a woman as well. When Rosarra was two-and-ten and Marena four-and-ten, she had seen her flirting with Theon at a feast and had spoken to neither of them for a month. She'd been cruel to her friend, who was still acting as her handmaiden at the time to a lady who would not speak to her and cursed her with foul looks at every opportunity. She had assigned foul, unnecessary jobs to Marena, like ordering her to wake early to help the kennelmaster and to assist the Master of Horse with caring for Rosarra's stallion; duties unbecoming for a young lady.
Marena broke down after a month of foul treatment and ran to Lord Stark. She had never seen her father look so disappointed. He had been enraged with her, and ordered her to perform every duty she had ordered Marena to; no matter how ill-suited they were to a young lady.
Eventually, Rosarra had realised the cruelty of her actions, though she had not apologised. Marena never spoke to Theon again. Their relationship had never returned to that closeness since, and Marena began to act as Rosarra's inferior and Rosarra had reluctantly accepted the role of mistress instead of friend.
That didn't mean they no longer got along, though.
"But winter is coming, my lady," Marena remarked in a serious tone, but gave her mistress a cheeky smirk.
Rosarra snorted. "You sound like my father." She became thoughtful. "But no, I don't believe it will ever get cold enough for dress like that. All my dresses are so heavy. I am going to be sweating like a sinner in a Sept once we go south."
"Lucky for us that we follow the Old Gods then," Marena said. "Your lady mother made some light gowns for you during her confinement. You'll just have to wear them until we can get the Lannister's seamstress to tend to you in Casterly Rock."
"You know you – "
"Don't have to come?" Marena finished with a bemused look. Rosarra nodded mutely, waiting for her friend to respond. Marena rolled her eyes. "As if you would survive a day without me."
"I would try to, if you wanted to stay with your family," Rosarra assured her softly. "Casterly Rock is far and…"
"And I have never been south before. I will miss my family, but not many northern ladies get to go past the Neck. Even fewer baseborn ladies. It is an adventure as much as it is a duty of mine as your favourite handmaiden," Marena said cheekily, bumping Rosarra's hip with her own and giving her a small smirk.
"My only handmaiden. I looked forward to getting rid of you," Rosarra teased, unshed tears in her eyes at her handmaiden's loyalty.
"Oh, hush you," said the Glover bastard, rolling her eyes again. "You'd be lost without me. What is this?" Marena said, picking up a dress Rosarra had folded and beginning to re-fold it to her satisfaction. "You'd swear a dog folded this. There," she announced finally. "All done. I'll have someone come fetch these and put them in the wheelhouse."
There was a knock on the door. She bid the person to enter, and Jon stepped into her room.
Marena glanced between them. "I will take my leave and let you two talk," she said, before scurrying out of the room.
"I can't believe you're leaving," Jon voiced sadly as he picked up a doll she was bringing – Lady Minnie, after her mother's mother. "You're bringing Lady Minnie."
Rosarra smiled at the doll. She had gotten the doll when she was just four, yet she could remember the tears in her mother's eyes when she asked her what her grandmother's name had been. She had branded the doll with her nickname. Minisa Tully had been known by Minnie to those who loved her. Rosarra wondered if her husband would let her name a child Minisa. The Riverlands and Westerlands had similar names, so perhaps she could.
"I'm bringing everything so I can be reminded of home," Rosarra explained. "It is my plan to make my room at Casterly Rock look identical to this one," she glanced around at her room fondly, though it was now stripped bare of her possessions.
"I imagine your rooms there will be far grander. You'll be its lady," Jon reminded her with a weak smile.
"I wish you could come with us for the wedding," she told him truthfully. She would miss him fiercely. What she would do to have her brother for a little while longer.
"Trust me, I do too," Jon replied wryly, a bitterness to his tone. "Sharing a keep with just Lady Stark and two little boys does not sound very joyous."
"Perhaps I could convince the Lannisters to offer you a place in their household, once I am settled and you are a bit older." It sounded ridiculous to her; when he is a bit older. He was only a year younger than her, and she was to be wed.
Jon frowned thoughtfully. "As much as I'd like to live with you in Casterly Rock, I don't think I'd like such… dishonourable employment," he said slowly and carefully, sharing in their father's disdain of House Lannister.
Rosarra scowled at that. "I see," she said and took the doll off of him, placing it back into the bag.
There was silence for a few moments, before Jon cleared his throat and spoke again. "I thought you might like to go for one last ride in the godswood before you leave," Jon suggested. "I've asked Hullen to ready Syrax."
She could do with a ride to ease her nerves and take her mind off her imminent departure. Nodding, she gave her brother a thankful smile and let him lead her to the stables, having already changed into her riding clothes in preparation for the journey to come.
Her mount was black stallion with patches of white and brilliant grey eyes that reminded her of Jon's. He was a strong courser of just five years, barely an adult, yet Hullen had remarked that he was a strong pony when he was younger. Her mother's uncle the Blackfish had sent him to Rosarra as a yearling for her eleventh name-day. Rosarra adored the horse then, and she still refused to ever ride another horse. No horse was as fast or as obedient as Syrax, though he gave trouble to the stable boys and was likely to bite a hand if it was too rough.
Once they had reached the wolfswood, Rosarra felt her worries and stress melt as she inhaled the scent of the oak and pine trees and breathed the cold winter air. She would not forget the smell, or the taste of the wolfswood. She had learned how to ride a horse from her lord father in these woods. She remembered the first horse she ever rode – a yearling without a name – threw her off its back. She remembered bawling her eyes out, and her father comforting her.
"The horse does not like me," Rosarra had complained, sniffling.
Her father had laughed at that. "The horse does not know you, Rosey-posie. But you were pulling at his mane. How would you feel if someone was to pull your hair?"
He had tugged at one of her curls then, and Rosarra had giggled at her father's antics.
Rosarra smiled at the memory, and the smell and the sight of the openness that was the wolfswood. She shot a small smirk to Jon, which he returned, knowing that her smirk held a challenge. She urged Syrax into a fierce gallop and bid her brother to chase her.
She would win, as she always did. Rosarra was a brilliant rider. Jon could excel at the sword, and he would have been as clever as her if he had her diligence and ambition, but he could never out-ride her. Yet he never complained when she beat him, and never refused her when she asked him to go riding with her. Theon often refused to go riding with her, unless they were hunting, because of his fragile male pride.
"Come, Rose, this way!" Jon beckoned her, shouting from fifty feet behind her.
His horse had stopped. Rosarra turned Syrax around to shoot Jon a suspicious look. "Must you resort to tricks to win against your sister in a race?" she teased him with a small smirk.
Even from this far away, she could see Jon rolling his eyes. "Come on, you," he called to her, and urged his horse into a trot as he disappeared behind some trees.
Rosarra followed behind him. He led her to a small open area, where they found Theon sitting against a tree.
"I knew you would want to say goodbye," Jon told her with a smile. "I'll leave you to it."
With Jon gone, Rosarra did naught but stare at Theon expectantly as he rose from his seat on the ground. She did not know what to say to him. She had considered herself in love with him only a few moons ago. She had given him the part of her that was, according to most lords and ladies in their society, the most important. She had let him ruin her. And he had never told her he loved her.
"I have not spoken to you in half a year," Rosarra commented bluntly.
Theon looked as though she had struck him. "I was forbidden – we were forbidden. Your lady mother – "
"It did not seem to pain you as it did me," she stated, trying to keep her voice steady but pain shook it. "You have not tried to see me. Not even a note. Nothing."
"You agreed to be married to the Kingslayer," he spat the word out like it was a curse. For them, it was. "Don't act like I betrayed you when you're the one leaving."
"Betrayal?" she repeated with a scoff. "Oh, how betrayed you must have felt. How great your pain… that you had to fuck the brewer's wife in the godswood. And the tavern wench from Winter Town you brought to your bed; the bed you took my maidenhead in!"
She had nearly brought herself to tears. How heartbroken she had felt when she heard that story from a reluctant Marena, how the wench's cries of pleasure had been so loud she woke up everyone in the guests' wing. Rosarra had let Theon take her maidenhead in that bed. They had been kissing at first, then touching and exploring each other's bodies as they had for a while now, then things had went further before Rosarra had the mind to stop them, too overcome with want and lust.
Her actions were the stupid, foolish actions of a girl in love. Rosarra was not impulsive in nature, but she could be a slave to strong emotions. She could never hold her tongue when she was angry, nor could she stay her jealousy even when it caused her to act cruelly. She regretted giving her maidenhead to Theon, but she could not go back in time and reconstruct her maidenhead through abstinence, so she found herself back in bed with him many more times until her mother…
Pushing that unwelcome memory aside, Rosarra looked away from Theon and pushed back her tears. No, he would not see her cry. She would not show him how much power he had over her, when she did not seem to matter to him.
When Theon spoke finally, his words were laced with defiance, but she could hear the shame. Good, she thought, for he should feel shame for wronging her. "You hardly expected me to live as a maid for the rest of my life in devotion to you while you go off to wed and fuck the Kingslayer?"
"You could have waited until I left!" she told him hotly, though her voice cracked. "Do you not understand, I could have – this could have ruined me. I really cared for you."
"Cared?" Theon echoed, hurt.
"Care," she amended. "I must be some thick fool. For all you have hurt me, I care for you. And will long after I'm wed to Ser Jaime."
There were tears in his eyes, but he was more determined to suppress them than Rosarra had even been. He grabbed her hands in his and gave her a small smirk, "I doubt you could forget me easily, Stark."
She rolled her eyes at his cockiness. "How could I? A head as abnormally large as yours will be impossible to forget."
"May I give you something else that will be impossible to forget?"
"I should – "
She was about to say that she ought to smack him, so he could remember her ire, her heartbreak, but he silenced her with a kiss. It was slow at first, and sweet. He tasted of pine and saltwater, and smelt like burning wood mingled with fresh air. Rosarra wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly to her and deepening the kiss, devouring him.
A moment's respite – she forgot just for a moment that she would have to tear herself away from him. Rosarra was the kind of woman who preferred to slap a stinging salve straight onto her wound and get the pain over with, rather than brace herself and slowly experience pain, dragging out the suffering.
And so, she tore herself away from Theon, as she would press a stinging salve onto a wound without hesitation, or rip off a bandage.
"No," Rosarra said suddenly, stepping away from him as though he had burned her.
Theon's brows furrowed in confusion. "Rose, what – "
"Consider that a promise fulfilled," she said with a small smile and teary eyes, before she whipped around and mounted her Syrax once more.
She urged her horse into a fast gallop, finding Jon at the edge of the godswood. He gave her a worried look. Rosarra realised with a start that she had been crying, and her eyes must have been a blaring red. She attempted to give her brother a reassuring smile and urged Syrax into a canter as they began their return to Winterfell.
"Thank you," she said to Jon finally, as they neared the gates of Winterfell.
He smiled kindly at her in response.
She rode Syrax through the gates of Winterfell, and braced herself for half a dozen more painful goodbyes.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who left a review and PM'd from the last chapter! I'm happy to see most of you like Rosarra even though she's far from perfect. Usually in GoT fanfics I noticed that that a female OC starts out good and is 'corrupted' by the cruel world around her, and I've usually stuck to that format as well. I wanted to start out with someone who had very obvious flaws to begin with. It's going to be interesting to see how she grows out of these or how they develop further.
As always, let me know what you think ;)