Leave | Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

She had remained in that library for what felt like an eternity, waiting for her heart to slow down, her heavy breathing to quieten, her legs to stop trembling, all the while her mind whirred. But it was hard to think when she felt the lingering ghost of that thrill in her body, the ache between her legs, the sheer force of wanting him pressed against her again, mouth on hers—mouth all over her. He'd left her there, frazzled. He'd left her there, with a desperate need humming through her blood, begging for him.

He'd left her there with the slowly dawning realisation that perhaps she had been deluding herself into thinking that she was in control of the situation with the Lannister Kingsguard—that it was just a bit of slight over-familiarity and desire for reaction that she had well in hand.

Because being felt up by Jaime Fucking Lannister in the library at midnight while he thrust his hard cock against her was not an example of a well-in-hand situation. It was a very very out of hand one.

Had she lost her fucking mind?

By the gods, she'd actually headily begged for him to touch her, to—

To what? To take her maidenhead? To take her, right there in the library where anyone in the court could walk in at any moment? Like that wouldn't completely ruin her. Like she wouldn't be passed over by every potential suitor in the Seven Kingdoms; like it wouldn't completely shame her family; like it wouldn't destroy her future, maybe even Sansa and Arya's too. She was the eldest—her actions reflected on them all, reflected on her parents and the honour of the Stark House.

Icy cold realisation at what she'd let herself get caught up in, what she'd been willing to go along with, slammed into her, sobering her and effectively dispersing the lingering arousal.

It was like being slapped in the face.

Because her brother, father, friend had been right to be worried. She had allowed him too much, and this was what it generated in her. She had gotten caught up in the complex tangle of sensations and feelings he stoked in her, creating too much space for her body and her wants to become confused. To the point she'd had to remind herself—not for the first time either—that this wasn't her future. This would only doom her future.

Because Jaime Lannister wasn't courting her. Jaime Lannister wasn't interested in marrying her. He had shown no attentiveness, given no indication that this was even within the realm of something he wanted. And even if it was, it still meant nothing and changed nothing because it would mean he would have to find a way to be released from his Kingsguard vows—something she had rarely, if ever, heard of happening. Which could only mean he'd have to break his vows to be with her and that wouldn't ever happen either. Even before his sad, horrible story, she'd known it. He acted like the court's gossip and disdain from those whispering Kingslayer meant nothing to him—but she saw through it, perhaps had always seen through it. But now she saw that secret he kept, that silent burden he carried knowing that he was criticized for saving the whole of Kingslanding the day he broke his vows and condemned himself.

All her life, her father had made her believe that having honour meant doing the right thing even when it was very hard. But by her father's reasoning, Jaime acting with honour had meant ignoring rape and pleas for help and allowing her grandfather and uncle to burn, while acting without honour saved thousands of lives at a cost to him that he would never recoup, that his social standing would never recoup. It confused her because how did that make sense? And why had he tortured himself with keeping it a secret?

But then, she realised, that even if he had told everyone why he'd killed the mad king, even if he had screamed it from the top of the castle—and was believed—it still wouldn't have mattered. Because men like her father placed value on honour above all else, and Jaime still broke his vows that day. They would take that to mean his word meant nothing anyway. There hadn't been any point to telling the truth of it.

Jaime Lannister had been more noble than anyone knew, and wasn't that just inconceivably unjust?

She had felt his anger at that fact too, felt it in his words, his practiced attempts to prove to her how much he lacked honour, the warring conflict in his eyes. He poured it into his smirks, his taunts, his refusal to take anything seriously. He wrapped it around his violence, his provocations, his expressions that spelled out how much he thought the King, the court, the political niceties and societal values, were all just one big joke. He built it all up around him like a wall, like armour, like his defense—a response to those who ruled the kingdoms, who ended the war, and drew breath because of him yet still cast judgement.

She slowly shook her head as a new burgeoning thought sunk into her mind. He had been vulnerable with her in that moment; telling her important things while pretending that they weren't, and when she thought about it now; his harsh words, his push-and-pull provocation, his poorly-veiled anger at her lack of "safety", had very successfully taken her in. Hadn't he told her repeatedly how he wasn't a good, chivalrous knight? But she had somehow convinced herself it was just some kind of false bravado masking something more and genuine. Perhaps that was a part of her delusion of having the situation well-handled; thinking that she saw him, that there was more to it, to him and this game they played. Had it all been imagined in her own mind? Or had she actually just fallen for his clever pretending; carefully laid deception on deception; and he was exactly like the men her mother warned her of? Had she misread him—this—so astoundingly?

She had never kissed a man, let alone touched one in any kind of intimate way, and yet she had let him do that, knowing he didn't love her, wasn't courting her, wouldn't marry her?Had let himtouch her body and suck her moans into his mouth and press himself against her...to prove a point and convince her of her delusion?

What the fuck was wrong with her?

And that one action—that one thoughtless action—in that one moment had the potential to taint her forever. Just like his had. And that made her feel sick because she wasn't a victim in this—he didn't force himself on her, take advantage of her, trick her with bold declarations of love and marriage. She wished she could claim possession by some dark spirit, or temporary loss of sanity, but it would be a lie she wouldn't even be able to convince herself of. He'd given her an opportunity to make him stop—she'd felt him slow, felt him tense himself in preparation for a verbal and maybe even physical attack from her. And she was going to, her fingers finding the rough material of his basic tunic, ready to hit him back hard and scream. So why in the seven hells did she pull him in? Why did she kiss him back like she was the drowning one; why did she let him trail his hot hands over her body, setting her on fire with that heady, throbbing kind of ache? How did she get so wrapped up in him that she lost all fucking sense?

Gods, she was just a stupid, naïve girl, and he was an arrogant, selfish asshole who had likely played her like an instrument. But what was so much worse was the realisation that maybe she really was exactly like all those stupid, foolish girls who let themselves be taken in by men making those whispered promises of love and marriage while secretly plotting for nothing more than lusty encounters...and Jaime hadn't even made her those promises! She had thought herself wiser to the world than that, more discerning, cleverer...but apparently not. Even when Joyeuse warned her of where their actions could lead them, even when her father instructed her away from him, she was so sure she had it handled, so sure it was fine—too pulled in by him and his stare and his words, to hear any of it.

It made her lightheaded, the panic gripping her heart in a vice; gods what if someone had found them? What if he hadn't heard those guards and instead they'd heard her heavy pants, his low groaning, and come to investigate? What would she have done then? She would never be able to show her face anywhere for fear of judgement and gossip. If she thought the taste of rumours she'd had the past few weeks were bad, what would it be like for the entire seven kingdoms to know her humiliation? To know what she let a man do to her in the dark, out of marriage; to know how easy she was.

He had made her so mindless.

And that made her furious, fueled by mortification and panic and shame.

She had never been the bold child, the wild, stubborn, headstrong one. She had always been the good daughter, who did as she was told, cared for her siblings and waited to be told what came next. She was kind, and gentle and proper; she tried to be cautious and thoughtful even when it became contrary to her slips of honesty. She never caused her parents' strife, never acted out or misbehaved.

So it frightened her, how quickly she had been caught up in the pull of his eyes, his lips. How readily she had let him trail his hands all over her body, little more than a nightdress and gown separating them. How easily she let her body take control of her actions, pushing her to reach for something she didn't really understand. She couldn't trust herself—couldn't trust him.

She might've been angry with herself—more embarrassed and ashamed, really—but she was furious with him. He had taken far too many liberties. He had put them in that predicament. He had crowded her space and said those things to her. He had touched her and kissed her like she was his very air. He had pressed his hard length into her heat and rubbed up against her. He gave no thought to the impact on her, only took what he wanted without care or worry, filled with his own entitlement.

She couldn't be here anymore, around him. At best, she craved his touch, at worst she had been easily seduced. It made her second guess all the other encounters she'd had with members of the court where she'd thought she'd navigated the political complexities, because maybe she hadn't. Maybe she had just been expertly manipulated and maneuvered as they had wanted. She needed to get away—away from the Capitol and the queen and him. Away from the scheming that she'd been too naïve to tread more carefully around, to better guard herself against.

Her best course of action would be to go home.

.

.

.

She hadn't been able to sleep for the rest of the night—well, early hours of the morning—and when she was sick of tossing and turning in her bed, she'd decided to go in search of her father. After a glance in the mirror had shown the discoloured skin low on her neck from where he'd kissed and licked and bit at her, she'd changed into a high-necked dress from home and braided her hair over her shoulder to cover it. She didn't even want to think about how her father—how anyone—would react to finding the telltale marks of their actions.

She found her father in his study hall, sitting behind a desk and bent over a large dusty tome. There were many candles lit around to lend light to keep reading at the still darkened hour, the window behind him only faintly lit up with the beginnings of the rising sun. The flickering of the candle flames seemed to deepen the lines on his face, making him look older, aged. He seemed to rarely sleep these days. She just watched him for a moment. She hadn't noticed how much being here had seemed to affect him—how tired he looked, how grim.

He turned a page and she heard Lord Baelish's words from the other day repeat in her mind. She hadn't even thought to tell him what he'd said to her, too preoccupied with herself to even consider that maybe there was a warning in his words she should pass along. "What are you reading, father?"

She watched him sigh and push back from the book, rubbing his face and trying to give her a relaxed smile that failed at his eyes. "Nothing of importance, my sweet."

She pointedly eyed him and the room and the melted candles, as if to say Lord Eddard Stark didn't pour over books for entire nights without sleep because they were unimportant. He had always tried to shield his children from the burdens he carried, the weight of the seven kingdoms he placed on his own shoulders. Sybel pursed her lips, the action filled with displeasure directed at herself, because she had grown so used to being protected that she had mistakenly assumed she always would be. She had walked along beside all those playing the political game of the court, thinking herself safely immune despite recognising the danger in it. "Why would a book about nothing bother the Queen then?"

He looked at her blankly for a minute and then blinked in confusion. "Why would you say that, Sybel?"

"Lord Baelish told me. He said you were reading a book about bloodlines and that it angered the Queen." The lines around his eyes only darkened, and his face showed worry immediately. She added, knowing it would serve her cause to leave Kingslanding, "But it would seem you're not the only Stark to have upset the Queen—Lord Renly pointed out that she had spies following me around the Red Keep."

She could practically see his mind whirring and piecing these puzzle bits together despite the haggard tiredness in his face. She could see the deep lines of worry, the sudden intensity of urgency, as he pinned her with a stare that didn't let up. "I know you like to see the good in people, Sybel, but I worry you don't understand the dangerousness of our position here."

Before last tonight, Sybel probably would have argued with him. Claimed she understood, knew what she was doing, that there were people who could be trusted here. She was so foolish.

"Father, I—" Sybel started, though unsure of what she could say to let him know that she better understood now how much she had been gambling with her future.

She needn't have worried though, because he cut her off, banging his hand against the large book in front of him enough to make her jump at the unexpectedness of it. He looked like he was desperate for her to hear him. "I know you're having fun here but there is something going on that I fear you will be pulled into." He looked at her seriously then, like he was expecting a fight from her and so leaving no room for it. "You either need to marry or return to Winterfell. I know you are fond of Lord Caron and he resides in Nightsong, which is at least some distance from here, but I would prefer a better alliance for you, or one where your future husband's home is much further from here. A northern lord would really be best, maybe the Karstarks, Lord Rickard has three sons..."

He trailed off, almost like he was thinking to himself out loud instead of talking to her, but it gave her a minute to fight to keep the surprise off her face. He was handing her an exit from this place and she was grateful. Though, she didn't want to think about marriage, all she wanted was to go home. "Father, I think perhaps you are right, and I should return home."

He did not fight to keep the surprise off his face. "I... didn't think you would accept that so easily."

Sybel shrugged, playing at nonchalance and trying not to blush as she thought about her real reason for running away. "I miss mother and my brothers and Inferno, so I will go home. I don't want to marry one of these Southern lords, at least not one who spends so much time at court."

He was clearly so pleased with her answer that he didn't dare question it in case she changed her mind. His eyes were shrewd though, seeming to puzzle over what could have happened to make her change her mind. "I will send your sisters with you, I think. It would be best for them to return home too."

"I actually have a favour to ask, father," she added, remembering then about Joyeuse. She just wanted to go home—she would go now, if she could—but she also wanted to be a friend. Joye had been kind to her, had trusted her, and it was perhaps the first time Sybel felt connected to another lady that wasn't one of her sisters. "My friend, Joyeuse, is marrying Walder Frey and has asked if I will travel with her to attend the wedding. Please, may I? You could send any of the household guard you like—it would be the same as returning home, only with an extra stop along the way."

He did not look pleased at her attempt at bargaining, and he did not look pleased at the idea of her attending that wedding. "Sybel, Walder Frey is not an honourable man, I would sooner keep you in the Capitol than send you to him."

"Please," Sybel said again. "Joyeuse is the only friend I have made here. She leaves tomorrow, and I could be ready to go with her."

He couldn't hide that the idea of a quick departure from the Capitol was what he wanted. He hummed in thought for a long while, deliberating, before finally saying. "Alright Sybel, but Jory and ten of the household guard will go with you. And I will send Sansa and Arya in a couple days' time too, with another ten, so that you might meet on the road and travel the rest of the distance together."

Sybel agreed. The fact that he was sending Jory with her, instead of keeping the Capitan of their guard with him as he should, spoke volume of his worry about her attending the wedding by herself. She had never met Walder Frey—something she was glad for, given all she had heard of the old lecherous lord. But all the more reason to support her friend.

And then he added, as though they were bargaining, not realising that Sybel would agree to anything that would get her out of the Capitol as quickly as she could. "And you will marry a northern lord. I will write to Lord Karstark about his eldest son, Harrion. The Karstark's would be a good match."

Sybel nodded, feeling numb. A northern lord, far away from the Capitol, far away from Jaime, would really be best. It would not be so bad, she tried convincing herself, to be the Lady of the Sun of Winter. She didn't bother taking stock of whether she believed it or not—it didn't really matter either way.

Her father turned back to his tome, more morning light entering the room now that he would not have to strain his eyes so much to read it. Sybel collected a book from the piles scattered around, not bothered with what it was about, and sat in the soft chair on the other side of the room. She wouldn't be able to sleep, and she didn't want to be left alone with her thoughts, her memories, anyway.

.

.

.

She had stayed in the study hall with her father until the King came bursting in, demanding a hunt be organised for a couple of days' time and sending her from the room so they could talk.

Jory, who had announced the King's arrival, followed her out of the room when her father dismissed him. He gave her a smile as he stood to the side of the closed door, a Kingsguard waiting on the other side. With a start, she realised that it was Jaime, and she had the momentary, irrational fear that he was here to tell her father about them, before reminding herself he was just here to guard the king.

She hadn't expected to see him so soon, wasn't prepared for the flashes of memory as she thought about her fingers wrapped in those golden strands, the tall, wide strength of his body pressed so close to hers that there was no space left. Her face flamed red with anger and shame, and he just stared straight ahead, not looking at her, not giving any indication he even realised she was there. Except maybe for his white knuckles tightly gripping his sword and helmet. He looked like he might strain something in his pursuit to not look at her.

She gritted her teeth and felt another flush of anger. She didn't know what she expected from him—hadn't even had time to think about it—but it made her angry to see him trying his best to ignore her, even though it was probably for the best. He had kissed her. He had pushed her up against the shelves. He had been the one with a hard cock rutting against her like an animal. Didn't that say something about his own wants too? And now he had the audacity to pretend she didn't exist?

Maybe she should be thankful—pretending she didn't exist, pretending nothing had happened, was surely better than him telling the world. And she made the decision to avoid him for the rest of her life, hoping it might even help her forget what happened in the library. At the very least, it might make it easier to accept her future marriage. Pretending he didn't exist would really be the best thing for her. And if that was what he wanted, who was she to argue the point?

But then why did it make her so angry?

So she turned to Jory, who was also ignoring the presence of the Kingsguard beside them, and made easy conversation, trying not to think about how it might've been rather pointed of her and designed to irritate him, given all he had said and implied about Jory.

She wanted to show him how unaffected by him she was. How his actions and her behaviours had been a mere moment in time, never to be repeated, meaning nothing. "We'll be leaving the Capitol tomorrow, with Joye, to attend her wedding before continuing home to Winterfell. Father has said you will accompany me with a few other men too."

Jory nodded with ease, an almost home-sick smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "It will be good to return home."

Sybel smiled genuinely, before tensing, practically hearing Jaime refrain from rolling his eyes. As though without permission from her brain, she added, "My father is planning to marry me to the eldest Karstark son, which seems fitting for our House, don't you think?"

Jory looked surprised, though she wasn't sure if it was at the news or the fact that she was freely telling him this. Sybel was working hard to concentrate on him but couldn't stop herself from noticing the tension radiating off Jaime's Lannister's highly alert body. She had to stop herself from smiling, feeling vindicated in some small way that she'd got a reaction from him—any reaction would do—to confirm he was just as acutely aware of her as she was of him, no matter what he pretended.

Those involuntary movements, the despite-himself actions were what confused her most though, because they seemed so real, seemed to irritate him so genuinely while he tried to pretend they didn't, instead of... pretending to pretend. And if he hadn't been playing her, what did that say about those desperate, heated minutes?

Say my name.

She had to fight the reflexive urge to clench her thighs together. He'd wanted to hear her moaning his name. Her face went red with the memories again, the same sensations of arousal flooding her body against her wishes, as she stood there in front of her audience of these two men, hoping the mark that one of them had left on her neck was still hidden.

She was so confused and she didn't trust any of the conclusions she could draw, didn't trust she wasn't just being manipulated. And that angered her too, that he had so completely made her question herself.

Jory's voice cut into her musings, "They are an honourable and loyal house."

Her eyes did snap to Jaime then, just for a moment, at the mention of honourable.

She wanted to parade it in front of him, though she wasn't really too sure what she was parading. That he wouldn't be the one to take her virginity? That his own desire was irrelevant to her, replaceable with a northern lord? That he meant nothing to her, that his story about honour and noble choices didn't sit in her chest, heavy and unfair? "Yes, they are."

Jaime scoffed. It was less mocking and more angry.

They ignored him, though Jory first sent him a look. Jory looked back at her then, looking uncomfortable but appraising. "You will make a beautiful bride, m'lady. Lord Harrion will be a lucky lord to marry you."

At any other time, she might've gotten stuck on Jory complimenting her like that. But right then, it barely registered. All that did was the opportunity—Jaime was already irate, but she wanted to piss him off more.

So she touched Jory's arm lightly in affection, smiling at him. "That's very kind of you, Jory."

Arya came running down the stairs, pausing at their presence before launching herself to the Kingsguard and effectively intervening, whatever possible reaction Jaime might've had ending before it started.

Apparently, Arya had many questions for the Kingsguard—what was it like to be a Kingsguard, how long had he been training for, what was it like to fight in a war? Arya likely had a never-ending list of questions for knights and Kingsguards and guardsmen alike, her morbid fascination with everything to do with blood and war and combat practically shining in her eyes. She could hear the Lannister give her short, clipped answers, his voice curt, and she wondered if maybe he was annoyed because he was trying so very hard to listen to what she was talking to Jory about.

Sybel turned from Jory, looking at her sister and preparing to send her on her way, but the words died in her throat when she saw Arya balancing on her toes right at the edge of the stone steps only a short distance from them. She was swarmed with visions of her little sister's body falling down the unyielding stone, all angles and sharp edges, and shuddering thuds, and she felt a strong urgency of panic rise up her throat and surge through her body. She jerked forward, grabbing Arya's small arm without thinking, pulling her away from the edge roughly, turning her so Sybel could see her face. "What do you think you are doing?"

Arya's slim face scrunched up in a frown, trying to tug her arm free of Sybel's' grip unsuccessfully. Sybel felt the thundering of her own heart pulsing in her ears, barely able to hear let alone concentrate on Arya's words in that moment. "Balancing! Syrio—"

Sybel felt a terrifying mix of fear and helplessness and guilt that appeared so quickly she was caught off guard, pounding through her body like it was blood, and making her feel like she needed to run and hide. It had a vice grip on her throat, her eyes prickling with heat. "What if you were to fall?"

Her voice shook over the last word and she realised then she wasn't picturing Arya's little body falling and breaking, but Bran's. She saw his lifelessness, his cold stillness where usually there was sweet playfulness; her world feeling like it was shaking, shattering, upending on itself because it was Bran; lively little Bran, and how could she have let this happen, how could she be so careless?

On the realisation, she let Arya go, her hands feeling sweaty, and taking deep, calming breaths. She heard Jory's voice behind her, asking her what was wrong, reminding her of the present moment. Arya watched her with big grey eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

Sybel needed a moment before she could answer. She gave Jory her best I'm-fine wave when he touched her arm this time, coming up beside her. The simple touch helped to ground her and the rushing in her ears quieted.

"I thought you were going to fall, Arya." Sybel took another slow breath into her belly and felt her body settle, though she felt exhausted like she'd run a race but thrumming with energy at the same time. "You scared me."

Arya frowned again, looking at the steps and how they were spaced apart; if she were to fall, she wouldn't fall far before coming to a flat part—the stairs were designed so people wouldn't fall and break their necks in the Tower of the Hand. "It's not that many steps."

Sybel gave her a sheepish smile. "I know."

"I'm not afraid to fall," she added, lip stubbornly stuck out in a pout.

"I would be surprised if there was something that you are actually afraid of," Sybel laughed, tucking her hair behind her ears and wiping away at the wetness she found on her face. "I overreacted, I'm sorry."

Arya pursed her mouth like she was thinking it over, before nodding like she accepted Sybel's apology, and moving on. "Syrio says that good water dancers can balance on one foot for hours and hours and hours!"

"Come on," Sybel said encouragingly, taking one last deep breath and more gently taking Arya's arm this time. "Why don't you tell me more about what Syrio says while you have some breakfast?"

Arya agreed easily, already chattering about Syrio Forel and her water dancing lessons.

Sybel glanced behind her to find Jory resuming his relaxed stance, knowing her crisis was averted. Jaime, who had been determined not to look at her, was following her movements with a close, discerning gaze that darted away when she tried to meet it, his jaw clenched so tight she thought he might break his teeth. He looked stiff, uncomfortable, awkward; things she hadn't seen of him moments ago, or ever really. But he wore them like they sunk deep and held every part of him, even his breath, and Sybel realised he looked like he was saturated in... guilt?

Sybel frowned but tried to refocus on Arya when her younger sister's enthusiasm and excitement about her water dancing lessons only increased. Eventually, Sybel became suspicious because the Arya she knew would never have agreed to dance lessons let alone smiled at the thought of them. When Sybel voiced her confusion, Arya only shrugged before telling her about catching cats, and Sybel let it go, not needing to know every single one of Arya's secrets.

She replayed Jaime's reaction in her mind though, puzzled, before telling herself to drop it. That was how she'd gotten into this mess to begin with; by being curious about him, by wondering.

A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out. It's not my best work, I kept getting stuck.