THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED ON JULY 14 2016
Chapter 3: The Wedding Part 2
A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown and covered with hair!
Oh, come, they said, oh come to the fair!
The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!
All black, and brown, and covered with hair!
Bards didn't stay long in Winterfell, most finding it too cold and others moving on for better prospects in the south.
But for their wedding, seven had come to Winterfell on their own, and another six came with her family's party, looking for gold and looking for purchase. It was a rare treat that singers came, and when they did, Sylvia listened happily to the songs they sang from the faraway places they'd been. It reminded her of the Capitol, where the court had never lacked for any singers or fools, and it was nice to have some new entertainment in the castle.
These bards did not croon any tales of valiant and heroic deeds or funny little incidents between lords and ladies. No, tonight, all the songs were love songs, sung soft and sweet, because it was Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's wedding day, a long anticipated union between the two prestigious houses, one that called for nothing less than all the extravagance the north could ever offer, paid for by her family, as was the custom.
The godswood was such a sight. Lanterns were hung up in the trees, an old custom of the northerners to ward off evil spirits a thousand years old from the Long Night. The Great Hall was decorated with evergreen branches and blue winter roses, bringing a bit of colour to the dreary castle. The cooks had prepared a fine meal of boar stuffed with roasted onions and garlic, venison stewed in buttered carrots, beets, celery, and wine, roasted chicken with garlic and mushrooms, and roasted wild turkey, steaming in hot juices. The long tables were covered with mashed turnips, pigeon pies, pumpkin soups, roasted vegetables and countless cups of wine and ale and mead—enough to feed every lord and their men who had come to Winterfell to celebrate.
As the cooks slaved away in the kitchens, Sylvia got ready with the assistance of her mother, Lady Catelyn, Sansa and (to a lesser extent) Arya. Today, Sylvia was happy. She was about to be married to a good, kind-hearted man who she believed in and adored, and even though the north wouldn't have been her first choice – if she had one – she couldn't imagine herself anywhere else. But instead of Myrcella helping her get ready, instead of her own sister asking for details of the wedding night in the morning, she only had Robb's sisters. They were her friends, but they were not her blood, she hadn't known them as long as her golden haired little sister. She didn't know Tommen, but he was still her brother. She wished they were both here with her. Not Joffrey though. Joffrey could bugger himself with a mace.
The elder of the Stark sisters was all aflutter around the queen, gentle compliments coming from her to be received with kind warmth from Cersei that no one realised was feigned. The younger girl was polite, but did not speak more than she had to knowing if she opened her mouth, she would disrespect the queen and mother would not be pleased.
Sylvia looked down at herself, at her dress. It was ivory lace with pearls and silk, a red gem gleaming beautifully at the center of the neckline. It was the perfect dress...for a southern girl. She was a southern girl, born and raised in the Capitol, a princess; but she was a northern bride, marrying a northman. Shouldn't she wear something more...appropriate? She and Catelyn had overseen the making of her dress, simple, warm and elegant; she had thought it was perfect. It had had cotton underskirts, and a silk overdress, embroidered with light blue and dark green flowers on the bust and sleeves. She would have worn a dark blue under bust and the neckline had plunged deep to the tops of her breasts and the clips which would hold her maiden's cloak were to be silver stag's antlers. Simple, but the north was a simple, untwisted place so it fit.
But the moment her mother arrived and she set eyes on the northern style gown her daughter would wear on her wedding day, she presented another dress entirely. "You're a princess," she had said, laying the delicate gown on her bed. "Everyone expects nothing but the best of you. You don't want to marry your Stark boy looking plain and common, do you? A princess must always look her finest, and this dress is far finer on you than the other."
It was such a beautiful dress: ivory silk with a flowery brocade. It closed in the front like her dressing gown, tied with a long red satin ribbon. The collar was stitched with a delicate design of Dornish lace and the sleeves were slit open from the wrist to the curve of her shoulder, exposing her arm to the cold air. Mother had had it made for her, it was a gift...and it would probably be years and years before she ever wore anything so elaborate again. It would make mother happy to see her wear it. So Sylvia put her northern dress aside, and donned the silk and lace gown Cersei had brought her. She felt cold standing in it.
"Do I look like a bride?" she asked, looking at Cersei in the mirror. It was the prettiest, most elaborate thing she'd worn since leaving King's Landing; the northerners would call it impractical, maybe even provocative, but Robb would think it beautiful on her.
Her mother smiled at her and nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her gown. She was beautiful, Sylvia thought, dressed in a light blue silk dress with golden thread designing a beautiful pattern onto the fabric, a heavy fox fur pelt draped around her shoulders to shield the queen from the cold.
Cersei regarded her daughter carefully. She had kept true to her promise, she came to see her wed, something she now regretted. It hurt to see her child again, only to give her away to a boy she barely knew. What good was it to get reattached to her if Cersei couldn't take her back? She had wanted to remain in King's Landing, not wanting to leave her children and refusing to bring them north, but people would talk if she wasn't in attendance to her eldest child's wedding, and Sylvia would be hurt as well.
The last time she saw Sylvia, she had been eleven, small and frightened, holding back tears as she said goodbye. Now, she was fifteen, a woman, a bride blushing in her wedding dress, all smiles and happiness at the new journey she was about to begin. This girl was more a stranger.
Cersei used to have a daughter with black hair, a child that talked at nothing and sang songs she made up, and ran away from her septa and knight whenever she could, caring nothing of the fear she'd sparked in her absence...but she had grown up without her, and now Cersei didn't know if she had a black haired daughter anymore. Could this black haired girl, this stranger daughter of hers, be the Stark's creature? Could she pose a threat to her and her golden lion cubs? Would she one day have to choose between her black haired daughter, and her golden haired children? The queen banished the thought from mind. Even though her daughter would belong to the Stark's, Sylvia would never betray her.
The queen watched carefully as Sylvia fussed over every little wrinkle in her gown. At first she hadn't been very enthusiastic about the gown, but that quickly changed. She knew her mother was right.
For a moment, just a brief instant, the lioness remembered the day she had been in Sylvia's place: eager, half in love with an idea, hopeful...foolish, young, and stupid. The tender spot in her heart for her eldest ached a little, proving that even through the distance of time and the unfamiliarity of years spent apart, the love was still there. With it came the worry for her child's wellbeing. The queen wished she could tell her daughter that whatever she felt for the Stark boy wasn't love—that she didn't even know what it was, what it meant to love someone—she wanted to tell Sylvia to guard herself from the disappointment this boy would bring her, not just in the bedroom, but outside it. But she held her tongue. Maybe Sylvia wasn't hers to protect anymore.
From behind Cersei, Sansa smiled sweetly and nodded. "You look beautiful." Sylvia's grin (which had not come off since she opened her eyes that morning) widened into a smile as she pulled at the layers of skirts under her dress, enjoying them fluttering around her legs.
"You look beautiful, Sylvia dear." Lady Catelyn complimented, coming forward to brush rest her hands on her good-daughter's shoulders. "Robb will have trouble staying up when he sees you. He's already so nervous, poor boy." Catelyn grinned. She was so very happy for her son; not only was her marrying one of the most sought after girls in the kingdoms, he actually loved her as well. Many were not so fortunate to have two such sought after attributes in their matches. Would that she could make sure all her children had such opportunity.
Sylvia giggled. "I hope I can stay up – I hope I can speak – I'm so nervous." She wrung the crimson sash around her waist anxiously.
"You shouldn't be," Cersei interjected before Catelyn could reply. "Simple words with simple meaning is all you'll have to say. Quite uncomplicated really." Catelyn turned back to Sylvia and gave a warm smile, a little forced after the queen's words.
A while later, after her mother had left to do whatever she did and Lady Catelyn had gone to see over final wedding details, Sansa sat complaisantly as a maid twisted and twirled her hair into perfection. Arya fidgeted boredly by the fire, minding her mother's warnings not to dirty her dress, as Sylvia slowly twirled a winter rosebud between her fingers, frowning down at the little thing in thought.
As the maid began to bind the ends of the braids in Sansa's hair, the auburn haired girl asked, "Are you nervous...about...about the bedding?"
Sylvia halted her movements and turned to the blushing twelve year old. It was not a question she had expected, especially from Sansa, the girlish, well-bred little lady.
"No," she answered right away, running the soft, unopened petals of the rose against her cheek. "Well...maybe a little." Sylvia admitted. Many years later, it would not be the glamour of the wedding feast nor the ceremony or even the dress she wore that she would remember most, they would be small things compared to the first time she and Robb shared a bed.
Secretly, many times she had thought of it, wondered what it would be like, feeling delightfully wicked to think things that ladies supposedly never thought. When she flowered, sour septa Maesa warned her it would hurt, but what did she know? She was a septa, she had never been with a man. But Sylvia would. The idea made her feel very grown. She already liked kissing Robb, liked it when he touched and kissed her breasts and nipped at her neck, she liked having him close, and the bedding would be just as good...probably even better. Her ears were not so innocent that she didn't know what a tumbling sounded like. Theon and his women were usually quite loud.
A smile graced her lips; she stood up from the chair and skipped over to Sansa, giddy as a little girl. She grabbed the startled twelve year olds hands in hers, pulling her from the maid before she could slip the decorative comb into Sansa's auburn locks.
"But tonight, dear Sansa," Sylvia pulled her new good sister up from the chair and began to dance, moving her feet merrily underneath her skirts, twirling the surprised child slowly as she spoke, voiced dripping with happiness sweet as honey. "Tonight I will no longer be a girl. I'll be a woman, a true honest woman, and enjoy all the things that that entitles." They twirled once again, this time together, laughter in Sylvia's voice. "Drink as much wine as I want at feasts; sleep next to Robb without anyone whispering about us; I'll even be able to go off alone with him without that old crone or Fredrik to accompany us. I'll be a wife, and wives are allowed to be with their husbands."
Laughter bubbled inside the two girls and they began to giggle, Arya turned around and watched from her chair with a gleeful smile.
Robert Baratheon hated ceremony, let any god, man, woman or child be witness to that. He hated the pomp; he hated the formality, and especially hated all the high born shits suckering up to him, trying to get at his honey pot. He hated anything that had nothing to do with the true pleasures of life. But here he was, in the north for some over elaborate ceremony for his eldest daughter and Ned's boy. Why couldn't they just go before a septon, and be done with it?
But for once, Robert kept what was on his mind, off of his tongue. If only for the sake of his daughter. He didn't understand the need to be careful with her, he never felt like this with the other three, even Myrcella. He didn't mind much when they came to visit him, but words were few between him and his children, few and meaningless.
They held no interest for him, they were Cersei's, in look and in character. Robert had no hand in raising them, so everything they were, was because of that blonde pest Jon Arryn saw fit to curse him with. Sylvia looked like him, black haired, blue eyed, sweet and gentle natured, but she was stubborn and determined. In infant years of his marriage to that blonde pest, there had been no comparison to how he felt looking at his two, legitimate children, a boy and girl. Robert had no foolish idea that he could ever forget about Lyanna, but those two children had made him feel something he hadn't felt in so long: hope.
A man has his bastards, but he knows they can never amount to what he wants them to be, so eventually he leaves them. Then he has his true-borns, the ones he can place all his hopes and pride onto. Then over in just a week, half his true-borns were gone, the boy no less. That loss took almost as much of him as the loss of Lyanna. Every hope he had for his successor died that night with Steffon and Robert could never find it in him to care for another child of his, not out of carefully heeded fear that he would one day be hurt once more, mind you, but rather all the affection, joy and fatherly love had been drained from the king, left only in small fragments which sometimes swelled into hallow pits when he drank his wine.
Sylvia vaguely reminded him of what it was to be happy, because once upon a time, she had brought him so much joy. He stood by her now as she fidgeted with her dress, about to give her to the north. How time had passed so quickly. He remembered when she was just a pudgy little thing still finding her feet.
Robert liked to eat and drink and whore, he didn't much like fathering or have much affection for them, but that didn't mean he cared nothing for his children...well, except for Joffrey. That boy wasn't...right.
Sylvia the eldest was getting married to a Stark at fifteen. She was going to have children of her own soon enough.
He remembered the time, she had been too little to remember—barely more than three years old—she had toddled around his apartments, getting into everything. Upon his orders, Cersei brought the girl to his chambers with her septa so that he may see her. His first thought at seeing his girl walking beside her septa was "when did she find her feet?" And when she saw his hammer— the same one he had used to crush Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate in— he picked it up and held it high in the air for her to marvel at and set it down on the floor. She tried to damndest to pick up the bloody thing herself, but it never moved. When her feet began to slide on the stone floor, he took pity on her and nudged the thing with his foot, making her stumble back harmlessly on her bottom. She looked so surprised, so giddy. He could never forget her babyish scream of delight, clapping as though she had just conquered the world.
The king looked at his daughter, watching as she twisted the red sash around her waist anxiously. Yes, time had changed.
"Lady Stark says it's time, your Grace, my lady." Vayon Poole reported to them. Sylvia released a shuttering breath and linked arms with her father, both feeling a little awkward at the unfamiliar contact. Gods she felt tiny next to him.
Robert said nothing, and only patted her hand. That meant more to her than any false assurance even though she could smell the wine on him. Sylvia held her tongue—her father was a seasoned warrior so her fears of shaming herself in front of every lord in the north would make him laugh. The king turned and watched as his child fidgeted and squirmed nervously. She brushed her hair back and pulled the edges of her maiden's cloak around her further, the hair on her arms standing straight. Robert shook his head. Why had Cersei made her wear that bloody scrap of clothing? Girl must be half frozen.
"Father?"
"Hm?"
"Do I look...adequate?" she asked timidly. Robert looked down at his daughter, briefly taking in her fine features, her black hair, and extravagant gown. Gods if he knew what women considered adequate! She looked good in his opinion, cold and fidgety, but she didn't look ugly.
"You look pretty, girl. Now let's get this done." With that, the two began to walk out from the trees which hid her from her intended's view, and into the dry open grassy clearing before the weirwood tree.
Tradition said the father was supposed to escort his daughter down the stairs of the sept, give her to her husband-to-be and let the septon do his work. Weddings in the north were no different in that respect, but they would not swear before some oily "godly" man as in the south, instead they would swear before the weirwood tree in Winterfell. The north kept to the old gods, and their gods lived in the forest, the ground, the rocks, the water, the air and animals. So natural and peaceful a faith never called for over extravagance or riches or some big temple. The Old Way of the north only saw fit that the boy and his bride make promises of eternal love and devotion before the heart-tree.
Sylvia's legs trembled beneath the too-thin layers of her skirt. Gathered about the godswood was every lord and noble family, who had come to Winterfell, all scattered about. Her mother, uncles and the Stark children with their mother (and even Jon Snow) stood closest to the heart-tree, before the black-watered hot spring.
Her heartbeat fast in her chest, and only beat harder when she saw Robb standing there waiting for her on the other side of the pond. He looked so handsome, his hair was cut and combed and he was shaved, which made him actually look sixteen. But what really made her heart jump for joy was how happy he looked. He was smiling, joy was clear as water in his beautiful river blue eyes, and he was looking at her like that, no one else. Seeing Robb standing there waiting for her, calmed her some, because no matter what happened tonight, no matter what silly embarrassment she imagined herself getting into that night, none of it would matter in the end. She was going to be his wife, he would be her husband. She would be his, and he would be hers and they would stand by each other no matter what.
Her young heart believed such things would be so easy. They always are when things are sweet.
Her father let go of her at the edge of the pond, going to stand by her mother without so much as a second glance at her. It didn't really bother her as much as she'd thought it would. Lifting her skirts a little she walked around the black pool and joined Robb on the other side, an uncontrollable smile stretched across her face. Immediately he took his larger warm hand in hers and smiled back in earnest.
"Thank you, your highnesses, my lords and ladies, for coming." Lord Eddard began to speak, relaying words of thanks to those who had come to celebrate with them, and thanking the royals for readying such a match between their children. It was northern tradition that the head of the household direct them through the ceremony since the gods could not, until it came time to swear their vows.
The Warden of the North took a roll of cloth from his lady life and walked back around the pond to the couple, still speaking. The bride and groom faced the heart-tree's red, bleeding eyes, as Lord Eddard really began, coming to stand in front of them.
"I, Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North, do see these two hearts bound together in the sight of the Old Gods, and the noble men of the north." Lord Eddard looked to Robb and gave a subtle nod.
Robb unfastened her maiden's cloak, his fingers fumbling a little as he flicked open the clasps, and when he pulled the new cloak in his family's colors around her shoulders. When her new cloak was in place, Robb and Sylvia lifted their still entwined fingers as Lord Eddard unravelled the bit of cloth. "I see them bound together as one, husband and wife, for this day, and all days to come to them." Lord Eddard began to tie their hands together, wrapping and twisting the strip around their hands, and then tying it gently at their wrists. "What the gods bind here together today, let no man tear asunder. Say the words." He ordered.
Lord Eddard stepped back and Robb and Sylvia turned to one another. It was almost like seeing him in an entirely different way. This was going to be the face she awoke to every morning, the one who would father her children, and take comfort from when she needed it. She took in his features, he was no longer smiling but his eyes were still bright and happy. He looked serious, prepared...ready.
What they'd had before was different from this; that had been a child's love for something new and exciting, a rebellious spice to their ever so proper worlds. But this was deeper; it was heavier and more meaningful. They could feel it in the air, in their bound hands and in their hearts. The queen had been wrong. These were not just simple words, not to Sylvia, not to Robb. Not to anyone who intended to be true to their vows.
Together, they spoke the words they practiced in private may times before.
"Before the eyes of my gods, and my kin, I swear my love to you for now and always. I promise to give you children and to be true and faithful to you all my days. I vow to never part from you, and from this moment, until my last, I will love you. With this kiss I pledge my love."
When Robb's lips touched down to hers, a cheer rose up in the godswood, but neither of them heard.
"I don't want to look at him," Sylvia murmured to Robb as her father laughed drunkenly with some fat whore in his lap. "He's gotten even more embarrassing now that he's older." She vaguely remembered his past embarrassments, but none of them hurt so much as they did now. "How could he do this on our wedding day?"
Robb took her hand in his, leaning in close so no one would hear their words. "Because he's drunk, he probably doesn't know what he's doing." He was just as disgusted by her father as she, and had he been another man, Robb would have thrown him out of the Hall himself. But Robert was the king, and even a drunkard king humiliating his daughter at her own wedding couldn't be thrown from the Hall.
Sylvia grimaced helplessly, looking out at the hall where dozens of merry lords and ladies drank and sang and danced. It felt as though all their eyes were on here, whispering about her drunken father and his whores. "Why couldn't he have just given us this one day? Just one."
It bothered Robb a great deal to see the distress on his wife's – gods that word sounded fresh and sweet to him now – face. Would that he could throw her drunken father out of the feast himself, just to see her smile again, but he couldn't. He could only make her forget about it since it was far too early for them to retire. "Syl," he whispered to her. The young bride blinked, and pulled her eyes away from her father, turning to her husband. Her eyes were ashamed, and all he wanted to do was make it go away. "Come and dance with me."
Sylvia was a bit surprised by the sudden question that wasn't really a question, but stood with him anyway, and walked out onto the floor.
Tyrion Lannister drained the last mouthful of wine from his cup, grimacing as the sour swill made its way into his belly. The northerners had piss poor wine, he thought. But it was strong enough to make him feel warm.
The little lord looked across the Hall at the writhing bodies in the crowd, spying his sweet sister and Lord Stark's lady wife at the head of the table on the dais. He noticed his niece and her new husband's disappearance from the center. For a second he wondered if they had sneaked off to consummate their marriage, but looking out on the dance floor, he knew it was not nearly so interesting. His young, onyx haired niece twirled about the floor in her husband's arms, looking much happier than she had since the feast began. It was not difficult to grasp what had her looking so upset; he could hear King Robert's drunken laughter and his vulgar remarks to the woman in his lap as good as any of them.
He could understand the impulse. If he was married to Cersei, he would be into his cups every hour of everyday too and stick his prick into every woman he came across. But not on his daughter's marriage day.
The dwarf poured himself another cup. He was happy for his niece, and wished that just for once, Robert suppressed his instincts for a night, for the daughter he never saw. Sylvia was a sweet girl, none of the malice of her mother in her heart, and she didn't deserve such shame on her wedding day.
Tyrion had been fifteen when Sylvia was born, as old as she was now. He had still been a prisoner at Casterly Rock, refused from touring the Free Cities like his cousins and instead forced to manage the sewers at the Rock. He didn't see his niece until she was three.
When he did meet her, he was dumbstruck to find she was black haired and that Jaime had nothing kind to say about the toddler. She was Robert's and not Jaime's. He would have thought that his sister would have been stupid enough to get rid of any child Robert got on her out of spite, but there was proof saying otherwise, gurgling in his face and trying to chew his fingers. Looking at Cersei's litter now, he could truly say he was relieved. Cersei got lucky with Tommen and Myrcella turning out as they did, and doubted it would ever happen again. Three out of four apples was better than half a rotten bunch.
"Enjoying the festivities, Imp?" A smirking voice chirped to his left. Tyrion turned at the voice, finding Renly Baratheon half stumbling towards him, looking mildly rumpled, from either the dancing or some brief rut with the Knight of the Flowers. Tyrion smirked to hide his ire at the comment.
"I'm enjoying my wine, my lord." He replied, lifting his cup. "I'm afraid my skills on my feet aren't half as good as my skills off them."
Renly laughed as he sat down a short ways away from him, grabbing up a cup of ale. "Oh really? I've heard of your skill and let me tell you it's not something worth boasting about."
"I am worth speaking of, though, it seems," Tyrion smirked. That jab didn't bother him as much as the first. What would Renly know of pleasing a woman? "Tell me, Lord Renly, how many women boast of your skills from here to Dorne?"
The man sobered immediately, scratching the loose laces of his doublet absently. "Plenty." He finally replied, quiet and unsure.
"Many pretty chestnut haired girls from the Reach, I imagine." Renly was quiet after that. Everyone knew Renly preferred the male form to a woman's. Everyone but Robert (although Tyrion was sure he had his suspicions) knew it, but no one dared acknowledged it. Tyrion truly didn't care what Renly liked in bed, but he would use it against the man if needed.
They sat in silence a while, drinking, picking at the remnants of the meal on the table, watching the bride and groom dance with countless lords and ladies. Tyrion wondered why Renly didn't go away and find better company, but when he spoke he realised.
"She truly is beautiful today isn't she?" Renly remarked with pure sincerity as he watched his favorite niece laugh as the Greatjon Umber pushed her around the dance floor. This was the best spot to watch her; everywhere else obscured the view, even from the dais, but here they could Sylvia Stark clearly.
"Yes she is." Tyrion agreed watching her as well. Well, at least they could agree on something.
"You know they still talk about her in the south, not as much but enough to still be heard sometimes." Renly remarked bitterly, taking another gulp of his ale. The ale made his tongue loose, and he confided in Tyrion things he had only ever bothered Loras with.
There was a beat of silence. "Do they still call her as mad as Aerys?" Tyrion had no doubt his niece was perfectly sane, or at least saner than Joffrey. And she'd never hurt anyone with her oddities, her imaginary friends or her stories...but people high and low loved to talk about the flaws of their betters, even when they were small and defenseless. Sylvia apparently had a long established friendship with her invisible playmate when her first met her.
Renly nodded. "She was lonely when she was little, that's all." Tyrion knew Renly favored Sylvia, they were rather close in age and Renly had played with her whenever he could, gave her presents, sweets, dresses, whatever it was she wanted. But getting what you want isn't the same as getting what you need, and Sylvia had needed companions her age-ones which wouldn't laugh at her in secret or go away after a time, and ones that were not the Starks. "It's not her fault no one ever saw fit to give her a real companion."
An idea struck the youngest Lannister. He would send his sweet niece a late wedding present when he returned to the Capitol. But for now, Tyrion took another sip of the too bitter, too strong wine.
"Curious how pompous, vile shits have the ability to speak the loudest." the little lord said. "The north suits her better than the south, anyhow." Sylvia was passed back to her husband, smiling and breathless and happy. "This might be the best thing Robert ever did for her." The two lords cast a look at their king, his big meaty arms wrapped around the wench in his lap.
"Don't let the queen hear you say that." Renly replied, grabbing a chicken leg from behind him.
Sylvia felt drunk by the end of the night, when the little ones had to go to bed, and most ladies had retired. She felt drunk on the wine, the food, the laughter, the dancing, but mostly she felt drunk on Robb. She hardly parted from him the entire night, and only did when some lord or knight pulled her away from him for a dance. He made her forget her drunken father and his fat whore, her worries about the gown she wore, and every other fear she could never put into words. She had never felt so free before.
Lord and Lady Stark's younger children had all gone to bed, but she thought she saw Arya sneaking about an hour after her bedtime. The lord and lady, as well as Jon and Theon remained with them, laughing and drinking without care. The king had retired to some whore's bed, and the queen went to hers, her twin brother following behind only to come back not long after, angry looking and heading straight for the wine. Lord Tyrion and Lord Renly remained, but Ser Loras disappeared a while ago and Ser Fredrik was whispering in some pretty serving wench's ear. That made Sylvia happy. She loved Ser Fredrik and wished for him to be happy...as long as he remained close to her. Along with that familiar lot, thirty other men and women who Sylvia hardly knew, danced and drank and sang in the Great Hall.
"BED THEM!" a man called as she and Robb completed yet another dance. The room suddenly swelled with noise again, as large rough hands pulled her away from her husband to push her into a sea of men. Sylvia looked back and briefly caught a glimpse of a flock of giggling ladies pulling her husband away, pulling at his clothes. From up on the dais, she saw Lord and Lady Stark laughing with the room. The bedding was always something everyone looked forward to at weddings.
Big meaty hands undressed her then, pulling at the finery of her dress, and she hears a tear as they pull at the delicate lace. But she doesn't care nearly as much as she thinks she should.
They spouted out crass comments about her breasts, her arse, hips and her legs; they laugh how lucky Robb is to have someone so young and pretty, and jest that perhaps Sylvia isn't the innocent little doe they think she is. As they striped her bare, Sylvia pretended she was somewhere else, in the glass gardens, or the godswood, or with Robb in their chambers. She flushed as the men touched and pinched at her naked body good-naturedly, pulling her out of the Great Hall and towards Robb's chambers. For a second she wondered what Fredrik would do if he saw them treating her this way.
"Come on, lass," one man grunts once they're there, a few paces away from Robb's chamber door. She was naked as her name-day, only the new ring around her finger spared to her. And she was cold.
"Lord Robb didn't have much to drink, so you're in for a long night, girl." Another said wickedly. A big hand smacked her arse, making her jump forward, a squeak of protest catching in her throat.
"Get on, love. Don't make the poor boy wait any longer. His cock and balls must be bluer than ice." There was a stretch of laughter at that, and then another, when Sylvia turned to go and tried in vain to cover her breasts.
She bit her lip as she stopped at the door, suddenly realizing she would no longer be a maid when she came back out. The thought made her wonderfully excited and a little afraid. Sylvia wanted to please her Robb on their wedding night, but hadn't the slightest idea as to how. All anyone had ever told her is that a lady lies down on her back, and spreads her legs apart, and then the man puts his...thing inside her. It all sounded too impassive, so cold and detached. How could something that sounded like that, bring pleasure? It didn't sound very appealing. But she supposed to men, lovemaking must have some charms to it, because they were all mad about it, seeking it wherever they could find. Sylvia hoped it was alright, hoped it wasn't as unpleasant as her septa and mother made it sound. She hoped she was enough to keep Robb to her bed only, because the thought that he would stray to another's bed hurt her in ways she never knew could hurt.
Sylvia hurt for her mother just then – a deep ache in her chest for the woman who birthed her and a bitter anger at the man who helped conceive her - knowing the fear of this pain must be nowhere close to the real thing.
Suddenly, she heard the man on the other side of the door stir, soft, almost silent footsteps moving across the stone floor through the rushes. Her secondhand hurt and anger was lost for the night, and her own worries returned. It was true she had stole away inside his chambers a few times at night, and those visits hadn't been chaste, but they hadn't gone anywhere near where they were about to go. But she wanted to. She bit back her childish smile as best she could and pushed open the door.
A beat of warmth greeted her, and the gentle glowing light of the fire. She shivered, wishing that they had spared her a shawl or something, but all thought left her when she saw Robb. He stood before the fire, only in his smallclothes, the long muscled line of his back towards her. He turned, halting all her movements, pinning her with the intensity of his eyes.
They stood before each other, waiting with fear for the terrible word of ridicule or the poorly hidden look of distaste, but it would not come. To each other, they looked shy, nervous...their own vulnerability written across their lovers' face. It was a moment before he looked from her face and down her body, his eyes becoming heavy and looking at her in a way he never had before. She looked down at him as well, belly all aquiver with something she almost didn't understand. He wanted her, she could see it clear as day in the bulging outline of his cock pressed against his smallclothes. It wasn't the first time she'd seen that, but somehow it felt as fresh as the first time.
She flushed, a warm, eager feeling coming to life low in her belly. Hurriedly, she shut the door, and flicked the lock closed.
Robb tried not to take in the details of her naked body so she wouldn't be afraid at how badly he wanted and needed her, but the attempt was impossible. Sylvia, his wife, stood there with not a scrap of clothing obscuring his view of her. She was magnificent in the soft glow of the fire, her ample breasts resting low on her chest, a hardened brown nipple tipping each supple teat. Her hips were wide, her thighs were slender, but soft and round, and between them was a dark tuft of curls. He felt his cock harden, pressing uncomfortably against his smallclothes.
Sylvia walked forward, stifling the urge to cover her nakedness, because this was Robb, her husband. There was nothing shameful about it, she told herself, he thinks I'm beautiful. He wants me. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her breasts before. But still, she wished she had her night dress on. It wasn't that Sylvia was afraid, not about the pain, or loosing what was left of her girlhood; but this was new and uncharted, and she knew little of what to expect. No one had ever told her about the feelings that came with the first night, about the excitement or the desire or the twinge of fear clawing at the back of her mind.
Before, the wedding in the early waking hours, when her mother was brushing her hair out after her bath, she had shared her bit of wisdom for the bedding. "I see the way," the queen had said as she pulled the ivory comb though her eldest child's dark locks. "You look at that boy." It was no secret as to who she spoke of.
"Like what, mother?" the princess asked innocently, truly confused.
"Like he's the knight from some silly song and you are his ladylove." The queen spoke crossly, causing her child to tilt her head down and worry her lower lip. Cersei steeled herself. She wasn't being cruel, she was telling her daughter the truth about bedding. "What did I tell you Sylvia?" she asked. Sylvia frowned blankly. Cersei almost sighed in disappointment. Joffrey never forgot a thing she told him. "Not to expect much from him."
"But I don't expect anything from him," pleaded Sylvia, turning around to look up at her mother, her face so soft and innocent, Cersei remembered just how young her child was. Cersei knew it was a lie. Young brides always expected a night of pleasure on their wedding night, only to be sharply disappointed come morning light. Cersei refused to remember when she had been such a girl.
"There is no pleasure for us, the first time, Sylvia. Remember that." She continued brushing her hair. "It is sharp and stabbing and will cause you tears. It won't last though, I promise, but don't hold any hope of pleasure. You will only be disappointed." Sylvia was surprised and a little hurt at her mother's words, and wanted desperately to speak out in Robb's defence, but she held her tongue. As she always had.
Now she stood before her husband, and all memory of those words were faded and gone.
When she was finally standing before him, he couldn't resist reaching out and touching her bare arm, running his fingers down the length of smooth, pale skin. He wanted more, to touch her in places she'd never been touched before, to make her sigh and moan and whimper and call out his name they way he'd always imagined her. There was something strange and heavy between them, something that demanded attention to be paid, something that went far beyond her visits to his chambers at night. There was so much weight to this and not all of it was unpleasant.
There was no need for words – they'd spoken so many that day – so in place of words that would never put what he felt to justice, Robb leaned forward and kissed her instead. The action was so sudden it ripped a gasp from her throat, giving Robb's skillful tongue passage into her mouth. She whimpered and suddenly she was in his arms held tightly against him, her body clutched so close to his for a moment she thought she could melt into him like a candle. He was so warm, so solid and good and sweet. It felt so good to be so close to him without barriers.
At once her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle of his back as he ran his hands up to tangle in her long hair, their lips moving fervently together, tongues twisting in a dance, hands beginning to grow bold and wander. Sylvia squealed when one of Robb's hands reached down to cub her bottom, causing her new husband to chuckle breathlessly at her. She bit his lip playfully; earning a deep groan from his mouth. Her trembling hands reached downward, eager fingers gently ghosting along the taught muscle of his stomach, ticking the hairs leading down into his smallclothes.
Suddenly struck with the urge to taste his skin, Sylvia pulled her mouth from his and moved her sweet lips to his chin and quickly to his neck. Robb panted. She trailed wet kisses down to his chest, where she dragged her blunt teeth against his quickly heating skin. He felt her hot wet tongue swipe across his skin slowly, and he very nearly lost control and flung her onto the bed right then. But that would have frightened her he was certain, so he pulled her back up to him and kissed her more passionately than he'd ever had.
His Sylvia responded in kind and wormed her hands between their bodies to pull at the laces of his smallclothes, all fear forgotten and dead. Finally the blasted things were loose and so she pushed them down as far as she could. She pulled away and took a quick peek down at what she was dealing with and took in a sharp breath. She hadn't thought it would be...quite so big. And it was hard as well but when she touched him there, the skin was smooth. Robb moaned and she released a sharp breath. She wanted him desperately; the slit between her legs had begun to ache and she felt hot all over.
She felt their feet stumbling towards the bed causing her hand to fall away from him much to her chagrin and his. There would be time for that again later, she thought feverishly. When Robb's bare foot stepped on her own, she laughed at the pain and pulled Robb back down for a kiss, still giggling against his lips. This wasn't as hard as she had begun to think it would be.
The furs covering his bed are soft and cool under her back, but Robb's warm body covered hers before it could bother her. In that bed, they did things they had never dared to do before, but secretly always wondered about. He kissed her neck and breasts and belly, his slick tongue tasting the skin there and further down still. Oh gods, it would be impossible not to attack him every private moment from here on, she would later think. He pulled sounds from her throat she'd never knew she could make and made her hips do a funny little movement every time his tongue flicked so perfectly. Sylvia clawed at his back, and gripped his hair, with her nails running across his scalp. No one ever said that a man could do this to her.
"Oh, dear gods, I love you, I love you, I love you, OH-OHHHHH my sweet Robb..." She chants a dozen times just before her insides clenched and the most...amazing feeling engulfed her body. Her legs twisted, her vision went spotty, her belly clenched and embarrassingly loud sounds escaped her mouth. Why had no one told her about that?! Dear gods, what was he doing to her? Ladies never made such noises. She hoped he did it again.
When he pulled back up to kiss her after she'd calmed some, she really did attack him. Her lips smashed onto his and her arms clung to him, desperate not to let him go. She loved him more than ever, and wanted him inside her so badly, but at the same time, she wanted to touch him once again, to hear him make the noises she had made and make him hunger for her like she did.
They laid back, Robb half on his side and half on top of her, his arm coming under neck to help support it, and the other feeling across her warm breasts and pinching at her nipples. She moaned into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders and then growing a bit gentler as she trailed her hands downwards again. He groaned long and low when she gripped his length, moving her nimble fingers up and down the soft skin. She smiled against his lips. How much power she had over him! Robb's finger's pinched at her nipple and then began to rub his hand down over her lower belly. Sylvia whimpered, running her hand up from the one on her belly and onto his shoulder, canting her hips up a little in the hopes he would trail his fingers lower. His deft fingers only touched her mound of black curls before he pulled back, away from her womanhood, away from her lips. He even took away her hand, grabbing her wrist and holding it still.
Frowning, she reached for him again but he stopped her, his eyes glassy and a tad embarrassed. "I...I don't want to spend...like this." She blushed.
It happens and there is no time to think or be afraid, because suddenly, in what felt like an instant, he was there, between her legs, the hardness of his staff pressing up against that secret place, which ached for him now. Sylvia marvelled at the strange feeling of him on top of her so intimately, so passionately. He was kissing her, slower than he had before, one hand in her hair and the other under her neck with his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. This was nothing like the cold, disinterested duty she had been told of, this was hot, feverish and a great pleasure to carry out.
Then, suddenly, he paused and pulled away from her neck and just looked at her. He looks at her face, her mouth pulling in deep breaths from his time between her legs, her lips red and her breasts rising and falling rapidly. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his palm like drum. And her eyes, there was nothing but happiness and love there, complete trust and utter want. He was sure he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life, not even when he saw her coming through the godswood in that southern gown of her mother's making. With that look in his eyes she knew it was time.
Her feet plant against the backs of his legs and her hands grip his arms as he pushes inside her. She gasps against his sweet mouth, nails digging into his arm and leaving little half-moon shapes behind. It's sharp and unexpected, wonderfully filling and terribly sudden. It hurts, quite a bit more than she'd expected, but he kisses her tenderly to keep her away from it. He doesn't even have to hear her say the words. When he slowly begins to rock against her, his head buries in her neck, his hot breath fanning against her skin, his damp curls tangled in her hand while her other runs up and down his back soothingly.
Wide eyed she stared up at the cold stones above them, gasping as he began to thrust. He groaned loudly against her neck. It didn't feel as though she'd been robbed of her innocence, as one girl had told her. She didn't grieve for her maidenhead, not when this felt so sweet and right. The feel of him inside her was beyond any comparison, and Sylvia wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world.
Robb kissed the side of her neck, panting in her ear a moment before he found the strength to look at her without spending himself too soon. He hoped he hadn't hurt her; he had meant to remain still and keep eye-contact with her until she had calmed, but it felt too good to be inside her for that to happen. He could only make up for it later.
His sweet wife looked so radiant then, aglow and happy despite the look of amazement in her eyes. Her sweet red lips twitched into a smile that faded quickly when he pumped his hips again. He shuddered when she let out a moan. Quickly, he descended his lips onto hers and pulled back to look into her beautiful passion filled eyes.
He looked so beautiful when he's hovering above her, strong muscle corded beneath his skin, ripping with every movement. Sweat began to glisten on his brow, and on his back where her fingers dug in. It feels good for him, she thought as he moved above her, his face only inches from hers, and contorted with barely held back pleasure. When it didn't hurt so much anymore, her body tells her to move a little, and when she does he gasps and begins to move a little faster, a little harder. Her whimpers grew louder and her thighs tightened around his hips as she moved once more, earning a low growl from her sweet husband.
It didn't last for much longer; before long he buried his face in her neck again and began to tremble. She felt him groan her name loudly against her skin, his hips pushing against hers a few more times as he jerked and twitched inside her. As he kisses her neck, and murmurs that he loves her, she is certain she has never felt so at home with anyone else before, so complete and happy. This was where she belonged.
"Oh, oh Robb I love you," she breathed, stroking his beautiful auburn curls.
He pulled away and looked at her. "I love you." He replied surely. At once he pressed his lips down on hers and kissed her hard, letting everything he felt for her come though his kiss. When he pulled away, she smiles at him, sweetly, then suddenly there's a glint of sneaky curiosity in her eye. "Where did you learn to do that? With your tongue?"
Her husband laughed, and said, "Theon gave me advice."
soooo...yeah...um...k. Not really sure what to make of that. That was my first M scene...well. How'd I do?
THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH! GHHHEE! 100 REVIEWS! You know how amazing you guys are? Well this is beyond amazing, this is sublime :D
if you didn't like something, please tell me so I can fix it :D
P.S-Sorry Moony, no Jaime scenes :( ...not YET ;D