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Chapter 13 The Wolf and the Lioness
Jaime was a beautiful fool, the queen thought hotly. Pushing the boy from that tower would only bring strife and suspicion, especially now that Eddard Stark would be Hand. She despised the thought of another Hand lurking in the Keep, sniffing about and scheming behind her back. She'd endured Varys, Baelish and Jon Arryn plotting against her since she donned her crown, and now she had to content herself with Eddard Stark, father of the boy who'd stumbled upon their secret.
Robert had not repressed his urges enough to go a night without rutting between a whore's legs despite the tragic turn, and so he slept apart from her tonight. For once she was glad for it. She could not bear his touch, and did not need him pawing and groping at her as she attempted to sort through this bloody mess Jaime put her through.
"I did it for us," he'd said just as the Stark boy fell from the window before she could demand what he'd done. "For you and me." He pulled her close then, her hands limp from shock at her sides. She refused to see Jaime now, no matter how badly she needed him beside her. She feared more eyes stumbling upon them now after that boy had caught them so easily.
Cersei had told her sweet brother to wait, that in little over a month's time they would be back safe in the Capitol where there were a hundred secret spots they could go to. But Jaime had said he had to have her, that he ached to be inside her after nearly three months of going without and his lips and fingers could be so very persuasive.
It had felt so deliciously wrong there in that tower, just under Robert and the Stark's noses where anyone could catch them. It had been a sweet, momentary pleasure, taboo and so exhilarating. They hadn't even removed all their clothes before he was in her. It had always been so wonderfully rushed between them, not slow and tedious like so many other aspects of her life. Their lovemaking was their own—nothing could ever match it, nothing made her feel as whole. Without Jaime beside her, she was half of herself. When he was inside her, murmuring promises of love and devotion to her, with their children, she was complete. She was happy. Nothing could ever be sweeter than when she and Jaime were together.
But it had shattered into nothing, like crystal against stone, the moment she saw that boy's small form darkening the window.
Of all the people that could have caught them, it had to be a child. And Jaime had reacted too quickly for her to stop him, shoving the boy and letting him fall to the cold hard ground, his body breaking upon impact with the most awful thud she'd ever had the misfortune of hearing. She had always thought, always been sure, that if anyone had ever caught them, she would have Jaime kill them—for their love, their children—but the fact he was a child gave her pause. Cersei wished Jaime had stopped to think about what they could have done. She could have scared him, she could have threatened him; he was young enough, she could have twisted his thoughts into thinking he'd seen something else.
But Jaime had pushed him, (tried and failed to kill him), and she could do nothing but straighten herself and hurry away with Jaime back to the castle before someone found the boy. Somehow, when the bells began to toll and horrified castle servants rushed back and forth in an attempt to be useful, she'd heard in passing that the boy still lived—broken and in a deep sleep, but the heart still beat inside him.
The queen pushed up from her chair, her long golden hair falling over her shoulder, her robe and night dress trailing along the rushes as she stepped forward. A cold chill passed over her as she walked; the warmth of the hearth and her warm cotton and fur lined robe make little difference in the frozen chamber.
The plain wood doors seemed to be as ice when she touched them, pushing gently to peek into the room just on the other side. The soft creak was lost on the two slumbering figures within, the soft, flickering light of the candles in the bedchamber shared by her two youngest children, casting lazy shadows on their soft, round faces.
The two large feather beds were placed side by side, a little table with half a dozen candles burning low, sat between, tallow dripping down rivers of hardened wax. Her girl, Myrcella slept on her side, a mess of golden curls peeking out beneath her layers of rabbit fur and cotton. On the opposite side was Tommen, her sweet little prince, laid up on his back, his arms pulled securely to his chest. He still slept in the exact same way he slept as a babe in his cradle, her baby boy. They slept so peacefully, unaware of their mother's troubled thoughts and she was glad for it. She never wanted her children to suffer through worries which would age them before their time.
Her children—her beautiful cubs, and her dear little doe, were in danger, horrible, cold, merciless danger. If that boy lived, all four of them would fall under the wrath of the man they knew as their father. She knew Jaime would kill him before the drunken pig had a moment to reach for her children, but killing Robert would mean others, more cunning and vicious than her husband, would try to sheath their claws in her eldest son. Fools often attempt to manipulate a young and inexperienced ruler, but when Joff was king, he would show them how wrong they to think a lion could be twisted.
But on the off chance the boy lived, her family would suffer beneath the sword, beneath humiliation and scourge and would fall into the pages of history, humiliated and remembered as disgraced, dishonoured traitors. She would die before she allowed that to happen. Joffrey would be and should be king. Her son, not Robert's or anyone else's.
Since his birth, since that fair haired little emerald eyed babe stared up at her the first time, Cersei had dreamed of the king her son would make: beautiful and golden like her and Jaime, none of Robert's foolishness in him. He would be powerful and strong, wise and beautiful, a true lion for the realm to be proud. For the world to envy. He would be king, his legacy would last a thousand years, and no one would ever take that away; she would not let them. Steffon had been taken from her as some cruel jape, and her hopes had died when he did, only to be born again with a thousand times more fervour with the birth of her and Jaime's first son. Steffon would never be king, but Joffrey would.
The boy would die, she was sure of it. He had fallen far enough that if he survived and spoke of what he saw, people would say his wits had scatted when he hit ground, and no one would believe him. No one would dare speak such slander openly when the one starting it was so fickle. But his body had broken upon impact, his legs mangled beyond saving and he had not woken since the fall. The maester said it would be a miracle if ever he did wake and although Lady Stark had wailed in grief for hearing this, Cersei looked away from the woman, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.
He would die on his own and that would be the end of it. She would have nothing to fear but the restless nights, images of that boy's frightened face just before he disappeared from the window haunting her dreams.
Hours earlier...
To be natural, she and her sweet twin had gone to see what the matter was outside the maester's chambers, where Sylvia and a bereaved Lady Stark waited, clinging to one another tightly as they sat on a little bench against the cold wall. It was horrible to hear the woman's hopeless wracking sobs, to watch as she clung to her own daughter as if she were the only thing holding her to the floor.
Cersei remembered when she had been in the woman's place, when her sweet little boy had left her all those years ago. She looked away from the two.
As queen, Cersei was expected to remain by the grieving lady's side, to offer her condolences and prayers, to express sympathy and inspire courage in her—but all the gods know that there is no courage to be had from a heartbroken mother. These useless courtesies amounted to nothing, worth as much as the contents in every chamber pot in this cold hovel. Sometimes she dearly wished she were a man, when pretty words were not expected of a rough and battle hardened king, as it was of a good and gracious queen.
Soft words and gentle pats were all that Cersei saw appropriate to give. The woman was clinging to her daughter anyhow, there was not much else the queen could offer but her silent presence.
For a time, the elder Lady Stark did not allow Sylvia to fetch her other children, as she did not want them to see her in tears and frighten them. It was only when a guardsman arrived and informed them that the hunting party rode close that Sylvia ordered him to fetch Lady Stark's younger children, murmuring gently to the weeping woman when she protested.
When had this happened? When had her daughter fashioned herself into this woman who commanded rather than obeyed whatever order she was given? The child she'd known was too sweet and timid for such things. She did not have the regal pride or cunning to be a true ruler, not like Joffrey, but this was quite a feat for the child who once talked to pretend playmates. Before Robert sold her like a worthless commodity, Sylvia had been as gentle as a baby doe.
She had not seen this change, she had not inspired it. The girl before her now was a stranger, someone who had grown and thrived without her mother, only to be twisted and turned into a creature of the Starks. She wished, once more, that Sylvia had stayed in the Capitol, under the watchful eye of her mother, but it had been safer for them that she had gone away, out of sight of the people who would stir up foul gossip. Her children were safest when they were separated from her eldest.
Shortly after, the men rode through the main gates, and soon enough, a clatter of foot beats stampeded down the corridors. Lord Stark was the first to round the corner, his face unmasked of composure and bare to the worry and fear clawing up from his belly. The next to come was his eldest son, in much the same state as his father, only wilder and quicker in his distress. He was a boy yet, quick to act, quick to anger. Foolish and brash and young.
In a flurry of swishing cotton skirts, Lady Stark pulled herself from Sylvia's arms and thrust herself into her husband's, sobbing and sniffling through words what seemed to have happened to their son. With her arms free, Sylvia stood and moved to her husband, tears starting to gather in her eyes at the sight of him, her hands shaking as she reached out for him. In three long strides, the Stark boy met her, wrapping her up in his arms, so tightly around her she knew Sylvia would have bruises come morning. But she didn't seem to mind much, her hands clenching at his cloak clothed back, her face buried in his shoulder to hide her tears.
She watched them a moment, only to be taken from her scrutiny by a red faced and sweat soiled Robert as he turned the corner, his breath puffing small nearly invisible clouds of smoke. She looked away from her shameful king, returning her eyes to the white knuckled grip Robb Stark had on her child's waist.
Wolves of the north are rarely gentle, she knew. Not even Lord Stark, who was unyielding in his honour, was gentle. He'd killed dozens in the war, as Robert often raved about when he was drunk. Cersei had never really thought much of whether or not her daughter's husband was gentle past their first night, but now, looking at him—clinging to Sylvia, clutching at her waist, pressing her hard against him—she wondered just how much of a wolf this pup had growing into. Robert had cursed her gentle little doe to a life with a rough, bruiting beast.
His big rough paws moved to her little doe's arms when he pulled away, asking what had happened.
"I-I don't know, sweetling. They s-said he fell from the Broken Tower; he survived, but they said...hi-his legs, Robb!" her daughter stuttered in a way which nearly shamed her. She was a princess, despite her marriage to the lordling. Princesses had courage, bravery, and a quiet sort of dignity which was admired by even the filthiest of fleas. The queen knew she couldn't begrudge her child for a fearful stutter or for the stray tears falling from her eyes, but a prickle of disappointment tugged at her at seeing those watery traitors wetting Sylvia's rosy cheeks. Tears are a weakness, she thought, one she shows too easily to these people.
Or, she thought as Robb Stark pulled her to his chest again, or perhaps his grip is truly painful.
Cersei wanted to hold her daughter to her like she once did when the girl was a small child, to shield her from this ugliness she had no part in. But it wasn't her place anymore, not really. Her daughter was a woman grown with a little girl of her own.
"What in the seven hells happened!?" Robert finally roared, making his presence known.
"The boy fell from a tower." His queen replied steadily. "He was climbing and his hand must have slipped. Strong little thing he is, he survived." She managed with a small note of feigned hope in her voice. Well she did hope—she hoped the child died quickly and painlessly.
When the other Stark children arrived in the crowded chamber, Robert ordered Jaime away, and her sweet golden twin could do naught but obey the fat drunkard he'd sworn to protect. She longed to go with her brother, to find comfort in his arms and let him kiss her worries away. But when had she ever been allowed to do what she pleased?
She watched quietly as Sansa, Arya the wild little beast, and the youngest boy, whose name escaped her, went to their parents, listening with wide eyed, rapt attention when the lord and lady explained the situation to them. Sansa began to cry, her large blue eyes reddening with tears, and Arya appeared too stunned to manage anything but jerky nod in understanding. The littlest Stark boy was clearly too small to understand, but his mother's tears upset him, and so he buried his little face into her auburn hair, clinging to the long tresses and tangling them into a muddled bird's nest.
The queen clenched her jaw, her mouth pressing into a stern frown. It was bloody maddening, there in that corridor with the Starks, these strangers, these people who'd turned her daughter against her, hearing them whimper and sniff and wail in grief and fear. Pity was not a feeling a queen should have. Pity makes you weak; it allows you to spare the enemy long enough for them to get their footing back just so they could strike you down in the end. Pity was a flaw of the loosing side.
Watching Sylvia comfort the eldest Stark girl, the naive little child who would be Joffrey's queen, made her want to scream.
A daughter for a daughter, she had thought upon arrival at Winterfell. Sansa for Sylvia. As Joffrey's doting little queen, Sansa would be loyal to the crown, to Joffrey and the children she would birth him. Above all, she would be a means to hold the north, to keep the Starks compliant and hold their wolves in their cages. But at once, Sylvia was a means for the Starks to keep her the same way – in a cage, snarling and clawing at the bars, but unable to do much else.
If that boy lived, and spoke of what he'd seen...would these people hurt her daughter as recompense? Would her daughter's husband abuse her, if he ever found out? With a vicious, unforgiving flash, she imagined her daughter with bruises on her pale skin, gashes leaking blood and tears in her eyes as she sobbed and wept for mercy. Beside her hurt and bleeding child was her own daughter, Minisa, screaming and wailing in terror. Would they hurt the little girl her daughter had given him? Her green eyes flicked to the boy in question, a momentary flash of something dangerous in her eyes. If he ever did, she would kill him herself. She would kill them all.
Robb Stark stood a bit off to the side, watching his wife intently as she held to his sister, his eyes straying to his mother and father for a moment or two before turning back to her. A black haired lad of age with him stood by his side, looking just as stricken as he. He must be the bastard boy Lady Stark had tried so hard to hide. He looked more like Lord Stark than any of her sons did, long sullen face and dark hair. What a docile little fish, Lady Stark was, to allow a bastard of her husband's dishonour remain in her home, to know her own children as siblings.
She observed the two, watched them speak with hushed whispers, before the bastard's attention was drawn to the youngest stark girl tugging at his arm. When his attention was on her, she flung her arms around him and sniffled, drawing him away.
Her steps were quiet and measured as the queen moved to her son in law's side, words turning over in her head. "I am sorry about your brother. I hear he loved to climb. How horrible it is that what he loved was ultimately what hurt him most." Robb looked at her, and then back to Sylvia, who tried to hush Sansa while attempting to dry her own eyes. If it were not for the horrible situation and the fear clawing up in his belly like a vicious animal, he would have wondered why the queen was speaking with him, when she had shown no interest to do so before.
My brother never falls, he thought. Instead he said, "I am wholly thankful that you remained with my mother and Sylvia during this time, Your Grace."
"As her mother, it is only necessary." She replied easily, shifting her hands in front of her.
"Still, I thank you."
The queen's eyes narrowed. "Do you think I would leave her?"
"No." He saw Sylvia kiss Sansa's forehead, and vaguely he heard his father whisper assurances to his mother. "Luwin is the best maester for hundreds of leagues," he said. "There is no one else who could save Bran. Be strong, Cat. Be brave." Robb looked down to the floor, repeating his father's assurance over and over again, like a mantra.
Seeming satisfied, the queen continued, her voice quiet and solemn. "A mother's worry knows no bounds. I worried for Sylvia when she was right under my nose in King's Landing and I worry for her here, when she's safe with her husband and his family." She added easily. The best lies always have a trace of truth. She did and would always worry over Sylvia, especially since she feared that one day her husband would turn on her, like all snakes eventually do.
"Sylvia is the same." Robb replied. "She frets over Mini all hours of the day, even when she's in the same room." Robb did not mention Grey Wind. He knew the southern queen would never understand the way he felt when looking into Grey Wind's eyes, the trust and understanding which flowed between them was like nothing he'd ever known. Grey Wind was part of him, made of the same substance, saw through the same eyes. Mentioning the wolf would only serve to horrify her, and he did not trust that she would let the wolf be if she knew the Mini rolled around with him and played with him, as though Grey Wind were another child or she were a wolf pup.
"I will fret over Sylvia every day of my life until I draw my last breath. I will fret over Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen in the same way. There is nothing a mother wouldn't do for her children." he wondered about that as he looked to his own poor mother, who could do nothing for her son but weep against his father's chest, as Sansa sniffled softly against his wife. It felt as though a knife were twisting inside him. His little brother was hurt, suffering and broken and he couldn't stop it. Brandon...he never wanted to imagine a life where Bran was not, he was just a little boy. Robb refused to abandon the hope that he would survive, even as they awaited word from Maester Luwin.
But his mother only knew that Bran was hurt, and that the possibility he would live was dwindled to only hope and prayer. And his wife, the woman who tried never to cry in front of others, quietly wept against his sister. The knife twisted deeper.
"There is nothing I wouldn't do for my family. Nothing I wouldn't do for Sylvia, or Mini. But I fear there is nothing I can do for them that will soothe the pain." Cersei eyed him for a moment, her jewelled green eyes hiding so well the disdain she felt for the boy before her.
"There isn't. But I pray you will find the right words to say to her. A woman in agony cannot know her husband is in the same pain. If she does, what hope can she have of comfort?"
Robb's eyes narrowed, and he curiously looked to her, wanting to ask what in the name of the gods, she meant by that. But politely, she excused herself, the picture of a beautiful, charming queen, walking forward to stand by her husband who spoke kindly to his father.
Creak! Cersei flinched as one of her cubs shifted in their beds, her mind once more shifting to the boy that was causing her real dismay. She shut the door quickly.
He's going to die, painless, she thought as she poured herself a cup of wine, as though asleep. It was kinder; better to die than linger in agony. The fact that he would not live to breathe a word of what he'd seen, and put herself and her family in danger, was an advantage amidst an unpleasant situation.
Her daughter's eyes had shined red with tears, her cheeks already wet, her hands clenched tight as she held to Lady Stark and then Sansa. She hadn't known she cared for the boy so much. I'm doing this for her, the queen thought, for all of us. Because I love them. My children, my sweet twin.
Sometimes she dreamed of being with Jaime as husband and wife, as king and queen. She dreamed that Sylvia was his, born with golden curls and green eyes, she dreamed that they were happy—no Starks, no Baratheons. Just her and Jaime, and their children. Such a sweet dream that came far too little, but it never was, and never could be. Sylvia was Robert's, Jaime despised her mere existence, Robert was her husband and they were not Targaryens. Cersei's heart tightened.
Sylvia mustn't know; none of her children must ever know. They must never know about their mother and uncle, they would never understand. She thought of Sylvia, one half of her first child, the only one of her children that was Robert's. Although distant, Sylvia was still her daughter, she always would be, and she could not bear the thought of how her little doe would look at her if she ever knew the truth of her and her sibling's birth. Her children...she had to protect them, as she always had, even thought it meant keeping them from knowing their real father.
Now she paced—her mind as restless as her legs. The boy would die. He would die, and the truth would die with him. Just like Jon Arryn had. She found not an ounce of joy or pride in the thought, because while Jon Arryn was a scheming old fool who'd lost the game he'd been trying to play, the Stark boy was a child who probably didn't even understand what he'd seen.
Pity is a weakness, she reminded herself. Her lord father had shown no pity to the Reyne's when they sought to rebel, and now every man, woman and child in the realm hesitated to meet the lion's eye. She would never show hesitation when it came to her children. As it fell, it was either her children, or that boy.
Cersei was a lioness, fierce and proud. She would kill for her children if needs be. The lioness regretted this happened, down to her feet and up to the roots of her hair; he was just a boy after all. But if it would ensure the absolute safety of her own children, she would do nothing to stop the Stark boy from succumbing.
The queen slept restlessly that night, her dreams awash with images of hateful ocean blue eyes, a black haired little boy who had left her long ago and the frightened face of Bran Stark.
"He is alive. He sleeps, soundly and deeply. I know not if he shall wake, but if he should, he will never be whole again. The fall has broken him." Maester Luwin had said with a gentle and solemn voice. But it was no good. Lady Catelyn wept, the soft lull of his voice having not affect.
Sylvia's shoes clicked against the stone, in time with Robb's leather boots, although they were separated by several feet. It seemed to be the only sound in the entire keep. Her face felt hot, her eyes itched and her hair felt a mess from Sansa and Lady Catelyn's hands. She wanted to wash her face; she wanted a scalding hot bath to scrub this horrid day off of her. She wanted to lie down and sleep, she wanted her daughter blinking up at her with those innocent blue eyes, she wanted Grey Wind trailing after her as she walked...she wanted the comfort of familiarity. But she wanted Robb most of all, she wanted him to hold her, to stroke her hair, press her close to him. She needed her husband, but she wondered if he needed her.
Of course he was upset; he'd be a cold bastard if he wasn't. But she didn't know if it was her—his southern wife, the Baratheon girl—he needed. Did he think this? Did he need someone else's embrace why he moved so quickly ahead of her?
As they made their way down through the halls to their chambers, Robb's legs moved furiously several paces in front of her, swift and silent as a wolf stalking its prey. Unease prickled her skin, crackling like embers in the hearth. When Maester Luwin dismissed them all to bed (apart from Lord and Lady Stark who were permitted to stay with Bran), Robb had pulled his hand from hers and marched away. She'd tried to touch his arm, but he slipped it away as though she'd merely missed, but it hurt her.
Before the maester slipped out of his laboratory where Bran was being treated, her husband's shock kept his arms tight around her, his breath hot on her neck as his buried his nose into it to take in her scent, her own face pressed into his shoulder to hide her tears. But after Maester Luwin emerged from his chamber, and explained to them the facts, she'd gone to Robb's side, but he'd been so distant.
She didn't understand. He'd seemed to need her close at the start and then suddenly it was as if he abhorred having her near. Had she said something wrong? Had he been offended by her in some way? She felt stupid for thinking this. Robb's little brother was near death, why shouldn't he be distant? Yet, as his wife, shouldn't she be by his side during these awful times? To give him comfort so he may not find it elsewhere.
She wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to be the wife he needed, so why would he not let her?
The princess struggled to keep pace with her husband, and she asked him to slow down, but he only continued to glare ahead into the darkness. Her knuckles whitened around her shawl as they moved. Her confusion only grew with each step, her Baratheon anger coming to surface, but only dully. She hadn't a right to be angry when something so horrible just happened.
The familiar corridor to their chambers was lit with fewer torches than usual, alerting her to the fact that Elane was probably still in the private solar where she'd ordered her. If Elane had come back during the time she was with the Starks, than the guard escorting her would have lit the torches along the way. The girl with her father's onyx locks was thankful for that. Whatever would happen between her and her husband in that chamber, she did not want Elane to be present.
Still, her breasts ached with the telltale tenderness that Mini needed to eat.
When they turned the final corner before their chambers, Sylvia breathed a small sigh of relief when she spied Ser Fredrik waiting outside the door. Her sworn shield had acquired more grey around his temples in the last short years, the lines around his blue eyes and forehead becoming more prominent as time wore along. Still, he was the same man she had always known—funny and dutiful and protective, and she was forever grateful to her mother for allowing him to come with her north.
She was sure, if Ser Fredrik had not come with her, she would have gone mad from boredom those first few months here in Winterfell.
Her fond thoughts abruptly died as her husband unlatched the locks without care, and opened the door swiftly, narrowly stopping it before it could clang against the wall as though it were an afterthought. She saw Ser Fredrik's eyes narrow warily and he tightened his hand around the pommel of his sword. Sylvia walked further, the scrape of her shoes on the stones beneath her seeming to grate in her ears. She reached her beloved sworn shield cautiously and stopped before him.
"Fetch Elane for me, will you Fredrik? I do not wish to leave Robb." She asked. Fredrik was hers to command, he always had been, but he was her friend. She could not order him about as though he were a simple faceless maid.
The elder man's eyes narrowed questioningly. "Are you sure, little lady? I can stay." Since he'd been charged with her safety by the queen herself, Ser Fredrik Ravenback had done his duty meticulously, tirelessly, and without fail and he prided himself on that. Most knights prided themselves on who they killed, but Ser Fredrik's lasting mark would be the longevity of this girl before him. Childhood bumps and cuts did not count as failure. He would not let her come under harm from the hands of her husband, no matter how much she loved him. He would not allow her to suffer as her mother had with a miserable wretch.
"No. It's alright. Go." she gave her shield a reassuring smile, and saw him away, his steps hesitant and slow. Robb would never hurt me, she thought. He'd sooner put a knife through his hand than lay it on me.
When he was gone from sight, the princess turned back to the opening, walking through it without pause and shutting the door soundly behind her. She watched her wolf quietly as he crouched down by the fire, poking it and feeding it to bring it to a wonderful warm blaze once more. The candles still burned, dripping their melted wax down the shelves and cupboards, casting gentle shadows on the walls and over the furniture. It all seemed so mundane, and yet it was not, and it pained her to know it may never be as it was before.
The girl removed her woolen shawl, her long black tresses thumping soundlessly against her back as she set it aside on the chest at the foot of the bed and she searched for something to say. He's not going to die, she practiced. If he was meant to die, the gods would have taken him already. She made a face. Gods, that was horrible. Her eyes lingered on her husband's back, watching as he breathed, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Darling?" she asked. He grunted in reply. "He will not die, I know it." She offered softly. Robb was silent. Her agitation rose and she began to twist her silver wedding band about her finger, the sapphire set there digging into her finger tips. "Maester Luwin said there is hope, please don't be afraid." His head turned, but did not move around to look at her. "Please, please talk to me. Tell me what it is you need of me to feel better."
He kept quiet a moment, thinking, staring into the flames and for a moment, Sylvia thought he might tell her what he needed, what he felt, what he thought. Let her in somehow. That hope fell away once he spoke. "Sleep Sylvia. There is nothing to talk about. My brother may," he took in a breath, long and tortured. "He may die. Discussing what has happened will not heal him."
She flinched. He was right, but it still did not deter her from what she knew needed to be done. He could not shut her out like this, she would not let him. "No, but it would help sooth you. And me." She added quietly. "We-we don't have to talk about it. Being held is just as good."
It was only in the way his shoulders stiffened that she knew he'd hardened into Lord Robb, stern and firm and unbending. His voice seemed cruel to her as he spoke, although a part of her assured her that he was only being firm and honest about it. "Will talking turn time back and keep him from falling from that tower?"
"No, but talking will ease the burden of heavy thoughts." She countered.
"There is no need. Go to sleep." He commanded.
"I am not going to be ordered about like a petulant child." She said with the smallest edge to her soft, tear thickened voice. "He's alive. Bran survived. Don't forget that."
He was quiet, but she was not comforted by the silence. It only served to drone on and on, endless and horrible. Robb had still not looked at her, so she looked away from his back, and to the little linen chest that housed Mini's few clothes.
Her insides had frozen like ice, desperate for warmth, and lost and staggering aimlessly to get it. She didn't know what to do. She longed to talk to him, but hesitated. She longed to hold him, and to be held. But his little brother had suffered a horrible accident after all. Pushing her sweet husband to his breaking point would do nothing but ignite further strife, wouldn't it?
Oh poor little Bran, she thought again. She could not forget poor Lady Catelyn's face. She'd never seen the woman cry—not once in the past six years had a tear shed from the blue eyes that matched Robb's. It tore at her to have had to hush her mother-in-law like she had hushed her when the birthing pains had come too early. She loved Lady Catelyn, and it was a vile thing to know she could do nothing to stop the horror surrounding them.
He's alive, she remembered. He would survive, he just had to. He had to, that little boy couldn't...
She sniffed, but she did not see Robb's head incline in her direction.
Her feet moved without her consent, sliding forward through the rushes with a soft sigh. Her steps were slow and careful, and then suddenly Robb's back was before her, straight and hard as stone, hidden beneath his heavy black cloak, his face hidden behind the grey wolf fur lining the collar.
The top of his auburn curls were visible, however, strands glowing red and orange in the firelight. When Mini had almost come into the world two moons early, Robb had been the strong one; Robb had been the one to suffer through her tantrums and harsh words and cold touches. Even when she was half mad with fear and anger and guilt, he had never truly abandoned her. He'd waited outside the door when her guilt had consumed her and converted to burning spite at anyone at her side. He'd stayed by her, assuring her, promising her it would be alright. He'd done it selflessly, willingly...because she'd needed him to, because he loved her. Because they—her and Mini both—had needed him to, although she knew now, he'd been just as bad off as she.
He was vulnerable now, fear and confusion haunting his mind. She knew Robb's hurt and fear must be three times as awful because, although she loved Bran, Robb and the child shared the bond of kinship that could not be duplicated. So she closed her eyes and leapt, offering herself and hoping he would take what she gave.
"I am here, Robb. I need you, and if you need me, that's alright. You're my husband, there's nothing improper about it." She dare not touch him, afraid that, like a wounded animal, he would whirl around and snap his jaws at her. She wanted to say more, but was silent for the same reason—afraid as to weather he'd push her away with harsh words or simply ignore her and make her feel small.
With a fleeting look up at his half hidden face, she turned to move away, almost meekly admitting defeat against her unmoveable, stubborn husband, intending to let him alone with his thoughts as he so seemed to wish, when the cold leather of his gloved hand enclosed around her wrist.
For a moment, she was afraid. The memories of the horrible sounds which came from her mother's chambers when father visited her were not easy to banish from memory, nor were the memories of the bruises which would mark her for days after. But the fear faded when she looked up into his face, his eyes heavy with a sadness, a fear she'd never seen on him before, his mouth pressed into a stern line, his brows drawn down that made him look daunting, a wolf ready to pounce on a helpless rabbit...but she knew him well enough to see the subtle expression of fear and pain written between every fine line and curve of his face.
"Robb?" she asked, almost fearful of what may happen.
She had little warning before he was on her, his arms clenched tightly around her middle, their chests pressed hard against each other, her heart aching as he held her. Wasn't this what she'd desired? To be held by her husband? She had not thought that victory would feel so much like defeat.
"My brother may die." He said plainly, his voice raspy in her ear. A punch of pain struck her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away. "Is that what you'd like to hear? The cold, awful truth?"
"I..." he pulled away a little then, his hands coming to grip her shoulders, his blue eyes pinning her in place. She found quickly, that could not speak, not with those eyes digging into her.
"He never falls." He breathed furiously, his anger and hurt coming through into his voice, his brows narrowing as he spoke, tears gleaming inside those river blue eyes. Unseeing, even as they stared at her. "Never. He's climbed every wall in this keep a thousand times; he knew to climb before he could walk." He continued, his voice rising above that guttural murmur to a grief filled growl. Every word he spoke tightened his hands about her shoulders. "How could he...?" he drew in a sharp breath and broke off, his eyes darting elsewhere.
Suddenly her voice returned, the only facts she knew slipping from her lips. "He did. He fell but he's—"
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes burning desperate with something she didn't recognize. "He's a climber, he has never fallen before. It isn't possible..." he huffed in agony, his eyes traveling to the floor as though embarrassed. How could he not believe what was true? Bran had fallen, just as his lady mother had always feared.
The ice within her grew colder as the thought of Bran. She needed her daughter, she needed Mini. She needed Robb to melt the cold away, and if he allowed her, she could do the same for him. That was what lady's do for their lords.
Robb turned his head away, staring intently at the little vanity his wife possessed, littered with perfumes, brushes, and jewels, as well as toys and wayward dresses for Mini that had somehow made their way atop it.
He turned his eyes away and that was the last of it. She could not stand it another moment! She refused to. She needed him, and damn it, if he didn't need her too! When she opened her eyes that morning, all had been right in the world, and now it had distorted into this ugly, horrible unimaginable terribleness. This felt like too much.
Roughly, she slapped his hands away from her shoulders, pain flaring to life as his hands were knocked aside. She would have bruises come the morning, purple hands on her shoulders that would not fade for days and would cause her lady maids to whisper. She simply did not care. His eyes to snapped up at her, seeming lost, as though he had just been somewhere else, and just for a second she saw them flash with confusion, his anger coming to surface before she flung herself at him, locking her arms tight around him, refusing to let go.
She grabbed at him as he had just moments before, but it was an entirely separate experience. Her arms were filled with tenderness, a desperate need to console and be consoled, fragile and gentle and hard and firm, all wrapped up in the tight constriction of her arms about his body. Robb was still, unsure what to feel and how to react to such a sudden embrace.
"Oh, gods," he heard her whimper, her face hidden against his chest. "Don't. Leave. Me." He frowned. When had he left her? He'd been here the entire time, had she not noticed? But in a way he knew; he knew she felt his attempts to distance himself from it all, and he knew that by doing this, he put space between he and Sylvia. But he did not want her to see him weak. It sounded foolish to think it now, as his lady wife sniffled against him. "Don't make a prison inside yourself, and leave me out to wonder where my husband has gone."
The auburn haired lordling looked down, her words slipping like a needle into his skin and lodging it deep. Without thinking, one of his arms came up to lazily drape over her hip. She pressed herself closer, one hand slowly retracting from around his back, to grip the warm fur of his cloak near her face.
He spied their bed, large and warm and soft, and imagined the countless times they had slept in it. He recalled with perfect clarity how they'd tangled about each other in pleasure filled warmth, speaking in hushed voices as they slowly drifted off. Or limp and exhausted as household and parenting pressures demanded every ounce of energy of them, falling into peaceful oblivion for a few hours. He had always slept more peacefully when she slept next to him, and now he knew not how he'd gone without it for sixteen years. He longed for that now and pressed his face into her pretty hair.
"Forgive me, Syl." He murmured into her tangled onyx locks, his voice breaking even though he had tried to repress it. "Please forgive me."
She did not seem to hear, and her voice was muffled against his chest. "I am your wife. I am yours, always. I promised you that, I promised the gods that." She murmured. "You did too. Remember?" she pulled away then, loosening her grip on his cloak and furs ever so slightly so she could look up at him. Her eyes were sad and reddened by her tears, tired and firm, determined in the way only a woman can be. Something sweet and biting rolled against his heart.
The corners of his eyes burned as he stared at her a long moment. His little brother lay near death, and as he and his family lingered on in the aftermath—stunned, hurt, scared and angry at whatever horrible, evil had caused this—he pushed the woman before him away, out of pride, out of anger, out of fear. Fear of ultimately hurting her with his tears and weakness, for being a weak boy, rather than a man. But he was only human. He wanted so badly to just...to just...
"I remember," he murmured back to her. He remembered every detail of that day in the godswood. He always would. His other hand came up to clutch the bend of her arm, gently this time, and the arm around her waist tightened just so. It felt good to press her against him, so bloody good. There was the smallest twitch at one corner of her mouth, pleading and hopeful.
"Share yourself with me. Please. I beg you. You need not speak, if it hurts. Just...let me be by your side." It seemed a pathetically simple thing to say, given how deep the meaning ran, but it was all that seemed to fit. Her sweet husband did not speak when he pulled her closer, burying his face into her hair and winding his arms around her, just as her own arms pressed him close.
A sob that had been long building finally escaped, muffled by his chest. She could feel his own tears fall into her hair, and against her neck.
It was only when Elane came knocking with Mini in hand that they parted.
Hours later, when the moon hung in the sky, the stars burning their gentle candle light down onto the sleeping world, the direwolf pups ran through the godswood, five of them. Only five. One was missing, and the loss was felt sharply. As they ran, they sniffed and searched for their nameless brother, only to come up empty.
It was not much longer that their voices rose up in a mournful howl, searching for the voice of their brother's reply. But he was silent, shut up inside that big looming castle, deaf to their cries. Still, their voices continued into the night, loud and sad, a prayer almost to the gods to return their brother to them.
So I was just dragging my feet in posting this but then I thought, "Nope, has to come out! We'll never get to the goods unless this comes out!"
I very much hope this was a good chapter. It was very very difficult to come up with how to write Robb and Sylvia dealing with this sudden turn of events that was so unexpected and painful.I found it easier to write Cersei's bit than Robb and Sylvia's.
P/S Shout out to my Moony (MissMac) for helping out with the Robb/Cersei things :D
I think, that after the Mini incident, Robb kinda thought his role in the marriage was always going to be the protector and the strong one because that's what men are "supposed to do". But with what happened to Bran, he was so shocked and hurt and angry, it was just impossible to be the one doing the protecting. Robb has never been so vulnerable to Sylvia, ever, in their marriage and of course this it is difficult for them to try to be comfortable, especially Robb, but they so desperately need to be comforted, that awkwardness goes out the window.
I need to explain myself...:/
please review...please please please?