Chapter 40: The Road to the Rose King
A king must dole out justice and punishment like a father who was correcting his children's unruly behavior. His father's words were punishment enough for Joffrey, words of disappointment and abhorrence far sharper than any whip or strike could be. But then he was the Crown Prince, it was only the thin right of Robert being his sire and King that made it so that the fat drunk could dare touch him. But, his mother's sharp, scolding nature proved too much of a bother for Robert to punish him in the way men punished their children.
And so, alone in his chambers, Joffrey Baratheon I, King of The Seven Kingdoms, pondered on a punishment fit for his elder sister. Had he had it his way, she'd die alongside her traitor husband, so no one would think him too gentle to treasons. But she was a princess by birth, and that had a certain weight to it, so his Small Council said. Or, more in particular, his mother, who often found herself in the Council chambers.
But to Joffrey, that made her disobedience much more unforgivable.
His mother said killing Robb Stark would be punishment enough for his sister, but Joffrey wanted to be sure. His mother was wise, but she was still just a woman, a mother with a soft mother's heart, the weak feelings of a woman.
He had great plans for Sylvia when she returned to the Capitol, plans he'd already seen the smith for, plans he'd already drawn up in his solar, plans made with ink and the king's seal so they were all ready whenever Robb Stark was dead.
The journey to Renly was long.
A trip down the river, a ride to the nearest harbor, a boat, another ride, horses, and fair tides, and strong winds that will take her south as swiftly as possible.
Simple enough to the ear, but it was one such journey that Sylvia had never before experienced, and, to be quite plain, she hated it. So used to comfort, Sylvia found herself resenting the cramped quarters on the little boat they paddled away on. She hated the smell of the men, hated how she had to sit straight the entire time, never relaxing, never thinking idle things a girl her age ought to be thinking.
Nine and ten, she was, and already, she felt far too old.
She carried the worries of a woman thrice her age, and she could not even complain. She had not a friend in the world to confide in. But she felt a strange sense of shame at the thought, as well. At her age, her mother had been queen and a mother, and Sylvia felt she was unmoored, adrift at sea.
She shook her head. No use in comparison. No use in measuring herself up to the villain she'd named without words.
They'd only traveled a little way down the Red Fork, stopping when the sun started rising. The cold river water sloshed against the hull of the boat, a gentle sway as knights from House Manderly leapt from the into the shallows to drag them up towards shore in a smooth glide through the waters, which ended in rough jerks against the stones on the shore.
It was the Smalljon who lifted her in his arms and stepped from the boat, soaking his boots and sliding along the slick pebbles lining the riverbank. He settled her on the bank, away from the water, dry as bone.
She thought they might start on right away, but the men only hauled the two boats farther up, and upturned them where the reeds and tall grass would hide them. Smalljon must have seen the furrow between her eyes and spoke.
"There may be others traversing the river, Your Grace," Smalljon Umber had told her. "Better to avoid the question of who those boats belong to."
"Of course," she replied, walking in step beside him. "Strange, though, we must look. A common maid traveling the lands with a group of fighting men. What could a simple country girl have done to earn such a host?" she wondered aloud, tilting her head towards the brightening sky, watching a bird fly overhead.
A whore , her mind said. She'd heard about the female commoners who followed the war camps the moment Robb had driven his men south. Comfort , some called it. She would not offend Greatjon Umber by saying it aloud to his eldest son. "They'd sing songs about us." She mused again, voice so soft, none but the man beside her heard. " 'Country girl, oh country girl, what have you done, country girl, oh country girl, have you killed someone ?'" she sang, words lost into the chilled morning air.
When the work was done, they started down the nearby dirt road. It was barely more than two lines in the grass, worn away from frequent cart wheels. After a while, Smalljon Umber heard her start humming her somber little 'country girl' tune. But to look at her, Smalljon didn't think she looked common at all, even in her plain garb and dim colors. She was too beautiful.
Sylvia, however, felt like she'd been pushed into the mud and expected to treat with a king.
The cloak she wore was roughspun, dark in color—her own, with the mink fur had been much softer and warmer. Her dress was plain, without adornment, jewels or fine embroidery. Peasants garb, itchy and thick, but on this journey, she was not highborn. When she met with Renly, suddenly she would be expected to arrive with all the opulence and finery of a queen, to don a crown that did not yet exist. A cruel sort of expectation, because it was not one that could be met on this most important mission.
She wondered if it was intentional, to demean her, intended to make her small. They called her husband king, and she his queen, and yet she met their enemy dressed in commoners garb. Perhaps Renly meant to shortchange her during negotiation. If she looked and felt lesser, any little scraps Renly offered would look like a grand feast.
For a king, for all of the reverence he bore his subordinates, they must still know they were lesser .
Renly had once taken her favor at tourneys, protected her from errant spiders and beetles, teased her, loved her as well as any uncle could love his niece. He had been more her brother than Joffrey had ever been, and now she went to him, curling her lip with discomfort.
A mix of trivial indignation, as well as a cold, practical understanding battled within her, warring for domain over this odd feeling in her chest. Half wanted to believe the slight was intentional and was embittered for the inability to correct it. Because this slight would make it easier to hate him.
Yet the other half of her was understanding, knowing war was a messy, ugly thing, even as shame prickled over her skin like stinging nettles. And this way was safer too, bandits and errant Lannister factions scattered across the countryside. How might she go to him as a queen and arrive intact?
She still dreaded the notion of wearing a crown as a true queen would, but would happily wear one now, if only to prove she was not a dirty child, stumbling through her reign, begging for any scrap of support. Sylvia would rather bite off her tongue than beg for help. When her father had rallied against the Mad King, he had not begged once. Men had flocked to his cause in droves, and all he'd had to do was wed her mother.
All the same, she would meet Renly as she was. She had brought no replacement gown to wear once they reached the Stormlands, and even if there were a lady suitable enough to borrow a gown from, she would refuse anyway.
A queen does not borrow. A queen makes. She owns. She takes.
Her title would be all the magnificence the knights of the Reach and warriors of the Stormlands would see her in. Oddly enough, the thought of Renly alone seeing her like this was a little less daunting than his host. Renly had never made fun of her, never been cruel to her. Renly had seen her as a child—clumsy and silly and awkward. It was a cold kind of comfort though, because she had been a child then, and now she was a queen. An unenthusiastic one, but a queen nonetheless.
A commoner queen and her kingly uncle. How the singers would jest.
Country girl, oh country girl, say you lament, no my lord, no my lord, you've seen nothing yet…
"How many day's ride from here to the coast?" she had asked a time later, the sun rising half way in the sky, songbirds starting to chirp their songs with joy.
It was Smalljon who answered, clearing his throat and answering. "A few days' ride, Your Grace. Hard to tell exactly, we do not know who we might meet."
"Shh!" Another guard hissed, raising his hand, though not to strike. She recognized him—he had come to Winterfell when the last Baratheon king had visited. He wore no emblem, no mark to signify his house—none of them did—but she recognized his hair. It was black as pitch just as hers was. A knight from House Karstark, mayhaps? "If we must travel in secrecy, no formalities."
Sylvia ran her thumb over her forefinger. "Arron?" She asked, uncertain if she had the name correct.
The knight, a man with a short, black beard and blue eyes, nodded. "I agree. I am nothing here. For the time, call me Sylvia." The men around her shared a look, uncertain, never having called the woman before them anything less than her title—whether it was princess, lady or queen.
"I didn't mean it in that way." Ser Arron replied. "I mean no disrespect."
"And no disrespect was given. Fear not, my dear friend. In fact, I much appreciate a logical mind." Sylvia said with a small smile. And she did appreciate it, even though it made her feelings of insignificance flare, she would not fail her king. She would not fail her little girl.
They went on in that way. She never made them address her by her title, and though Sylvia slipped a few times and called them by theirs, it was remedied quickly. It was safer that way. Country girl escorted by knights would cause an eyebrow to raise and questions arise that would be easily brushed off. A queen escorted by knights would bring a whole host of dangers upon them.
When the sun faded beneath the horizon, they traveled onwards, resting a short time to eat and catch a few hours worth of sleep before continuing on while the stars still dotted the sky.
Sylvia, for those short hours, dreamed of dragons and ground too frozen to dig into to bury the dead.
She could feel it when they entered the stormlands. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and salt and the distant scent of the ocean tingling in her nose, and Sylvia breathed it in greedily.
If she closed her eyes, she could pretend this was a journey for pleasure. That Robb was there with her and her daughter too, seeing the homeland of her forefathers, showing Mini the shores where Elenei fell in love with the first Lord of Storm's End, the halls of the Storm Kings and the great, wondrous, endless expanse of the ocean that had shaped her family for generations.
Of course, when she opened her eyes, the only people she saw were the gruff soldiers who'd been her guard for the last fortnight since leaving the northern army for this odd, possibly foolish, mission.
She wished with all her heart to just be in front of her uncle right then, just to get it over with and leave out the bother of anticipation. But still, their feet tread through grass, across streams and through creeks and Smalljon Umber lifted her into his arms when the waters ran too deep and too cold. They moved until the sun fell beyond the horizon one final time, and then, when she could see the fires of Renly's camp, they rested a full night.
The dawn came upon them, but Sylvia had been up for hours before, trying to rid herself of the smell of sweat and the stain of dirt upon her skin.
Silently, Smalljon Umber watched her, as she carefully tended to herself with no thoughts of the guard keeping watch of her. He felt a bit wretched for indulging, but she never once shed a stitch of clothing, and that soothed his guilty heart a bit. And…well, who would deny the queen was a beautiful thing to behold? They were of age with another, and he was a healthy man with eyes that could see and a heart that could yearn.
She was just…soft. Soft in the way women should be, in his opinion, in a way he rarely saw. Not that he begrudged his female companions, but he didn't desire any of them. But Queen Sylvia was all soft skin and hair, gentle eyes that took in the world, hands that fidgeted and legs that were restless. Truly, she was the doe the men likened her as. Always ready to sprint at the nearest. It would be treason to want her, but only in word and action, not in thought.
He watched as she ran a wet cloth over the back of her neck. For these small moments, they were not defined by titles and expectations. She could be as she was without worrying for the eyes always cast upon her. He wondered if Robb Stark ever saw this side of her.
Then, the moment ended and she carefully walked back to her sleeping pallet and crawled beneath the fur that had been allotted for her, and pretended to sleep.
"I know not why you insist on hosting this monstrosity of a feast for her. She's the wife, the emissary of your enemy."
"And my niece, Loras, do not forget." Renly was quickly growing bored of this conversation. And angry, the longer Loras and Margaery deigned to call it a mistake. "A most precious piece of my heart."
"And a bastard, if Stannis will be believed."
Renly paused, silent as his squire fitted his breastplate in place. He knew well that Sylvia was no bastard. She had Robert's coloring more so than any of the other of Cersei's whelps. A princess born, and forged and he would see it that she died with the title still tied to her name.
"She is still a princess regardless." He replied. He had word early that morn that Sylvia was close, and would greet her warmly, and feast with her. He had plans to be a good king and he would make peace with her sooner rather than late. Before the war truly began.