Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter Text
"There." Ellaria straightened the sleeve of the robe and stepped back. "Surely there has never been a lovelier bride awaiting her wedding night in the North."
Rhaenys suppressed a grimace at the words and managed a smile for her. "Thank you." She looked down, touched the white silk robe and gown. Embroidered with small suns, it had been a gift from Sansa and was truly lovely.
The smile became a little more genuine as she remembered her sister-in-law's excitement when she'd presented the gift. She was quite fond of Sansa, had appreciated the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. Then she gave into a sigh.
"He's a good man, Rhae." Ellaria's voice was soft.
Rhaenys looked over at her, smiled again. The woman had almost been a mother to her after her own mother had died.
"I know."
Ellaria looked like she wanted to say something else, then hesitated.
Rhaenys smiled again, reached over and squeezed the other woman's hand. "I'll be fine. You're right. He's a good man, and nerves are normal. I know that." She walked toward the door, opened it, motioned. "Go on – you should go back to my uncle and enjoy the celebrations. I'm sure the king will be here any moment."
The words caused her stomach to twitch again, but she kept the smile. She was a queen now, and there were certain things expected of her. One was that she was no longer quite so free to show her emotions, even to her closest friends. Including nerves.
Ellaria gave her a long look, then nodded. "I'll see you in the morning, then."
With that, she was gone, and Rhaenys had a moment of panic, of wanting to call her back.
She suppressed it. She was being silly. Women survived this all the time. Turning, she walked across the room, sat and stared into the fire. It might be easier if it weren't Robb, she admitted.
He had been nothing but kind and respectful to her, but he made her nervous. He was a very ...powerful man. It was a personal power, not linked to his identity as king, and he wore it like he wore his skin.
Before he was anything else, even king, he was a warrior. Direct, focused...aggressive. She knew he'd never expected to be ruling over three kingdoms. And now that he was king, he approached it the same way he'd lead his army, with an almost grim determination.
She had never seen him smile.
And yet...she had seen his concern for his people, his kindness to those who served him, his deep love for his only remaining sister.
Those glimpses into his personality had figured heavily into why she'd agreed to the marriage. She'd wanted to wed, had wanted a family, had wanted more from her life than staying in Dorne.
Apart from her longing for children, not marrying wouldn't have been a horrible fate – she would have just continued to dwell in Sunspear, as the daughter of Elia Martell.
So when the discussions about a possible union between her and Robb had begun – started by Doran and Daenerys – she'd been receptive to it, despite the lack of love she'd always hoped and assumed would be part of her marriage.
She'd married him because she saw a man she respected and admired, and could possibly come to love.
But she was much less clear on why he had entered into the marriage.
And now he would shortly be coming to claim his rights. She didn't consider herself a particularly nervous woman. But currently, faced with the thought of a grim, determined man coming to bed her, nerves were on edge at the moment.
She jumped when the knock came.
She stood, smoothed the robe, took a deep breath. "Come," she said, and grimaced that the nerves were apparent in her voice.
Robb Stark, King in the North, stepped through the door, and what had been small anxious twitchings in her stomach became more pronounced.
Despite the nerves, her breath caught in pleasure at the sight of him. Visually, he was the most compelling man she'd ever met. She'd been aware of that attractiveness every time she'd seen him, but now, with him standing in her chamber, it was overwhelming.
The purple velvet tunic he wore was richly embroidered with gold, and made an appealing background for his coloring – his eyes were dark in the candlelight.
He was surveying her in the same manner and his eyes darkened even more as his gaze moved down her body.
Conscious that the robe and gown revealed more than they covered, the nerves flashed back, but were mixed with an unfamiliar heat as his eyes lingered on her breasts and hips.
She swallowed, and saw his gaze sharpen, fix on her face.
"How are you?" His voice was soft, slightly husky.
She had to clear her throat before answering. "I'm fine."
His expression settled into a frown, and he started toward her. Involuntarily, she took a step back, and he halted, the frown deepening.
Annoyed with herself for the show of nerves, Rhaenys was about to return the question when he reached out and ran his hands down her arms to her fingers.
"You're trembling." He was still frowning, but now was close enough for her to see puzzlement in his eyes as well. "Are you afraid of me?"
Embarrassed that she'd allowed him to see her apprehension, she tried unsuccessfully to pull her hands away.
"Rhaenys – answer me." His voice was quiet and firm, and though the frown was still present, there was now an unreadable expression in his eyes as well. "Why do you tremble?"
"No, I'm not afraid of you. Just nervous." Her voice came out more sharply than she'd intended. "It's normal, actually, for a woman to be a little nervous on her wedding night."
"I see." He released her hands, stepped back.
She wondered just what it was he was seeing.
"I do not recall Daenerys being nervous about her wedding night."
His voice was tight. This was not a good start, Rhaenys reflected. "You were not actually present when she...went to Jon, but it was different for my aunt," she finally said quietly.
He was still frowning, obviously confused. Could he really be so dense?
"Robb..." she stopped, confused as well. What words to use? Her own cheeks heated with embarrassment. It hadn't occurred to her that they'd talk about what they were going to do. "What takes place between a man and woman is always pleasurable for the man. It is not always so for the woman," she finally said bluntly. "It also requires a woman to be particularly...vulnerable," she continued more quietly. "That is only increased when there is little knowledge or trust between them."
She couldn't believe she was being so direct with him and part of her was simply mortified. But given what would shortly occur between the two of them...
The frown had faded, had been replaced with a frozen, formal expression. His cheeks were now also red. Embarrassment at not having guessed what she might be feeling? Or anger that she'd spoken so bluntly? If it was the latter, they were in trouble. She would not survive long in a marriage where she could not speak her mind.
"I see," he said again, in a stiff, measured tone of voice. "Perhaps we should delay the consummation of our marriage, then, until you are more..." he paused before finishing. "Comfortable with me."
She gaped at him. "What?"
"I would not have you start our union feeling vulnerable. We can wait until you feel you know me better." His voice was still tight, his eyes unreadable.
Startled by the suggestion, it took a moment for her to find her voice. She glanced at the bed, and knowing she was blushing again, said, "The servants would notice if the linen is not ...soiled. They would talk, there would be speculation that all is not well between us."
Obviously frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the distance between them and once more reached for her hands. When he spoke, his voice was again very quiet, his eyes intent on her. "As king and queen, the needs of the kingdom will frequently take precedence over our own desires. But that does not mean you and your needs are not a priority for me." He released her left hand, reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Our lives will frequently be the topic of gossip; it is the way of the people. I will not allow the threat of such to rush us into this," he nodded toward the bed, "if you would be better served by us waiting."
She stared at him, unable to look away. His eyes were dark with determination...and a hint of disappointment that made her stomach jump again, but not with nerves.
"Rhaenys, I know we don't know each other well, but I believe we can have a good marriage. I will not risk that by rushing you this evening."
Cupping her cheek, he leaned down and brushed her lips with a light kiss before releasing her other hand and stepping back. "We will wait," he said simply.
He was nearly back to the door before she found her voice.
"Robb...stop."
He glanced back at her, a questioning look on his face.
The nerves of earlier were gone, chased away by his words, by his unexpected consideration of her. But heat once again flooded her face as she struggled to get the words out.
"What if I don't want to wait?"
He raised an eyebrow, glanced toward the bed. "To consummate our marriage?"
Mute with embarrassment, she nodded.
He stalked back over to her. "Why?"
Her stomach flipped. How to explain? "There are many ways of coming to know someone," she finally said. "Your concern for me...is reassuring."
He stared at her for a long moment, before bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. "I will always be concerned for you," he said quietly. Then he took her hand.
Expecting him to lead her to the bed, she firmly suppressed the nerves which wanted to reappear. But he went in the opposite direction, guiding her instead to the bench on the other side of the room, in front of her dressing table, where he motioned for her to sit.
"Would you mind if I unbind your hair?"
Surprised, she glanced up at him, then shook her head. Her hair had been up in a complicated arrangement for the wedding ceremony, and although she'd unpinned some of it, most of it still hung in a long dark braid down her back.
He settled on the bench behind her, and appreciating that he was trying to help her relax, she attempted to force the tension from her body. But it was nearly impossible when he was so close to her, when she could feel the heat from his body. Could smell his scent, clean and male.
"Your hair is such a lovely color."
She laughed softly. "It seems very ordinary to me. I am quite envious of Sansa's hair, to be honest. So bright, so red. It must be a cheering sight in winter when the sun is absent."
She felt him pick up the bottom of the braid, begin to remove the ribbon. "I suppose it is, but do not underestimate the beauty of the night," he said quietly. "Yours is such a lovely, rich color."
The ribbon dropped beside them, and he moved to begin unweaving the braid. Almost immediately, the back of his fingers brushed against her lower back. So thin was the silk of the gown and robe that it might as well been absent, and the light touch gave her goose bumps. Odd, when it wasn't cold she was feeling, but heat. She had never guessed that that area on her lower back could be so ...sensitive.
He worked his way up her back, and every few moments his fingers would brush against her spine again. Whatever the reason, his repeated touch there was making it difficult for her to take a deep breath.
He reached the top of the braid, and spread the hair out, running his hands down her back, and Rhaenys couldn't help a sigh of pleasure.
"Hand me your brush."
She did so, reaching over to the dressing table. And became aware that her breasts felt abnormally sensitive, too. Odd when he hadn't touched her there. She stifled another blush at the thought, handed the brush back.
He took it, began to pull it through her hair, and some of the tension eased from her. She'd always loved having her hair brushed, had always found it relaxing. And he knew how to do it, without tugging too hard on her head. It seemed a peculiar skill for him to have.
Silence fell, and Rhaenys gave herself over to the simple pleasure of having her hair brushed. Although she was still aware of him on every possible level, she felt herself relaxing into his touch.
Then he laid the brush down, and slid his hands beneath the mass of hair at her neck before shifting it to fall over her right shoulder.
All the tension came back, and then some, when he brushed his lips against the exposed skin where her neck met her shoulder.
He slid his hand up, cupped her head, then turned her to face him. His eyes were dark, intense, as he gazed at her. The hand slipped to her neck, and he tugged her closer, then leaned down. And kissed her.
He'd kissed her twice before – at their wedding that afternoon, and earlier, when he'd started to leave the room. This kiss started as those had – a light brushing of his lips against hers.
Then the pressure of his lips increased, and she understood he wanted her to open her mouth to him. A little unnerved, she did so, and felt his tongue lightly trace her lips before slipping in, touching hers. He tasted of the wine they'd had with the wedding supper, and a little of the cake, as well. A sweet combination.
His hand slid down her back, his arm wrapped around her. Pulled her closer to him even as he deepened the kiss.
She wasn't sure how to respond to him, wasn't sure what he wanted back from her. But it was easy enough to follow his lead, to begin tentatively exploring his mouth. She was barely aware of her hand creeping up to rest on his shoulder, then to slide around to the back of his neck. But he was obviously aware of it, and responded with a growl of pleasure.
When he lifted his head, they were both out of breath. Rhaenys rested her head against his chest, allowed her hand to slide back down. What was happening? Where had her nerves gone? She didn't know this man – despite being wedded to him – but was finding it shamelessly easy to respond to his kisses.
Maybe it was as simple as what she'd told him earlier – there are many ways of coming to know someone, and what she'd discovered about him in the past hour was that he might not love her, but was nonetheless solicitous of her, of her needs.
There were worse beginnings to a relationship.
And she enjoyed his kisses.
He tilted her head back up, and their eyes met. What he saw in hers must have reassured him because he resumed kissing her. But this time he slipped his hands around to rub slow circles on her on her back. It seemed like it should have been relaxing. It wasn't.
The next time he lifted his head, it was to slide his lips across her cheek where he nuzzled against her hair, gently bit her earlobe.
Rhaenys shivered in response, and heard humor in his voice when he asked, "Cold?"
She choked back a laugh in response, then went still when she realized his left hand was no longer on her back but was resting on her hip.
Robb raised his head again, looked down at her as he slipped the hand inside the robe. He lingered there, still on her hip but between the gown and the robe, for a long moment while he gave her a steady look. Then he slowly slid his hand up until it rested just below the swell of her breast. She swallowed, a mix of nerves and anticipation, but kept her eyes on his.
The tension between them built until she thought she'd scream if he didn't touch her.
When he finally did, it was with the same light touch he'd used on her back. His hand cupped her breast, its warmth burning through the silk, and she caught her breath at the sensation. He squeezed gently, while continuing to study her face for a response.
In answer, she shifted, gave him better access, and he rewarded her by lightly brushing his thumb across her beaded nipple. She squirmed, and he leaned down, began kissing her again.
It was so hard to concentrate. It seemed important that she keep her head, be aware of what was happening, what was going on between them. But with his lips demanding a response from her mouth as his hand continued to pleasure her breast, her ability to think was completely muddled. Then he slid his right hand around, gave her other breast the same treatment, and all thoughts fled. She heard with some astonishment a moan of pleasure escape herself.
It turned to a sound of annoyance when one of his hands slid away, to rest for a moment between her breasts, over her heart – a heart that was beating so fast it must surely sound as if the horses were escaping from the stables.
He lifted his head, gazed down at her again, his eyes going even darker. He turned his hand over, brushed across her nipple with his knuckle, then again over her heart.
And smiled in response to what he felt there, that fast beat. A hesitant smile of simple pleasure that she was enjoying being with him, enjoying his touch. She would never have used the word shy to describe him, but that was how his smile struck her, and for the first time it occurred to her that there could be some vulnerability for him in this act as well, if of a different kind.
The smile delighted her more than the caress. It changed his face, made him seem younger, more open. More human. And she realized that it mattered to her, a great deal, that she had caused that smile.
In response, she slid her hand up to rest over his heart. And gave him her own smile when she felt his heart beating as fast as hers. He squeezed her breast again, very gently pinched the nipple, and resumed kissing her.
The next time he lifted his head, he took a breath and then buried his face in her neck. "You smell good," he murmured, and the sensation of his lips moving against her throat caused another shudder to move through her.
In all of her anxious thoughts about this night, this possibility – that he would be so apparently focused on her pleasure, or that she would enjoy his touch quite so much – had not entered her mind. She tilted her head to give him better access, but instead of continuing his exploration, he suddenly pulled away from her and stood up. He held out his hand to her, a neutral expression on his face – an expression belied by the intense look in his eyes.
She took his hand, stood.
He glanced at the bed, then back to her. "Rhaenys ," his voice was soft. "Are you sure?"
She gave him an incredulous look, then simply nodded. She appreciated his confirming it was what she wanted, but her entire body was now humming, and she wanted to know what came next. She might not be in love with him, as she'd once hoped to be with the man she'd spend her wedding night with, but she liked and respected him. More, she was coming to trust him. Yes, she was sure.
He nodded, squeezed her hand, and led her to the bed. Then he turned toward her, and released her hand to slip his fingers beneath the shoulders of the robe. He nudged it off of her, and she felt it slide down her body.
He bent to kiss her neck again, and she realized he was getting ready to slip her gown off in the same manner. She drew away slightly, gave him a mock frown. "This is nice," she said with a tug of his tunic, "but I do not wish to be the only unclothed one in the room."
He smiled at that before stepping back and pulling off his tunic, then the soft undershirt he wore beneath it. Rhaenys suppressed another noise of pleasure when his bare chest came into view.
A broad, muscular chest with a light sprinkling of hair. Her gaze moved down to his flat stomach, noted the beginning of a line of darker, thicker hair which disappeared into the top of his hose. She was distracted from both his chest and the hair when her eyes slipped further down, focused on the visible bulge in his crotch. Her heart took another wild leap and began pounding again, with that odd mix of nerves and anticipation.
She wanted to touch him there, wanted to know what he looked liked, but did not quite dare. Instead, she brought her eyes back up, and closing the distance between them, rested her hands on his chest, began to explore.
Hard muscles, smooth skin. Then her fingers brushed lightly over one of his nipples, and he jumped. She glanced up at him, noted the tension in his face. Was he as sensitive as she was there? Apparently. She brushed the nub again, used her free hand to give the same treatment to the other one.
After a moment, though, he groaned and reached up, moved her hands away, down, around his waist, then pulled her to him and kissed her again.
Her breasts came to rest against his chest, only the one remaining layer of thin silk between them, and the sensation as she rubbed against him made her wish she'd not denied him when he'd tried to remove her gown.
His hands were on her back again, pulling her even closer to him, until there was no space at all between their bodies. She could feel that bulge now, pressing into her stomach.
Experimentally, she rubbed against it, and Robb broke the kiss with a groan, buried his face in her neck. "You're trying to drive me mad, aren't you?" he asked in a strangled tone, his voice choked with laughter.
She laughed in response, amazed that she could do so with him. But in the midst of these intimate explorations of each other, it somehow felt very natural, and very, very good to be able to be so relaxed with him.
He stepped back again, and this time when he moved to slip her gown off, she allowed him to do so, despite the blush she knew was rising all over her body. As his gaze traveled down her length, she had to fight the desire to try and cover herself, and her hands jerked more than once as she suppressed that instinct.
Taking her hands in his, he squeezed them. "You're so lovely," he finally said softly, before releasing one of them to lift her chin with his fingers, caught her gaze. "Completely captivating."
Once more, he drew her back to him, and again she felt that shock of pleasure move through her when her breasts brushed against his chest.
He kissed her again, brought one hand up to cup her breast, and she gave a soft moan at the feeling of his rough, calloused hand gently squeezing her, a coarse thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple.
Leaving off kissing her, her trailed his mouth across her cheek and down her throat, and she squirmed, guessing where he was headed. But she could never have imagined how it would feel when he touched her nipple with his tongue, then took her breast into his mouth. Began to suck. She gasped, arched against him, felt him gently bite her, then soothe her with his tongue.
Her body flooded with heat, and she ached in ways and places she'd never imagined aching. Once again, she squirmed against him, against that bulge, rubbed herself against his leg. On some level, the response embarrassed her, but she simply didn't care. He apparently didn't either, based on his growled response to her frantic movements.
Then he lifted his head, stepped back from her, and Rhaenys made a sound of dismay – which turned to a squeak of shock when he suddenly bent and lifted her into his arms before turning and placing her carefully on the bed.
He stepped back, his eyes locked on hers as he bent once more and stripped off his hose before straightening to stand before her. It was a proud stance, but there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes as he waited for her gaze to drift down.
He was much bigger than what she expected and she swallowed, nerves coming to the forefront again. How could this possibly work?
She forced the nerves aside, glanced back up at his eyes, noted the guarded look he was giving her. Curiosity got the better of her, and she reached out, shyly touched him, felt him jerk in response. She liked knowing that she could affect him that way, and stroked him again, a little more boldly.
He groaned, then moved her hand temporarily in order to settle into the bed. Once beside her, he again placed her hand on him, encouraged her to resume her exploration of him.
She did so, was unable to decide what amazed her more – the way he felt against her hand, or the sounds of pained pleasure coming from him.
He suddenly swore and rolled away from her, leaving Rhaenys confused and uncertain. What had she done? Had she hurt him in some way? She shrank back from him a little, to the other side of the bed.
A long moment passed, and she was about to question him when he rolled back over, and looked at her, an embarrassed expression on his face. Reaching out, he touched her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"I don't understand." She felt heat come into her face as well. "Did I hurt you?"
He choked with laughter even as his face went another shade darker. He shook his head. "Just the opposite, in fact. If you had continued touching me in that manner, this would have been over before we properly got started." His expression turned wry. "Do you understand?"
Her gaze slid down his body, then back up, and despite her embarrassment, she could not quite suppress a smile of delight as she said, "I'm sorry."
"I'm not." His voice was husky. He reached for her, pulled her close to him. "But I think we'll focus on you for a while."
The words sent a renewed rush of desire through her, desire which was only intensified as he leaned down and gently kissed her while beginning once again to caress her breasts.
His lips slipped down her throat toward her breasts again, but this time he teased her sensitive skin by rubbing his beard against her. She was distracted from that sensation almost immediately, though, by a new awareness as he trailed his hand down her torso, lingering for a moment on her hip before sliding down her thigh.
And then back up.
"Will you open for me?" he asked softly, and with her heart pounding, she willingly moved her legs apart.
His eyes still on her, he began a careful exploration of the sensitive juncture of her legs. She jumped a little at his first touch, and he soothed her by murmuring soft, indistinguishable words without his eyes ever leaving hers. Gradually she relaxed, began to enjoy his touch.
Then he brushed up a little higher, against a place that had her gasping and arching against his hand. He repeated the movement, sometimes as the lightest of touches, sometimes more firmly, and then lowered his head once more to kiss, nuzzle, and suckle at her breasts, and Rhaenys was lost, unable to form even the simplest of thoughts.
She knew when he eased a finger inside her, though, but marveled only that what she had thought might be one of the oddest touches from him was instead, very welcome, as her body responded to the rough rasp of his calluses on sensitive flesh.
He slipped a second finger in to join the first, and it was a tighter fit, which was both a little more uncomfortable and a greater pleasure. His hand began to move again, slipping in and out of her while his thumb continued to tease the place above, and she once again lost awareness of everything except the pleasure he was bringing her.
Tension was building inside her, a powerful drive toward something she didn't completely understand. What she did understand was that at some point she'd made the decision to trust Robb to get her there, that she'd stopped thinking about who they were and what they were doing, was focused only on reaching that place of pleasure.
She reached it quite suddenly, a point where every muscle in her body clenched tight and then released, and the sensation of that release was like nothing she'd ever imagined. She stiffened against him, heard herself give a soft cry before relaxing back onto the bed, completely undone, her muscles useless. Catching her breath was her first priority.
Robb leaned down and gently kissed her, then laid his forehead on her shoulder. His hand was still resting in and against her.
Gradually, as sense came back, she realized that as relaxed as she was, he wasn't. He was still next to her, his body hard and tense. He was out of breath too, and it took a moment to figure out why – he was still controlling himself, his desires.
Lifting a hand that still trembled, she touched his shoulder. "Robb?"
He looked up at her, his eyes dark and gleaming, and she tugged on his arm. It felt silly, but she didn't know how else to show him that having had her pleasure, she wanted him to find his, wanted to know she'd given back to him what he'd given to her.
When he didn't move immediately, she started to slip her hand down his body, but he stopped her. Brought her fingers up to his mouth, kissed them.
Then eased over onto her, settled between her legs. She shifted, parted them further, gave him more room, her eyes never leaving his.
Braced on his arms, he began to slip into her, and she could tell from the tension running through him how hard it was for him to go slow, to be careful, to allow her body time to adjust to his size and length.
The further he advanced, the greater the discomfort, and she had to keep reminding herself to relax, knowing instinctively that tensing would make it more difficult. Then he reached a point where it seemed as if he were blocked, and she felt him struggling to control himself, to continue to go slow.
She took a deep breath, and tucked her face into his shoulder, forced herself to relax. "Don't stop," she murmured in his ear.
With an exclamation that was half sigh, half groan, he obeyed, sliding in deeply and completely. Rhaenys ignored the discomfort, focused on reminding herself of the pleasure he'd given her earlier, the knowledge that this would get easier, and, after a moment, the wonder of being joined in such an intimate fashion with another human being.
She wrapped her arms around him, tried to draw him closer to her. He was still for a moment, then pulled partially out before thrusting back in, and she shifted again, wanting him to brush against that spot which had brought her pleasure earlier. Began to see the possibilities of how it might work, of how they might both find that amazing release in this act.
But not this time. After only a few more thrusts, he suddenly groaned and shuddered, and partially collapsed against her. His arms barely keeping him from completely crushing her. He was breathing hard, his face in her neck.
She stroked his back, breathed in the scent of him, and tried to sort out what had just happened. She'd been afraid of feeling vulnerable – how could you not, with a grown man in and on top of you? But his concern for her had banished those feelings before they'd even started, while at the same time she'd become aware that there was vulnerability for him in it as well.
And mostly she was conscious of the feeling of being so connected with him. It occurred to her that she really didn't know what love was.
What she knew was that Robb had shown her she was safe with him, that she could trust him, at least in this. That together, they could find pleasure and even joy in this most basic of interactions.
She had been very aware of being alone in the North. She'd left behind the only life she'd known, had traveled many leagues to a place of foreign customs and strange behaviors in order to start a new life. But this man, now joined to her so intimately, was the reason she'd made that choice, had taken that risk. And tonight, he'd proven that she had not been wrong to do so.
She wasn't alone, but was rather part of something very specific. She would have a role beyond just what the Northerners saw in their queen, a role that would grow out of her connection with the king. It started with this very basic physical joining, but if they were careful – and had he not already shown how careful he would be with her? – that connection could grow into something lovely and strong. Something which would make a difference – not just for the two of them, but for the North.
He suddenly shifted, lifted himself off of her. "I'm sorry. I'm crushing you." He rolled to the side, flung his arm over his eyes.
Just that quickly, the warm glow of a moment earlier, of the pleasure she'd taken in being joined with him, faded. She was cold, and felt ...exposed, and suddenly understood how tenuous that intimacy could be.
As the sudden shock of the separation faded, tears wanted to come, and she pushed them back, angry at herself. Why on earth should she be feeling so ...abandoned? All he'd done was roll away from her, and if his soft breathing was any indication, was now asleep.
But she'd somehow not expected that they'd go so quickly from the intimacy of that joining to being separate human beings again. Foolish of her not to have done so, though it underscored what friends had said about the link for women between the physical and emotional – a link men didn't necessarily feel.
Though love might eventually grow between them, he didn't yet love her. He'd been kind, and considerate toward her, had made it clear that he felt responsible for her. But he didn't love her, wasn't feeling the intimacy she'd been feeling. She frowned. Did that mean she loved him? No. Not necessarily. Women and men were just different, that was all.
Regardless, it was foolish of her not to have realized sooner that he would be feeling something very different than she was.
And then a new thought came, chilled her. In all likelihood, he'd get up soon, go to his own bed.
But on this night, she found the idea of being left alone in the bed nearly unbearable. She might not love him, might not be loved by him, but after their shared intimacy, after being joined with him in such a fashion and becoming aware of what their relationship could be, of his very physical reminder that she wasn't alone, his leaving her to return to his bed would be crushing.
He wouldn't go if she asked him to stay, of course, no matter what his own preference might be. He'd made it clear that her needs would take precedence. But she didn't want him to stay unless he wanted to, unless he, too, wanted to maintain that connection between them. And based on his current position on the other side of the bed, he didn't seem to want to.
She took a deep, quiet breath, forced back the ache. Reminded herself again that she was being foolish, that he'd already given her so much more than she'd dared hope for out of this night. And they had time, time to take things slowly in terms of their relationship. If he did get up and leave, she'd concentrate on the good things that had come out of this evening, would wait to see what the future brought.
Needing to comfort herself in some fashion, though, she rolled over on her side – her preferred sleeping position – her back to him, and curled up, her arms around herself. Then could not help but inch a little closer to him, to the warmth of his body, even if it was against her back.
Then she closed her eyes, tried to sleep.
She was still awake sometime later, though, when she felt him shift. Tension came back as she waited for that moment he'd get up, leave the bed.
Instead, she felt him roll over, towards her. "Rhaenys ?" his voice was very soft and she didn't reply immediately, was trying to brace herself for his telling her he was returning to his own room. Odd that it was only now that she felt so vulnerable.
Then she felt his hand on her shoulder, heard a muttered complaint. "You're cold."
There was more movement from behind her, though she couldn't tell what he was doing – until in one action, he tugged the covers up from where they'd been shoved at the foot of the bed, and pulled her back against him, into his arms, and covered them both with the soft furs.
He cuddled her to him, his front pressed against her back, his arm draped around her waist. Then she felt him press a kiss onto her shoulder, and sigh before relaxing back into sleep. He seemed to have no trouble at all finding sleep.
And now, tucked warm against his body, sheltered by both the fur and his arms, she found it easy to drift off to sleep herself.
Chapter Text
Robb heard the roar of the water before he saw it, and suppressed an oath. His men already thought him mad; there was no point in making it worse with another display of temper. But gods, he wanted to.
He continued carefully picking his way through the undergrowth until they emerged onto the banks of the stream.
At least it was supposed to be a stream. But stream was an altogether too mild a word for the writhing, seething mass of water in front of him. Now what?
At a noise behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, watching Smalljon ride up. The captain of his guard stared at the water for a long moment, then turned, gave Robb a cautious look.
Robb's gaze returned to the stream and he glared at it balefully. They might be able to make it across, but it would be risky, and it wasn't a risk he was willing to take – no matter how desperate he was to get back to Winterfell.
If he hadn't been king, he would have sent the men back to the road and made the attempt. He knew his own skills. But he was king, and even if he was foolish enough to try and send his guard back to the road, they'd refuse to go. And although they were all good riders, he didn't know if all of them could handle the crossing.
With the road flooded and washed out in places, they'd had a choice of turning back to White Harbor and waiting until the water receded and the ground began to dry, or of trying to find an alternate route around the worst of the floods. He'd opted for the latter, had hoped this little-known route through the hills would still be passable. The stream now blocking them was so small and followed such a convoluted path out of the mountains that he hadn't been able to imagine it flooding. It had certainly never done so before. Until now.
With one final glower toward the water, he turned back to Smalljon. "We'll give the road another attempt. If we take the left fork as we leave the hills, we should come back to the road just west of Moat Cailin. Perhaps the flooding won't be so bad there."
Smalljon nodded, and started to turn, when Robb spoke again. "We'll stop for the night at that clearing we passed not long ago."
"Yes, sire." He turned and started back toward the men.
They were loyal, and Robb hadn't heard even a hint of complaint from any of them, but he'd been driving them hard and they were all exhausted. An early night would not go amiss – and it was not as if a few extra hours were going to make that much of a difference.
Being able to cross this stream had been his final hope, his last chance of making it back to Winterfell in time. Now they had no choice but to retrace their steps back to the road, adding at least two days to their journey no matter how hard they pushed. No, a few more hours weren't going to make any difference.
Discouraged, he nudged his horse to follow Jon.
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Rhaenys gradually came awake. Although it was still dark, morning-noises were coming through the walls.
As full alertness returned, she sat up, dropped her head into her hands. The day she'd been secretly dreading was here; now all that remained was to get through it. It would be no longer than any other day, and when it was over, things would be easier.
Throwing back the covers, she shivered as she reached for her dressing gown. How would she ever hope to survive winter?
No. She would not think such thoughts. There was much she loved about the North, its people. And eventually she would get used to the colder weather. Or so everyone assured her.
Crossing the room, she knelt in front of the fire and stirred it to a brighter blaze, was cheered by both the heat and light.
The intensity of her homesickness continued to surprise her. She'd known there would be adjustments, but not to this degree. In hindsight, it had been terribly naive to think that simply because she'd always loved excursions away from Dorne – to Dragonstone, for example – that moving to Winterfell would not be that difficult.
And in truth, it wasn't that bad. Winterfell was just as beautiful as Sunspear if in a different way, and its people were warm and kindhearted, at least for the most part. They'd been nothing but welcoming to her.
But at unexpected times, a sudden longing for the Water Gardens would come over her, or a fierce desire to hear her dear sisters laugh, and it would be all she could manage not to burst into tears wherever she was.
The weakness appalled her, and made her even more determined to adjust, to find her place here.
It mattered to her that none of her people come to know that there were times when she ached for her homeland, as she couldn't dislodge the fear that they would misunderstand, would think she was regretting her marriage to their King, something decidedly not true.
She suspected that Robb knew she occasionally battled homesickness. They'd never discussed it, but she'd catch him giving her a sharp look, and he'd almost immediately request her assistance with something – nearly always something that involved spending time with him, being busy. It was very sweet of him – and it usually worked, too. With her mind off of whatever had triggered the homesickness, she would find herself once again fascinated and delighted by some new aspect of her new home.
But Robb was away, his first extended trip since their marriage. As they had a dozen times in the last eight weeks, her thoughts went back to the afternoon he'd come to tell her of the message summoning him south.
"Lannisport?" she stared at him blankly.
He nodded, glanced again at the parchment in his hand, a troubled look on his face. "A raven from King's Landing just arrived." He scanned the missive again. "There are rumors of trouble in the westerlands...word has reached Jon that Devan Lannister has been sending ravens to Euron Greyjoy and to mercenary companies across the sea.." When he looked back up, a grim expression was on his face. "Apparently, they're assuming we will not ride to Daenery's aid when winter sets in."
"Then they know nothing of Northerners, nor of the bond between the two kingdoms," she said indignantly. "But..." her voice faltered. "Does that mean you will need to stay all winter?" It was hard to even voice the question.
"No." He shook his head, glanced at the message again. "In fact, Jon does not believe it will even come to battle, at least not yet. He seems to think that my demonstrating that I will come at need, no matter the season, will be sufficient for the moment to convince them to drop any ideas they have. And in the meantime, his lords will be assembling their men, which will also help."
She nodded, tried to push away the dread that was growing. "When will you leave?"
"Tomorrow, at first light. I'm only taking my personal guard. Under the circumstances, I don't believe it's necessary to call the banners. If it comes to battle, a rider will be sent and Dacey will muster the men."
"Tomorrow?" She barely heard his comment about the rider. So soon?
"It's not ideal, I know. But the more quickly I meet with Jon at Lannisport, the likelier the Westerners are to be convinced that I could be there in time to make a difference should they move forward with their plans, and the sooner I can get back. I do not like being away from Winterfell right now."
She nodded, her mind already on all the tasks that needed to be done before he and his men left. With effort, she forced back the personal feelings that wanted to flare into panic at the thought of his leaving. She was adjusting, was beginning to find her place in her new home. But it was so much harder than she'd anticipated. And it was only now, when faced with the thought of his departure, that she realized how much she'd come to depend on him as a defense against the homesickness.
He'd started to turn away, the parchment still in his hand, when a new thought occurred to her. "Robb..."
"Yes?" he looked up, his mind plainly already on the trip ahead.
"If this is unlikely to result in a new war..." she hesitated. What if he misunderstood?
"What?" there was a hint of impatience in his voice. No wonder, given all he had to do before departing.
Ask or let it drop. She took a breath. "If battle is unlikely, perhaps I could go with you?" Despite her attempt to sound casual, the words came out rushed, nervous.
His face went still, and she hurried on, convinced she knew what his primary concern would be. "I would not delay you – you've said yourself that I ride as well as your lords." She stifled a wince when she heard the words. They sounded more like pleading than she'd wanted them to. Too late now, though.
He dropped his hand with the parchment, stared at her. And she saw the answer in his eyes.
No. She couldn't go.
Why had she even asked? Having admitted, to herself at least, how desperately she wanted to do so, how much she wanted to see her family – some of whom must surely be in Kings Landing given the current state of affairs – it was now even harder to face staying. And she'd probably sounded like a fool, as well.
She forced a smile, promised herself that she would not cry until he was gone. "Nevermind. I know it's a foolish idea. I'll go let the kitchens know to begin preparing supplies for your journey."
She was nearly to the door before he caught up with her. "Rhaenys." He pulled her around to face him, and she had to fight against the instinct to struggle, the desire to flee from him in disappointment and dismay.
"It's not that I don't want you to go. You must know that." His other hand, the parchment now crumpled, came up to rest on her shoulder. "And it is not a matter of how fast you ride." His gaze was direct, focused on her. "Things are not yet as stable as I might wish them to be in the North. There are still those who question me, who question my decisions, even my rule. I do not anticipate trouble, but I believe it would be best if one of us, at least, remains here. That is why I ask you to stay."
Ask. He placed a slight emphasis on the word, but it was enough for her to understand. Though he could order her to stay, he would not do so. He would take her with him if she insisted, as foolish as it might be. But he would be disappointed in her. And she desperately didn't want to disappoint him.
Struck by that thought, it took her a moment to really process the rest of what he'd said. 'One of us.' He was asking her to stay in order to represent him while he was gone. To rule in his stead, as his mate, his queen.
Slowly, she nodded, struggled to find the words. It was hard when she was feeling both pride that he trusted her, needed her, that much, as well as some fear at the thought. There was still so much she didn't understand about the North. What if she let him down? What if she let their people down? She took a deep breath, then simply nodded. "Then of course I must stay."
She saw the relief in his eyes, relief which yet warred with concern for her. He brushed his hands down her arms, linked his hands with hers, the parchment crumpled between them. "Thank you."
She forced a smile, looked away from him. Tugged on her hands. "I must really go to the kitchens if you're to have supplies for the journey."
He released one of her hands, cupped her chin, forced her to look at him. "Rhaenys..."
The concern was still there. She tugged harder. If he didn't let her go, right now, she was going to embarrass herself with tears, something she badly didn't want to do. "I'm fine. But I really do need to go check on plans for your departure."
Reluctantly, he released her, his eyes still troubled. She smiled again, hoped it looked vaguely sincere. "I'm fine," she said again, before turning and exiting.
She sighed, shook herself out of the memory. And so, understanding that he wouldn't always ask it of her, she'd stayed, doing her best to represent him. 'As king and queen, the needs of the kingdom will frequently take precedence over our own desires.' Not for the first time since his departure, she recalled the words he'd spoken to her on their wedding night. He'd been right, but she'd give anything if the first proof of that duty hadn't been being left behind, while he rode off to war.
She'd met daily with his advisors, half of whom assumed she knew all there was to know about ruling Winterfell, while the other half assumed she was an empty headed female who must be pandered to in the absence of the King. To her relief, she'd also met regularly with Dacey Mormont who was in charge of the castle's security. The she bear approached her with a mix of respect and practicality that was always reassuring.
She reminded her in some ways of her uncle. She would no doubt be startled by the idea of being compared to the Red Viper of Dorne, but the same ...steadiness was there. The same wisdom, the same sharpness of mind.
One of the things she shared with her was a growing concern over how delayed Robb was in returning. He'd expected to be gone for no more than a month, six weeks at the most. Eight weeks had now passed, and she saw worry growing in Dacey's eyes as her gaze ever more frequently turned south. What had happened to cause the delay?
It wasn't war, that was the one thing they were sure of. If battle had broken out, ravens would have been flown to all corners, and Dacey would have called the banners and ridden off with them.
But something had obviously happened.
She'd marked the weeks, day by day, growing progressively more excited as the time of his expected return grew nearer, only to have anticipation turn to disappointment, then disappointment to worry, when he didn't return. And now worry was gradually turning to fear. Where was he?
A soft tap came on her door, and she smiled inspite of her anxiety and sadness. Halys, one of the kitchen maids, had taken it on herself to bring Rhaenys tea every morning, and seemed to take pride in arriving at the door not long after Rhaenys awoke, without actually waking her. How the girl managed to know when to bring it was a mystery, but it was one of those small gestures that meant a great deal..
Standing, she crossed the room, opened the door with a smile.
Halys placed the tray on a small table near the fire, then gave a quick bow before exiting the room. Rhaenys settled at the table, poured herself a mug of the tea, and tried to plan the day. She simply wouldn't think about what the date was and would keep herself busy.
Please, she pleaded to the world at large. Let him return soon. I miss him more than I would have believed possible.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Chapter Text
Robb pulled his horse to a halt, staring up at the sky before turning his gaze to the path in front of them. It had been raining hard again for the last two days, ever since they'd been forced to turn around – a steady downpour that had kept them cold, soaked and miserable.
As dusk approached, though, he could see some breaks in the clouds. They might yet get a respite from the weather..
He pointed to the lightening clouds, and saw Smalljon nod in comprehension.
They made camp in a reasonably sheltered area between a cliff and a small forest. The ground was still soaked, of course, but at least they were out of the wind. And as they had hoped, the rain had lightened, then stopped.
It felt good to finally feel warm, to begin to feel dry again.
They'd ended up making several fires, enough for all the men to have a chance to really share the warmth. While the rest of the men gathered at the other fires, apparently attempting to start what sounded like a singing competition, Smalljon had joined Robb at, in a more companionable silence at a third fire.
It was Smalljon who finally broke that silence. "May I ask you something, your Grace?"
His tone was hesitant, and Robb gave him a sharp look. One of his oldest friends, they'd seen many a battle together that Smalljon was normally comfortable being direct with him, though never disrepectful. He nodded.
"The men and I are wondering…" Smalljon hesitated, seeming to choose his words with care. "We're wondering why you didn't stop at White Harbor until these rains stop. It's not that we mind riding in wet weather," he added hastily, "nor do we mind the idea of getting home to our families. But even now we don't know if the road will be passable between here and Castle Cerwyn. Your determination to make the journey seems…" he faltered again, looked away. Tried again. "Have you heard of news from Winterfell that drives you?" he finally finished.
Foolish, unwise, showing questionable judgment… Heat crawled up his face as Robb thought of the other ways the other man could have finished his query, but nodded slowly to indicate it was a fair question. He was dragging them all over in weather not fit for man or beast…he owed them an explanation, should have given it to them earlier.
He hadn't because he wasn't certain how they'd interpret his reasons. Would they understand and sympathize, or think him foolish?
It didn't matter. They still deserved to know why he'd been so determined to reach Winterfell, why he hadn't turned back when confronted with the flooding. Apart from Smalljon, these were his most loyal, trustworthy men.
So he would trust them.
Still, he hesitated, searched for the right way to start. Finally, he said, "You're familiar with some of the differences between our ways and those of the South."
Smalljon nodded, a confused look settling onto his face.
"One of those differences is how the birth of children is noted." The confusion was growing stronger, but Robb plunged on. "In the South, the date is remembered and much celebrated."
Insult nudged out some of the confusion. "We celebrate the birth of children no less than King's Landing itself, Stark."
Stark. Robb suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips. Smalljon only called him that when he was annoyed with him, normally falling back on a lifetime of friendship and calling him by his name – particularly when they were alone.
"I did not suggest otherwise, Jon. Tell me something." Robb changed tactics. "What is the date of your birth?"
Smalljon gave him a blank look. "The date?"
"Yes. As in the date of the month. The first? The fifteenth?"
A long moment passed. "I have no idea." Smalljon finally said slowly. "I was born in late summer, because my mother frequently complained that she had to endure the summer heat with all of her pregnancies. Why?"
"As you said, both we and our friends to the south celebrate the birth of a child. But in the South, the date itself is important. It's noted, and then the anniversary of that date is celebrated again each year afterwards," he hesitated, turned his gaze to the fire. "As I understand it, it becomes an opportunity for the friends and family of the person to sort of…" he paused again, struggled with the right words, "...to celebrate the life of the person. Reaffirm the person's gifts and value to the family and community, I guess." Unable to fully explain it, he finally shrugged helplessly. "It's a big event, Jon. A chance for people to express their love and appreciation for someone. There is feasting, and gifts."
"They all do this? For everyone? Every year?"
Robb's lips twitched again at the other man's incredulous tone, but he nodded.
"I see." Smalljon paused. "No, I don't," he now sounded apologetic. "I still don't understand why a such a custom is driving us northward in such a manner."
"Rhaenys's birthday – as they term the celebration – was today. I'd hoped to be home for it," he said simply.
"I see," Smalljon said again slowly.
"She struggles with homesickness," Robb continued. "Not often, but occasionally. And I thought today might be hard for her."
Smalljon was quiet for a long moment. "I'd wondered. She always seems so cheerful. But it must be difficult to move so far away from home. She has much affection for her family, and they for her, do they not?"
Robb nodded, but before he could speak again, Smalljon said, "Robb, the men are very fond of the queen. She has been nothing but kind to us, and we've seen the difference her presence has made, both for the North and for you. We may not understand the concept of celebrating a birth every year, but we would do anything for her. You must know that."
Deeply moved, Robb managed a smile, but had to swallow before finding his voice. "Even riding hard through storms and floods?"
"Even that."
Silence fell between them, and Robb turned back to the fire, allowed his thoughts to wander.
He'd only been partially honest with Smalljon. While it was true that the primary reason he'd been trying so hard to find a way home was Rhaenys's birthday, it was just as true that he was being drawn there by the woman herself. He missed her, more than he'd expected to.
During quiet moments on the way back, he'd found himself thinking of things to tell her, both serious observations about the situation in the south as well as things more foolish and light-hearted. The latter still surprised him. He'd laughed more in the months since his wedding than in all the years since the death of his father, a benefit of marriage he'd not been expecting.
He was also concerned for her. He'd known how hard it was for her to stay behind and his respect and admiration for her had only grown when he'd seen how determined she'd been to be cheerful in the face of his departure.
His mind drifted back to the morning he'd left.
"Robb?"
He looked up at the sound of Rhaenys's voice as she entered his study. She was wearing a dark blue dress he particularly liked on her. He suspected it wasn't a coincidence that she was wearing it this morning.
"All is in readiness for your departure. Your men are waiting."
He nodded, looked at the reports on his desk. He'd spent most of the night trying to resolve as many problems as he could before he left, not wanting to make things any more difficult for her than they were already going to be. Alas, in doing so, he had not been able to spend the evening with her, something he greatly regretted.
Too late, now. All he could do was ride South as fast as possible in hopes of a quick return.
Standing he walked over to where she was waiting, near the door. Reaching behind her, he closed it, unwilling for anyone to see their farewell.
She looked puzzled. "The men…"
"Will wait," he said, and pulled her to him. Saw her eyes light with surprise and delight. Had she really thought he would make no time for a proper good-bye?
Apparently.
He tilted her chin up, watched as her gaze drifted down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. Regretted even more that he'd had to spend the night in his study.
Locking one arm around her waist, he tangled the other one in her hair – he loved its softness and scent – drew her closer, and kissed her. Was aware that he was trying to show her everything he was feeling – his pride in her, as well as his frustration at having to leave her, with the kiss.
When he lifted his head, they were both out of breath. She laid her head on his shoulder and gave an unsteady laugh before looking back up at him.
There was a mischieveous twinkle in her eyes, though behind the mischief he still saw sadness lurking. Knowing it would do no good to comment on it, that the only thing he could do to remove that look was to return as quickly as possible, he focused instead on the mischief.
"Yes?" He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow at her.
The twinkle grew more pronounced. Turning her head, she glanced around his study, then looked back at him. "It's time for you to leave. I must get started."
Knowing he was being baited, he still indulged her. "Started on what?"
Her smile was a bit impish. "Redecorating. I thought I'd begin in here, perhaps with your desk. I've been told where some roots grow that will make a lovely pink stain for it."
Horrified, he stared at her for a long moment, then started to laugh, was unsurprised when she joined him.
Then he called her bluff. "You may redecorate as much as you like, provided the outside of the hall remains grey." If teasing him in such a manner somehow made his departure easier for her, she could threaten to paint all of Winterfell if she wanted. Could, in fact, actually do so.
"What? You do not wish to return to 'The Pink Keep'?
He laughed again, but could not quite control a wince at the thought. She smiled in response, then reached up, placed her hand on his cheek. "Fear not. I would never do such a thing."
He turned his head, kissed her palm. "I know."
The smile faded. "Be safe."
"I will."
He lowered his head, kissed her one final time, then reluctantly stepped back.
She walked with him out of the hall, watched as he mounted. He looked up at her, saw her smile at him, a very private smile. Saw, too, the tears she was fighting. He held her gaze for a long moment before turning, giving the order for his men to ride out.
A long while later, he turned, glanced back at the gates. And saw her still standing there, watching his departure. He lifted his arm in a final salute, even while doubting she could see it. And damned the Lannisters for forcing him to leave her while their relationship was still so new and uncertain.
Robb shook his head to clear it of the memories, then smiled at the thought of her threats to redecorate. He was quite ready to be home again, even to a pink desk.
The rain held off until mid-morning the following day, something all the men were grateful for. And even when it started again, their good mood lasted. It was amazing what a single night's sleep in drier conditions had accomplished, Robb mused. Or maybe it was that they were finally just over a day's ride from Winterfell.
He also knew that, thanks to Smalljon, the reason for their speed was making its way through the guard. He'd been touched when one of the men had approached him, asked with some puzzlement if they should have gifts of some sort for the queen. Robb had reassured him that no gifts would be necessary, then tucked away the memory of the question having been asked to share with Rhaenys. He thought she'd like knowing of his men's baffled determination to understand the nature of a birthday, and their desire to make it special for her.
If only they could get home without any additional delays.
They stopped for a midday meal at the base of another cliff, hoping for at least partial shelter from the rain.
The horses were grazing near by as the men prepared to have a hurried meal of dried meat and cheese when Robb heard thunder.
Noting that it had startled the horses, that indeed, they were starting to run, he started toward them, only to hesitate at the sound of more thunder above them. How much harder could it rain?
Then his gaze was pulled upward, and for a brief moment he froze with disbelief.
It looked as if most of the mountain above them was coming down on top of them. Or rather him, as in an effort to stretch his legs, he'd wandered farther from his men than he'd realized, closer to the mountain.
Even as he started to run, he saw that his men were running as well – back towards him. How did they think they were going to protect him from the side of a mountain? Furious, he motioned to them. "Run, you fools!"
It was hard to know where to go. Directly in front of them was a small copse of trees; on either side of it was meadows. The horses had disappeared into the latter, but which was really best? If they aimed for the open areas, it might be easier to run, but there would be nothing to slow the movement of the mud and rocks bearing down on them. The trees would be no match for the force of what was behind and above them, of course, but a few of the biggest ones might check the movement of the rockslide a little. Mightn't they?
Some of the men were veering off toward the meadows, but Robb headed for the trees. Their time was up, the roar was too close behind them. Any moment now, he'd be knocked down and then crushed by rocks, buried by mud.
Desperate, he threw himself into the trees, knew immediately it had been a mistake. The trees were old, many of them already dying. The rocks would snap them like kindling. And the underbrush was thick and heavy, and too difficult to maneuver through. He should have taken his chances in the open field.
He stumbled, caught himself, plunged on. There was a glancing blow against his helmet, a rock flying at the front edge of the mass, the first indication that the side of the mountain was a catching up with him.
He wasn't going to make it.
Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Rhaenys pushed back from Robb's desk, wearily rubbing her eyes. It seemed desperately important to his advisors that she read their reports, but for the life of her she couldn't understand why. Dry and dreary, they very seldom told her anything of actual interest about the North and its people. Indeed, she'd started to suspect that the reports were important primarily as a source of pride for the men who'd written them, since reading and writing were not common skills in the North. Beyond that, perhaps they had no purpose at all. Maybe Robb didn't even read them. She would ask him when he returned.
During the first few weeks of his absence, she'd taken some comfort in the task. Being in his study, doing what she could to fill his role, had pushed away some of the loneliness. Had helped fill the days.
It was no longer helping.
If she had misjudged the homesickness she'd feel, she'd also misjudged how difficult it would be to form new friends. It had never occurred to her before that the friends she'd left behind in Dorne had known her all her life, had simply accepted that she was royal. Such things didn't matter much when you were seven.
But it did when you were an adult. There were a few delightful and kind women she was gradually becoming acquainted with, but they were hesitant around her, and it had slowly dawned on her that they were reluctant to be seen as trying to curry the new queen's favor. And at the other end of the spectrum were women who made it plain they wished to be considered a friend of the queen – regardless of what they thought of Rhaenys personally.
She was too much of an optimist by nature to believe that things would always be so difficult. Sooner or later, she'd figure out how to truly establish relationships with the women she admired.
But at the moment, it was difficult and lonely, particularly when she was starting to feel abandoned by her husband.
It was no doubt an unfair thought, but was an honest one.
Frustrated, she shoved the parchments off the desk, felt some satisfaction in watching them scatter. Why had he done this to her? She knew how to supervise a castle, had participated in a similar fashion in the runing of Sunspear. But what did she know of ruling Winterfell? The people were respectful toward her, but if she had to make a hard decision, one that could not be put off "until after the king returns" – her favorite phrase these days – what then? Would they follow her? Why should they, when she was still so unknown to them?
They'd been married for just over three months when he'd been called by his brother; he'd now been gone over two. Not a good balance.
For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if there was more to this trip than just a crisis in the south. Despite his response to her before he left, perhaps he had asked her to stay here because he didn't want her with him? Perhaps he didn't return because he didn't want to, didn't want to be with her?
No. She scrubbed her face again. That was a foolish thought. Thus far, nearly the only thing that had felt like a complete success in her life recently was her relationship with Robb. It was qualified, in that she didn't precisely know how he felt about her, nor, for that matter, how she felt about him, but she would still dare call their relationship itself successful. She knew he liked her, enjoyed her company. He desired her, that was certain. And had always approached her in such a way as to guarantee she desired him in return.
Maybe it wasn't love he felt for her, only responsibility. But their relationship was solid enough, strong enough, to be termed a success. She was sure of it.
She shook her head, tried to clear the doubts away. He'd done nothing to deserve such distrust from her.
And regardless of his feelings for her, he would never have used their relationship as an excuse to delay a return to Winterfell. His love for his people and sense of duty was too strong.
She was still being affected by her birthday, she realized. It had been harder than she'd expected it to be, even in her most depressed moments. She'd spent the entire day wanting someone to know, to remember, and then feeling in turns crushed that no one did and angry at herself for allowing it to matter.
Annoyed with herself all over again, Rhaenys stood, began to collect the papers. She would indulge in no more self-pity. She was the queen of three kingdoms, of the house Targaryen. She would continue to do all she could to learn as much as possible about her kingdom, would strive to be the best queen she could be, the best wife she could be.
If her husband ever came home.
There was a knock on the door, and she suppressed a sigh. Another of Robb's advisors wanting to know how much Ironwood Robb would be expecting to sell to Barrowtown next spring, or some such thing. As if she would know. Another question to be added to the list of things to ask him when he returned. Her mouth curved with bitter humor at the thought of greeting him with it.
"Come," she said, pasting a smile on her face. Robb had to return soon – before she went mad and murdered most of his council.
To her relief, it was Dacey who stepped through the door. She was easily her favorite of Robb's advisors. A good friend of Robb's, she'd been her staunchest ally while the King had been gone.
Her face was tired, lined with worry. She bowed, then gave her a sharp look. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." Relatively.
She didn't believe her; that was plain. But she didn't press the issue. Instead she looked down, noted the rest of the parchments on the floor. "Breeze blow through?" she asked as she started to help her collect them.
She wasn't precisely smiling when she said it, but there was humor in her tone, and she smiled in response, even as a blush crept up her face. She suspected she knew perfectly well why they were on the floor.
But when she stood up again, all traces of humor were gone from her face. She walked over to stand, staring, at a large map on the wall next to the desk. Rhaenys joined her, a little unnerved by her silence.
Slowly, she reached up, traced her finger down the map between the Twins and Winterfell.
"He should be back by now," the captain of the guard's voice was heavy, discouraged.
"He didn't know exactly how long it would take," Rhaenys reminded her. "Maybe something unexpected happened." An argument she didn't really believe, but felt compelled to make.
"In which case he would have sent word. He expected to be back at the absolute latest a full two weeks ago."
"Then perhaps he's in no hurry to return." As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She had no business sharing her private doubts in such a fashion.
Dacey turned to stare at her, but embarrassed, Rhaenys refused to look away from the map.
"If you truly believe he's capable of putting his own preferences ahead of the needs of his people, then you've learned nothing of him during your time here, your majesty."
It was the sharpest she'd ever spoken to her, and shame at the deserved rebuke washed over her. Desperately wishing she'd kept her thoughts to herself, she tried to think of a response. Finally realized there was only one way to undo the damage.
She forced herself to look the other woman in the eye. Hers were chilly.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I should not have spoken such a thing. Forgive me."
The coolness left her eyes, was replaced by compassion. "You should not have been thinking such a thing," she corrected gently. "Robb didn't want to go at all – he didn't want to be away from either the North or you, and only his commitment to King Jon made him do so."
Uncertain how to respond, Rhaenys nodded, then looked back toward the map.
"I've seen him smile more in the months since your nuptials than in all the years I've known him. Whatever is keeping him away, it is not his choice." Frowning, Dacey reached up to touch a point on the map, as if measuring. "Something is not right," she finally said quietly. "And it's time we learn what it is."
At this, she looked over at her, a questioning look on her face.
"With your permission, I'd like to send a party to Harrenhall, to find out what's happened." Anticipating her question, she added, "I have not recommended it before because if the king is fine, just delayed, he's likely to be angry at having been followed." Another silence. "But I do not believe he would have stayed away this long unless something unexpected has occurred."
She stared at the map for a long moment, thought of all the leagues between Winterfell and Casterly Rock, all the possibilities of what could have gone wrong. None of them were good.
While pleased by Dacey's insistence that Robb hadn't wanted to be away from her, it made thinking about his delayed return harder. It was easier to feel abandoned and angry than to yield to fear.
"Send the men."
It was dark and cold. And wet, Robb amended. But where was he? An attempt to feel in front of him with his hand revealed that he was also trapped.
Fighting panic, he tried to move, inhaled sharply when a multitude of aches made themselves known – then choked when mud tried to come in with the air. He spit it out, forced himself to take another shallow breath, his mouth barely open. He could breathe. He could breathe, he repeated to himself, trying to stave off the fear that would cause him to thrash around and worsen his situation.
Rocks. Mud. A memory came back, of the side of a mountain coming down on them, and he closed his eyes. He was alive. At the realization of what he'd survived, at least initially, some of the panic subsided. He could have already been enroute to the halls of his fathers; the fact that he wasn't was a decided improvement. He wasn't ready to die. He still had to celebrate Rhaenys's birthday with her. Late, but they would celebrate.
He was mostly on his back – how had that happened? And turned slightly to his left side. Cautiously, he tested his limbs. He could move his toes, and despite a feeling of weight on his legs and their being twisted into an uncomfortable – but not unnatural – position, there was no agonizingly sharp bite to indicate a broken bone. Bruises, oh, yes. But no broken bones, no paralysis. Next came his arms. His left arm was well and truly trapped. There was a lot of pain there, what felt like even more scrapes and bruises than on his legs, but again, no broken bones and he could both feel and move his fingers. Barely, in terms of space.
His right arm was trapped above his head, against his helm – had he thrown it up at the last moment in an attempt to protect his head? Perhaps. The position felt right.
Afraid of dislodging more mud and rocks, he began carefully to test that arm's movement and range, was grateful to discover that it was much less trapped than his other limbs, if just as bruised. Shifting, he felt around, and began to understand that he was trapped between the rocks and a mammoth tree. The tree's branches were providing an air pocket of sorts as well as some protection from the rocks; the rocks, which must have crashed down around him before he fell, were preventing the tree from crushing him.
He'd been very, very fortunate.
Feeling above his face, he discovered he could shove back some of the smaller branches of the tree, and did so, curious as to how deeply he was buried. If he was under ten feet of rock and mud, all that his good fortune meant was that he would be awake for a while before dying, as they'd never find him in time. He grimaced at the thought.
As he shoved back the branches, he discovered a different danger as a new torrent of small rocks and mud fell on his face.
Choking and gasping, desperate, he yanked his right arm completely free, ignoring the pain that shuddered through him, and frantically wiped the debris away.
Lesson learned – moving around too much could kill him if the next time he did something that caused the larger rocks to shift.
Closing his eyes, he rested for a moment, waited for his heart to settle.
Gradually, it occurred to him that he was breathing fresher air, and he looked up, saw a lighter darkness than he'd expected above where he was lying. Shadows. Relief rushed through him. He could see the shape of larger boulders above him, twisted tree trunks. Some light must be getting through, then. He wasn't hopelessly buried.
But with that thought came another. What of his men? Had they survived? Any of them?
Closing his eyes again, he concentrated on listening. Was that shouts in the distance? Or just the results of desperate longing?
Mostly what he could hear was an odd groaning, creaking noise, and when he identified the sound, anxiety moved through him again. The rocks and trees were still shifting on their own without any help from him, which meant they could move at any time and finish crushing him.
He banished the thought. For the moment, he was alive and relatively uninjured. It was enough.
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Chapter Text
Robb wasn't aware of having slept until he awoke. Cold. He was so damned cold. An involuntary shudder moved through him, and he realized that he could die from exposure just as easily as he could from being crushed.
How long had he been asleep? There were still shadows above him, but was that because it was night, and he'd already spent the best part of the day trapped, or was it simply that the grey daylight they'd been having couldn't pierce the mud and trees?
He tried to swallow, and grimaced. His mouth was dry, and had a foul taste from the mud. It was ironic that he was parched by thirst when rain had triggered the rock slide.
Wearily, he closed his eyes again, pondered trying to shift the rocks and branches that held him in their grasp. The creaking and groaning he'd heard earlier had subsided, hopefully indicating that the greatest danger of being crushed had passed. Should he perhaps try to shift some of the smaller rocks near him? See if he could possibly claw his way free? Or would that simply cause them to start moving again? What was the greatest danger – to risk triggering movement that would crush him, or death by thirst and exposure if no one came?
That thought brought grief, because if no one came it meant all of his men had perished.
If none of his men had survived, how long would it take before someone figured out what had happened? Which direction had the horses gone? Forty riderless horses would alert the villagers closest, assuming the horses had gone in that direction. But would the villagers figure it out in time?
How long could he survive here, cold and wet? If he didn't survive, how long would it be before word reached Dacey and Rhaenys in Winterfell? And Sansa in Vale?
Thoughts of their grief renewed his frustration, and he reached up, started to feel above him. Perhaps if he were careful, he could safely shift some of the branches and smaller rocks, and possibly devise an escape.
Then he heard it. Voices. Too indistinct for him to identify, but it didn't really matter.
"Hello!" he shouted, was frustrated when all that came out was a croak. His mouth was simply too dry. He tried to swallow, to clear his throat, before attempting to shout again. It came out a little louder, but it still wasn't going to be enough for them to hear him.
Grabbing one of the smaller rocks he'd dislodged, he pounded it against the large boulder he was trapped against, in a rhythic pattern. Was rewarded for his efforts by a hail of small stones falling, bouncing off his helmet. That answered the question of whether he could have safely freed himself.
He winced at both the noise and the vibration. His head, like the rest of him, ached abominably, and he wondered again how long he'd been unconscious before he'd first awakened.
But it was enough.
"Robb? Can you hear me?"
It was Smalljon, too upset to bother with formalities, and relief once again made Robb weak.
"I'm here." His voice was still faint, so he again tapped on the rock, deliberately choosing the one that appeared to be the most stable.
"Thank all the benevolent gods of the Forest," he heard Jon mutter. "Where? Keep talking."
"I'm beneath a large tree, trapped between it and the rocks."
"I think I see it. Keep talking. How are you? Where are you injured?"
"Not seriously," Robb croaked. "Bruises, mostly."
There was no response this time, until Robb saw branches above him shift, revealing the shadowed face of his friend. The dimness above him was the shadow from the trees, he realized. It must still be daylight.
There were tears on his cheeks, but his voice was steady as he gazed down at him. "You know, there are easier ways than this of avoiding being king."
Robb choked back a laugh, ignored the wetness on his own face. His smile faded as he asked the question he most wanted – and dreaded – an answer to. "How are the rest of the men?"
"All fine."
Smalljon disappeared from view, and a moment later, Robb heard more voices, and realized he must have gone to tell the others where he was.
It took the better part of the afternoon to free him. Smalljon had refused to take any chances on the rocks shifting, insisting on the careful movement of any of them that were small enough or unstable enough to pose a danger.
But finally, Smalljon reached down, offering Robb his hand. Robb grabbed it, letting himself be hauled up, swearing when his muscles cramped and his bruises throbbed.
Wearily, he leaned against the tree, waited for the trembling in his limbs to stop. Smalljon shouted at someone, and suddenly Robb was conscious of a blanket – a dry blanket – being draped around him, of a skin of water being pressed into his hands.
Confused, he looked up, saw men he didn't know – but who'd obviously participated in his rescue – standing in a half circle around him, along with a few members of his guard.
"Some of the riders went to the village for help," Smalljon murmured.
He look a long drink of the cool water, felt his throat rejoice, before he looked again at the villagers again, met their eyes. "I'm grateful for your help," he said simply.
They nodded, then the oldest of them motioned away from where they were resting. "If you're up to it, we should leave this area, Your Majesty. More of the mountain could come down."
Fear prickled, and Robb nodded, resisted looking up at the mountain. It would be a while – a long while – before he felt entirely comfortable too near a mountain.
But movement was slow. He was still stiff, his bruised muscles complaining at having been in such a cramped position for so long.
He gritted his teeth, moved through the rocks, accepting Smalljon's help when it was necessary. As he'd expected, his left arm was in the worst condition. He suspected that some of the wetness he was feeling was probably blood, though he didn't seem to be bleeding profusely from any particular wound.
Trying to take his mind off his discomfort, he turned to Smalljon. "Where are the rest of the men?"
"The men from the village said it would be safer not to have all of us trying to help free you – there was too great a chance of the rocks shifting. And since the villagers have more experience with rock slides than we do…"
Robb nodded in comprehension. "The men are all fine? No injuries?"
"They're fine," Smalljon repeated, apparently unsurprised by Robb's need for reassurance on that point. "Minor scrapes and bruises. None as bad as yours – you got the worst of it, because you were closest to the mountain when it came down. Everyone else escaped."
His tone was full of chagrin, and when Robb looked at him more closely, he saw both that and guilt.
"This was not your fault, Jon. There was nothing you could do."
The other man gave a sharp jerk of his head. "It just rankles, that's all."
"Not even you can be expected to protect me from a mountain," Robb said dryly, then let his own tone sharpen. "And if I ever again see you putting your life in danger to try and rescue me from something you have no hope of success in, I'll banish you to the wall."
Smalljon obviously wanted to protest, but settled for giving an abrupt nod. "Yes, sire."
Robb changed the subject. "What of the horses?"
"All fine as well, if a bit skittish. They bolted almost before the slide started – instinct perhaps. If we'd been on them, we would be been completely out of danger. They've all been rounded up – none of them went far."
They reached an open area, free of the rocks and mud, and Robb found most of the rest of his guard and the horses. They wore looks of relief, and not a few had tears on their faces. Understanding that it was out of genuine, personal affection for him, humbled him, and he took the time to greet them all individually.
The rest of the men had set up his tent. He hadn't bothered having them do so over the past few nights. It had seemed pointless in light of the soggy ground and the rain - the tent would get soaked and muddy, and thus be harder to put up and take down. He'd also felt a little guilty at the thought of sleeping in a tent while his men suffered in the rain, rain he was determined to keep dragging them through.
But he had no such qualms now. He was wet, cold, and sore, and wanted only to strip and get some sleep.
And by late tomorrow, if the rain held off and they made good time, he would be sleeping in a warm, dry, bed. His bed. It was a pleasant thought.
Rain. Robb wearily wiped the water from his face, glanced around at his men. There was no conversation, no idle jokes about the scenery to pass the time. They weren't even bothering to curse the weather, and the fact that they were only hours from Winterfell didn't seem to be making much difference.
He should say something, find some way to encourage them, but such leadership was beyond him at the moment. How much longer could it rain?
They'd had a respite for part of the night, but it had started again before dawn, and as they moved further north, the accompanying chill grew worse.
Exhausted, cold, miserable, and aching with bruises and scrapes all over his body, there had no doubt been times in his life when he'd been in greater physical discomfort. But at the moment, he couldn't remember any of them.
It began to rain even harder, and shivering with cold, he hunched down in the saddle, thought of his chambers, of being warm and dry, with a hot meal in front of him.
Rhaenys took another sip of tea, looked around the great hall. Perhaps she should go back to her chambers until it was time for the evening meal. She'd been spending a great deal of time sitting at one of the long tables in the hall, convinced that it was good for her to be as visible as possible to anyone who wandered in.
But currently the hall was empty, and sitting by herself felt foolish. The rain had finally forced even the most social to stay snug in their own homes, close to their fires, and she couldn't blame them.
As she stood to leave, the door of the hall burst open, and she turned, alarmed to see Dacey coming towards her, hurry in her stride. For a moment, she could only think that her speed was due to some crisis, and she stiffened with fear for Robb.
And then she took a closer look at the captain's face, full of relief, and knew what she was going to say before she said it.
"Robb's standard has been spotted on the road – they should be here within the hour. I'm riding out to meet them, but you'll probably want to warn the kitchen."
Unable to speak, she nodded, then watched as she abandoned all protocol to turn and bolt from the hall. Weak with relief, she leaned against the table.
He was home.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Chapter Text
After consulting with the kitchen staff, Rhaenys had wrapped in a warm cloak and stepped out on the porch of the great hall to wait, uncaring if she got wet or if the guards were amused by her action. She was relieved Robb was home, and didn't care who knew it.
Impatient, she turned her gaze to the road coming up to the gates, more than ready to see him ride around the bend and into Winterfell's courtyard.
People were coming out of the keep, into the rain and mud, to welcome the king home, a sight that cheered her. Of course, some of them were the families of the men who had gone with Robb, but the enthusiasm was still a marked change from the gloom which had hung over the castle for the past few days.
She heard the horses before she saw them, and smiled at the sound, a smile that grew broader as the riders swept around the curve in the road and into the courtyard.
Robb was in front, between Smalljon and Dacey, surrounded by the rest of his guard as well as the men Dacey had sent out. She barely saw them, her attention fixed on the man she'd missed so much. Even as they brought their horses to a stop, she was moving forward, down the steps.
A crowd was gathering around them, made up of families of the soldiers, his advisors, stable boys waiting to take the horses. But her eyes never left Robb.
Something was wrong. He was holding himself too stiffly in the saddle, and his left arm was tucked too close to his body.
She halted before she reached the bottom of the steps. She wanted to push forward, demand to know what was wrong. But there was no point in adding to the mayhem around him. He'd never hear her anyway.
As he prepared to dismount, he nodded in response to something Smalljon said, but without looking at the man – his eyes were on the crowd around him, moving, watching, looking. And then his gaze moved up, met her eyes, stayed steady.
He'd been looking for her.
In his eyes, she saw relief and gladness, but also weariness and pain. And then she became aware of what was going on around him. His advisors were already clamoring for his attention, with some demanding to know what had delayed him while others were asking more directly about rumors of rebellion in the West, and there were yet others who were starting in with a series of questions about things needing his attention in the North.
Were they mad? The man was cold, wet, and clearly in pain, and they were making demands on him?
"Stop!" Normally soft spoken, she was angry enough that her voice carried throughout the courtyard. All eyes turned toward her, and she made full use of it, pinning the six men currently vying for Robb's attention with a glare that had caused even Dornish princes to back down. "Have you lost your senses? He's wet, cold, hungry and obviously injured, and you would have him sit in the rain listening to your bleating?"
Four of them had the grace to look ashamed, and one turned to Robb in consternation, as if noticing for the first time the way the king was holding himself. But the sixth advisor, a man whom she didn't particularly care for under the best of circumstances, was simply furious with her for the interruption.
So be it. She wasn't known for her temper, had learned at an early age to control it. But she didn't suffer fools gladly, and watching them hammer at Robb had unleashed it. Turning her eyes back to him, she moved down the rest of the steps, unsurprised when the crowd at the foot of them parted for her.
He had dismounted, was leaning against his horse very much as if he'd used his final resources of strength to do so. What was wrong with him?
Without looking away from him, she addressed his advisors. "Gentlemen, perhaps Lord Umber would be willing to debrief you – in the great hall – about recent events. But I believe the King needs to be tended to by a healer."
At that Robb straightened, then stepped away from the horse, as if needing to prove that he could. And perhaps he did. But when he spoke, his voice sounded weak to her ears. "No. I need no healers. But dry clothes and a warm meal would not go amiss."
She stepped up to him. "Then you shall have them."
He turned to her, managed a smile as his eyes met hers again. "I'd greet you properly," he murmured, "but there's no point in two of us being covered with mud."
She blushed as she realized that despite his physical condition, he was referring to kissing her – in front of all Winterfell, no less – but she smiled back at him, a smile that faded as she noted the pallor of his skin. She moved closer to him, to his right side, and wrapped her arm around him. "Mud washes away."
"It does," he agreed. Slowly, as if the movement hurt, he extended his arm around her shoulders, pulled her to him and pressed a kiss on the top of her head.
They started up the stairs, and she realized that he was leaning on her more than she'd even anticipated, though part of the reason she'd wrapped her arm around him was so that he could do so if he needed to.
He stepped onto the porch with a soft groan, as if the stairs had taxed what was left of his strength, but took the time to nod to the guards. The great doors were already opened, and even as they moved into the warmth of the castle, she felt a shudder move through him.
Was he injured? Or ill?
She walked with him to their chambers, but when he paused as if to sit down at the table in the sitting room, she shook her head and led him into the bed chamber, where the tub she'd ordered as soon as she'd known he was home waited.
He stared at the steaming water for a long moment before turning to her, his eyes glazed with pain, exhaustion, and gratitude. He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite figure out how to get the words out, then simply sat down in the chair next to the tub with a sigh.
Reaching up with just his right arm, he began to remove his helmet, and it was immediately apparent that it was going to be difficult for him to manage.
Without a word, she stepped over to him, pulled it carefully off. It had been a new helmet when he'd ridden off, and now the dents and scratches in it told their own story, one that made her stomach churn.
Later. She'd ask for the details later.
She knelt before him, began to remove his greaves, the armour protecting his lower legs. And felt him touch her forehead.
When she glanced up, he was frowning. "That is not for you to do. Call for Jon, or I'll do it myself in a moment."
Refusing to be insulted by the comment, she went back to removing the armour. "Lord Umber is busy distracting your advisors. I'm here, and completely competent to assist you. And at the moment, you don't look capable of stopping me."
He had no response to that. She finished removing his greaves, then pulled off his boots before reaching for his gauntlets. The right one wasn't a problem, but he flinched when she reached for the left, before she'd even touched it.
"I'll be careful," she said gently as she started unbuckling the gauntlet. Keeping her touch as light and slow as possible, she looked back up at him. "Is there any chance the arm is broken?"
He shook his head. "No. I had the armour off last night."
Last night. That meant that whatever was wrong with him had happened at least a day earlier.
She finished removing the gauntlet, then started on the rest of the armour that could be removed while he was sitting. He was still shivering, despite the warmth of the room, but was also beginning to relax as more of the heavy pieces were placed on the floor.
"You'll have to stand up for me to remove the rest."
He nodded, then slowly did so, and with his arms now free of the armour's weight, was able to help her with some of the buckles and fastenings on the breastplate.
Once the armour was off, she helped him out of the mail that he wore under it, before turning to the clothes that he wore under the mail. They were soaked through, and filthy. Normally, the armour and mail provided a little protection from the elements, but not this time.
Biting her tongue to prevent herself from demanding answers, she eased him out of the tunic and undershirt, and then just stared in horror. He was literally covered with bruises and scrapes, including places that were seeping blood where it looked as if he'd simply been scraped raw. As expected, the left arm was the worst.
"Robb…what happened?" Unable to keep the distress out of her voice, she met his eyes.
He shivered again, and she shook her head. First things first. There would be time for answers later. She began to ease his leggings down, blushing a little as she did so despite several months of marriage. She distracted herself from the intimacy of the task by wondering if she'd find the same damage on his legs.
Yes.
Her lips pressed together in a grim line, she moved back, allowed him to step out of the leggings. He eased into the tub with a sigh, then grimaced as the scraped areas encountered the hot water.
She pulled the chair a little closer to him, reached for a soft cloth. Dipping it in the water, she began wiping the mud off his face. Watched as a flush appeared.
He batted at her hand. "I can bathe myself," he muttered.
"I never doubted it. But those scrapes need to be properly cleaned and then treated, so you can either let me help or we can call a healer in here." Against her will, a tremble came into her voice. "Let me. Please." He gave her a sharp look, and she looked away. Dipping the cloth into the water again, she took a breath before continuing, forcing her voice to steady. "I've missed you," she admitted, not meeting his eyes. "And been worried these past few days."
He closed his eyes, sighed. "I'm sorry for that."
With hands that still trembled, she resumed wiping his face, noting that being out of the wet clothes and into the warm water seemed to be serving its purpose – he was no longer shivering. Moving down to his shoulders, she finally asked, "Tell me what happened. Who did this to you?"
His lips curved in a humorless smile. "Not a 'who', but a 'what'. I was caught in a rockslide triggered by the rain."
She froze, stared at him. "What?"
"A rockslide, triggered by the rain."
A rockslide. The bruises and scrapes suddenly no longer seemed so severe. How had he survived?
Noticing that she'd stopped wiping him, he reached out, gently touched her cheek. "I'm fine, Rhaenys. Sore, but fine."
Helplessly, she stared at him. "But how? How could you have survived such a thing?"
"I was trapped between a large tree and some of the first rocks that fell. The rocks prevented the tree from crushing me; the tree prevented the rocks from doing so while its branches provided an air pocket of sorts."
He sounded matter of fact about it. How could he be so calm? She looked away from him, tried to take a steadying breath. He could so easily have died. Would never have come home. Her stomach twisted, and she swallowed against the nausea that threatened.
"Rhae." She looked up, startled. He'd never before called her by the shortened version of her name that her family used.
He cupped her cheek, kept his eyes steady on hers. "I'm fine. There's no point in thinking about what might have been."
She nodded, understood that he didn't want to see tears. Squeezing out the cloth, she resumed wiping him down, steadfastly refusing to think about his body trapped between rocks and a tree. Crushed.
He sighed, relaxed again. "It's so good to be warm."
Searching for humor, she said, "You're still wet, though."
Accepting her effort at lightening the moment, he looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. "A valid observation. But it's with hot, clean water, which makes all the difference."
She smiled, wiped further down his chest. "Your mid section isn't as badly bruised."
"No. The armour made more of a difference there, I think. It's mostly my limbs, particularly the left arm."
"And yet no broken bones."
"No."
"You were very fortunate."
"I was. Not least because my men were able to judge where I would have fallen, and now I'm home, in a warm bath, being tended by you."
Unsure how to respond, she nodded. "If you'll sit forward a bit, I'll wash your back for you."
His eyes twinkled again. "There's an offer I can't refuse. I'll have to return the favor sometime, though."
Her stomach flipped at that, and she wondered how long it would be until he felt recovered enough to make love to her. She'd missed him in many ways.
Banishing the thought, she turned to his back. There were bruises here as well, though like his chest area, they weren't as severe as those on his arms and legs.
When he'd leaned back against the edge of the tub again, she stood, went over to the fire. Pouring more hot water into a small basin, she carried it back to where she was sitting. "I want completely clean water for bathing the scrapes on your arm."
He nodded, carefully moved his left arm so it lay along the edge of the tub. She began to gently clean the raw places, wincing in sympathy at his hiss of breath. He'd have more scars from this, to add to the rest of his impressive collection.
Once it was clean, she began to smooth salve on the scrapes, watched him grit his teeth as it stung. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
He nodded, then shifted, picked up the original cloth she'd been using, and began wiping down his legs, apparently as a way of distracting himself from the sting of the salve.
When she'd finished, she sat back, looked at him. "The healers should still look at your arm. I don't know whether it's better to bind the wounds or not."
He yawned, looked down at his arm, nodded. "It will be fine tonight. The bleeding has stopped, and if the healers start examining me, I'll never get to sleep."
Her lips curved at his sulky tone. "A very good point. Why don't you finish bathing, and I'll go see about a hot meal for you. Then you can rest."
He nodded, closed his eyes.
She'd half expected someone to have already brought him a meal, was a little annoyed that they hadn't.
The annoyance was mollified somewhat when she discovered that no one had told the kitchen staff the king was injured and would be eating in his chambers – they'd expected him to appear in the hall when he was hungry, and the cook was distressed when Rhaenys told her otherwise. As a result of the need to reassure them that he would be fine after a good night's rest, it took longer than she'd intended to get back to him.
But with the meal finally waiting on the table in the sitting room, she stepped back into his bed chamber, then paused, stared. Oh, my.
He was out of the tub, stretched fully out on the furs in front of the fire in a completely relaxed position on his back, one arm thrown above his head.. Totally nude, he was sound asleep.
Chapter Text
Rhaenys's throat went dry, and for a moment she simply stood there, indulging in the sight of him. He was home. Injured, but not seriously. He was home.
Walking softly, she crossed the room, knelt beside him. He'd washed his hair after she left, and it curled softly around his head. She reached out, running her fingers through the soft locks. Later, she'd see if he would let her brush it for him. Probably not without an argument, she thought, remembering his protest about being able to bathe himself.
She wanted to touch him, but was afraid to do so, afraid of disturbing him. Would he get chilled, lying there with just the fire to warm him? Perhaps she should fetch a blanket from the bed. She frowned at the thought of the wool scratching against his abrasions and decided against it. The fire was warm enough. Instead, she looped both hands around her bent legs and rested her chin on her knees. And watched him sleep.
Her eyes drifted down from his face to his chest, the injuries to his arms and legs. Again, the image formed in her mind of him trapped, being crushed beneath rocks. It could so easily have gone differently. Even now, they could be preparing to bury him. The sick feeling from earlier came back and she again pushed the images out of her mind. He was right that it would do no good to dwell on them. But the tears came anyway.
She had suspected she was falling in love with him before he'd even left on his campaign, perhaps had started to do so as early as their wedding night. She'd wondered about it while he had been gone, while she had been missing him. But it was not until she had seen his injuries, realized how close he'd come to dying, that she had truly understood her own heart. She loved him, so much it was a little frightening. His kindness, his loyalty, his commitment to his people…even the temper she knew he kept a firm rein on.
She wasn't sure how he felt about her, but was willing to give it time. He desired her, enjoyed spending time with her. And it meant a great deal that he had been looking for her when he'd arrived back at Winterfell, that his eyes had not stopped restlessly moving about the courtyard until they'd found her.
Brushing away her tears, she looked at the door that lead to her bed chamber. She was tired. It had been an exhausting few days, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. With Robb, though, not alone in her bed
Would he think it foolish of her? Maybe, but it was a risk she was willing to take. She'd probably wake before him, anyway. Standing, she slipped out of her dress, laid it over the chair. Then, clad only in her shift, she laid down next to him, on his right side so there'd be no chance of bumping his left arm with its greater injuries.
With his right arm flung above his head, she was able to snuggle close to him.
On a sigh, she slept.
Robb was cold. Or at least most of him was. Oddly enough, it was the side away from the fire that was a little warmer.
Confused, he opened his eyes. Why was he on the floor?
Then he saw the tub, felt the bruises, and memory rushed back, of the rockslide, the ride home, of being cared for by Rhaenys. He smiled a little at the memory of her telling off his advisors. Looking down, he realized that she was the reason one side was still warm – she was curled up next to him, her face tucked in his side.
He'd intended to lay down in front of the fire only long enough to dry off, to get warm, but his exhausted body had had other ideas . The fire had now burned low, though, meaning she would no doubt be getting cold soon as well, if she weren't already. She was always colder than he was.
He thought of waking her, of relocating to the bed, then saw her face, the tracks of her tears, the smudges beneath her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well, either.
Deciding not to disturb her, he stood, and moved quietly over to the bed, collected one of the covers. He stopped to stir the fire before lying back down next to her, on his side. As expected, she'd curled further into herself, obviously cold. He pulled the cover over them both, then moved closer to her, wrapped his left arm carefully around her. She sighed, relaxed against him.
She'd been weeping. It both disturbed him that she'd been that upset, and, if he was honest, elated him that she cared that much.
Shifting, he pressed a kiss onto her head before slipping back into sleep.
The next time he awoke, it was because he felt her trying to draw away from him. Frowning, he lifted his head, looked at her. And was puzzled when she blushed, glanced away.
"Rhaenys?"
"I expected to awaken before you." Clearly embarrassed, she motioned to where she'd slept. "I thought you would think me foolish for not seeking my own bed."
"Hardly," he murmured. He was on his right side, with her tucked next to him, on her back. Raising himself up on his elbow, he shifted even closer to her, deliberately trapped her with his other arm, then leaned down, claiming her mouth with his own.
She responded immediately, unleashing a surge of heat through him. He'd missed this, missed her sweetness and passion. His hand slipped down, cupping her breast, squeezing gently. He wished she'd stripped out of the shift at the same time she'd removed her dress. But that was easily corrected. He smiled at the thought, lifted his head.
The smile faded when he realized she was frowning at him. "What is it?" Had he misjudged her desire?
Her hands skimmed lightly over his shoulders then came to rest on his chest. "I'm afraid to touch you," she said, distressed. "You're injured everywhere!"
His smile returned, and he leaned down, nuzzled her cheek, buried his face in her soft, scented hair. Then he looked back at her again, a mischievous look on his face. "If you take the shift off, I'll show where you can touch me."
Her eyes slid down his chest to the part of him currently pressing rather insistently against her hip, and she gave him an impish smile, even as her cheeks heated with a blush. It was the kind of contradiction in her that he loved.
He laughed in response, leaned down to kiss her again. Oh, it was good to be home, to be with her. After a moment, he lifted his head. "You may touch me there anytime you like, but that's not actually what I had in mind."
The smile faded, and she looked at him consideringly for a long moment. "Are you sure you should really do this? Perhaps you should sleep more." Her fingers gently touched one of the raw places on his arm.
"I've been asleep for hours. I can do without more sleep. But you… I've been without you for far too long. I've missed you, too," he said softly.
She smiled at that, obviously pleased by the comment. Then shoved very gently on his chest. "Then by all means, let me up so I can remove my shift."
Laughing at her insistent tone, he did as she requested.
She sat up, shivered as the covers dropped to her waist. "It's cold."
"I can assist you with that as soon as the shift is gone," he said with another smile.
"I'm sure you can." Her tone was dry, but a smile still lurked on her lips. Wiggling around, she pulled the shift off, over her head, then looked at him, the smile becoming more pronounced. "Well?"
He couldn't have spoken if she'd held a knife to him – looking at her in the faint light of the dying fire, his throat had gone dry with desire. Instead, he pulled her back down, tugged the covers over them before dropping his mouth to her breast. Then smiled as she jerked against him in reaction to his warm mouth against her cold skin.
He pleasured her – both of them – by lingering there for long moments, then looked up at her. She'd found her own place for her hands, had buried them in his hair. Smiling again, he leaned down, resumed kissing her.
Despite the intensity of his desire for her, he delayed taking their lovemaking to the next level as long as he could, giving them both pleasure as he touched and tasted her, as he encouraged her to touch him by pointing out all the places on his body that were without bruises.
But finally, as the sky outside the window began to lighten with the first suggestion of dawn, he eased into her, watched her eyes darken as he did so. He kept that connection, his eyes on hers, as he began to move, willed her to see all that was in his heart for her as they both found their pleasure.
Afterwards, he rolled them over, pulled her on top of him. Lazily letting his hand drift up and down her back, he closed his eyes, drifted in contentment. He'd told himself he was determined to get home for her, for her birthday. He now knew that it had only been a half-truth, at best. Arriving home, battered, bruised, and cold, to find her waiting for him, so determined to care for him, had healed a loneliness in him, an ache he hadn't even known existed.
"I shouldn't be here," she mumbled. "I'll hurt you."
He tightened his arms around her, not prepared to let her go. "You don't weigh that much. Besides, where you're lying was hardly bruised, remember?"
She shook her head, as if deciding against arguing with him, and they laid that way for a few moments longer before she finally slipped off of him, to the side, still being careful of his bruises and scrapes.
"There's something I don't understand."
"And what is that?" He turned his head, looked at her.
"If the rockslide you were trapped in happened over a day away, the rains we've been having must have been happening very far south and east as well."
"We encountered heavy rains all along the road," he said. "All the way from Moat Cailin, in fact. Many villages are flooded, and the road as well in places."
"Then why not stop by White Harbor or even at Moat Cailin itself? Or not stop in one of the villages until the rains stopped?"
"I wanted to be here on the 18th."
She stared at him for a long moment, plainly puzzled. Then, as understanding replaced the confusion in her eyes, she jerked away from him, sat up. Reaching for her shift, she stood, but instead of putting it on she stalked over to the fire. She paused there a moment before bending to tend it..
"Rhaenys?" Baffled, he sat up, prepared to follow her, when she turned back to stare him.
"Let me see if I understand this properly." Her eyes were hot with anger, but her voice was calm. Rigidly so. "You dragged your men through floods all the way from the Neck, nearly died in a rockslide, because you wanted to be here for my birthday?"
He stared at her in puzzlement. "My men are used to riding in the rain," he finally said. "And when we left, we didn't know it was going to be like that all the way home. I believed we would surely ride out of it."
"Well you didn't, did you?"
There was a bitterness to her voice that he didn't understand, and he ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "It was rain." He kept his voice even, strove for a reasonable tone. "Surely you wouldn't have it said that men who faced Tywin Lannister himself were afraid of rain?"
Her eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut, spun around to the fire again, obviously deciding against making a response.
He stared at her back for a long moment, searched for the words that would calm her. It was difficult when he didn't understand the source of her anger. It surprised him. And here he'd expected her to be pleased that he'd remembered her birthday.
Indignation at the thought slipped in as he remembered how hard he'd tried to get home, and he stood. It was one thing to have an argument while they were both stark-naked, but he refused to be taken to task any further while sitting on the floor.
He walked over to her, then took a step backwards, deciding to keep his distance.
She was still gripping the shift as if she were fighting the urge to rend it seam from seam. Better the shift than him.
Still trying to stay calm, he spoke carefully. "My men are used to riding in the rain," he said again, "and when we left, we didn't know it was going to be like that all the way home. I kept thinking we'd ride out of it," he repeated, at a loss as to how to calm her.
She turned to him, anger still flashing in her eyes. "You should have stopped at one of the villages. It was foolish to continue in the rain, through floods, no less." Her knuckles were white against the shift.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the last threads of his composure, but felt temper threatening to claw its way out. "Careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to you insulting my men in such a fashion."
"It is not your men I consider fools, as they were merely following you," she snapped, then turned from him again, to stare back into the fire, her body still rigid.
Temper broke free. "You know nothing of the weather we're used to riding in! You think we kept our lands safe by hiding from rain?"
"That was different! There was a good reason for that!" Her voice broke on the last word.
She still had her back to him, and it made him even angrier. He closed the distance between them, was rougher than he'd intended to be when he turned her toward him. "You're a good reason."
The rage was gone, the fury in her eyes replaced by tears. Shaking her head, she said, "Not for that. Not at that cost. You nearly died." Her voice tight with the tears she was fighting, she tried to turn from him again.
He didn't allow her to. It was impossible to maintain his own anger in the face of her distress. He gathered her to him, forced her head against his chest. "I didn't."
After a moment, she got herself under control, looked up at him. "You could have." She swallowed hard. "I was so lonely on my birthday." A tear slid down her cheek. "No one knew. I wanted you here, so much. But I can't bear to think that you were trying to get to me through such dangerous conditions. Can't bear to think of you trapped liked that, because of me."
He wiped the tears away. "Then don't think of it," he said quietly. "I've had many close calls, may well have many more. But it is not yet my time." He pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I would not have started home if I'd known how bad it was," he admitted. "But I wanted to be here, to be with you. Wanted you to know I remembered the date and why it was important. And I kept thinking the weather would improve. We've not had these kinds of rains in the autumn in living memory, and I had no way of knowing just how bad it was. All the way north, I kept thinking we'd surely ride out of them."
She took a shuddering breath, closed her eyes. "I'm sorry for my temper," she murmured. "It was bad enough thinking of you trapped in that rockslide. Realizing it was because of me…"
"Don't think of it, then,." he said again. "Although your birthday was a major factor, it was not the only one. I'd been gone from you and the North for far too long already. I needed to get home." He brushed her lips with a light kiss. "I considered getting home to you well worth a long, wet ride in the rain," he said. "But as I indicated, if I'd known it was that dangerous, I would certainly have waited somewhere."
"There's always danger of some kind," he reminded her gently. "Even the best riders get thrown by a suddenly spooked horse; there are still brigands and unsavory men who lurk in the dark, uncivilized corners of the world. And I'm always going to be trying to get back to you, to Winterfell, as soon as I can, regardless of the date."
He wondered if she fully understood all that he was admitting to her.
She shivered, and he realized that with the heat of her temper fading, she was feeling the chill of the room again, even with the fire now burning brightly behind her. He stepped away for a moment, grabbed the blanket, draped it over her. With his arms once more tight around her, he rested his cheek on her head.
"I'd like nothing better than to take you back to bed and warm you properly," he murmured with regret. "But the keep will be stirring soon, and I must meet with the council."
She sighed against him. "Yes. They need an opportunity to plague you with questions about the number of Ironwood you expect to trade to the Crownlands next year."
He choked with laughter at her tone. "Oh, it is good to be home." Tilting her face back up, he kissed her. "I expect there will be a celebration in the hall tonight to welcome me and my men back, but afterwards, you and I will have our own celebration."
She looked over to the skin where they'd slept and loved, and smiled at him. "I thought we'd already done so."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "But there's still this matter of your birthday. I have gifts."
"You do?" Wonder came into her eyes. "Can I see them?"
He laughed at her. "No. Not until tonight."
She pretended to pout for a moment, then slipped her arms up around his neck, apparently trusting his arms to keep the blanket around her. "That's fine. I can wait. I've already had my best gift," she said, kissing him.