[ it is hot in the south. the servants whisper amongst themselves in the halls saying, these northmen shall melt, but before long they whisper different things.
robb stark has brought the winter to king's landing.
but however cold it gets, this place shall never feel like home. it shall never be anything but a castle in which his father once lived, where those who murdered his father once lived. (lived and died, and now golden heads sit upon pikes on the highest wall, put there by robb's own hand as a warning to all.) in those early days, he had commanded the lord varys to tell him of what happened in this throne room, and varys does, spills out terrible, blood-filled truths, and robb's jaw grows tight and he orders the floor scrubbed yet again, though nothing will purge this room of joffrey's reign.
he sits the iron throne, runs fingers along the sharp points of swords and his father once sat here, varys said, in king robert's stead. robb's namesake, varys adds with a thoughtful little hum. it seems you were so very aptly named, your grace, says his lord of whisperers and robb dismisses him. for all his usefulness, varys has a way of speaking such unsettling words.
when they do not speak of hunting down the lannisters who managed to escaped robb's seige and fear them rallying behind the kingslayer, his small council urges him to marry margaery tyrell. a widowed king breeds no heirs, and each time the raise the issue robb feels his face turn to ice and stone. he tries not to think of it, of jeyne and her masses of thick, dark hair and how she'd shivered when he'd touched her cheek. he does not think of how she'd screamed when the first arrow had pierced her thigh, nor of how she'd called his name the instant before roose bolton had stabbed her through the heart. (jaime lannister sends his regards, your grace) she had called for him, reached out for him, and robb had not managed to do anything more than put his sword through roose bolton's neck and then cradle his lady wife's body as she bled out upon the floor of the twins.
(failed, i failed her and i lost her. i should have been faster, should have made her stay behind, how could i have let this come to pass...)
but even so, even were he not lost to old memory and made a ruin by betrayal and death, robb does not know that he finds it wise to take the woman he widowed with his own blade into his bed. but the idea does not die, and someday robb will have to square with it. someday robb will have to take a new wife to replace she who had been lost (jeyne) whether it be the dragon queen across the sea, the threat that could be neutralized with the sweep of a direwolf-emblazoned cloak about her shoulders, or the rose maiden of the house tyrell who smirks sideways at robb in a manner that makes his cheeks heat.
but robb wishes something else.
in his childhood, he'd ever assumed he'd wed sansa, for was it not the way things go? it was the way everything in their lives had been done, hand in hand, sansa at robb's elbow and robb ever at her side, the eldest, the ones who learnt duty and responsibility from the time they'd taken their first steps. and sansa's well being had ever been robb's duty, so naturally he'd marry her, for who else could be entrusted with the task of caring for her?
it was a child's thought, but robb thinks of it now with a grim smile as he takes his leave of the small council. he takes his leave and dismisses his kingsguard (ser loras tyrell in his resplendant armor) and climbs flight after flight of stairs with grey wind at his heels to knock upon a door and beg entry into the chamber that had once been the room of the hand of the king.
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robb stark has brought the winter to king's landing.
but however cold it gets, this place shall never feel like home. it shall never be anything but a castle in which his father once lived, where those who murdered his father once lived. (lived and died, and now golden heads sit upon pikes on the highest wall, put there by robb's own hand as a warning to all.) in those early days, he had commanded the lord varys to tell him of what happened in this throne room, and varys does, spills out terrible, blood-filled truths, and robb's jaw grows tight and he orders the floor scrubbed yet again, though nothing will purge this room of joffrey's reign.
he sits the iron throne, runs fingers along the sharp points of swords and his father once sat here, varys said, in king robert's stead. robb's namesake, varys adds with a thoughtful little hum. it seems you were so very aptly named, your grace, says his lord of whisperers and robb dismisses him. for all his usefulness, varys has a way of speaking such unsettling words.
when they do not speak of hunting down the lannisters who managed to escaped robb's seige and fear them rallying behind the kingslayer, his small council urges him to marry margaery tyrell. a widowed king breeds no heirs, and each time the raise the issue robb feels his face turn to ice and stone. he tries not to think of it, of jeyne and her masses of thick, dark hair and how she'd shivered when he'd touched her cheek. he does not think of how she'd screamed when the first arrow had pierced her thigh, nor of how she'd called his name the instant before roose bolton had stabbed her through the heart. (jaime lannister sends his regards, your grace) she had called for him, reached out for him, and robb had not managed to do anything more than put his sword through roose bolton's neck and then cradle his lady wife's body as she bled out upon the floor of the twins.
(failed, i failed her and i lost her. i should have been faster, should have made her stay behind, how could i have let this come to pass...)
but even so, even were he not lost to old memory and made a ruin by betrayal and death, robb does not know that he finds it wise to take the woman he widowed with his own blade into his bed. but the idea does not die, and someday robb will have to square with it. someday robb will have to take a new wife to replace she who had been lost (jeyne) whether it be the dragon queen across the sea, the threat that could be neutralized with the sweep of a direwolf-emblazoned cloak about her shoulders, or the rose maiden of the house tyrell who smirks sideways at robb in a manner that makes his cheeks heat.
but robb wishes something else.
in his childhood, he'd ever assumed he'd wed sansa, for was it not the way things go? it was the way everything in their lives had been done, hand in hand, sansa at robb's elbow and robb ever at her side, the eldest, the ones who learnt duty and responsibility from the time they'd taken their first steps. and sansa's well being had ever been robb's duty, so naturally he'd marry her, for who else could be entrusted with the task of caring for her?
it was a child's thought, but robb thinks of it now with a grim smile as he takes his leave of the small council. he takes his leave and dismisses his kingsguard (ser loras tyrell in his resplendant armor) and climbs flight after flight of stairs with grey wind at his heels to knock upon a door and beg entry into the chamber that had once been the room of the hand of the king.
sansa, will you let me in? ]