THE NIGHT'S KING
Winter is more than ice, snow and cold. It is the bitter wind, seeping...
Winter is more than ice, snow and cold. It is the bitter wind, seeping...
The Night's King (ASOIAF)
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Robert I
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
THE NIGHT'S KING
Winter is more than ice, snow and cold. It is the bitter wind, seeping through the cracks in the Wall. At the start of a long night, Robert Baratheon guiltily falls in love with a pale woman he is not convinced is real.
A light feeling settled on his cheek, cold. Robert Baratheon blinked and looked up at the sky, grey and burdened clouds drifting above them. He felt it again on his brow and he squinted. A snowflake drifted lazily past the tip of his nose. "Snow," Robert muttered in disbelief, raising a cupped hand. Two droplets of frozen water fell against his skin and melted away. "It's snowing."Winter is more than ice, snow and cold. It is the bitter wind, seeping through the cracks in the Wall. At the start of a long night, Robert Baratheon guiltily falls in love with a pale woman he is not convinced is real.
"What are those daft bastards at Oldtown doing?" Ser Trask pulled hard on the reins. His horse fought him, tossing its mane and stamping hooves against the ground. His squire sat sullenly on his own horse, clutching the knight's shield with the rack of antlers coat-of-arms. "And the North! We've received no warning –"
"Watch your words," Robert snapped. "I know Ned, I know House Stark. Winter is Coming are their words, nothing else they take more seriously." A bitter wind was blowing; the cold pushing into his clothes like the eager fingers of a whore, filling the gaps between the fabric, leather and skin until all traces of the morning's heat had bled away.
"I meant Lord Eddard no disrespect –"
"Was warm as anything not to long ago," Lewis Highland of the Westerlands rescued the knight. His blotchy, pale face was turned upward, Lannister blond hair straight as sticks and a shallow frown on his lips as he shifted in his saddle. His dogs snarled and murmured to themselves, staying close to their master. "This is too sudden; this be an ill wind and weather, your Grace."
The snow was falling faster. The ground was growing a snow coat, the bright green of grass poking through defiantly. Robert grunted and kicked his horse's side. "I came here to get drunk and kill things. This'll pass soon enough."
Words were wind. The sky continued to weep frozen tears as the hunting party set camp. The fire pit was dug as the green grass disappeared underneath white and the leaves on the trees hung heavy. The tents were pitched as the tips of their fingers and toes went numb from the chill. The dogs kept leashed and the horses tied, still the snow fell. Footprints were made and lost within seconds; the curtain of winter hemmed them in until all was white, and cold.
"This is unnatural," Jaime Lannister declared, hand on the pommel of this sword as if he could cut the weather in half. His golden shoulders were covered with so much snow they matched his white cloak.
"Its winter," Beren Rollingford shrugged, a half smirk on his face. "Mighty inconvenient, that."
"If it was convenient, it wouldn't be winter, now would it?" Egard Follard quipped, dark of hair and broad grin. "Bet this caught them maesters by surprise, bet you anything."
"A fool's bet."
The Kingsguard looked at each other. Eyebrows raising, eyes narrowing and widening, twitches of hands and shoulders, glares. Ser Barristan Selmy sighed suddenly. "Your grace…"
"Give it a day or two," Robert said stubbornly as he pulled his pack off his horse. He cast his eyes up to the clouds. "Give it a day."
He needed at least a day away from his lady wife before he did something he would regret. Cersei Lannister was pretty enough, but cold as a dead fish with an edge like a headsman's axe. He'd wanted – well, what he got might as well have been a female version of her father, Tywin, instead hell-bent on making his life miserable. Something he did?
Maybe she just hated him.
There was no shame in walking away from a lost cause; happy wife, long life, hadn't Jon taught him that? Then again, Jon was also a crafty old bastard prone to locking Robert in a room with coin counter books, screaming through the keyhole to get used to being King.
If Jon came clean tomorrow and confessed that marriage was supposed to be terrible, at this point Robert wouldn't bat an eyelash.
And he had the rest of his life to look forward to.
"We'll hunt for our supper," he declared. "Snow can't have scared all the game away, and someone get that fire going!"
They managed to bag several fat pheasants and a hare, Ser Trask's squire – damn, if Robert couldn't remember the boy's name, something with a C – was one hell of a shot with the bow. They'd found deer tracks, but the snow soon covered the trail and the hounds less than useless. Highland had cursed and kicked, but the dogs acted spooked, hackles raised and whining.
"I don't know what's wrong with them, your Grace, I –" Highland swallowed. The hound master's watery blue eyes twitched in their sockets. "They've never been like this before."
"My Septa used to say a hound could smell bad weather," Ser Trask commented lightly but his dark eyes were grim. Robert worried his lip. Common Stormland folklore, the animals could always smell a storm coming. None of them had the clothes for wandering through a blizzard. "We should head back to camp."
"Look at 'em," Follard gestured. Highland yanked on a dog that had started biting itself, blood matted fur. "They look like they smell the Stranger himself, not storms."
"Cinch your belts," Robert murmured. "We'll turn in for the night."
--------------
Robert woke up cold, which put him in something of a sour mood, a curse on his lips as soon as his eyes opened. He'd fallen asleep with his boots on, a cloak thrown atop his blankets and it still wasn't enough. He laid there until he couldn't feel his feet anymore, then got up. He dug around in the dark for his wineskin. The pheasant sat heavy in his stomach and the wine warmed him. He stumbled out of his tent, drawing his cloak around him.
"Seven hells!" He gasped. The cold was almost wicked with its cuts, feeling as if it sliced at skin and bone with intent. Careful, methodical misery. With every breath, it stole into his lungs like a thief and he felt as if he might freeze from the inside out. The camp fire blazed in the dug pit but Robert had to get close, close enough for sparks to jump on him in order to feel the heat.
He looked around, trying to spot the tender. The tents were still. He could hear the sounds of miserable animals and someone snoring, but no hint of white cloaks or watchers.
Probably off making water, trying not to freeze their cock off, he thought. He held out his hands, warming them. He was trying hard not to think about what winter – now when none were ready – might mean for the kingdom. Would there be enough food? How long would it last? His chest felt tight in faint panic. He'd been a boy his first winter. He had seen the snow clouds and ice from atop the Eyrie, Jon Arryn rationing the food stores and Eddard – Ned – up there with him in the howling, telling him what the North would be doing during the winter. It had been cold enough to freeze a man's blood, he recalled, they weren't to stay up there long but Ned in his furs and long face said he needed to be up there, needed to see.
His House words, 'Winter is Coming.' Jon let him and Robert was there to make sure Ned kept all his toes and fingers safe from frostbite. Thick-headed fool acted like he had a wolf's fur.
He couldn't remember what exactly Ned had told him then, how the North prepared for winter. Lyanna would have –
Robert stopped.
Jon would know what to do, he reasoned. Him and Ned both would tell it to him true. He could rely on them.
He looked out into the night. The fire made everything beyond that much harsher, darker. Outside of the circle of tents and trees, shadows reigned, looking as if they were at the edge of the world, right before it dropped off into nothingness. As he watched, it began to snow again as if mocking him and he cursed under his breath. "Gods be good."
As if in answer, Robert's ears picked up a sound floating just underneath the howl of wind and crackling of fire.
Singing.
"What in the seven hells…" The notes were faint and unfamiliar, but they were there. Someone was out there in that icy hell, singing.
He snatched a stick from the fire. Either the singer was warmer and more comfortable than he was, or half-delirious from the cold. He suspected the latter and so he set off. Robert moved in a straight line, deliberately making large, dragging steps as a trail as he held his makeshift torch high. With every step, he thought the song was getting louder.
"Hello!" He bellowed out. "Can you hear me?"
The song faltered. He sped up, brushing past reaching branches and snow covered trunks –
Caw! Caw! Caw!
A flock of black birds rushed out of the brush in his face. Robert nearly fell over his own two feet, reflexive hand covering his eyes. Wings beat into his raised arm, batting the torch viciously into the ground. The fire hissed and spit, drowned in the snow. He uncovered his eyes tentatively, and was met with a pale woman standing in the small clearing.
Robert forgot how to breathe.
Hair and skin like moonlight, blue eyes like stars. She was dressed in white hide and cloth, pure white, making it hard to tell where the snow ended and she began. She stared at him in open curiosity, lips and cheeks fetchingly pink. He couldn't remember seeing a lovelier sight. Robert forgot himself, smiling as he approached. He held out his hand.
She took it with both of hers, ice cold. Her long fingers traced the rough lines on his palm as he sucked in a breath.
"Gods, you'll catch your death out here."
She laughed. "A summer child," she teased him, and entwined her fingers with his. "You are cold?"
"I – " He wasn't cold, he realized. He wasn't anything, numb almost. She grasped his other hand, stepping in close – intimately close – and studied him. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, when his gut clenched. He wanted her. "No, I'm not."
Her smile was small, and she pulled him around in a delicate quarter-turn step. Then another, and another. They danced in the snow fall as if holding court at the Red Keep, the trees their audience. He was clumsy, feet more used to a war march tripping over themselves much to his embarrassment. She slowed for him, indulgent, but never stopped.
She felt familiar in a distant way, something about her. Was it – was it something Ned had told him once? Must have been. A confused sense of alarm was building as they twirled. Why wasn't he cold? "What's your name?"
She spoke and it slithered around his ears. Soft and hard sounds, a gasp and choke of air sounding like the crack of ice.
"Pardon?" He asked slowly.
"It's an old tongue," she gently chided him and he felt bad for his ignorance.
"What does it mean?"
She leaned in, her breath kissing his lips. "Winter."
"Your grace! Robert! Grab him!"
Hands seized his shoulders, two more his elbows, arms capturing his waist and dragging him to a stop. He blinked slowly, vaguely aware of a heaviness in his limbs and sharp whistling wind. With dim pride he noticed it took three men to bring him to a halt. Then white enameled armor filled his vision - where was the girl? - a hand slapped him. His fingers burned and knees were weak, his muscles ached. Men were yelling, shouting, his eyelids drooped.
"- awake! Your grace, stay awake!"
He slipped into sleep.
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Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
Not if they want him to make laws and count taxes. But leading a war...Now I'm imagining the White Walkers making Bobby B their new king.
The Long Winter doesn't last a week.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Quite interesting, and definitely well written.
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
What inspired it was that I came across an interview article about HBO's Game of Thrones and read how GRRM himself described the White Wallkers as Sidhe, strange, elegant and beautiful but the show went with shriveled ice zombies because evil must look evil (ie, ugly). Because otherwise, the audience wouldn't know the Others were bad, or some such nonsense.
Then you have the story of the Night's King, a short tale from Old Nan, not a lot of detail to it but enough there to speculate. And the Others cannot cross the Wall? It's been eight thousand years since anyone has seen one, is it myth warped by time like so much else? But they can certainly go around it.
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Now this could be interesting. Quite a few possibilities.
1. He joins and leads the white walkers. This leads to interesting politics depending on just what happens. But I assume another rebellion, and the kingdoms uniting against him.
2. He is killed by them. Depends if they can prove the white walkers did it. If they can't not too much changes except maybe Ned goes north to prepare his kingdom. If they can then the kingdoms, at least some of them, might be more united against the common threat. A crusade past the wall?
3. They control him to control the kingdom. Another rebellion possibly depending on what they make him do. The end goal would be to weaken the kingdoms as much as possible and a long civil war would do that just fine.
4. He escapes and the entire kingdom prepares for them. Best case scenario. The wildlings have a REAL fight on their hands now that the wall is reinforced with men, and supplies.
1. He joins and leads the white walkers. This leads to interesting politics depending on just what happens. But I assume another rebellion, and the kingdoms uniting against him.
2. He is killed by them. Depends if they can prove the white walkers did it. If they can't not too much changes except maybe Ned goes north to prepare his kingdom. If they can then the kingdoms, at least some of them, might be more united against the common threat. A crusade past the wall?
3. They control him to control the kingdom. Another rebellion possibly depending on what they make him do. The end goal would be to weaken the kingdoms as much as possible and a long civil war would do that just fine.
4. He escapes and the entire kingdom prepares for them. Best case scenario. The wildlings have a REAL fight on their hands now that the wall is reinforced with men, and supplies.
Overt Concerns
Repeated Fractals
- Location
- Internalised
Basically what Ant said about how I think it could throw down so far, but otherwise the only thing I have to add is great work on reproducing the 'feel' of GoT books whilst managing to make it feel like your own as well. Your writing has always captured my attention, Shujin, and this looks to be no exception to that rule.
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
Overt Concerns
Repeated Fractals
- Location
- Internalised
I, uh... that is, I assume this is a good thing?
Sempai has noticed you!
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
I intend for it to be a full fledged story. Can't promise I'll finish it, but there is more on the way.
Max Uristwell
Custodian of the Toobs
- Location
- United Kingdom
So how loudly will Ned [Scream Internally] if Robert tells him about this?
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
About what? That he saw a pretty girl? White Walkers are myths, old wives tales.
Jon Arryn I
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
"Tell me what happened." Jon Arryn felt the weight of that sleight gold necklace adorned in golden hands around his neck, an anchor thrown off the side of a tradesman's boat. The embers in the hearth crackled. No wood to bring the fire back to life, not yet. Wood, like many other things would need to be rationed if winter was upon them.
"It was my duty to tend the fire, Lord Arryn," Calen said softly. Ser Trask's squire was standing stiffly, straight backed and head high. "I'd only stepped away for a moment, I swear," he broke, tears in his eyes. "I swear by the Seven, I –"
Jon held up a hand. The boy quieted. "And then?"
"I heard the King when, when he shouted. Not," Calen swallowed. "Not like he was in trouble or anything, Lord Arryn, he was asking if someone was there but he wasn't at the camp. He'd wandered off –" as if Robert were an errant horse or cow, and sometimes Jon could swear that was completely accurate –"and he sounded far away and the snow was thick as anything. Ser Jaime's tent was the closest." By that, the boy meant on the outskirts as was befitting the one who cast shame and controversy on his order. "And I got the dogs."
The Kingslayer took up the tale then still clad in his armor, a small puddle of water underneath his feet. The white armor of the Kingsguard showing beneath the golden hauberk the young man's father had gifted him, the symbolism Tywin intended not lost on Jon. Lannister first, sworn to the King, second.
"I heard the King call out as well, but it was," Jaime cocked his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "Faint. As the boy said, he sounded very far away. I almost thought I was hearing ghosts. The snow was heavy; there was a wind and," a muscle jumped on his jaw line. "I remember feeling that it wasn't right."
"And when you found him," Jon mentioned. "Your Commander mentioned that the King seemed delirious, hallucinating."
"He was dancing," Jaime said bluntly. "He was not," the knight picked his words with obvious care. "Violent. He did not yell or mutter, no threats."
They locked eyes. The silence hung in the air with the presence of an empty noose.
Not like Aerys.
Jon nodded, "I see." He rubbed his face, feeling as if he his fingertips rubbed every wrinkle, every line of stress that resided on his skin. "I see."
Calen shuffled on his feet, chin dropping. "Lord Arryn…I…"
"You are not in any trouble, boy," Jon allowed, sparing a small smile. "Rest easy."
"My Lord Hand," Jaime cut in stiffly. "By your leave?"
"Of course, my apologies." Jon watched the two leave, the Lannister's plodding, steady steps and the squire's quicker, flighty ones as if expecting to be called back at any moment. Jon stood there for much longer, staring into the embers. His study held stubbornly to the thready warmth. His right arm and hand were warm, but a cold current was numbing his left shoulder.
Everything was wrong.
He felt as if he were trying to make a fist of smoke, a creeping sense of futility and dread. What would become of them now? He snorted a half-laugh to himself. What indeed. A merciless start to winter, he nodded towards the North. Well played. He sighed and quickly looked over his study, before heading over to the door.
"I will see to the King," he told the guard standing by.
The halls were quiet but not empty. Servants carrying armloads of wood and tinder bustled through, guardsmen stood at their posts, punctuated by the white enameled armor of the Kingsguard. Everyone had some task, some errand to perform, and with all haste. Hurry, hurry. Winter has come. He moved with purpose but could not find it in him to check his bearing; less a Lord Paramount of the Vale, Hand of the King, more a concerned father.
The words "Maester Pycelle" were on his lips even before he opened the door to the King's chambers, brushing past Ser Blount's unadorned white shield. "Robert yet lives," he declared. An order, a plea. "He will recover?"
Furs had been piled in front of a roaring fire in the hearth and Robert's unruly black hair poking out from underneath them. His face was sallow and troubled. Jon's heart ached to see him so lifeless and still.
"If he lives the night," Jon waited for him to say it. If he lived the night, then he would be alright. Robert would live. His son would live. Maester Pycelle looked down, at the floor, his feet, his chains and sighed. "If he lives through the night, he has a chance."
His gut clenched, threatening to bring up his supper. "That's it? You can tell me nothing else?"
"The King was fortunate I didn't have to cut off his toes," the Maester snapped. He relented after, bowing his head in supplication. The man was thick about the waist with easy living but fingers calloused with the making of potions, teas and poultices. "The worst were on his palm, tracing the life lines. He'll bear those scars of frost for the rest of his life but all that remains for him, is time. I have done what I can."
Jon stole a look at Robert. "Can he not be closer to the fire, at least?"
"No, warming a man too quickly can be just as deadly as leaving him to freeze." Pycelle seemed sympathetic. "It is…not as I feared. I am, hopeful."
"As am I." Jon murmured. "As am I." He situated himself in one of the chairs dotting the room. He loosened his cloak, the heat of the room made it unnecessary and put his hands over his knees.
"You intend to keep watch over him." The Maester remarked. "I have given the servants instructions to make sure the fire keeps. Is there anything you require of me, Lord Hand?"
"No," Jon said. "No, thank you, you may be about your business."
He waited until after he was certain the man was out of earshot to hiss, "You better not die on me, Robert, you hear me, boy?" Fathers were to be buried by their sons. "Do not even dare, you'll feel the back of my hand if you do, you…"
Robert was silent.
Water leaked from Jon's eyes, defying attempts to blink them back.
"Oh."
Jon's head shot up. "Forgive me," he said hurriedly, wiping his cheeks. "Your Grace."
"He lives still, then?" He couldn't keep himself from noticing how like a child Cersei Lannister seems then, just barely inside the frames of the door. Even with her stomach slightly rounded with Robert's heir, she is ever so slightly petulant, wary and uncertain of her footing. She's gold and crimson, and most of all, conflicted. Her face twitched through emotions and her hands flitting around her thighs and hips, unable to decide how to hold them.
"Worried for your husband," Jon deduced, smiling in reassurance. Surely, Robert must have been exaggerating his marital woes, chafing at the bit like a stallion being led away from mares in the field.
"I'm not worried," she said, too quickly. She lifts her chin proudly and ceases fidgeting. "I do not worry. My lord husband," she drawled, eyes flicking to Robert's prone form. "He can be very stubborn."
Jon chuckled. "That he is."
Cersei paused before tentatively asking, "I was wondering, if I could broach a topic of discussion with you? As you are the King's Hand," she rushed to explain.
"What is it?"
"My father," she murmured. "Might we not send a raven, entrusting him with assisting the crown with procuring food stuffs and supplies?"
Jon lifted a hand to his chin and scratched at the hair there. "It has merit." Tywin Lannister and his endless coffers of gold would be of use if they had to resort to trade with Essos to make up the difference, but it also elevated the Lord of Casterly Rock beyond his already lofty station. The crown had gold of it's own to use. "Not yet. We've yet to take stock and make contact with the Reach and Stormlands, who knows how far this winter has spread. We may be in for hard times, true, but it is equally likely that winter will be short and mild. It was a short summer."
She nodded, green eyes setting themselves on a far corner of the room. "It was a thought," a hint of frustration.
"A good one, but too soon."
She gathered herself. "That was all. My Lord." She gave Robert one last look.
Jon was alone once again. Hours pass. He saw one of the maidservants visit twice, dutifully putting more logs on the fire and staying to make sure the flames caught. Both times, she squeaked upon seeing him, an awkward 'Lord Hand' escaping her before she ignored him completely in favor of her task.
It is late, he does not know how late when Robert wakes. He dozed a few times, he's sure. As soon as he saw movement, Jon was at the King's side, reaching for the grasping hand. It is cool. "Robert, Robert, I'm here."
"Jon?" He whispered. "I'm cold, Jon." His eyes pried open, glassy. "Jon, I'm cold, is there a fire?"
"There's a fire, Robert. Can't you feel it?"
"I feel…" he tried to sit up but failed. He fell back into the furs, grunting. "Where's Ned?"
"Home, in Winterfell where he belongs," Jon felt the fond smile on his lips. His other boy, the one that had nearly adopted Arryn's house words as his own, High as Honor.
"North," the King whispered. "Winterfell?"
"Yes, Robert."
"He freezing his balls off too, then?" Robert jested weakly, his eyes bloodshot and sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead. "Jon, I had a dream, Jon, I was, North I think. It was snowing. There was this woman."
"Always a woman with you, Robert." The King's hand slackened in his grip, and Jon's heart jumped. Keep him talking, he thought. Keep him talking.
The king smiled. "Not like this one," he looked around as if he could spot her and sighed in disappointment. "Not like this one," he said with soft affection. "Her hair, her eyes…It was a dream, wasn't it Jon?"
"Sounded like a good dream."
"Aye." Robert went quiet, his breathing labored. "I'm cold, Jon."
"I know, Robert," he choked.
"Father," he called, deaf. "I'm cold." His eyes slipped closed.
"Robert!"
He pressed his hand to the King's face, holding his own breath. Air on his palm. He exhaled loudly and kept his hand there, just to make sure there was still breath. There was. "The Mother show mercy. The Crone know his fate. The Warrior see his courage and strength. The Father bless and be just, the –" Stranger don't take him.
Don't take him.
___________________________________
Jon woke in the dead of night, shivering. The fire was cold as the grave, not a hint of orange or heat. The moon shone through the far window. Snow was falling. Jon did not call out, he hesitated to even breathe.
The shadows were dark and deep and his skin prickled with a ghostly touch. The fire, what happened to the fire?
Jon heard a sound and he stilled, ears straining.
Robert was talking in his sleep.
"It was my duty to tend the fire, Lord Arryn," Calen said softly. Ser Trask's squire was standing stiffly, straight backed and head high. "I'd only stepped away for a moment, I swear," he broke, tears in his eyes. "I swear by the Seven, I –"
Jon held up a hand. The boy quieted. "And then?"
"I heard the King when, when he shouted. Not," Calen swallowed. "Not like he was in trouble or anything, Lord Arryn, he was asking if someone was there but he wasn't at the camp. He'd wandered off –" as if Robert were an errant horse or cow, and sometimes Jon could swear that was completely accurate –"and he sounded far away and the snow was thick as anything. Ser Jaime's tent was the closest." By that, the boy meant on the outskirts as was befitting the one who cast shame and controversy on his order. "And I got the dogs."
The Kingslayer took up the tale then still clad in his armor, a small puddle of water underneath his feet. The white armor of the Kingsguard showing beneath the golden hauberk the young man's father had gifted him, the symbolism Tywin intended not lost on Jon. Lannister first, sworn to the King, second.
"I heard the King call out as well, but it was," Jaime cocked his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "Faint. As the boy said, he sounded very far away. I almost thought I was hearing ghosts. The snow was heavy; there was a wind and," a muscle jumped on his jaw line. "I remember feeling that it wasn't right."
"And when you found him," Jon mentioned. "Your Commander mentioned that the King seemed delirious, hallucinating."
"He was dancing," Jaime said bluntly. "He was not," the knight picked his words with obvious care. "Violent. He did not yell or mutter, no threats."
They locked eyes. The silence hung in the air with the presence of an empty noose.
Not like Aerys.
Jon nodded, "I see." He rubbed his face, feeling as if he his fingertips rubbed every wrinkle, every line of stress that resided on his skin. "I see."
Calen shuffled on his feet, chin dropping. "Lord Arryn…I…"
"You are not in any trouble, boy," Jon allowed, sparing a small smile. "Rest easy."
"My Lord Hand," Jaime cut in stiffly. "By your leave?"
"Of course, my apologies." Jon watched the two leave, the Lannister's plodding, steady steps and the squire's quicker, flighty ones as if expecting to be called back at any moment. Jon stood there for much longer, staring into the embers. His study held stubbornly to the thready warmth. His right arm and hand were warm, but a cold current was numbing his left shoulder.
Everything was wrong.
He felt as if he were trying to make a fist of smoke, a creeping sense of futility and dread. What would become of them now? He snorted a half-laugh to himself. What indeed. A merciless start to winter, he nodded towards the North. Well played. He sighed and quickly looked over his study, before heading over to the door.
"I will see to the King," he told the guard standing by.
The halls were quiet but not empty. Servants carrying armloads of wood and tinder bustled through, guardsmen stood at their posts, punctuated by the white enameled armor of the Kingsguard. Everyone had some task, some errand to perform, and with all haste. Hurry, hurry. Winter has come. He moved with purpose but could not find it in him to check his bearing; less a Lord Paramount of the Vale, Hand of the King, more a concerned father.
The words "Maester Pycelle" were on his lips even before he opened the door to the King's chambers, brushing past Ser Blount's unadorned white shield. "Robert yet lives," he declared. An order, a plea. "He will recover?"
Furs had been piled in front of a roaring fire in the hearth and Robert's unruly black hair poking out from underneath them. His face was sallow and troubled. Jon's heart ached to see him so lifeless and still.
"If he lives the night," Jon waited for him to say it. If he lived the night, then he would be alright. Robert would live. His son would live. Maester Pycelle looked down, at the floor, his feet, his chains and sighed. "If he lives through the night, he has a chance."
His gut clenched, threatening to bring up his supper. "That's it? You can tell me nothing else?"
"The King was fortunate I didn't have to cut off his toes," the Maester snapped. He relented after, bowing his head in supplication. The man was thick about the waist with easy living but fingers calloused with the making of potions, teas and poultices. "The worst were on his palm, tracing the life lines. He'll bear those scars of frost for the rest of his life but all that remains for him, is time. I have done what I can."
Jon stole a look at Robert. "Can he not be closer to the fire, at least?"
"No, warming a man too quickly can be just as deadly as leaving him to freeze." Pycelle seemed sympathetic. "It is…not as I feared. I am, hopeful."
"As am I." Jon murmured. "As am I." He situated himself in one of the chairs dotting the room. He loosened his cloak, the heat of the room made it unnecessary and put his hands over his knees.
"You intend to keep watch over him." The Maester remarked. "I have given the servants instructions to make sure the fire keeps. Is there anything you require of me, Lord Hand?"
"No," Jon said. "No, thank you, you may be about your business."
He waited until after he was certain the man was out of earshot to hiss, "You better not die on me, Robert, you hear me, boy?" Fathers were to be buried by their sons. "Do not even dare, you'll feel the back of my hand if you do, you…"
Robert was silent.
Water leaked from Jon's eyes, defying attempts to blink them back.
"Oh."
Jon's head shot up. "Forgive me," he said hurriedly, wiping his cheeks. "Your Grace."
"He lives still, then?" He couldn't keep himself from noticing how like a child Cersei Lannister seems then, just barely inside the frames of the door. Even with her stomach slightly rounded with Robert's heir, she is ever so slightly petulant, wary and uncertain of her footing. She's gold and crimson, and most of all, conflicted. Her face twitched through emotions and her hands flitting around her thighs and hips, unable to decide how to hold them.
"Worried for your husband," Jon deduced, smiling in reassurance. Surely, Robert must have been exaggerating his marital woes, chafing at the bit like a stallion being led away from mares in the field.
"I'm not worried," she said, too quickly. She lifts her chin proudly and ceases fidgeting. "I do not worry. My lord husband," she drawled, eyes flicking to Robert's prone form. "He can be very stubborn."
Jon chuckled. "That he is."
Cersei paused before tentatively asking, "I was wondering, if I could broach a topic of discussion with you? As you are the King's Hand," she rushed to explain.
"What is it?"
"My father," she murmured. "Might we not send a raven, entrusting him with assisting the crown with procuring food stuffs and supplies?"
Jon lifted a hand to his chin and scratched at the hair there. "It has merit." Tywin Lannister and his endless coffers of gold would be of use if they had to resort to trade with Essos to make up the difference, but it also elevated the Lord of Casterly Rock beyond his already lofty station. The crown had gold of it's own to use. "Not yet. We've yet to take stock and make contact with the Reach and Stormlands, who knows how far this winter has spread. We may be in for hard times, true, but it is equally likely that winter will be short and mild. It was a short summer."
She nodded, green eyes setting themselves on a far corner of the room. "It was a thought," a hint of frustration.
"A good one, but too soon."
She gathered herself. "That was all. My Lord." She gave Robert one last look.
Jon was alone once again. Hours pass. He saw one of the maidservants visit twice, dutifully putting more logs on the fire and staying to make sure the flames caught. Both times, she squeaked upon seeing him, an awkward 'Lord Hand' escaping her before she ignored him completely in favor of her task.
It is late, he does not know how late when Robert wakes. He dozed a few times, he's sure. As soon as he saw movement, Jon was at the King's side, reaching for the grasping hand. It is cool. "Robert, Robert, I'm here."
"Jon?" He whispered. "I'm cold, Jon." His eyes pried open, glassy. "Jon, I'm cold, is there a fire?"
"There's a fire, Robert. Can't you feel it?"
"I feel…" he tried to sit up but failed. He fell back into the furs, grunting. "Where's Ned?"
"Home, in Winterfell where he belongs," Jon felt the fond smile on his lips. His other boy, the one that had nearly adopted Arryn's house words as his own, High as Honor.
"North," the King whispered. "Winterfell?"
"Yes, Robert."
"He freezing his balls off too, then?" Robert jested weakly, his eyes bloodshot and sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead. "Jon, I had a dream, Jon, I was, North I think. It was snowing. There was this woman."
"Always a woman with you, Robert." The King's hand slackened in his grip, and Jon's heart jumped. Keep him talking, he thought. Keep him talking.
The king smiled. "Not like this one," he looked around as if he could spot her and sighed in disappointment. "Not like this one," he said with soft affection. "Her hair, her eyes…It was a dream, wasn't it Jon?"
"Sounded like a good dream."
"Aye." Robert went quiet, his breathing labored. "I'm cold, Jon."
"I know, Robert," he choked.
"Father," he called, deaf. "I'm cold." His eyes slipped closed.
"Robert!"
He pressed his hand to the King's face, holding his own breath. Air on his palm. He exhaled loudly and kept his hand there, just to make sure there was still breath. There was. "The Mother show mercy. The Crone know his fate. The Warrior see his courage and strength. The Father bless and be just, the –" Stranger don't take him.
Don't take him.
___________________________________
Jon woke in the dead of night, shivering. The fire was cold as the grave, not a hint of orange or heat. The moon shone through the far window. Snow was falling. Jon did not call out, he hesitated to even breathe.
The shadows were dark and deep and his skin prickled with a ghostly touch. The fire, what happened to the fire?
Jon heard a sound and he stilled, ears straining.
Robert was talking in his sleep.
Craster
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
The wail of the babe was sharp, screaming bloody murder as if it knew before its first breath of cold air what the fates had tossed it. The women crowded around it like frozen carrion birds around a corpse, murmuring to each other, whispering like he couldn't hear. Not on that side too good, not with his stump of an ear but the other, the other could pick up their words well enough. Ferny was telling Nella, making sure the girl knew her place. There was no blood in her cheeks and dark circles under the girl's eyes and she was pleading right back.
Jus' this one.
Craster spat out the door. It froze before it hit the hard dirt. It was getting cold now, the distance was getting hazy like smoke off a fire and a wind was blowing. There was a feeling now, pulsing like the noise of a metal pot clanging in his stomach, a tightness at the base of his throat. He thought it guilt once, a thick shame making it hard to breathe but he was set right, he was. Thought to not do it, almost let the moon lapse past and the feeling went from uncomfortable to deathly. The cold gods demanding their due.
Stronger than the old ones, he thought. Stronger than them faces in the bone white trees, he spoke to the crow men, black spots perched on their Wall. A mortal king could make good on a bad bargain, release a man of his oath. But the old ones could do nothing about his.
"It' a male child," Ferny told him.
"You seen them," he glared at Nella, didn't let his eyes stray for a second as he pointed out beyond the walls. "You seen them! You want to go out there, do you? Go out there and tell them, " He raised two fingers, stabbing them in the air toward his own eyes with every word, "look them in their cold, dead, eyes and tell them they can't have him?"
They'll have another price then and he seen them, the skin servants of the cold gods. Dead as dead, black and shriveled. That would be him, that'd be Ferny and the girls.
He nearly retched.
"Goin' to, going to give them someone else?" Craster rasped. "Give them – " he cast his eyes around. "Gilly?"
The girl froze, brown eyes going wide, thumb stuffed in her mouth.
Nella shook, fingers crawling down the blankets toward the babe. Her mouth opened and closed, and her head jerked. She moaned, loud and sorrowful," No. No no no no no."
Ferny wrapped the boy up, just enough to keep the cold from stealing him away early. The blood of his birthing soaked through the first rags and she just piled more on, finishing with a small pelt, fox. The babe was still wailing when Craster took him up. He marched out into the cold, his breath coming out like clouds as he laid eyes on that one spot on the horizon.
The cold gods didn't have no set place, no landmarks he could remember, no trail to follow. They left no marks of passing on the snow but a man could always tell when they were near. The white cold, a frozen mist with a touch like knives in the lungs and the weight on the back of a creeping dread.
"A man's got to keep his word," he told no one. The boy was screeching, cheeks and nose turning blue. "Up on the Wall," he turned slightly and pointed out the created southern horizon. Some high lord somewhen couldn't even piss without fearing a wildling would steal his cock so he had that built.
Gods knew.
There were tales, legends about the ones who walked in white, saying it had been so cold for so long people were starving to death when they weren't freezing. And the white ones hunting them like game, hating them for their warmth. Legend says man won, the Wall was built and the cold gods trapped.
Legend don't say how they won, how the Wall was built and the cold gods, they ain't trapped.
"Up on the Wall, you break your oath and you get your head chopped off." He drew the blade of his hand across his neck and gnashed his teeth. Nella's son screamed. Craster shook him. "Shut your mouth, boy!"
Gods knew, a woman was enough for his own father to risk his head.
A child wasn't.
Craster kept his eyes open as he put one foot in front of the other. The wind howled; a low whistle that came from the forest and a shrill scream across the barren plain. There was a place, at the edge of the old wood that stretched almost to the Wall and a dry riverbed with only ice at the bottom, the two voices of the wind met. He had a damn hard time finding it, what, with the babe bellowing his lungs out but he knew he had it when the world shifted.
Like looking through a stream of water, the lines and curves broke and bent. He wouldn't be able to put it in words, what made this step here so different from that step there. He'd seen the cold gods shape it with nothing more than gestures, sovereign rulers of even the blank, white sky.
Sygeran, the Old Tongue called it. The land that deceives.
Deceiving twice over, he knew what the crows called it, thought it was. No place to be put on a map, can't be put on none of them maps, Land of Always Winter.
It ever made him sick to his stomach to look too long and he closed his eyes.
The boy was plucked from his arms soon after, and the cries hushed. Craster exhaled slowly. The air was cold now, cold enough to sting his tongue when he breathed in. His head swam. His hands felt empty and he bunched them into fists. He waited for the words in the cold tongue, the few he knew to tell him the bargain was kept, that it was good. He waited for them with that creeping dread prickling his back.
He didn't know what happened to his boys. He didn't want to know.
"Look to me, first man," came instead with the voice of a woman in the Common Tongue and Craster's eyes flew open in surprise.
He saw his home.
His eyes feasted on the small cracks in the stone, the grains and knots in the wood as he knew it to be. There was no fire in the hearth but the cold had stopped ripping into him. The spit had that cracked handle and caked with charred fat and grease of last night's supper. There were still footprints in the dirt on the floor, the deer hide over the door swayed in the wind and the ladders to the loft faithfully splintered.
A white woman sat on a bench with the babe, pale and strange. Beautiful enough for a man to forget what wasn't right, and eyes like all of them; cold fire.
She held the boy like a mother and began to free him from his swaddling. When she uncovered the small head, she ran a hand over the tuft of dark hair and smiled. She looked to him then. He waited, and she said nothing.
"It good?" He croaked. He cobbled the words of their tongue that he knew and prayed, to who he didn't know.
"Yes," she spoke again with the words of those on the Wall and farther south. She whispered to the infant in the cold tongue, drawing a finger on the soft swell of his cheek. The dagger was of snow and ice, and she plunged it into the little body three times. Not much blood spilled and he found himself figuring it was because he'd been small with not that much blood to begin with.
He –
The boy didn't suffer.
She gave him the dagger still running red slivers. "You will keep it, until the horn sounds."
"Why?" Craster whispered. He thought to attack her with it, to stab it straight into her cold, dead heart and see if the cold gods bled.
Not with this, he thought holding the dagger of ice and snow. With good iron straight from a fire.
"A life for a life." And the ones in white don't tell no lies, Craster knew, but that didn't mean they told the truth. "Leave your home in the manner you are used to, and you will be where you were before."
"Safe?" he made sure to ask. "Swear it."
"No harm will come to you," she promised easily as she took up the babe's body. "This I say."
She spoke the words as he crossed to the flaps of deer hide and stepped out into bitter cold, the ones he'd been waiting for at the start in her tongue. The ones that let him know the white cold would come again, hungry.
Other bargains will be struck.
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
If you squint, you can probably spot the clue that tells where it's going.
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
That would be from the Game of Thrones show, the fate of Craster's sons is only hinted at in the books.
Robert II
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
The first time Robert woke, it was to a searing pain in the palm of his hand, burning as if it threatened to consume all of him. He was weak, too weak to move and couldn't speak managing just the movement of his lips. Then the pain turned, gone so fast it left him gasping for breath and left naught but cold numbness. He turned his head and caught sight of his hand wrapped in bandages. Blood stained the cloth in deep red lines across the palm as if covering a new brand.
He was back in the Red Keep. The walls were of the same red stone he had just begun to get used to seeing. The door to the room was of oak and banded in black iron. Coals simmered a warm orange in twin hearths filling the room with a heavy heat. He remembered dark trees and snow.
Exhausted, he fell back into oblivion.
The second time, he too woke quickly.
He sputtered and spat, his gorge rising at an awful taste in his mouth of boiled leather and mint. His hands rose in reflex. He tried to sit upright and his muscles screamed in response. His control over his own limbs shattered as they jerked and twitched, dumping him straight back to bed.
Hands gently straightened the blankets and furs he was under. He opened his eyes and it took several moments of blinking for his vision to clear.
"Awake, are you?" A woman's voice asked with bland interest. A ghostly touch brushed the hair from his forehead then trailed his cheek, bidding him to relax. "How do you feel?"
Tired, was his first thought. Cold, his second. Pained. He was as weak as a babe and words failed him, coming out as just hisses of air on a parched tongue. She shushed him with a thin finger on his lips and reached towards a side table by the bed and the cup that stood on it. Robert didn't know if she was a servant or a lady, but a treasure to look at just the same. A slender neck and soft skin, her cheekbones were set high under large blue eyes and several familiar features.
Her hair was white as freshly fallen snow, but through it all, he thought that perhaps, she looked like a Stark.
"Your strength will return to you in time," she said as she offered the cup. He grasped it, but his fingers refused to close with strength and she took it back before he could spill it. "Here," she pressed the hard cold against his lips then and water, crisp as a northern stream on his tongue. He drank greedily until the cup was pulled away.
"Slowly," she told him with a warm affection. Her fingers trailed through his hair. "Slowly lest you make yourself ill."
He was allowed to sip until the cup ran dry.
Who? His mind whispered as a night owl. Who? Who?
Her pale hair mocked him. Was her blood of Volantis? Myr? She looks as a Stark, he thought again. Were it only that her hair was dark and eyes grey. He tested his voice and found it able. "Who are you, woman?"
She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "The wind." Her lips curved upwards. "You may call me," her eyes narrowed slightly and glanced away as she thought. "Baro."
"Barrow," he repeated and frowned. The intonation wasn't quite right. "Baroh?" She stopped him before he tried a third time, laughing lightly. The voice was different, but her laugh – Gods be good – it was just the same. His heart ached.
Robert was thoroughly enchanted.
"You managed it well enough." She patted his arm in a comforting manner. "But you should rest now, if it pleases you?"
She stood from the bed to peer out a window and it was then that Robert got a good look at the woman. A white pelt of some strange creature lay on her shoulders with the upper half of its skull on her collar bone. It had teeth, large fangs like that of a wolf's, skin pulled stiff by death baring them in a snarl but ridged horns as antlers curving back to end in wicked points. Sapphires were where the eyes had once been. Two were on both sides and a third on the bridge of its snout. He wondered briefly what manner of animal it was, but it was not nearly as eye-catching as the rest of her.
Her clothes were of silks like the smoky glass of Myr draped over the silhouette of her form. It hid nothing but the details from him, letting the swell of her breasts and curve of her hips be easily seen as a shadow under cloth. He grunted as his loins stirred, cursing his weakness. Were it any different, he wouldn't let a woman like that leave his presence unrutted. His gaze was noticed and it was neither welcomed nor scorned, just expected.
"You please me," he murmured. He bid her back to the bed with a trembling hand.
"Do I?" She seemed pleased by this as she sat by him again with his arm around her. "A man easily pleased then."
He refrained from pawing her like a dog after a bitch in heat. It was a near thing, to be true, but she was not warm and he had some measure of dignity. In truth, he felt as if he might just keel over dead of exhaustion. Blinking, seven hells, breathing was tiring.
"I am a simple man," said Robert.
Give him a battle, wine and a woman and he was complete. It'd been three years and the war call of the Trident was still thrumming through his veins. Faintly, but it was there, calling him back during a Small Council meeting with the phantom stench of blood and sweat. The clash of arms and armor, screams of men rushing to the battlefield where life was fleeting but all the more vibrant for it. And then Barristan, or Jon would yank him back to ceremonies or how much wood they should slap together to float on the ocean.
"Men are many things," Baro allowed. She turned into him to press against his side and the hollow of his arm. She was a perfect fit. "Simple is not one of them."
"Are women any better?"
She laughed again, a short crystal note. "No, I suppose they are not." She found his other hand and pulled it across their laps. Robert blinked at it stupidly, covered in bloodstained bandages it was as if mauled by a beast. He curled his fingers with an effort that made the blood rush to his head and made a fist. No pain.
"What the devil – "
"You worried me, you do realize this?" He blinked once more. She didn't sound particularly sore with him, or concerned to be true, but disquieted. "It would have been of great embarrassment had you froze to death."
"I –"
He remembered dark trees and snow.
Her voice was far away.
"Perhaps I will be there, when you wake, my King."
Robert woke a third time to Maester Pycelle shoving a potion tasting of boiled leather and mints down his gullet. He hacked and sputtered before his stomach rebelled as if the learned man was Mad King Aerys himself, and struck the first blow.
"Oh, I, eugh," Pycelle dropped the siphon and his hands waved trying to magic the vomit off his red robes, "Good gods above, I – " He hopped about in place as he dripped, turning this way and that. "Boy!" he roared. The servant was sent to fetch washcloths and water as the maester gingerly picked the ends of his chains out of the mess. "Awake, are you?" the man said stiffly.
Crone's words.* The situation felt familiar. Robert chuckled weakly. He was given a cup of water but he didn't suffer thirst. He sipped at it anyway. Pycelle regaled him of the Kingsguard's struggles in bringing him safely back to King's Landing through a freezing blizzard. He'd snorted lightly at the tale, told as if they'd overcome a siege. Safeguarding their King was what they were supposed to do, wasn't it? No difference between an assassin and him falling over and breaking his neck while in the privy.
"Where's the girl?" Robert interrupted.
"The – the girl…" Pycelle trailed off and looked at him quizzically. "What girl, your grace?"
"The one with white hair."
The man's wizened face slackened in dull incomprehension.
"Have you gone deaf, man?"
"Your grace," the maester began slowly. "Might it be that you speak of one of Baelish's recent commodities? From Essos?"
Robert gulped down water. "She was no whore." He hoped not, at least. He didn't much like the thought of sharing her. "Besides, I was here freezing half to death, when did I have the time? No, she was here, part of the staff, perhaps."
"Most those with Valyrian descent were purged from service after you took the throne, you –"
Robert shook his head until he felt he might be sick again. "Where is she?"
The man frowned mightily. "She was here, in your bedchambers, your grace?"
Robert rolled his eyes. "No, I saw her up on the ramparts while I was taking a bleeding walk, while freezing to death, yes, of course she was here, is your memory as limp as your cock?"
Maester Pycelle smiled politely. "There is no one on staff with that color of hair, your grace."
"I said – "
"You were feverish for three days and the bloodletting left you weak besides. It was a dream, your grace. A pleasant one, it seems, but no more than that."
A dream?
It couldn't have been. It was so real. Her laugh, her eyes, if he concentrated he could still feel her against him, the silks and cool skin. Robert realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. "But…"
"A color of hair so distinctive, comely girl?"
"Very," Robert sighed.
"There is little chance she would escape notice, if she existed, your grace." The maester said rather pointedly. He managed to look dignified even with stained clothes. "Ask your Master of Whispers if that would satisfy you, but I know nothing else."
The king harrumphed and dropped the matter.
It was hours later when the doors to his room opened and he was treated to the sight of Tywin's golden boy, Jaime Lannister swaggering in with a hand on the pommel of his sword and polite, bland look on his face. "Change in guard," he said. "I will be by your door, your grace."
"You'll do more than that," Robert beckoned him over. "Help me up."
One golden eyebrow inched upwards as the Kingsguard did as he asked, stumbling slightly at Robert's dead weight until the man got his feet under him. He clapped an arm around the youth's shoulder and wobbled, but remained upright. "Should you be out of bed?" The boy blurted out.
"Course not," Robert replied. "Lead me out the door, there we go."
Shuffling like a cripple was not his idea of a good time, but he'd been cooped up in his room for too long. He needed to get some air, get the blood moving again and shake the dust from his mind. He'd tried sleeping again, hoping to dream, but it eluded him.
"Where are we to go?"
"Somewhere I can taste the wind."
Jaime brought him before one of the doors leading out to the walkways and battlements. "It's…cold out," was all he said before kicking it open.
The wind rushed in to welcome them with a whistling howl carrying large snowflakes and flecks of ice that glinted as diamonds in the sunlight. Robert breathed in, deep, a silly smile stealing over his face. The cold was bracing, yes, and revitalizing. He felt as if he was only now beginning to truly wake from a deep sleep. He reached out for the railing with his bandaged hand and the Kingsguard only let go once he was sure of Robert's grip.
"Does that not hurt?" Jaime asked curiously. Then quickly – "Your grace."
"Nothing hurts anymore." He felt the world was at his fingertips as long as he stood there, looking out over the blanket of white covering the rooftops and shacks of King's Landing. He could see shadows of his people in the streets and alleyways moving like fleas, so small. The great Sept of Baelor was in the distance as an opposing giant and the Dragonpit was not so objectionable now that it was just a big circle of clean, pure white. The usual stink of the city didn't reach him.
Winter has its dangers, Robert thought. But gods, isn't it beautiful?
"We should get back inside," Jaime murmured uncomfortably. "Before I am accused of having you freeze to death."
Robert looked back. The knight had a very disquieted demeanor and then he noted with surprise that he had been leaning far over the railing. He rocked back and felt his shoeless feet once again lay flat on cold stone.
"Aye, we should." Robert couldn't quite keep the disappointed pout from his voice.
He hobbled back to his quarters, stronger and steadier by a fraction. The fresh air had done him some real good. He waved the knight off by the door. He'd rather fall flat on his face and suffocate than let the boy tuck him into bed. The door closed and Robert looked about his room. Everything was as he left it save for the coals in the hearth, burning lower than he remembered as if the fire had shriveled in his absence. He sighed low as he made his way to the bed.
"You sound troubled, my King."
Robert spun with a sharp exhale of breath. He was before her in three large steps, hands raised to cup her face between his palms. She smiled as he did so and laid her hands on top of his. "You – you're not a dream."
"Here? Now?" she clarified. "No, I am not."
"Be mine," he ordered. "Will you?"
Her smile had teeth now –
As icicles in the sun and her blue eyes burned like fire-
"And what would you give me in return?"
"Anything," Robert blustered. He had in mind a few dragons - no, she was worth more than that, far more - but expensive gifts and clothes he could easily arrange for, the Spider to keep his lady wife from raising hell or through the new Master of Coin, Baelish. He didn't care for how it was done, only that it bought her and she was his for his bed.
She stared at him with widened eyes and parted lips as if she did not understand his words. Then her lips twitched upwards and she laughed, a single triumphant note, clear as glass.
"Lord over the New men and the First, to you they owe loyalty, oathsworn before gods and men," her words lilted musically as she let him his hands drift to her waist and hips, pulling her closer. "And you would offer me anything?"
"You can have the damn crown too," Robert jested with a handsome smile. A clasp of silver held the white fur on her shoulders and he took it off. "For what good it's done me. And the bloody chair."
Her face tightened with consideration. "Perhaps I will."
He kissed her and it was as if he was inhaling all the bitter winds of the North. Frost swept through him, burning, reached outwards from within to fill all the small spaces. It crushed his doubt, smothered his grief, it ground away at simple happiness one grain at a time before seeking out the rest of him to devour. His eyes were snow blind and the memory of warmth faded. Her touch was as an anchor and he wrapped himself in it as a drowned man fearing the Drowned God clasped to his chest a brick. He felt as if he were a lone spark in kindling facing down the onslaught of a coming winter storm.
The flame held.
And Robert shivered suddenly, alone on his bed. His heart ached not with a physical pain, but an aged longing. Moonlight glinted off freshly powered snow on the window panes, a testament to hours of lost time. The fires in the twin hearths were but cold ashes and he felt not the chill. The disappointment was crushing.
Another dream.
Jaime Lannister would tell his sister when they were alone that the king would live, but he was not well. Barefoot and in light clothing out in an icy wind, alone in his bed chamber, talking to thin air.
He was back in the Red Keep. The walls were of the same red stone he had just begun to get used to seeing. The door to the room was of oak and banded in black iron. Coals simmered a warm orange in twin hearths filling the room with a heavy heat. He remembered dark trees and snow.
Exhausted, he fell back into oblivion.
The second time, he too woke quickly.
He sputtered and spat, his gorge rising at an awful taste in his mouth of boiled leather and mint. His hands rose in reflex. He tried to sit upright and his muscles screamed in response. His control over his own limbs shattered as they jerked and twitched, dumping him straight back to bed.
Hands gently straightened the blankets and furs he was under. He opened his eyes and it took several moments of blinking for his vision to clear.
"Awake, are you?" A woman's voice asked with bland interest. A ghostly touch brushed the hair from his forehead then trailed his cheek, bidding him to relax. "How do you feel?"
Tired, was his first thought. Cold, his second. Pained. He was as weak as a babe and words failed him, coming out as just hisses of air on a parched tongue. She shushed him with a thin finger on his lips and reached towards a side table by the bed and the cup that stood on it. Robert didn't know if she was a servant or a lady, but a treasure to look at just the same. A slender neck and soft skin, her cheekbones were set high under large blue eyes and several familiar features.
Her hair was white as freshly fallen snow, but through it all, he thought that perhaps, she looked like a Stark.
"Your strength will return to you in time," she said as she offered the cup. He grasped it, but his fingers refused to close with strength and she took it back before he could spill it. "Here," she pressed the hard cold against his lips then and water, crisp as a northern stream on his tongue. He drank greedily until the cup was pulled away.
"Slowly," she told him with a warm affection. Her fingers trailed through his hair. "Slowly lest you make yourself ill."
He was allowed to sip until the cup ran dry.
Who? His mind whispered as a night owl. Who? Who?
Her pale hair mocked him. Was her blood of Volantis? Myr? She looks as a Stark, he thought again. Were it only that her hair was dark and eyes grey. He tested his voice and found it able. "Who are you, woman?"
She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "The wind." Her lips curved upwards. "You may call me," her eyes narrowed slightly and glanced away as she thought. "Baro."
"Barrow," he repeated and frowned. The intonation wasn't quite right. "Baroh?" She stopped him before he tried a third time, laughing lightly. The voice was different, but her laugh – Gods be good – it was just the same. His heart ached.
Robert was thoroughly enchanted.
"You managed it well enough." She patted his arm in a comforting manner. "But you should rest now, if it pleases you?"
She stood from the bed to peer out a window and it was then that Robert got a good look at the woman. A white pelt of some strange creature lay on her shoulders with the upper half of its skull on her collar bone. It had teeth, large fangs like that of a wolf's, skin pulled stiff by death baring them in a snarl but ridged horns as antlers curving back to end in wicked points. Sapphires were where the eyes had once been. Two were on both sides and a third on the bridge of its snout. He wondered briefly what manner of animal it was, but it was not nearly as eye-catching as the rest of her.
Her clothes were of silks like the smoky glass of Myr draped over the silhouette of her form. It hid nothing but the details from him, letting the swell of her breasts and curve of her hips be easily seen as a shadow under cloth. He grunted as his loins stirred, cursing his weakness. Were it any different, he wouldn't let a woman like that leave his presence unrutted. His gaze was noticed and it was neither welcomed nor scorned, just expected.
"You please me," he murmured. He bid her back to the bed with a trembling hand.
"Do I?" She seemed pleased by this as she sat by him again with his arm around her. "A man easily pleased then."
He refrained from pawing her like a dog after a bitch in heat. It was a near thing, to be true, but she was not warm and he had some measure of dignity. In truth, he felt as if he might just keel over dead of exhaustion. Blinking, seven hells, breathing was tiring.
"I am a simple man," said Robert.
Give him a battle, wine and a woman and he was complete. It'd been three years and the war call of the Trident was still thrumming through his veins. Faintly, but it was there, calling him back during a Small Council meeting with the phantom stench of blood and sweat. The clash of arms and armor, screams of men rushing to the battlefield where life was fleeting but all the more vibrant for it. And then Barristan, or Jon would yank him back to ceremonies or how much wood they should slap together to float on the ocean.
"Men are many things," Baro allowed. She turned into him to press against his side and the hollow of his arm. She was a perfect fit. "Simple is not one of them."
"Are women any better?"
She laughed again, a short crystal note. "No, I suppose they are not." She found his other hand and pulled it across their laps. Robert blinked at it stupidly, covered in bloodstained bandages it was as if mauled by a beast. He curled his fingers with an effort that made the blood rush to his head and made a fist. No pain.
"What the devil – "
"You worried me, you do realize this?" He blinked once more. She didn't sound particularly sore with him, or concerned to be true, but disquieted. "It would have been of great embarrassment had you froze to death."
"I –"
He remembered dark trees and snow.
Her voice was far away.
"Perhaps I will be there, when you wake, my King."
Robert woke a third time to Maester Pycelle shoving a potion tasting of boiled leather and mints down his gullet. He hacked and sputtered before his stomach rebelled as if the learned man was Mad King Aerys himself, and struck the first blow.
"Oh, I, eugh," Pycelle dropped the siphon and his hands waved trying to magic the vomit off his red robes, "Good gods above, I – " He hopped about in place as he dripped, turning this way and that. "Boy!" he roared. The servant was sent to fetch washcloths and water as the maester gingerly picked the ends of his chains out of the mess. "Awake, are you?" the man said stiffly.
Crone's words.* The situation felt familiar. Robert chuckled weakly. He was given a cup of water but he didn't suffer thirst. He sipped at it anyway. Pycelle regaled him of the Kingsguard's struggles in bringing him safely back to King's Landing through a freezing blizzard. He'd snorted lightly at the tale, told as if they'd overcome a siege. Safeguarding their King was what they were supposed to do, wasn't it? No difference between an assassin and him falling over and breaking his neck while in the privy.
"Where's the girl?" Robert interrupted.
"The – the girl…" Pycelle trailed off and looked at him quizzically. "What girl, your grace?"
"The one with white hair."
The man's wizened face slackened in dull incomprehension.
"Have you gone deaf, man?"
"Your grace," the maester began slowly. "Might it be that you speak of one of Baelish's recent commodities? From Essos?"
Robert gulped down water. "She was no whore." He hoped not, at least. He didn't much like the thought of sharing her. "Besides, I was here freezing half to death, when did I have the time? No, she was here, part of the staff, perhaps."
"Most those with Valyrian descent were purged from service after you took the throne, you –"
Robert shook his head until he felt he might be sick again. "Where is she?"
The man frowned mightily. "She was here, in your bedchambers, your grace?"
Robert rolled his eyes. "No, I saw her up on the ramparts while I was taking a bleeding walk, while freezing to death, yes, of course she was here, is your memory as limp as your cock?"
Maester Pycelle smiled politely. "There is no one on staff with that color of hair, your grace."
"I said – "
"You were feverish for three days and the bloodletting left you weak besides. It was a dream, your grace. A pleasant one, it seems, but no more than that."
A dream?
It couldn't have been. It was so real. Her laugh, her eyes, if he concentrated he could still feel her against him, the silks and cool skin. Robert realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. "But…"
"A color of hair so distinctive, comely girl?"
"Very," Robert sighed.
"There is little chance she would escape notice, if she existed, your grace." The maester said rather pointedly. He managed to look dignified even with stained clothes. "Ask your Master of Whispers if that would satisfy you, but I know nothing else."
The king harrumphed and dropped the matter.
It was hours later when the doors to his room opened and he was treated to the sight of Tywin's golden boy, Jaime Lannister swaggering in with a hand on the pommel of his sword and polite, bland look on his face. "Change in guard," he said. "I will be by your door, your grace."
"You'll do more than that," Robert beckoned him over. "Help me up."
One golden eyebrow inched upwards as the Kingsguard did as he asked, stumbling slightly at Robert's dead weight until the man got his feet under him. He clapped an arm around the youth's shoulder and wobbled, but remained upright. "Should you be out of bed?" The boy blurted out.
"Course not," Robert replied. "Lead me out the door, there we go."
Shuffling like a cripple was not his idea of a good time, but he'd been cooped up in his room for too long. He needed to get some air, get the blood moving again and shake the dust from his mind. He'd tried sleeping again, hoping to dream, but it eluded him.
"Where are we to go?"
"Somewhere I can taste the wind."
Jaime brought him before one of the doors leading out to the walkways and battlements. "It's…cold out," was all he said before kicking it open.
The wind rushed in to welcome them with a whistling howl carrying large snowflakes and flecks of ice that glinted as diamonds in the sunlight. Robert breathed in, deep, a silly smile stealing over his face. The cold was bracing, yes, and revitalizing. He felt as if he was only now beginning to truly wake from a deep sleep. He reached out for the railing with his bandaged hand and the Kingsguard only let go once he was sure of Robert's grip.
"Does that not hurt?" Jaime asked curiously. Then quickly – "Your grace."
"Nothing hurts anymore." He felt the world was at his fingertips as long as he stood there, looking out over the blanket of white covering the rooftops and shacks of King's Landing. He could see shadows of his people in the streets and alleyways moving like fleas, so small. The great Sept of Baelor was in the distance as an opposing giant and the Dragonpit was not so objectionable now that it was just a big circle of clean, pure white. The usual stink of the city didn't reach him.
Winter has its dangers, Robert thought. But gods, isn't it beautiful?
"We should get back inside," Jaime murmured uncomfortably. "Before I am accused of having you freeze to death."
Robert looked back. The knight had a very disquieted demeanor and then he noted with surprise that he had been leaning far over the railing. He rocked back and felt his shoeless feet once again lay flat on cold stone.
"Aye, we should." Robert couldn't quite keep the disappointed pout from his voice.
He hobbled back to his quarters, stronger and steadier by a fraction. The fresh air had done him some real good. He waved the knight off by the door. He'd rather fall flat on his face and suffocate than let the boy tuck him into bed. The door closed and Robert looked about his room. Everything was as he left it save for the coals in the hearth, burning lower than he remembered as if the fire had shriveled in his absence. He sighed low as he made his way to the bed.
"You sound troubled, my King."
Robert spun with a sharp exhale of breath. He was before her in three large steps, hands raised to cup her face between his palms. She smiled as he did so and laid her hands on top of his. "You – you're not a dream."
"Here? Now?" she clarified. "No, I am not."
"Be mine," he ordered. "Will you?"
Her smile had teeth now –
As icicles in the sun and her blue eyes burned like fire-
"And what would you give me in return?"
"Anything," Robert blustered. He had in mind a few dragons - no, she was worth more than that, far more - but expensive gifts and clothes he could easily arrange for, the Spider to keep his lady wife from raising hell or through the new Master of Coin, Baelish. He didn't care for how it was done, only that it bought her and she was his for his bed.
She stared at him with widened eyes and parted lips as if she did not understand his words. Then her lips twitched upwards and she laughed, a single triumphant note, clear as glass.
"Lord over the New men and the First, to you they owe loyalty, oathsworn before gods and men," her words lilted musically as she let him his hands drift to her waist and hips, pulling her closer. "And you would offer me anything?"
"You can have the damn crown too," Robert jested with a handsome smile. A clasp of silver held the white fur on her shoulders and he took it off. "For what good it's done me. And the bloody chair."
Her face tightened with consideration. "Perhaps I will."
He kissed her and it was as if he was inhaling all the bitter winds of the North. Frost swept through him, burning, reached outwards from within to fill all the small spaces. It crushed his doubt, smothered his grief, it ground away at simple happiness one grain at a time before seeking out the rest of him to devour. His eyes were snow blind and the memory of warmth faded. Her touch was as an anchor and he wrapped himself in it as a drowned man fearing the Drowned God clasped to his chest a brick. He felt as if he were a lone spark in kindling facing down the onslaught of a coming winter storm.
The flame held.
And Robert shivered suddenly, alone on his bed. His heart ached not with a physical pain, but an aged longing. Moonlight glinted off freshly powered snow on the window panes, a testament to hours of lost time. The fires in the twin hearths were but cold ashes and he felt not the chill. The disappointment was crushing.
Another dream.
Jaime Lannister would tell his sister when they were alone that the king would live, but he was not well. Barefoot and in light clothing out in an icy wind, alone in his bed chamber, talking to thin air.
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