by any other name, as sweet (Robb/Talisa)
title: by any other name, as sweet
prompt: Game of Thrones, Robb/Talisa, she never knew he was the king right up until she kissed him
pairing: Robb Stark/Talisa Maegyr, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling
words: 772
warnings: blood
There’s blood on her hands.
There’s blood on her hands and she can’t wipe it off, the dirty rag reeking of something strong, but not strong enough to keep the stain from her palms. She keeps wiping though, digs under her nails harshly, scratches her skin because it feels like the blood is seeping into her and she has to convince herself, has to make herself remember everything the maegi taught her, because death doesn’t catch, silly girl, you aren’t going to die.
She looks at the poor boy they’re loading onto one of the carts. He’s barely a man, maybe he has known a summer more than she has, and he will stand on one leg for the rest of his pitiful life, not even worthy to be a soldier now. She wipes his blood of her hands and tries not hear the screams.
“My lady?”
I am no lady, she wants to say but finds she has no voice. She looks up to see the soldier who helped her ruin that boy’s life, sees the sword strapped to his hip, sees the wolf sewed to his chest. If she was a lady she would resist the urge to spit at it, curse the Wolves and the Lions and the Stags that play their games. As it is, she is no longer a lady but she still has some sense, so she throws the rag to the ground and reaches out for the soldier’s arm.
He’s bleeding and you would have thought she has had enough of blood but she still makes him sit beside her, gives him a piece of wood to bite on. He refuses and she thinks, silly, silly soldier boy but says nothing, instead pulling out needle and thread from where she has them tucked in her apron. The skin burns and must be cleaned but she has no time, so she bites her lip and stitches him up swiftly to stop the flow of blood. It is done soon and the soldier has said not a word, stares at her instead of groaning in pain.
“Come to me again later,” she instructs. “I will be at the camp.”
He nods, red curls catching the light, and she thinks, this one is young too. When will you ruin your own life?
He comes later, later than she meant, days later and he has a fever and his arm is red and sometimes black. She doesn’t simply think it this time; she says it aloud, says “You stupid boy, what are you doing playing games such as these?” and guides him to the corner of the camp the Young Wolf has assigned to her. Wounded and nearly dead are littered around her and she would be grateful that this King thought of her at all but she has blood on her hands and it won’t come off and the Young Wolf as good as spilt it on her.
She lies the soldier down and lays out balms and wormwood and salts from Lys. She sets to work, washing and soothing and whispering words, pressing a hand to his forehead and willing the fever to fall. He talks in his sleep, says Mother and Sansa and wolf and she pays him no mind, because what boy who is playing soldier would not think of home and a sweetheart and curse the animal that brought him south. She pushes those red curls back and thinks they should not be hidden under a helmet, plays with a ringlet between her fingers, smiles when he opens his eyes and she sees blue.
“My lady,” the boy says again and no, I am not a lady, not anymore. But maybe I can pretend, maybe I can be a lady and you can be a prince and maybe this is not so much a war as it is a tournament to win my hand. She plays with the curls in her hand and the camp is cold and silent and she leans down to press her lips to the boy’s forehead.
He is still fevered though, and he cannot be blamed, not truly, when he lifts his head to meet her and her lips catch a mouth. Pink and hot and chapped but it fits, in an odd sort of way, so she lets herself pretend a little longer that this is one of the songs her mother used to tell her.
I am no lady, she thinks, and you are no prince, but let us pretend, at least for now.
prompt: Game of Thrones, Robb/Talisa, she never knew he was the king right up until she kissed him
pairing: Robb Stark/Talisa Maegyr, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling
words: 772
warnings: blood
There’s blood on her hands.
There’s blood on her hands and she can’t wipe it off, the dirty rag reeking of something strong, but not strong enough to keep the stain from her palms. She keeps wiping though, digs under her nails harshly, scratches her skin because it feels like the blood is seeping into her and she has to convince herself, has to make herself remember everything the maegi taught her, because death doesn’t catch, silly girl, you aren’t going to die.
She looks at the poor boy they’re loading onto one of the carts. He’s barely a man, maybe he has known a summer more than she has, and he will stand on one leg for the rest of his pitiful life, not even worthy to be a soldier now. She wipes his blood of her hands and tries not hear the screams.
“My lady?”
I am no lady, she wants to say but finds she has no voice. She looks up to see the soldier who helped her ruin that boy’s life, sees the sword strapped to his hip, sees the wolf sewed to his chest. If she was a lady she would resist the urge to spit at it, curse the Wolves and the Lions and the Stags that play their games. As it is, she is no longer a lady but she still has some sense, so she throws the rag to the ground and reaches out for the soldier’s arm.
He’s bleeding and you would have thought she has had enough of blood but she still makes him sit beside her, gives him a piece of wood to bite on. He refuses and she thinks, silly, silly soldier boy but says nothing, instead pulling out needle and thread from where she has them tucked in her apron. The skin burns and must be cleaned but she has no time, so she bites her lip and stitches him up swiftly to stop the flow of blood. It is done soon and the soldier has said not a word, stares at her instead of groaning in pain.
“Come to me again later,” she instructs. “I will be at the camp.”
He nods, red curls catching the light, and she thinks, this one is young too. When will you ruin your own life?
He comes later, later than she meant, days later and he has a fever and his arm is red and sometimes black. She doesn’t simply think it this time; she says it aloud, says “You stupid boy, what are you doing playing games such as these?” and guides him to the corner of the camp the Young Wolf has assigned to her. Wounded and nearly dead are littered around her and she would be grateful that this King thought of her at all but she has blood on her hands and it won’t come off and the Young Wolf as good as spilt it on her.
She lies the soldier down and lays out balms and wormwood and salts from Lys. She sets to work, washing and soothing and whispering words, pressing a hand to his forehead and willing the fever to fall. He talks in his sleep, says Mother and Sansa and wolf and she pays him no mind, because what boy who is playing soldier would not think of home and a sweetheart and curse the animal that brought him south. She pushes those red curls back and thinks they should not be hidden under a helmet, plays with a ringlet between her fingers, smiles when he opens his eyes and she sees blue.
“My lady,” the boy says again and no, I am not a lady, not anymore. But maybe I can pretend, maybe I can be a lady and you can be a prince and maybe this is not so much a war as it is a tournament to win my hand. She plays with the curls in her hand and the camp is cold and silent and she leans down to press her lips to the boy’s forehead.
He is still fevered though, and he cannot be blamed, not truly, when he lifts his head to meet her and her lips catch a mouth. Pink and hot and chapped but it fits, in an odd sort of way, so she lets herself pretend a little longer that this is one of the songs her mother used to tell her.
I am no lady, she thinks, and you are no prince, but let us pretend, at least for now.