magnets find each other (and I'll be your lover): 2/2

[opheliahyde]

It’s easy to drift off, to be lulled into slumber and slip into a dream, feeling almost like she’s floating yet heavy, stuck in between until she’s running. The forest flies past her in a blur, green and lush and she’s breathing it in, taking it inside her; the forest shows her where to go, where to run, how to weave through its trees (she’s run so far from the sea, the forest calling her away). Dirt sticks under her feet (they’re paws, she realizes, thick and padded and black, with claws sharp) as she kicks it up, digging into the earth. She presses on; Jeyne pushes herself harder, panting out her breath as she seeks (hunts), alert and salivating, as if she could already taste the blood in her mouth, her jaws poised and ready to snap.

Sunlight streams through the trees, blinding her and she blinks, her eyes fluttering--and she’s Jeyne again, not a wolf. Her eyes crack open in slow increments, sleep still trying to keep a hold on her with her head still clouded and her limbs soft and useless as she tries to move them--to stretch them, to pull the sleep from her body. Where she lays her cheek is warm, rising and falling, and her eyes fly open when a finger traces over her temple, brushing her hair back. The stone walls come into focus, brightened by the sun streaming in through the window and her head clears--she can hear the sounds of people milling about the yard, walking the halls, the castle alive with the start of a new day. Jeyne awakens all at once, jolting up in bed, shivering when she pulls away and the cool air gusts over her bare skin, her heart seizing in her chest and aching as it starts to race.

Robb’s fingers trail up her spine as he sits up behind her, kissing her shoulder, her neck, but Jeyne can’t find it in her to melt to his touches, feeling frozen solid. “Good morning,” he says, combing through her hair, brushing it aside to kiss across her back--kisses that hurt, that make her skin feel itchy and tight as she wonders how her breath can burn inside her throat, when she feels so cold on the outside. Jeyne pushes him away, hand firm on his chest, her other one contending with his grasping hands trying to pull her back as she untangles herself from the sheets, from Robb, from this bed and the night before.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, when she breaks free, standing on her own two feet, shivering and naked as she wraps her arms around herself.

She lifts her gaze to look at him and he’s staring at her, a panic in his eyes that surely matches her own with a furrow in his brow, but intense and blue and for all the wrong reasons; his hands reach out to her, grasping nothing but air, bringing to mind his wolf, chained up in the yard (she wonders if the wolf in her bed had anything to do with her dreams, trembling at the memory of how the fur felt over her skin, how her muscles felt twisted and pulled, rebuilt to fit her new frame). She thinks he might pounce on her and drag her back, coil around her until she stays, and she can’t, she can’t.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long,” she says as she digs her nails into her arms, trying to make herself concentrate, to focus on finding a way out without being caught, without being seen, but all she can think about is that sun is shining in through the window and how high it is, how far its risen. It’s nearly midday, she thinks, the thought churning in her stomach and she feels ill. Elenya would be awake by now, she knows, and would have found her bed empty, no Jeyne to be found--Jeyne has always tried to be there before she woke, and left after she fell asleep. There was never any need for Elenya to be complicit in any of this, I could keep my own secrets, Jeyne thinks, and wonders where Elenya went running to when she woke up alone, if she went to Raynald or if she went to their mother, if anyone is out looking for her now.

“Why?” he says, and Jeyne wonders how he can be so thick, how he can ignore what’s staring him in the face so resolutely, so stubbornly. “You were sleeping so peacefully, it seemed wrong to wake you.” She spies the start of a grin on his face, lips curling back to reveal his teeth. “Besides, I liked the look of you nestled up against me, in between my sheets, your hair everywhere,” he says, leaning forward and cocking his head, his eyes leaving hers to trail down her body. What you must look like in the sunlight, all this bare skin, she remembers he said, wishing he could see her as he kissed over her skin in the dark, peeling away the rest of her clothes. Jeyne drops her arms, a sharp spike of anger compelling her--are you taking your fill, Robb? she wants to ask as she feels his eyes rove over her naked body, staring at him in spite.

The bedding dips low on his hips every time he moves, but her eyes are drawn to the marks on his neck, the shape of her mouth and teeth bruising the pale skin, turned purple in the night; she wonders what his back must look like, red streaked and clawed up from her fingernails. She knows her own body is covered as well, feels the pain of them, still tender, marking points on her skin like dots on a map--marking where Robb bit her, kissed her, how he held tight to her hips. This all that was supposed to remain, the marks they left on each other, like battle scars; there, but eventually fading with time until it was just a memory, a story neither of them told. They weren’t supposed to see each other like this, in the bright light of day, raw and exposed with their layers stripped (stripped, like she felt, stripped to the bone, his eyes like knives carving away her flesh)--she was supposed to be gone by now, and yet, she can’t make her feet move.

“Come back to bed, you’re freezing,” he says suddenly, and she remembers the cold, forgotten she was shaking. Jeyne drags her eyes back to his and finds them full of a concern she doesn’t trust, despite the genuineness in his gaze--there’s a heat she can’t deny, a pleading to lure her in.

“No,” she says and looks away before she can see his reaction, wrapping her arms around herself again, covering what she can of herself, rubbing her hands over her arms as she starts to move around the bed, eyes cast downward. “I need to get dressed.” She finds her gown in a wrinkled heap on the floor and picks it up in her hands. “I need to leave.” It’s torn in places, the fabric frayed or simply ripped. She hadn’t realized how rough they had been in their haste to pull it from her body. At least it was still whole, at least she hadn’t told him to tear it in two in a fit of madness. She turns it over in her hands, until she can slip her arms into it and pull it over her head, yanking it down to cover her where it can.

Robb looks stricken when she finally brings herself to look at him, smoothing the cloth down over her body and realizing it’s inadequate, still indecent, the tears making it worse. “Gods,” she says, and laughs; it sounds hollow to her own ears. “I should have been gone before you woke. I should have been gone before anyone was awake.”

Robb looks at her like he want to spring forth and grab her by the arms, his hands twisting in the sheets as his jaw jumps in his cheek. “You meant to leave me to wake alone,” he says, voice low and rough through his grinding teeth.

“Yes,” Jeyne says, watching as he flinches, his eyes opening wide after, looking as if she gutted him, stuck a knife in his stomach and twisted it. “It was only for a night.”

“That’s all?” he asks as he inches closer, sliding across to the edge of the bed at a creeping pace, almost hesitant as his eyes never leave hers, that same wretched expression set in his face. Jeyne knows she should leave before he finds his confidence and gets to his feet, that she can’t stay here and wait for him to touch her again, but she doesn’t know where she could run, what corridor to take where she wouldn’t be seen, if anyone isn’t already pacing the hall outside. “Just one night?”

She sighs. “That’s all there could ever be,” she says, feeling like she has said it a thousand times, repeating it over and over in her head.

It would not do well to act as if anything more will happen, she thinks as her hands shake (from the cold, she thinks; from her racing pulse, her heart beating too hard in her chest, her hitching breath as her nervousness take hold) and her body aches to run out already, thinking of someone catching her here, seeing them like this. Her instincts scream at her to go, that she can make it--no one knows this castle better than she does, every nook and cranny and secret hideaway; she learned them all playing as a child, but she can’t turn invisible, or cloak herself in shadows, or distract the eye; she knows it's too late and she wants to blame him.

His legs fall over the side of the bed and his feet land on the floor, but he doesn’t stand---instead, Robb makes a sudden stilted motion and Jeyne steps back, jerking away; he raises his arm and drops it to his side in the same breath, like he was trying to reach out and thought better of it, seeing her reaction. “Why?” he asks. Jeyne closes her eyes and listens to her breathing, trying to soothe the edge away in a number of breaths, but Robb keeps poking at her, prodding her with ridiculous questions he should know the answers to; he keeps crawling under her skin, he keeps trying to unravel her reason. “Why is this so impossible?”

“Because you’re leaving,” she blurts out as her eyes snap open.

He’s taken aback when she looks at him and she wonders if she shouted it; it burst forth from her throat and left her chest heaving, she might have. Jeyne sucks in deep breaths that do little to calm her, but give her the longevity to speak again. “You’re better now--not perfect--but on the mend, and you’ll be going soon, off to steal another castle.” She laughs. “Or fight another battle or whatever your advisors have planned. You’ll be leaving and I’ll be staying, to face whatever consequences my mother has in store for me because there’s no doubting my mother knows, Robb, there’s nothing she doesn’t know--gods, the whole bloody castle probably knows by now.” It all threatens to spill forth, every fear, every worry tumbling out of her mouth and she can’t stop it.

“It is impossible, I know that and I didn’t want anything more...” She trails off, stopping to take in a sharp inhale, casting her eyes downward as her hands roll into fists, feeling the pinch of her own fingernails in her palms. “I don’t want any more from you and I don’t regret what happened, but I’m scared and I--”

“Marry me.”

“--don’t know--what?” Jeyne thinks perhaps she misheard him, not believing that the words marry me could have possibly left his mouth, not in any seriousness.

“I said, marry me,” he repeats.

She laughs this time; she can’t help it bursting out of her throat like a nervous tremor. “Don’t be absurd,” Jeyne says as Robb watches her with a growing determination in his eyes, a resoluteness settling there and Jeyne starts to feel the gravity, the weight of what he’s considering.

“I’m not,” he says, genuine hope into his bleeding expression as a soft smile curls up the corners of his mouth, opening up his hands and laying out his palms, resting them on his thighs as if he’s waiting for her to take them; is this his solution? she wonders, something he'd been thinking from the start, turning it over in his head as she slept.

“Robb, we can’t.”

“Why not? We can go to your mother and your uncle right now, and--”

“You’re promised to another,” she hisses, her tone harsher than she intended, cutting. “Or have you forgotten?” She shouldn't have to tell him, to be the one to remember oaths and honor when they're not her own, not hers to keep.

Robb looks away from her, head hanging as stares at his hands, his shoulders tense. “I haven’t forgotten,” he whispers, forcing himself to look up at her again, to hold her gaze.

There’s an uncomfortable shift in his body when he does, nearly folding in on himself as his hands clench around his palms as misery flashes in his eyes, shame flushing in his cheeks. Jeyne almost wants to touch him, reach out and cup his face, rub away the lines with her fingertips, but then he transforms before her eyes, biting his lip until his jaw sets firm, pulling himself and straightening his back. It’s like he puts on a mask and slips into a new skin, arrogance settling into the lines of his face--a cold, expressionless sort--and Jeyne isn’t entirely sure she recognizes the man who sits in front of her (almost, she thinks, clinging to the look in his eyes, the one that betrays him, full of earnestness and sorrow).

“Promises can be broken,” he says, voice full and rich, a steeliness in his tone (it still sounds like a plea to her ears, a child’s excuse).

It leaves her speechless for a moment, her tongue fumbling in her mouth, searching for words she can't find. His eyes remain fixated on hers, cavalier and melancholy all at once; Robb refuses to look away and Jeyne meets his stare, holding his gaze until he backs down (until he takes it back), but he never does. He leaves it between them, leaving it for her to respond to--to scream at or slap or condemn him, to accept with a cool silence--he waits for her, daring her with his eyes.

“You can’t,” she says, and it feels weak, a useless thing to say, so easily brushed aside when he knows he shouldn’t, he was taught better (no, she could say; I don’t want to marry you, she could tell him, but he would look her in the eye and say, liar, and neither of them could deny the truth of it, so the words stay tucked behind her lips, the lies can’t can’t bring herself to say).

“I can,” he says, his tone neither light nor flippant like she expected, just firm and Jeyne knows there’s no changing his mind, there’s no getting him to see reason--her time at his bedside made her well-aware of how stubborn her could be, just as willful as her.

He makes it sound simple, and she thinks it would be, to say yes, to agree; it rolls uncomfortably under her skin, how easy it would be, the feeling weighing her down and trapping her instead of freeing, and Jeyne wants to move her feet, shake it off--but his eyes would follow her, knowing, and it wouldn’t do a thing (she would still feel like a wolf stuck in a pen, pacing--it’s a thought that catches in her chest until she has to shake it off, shake it out of her head). Simpler than running with nowhere to hide, than to face her mother with her torn gown and the marks on her neck, and it edges on bitterness thinking of it, tart on her tongue and choking her breath in her throat. It’s a practical solution to this predicament she’s found herself in, this mess she’s made. They could face her together, with the comfort of his fingers twined in hers, saving her honor like a gallant knight in songs (only for now, Jeyne thinks, he can only save her from this, and then what, where do we go after? her thoughts are insistent, pressing at the corners of her mind until her head hurts; can you protect us? she wants to ask, once I’ve wed you and turned my family traitor, could you keep us safe?).

Jeyne hates that he makes it so easy, so tempting to agree, to save her own skin, to let him lay down his honor for hers and be her shield (to keep him, a small voice whispers in her head). She hates that she can’t hate him, when he leaves it in her hands, cajoling her with promises and pleading eyes, tugging at the weaknesses inside of her (she tries to imagine it, marrying Robb, but it always comes out different in her head--a life that could never be, without wars and oaths, where she would have just met the boy who was to be Lord of Winterfell, not held the King In The North as he bled in her arms).

The yes almost flies out of her mouth, but she bites down hard on it, tightening her jaw and lifting her chin, straightening her spine as she steels herself. She feels rigid, set like stone, and she hates it, how she hides herself (she misses the feeling of last night, of the nights before, of being at his side and feeling open, being herself without holding back, without wearing a mask--they were never good at that, anyway), but her pride burns hot in the marrow of her bones, her tongue honed and ready. Jeyne doesn’t want to let him save her, not like this, not when it would break the promises she made to herself (you’re stronger than this, she tells herself, and she knows she can bear the consequences, she made that choice last night).

“What would your father think?” she asks, trading her yes for an attack; she folds her arms around herself, the words harsh and stinging when they leave her mouth (she wonders if she should have said it, if she should have asked it; how cruel he must think her, but she can't bring herself to care). “What do you think he would say to that?”

Pain flickers briefly across his features and it makes her a bit sick to see the hurt flash in his eyes. Her mother always said she had a sharp tongue, called Jeyne her sharp little blade (with an edge of pride in her tone sometimes, but more often Jeyne heard willful and stubborn slip off her tongue, a certain condemnation in her eyes), always quick to strike out with her words until she learned to bite them back, to hold her tongue, but sometimes they cut out between her lips. His expression recedes after that, hardening again, tucking himself away behind the firm line of his mouth and tight jaw, before he ducks his head, turning his eyes from hers.

"My father is dead," Robb says very quietly, a chill in his voice that unsettles her, the finality of it ringing in her head. She expects him to curl in on himself, wrap his arms around himself and avoid her gaze (she deserves it), but his shoulders stay strong as his fist ball up against the bed and he lifts his face, taking a deep, shaking breath. "I don't think it matters what he thinks of me," he says, his tone flat, a note of resentment cutting through his words, laced with enduring grief and bitter disappointment. A smothered kind of anger shadows his features and it must be directed at her (it's her fault and she hasn't taken it back, hasn't apologized, letting her words hang between them, letting them fester in his old wounds)--but he doesn't see her when he speaks, she realizes, almost looking past her with his heated eyes, his mind elsewhere.

"He raised me with all these high ideals, made me believe in honor and to trust that others would follow the same code, and I thought--” Robb pauses and his fists unfurl, and he’s looking at her again, seeing her again; he half-grins, jagged and wry as his eyes go dark. “But he was wrong and the world isn't like he said.”

Jeyne sees the war in his eyes. She’s caught glimpses of it before, quick moments where Robb will look suddenly weary, and worn, and old--not like the boy she had come to know--and now it stares back at her and she sees the toll it’s wracked on him, how it crumbles his youthful idealism underneath its weight. Jeyne takes a few steps forward before she realizes she's moving, tugged along by this innate desire that she can’t stamp out (a weakness she doesn’t need); she wants to touch him, smooth her lips over his furrowed brow and curl herself around him, try to battle away the defeat and the bitterness and remove the armor Robb’s built for himself in coiled muscle and clenched jaws. But she stops herself before she gets too near, dropping her arm before she reaches him and feel his skin under her fingertips; she winds her hands in the skirt of her gown instead, keeping herself apart before she gets wrapped up in him, in them and forgets.

“That’s the world,” she says, hoping to bring comfort with her voice and her words--trying to speak evenly, gentle what she's saying with soft tones--in hopes he might hear what she has to say and listen to rationality. “Not you. You’re better than that, and you’re better than this.”

Robb cocks his brow, tilting his head at her, like he wants to respond, but he's holding his words back, remaining silent, choosing to let skepticism in his expression speak for him; she wonders if he even believes her. She wants to push at him, to make him see this is only a temporary solution that comes with high risks. I thought if I won the battles, she remembers him whispering to her at night, then that meant I’d won--but I’m losing, it’s all slipping away.

It’s not just about you and me, she thinks and she wants to remind him he needed that bridge and he needs those men that came with the promise he talks so easily of breaking. And you need her, Jeyne thinks to herself, and not me, I’m worth nothing but a pile of ruins and handful of knights. She wants to tell him, you can’t win with me (she wonders how his betrothed--the nameless, faceless girl that's one of a hundred others, all of them with the potential to be chosen--would feel to be cast aside for the likes of her, if she would be relieved or disappointed or heartbroken, if he’s breaking hundreds of hearts if he breaks his promises, if they would be grateful to be saved from marrying some Northern stranger, or if they wanted to be queen, rebel or not). But she can’t say any of it, she can’t bring the words past her lips when she’s sure he won’t listen.

“If Jon were here,” Jeyne says suddenly, remembering Robb’s baseborn brother (Jon, she thinks, turning his name over in her head, feeling like she knows him though she’s never seen his face, never talked with him) and how Robb spoke of him--fond and proud and sad all at once, with a broad smile stretching across his mouth and showing his teeth; something about it reminded her of Raynald and herself, speaking of a closeness and a friendship that went beyond the bonds of kinship (would you listen to Jon, she wonders, if not me?), “what would he tell you?”

He laughs and it startles her, the sound of it high and almost warm, inviting, if it weren't for the biting undercurrent. "If Jon were here, he would have throttled me for even thinking of touching you," he says. “He would have struck me for being so stupid, for not thinking and lying with you. I promised him once I would never lie with a woman I did not intend to marry.” A flush rises pink in his cheeks as his smile tightens. “If I’ve gotten you--” he starts and stops, wrestling with the words that won’t seem to come out of his mouth. “If you’re--”

“If you’ve gotten me with child,” Jeyne finishes for him, acutely aware of the way the skin on her thighs itches, where his release has dried and flaked, but still sticky between her legs. “If you’re leaving me with a bastard.”

“It won’t happen,” he says, the shame fading as the same foolish determination replaces it. “I won’t let it.” He's not lying, she knows, she can tell he believes what he says (he's shared enough, laid himself bare with his voice cracking and his eyes open to know what he looks like when he's being honest), but the words feel wrong, the strength of his conviction almost rehearsed, practiced. It's not enough--or perhaps too much, too apt and too neat; Robb isn't neat, she thinks, he's messy when he's honest, like an open wound.

Jeyne arches a brow. “Will you? I assure you, you won’t be the first king with a bastard, nor the last.”

“That isn’t the point,” he snaps. “I don’t care about what other kings have done, I just want--” Robb stops himself suddenly, taking a deep breath, pulling back whatever words had been on the edge of his tongue. “It’s my responsibility, I need to--”

“If I recall, I was there and I didn’t refuse you,” Jeyne interrupts, anger hot in her mouth, striking out.

Robb lets out a frustrated growl, brushing his hand through his hair. “It’s not my honor at stake, Jeyne.”

“It is if you marry me.”

He glares at her as Jeyne holds his stare, not backing away. “I don’t care,” he says. “That’s not what’s important, gods--”

“Robb--”

“--just let me fix this. Please?” he pleads, eyes softened. That should comfort her, she thinks, that he wants to help, that he's not leaving her to drown in this by herself--but instead it fills her a low churning feeling in her gut, akin to dread, but closer to a warning as she stiffens under his gentle stare. “I need to fix this. I should have known better, I should have remembered, but I didn’t and that’s my fault. Let me fix my mistake.”

It shocks her for a moment, numbing her until it starts to sting, like a slap across her cheek and she flinches as heat starts blooms on her face, rising up under her skin. “Is that what I am to you?” she asks, her voice quiet, trying to mask the hurt, but it still quakes and she hates it. “A mistake to fix?”

His eyes widen, but she can’t see him beyond that, just the blue of his eyes staring into hers. Her breaths are quick and erratic as she nearly takes in gulps of air, her hands shaking even as she wraps them tighter in the skirt of her gown, trying to keep still. She didn’t think---she never wanted to be a mistake.

“What? No, Jeyne, that’s not--”

“Then what, if I’m not a mistake?” she says quickly, tongue nearly tripping over itself to get the words out, voice shaking and unsteady, but loud enough to drown him out. She’s not ready to hear him, her feelings too fresh, too open, rising up inside her like a sudden storm and she can’t seem to stop talking. “Am I a maidenhead that you took? A piece of torn honor that you need to restore?” It hurts to stand--a marrow-deep ache creaking through her bones--but she holds herself upright, wrapping her arms over her middle as the hollowness in the cavern of her chest echoes, her heart still beating. Jeyne bites down on her lip, feeling her fingertips pressing hard in the gaps of her ribs, and she thinks, I never wanted this.

“No, never,” Robb says, and Jeyne almost believes him, with his eyes raw and worried, reaching a hand out--for her to take or touch, she doesn’t know, but he lays it down as quickly as he raised it up, curling his fingers in on his palm (if she ran, would he chase her, she wonders, or stay seated here, until she came back?--she doesn’t think she ever would). “If you would stop and only listen to me, let me explain--”

“Why should I?” Her voice is low and mean, rolling off her tongue like a snarl when she cuts him off--she thinks perhaps she should stop, but her anger is sudden and strikes out (like a wounded animal--trembling in terror yet attacking with claws and teeth, harsh words and the sharp edge of her tongue) and she can’t.

“I’ve had enough of listening to reasons why I need to marry you and enough reminders of how dire my situation is. It’s as if you think I don’t know? That I hadn’t thought this through?” Her heart sinks as she asks her questions, watching Robb curl in on himself, and she doesn’t want to be disappointed in him, but it writhes under her skin like a living thing, twisting in her gut. Jeyne doesn't want to see pity in his eyes, not an apology; she doesn't want him to look at her and feel shame as he asks her to marry him to spare her--I could live with shame, she thinks as she looks away, and a bastard; they’ll be mine, only mine, just like my choices. “I came to you. I came and kissed you, and I knew exactly what I was doing, what I was asking for and what I was giving up, what the consequences might be. I can take care of myself.”

There's no pity in his eyes, when she brings her gaze back to his, not like she feared--nor the apology that's been on his tongue since the night before, but a plea, asking for the trust she's already given him despite her better judgement, wrapped up in affection. Robb holds himself upright, muscles taut and his hands clamped on his knees, the skin growing whiter under his fingertips. It’s too restrained and Jeyne can see where he trembles from holding himself too tight, where he's ready to fly apart (he's not made to be still, she think to herself, restless when he was stuck in bed, hands twitching and always moving when he should have been resting his shoulder; he's made for wars and battles and movement, always running and never stopping, for his warm smiles and quick, secret touches, but never stillness and he shakes from the pressure of it).

“I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to,” he says, steadfastly, so sure, like an oath (don’t declare yourself to me, Robb, don’t pledge vows now), but the way he looks at her is honest, more honest than his words (excuses and justifications and nothing she wanted to hear, everything that hurt) and it almost comforts her to see. But her resolve doesn’t falter or crumble, locked in place while she still feels it seizing like a vine wound tight around her heart, aching in her chest, even as his eyes chip away at it, urging it to loosen.

It’s not enough, Jeyne thinks, keeping her distance (aware that either could cross the space between them if only they could make themselves reach out). Jeyne shrinks, her shoulders slumping as she sighs.

“Why do you want to marry me, Robb?” she asks, feeling the fight go out of her, draining from her body as exhaustion replaces it, fatigue settling in her bones already and her day barely begun. Her anger recedes, pulling back inside her until it goes out and she can’t feel it anymore, not the burn or the heat, nothing--only the pain it was masking. She feels exposed, the hardened shell it made of her skin cracking as her armor slips off, leaving her nothing but a bundle of nerves and vulnerable flesh, baring all her weak spots. It gets harder to ignore when the strength of her pride fails her and she feels her eyes start to sting, choking on a thickness in her throat.

“Jeyne,” Robb says gently, voice low and soothing, as if that should be enough, just her name--it nearly is. Jeyne wishes he would move, leap up and grab her, and pull her against him so she could bury her face in the crook of his neck, feel his hand stroke the back of her head, over her neck. It would be so easy to relax against him and let Robb wrap his arms around her, warm and comfortable--to let him hold her and feel his lips press against her temple, kissing her like he couldn't bear to let go. But he doesn’t, Robb doesn’t move.

He cuts a rigid figure, immobile, his stiff posture a stark contrast with his open and inviting gaze; she thinks of his easy touches, wondering if she should go to him, if his hands would open up and his muscles soften, if it would take only a touch and he would be Robb again, not this stranger in front of her with his contradictions and coolness. Doubt picks up inside her, turning over in her head, and she can’t trust these fragile glances, she needs something concrete to hold onto--to believe in when all he makes her feel is uncertain.

She loosens her grip on herself, arms still folded around her middle, but she can’t will her feet to move. The space between them is short, a few small steps, but it feels like a field, a treacherous great expanse filled with hidden traps, neither of them brave enough to cross--Robb has never been afraid of touching her before, gives away his affection freely (too freely, her mother had said once, walking in when Robb had leaned in close to tuck a strand of hair behind Jeyne’s ear, his hand curled around hers, his breath across her cheekbone, sniffing around you like that wolf of his, no sense of propriety--tread carefully, her mother had said, but Jeyne never did).

“Is it because of honor? Do you want to marry me because it’s the honorable thing to do?” she asks, the words slipping past her lips quick and thoughtless, trying to hide the waver in her voice. “Or because of duty?” She can't stop the outpouring of questions, searching his face, but never pausing for answers, not sure what she would do or how she would feel if he ever said yes.

“It’s important, isn’t it? But--”

“Family, duty, honor; Tully words, your mother’s words, am I not mistaken?” Jeyne almost laughs, half-hysterical, tension growing in her throat, the choked sound of her voice loud in her ears. “Do you regret it, Robb? Is that why you apologized afterwards? Do you need to make amends?”

“No! Jeyne, I don’t--” he says, and stops, nearly short of breath as Jeyne watches his stillness unravel, his hands moving toward her, his actions fitful and stunted until he drops them to his sides, his eyes searching hers, nervous and worried. He breathes out heavily. “Haven’t I hurt you enough?”

Jeyne takes in the remorse marring the edges of his eyes, misery etched on his features as he looks at her, hints of an apology on his lips and she can't stand it. Her throat feels dry as it clenches harder, aching as she tries to swallow, blinking away the burning of her eyes as she bites down.

“Is that it? You feel guilty?” she manages to say, hardly more than a whisper. I’m not a ruined thing, she thinks, her eyes locked on his, but she trembles, a fear pounding in her chest as she wonders if that’s how he sees her, a thing he broke; it cuts deep, like a sharp, stinging flesh wound, a blade running through her to think she's just someone he feels responsible for.

Her hands creep down her torso, hesitant but sure of their path, her shaking fingers trailing over over her skin through her gown. Her fingers fan out as she spreads her palms over her stomach, inhaling harshly when she presses in. Not just me, Jeyne thinks, goosebumps rising up on her skin, stroking her fingers across her stomach, this as well. There was always the potential, the risk of a child, she knew, of course she knew and she braved the possibility of it, rushing headstrong and stubborn---she knew the consequences, had already mourned the loss of her patched together reputation that had been barely hanging on by the thread of her father’s name and not much else. Jeyne knew if her belly swelled after Robb left, everyone would know--her mother would know, know that the child was his. She never thought to spare herself the humiliation; it didn’t matter to her, it never mattered until he offered to marry her like this, like some consolation or salvation, the idea of it chafing under her skin, the sound of it hurting no matter how softly he says it.

“Because I might have your child?” Her voice cracks on the question, her throat finally seizing tight, her visions blurs as her eyes well up, but she will not sob, she will not let the tears fall. Jeyne grinds her teeth to hold it back, blinking away the wetness, but it doesn’t help, it doesn’t clear her vision or stop the rattling breaths shaking under her ribs. Her throat doesn’t ease up and still feels like she’s going to pieces, an emptiness piercing through her---she won’t, she won’t, she will not let him see her cry.

She thinks he sees, despite her best efforts. “Jeyne, I--” he starts, not ungently, but it doesn’t help, she needs, she needs--more, her fingers itching to dig it out of him.

“Why?” she asks and it comes out a gasp, her voice edging on a sob. Jeyne feels her tears spill over, hot on her cheeks and salty in her mouth, tasting thick as she coughs on them and tries to bite them back. She brushes them away with her fingers, rubbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands until she can see, see Robb and stare back at him with her eyes burning.

He swallows hard, Jeyne watching his throat jump, quick and jerking--he looks away (not before she notices the red lining his eyes; like mine, she thinks, we've worn each other down), casting his eyes down at his hands, curling and uncurling as he breathes out, halted and shuddering.

“I don't want to leave you behind,” Robb says quietly, so quietly Jeyne almost doesn’t hear him, but he looks up and his expression has crumbled, steely facade rusted and cracked and slipped from his features, leaving him exposed underneath. His shipwrecked eyes lock with hers, wide and entreating as his breath leaves him gasping, and she remembers his tears, hot on her neck, the way they irritated her skin when they dried; she remembers his face, cupped in her hands--I never should have left them, Jeyne hears, letting it echo in her head, remembering the misery in his voice like knife-wound in her chest. “Please don't make me have to leave you behind." His voice is louder now, but there’s a sharpness in his tone, a fragility around the curve of his face and she’s struck by the memory of the king they carried in, arrow lodged in his shoulder, his face bloodless and fallen slack in his unconsciousness--no more than a mere boy, Jeyne remembers thinking, startled, just a boy--so young and impossibly small in her bed, paler than the sheets, except for the red of his blood and his hair.

It’s too late; I never stood a chance.

Her heart pounds in her chest as her feet take flight, hardly touching the floor until she crashes into Robb. He catches her before they topple over, his arm locked around her as they press together, the distance creating a craving for the the other’s touch alight under their skins. His mouth is open on her neck as she cards her fingers through his hair, resting her head against his, bridging the gap with their touches and holding onto each other with a sort of sinking inevitability. The clarity of it running down her spine with the feel of his fingers stroking over the bones as she slips into his lap, curling closer--they couldn’t pull away not now, the pair of them made of stitched together veins and fused skin--if they tried to rend themselves apart, they would only make a bloody mess, each ravaged and torn-asunder.

It’s not honorable, she reminds herself, like him, like me--but the yes she doesn’t say lingers between them, where skin meets skin, where her heart beats against his chest, and his against hers, in the tremble of her fingertips and her lips pressing against his temple and the churning of her stomach. What a pair we make, Jeyne thinks as Robb’s fingers trail down her arm, as she feels the scrape of his teeth against her neck, hears the senseless things he whispers in her ear, selfish and willful and never knowing our place, the shame of our mothers.

“I would be queen.” It spills forth from her lips as the realization hits her, sending a wave of nausea roiling through her stomach and she sits up, feeling light-headed, her hand clutching Robb’s arm. He looks up at her, brow furrowed in concern, holding her up. “I don’t want to be queen,” she says, and Robb’s concern bleeds into sympathy, an apology filling his gaze.

“I never wanted to be king,” he says, brushing her hair from her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone as his palm cups her jaw (she always knew, though he never said it out loud, never told her--she always knew). “You’ll be much more adept at it than I, and everyone will be glad of you,” he tells her, a ghost of a grin curling around his mouth and Jeyne laughs, her stomach still churning and her heart beating faster, but finds a certain release in his earnestness, his hopefulness. Robb stares at her, thumb still brushing over her cheek and Jeyne stops laughing, caught by the look in his eye. “They’ll love you.”

They’ll hate me, she thinks, the truth of it twisting in her gut, but she won’t say it, won’t shatter the look on Robb’s face, clinging to it to keep from breaking herself. “I will make do, I suppose,” she says, trying to force a smile, exude a confidence in her tone, but Jeyne thinks the shaking in her body betrays her.

“It will be alright,” Robb says, pulling her back against him as Jeyne tucks her head under his chin, the scratch of his beard against her cheek, the pulse in his throat as he runs his fingers through her hair. “You’ll see, I promise.” Jeyne wants to tell him not to promise such things when only uncertainty lays in wait for them, but she can’t bring herself to open her mouth, reveling in his comfort and in his lies.

“My mother was southron, like you, she will help if you need it.” She thinks of Robb’s mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, she says to herself, repeating the name, memorizing it and tries to imagine her face, this woman who was southron and went North and became something else--Lady of Winterfell, Jeyne thinks, but Winterfell is gone (you will be lady to a lost castle and queen to a lost kingdom). “One day, we’ll go home,” Robb says, his voice faded, trailing off; I am home, Jeyne thinks, but remembers she’ll be leaving soon, trading one ruin for another. “I’ll win back Winterfell and we’ll rebuild,” he says it softly, as if only to himself, but Jeyne likes the way he says we’ll, likes the sound of it in his mouth. “You and I, we’ll bring it back.” He lifts her head and catches her gaze. “I only wish you could have seen it the way I remember it.”

A part of her wishes for that, too--for anything different than these set of circumstances, but she’ll cling to what she has.

Jeyne pushes forward and kisses him, grabbing his face in her hands when she can’t find the words to respond--it’s too much, too much to think about and she quiets the sounds of her thoughts with the feel of his mouth on hers. “We--” she starts to say, pulling back, but Robb chases her mouth, stopping her words with quick kisses until she pushes him away, holding him at bay with her hands on his chest. “We should go speak with my mother.”

The thought settles uneasily under her skin, shooting a chill through her spine that brings back her trembling. Jeyne can’t picture her mother’s face, can’t gauge what her reaction would be when they go to her, when Jeyne comes to her having bedded their invader, the promise of marriage to the man to made them all captives on her lips, turning them all traitor with a single breath---making herself a traitor in her mother’s eyes (she never could please her, never, never enough).

“You’re scared,” Robb says, not unkindly. Jeyne cocks her head and gives him a rueful smile, but she leans into his hands as he rubs down her arms, easing the tremble from them. “We don’t have to,” he says, a mad sort of hope in his eyes. "We could stay here and never leave.” Robb leans forward and nuzzles her neck, kissing her jaw. "Just the two of us," he whispers. "We could stay and forget the world outside."

It's a tempting proposition and Jeyne feels the desire for it rise up inside of her, tugging at her reason. She tilts her head and meets his mouth with hers instead, kissing him gently, apologetically, before pulling back with her eyes closed, her forehead resting against his. "We can't," she says, feeling Robb breathe out across her mouth, hearing the sigh in it. Jeyne slips from his lap, disentangling their limbs and feeling the drag of his hands, loose, but not ready to let go, as she stands. “Come,” she says, grabbing Robb’s wrist and pulling him to his feet.

Jeyne wonders if she should blush at his nudity when he stands and the sheet drops, but the heat doesn’t rise to her cheeks when her eyes drift over him and she only grins back when she lifts her eyes and catches the smirk Robb casts at her, kissing it away briefly. “Dress,” she says against his mouth. “We can’t have you speaking to my mother looking like that.”

His grin broadens, but he doesn’t say what he’s thinking, what Jeyne can see in his eyes, the clever retort on the edge of his tongue that he keeps tucked behind his teeth. Robb’s fingers pull at her gown as his smile softens instead, a flush pinkening his cheeks. “What about you?” he asks, his finger slipping through a tear and brushing over her skin.

She shrugs, tugging at her gown, twisting her mouth. “This will have to do. All of my clothes are in Eleyna’s room.”

“Wear mine,” Robb says, stepping away before she can respond, before she can say no (Jeyne can only imagine what her mother would say to her dressed in men’s clothing, and she can’t decide which would be worse--that or her torn gown; at least I’ll be covered). He opens the trunk at the foot of the bed his men brought in for him and pulls out two sets of clothes, pushing one into her hands.

Jeyne keeps her gown on, tucking the ends up it the best she could into Robb’s breeches, the bulk of it billowing out at the top after she laces up, holding it in. They were tight around her hips and her thighs, not made for her shape--she had forgotten the feel, having been so long since Raynald had taken her riding because of the war (he always tossed his clothes at her in the stables, sighing impatiently at her gown and turned his back until she was dressed like him, practical if improper; Robb didn’t turn his back, his eyes lingering as he tugged on his own clothes). She pulled his tunic over her head, but foregoing the doublet, watching and waiting as Robb pulled his on, slow and gingerly, careful of his shoulder, but left it unbuttoned.

“Are you ready?” Jeyne asks. Are you? she thinks to herself, wringing her hands and trying to keep her breathing even, searching for the courage to step outside this room, to be prepared for whatever may happen. She’s accepted, not with her words, but Jeyne isn’t sure it matters when she feels the weight of her acceptance sitting heavily inside her, learning to breathe around its burden, and there’s no turning back (she doesn’t think she wants to).

“Not quite,” Robb says, grabbing her wrist and tugging her closer (she wants to be pulled all the way in, have him press her against his chest and hold her until she calmed, until she could be brave). “Come here.” She does, leaning into his hands as they slide up to her arms to her shoulders, nudging them. “Turn.”

Jeyne spins, turning her back to him, relaxing under his touches as she feels his hands at her neck, thumbs pressing into her nape before they slide upwards. His fingers comb through her hair, ridding it of tangles, rubbing the pads of his fingers against her scalp, over the back of her neck (it feels like when her mother brushed her hair, when she was calm and gentle, comforting as she hummed a song Jeyne could never make out, could never place the melody). Robb divides her hair into pieces, looping the sections through each other until her hair lays in a braid down her back, smoothed down by his deft hands.

Jeyne pulls it over her shoulder, hoping it stays without a ribbon to tie it off, and turns to face him. She tilts her head, running her fingers down the braid and missing the feel of his hands on her scalp, on her neck, the soothing feel of his touches. “Interesting skill for a king,” she says, light and teasing; it feels forced, put on, but it’s better than the fear. “Wherever did you acquire it?”

“My sisters.” Robb smiles and it catches in her chest, the warmth of it, the sadness. “Arya and sometimes Sansa, but mostly Arya. I...” he trails off, swallowing hard as Jeyne finds herself reaching up, her fingers tentative on his face, just the barest touch, but Robb leans into her palm and closes his eyes. She won’t ask, not right now (perhaps later, when there’s more time, she’ll press him, dig out little stories until she can patch together his history--maybe one day it won’t hurt to speak of)--not when she knows what he’s thinking of, the missing and the dead, everyone he couldn’t save.

Robb’s eyes open, blue and haunted, but he tries a grin, for her. “We should be leaving,” he whispers.

“I know,” Jeyne says and drops her hand as she turns toward the door.

She doesn’t know who reaches out first, but their hands collide, each grasping around the other, fingers entangling like tied knots, solid and unyielding. Jeyne squeezes his hand and Robb squeezes back as she catches his glance out of the corner of her eye, looking to him as she breathes out, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

They take the first step together, and the second, and the third, increasing their pace until they pass through the door, under the threshold--it never becomes any easier, but they muddle through, one step at a time, tethered by their hold on each other.

Part One