Chapter Text
Robb watches Joanna struggle to clasp the necklace, seated at her vanity. Her curls, dark as the night just after the sunset, spill over her shoulder, and he can see her graceful arch of her neck clearly. Something dark in him want him to bite her, lay a claim, say, you’re mine, love . It tests his patience and iron-control. He does not often refute his desires, a wolf never needs to, but for his love— anything.
(Everything)
“Shall I do it for you, Jo?”
She startles, the necklace dropping in her lap as she turns to find him leaning against her door. Her eyes catch his, and he can see the shades of violet glow, luminescent in the fire. Her lips curl up in a smile and he can see the dimples in her cheeks, rosy with the warmth of the hearth. She’s happy to see him, and lovesick boy that he is for her, is glad that she likes his company. Not that there was ever any doubt— he would tolerate no man poisoning her against him.
“You could have knocked, Robb”
He could have, yes, but he didn’t want to. He never does, and he never will. There is nothing she should want to hide from him.
“Well, should I?”
She raises an eyebrow, regal even in her amusement— as if to say why he even bothers to ask.
“Please.”
The necklace is silver, studded with blue sapphires so dark that they look indigo. It matches her eyes. He is quite sure that this is one of Amma’s, his grandmother Lyarra Stark’s pieces. It is quite clear who among her grandchildren she favours, and he cannot bring himself to mind it. Jo deserved nothing less than the whole world at her feet.
The indigo shimmers, reflecting well against the cream of his cousin’s skin; and abruptly, he is jealous of a necklace. His lady looks radiant in her lehenga of stark silver, and he’s quite glad he bought the set from the braavosi’s collection, nevermind his mother’s loud protests of indulging his coppers on a bastard cousin rather than his trueborn sister.
Foolish, his mother is sometimes— foolish and blind. Surely, she had learnt not to insult Joanna in her good-mother’s presence, much less her husband’s? It matters not, she had been berated by her husband, who loved his bastard-niece far better than he loved his southern wife.
His hand touches her skin, soft as satin, as he tugs the necklace around her neck. The earrings, silver and amethyst to match, dangle from her ears, long enough to touch her collarbones. Jo is the only one among the younger starks besides Bran and Rickon who still wear the traditional earrings, along with their Amma , the Matriarch of House Stark. Robb likes the look of them, they look beautiful — and well, only the best for Joanna.
He hears out shouting from outside the bedchamber, and sighs. Arya and Sansa are back at their quarrelling again. By the old gods, what would he not do for a quiet morn with Jo; without his sisters trying to tear the world asunder with their screaming?
Bran comes barrelling inside the room, tugging at Jo’s untied dupatta , as he complains about Arya troubling him, and Sansa shouting at him. He drags her out of her room, and she follows, as always helpless to the pleadings of her beloved kin.
His smile drops, as he realises that the other men— southern men will look at her, dare to touch her against her will, thinking she is a mere bastard, and not the very heart of the north. He will just have to teach them— Joanna Snow belongs to Robb Stark.
Now, he believes he has to ask the head-maid to arrange for some of the Rabri that Joanna is so fond of. It’s far too sweet for his taste, but she does so adore it.
Joffrey had never wanted to come to the wasteland that was the north. But whine as his queen mother might, but his father would never stray from a thought that he latched onto, and besides yet, the north was home to his one true love and his brother . All his mother did was make the king more determined, for he loved nothing more than to spite his Lannister golden wife at every turn.
By the seven is he glad that he inherited neither his father's bumbling stupidity nor his mother’s aggrandized wits she is so very proud of.
Wasteland the north might be, one of timber far too frozen and snows too cold, but it did prove to be his father’s greatest ally, and otherwise, the tide-turner in the war. Or at least, that’s what his grandfather kept on insisting, and who was he to argue against the Great Lion?
His mother grumbles and screams and Myrcella and Tommen cry as easily as his father fucks a whore and the wheelhouse breaks down twice a dozen times a day. Had he not seen the slightest benefit to integrate himself with the noble and honourable ‘Lord Stark’, he would have rather thrown himself out of the wheelhouse mother kept insisting he sit in every other day and turned towards Casterly halfway along, at least there, grandfather doesn’t simper at him every single moment, determined to cater to every one of his whims.
Patience — Patience, boy , his grandfather says, keep your calm or lose your crown . He spitefully thinks that if he would lose his crown so easily, better the dynasty fall. Who would even replace them, then? The boy-king Viserys is by all accounts as insane as his father. The Baratheon’s had been the closest blood relation to Targaryen’s, and the next in line would be the Martell’s followed by Lannister’s with some Rowena Baratheon as his grandfather’s five times great grandmother. The Lannister’s already controlled the throne, and Doran Martell could barely restrain his own brother on the best of the days, nevermind the lords would revolt at the very thought of a viper on the iron throne.
Tommen whined for his cat, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he would have turned out just a crueller version of his brother had he been left to the tender mercies of the Red Keep. He throws the thought away like a habit, rather not think about horrifying possibilities.
“Your Highness, the litter has been repaired, and Winterfell is a-fourth of day away.”
Finally. Now if the wheels broke down again, he might just give in to his violent impulses.
His niece, daughter in all but name, looked beautiful— no, that was far too tame of a word. Ethereal . The prettiness of Stark-Colouring refined by Targaryen-Lines. His excuse of her being Ashara Dayne and Brandon’s daughter serves him well— his niece is just a hauntingly devastating as Ashara had been. But anyone looked long enough and deep enough would realise that he was very well a liar, a traitor to the very king he calls his brother.
It never leaves him – her voice. Every moment he remembers that day, the blue of winter rose petals stained with the deep red of dead blood. The stench of copper-blood and salt-tears in the room, and the halting, weakening voice telling him the truth. Lyanna begging— keep her safe, Ned, keep my Jaenrya safe .
He might have fooled Robert and the rest of the court, but he could never fool his mother, not as a green boy, and not as the grown man ruling all of North. Lyarra Stark was a sharp, sharp woman, and age had not dulled any of her edges. One look at Joanna’s face had her realize the truth— saying there are some things only mothers recognise.
Only seven people in the world had known the truth— his mother, Benjen, Meryn – the midwife, Lady Ashara Dayne and her brothers Akshar, and Arthur Dayne. And now three of them were dead. If the old gods had a shred of mercy, they would let the secret die with the rest four.
But now Robert was coming to Winterfell, bringing along half his court and his golden wife and children. He knows what Robert wants — had known since the moment the raven carrying a black stamped letter had been handed to him. Jon Arryn was dead, King Robert Baratheon was in need of a Hand, and he would have no other than his foster brother Eddard Stark. And as his heir, Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon lacked a betrothed, a Stark bride would suffice.
All he ever wanted was to see his children live safely and be happy in their lives. Old gods be good, he would see Robb as the Lord of Winter, Bran and Rickon his faithful bannermen, and all three of his daughters, Sansa, Arya and Joanna married happily; and die surrounded by his grandchildren.
(And yet the sleeping wolf howls, says winter is coming, and so is war. )