Chapter Text
There was a time when you amused yourself with the occasional act of rebellion and when you saw Arya throwing her needle on the ground and avoiding anything in relation to stitching, you smiled a little. It wasn't that you were completely reminded of anything you'd ever done, because your mother would have your head if you'd ever behaved the way Arya did. Instead, you were amused that the youngest Stark daughter abhorred lady-like tasks with an undying passion that it rivaled yours toward...oh, you rather not even think his name.
She was escaping the session with the Septa again and you were sure that Lady Catelyn would deal with her, so you continued on with your own. Your eyes darted over towards Sansa Stark, she was quite possibly the prettiest girl in the North and you envied that fire in her long locks. Of course, you also remembered she shared the same shade of hair as that...oh, you almost thought his name, again.
Thinking too much, you pricked your thumb and brought it to your mouth, wincing at the taste of metallic blood. Jeyne, one of Sansa's friends, leaned over and asked if you were okay and you gave a cursory smile. "I'm fine, thank you. It was just a little prick of my finger, nothing to worry about."
You were older than Sansa and although she had a few inches of height on you, you liked to believe you had far more grace and wisdom. Which is why you couldn't stand—
"Oh, Sansa, these are wonderful, truly, wonderful. You have the makings of a very talented young lady," the Septa praised Sansa and she smiled. You went back to your own stitching and wondered what Arya had escaped to do. You mused and remembered she was probably bothering Ned Stark's bastard, Jon, and pestering him about fighting.
You sighed quietly when you saw a drip of blood onto your stitching and Septa Mordane waddled over to gently grab your hand in hers. She gave you a slight look of concern and you apologized for your unusual clumsiness. She have a cluck of her tongue, "You know your condition, go quickly see Maester Luwin, he'll fix you better." She set your things down on your seat as you gracefully exited.
Suckling on the too of your thumb, you shuddered in the cold of the winter air that accompanied living in the North. You cursed your mother for having sent you North instead of somewhere warm and sunny like Dorne or even King's Landing. Surely, you could be in court and enjoying fresh fruits in the warmth of the sun. However, you were thrust into the bitter, harshness of Winterfell. At least Lady Catelyn was there to bring some comfort with retellings of her time living at Riverrun. You would always smile when she took the time to tell you about her fascinating tales.
You walked through the snow and even that was graceful. It was a small joke that Jon Snow always made when you came around, he would now profusely and pretend to act as if he was unworthy your mere presence. That would make you blush, because even if he was lower born than you, you knew that wherever Jon was...he was, too. Oh, you were getting angry just thinking about that foul boy, he was just so...so...awful!
You heard raucous laughter and you remember that you were near the yard, and Arya was probably teasing Jon...which meant—
"C'mon, Robb, I've seen better fighting from Rickon!" There was Jon's voice, accompanied by Arya's loud laugh. Then, you heard the clashing of metal and you almost thought they were fighting with actual weapons. Concerned with Arya and wondering if she was ready to see her brother maimed, you rushed over to the yard and was easily disappointed.
Ah, it was just Robb swinging at Theon with dull blades and he seemed so heated in his endeavors. Greyjoy must've said something about Robb that the eldest boy didn't like. He never truly liked Theon all that much, especially being much older than he. You didn't mind Theon, save for a few unsavory comments you'd heard him say to a few servant girls at Robb's last nameday when he began to drown himself in wine.
"Yeah, Stark, you're all over the place! You expect to land a blow with this sloppy footwork?" Theon japed in his usual teasing manner and Robb swung at him. He had lost his usual grace and you wondered what sprung this on. Not that you cared for Robb's feelings, you wanted to know for your own benefit. You could probably throw it back in his face one day.
Arya was the first to notice your presence and her face went pale, thinking you'd been sent to go and capture her. When she hid behind Jon, he turned to you as well. His smile was a little reassuring. "Oh, Your Majesty, you've graced us with your audience?" He had a playful smirk on his lips an you joined by his side.
"Please, I beg you, Jon, I always disliked that name..."
"It's true, though, your Grace, you really do walk as if you're royalty. It's actually unnerving."
"I just walk with purpose, there shouldn't be cause for names..." You removed your thumb from you mouth to say all of this. You pressed on the wound with your other thumb, hoping to staunch the bleeding. He noticed this and grabbed your hand, much like Septa Mordane had.
Arya had peeked from behind Jon and spoke, "Did Septa sent you after me?"
You broke your eye contact with Jon's inspection of your finger and smiled at Arya, "No, I was supposed to see Maester Luwin, but I heard yelling and I got curious."
"Curious to see if Robb would cry?" Jon mused and you would like to say you didn't have a smirk on your lips, but that would be a lie. "You should wrap this before you bleed out in the snow..."[1]
You felt Jon wrap a tiny piece of dark cloth around your finger and you thanked him. "Perhaps seeing Robb in the dirt and weeping would be interesting."
Arya laughed. Jon turned back to the fight and by now, Robb was heaving and Theon was getting annoyed at Robb's perseverance. "Come on, Theon, knock him down already!" You couldn't help, but encourage. It would be strongly frowned upon if anyone else had heard you, but then again, none of this was supposed to be happening. (Theon must've snuck out the dull blades.)
Your cheer had temporarily stunned Theon and this made a perfect opportunity for Robb to land the winning blow. He had knocked Theon down and held the dull sword to his chest, smiling in victory, "I win."
Theon shot you a glare and you tried to quell his anger with a smile. That didn't work so well, so you tried a different tactic. One that you knew would work. When Robb helped Theon up, the teens both came over to you, Jon, and Arya. Robb was not making any effort to acknowledge you unlike Theon Greyjoy. "Thanks to your little shout, I lost."
You smiled coyly, "I'm sorry, I had hoped you'd win. I'll make sure never to speak again when you're fighting. I'm clearly a disturbance, Theon. I'm sorry..." Your lips curved down and your eyes met the ground.
You had known that this display of guilt would instill some in Greyjoy, but you could practically feel another hard stare coming in your direction. One that belonged to the most horrible—
"That's right, your Grace, you probably should never talk ever again. You don't benefit anyone when you go around squawking like a crow."
Your lips twitched in contempt and you resisted snapping your head up and tackling him to the ground, beating him up until he apologized. (You'd probably be an inspiration to Arya Stark, but Lady Catelyn would scold you.) instead, you lifted your head with a sickly-sweet grin upon your pretty lips and nodded. Your grin was passive, well-rehearsed, pleasant but your eyes—your eyes held a burning rage within them and if looks could kill, Robb would've died at least twelve times.[2]
The exchange of glares lasted only briefly until a loud: "What are you children doing?!" From the Master-at-Arms came barreling into the yard and you all scattered like insects.
•
Maester Luwin rubbed an herb and potion paste on your finger before he gave you the usual lecture about your need to be more careful. You heard it from your mother, your father, Maester Luwin, Lord and Lady Stark, and the Septa, Jon, Arya, and on occasion Old Nan. Which is why you walked with purpose, you tried to be careful with everything you did—even reading. One slice from the edge of a page and you could bleed for hours. Your mother had sent you away because of your strange condition, a blood disease,[3] you were told. This surprised you when she said you would be going to Winterfell because they had excellent court healers at King's Landing, didn't they?
But, your mother was afraid of King's Landing, and Dorne was so foreign to her, she had more comfort in her nights sending you up North. She said once, "Perhaps, the blood will freeze when the cold air hits the wound, seal it up!"
You were little and you once believed it. However, now you were fourteen and you knew that was all wrong. You had bled for the first time when you were thirteen and every time since, you'd been bedridden when you bled. Maester Luwin was always making you drink potions from his cabinets to ease the pain, but you were always concerned as to how much blood you could possibly lose without you dying.
So, you were careful. You never played. You hardly got to ride. You mainly played the part of a lady. You never did throw Robb Stark into a headlock, lest he scratch you and you bleed to death. You were graceful in everything you did due to your disability. When you thanked the Maester again, you turned to leave.
You were just about to be free to go read, knowing that the Septa had probably went to tell Lady Catelyn of Arya's disappearing act (which meant all the young ladies were free to wander) and so you were eager to find a good book. Walking with your usual poise, you couldn't quite understand why you were unceremoniously yanked into a nearby hall.
Not wanting to yell in the halls, you settled for a aptly issued glare in your assailant's way. It surprised you when you were met with that fiery red hair that you so detested. He had still smelled of sweat and musk and you wondered how a fourteen year old boy could even have such an odor. Then, you remembered, it was Robb Stark and you didn't care.
"Are you really not going to talk to me? Arya told me you weren't going to say anything to me anymore, because of what happened in the yard, is that really true?" He held your arm with the strength that shouldn't have belonged to a boy of his age. You hadn't said anything of the sort to Arya Stark, but you'd be given a wonderful idea.
Robb couldn't live with an unrequited hate. He cried when he had the smallest of crushes on Jeyne while he was ten and she said she didn't like him back.[4] So, unrequited was nothing that the honorable Robb Stark could withstand. You quite liked the thought.
You just eyes his grip on your arm. He let you go. You knew their would be bruises with his fingerprints on your forearm. Just another reminder of why you hated him so much. He was always in your business. He teased you senselessly, and that blasted Stark would be hot and cold. One minute, he'd pretend to be nice and the next, he'd go off and insult you. The insults would be worse when he would sneak a few drinks with Theon and Jon at night and you'd been coming back from the library to your room. The eldest Stark just irked you beyond words.
"I didn't mean it, what I said," so now he was being nice. You glared at him.
He scratched his head and then said offhandedly, "Forget it, I didn't mean it...I should go, now."
You watched as the boy made his exit and you waited a moment, just so that you wouldn't accidentally run into him again. When you had been sure he had left, you rounded the corner and bounded right into leather and fur.
"Careful, little lady," a kind rumbling tone came from over your head and you were so glad it was just Lord Eddard Stark and not his son. He mused a smiled beneath his bristly facial hair, "Should I concern myself as to the state of my son's mood?"
You gave him a doe-eyed expression, "Lord Stark, I-I swear by it, I did nothing to—"
"No need to worry, I was his age, too. I was merely teasing," he eyed your hand, "Remember to be careful..." You nodded and bowed your head low and he continued in through the hall. You'd always admired how Ned Stark was, he was always so kind to you. He loved his children, even Jon Snow. It was a wonder how anyone like Robb could be from the same blood—Robb was probably the bastard. You shook your head, you shouldn't ever insinuate negative things about Lady Catelyn. She deserved nothing of the sort.
You rubbed your forearm absentmindedly and continued your walk to Winterfell's library. Giving Lord Stark's word some thought, you didn't understand. Settling on the fact that boy's were just an enigma you couldn't wrap your pretty little head around, you walked on. The only thing you knew to be true was that boys could be guilted with a smile and a few hushed words—what that worked, you'd not question it too much.
•
Two weeks later and you had found yourself bedridden once again, knowing that your appearance was on the border between a corpse and an undercooked slab of meat. It gave you comfort when Old Nan came by to recant a tale of the Blue-Eye Giant named Macumber and the the Doom of Valyria. She had way of telling stories that chilled your burning fever.
What surprised you most today was not Jon and Arya singing some tune they substituted your name into, but Robb had come bringing your food and not a servant. This was odd. Ever so.
Especially because Robb Stark was your sworn nemesis.
He came in and you mustered up a glare that probably fell short of its usual effectiveness, since that red-haired Stark set your food on the table nearby and sat in Old Nan's usual seat by the bed's edge. He wrung his hands and then sat straight and tall, "How are you feeling?"
You had done an excellent job of sealing your lips when Robb came around and so for two weeks straight you'd not uttered one word to the boy. Arya was the most impressed by this. Jon acted like a little messenger bird (much to his own displeasure) if you absolutely needed something from Robb. Bran found your resilience funny, too, because he tried to ignore Robb but lasted about five minutes.
To everyone else, Robb was this golden child, but to you, he was downright nasty. He held some weird contempt for you and you to him. Except lately, he had been hot and cold—ever since he turned thirteen. Gods, you thought he needed to decide. Did he hate your guys or was he going to treat you like everyone else?
"I don't want to beg you to speak," he resigned to a sigh.
You just gave him another weak glare.
"I brought you your supper," he went over to the tray and picked it up before walking back to your bedside. "Bran wanted to give you the food, but it was too heavy..."
You sat silently. He placed the tray on your lap.
"You should eat, Maester Luwin will have your head if you—"
"You may leave."
He turned to leave, "You shouldn't talk to the future Lord of Winterfell like that..." There was his icy demeanor again.
He left and you ate.
Robb Stark was absolutely annoying.
•
You were sitting in the window that overlooked the yard, where sometimes Arya would gaze out if she wasn't allowed down in the mud like the men and boys, but you didn't mind warming the spot when she was gone. She sat you had special seating there and if she saw you, she would wave excitedly up at you. You'd return the gesture. Jon or Bran would see it and the same exchange happened. Never Robb.
So it made you uneasy when he was the first person to notice you up in the window. You wanted to duck your head and crawl away, instead, you accepted his wave with elegance. He gave a small wave and you reluctantly returned it.
He would swing at a wooden dummy and then glance up in your direction and wave again. You'd wave back. That happened six times.
However, you hadn't spoken a word to him, still. By now, he had gotten tired of trying to force you to talk to him and Jon remained the messenger bird for important matters. Which were rare, it seemed.
•
You were about to settle into to bed one night and you heard a knock on your door. It startled you that anyone would be bothering you at this time of night, but it must've been rather important if they were.
So you wrapped yourself in a robe to cover up your nightware and grabbed the candle. Peering out into the dark corridors were always frightening but you saw no one in sight. Had you not looked down, you would've completely missed the piece of parchment at your feet. You wondered what that meant. It could be Arya messing with you...
You picked up the parchment and returned to your bed after closing the door. Placing the parchment near the candle for light, you read in chicken scratch handwriting: Speak low if you speak love.
And nothing more. A bit of pink tinted your cheeks, because although you were sometimes naive, you knew a love note when you saw one.
But, whom was the sender?
Whom?