The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - III

ALMOST A WEEK went by, and there was little change to Bran's condition. He slept without waking. The Maester did not know if he would wake at all. Most days, Aryadne remained by his side and tried to make herself of use to whoever needed her. Robb visited but never spoke a word. She tried not to think anything of it but his sudden absence was disheartening.

On the morning of the fifth day, she took breakfast in the great hall with her family. Not a word was spoken. Her mother, in particular, had been quiet ever since Bran was found. Her father, on the other hand, was not even there; Aryadne assumed he had spent the night with half of Winterfell's brothel and would rise in time for their departure.

The doors opened and her uncle Tyrion strode in. Some hay still clung to his already straw blonde hair. He must have fallen asleep in the pens again, drunk more often than not. "Bread," he ordered a passing servant, "and two of those little fish. And a mug of dark beer to wash it down. And bacon, burnt black."

He lifted Tommen enough to slide him further along the bench, taking his place beside Jaime. The elder clapped him on the back, and he looked as though he might throw up. "Little brother."

"Beloved siblings."

Cersei watched him coldly from across the table. She and the princesses got the nicer seats, padded and warmed by servants before they arrived. At her side, Aryadne ruminated on a mouthful of kipper and watched him over her book. "Good morning, Uncle. I trust you slept well?"

He took her meaning and plucked the straw from his fringe. His quick eyes dropped to the volume she kept propped against a jug of ale. "Like a dog. Nearly finished with that one, are you? I'm as keen as ever to hear your thoughts."

"Yes. I'm not so sure about it, though. The early histories are a little too fantastical for my liking."

Smug as ever, he looks to his sister. "I told you she should have been raised with an older septa. She is young, she should still believe in all these fairy tales."

"What's the use in fairy tales?" Aryadne quipped back. "I'd rather keep my head out of the clouds. Besides, what would be of better service to me, an education in the actual goings on in the world or far-fetched tales of faeries and White Walkers?"

The Queen huffed impatiently, muttering against the lip of her goblet, "An education like that is hardly a service to you when all you shall amount to is someone's wife. You think too highly of yourself, child."

Her face flushed with embarrassment. Closing the book and pushing her plate away, she sipped her watered ale in silence. Across the table, Jaime seemed as though he might speak up about it. In the end, he returned to his meal.

"Is Bran going to die?" Myrcella finally asked.

Though she knew far more about his state than the rest, Aryadne kept her mouth shut. "Apparently not," Tyrion said through a mouthful of bacon.

The Queen's attention snapped over to him. "What do you mean?"

"The Maester says the boy may live."

There seemed something unsaid between the three siblings but Aryadne could not tell what. As with every mention before, her mother sighed and shook her head. "It's no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain."

He grimaced. "Only the Gods know for certain. All the rest of us can do is pray." His cup had run dry already and he reached for the jug by Aryadne, eyeing the pile of food still on her rejected plate. "The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you."

"I still can't believe you're going. It's ridiculous, even for you."

Aryadne had heard of his plan to accompany Robb's uncle to the Wall. She was not sure what was so attractive, or why any man would choose to go to such a cold and desolate place. He, on the other hand, seemed entirely enthused by the idea. "Where's your sense of wonder? The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night's Watch, the wintry abode of the White Walkers." His voice lowered to a growl and he tickled Tommen, earning a peal of childish giggles.