The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - II

ROBB HADN'T SLEPT. He sat by his brother's side way past dawn and watched Maester Luwin clean the blood from his mother's trembling hands. It almost came as a relief when she finally left Bran's room to take a turn around the grounds.

The events of the night before played over and over in his mind. How he had left his mother and the princess alone, undefended, how he fell for such an obvious diversion. All three of them could have been killed if not for Bran's direwolf. His first chance to prove himself as the man of the house and he'd failed miserably.

Desperate to ease the relentless turning of his stomach, he ventured out into the herb garden. Stone walls crawling with ivy hid it from the rest of the castle. It was a secluded place just outside Maester Luwin's chambers, usually guaranteed to be private. This time, however, it was not.

Guilt lurched within him at the sight of Aryadne. She was knelt by one of the many herb beds, gloves protecting her soft hands as she scattered cuttings into precise wells in the soil. A small cushion softened the discomfort of the ground. Her hair fell across her face. In the pale sunlight, it shone like a raven's wing. It seemed she grew lovelier with each day he spent in her presence.

Though it pained him to break her focus — for he noticed how her brows seemed to have lifted slightly and her usual frown vanished — he could not stand another moment lacking her attention. Hands fidgeting behind his back, he spoke gently so as not to startle her, "It seems with each passing day you become increasingly intent on joining our staff."

She looked up but did not smile as he had hoped. Her eyes were distant even when fixed on him. "There is little else for me to do."

Ambling over, he crouched at her side and watched as she started to fill in the wells and pat the soil flat. "You have a green thumb, I see," he remarked. "Is there anything you cannot do?"

"Cook. I know, there are always people to do it for me, but I thought I'd try. Apparently, I have no knack for flavour. I do believe the word my instructor used was 'abomination'. Rather fitting, I suppose."

She mumbled the last part and he was unsure of her meaning, so decided not to draw attention to it. He watched her put her gardening tools back in the basket beside her and remove her gloves. Falling down a rabbit hole of connections, he recalled how nicely it seemed to fit into his so many days ago. It could not have possibly been a month since he met her. He felt that he knew her very soul, as though they had met before. "Well, you can't be good at everything. Leave something for the rest of us."

Her cheeks tinted a light pink. No colour suited her better. But as he lost track of his thoughts in favour of studying her face, his mind got away from him. Other images of her face came to mind. Tearstained, flecked with blood. He felt his heart clench just as it had the night before when confronted with such fear, the fear that it was her blood.

Nauseous again, he sank to his knees beside her. His words caught in his throat but he forced them out, knowing that he couldn't bear leaving it unsaid. "I am so sorry for what happened, Your Grace. I understand if you cannot trust me to ensure your safety anymore."

Her eyes darted up to him and her frown returned. "What are you talking about?"

"I failed you. I failed my mother and, worst of all, Bran. I swear to you, I'll make it right."

Without a word, she rose and seated herself on an intricate bench of stripped birch. Robb was unsure what to do. Women were emotional creatures, that's what Theon always said. Such a word seemed harsh. But he realised now that he may have been partly correct. When his brothers were upset, he could simply joke with them or give them space and they'd be fine in no time. When it was his sisters, his mother knew the cure without fail. They were alone, though. Alone and her bottom lip was beginning to tremble. Tears were likely to follow and he was clueless as to how he could stop them.