The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - IX

IT TOOK OVER a week of hard riding — far less than anticipated. Aryadne barely waited for her horse to slow before jumping off, racing up the empty steps of the Red Keep. Servants and guards stopped to bow to her as she passed but she didn't pause to hear their warnings. She reached the doors to her father's unguarded chambers and threw them open.

The bed was empty. The sheets were clean. A strange stench hung in the air, under the heavy perfume of flowers.

"Your Grace."

Her head spun from confusion as she turned to meet the pitying gaze of Lord Varys. He bowed but she saw no time for pleasantries. "My father. Where is he? Is he well?"

"My Princess, I regret—"

"Did they send him to the Sept? Can I see him?"

With each question, she found it harder to breathe. The issue was of little matter to her. She stared down at him, waiting anxiously for a response. He hesitated. Then, taking a hand from his billowing sleeves, he rested it on hers and offered a smile. "I am dreadfully sorry, but... your father is gone. He succumbed to his injury days after his return from the hunt."

Still, she stared at the bed. He was gone. She hadn't even had the chance to bid him farewell. And yet, even hearing it said out loud, confirming the fear she had carried with her for a week, she could not bring herself to accept it. She said nothing.

His hand disappeared back inside his sleeve. "Shall I tell your mother you have returned?"

"Will she care?" She realised the error in her words as soon as they were spoken. Wincing, she stumbled back out of the chamber. "No, I should like to be alone. Oh, and a guard was sent with me from Winterfell. Please see to it that he has somewhere safe to stay tonight and supplies for his ride back home. If he tries to leave now, tell him his Princess commands him to rest. I have caused too much exhaustion for him already. And he shall be paid for his troubles — two gold dragons should suffice, I think. Thank you, my lord."

"No need to thank me. It is my pleasure, Little Doe."

—

Aryadne did not cry. Sat on by the pearl inlay table at the centre of her chamber, she stared at her bed. It reminded her only of her father, summoning images of him lying there, bloodstained and empty-eyed. It made her stomach turn.

She hoped that it was a lie. Perhaps he was simply on his throne in the Great Hall or beating up squires with sparring swords in the courtyard. She did not dare to check, anticipating the confirmation it might offer.

Grief was unfamiliar. She had never lost anyone before, at least not anyone close. She could not tell if it was normal to feel such pain in her heart, such a wrenching in her whole body, as if it had been partly torn, as if she were being dragged away from the realm of the living herself. Her eyes burned with want for tears but none came.

The doors opened without announcement, banging against the walls with the force. She jumped to her feet, freezing at the sight of the boy storming towards her. "Joffrey?"

"How dare you leave like that? How dare you!"

"What?"

He came to a stop before her, glaring up. She knew that look enough to be cautious. "Do you know who he asked for?" he seethed. "Before me, before Mother, he asked for you. You! Why? You weren't even here. You left us."

Her emotions hindered any self-warning and she tried to embrace him. "I do not know, but I am sorry. Truly, I am."

"Don't touch me!"