The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - XXI

ARYADNE SHOULD HAVE expected it. There was no way that Lady Stark was ever going to welcome her into the same family that her brother and uncle attacked. She could not blame her for wanting to protect the one son she could still get to. The love that woman had for her children was as fierce as it was unusual. Aryadne could never imagine her own mother going to such lengths to protect her.

But her return was not the only change to shake hers and Robb's wits. News had come, news of an attack on Winterfell. It had been captured by raiders from the Iron Islands, led by Theon Greyjoy himself. She could hardly believe that the smug, scrawny boy she had met over a year ago was capable of such an invasion. Even as she paced around tent, with her new husband worrying over letters and plans, she could not conceive a reason for the betrayal.

"I should be going back," he finally muttered, throwing a pile of parchment down on his desk.

Sighing, she came up behind his chair and rested her hands on his shoulders. It wasn't something she had done much before, but he always seemed to relax under her touch. So she began to massage his tension away. It was not so easy this time. "I know Winterfell is your home, but your duty lies here. You'll do your people more good by fighting the bigger threat — the South. This war, all the sacrifices you've made, they cannot be for nothing. Let Roose send his bastard in your stead. The Boltons are fearsome warriors; they will recapture Winterfell in no time, ensure the safety of your brothers, and bring Theon to justice."

He propped his chin up on a balled fist, glaring at the fabric wall as though it were stitched with the faces of his enemies. "No. I've given the order for him to be brought back alive. I will have his head for this."

Her hands stilled for a second. She hesitated before speaking again, though she had the suspicion that her words were meant to reassure herself. "Well, I suppose that is one of your duties. One must be ruthless so as not to appear weak." That was something her father had told her once. It seemed his war stories finally had a use to her. "But he was your friend—"

"I don't care," he spat. "I don't care about my duties, I don't care about our friendship. He betrayed that when he attacked my home, my family. No, I want him dead and I want to do it myself."

He meant it. There was a darkness in his tone that startled her. It was still hard for her to remember just how much he had changed. Swallowing nervously, she let go of him and began to pace once more, fidgeting with her stag necklace for some relief. "I understand."

At first, he scoffed, but his frustration waned and he slumped in his chair. His voice was heavy with despair. "How can you?"

Her own anger came unexpected. She didn't have a chance to quash it before she opened her mouth. "Do you think you are the only one to suffer betrayal? Do you think there weren't times when I wished for nothing but to punish my family for what they did — to shame my mother, to deal back every blow Joffrey dealt upon me?" At that, he turned sharply, his eyes flaring with shock. She continued, "They made me a prisoner and a fugitive in my own home. I hate them."

What she hated more, however, was the realisation that it wasn't completely true. A quietness fell between them. He deflated, the rest of his fury leaving him. "I want to do more than just sit and wait."

"I know." An idea came to her. Making her way over to the bed, she knelt at the foot of it and rested her clasped hands upon the mattress. "Teach me how to pray," she said.

He stared at her in utter confusion. "What?"

"You want to do something, so teach me how you pray to the Old Gods. They can protect Bran and Rickon for you."

Aryadne had seen that look before, so warm and gentle, almost admiring. For what, she did not understand. He rested an elbow on the back of his chair to allow him to turn, getting a better look at her. "What about your gods?"