The Iron Thorn | Theon Greyjoy

30.

Massey

"Lord Tyrion said that Jon is excelling at the Wall," I ventured, breaking the silence in the room and hoping to ease into the conversation that had my stomach in knots.

   Robb's fork scraped along his plate as he gathered the last of his food onto it and nodded. "That's nice of him to tell you. The imp is good for something, it seems."

   "Such a harsh name for him. He doesn't seem a bad man."

   "He's a Lannister," Robb commented as he met my eye. "All Lannister men are bad men."

   I looked to my lap before turning my body toward him and shifting the subject.

  "Do you really think the saddle will work? That Bran will be able to ride again?"

   "Hard to tell. I've never seen anything like it."

   "Well, I sure hope that it works. He's wasting away. Not physically, I mean, he's...losing himself. He doesn't want to leave bed, barely wants to eat. Lady Catelyn would be heartbroken to see him in this state."

   "I think she would just be grateful to see him."

   Oh, Gods.

   "Yes," I agreed under my breath after a moment, wanting to strike myself for saying something so insensitive. The woman sat at his bedside everyday, fending off a murderer with a blade sent to end his life before he had the chance to truly live it. Of course she'd just be happy to see him. She'd be happy to see any of her sons. "That was a stupid thing to say."

   "I know what you meant," Robb assured me as he reached out his hand and placed it on my knee.

   "Still. I'm sorry. You have enough concerns."

   "It's alright, really. You help so much with the boys. I'm thankful everyday that you've chosen to stay here through everything."

   We exchanged tender smiles, and I soaked in the moment. The last moments before he thought considerably less of me. At least, the last moments before he'd have the right to. I looked to his hand still on my knee and sighed.

   "I need to speak with you."

   Robb turned his attention fully toward me now. "Is everything alright? Something wrong?"

   "No. Yes. Sort of," I stammered. "It is about what our fathers expect of us."

   "A marriage?" He asked lightly, moving his grip from my knee to my hand. I nodded. "I hardly believe my mother and father are in a hurry to host a wedding anytime soon. But, I pray often that this mess will be over soon. We will put my brother's would be assassin to trial, and my father will return home. Then, we will go through with it."

   "Right, yes," I chuckled nervously. "It is not that."

   "Then, what? I'm sorry, Massey, if it is taking longer than you'd expected. I can understand if you're growing impatient. I've been distant recently, I know that, and I am sorry. Things have been so difficult since my father left."

   I held up my free hand to get him to cease speaking. "It is not that, either."

   He looked at me so sweetly, listening to every word I had to say with great patience, a courtesy I did not deserve. It felt like looking a loving puppy in the eye as it licked your hand, knowing all the while that you'd soon be tossing it carelessly into the next passing wagon.

   So long, pup. Safe travels to wherever it is you end up. You did nothing wrong, I just prefer cats.

   "I cannot marry you," I finally admitted, still holding his soft gaze. His brow furrowed ever so briefly as he stared on, waiting for an explanation. "It is what my father wants, but it is not what I want."