Eddmina Stark was as beautiful as she had always been. Older, sterner, different, but still strikingly beautiful. Willas only wished he'd had the courage to tell her that the moment he laid eyes on her again for the first time.
What was he supposed to say, or do? He had spent so long wondering how he would act and greet his long-lost supposed-to-be-dead wife, ran his mind over each different option every night since finding out she was alive. Some nights he considered bowing to her, not caring how badly he hurt his bad knee if it meant kneeling to her and declaring her his Queen, his love. Other times he thought about running to her and drawing her into a tight embrace with the desire to never let her go ever again. Other options included sobbing apologies, declarations of adoration, spouting wedding vows at her. He had considered kissing her, telling her she was beautiful and that he had missed her like she was the air he needed. He had thought about making a dark joke about how it was only supposed to be two weeks they were apart. He had thought about walking in there with his son so they could reunite properly as a family. He had thought about telling her he loved her.
Instead all he had been capable of doing was standing and staring. Fool. Stupid fool.
Yet, how could he not stare? The Eddmina he had seen in his dreams had been who he had last seen, the woman who had kissed him farewell in Riverrun after telling him she was a Tyrell truly, the woman carrying their second child but too duty-bound even then to put herself first.
The woman stood at the top of Winterfell's great hall where he had often seen her Lord father sit during meals or councils was much changed. Paler, if that was possible, skinnier and more drawn, with dark shadows of sleep depravation under her eyes that had never been there whenever they had shared a bed. She had never particularly cared for wearing gloves before either, but there they were, the leather of them tucked into the cuffs of her dress sleeves as if they were the first garment that she put on in the morning - just like how he knew the first thing his brother did upon waking up was don the leather patch over his missing eye. Dressed all in black with a cloak that looked like one of her fathers' modified to fit her smaller frame, with a sword on her belt that matched the one that had been sent to Highgarden for Uther. The crown too, the one he had seen perched upon Robb's head countless times, looked just as changed as her, yet it suited her, two things changed unalterably tied together in fate.
Then there was her hair. Her long luscious braid that he had combed on their wedding night, the soft waves that he had liked to stroke when they were in bed, the hair he knew she liked rubbing rose oil into so to remind him of home when they were far away... it was gone. Garlan hadn't mentioned anything about her hair, he hadn't said anything about how she wore it twisted into short braids around the back of her head, pulled back from her face so severely as if she didn't want anyone to see it. Whether that was hiding her femininity, or removing any vanity she'd previously allowed herself to feel for her hair. He knew his wife hadn't often praised her looks, but she had loved her hair. He wondered if she had sheared it herself, or if he would need to track down whatever man had forced the cut on her and beat him to death.
He wasn't sure why he had expected her to smile at him, or tell him she was glad to see him. He should have expected her to be changed to him. He should have expected the walls of courtesy she had once hidden behind to be far taller and stronger, but they had still felt like a knife to his heart. He should have expected her to be on her guard, to be short and ill-tempered. Garlan had told him exerts of what she had done to survive, he should have assumed that living through complete isolation in enemy hands would have ruined her and any patience she had for conversation, especially when it was obvious she felt as betrayed by him as he had feared. When she had snapped and snarled, accused him of using Uther against her, tried to send him away, he had wished for nothing more than to throw himself off the broken tower. Even so, none of it hurt as much as it had when she had momentarily lowered her guard, spoke about their daughter, said his name, only to immediately revert back to cold pleasantries. It was that which had him hoping she would make good on the promise of wine in his room.
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Only A Northern Song ~ Game of Thrones / Willas Tyrell ~
Fanfiction"I cannot sing for you. You want me to sing you the songs of the south, where the pretty ladies fall in love with the brave knights and all is well with the world. I don't know those songs. I only know Northern songs, about winter and wolves, and yo...
