WE MIGHT FALL (J.SNOW 2)

CHAPTER ONE

THE DAY THE NEWS REACHED STILLWATER WAS A DREARY ONE; rain pelted from the sky in disarray, while slate clouds cast shadows on the grey fields, and prevented any light from the golden sun to be seen for miles. The castle looked like a painting, a silhouette on the horizon that wasn't exactly real - it looked haunted. Faint embers could be seen as amber wisps through barred windows, and gormless sentries lined the battlements like ancient chess pieces. It didn't feel or look or even pretend to be real. It might have been their house, so thought those belonging to the Iris family, but it didn't feel like a home. 

Cynthia could look at The Keep on a day like this; she could disclose herself beyond the nearby treeline, and dissolve into the blackness of the day, and she could just look at it. She could pretend that, on a day like today, everything was wrong with the entire world, not just with Stillwater. Because it was. From where she was standing, looking and praying to any god that would listen that today was just some terrible dream she'd wake up from, everything had gone horribly wrong.  She'd decided to go out on her horse for a ride through the canopy of distorted trees; she'd thought about riding to Winterfell, even, but she knew even there would just be another hollow reminder of what had once been a home. She'd gone to the trees because she couldn't stand to stay in her house, listening to the wailing of her sister like it was claps of thunder, or waves of wind battling with the castle walls. She couldn't stand to watch her sister wither up in her bed, clenching that flimsy piece of parchment as though it were all she had left. She had to get out, and so out she got. Into the wild and untamed land beyond Stillwater Keep, which roared and reared up in the storm, she preferred to be one with the hurricane than to physically listen and witness her sister's heart shatter into a million pieces. 

She thought about Jon then. While she stood and looked at Stillwater, all her mind could comprehend was Jon. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to get on her horse and ride as fast to the Wall as she could until she found him there. Because that was all she could possibly consider at a time like this; she didn't really think that much of her sister, in all honesty, all she wanted was to ensure Jon was alright, or as alright as he could be currently. That was, of course, if he knew. Because there was the small chance that news had not yet spread that far into the snow, and while he went about his duties of the Night's Watch, he could be believing everything was still as it always was, when that was clearly not the case. And she needed to be there, with him, she needed him to know what had happened, and know he was not alone like he no doubt would feel he was upon hearing of such a tragedy. 

Robb Stark was dead. That thought felt as though it had invaded Cynthia's mind, as though it did not belong, because it just couldn't be right. He couldn't be dead, could he? She didn't want him to be, she'd like him, very much, and it had all been planned out. He was to marry Livia, and by law become Cynthia's brother; and he was going to win the war, and make her Queen, and they'd live happily in Winterfell for the rest of their days. And, somewhere amidst his reign, Robb would bring his brother home from the Wall, make him hand and claim him to be a Stark, and then everyone would be happy. That was how it was supposed to go. No one had thought, in a million years, this could be how that story would end. And to Cynthia, while she stood letting the rain hit her like a sea of arrows falling from the sky, this seemed far to impossible. He, who she would happily call one of her closest friends, was dead. The King was dead.