Character is much easier kept than recovered.
—
"What was that all about?" asked Robb.
"Nothing," Eleonora muttered. "I was speaking with Jon, that's all."
"Funny. Jon seems to be looking quite a lot like Jaime Lannister these days," he replied as Eleonora brushed by him in the same manner as Jaime had moments before. Robb followed her, pulling her against the back wall by her elbow as soon as they reentered the hall.
"Let go, idiot," she frowned, avoiding his eyes.
"Are you alright?" asked Robb fiercely. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing," she spat, ripping her arm from his. "Stop being overprotective."
Eleonora was quick tempered, there was no denying it. However, it took quite a lot to get under her skin and even more to stay there. Her wolf-blood was boiling, steam nearly visible from her nostrils. Though she loved Robb with all her heart, she hated when he acted like he was her older brother or worse — her father. Coincidentally, that was precisely who she needed to see at that moment. She abandoned her cloak near the entrance and straightened her skirts.
Ned Stark, as wise as ever, had been watching the scene between his children unfold. He knew something had happened in the courtyard judging by Jon's joyful change in expression and Robb and Eleonora's unusually tempered exchange. He eyed his daughter as she approached him, his scowl softening into a weak smile when their eyes met. Her father always calmed her nerves no matter the occasion. She was so concerned with speaking with him that she didn't notice the king, drunk and delirious, staring unblinkingly upon her. Eleonora lowered her head and curtsied once she was before her father, King Robert beside him.
"Father, I was hoping to speak with you," she said. "It can wait until morning, but it is about Jon. I would like to steal you away for a private breakfast if it appeases you."
"Certainly, daughter," he nodded. "Is everything alright—"
"Ned, surely you wouldn't forget to introduce your King to such a lovely creature," King Robert interrupted.
"Your Grace, allow me to present my eldest daughter, Eleonora Stark," said Ned in a reluctant tone.
"My King," she curtsied. "My apologies for missing the opportunity to greet you upon your arrival this morning. I apparently was feeling ill." Her stare lingered most unpleasantly upon her mother who was seated nearby.
"No greater atrocity has ever been committed," said the King. "Have you been told how much you resemble your aunt?"
"More times than you could possibly fathom, Your Grace," she replied.
"But her mother's eyes," said Ned quite hastily as he eyed the King's whimsical expression. "She has Tully blood in her veins."
"Though much more a Stark than a Tully, I wager," said Robert. "I see a wolf hiding behind those big, blue Riverrun eyes."
"I am my father's daughter," she smiled.
"You certainly are," said Robert, his eyes slowly traveling from the tips of her toes to the hairs on her head.
The king had just asked Ned to be the new Hand of the King, and yet all that consumed his mind was the potential fate waiting for his eldest daughter if she were to join him in King's Landing.
—
Jaime Lannister harshly slammed his elbows on the stone ledge overlooking the feast. He glared at the small woman he had just had the displeasure of meeting. She stood before the ogling king, smiling and flirting so effortlessly that she had the king undeniably wrapped around her pretty little finger in a matter of seconds. His hands bawled themselves into fists. These Starks were turning into a much larger annoyance than he had initially anticipated. Something must be done to keep them in their place, their place in the Lannister's shadow.
"She is quite breathtaking, isn't she?" said Tyrion, sipping his wine and positioning himself beside his older brother.
"Who's that?" Jaime grunted with an upward inflection.
"Please do not act so oblivious, brother," said Tyrion, "or I'll have to tell father his favored son has lost his touch."
"Ned Stark's daughter?"
"Do you see another woman with bigger doe eyes or perkier tits?"
"No, and nor have I seen one with a bigger mouth," said Jaime.
"She must suck a good cock then," said Tyrion, his teeth involuntarily biting the rim of his goblet.
"In my limited experience, more comes out of that mouth than goes in," he replied, watching as the eldest Stark curtsied to the king and took a seat beside her brothers and sisters.
"I like her," Tyrion affirmed.
"Add that to our long list of differing opinions, brother," said Jaime, gulping his final drops of wine.
—
The feast had concluded, the children were in bed and the planning had commenced. Ned glanced helplessly around the bedchamber. Catelyn's heart went out to him, but she knew she could not take him in her arms just then. First the victory must be won, for her children's sake.
"You say you love Robert like a brother. Would you leave your brother surrounded by Lannisters?"
"The Others take both of you," Ned muttered darkly. He turned away from them and went to the window. She did not speak, nor did the maester. They waited, quiet, while Eddard Stark said a silent farewell to the home he loved. When he turned away from the window at last, his voice was tired and full of melancholy, and moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eyes. "My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again."
"A different time," Maester Luwin said. "A different king."
"Yes," Ned said dully. He seated himself in a chair by the hearth. "Catelyn, you shall stay here in Winterfell."
His words were like an icy draft through her heart. "No," she said, suddenly afraid. Was this to be her punishment? Never to see his face again, nor to feel his arms around her?
"Yes," Ned said, in words that would brook no argument. "You must govern the north in my stead, while I run Robert's errands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb, soon enough, will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. Make him part of your councils. He must be ready when his time comes."
"Maester Luwin, I trust you as I would my own blood," said Ned. "Give my wife your voice in all things great and small. Teach my son the things he needs to know. Winter is coming."
Maester Luwin nodded gravely. Then silence fell, until Catelyn found her courage and asked the question whose answer she most dreaded. "What of the other children?"
Ned stood, and took her in his arms, and held her face close to his. "Rickon is very young," he said gently. "He should stay here with you and Robb. The others I would take with me."
"I could not bear it," Catelyn said, trembling.
"You must," he said. "Sansa must wed Joffrey, that is clear now, we must give them no grounds to suspect our devotion. And it is past time that Arya learned the ways of a southern court. In a few years she will be of an age to marry too."
"And what specifically of Eleonora?" asked Maester Luwin, "She is the eldest and the most... strong willed."
"I will need her in King's Landing," said Ned. "Sansa, Bran and Arya will need more attention than I will be able to give them."
"She will not be pleased," said Catelyn. "She and Robb have been inseparable since Robb was born. Neither will be happy to be separated from the other, and you know how she watches over Jon like a mother."
"I will speak with her in the morning," said Ned, frowning. "I will make her understand."
"Perhaps you will finally find her a match," said Catelyn, clinging to any happy opportunity of her children leaving. "There will be many more suitable prospects for her in the southern lands."
"She will not like that..." said Maester Luwin.
Eleonora needed to find a proper husband even though she would protest. She was had surpassed the average age for young girls to find a husband and Eleonora seemed to be the only person who didn't seem to care. Sansa would shine in the south, Catelyn thought to herself, and the gods knew that Arya needed refinement. Reluctantly, she let go of them in her heart. But not Bran. Never Bran.
"Yes," she said, "but please, Ned, for the love you bear me, let Bran remain here at Winterfell. He is only seven."
"I was eight when my father sent me to foster at the Eyrie," Ned said. "Ser Rodrik tells me there is bad feeling between Robb and Prince Joffrey. That is not healthy. Bran can bridge that distance. He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love. Let him grow up with the young princes, let him become their friend as Robert became mine. Our House will be the safer for it."
He was right; Catelyn knew it. It did not make the pain any easier to bear. She would lose all five of them, then: Ned, and the three girls, and her sweet, loving Bran. Only Robb and little Rickon would be left to her. She felt lonely already. Winterfell was such a vast place.
"Keep him off the walls, then, remind Nora," she said bravely. "You know how Bran loves to climb."
Ned kissed the tears from her eyes before they could fall. "Thank you, my lady," he whispered. "This is hard, I know."
"What of Jon, my lord?" Maester Luwin asked.
Catelyn tensed at the mention of the name again. Ned felt the anger in her, and pulled away.
Many men fathered bastards. Catelyn had grown up with that knowledge. It came as no surprise to her, in the first year of her marriage, to learn that Ned had fathered a child on some girl chance met on campaign. He had a man's needs, after all, and they had spent that year apart, Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father's castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts were more of Robb, the infant at her breast, and Eleonora, the tiny mouse of girl that clung to her skirts, than of the husband she still scarcely knew. He was welcome to whatever solace he might find between battles. And if his seed quickened, she expected he would see to the child's needs. When she returned to Winterfell after the war to see Jon already comfortable in his wet nurse's arms, that cut deep and she had never truly forgiven him for it.
"Nora has asked to speak with me in the morning, and I am right to assume it is about Jon serving the Night's Watch," said Ned. "I don't think—"
"He must go," she said now.
"He is close with Robb and Nora," Ned said. "I had hoped..."
"He cannot stay here," Catelyn said, cutting him off. "He is your son, not mine. I will not have him." It was harsh, she knew, but no less the truth. Ned would do the boy no kindness by leaving him here at Winterfell.
The look Ned gave her was anguished. "You know I cannot take him south. There will be no place for him at court. A boy with a bastard's name... you know what they will say of him. He will be shunned."
Catelyn armored her heart against the mute appeal in her husband's eyes. "They say your friend Robert has fathered a dozen bastards himself."
"And none of them has ever been seen at court!" Ned blazed. "The Lannister woman has seen to that. How can you be so damnably cruel, Catelyn? He is only a boy. He—"
"You sound like Nora," said Catelyn.
"And she is of my blood as much as Jon," he replied.
Catelyn said nothing as she knew what he meant by his words, cutting her deep. Let Ned work it out everything in his own mind; her voice would not be welcome now. Jon taking the Black would be the perfect solution. Benjen Stark was a Sworn Brother. Jon would be a son to him, the child he would never have. And in time the boy would take the oath as well. He would father no sons who might someday contest with Catelyn's own grandchildren for Winterfell.
Maester Luwin said, "There is great honor in service on the Wall, my lord."
"And even a bastard may rise high in the Night's Watch," Ned reflected. Still, his voice was troubled. "Jon is so young. If he asked this when he was a man grown, that would be one thing, but a boy of only..."
"A hard sacrifice," Maester Luwin agreed. "Yet these are hard times, my lord. His road is no crueler than yours or your lady's."
Catelyn thought of the four children she must lose. It was not easy keeping silent then.
Ned turned away from them to gaze out the window, his long face silent and thoughtful. Finally he sighed, and turned back. "Very well," he said to Maester Luwin. "I suppose it is for the best. I will speak to Ben."
"When shall we tell Jon?" the maester asked.
"I'll speak with Eleonora. Preparations must be made. It will be a fortnight before we are ready to depart. When the time comes, I will tell him myself."
—
Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, Eleonora's bedchamber was one of the warmest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death.
Eleonora hated the heat and could never abide by it. The Starks were made for the cold, and her blood was of the wolf. So when Jory had finished her, Eleonora rolled off and climbed from her bed, as she had a thousand times before. She crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one, beckoning the night air into the chamber.
The wind swirled around them as she stood facing the dark, naked and empty-handed. Jory pulled up the furs over his manhood and watched her. She looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable, like the little mouse of a girl she had grown out of had returned. Her loins still ached from the hastiness of his lovemaking. It was a good ache.
"Come back to bed," said Jory in a husky tone.
Eleonora turned back to him, her waist-length black hair was all that clothed her, merely concealing her own breasts. She breathed the crisp night air, smelling the frigid winds.
"I don't want to go to King's Landing," said Eleonora, slinking back under her fur covers beside Jory Cassel who welcomed her, the curtains around the four poster bed still blew quietly after each gust entering her window.
She knew it was her fate to follow her father to King's Landing because she knew her father's mind and his intentions. She would have to look after her younger siblings and she accepted and embraced that fact, but she begged the gods above that Robb would be allowed to join her on the journey. Alas, a Stark must always remain in Winterfell, so she knew her plea to the heavens would most likely not be granted.
"I know," Jory replied sympathetically. He rolled over and positioned himself with his muscled arm under Eleonora's head, leaning on his elbow so he could look into her hypnotizing blue eyes and casually play with her shiny locks of hair beside her ear. He sent her a reassuring smile, resting his forehead upon hers for a quiet moment. "But you will not go alone. You bring the North with you because you are the North, my Lady."
He traced her jawline with the tip of his callused finger, weathered by cold and of war. He was such a handsome man, honorable, generous, and kind. He would make any woman a fine husband. He would make Eleonora a fine husband. He would be gentle to her, thoughtful and brave. Alas, Eleonora did not want that. She did not want a husband. She didn't want any of it. The idea of a marriage meant a loss of herself, a loss of who she was. Jory knew how she felt about marriage, he knew all too well. He knew well enough to never speak of the matter. He knew to never tell her how often he thought of her when they were apart, how much he longed to be with her, near her. He knew to never tell her how much he loved her. He knew never to tell her because he knew as soon as he did that whatever it was that they did have would end and become nothing but a distant memory. If this was all he would ever have with Lady Eleonora Stark then he would spend all of eternity in painful silence.
"But I cannot bring the cold with me," she smiled coyly, placing a soft hand upon his cheek, tracing her thumb under his ear. "I am not accustomed to the warmth of the south."
"Alas, you are accustomed to my warmth," Jory jested, smiling down at her and she released a genuine laugh. She patted his bare chest playfully and pushed him onto his back. She nuzzled herself against him, resting her head just under his chin while he wrapped his arm around her naked frame and stroked her back with his fingertips. "But I know the heat is not what truly troubles you, my Lady."
Eleonora released a heavy sigh, tilting her head up to look at Jory with a sad smile.
"I am afraid," she said, returning her head to Jory's chest.
"You've never been afraid of anything in your whole life," he said with certainty.
"I am afraid for Sansa," said Eleonora. "Joffrey is more a Lannister than a Baratheon, and he has no goodness in his heart. He has a great evil in him — I can feel it."
"If he's so terrible then your father would not agree to such a betrothal," he replied simply. "Lord Stark is not a foolish man. He can see what truly lies within a man's heart."
"How could he turn down the king's request?" asked Eleonora. "You're right. My father is no fool, and he would make himself one to refuse the king."
"Perhaps the boy will change, mature into a decent man," said Jory.
"I remember you when you were near his age," said Eleonora. "You were good, even then. And Robb and Jon are noble and a far cry from Joffrey Baratheon. There is Lannister blood coursing through his veins. The worst part about it is that Sansa worships the little weasel."
"She is young and naïve," said Jory. "All she cares about is that Joffrey is a handsome boy and the heir to the crown of the Seven Kingdoms."
"She's such a silly child," she sighed. "Why can't she–"
"Why can't she be more like you?"
"You know that's not what I was going to say," she frowned.
"But it is what you meant," he replied. "Just because Sansa wants to have a husband, bear children and lead a household does not make her a silly child."
"Do you think I am silly for not wanting that?"
"No, I didn't say that," he retorted. "I merely think you should not be so judgmental to those who actually want that life. They are not wrong or stupid for wanting share their life with someone."
"I don't think that," she said. "I just don't want her to get hurt. She is too young to know what she truly wants."
"And what is it that you truly want?"
"I want my family safe, the North secure, and a good night's sleep," she said, "that will do — for now."
—
Eleonora's summons to begin her day came in the hours before dawn, when the world was still and grey. Rickon had leaped upon her (thankfully recently empty) bed, shook her roughly from her dreams and Eleonora stumbled into the predawn chill, groggy from sleep, to find Arya already begging her for a favor. Arya was frantically asking Eleonora to join in her mandatory sewing circle, and the eldest Stark girl could not bare the thought of refusing her plea. Though the only reason she struck to her promise (instead of the much more appetizing option of practicing her archery in the courtyard with her brothers) to drag herself to stitching was due to her exceptional good mood brought on by the conversation she's shared with her father over breakfast regarding Jon taking the Black.
"Sansa, your work is as pretty as you are," said Septa Mordane. "You have such fine, delicate hands. Arya, you have the hands of a blacksmith."
Arya frowned down at her stitching with dismay and glanced over to where her sisters Sansa and Eleonora sat among the other girls. Sansa's needlework was always exquisite. Everyone said so. Eleonora noticed Arya's scowl and was quick to reassure her. She placed a gentle palm upon the top of her youngest sister's hand and smiled kindly.
"Those little hands of yours were made to hold a blade not a needle," she whispered to the little girl. "There is nothing wrong with that, Arya, and promise me you'll never forget it."
Arya's scowl slowly faded when she looked up and met her sister's gaze. Eleonora seemed to always know what to say, a gift she had certainly never grasped. They shared the same temper, but Eleonora had always managed to use her quick tongue before her fists — her words always seemed to do more damage anyhow. Arya cursed inside her head, and on any other day Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to join them.
Eleonora finished her stitching before the others. Her talent was below mediocre, but her fingers were quick. Maester Luwin had told her young that her fast fingers were meant to stitch flesh and not tapestry. He would occasionally let her practice on the guards when they had minor wounds, teaching her some of his battlefield wound care for as long as her interest could be kept.
Septa Mordane had learned many years prior that critiquing her work would do no good, and she had reached an age where Septa could no longer scold her efficiently. The only reason she still attended the stitching circle sessions occasionally was for Arya's sake. She knew that her little sister hated stitching even more than she did at that age and having an older sister like Sansa did no good lifting her spirits.
Eleonora studied her own work again, contemplating whether or not Septa Morgane would notice if she switched hers with Arya's, then sighed and put down the needle after realizing how ridiculous her thought was. Eleonora looked over at her auburn-haired sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.
"What are you talking about?" Arya asked suddenly, a question Eleonora cared too little to ask herself.
Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. Beth blushed. Eleonora glared. No one answered.
"Tell me," Arya urged.
Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. Myrcella said something then, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.
"We were talking about the prince," Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss. Eleonora rolled her eyes.
"Joffrey likes your sister," Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. "He told her she was very beautiful."
"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm."
Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily.
"Beth, you shouldn't make up stories," Sansa corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Eleonora for a long time before turning her gaze on to Arya. "What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He's very gallant, don't you think?"
"Jon says he looks like a girl," Arya said. Sansa sighed as she stitched and Eleonora snorted a very inelegant laugh.
"Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."
"He's our brother," Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room. Eleonora placed a hand on Arya's shoulder to calm her, sharing a brief wordless exchange with Septa Morgane to signal to the elderly woman she had control of the situation. Eleonora released Arya's shoulder, took a deep indifferent breath, delicately placed her stitching beside her and gracefully took to her feet, straightening her beautiful skirts without looking up.
"How horrible it must be for you, Sansa," said Eleonora finally. "A pretty thing like you must be mortified to share the same blood with that of a Snow. The bards should surely sing songs of your plight."
"You're embarrassing yourself," Sansa hissed, blushing and smiling in an apologetic sort of way to the other girls.
—
"He's talked Ned Stark in to a celebratory hunt," said Jaime in his usual unamused tone.
"I image it did not take much convincing," said Queen Cersei, looking out from her bedroom window and out in to the courtyard.
She watched as several guards of Winterfell and of Baratheon colors, Ned Stark, and Robert Baratheon adjusted their saddles and supplies upon their steeds. Her brother was dressed for the day trip as well, dreading the mere idea of accompanying his sister's husband and the watchful Ned Stark on a hunt. He sighed loudly before wrapping his arms around his twin's thin waist. He rested his chin on her collarbone, placing a longing kiss on the nape of her neck.
"Maybe Ned Stark will mistake Robert for a hog and strike him dead," Jaime joked, earning a quiet smile from Cersei. "He'd be doing us both a great deed."
"They do share a striking resemblance," she relented. "He is a far cry from the daunting figure he once was just ten years ago. I imagine Ned Stark must be quite disappointed at what he's become."
"That is undeniable," said Jaime, "almost as undeniable as your husband's attraction to Ned Stark's eldest daughter."
"Yes, I'm sure he yearns for her as much as he does for his wine and his whores," said Cersei quickly.
"No, I must disagree," said Jaime. "I saw the way he looked at her."
"As did I," she said reluctantly. "She looks just like Lyanna. The ghost that has haunted me all these years has taken human form."
"It would seem so," he replied.
"She must not become a bigger problem than her father," said Cersei coolly.
"I'll make sure of that," said Jaime, staring intently in to the courtyard.
—
Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. That was not a charge anyone could lay at the door of Eddard Stark. Yet Ned could not help but notice that those pleasures were taking a toll on the king. Robert was breathing heavily by the time they had ridden a few miles in to the forest, his face red in the dim sunlight as they crept up on their prey — a large, agile buck. Robert held up his gloved hand to halt the hunting party. He placed his index finger to his lips to silence the group, quietly dismounting his horse and gripping his spear. Jaime Lannister rolled his eyes from behind the rotund king, yawning very dramatically. He had yearned to return to his chambers the moment he left Winterfell. The King raised his weapon, but just as he positioned himself to make his kill, the animal dropped lifelessly to the ground before him. The men all paused, looking around to determine who dare take the king's kill.
Heavy huffs echoed nearby before an enormous white mare appeared in the cool, white mist hovering above the earth. The horse was carrying Eleonora who was still gripping her bow with Night by her side, eying her prize. She didn't seem to notice her father and the king's men at first, appearing almost indifferent once she set eyes on Robert Baratheon who was still clutching his spear. His men stood in stunned silence, waiting for the king to react. After what seemed like an eternity, a loud, infectious laugh expelled from the king's throat. He lowered his weapon and gripped his large stomach. Ned Stark appeared relieved, exchanging silent scoldings to his daughter.
"Ned, who did you pay to teach your daughter how to hunt?" he laughed. "I refuse to believe it was you."
"I taught my father everything I know, Your Grace," said Eleonora, smirking to herself and earning an even more boisterous laugh from the king.
"Thank the gods she didn't get your sense of humor, Ned," he replied. "I suppose you would have to have one to begin with in order to pass something like that on."
Eleonora couldn't help but laugh, covering her mouth to conceal her giggles until her father thankfully joined in on the joke.
"What are you doing out alone in the woods, milady?" asked King Robert.
"Sewing circles have never been one of my favored pastimes, my King," said Eleonora. "I am much more comfortable with a bow in my hand and a quiver over my shoulder."
"You've raised a fine woman, Ned," said Robert, brusquely.
"Thank you, Your Grace," said Ned, still cautiously eying Eleonora. "Are you headed back to Winterfell now?"
After twenty years around Eddard Stark, Eleonora knew when a question her father asked her in public was a really a command. She also knew when to not put up a fight. She smiled sweetly, "Yes, father."
"We'll carry your prize back you," said Ned, knowing that would be his daughter's loudest objection to her departure. "Don't worry."
"We'll send you back with an escort as well," said Robert.
"That is most certainly a kind offer, Your Grace," said Eleonora, "but that is not necessary. I know these woods like I know my heart, and I'll manage my own way back."
"I would be honored to see Lady Stark home safely, Your Grace," said Jory, catching Eleonora's gaze.
"Nonsense," scoffed Robert, waving his hand at Jory's offer. "I'll send one of my own guard."
"Jory Cassel is one of my finest men, he is the—"
"Lannister," said the King. "You can make yourself useful and accompany Lady Eleonora back to Winterfell."
"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace," said Jaime, flashing an arrogant grin that caused Eleonora to gag. Eddard Stark's expression was much to be desired as well as the idea of his daughter alone in the woods with a Lannister was not something he was keen on occurring.
"If you allow anything or anyone to harm so much as a hair on her head then I shall have yours on a spike," said Robert gruffly, staring at the lion square in the eye.
"I would gladly lay down my life protecting the Lady Stark," said Jaime in a rather unconvincing tone.
"This is all rather unnecessary," said Eleonora.
"Off with you then," said the King. "We shall feast at sundown on Lady Stark's kill along with whatever prize I may find within these godforsaken frozen woods."
"You truly honor me, Your Grace," she said through her gritted teeth. "A meal shared with my King is the true prize."
She knew Jaime Lannister was battling the urge to roll his eyes at her. Eleonora had a gift with words (whether or not she chose to use her gift to her advantage was a different story entirely). She could wrap the most noble of men around her finger after a few dulcet syllables, a coy smile and a few batted lashes. Robert Baratheon was certainly no exception as she could plainly see by the deepening red blush across his already fat flushed cheeks. Her own cheeks looked a bit crimson for the haunting idea of having Jaime Lannister follow her back to Winterfell made her blood boil beneath her skin. She clicked her tongue without another word and galloped her horse into the trees followed by Night, leaving the speechless king and her now silent and troubled-looking father behind.
—
A wild northern wind blew through his tangled golden hair, as soft and fragrant as Cersei's fingers. He could hear birds singing, and the river moving just yards away. After so long surrounded by hoards of crass, boorish men (the king included) for over a month, the world was so sweet that Jaime Lannister felt intoxicated. Even though he was forced to share an early evening ride with a Stark, he appreciated what freedom he had for the time being. He closed his pretty green eyes for a moment and inhaled the crisp fresh air.
"You know, I think we may have gotten off to a rather rough start," Jaime teased, his great black horse trotting effortlessly behind Eleonora and her burly white draft mare.
"What would make you say that?" she replied, sarcasm seeping from her lips. "Was it when you insulted my House, or when you called me a spinster?"
Jaime would not have to be gentle with her; mocking this girl would be prove sporting. It was not often that anyone besides his younger brother could best him in a game of wits.
"No hard feelings, Lady Stark," he smirked. "I think we can both agree that you were just as out of order as I was last night."
"Think again," she muttered. "If speaking the truth is out of order then I fear you must be offended quite frequently, Kingslayer."
It was incredibly rare that a person dare utter the slanderous name of 'Kingslayer' in front of Ser Jaime Lannister. He knew the name was not uncommonly spoken behind his back, but it took a very brave or very stupid person to speak it to his face. He was briefly taken off guard when the highborn woman so casually called him by his most unflattering moniker.
"I do not recall much truth of anything escaping your lips last night," he replied, his chest feeling rather tight.
"Funny, I wouldn't have assumed your sister's cunt would so easily slip your memory," she hissed.
Jaime suddenly dug his heels deep into his black steed, galloping before Eleonora's mare so abruptly that she was forced to pull back on her reins hard enough to earn an earsplitting neigh from her horse's mouth. She cursed loudly and met the lion's torrid gaze. For a moment, a small puff of breath hid his savage expression.
"You will not dishonor my sister's name," he said in the most serious tone Eleonora had ever heard him use.
"And you will not dishonor mine," she said, not so much of a sliver of fear in her voice. She tore her eyes away from his and led her horse onward.
"Has no man ever told you to watch your tongue?" he called after her.
"Just one," she shouted back. "You."
—
The day was growing more grey and cold, and the dogs would no longer take a scent. The biggest bitch from the Stark kennel had taken one sniff at a pair of stag tracks, backed off, and skulked back to the pack with her tail between her legs. The dogs huddled together miserably on the riverbank as the wind snapped at them. Ned felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool, grey furs and boiled leather. The recent chill in the air only furthered Eddard Stark's shibboleth. Winter was coming.
"You have grown rather quiet since Lady Eleonora's departure, my lord," said Jory Cassel, falling behind the group and out of earshot beside Lord Eddard.
"Have I?" he replied halfheartedly, keeping his eyes forward upon the king. "I doubt my voice is sorely missed."
"I wager the idea of your eldest daughter alone in the woods with Jaime Lannister is what has left you so unnerved," said Jory rather candidly.
Jory had thought of nothing but Eleonora since she rode off into the trees with the lion close behind. He hoped hearing Lord Stark's mutual concern would ease his nerves somehow.
"I worry more for the fate of Jaime Lannister left alone in the hands of Eleonora," Eddard jested.
"Then what, may I be so bold to inquire, has earned your silence?"
"Jory, I have ignored the countless stares upon my daughter's beauty from many admiring men over the years," said Ned, petting the neck of his steed. "None of them have ever truly concerned me before the king's."
—
"Let's go," Eleonora whispered to her horse. She touched her neck lightly, and the large opaline white filly started forward. Robb had named her Moon when she was born just over half a decade prior, a name that his eldest sister decided to keep. She was a draft horse, born to plow and for hard labor. However, when the thirteen year-old Eleonora saw the newborn foal, she pleaded with her father for permission to convert the docile creature into a riding mare. She was not the quickest of beasts but she could push through the deepest of snow like no other horse could.
Her cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at her face. She snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Moon slid into a gallop. It was nice under the trees. The smells filled her nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant fires.
"It would be most considerate if you would let me know ahead of time when you are planning to run off," said Jaime Lannister, tugging harshly on the reins of his black steed. "I was commanded to chaperone you, and I can't do that if you keep trying to disappear."
"I can take care of myself. Go back to your hunt," said Eleonora with venom on her tongue. Night released a dull growl beside her that Jaime ignored.
"You know I can't do that," he replied, gritting his teeth, "no matter how tempting the offer."
From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream. Tears stung his eyes. The stream was running high and fast. Jaime Lannister dismounted and led his gelding across the ford. In the deepest part of the crossing, the water came up to midthigh. He tied his horse to a tree on the far side, and waded back across as if to lead his female counterpart across. Eleonora shook her head and dug her heels into Moon's side. The large mare easily maneuvered the stream and carried her safely to the other side. Jaime shook his head and bit his tongue so hard that he feared it would bleed. Night was close behind Eleonora, wading across the current with only slightly more difficulty than Moon. The three northern creatures cared not to wait for their southern partners. They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Night's ears perked up and took off after the sound, and his master feared little that she would be gone long and chose to encourage Moon to gallop further into the woods in order to lose Jaime Lannister from her trail.
Once Night was out of sight and Jaime left behind, the woods seemed to close in around Eleonora. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about her rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. The melting snow had soaked through her gloves to chill her hands. She slowed Moon to a halt and dismounted as quietly as possible as soon as she caught sight of a white winter fox slinking across a nearby log. She slowly reached her hand over her shoulder to grab an arrow and aim her bow, but she was suddenly disrupted by an unexpected ruckus and dropped her bow. When she first heard the rustle of leaves, Eleonora was instantly agitated, expecting to see Jaime Lannister as the source for the obnoxious sound and for ruining her concentration, but the three ragged men who stepped out onto the bank of the stream were strangers.
One look, and Eleonora knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. She was suddenly conscious of how richly she was dressed. Her surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons decorated the edges, and a heavy silver pin fastened her fur-trimmed cloak at the waist. Her boots and gloves were lined with fur as well. She narrowed her gaze, her posture stiffened.
"All alone, are you?" said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw windburnt face. "Lost in the wolfswood, poor lass."
"I am not lost, piss off," said Eleonora.
"Oh, a feisty one, Hox," the second man with a long bush of hair replied, gripping his bow while aiming an arrow directly at her heart. "I like a woman with a bit of fire beneath her skirts."
"She looks like she has much more than that, Gerad," said Hox. "She's dressed like a queen. I bet she's got enough furs and gold on her to fund our journey for weeks. I think she, herself would keep us nice and warm as well."
"You would be sorely mistaken," she seethed. "I warn you, I am Lady Eleonora of House Stark. I am a guardian of Winterfell, and I will not be had."
"A lady?" Hox scoffed. "I don't think I've ever tasted royal cunt before—"
"How utterly shocking," said Eleonora in a dry tone, rolling her eyes.
"Aw, come now, Lady Stark," said a deep man's voice, tall and lean, with the same hard face as the two others. The spear he held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel. "We're all friends here. There's no need for hostility."
"Let's just all get to know each other a little better," said Gared.
The men's clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. All three approached her with caution, and she stood tall as she thought out a plan in her head. The tallest man gripped Moon's reins, causing her to grow anxious and release a shrill neigh. The man with the shaggy mane of hair named Gared began digging through the satchels attached to her saddle. The largest and baldest man, Hox, kept his sights on Eleonora. He circled her like a beast closing in on his prey. He slowly slid his calloused hand over her shoulder and down the front of her gown as if he were going to attempt to gently awake an inner yearning within her. When he fiercely gripped Eleonora around her slender neck, she was so taken by surprise that she released a loud, sharp breath from her lips in a large white cloud. He leaned in and sniffed her long raven locks, his rough skin rubbing against her shoulder blades as his grip tightened around her throat. Eleonora gasped as the man's other arm wrapped securely around her thin torso. A knife slid from his sleeve into his hand, its edge jagged as a saw. Her heart began to race as she tried to calm her shallow breaths. A silent smiled slipped across Eleonora's lips as her hand slid over the hidden dagger holstered on her side.
"RELEASE HER!"
It was Jaime Lannister. He suddenly appeared through the trees, reining his horse in, breathing hard. He pointed his large expatiate sword at the men, fury in his eyes.
"Oh for pity's sake," she muttered, frowning as Hox now held his blade against her throat.
"Lower your blade," threatened Gared, aiming his arrow at Jaime. "You don't want us to have to shed any blood from this pretty little dove."
"Leave, Jaime," said Eleonora in an annoyed tone. "I am perfectly fine. Be on your way."
"Shut up," he shouted, dismounting his steed and walking towards the group. "I am trying to rescue you."
"I don't need rescuing, thank you," she snapped. "Go away."
"Forgive me for hesitating to believe you while a blade is held against your throat," he said.
The three strangers exchanged confused glances for a moment while they watched the two highborns argue amongst themselves. Jaime kept his eyes on Hox who held Eleonora in his grasp. Though his green eyes stared straight ahead, the eldest Lannister was able to grip a short bladed dagger from his side and fling it effortlessly at the man pointing the arrow. The dagger struck his arm and caused him to release a loud groan and his arrow simultaneously, grazing Jaime's upper abdomen near his ribcage. He fell over for only a moment, gripping his side and pulling his hand back covered in blood. The shaggy haired man charged at Jaime, pulling out his sword with hopes of taking advantage of the wounded lion.
Eleonora took the opportunity to grip the dagger holstered to her side and dug it back in to Hox's stomach, slamming the back of her head against his face at the same time. She slid down to the earth as Hox fell backwards in pain, releasing her. Eleonora pulled out her dagger and hurtled it in to Gared's throat. He dropped his bow and fell to the ground. Blood gushed from his throat as he tried to pull it out before his soul left his body. Eleonora allowed the life to leave Gared as she used Hox's own blade to stab his beating heart. After she twisted the jagged blade through her capture's chest, Eleonora spun around to see where the third stranger had gone.
Jaime's cloak was already stained heavily in blood as he defended himself from his attacker. He was such a skilled swordsman that it took a deep flesh wound to even the playing field between him and an opponent. Jaime fell to his knee, one hand gripping his gash and his other holding his sword above his head and clashing with his adversary's weapon. Jaime's arm began to shake, his balance wavering. He looked up in to the determined eyes of what may be his killer, searching for inner strength to survive. Then the shaggy-haired man gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. The arrow was bright red, as if it had been painted in blood. He stared at Jaime without seeing just before Eleonora's enormous black direwolf returned to tackle the dying man and rip out his throat.
Jaime looked beyond where his attacker had just stood, where Eleonora now stood in the distance. She puffed a long strand of hair from her face, still holding her bow erect in her hands. The fury left from Jaime's eyes as he dropped his sword and caught himself with his newly freed hand, propping his body up from the cold earth. Blood leaked from a wound on the upper torso where the arrow had struck him. Eleonora ran to his side, kneeling down and helping Jaime steady himself. He cringed as she gently positioned his arm over her shoulder to examine his injury. She could see sweat trickling down the lion's face.
"You would be perfectly fine if you would have just listened to me," she sighed, lifting her skirts and tearing off as much fabric as she could. "Now just look at you."
"I would also be perfectly fine if you hadn't insisted on riding off alone," he grunted, flinching as Eleonora tied her makeshift bandages around Jaime's chest. She tied them tight to stop the bleeding then helped him to his feet. The wound was not deep enough to kill him as long as they made a decent pace back to Winterfell so Maester Luwin could mend him, but it was deep enough to kill him if he wasn't tended to soon.
"Can you ride?" she asked.
"Yes, of course I can ride," he insisted, yanking himself away from her.
Jaime stumbled to his horse, struggling to lift his foot into his stirrup. He failed and fell to the earth, releasing an agonizing cry. Eleonora sighed heavily and slowly went to help Jaime to his feet. She whistled to Moon, calling her over. She clicked her tongue and motioned for the mare to kneel down on all fours.
"Moon will easily be able to carry two riders," said Eleonora, "You'll ride with me."
"I will walk," he spat. "I will not have you treat me like a wounded bird."
"Well, the funny thing about walking is you need to be able to stand up to do it properly," she frowned. "And you are wounded, so I will tend to you as such, but unless you sprout a pair of wings or start laying eggs then I am not going to treat you like a bird."
Jaime snort a curt laugh at the absurdity of their predicament and begrudgingly allowed Eleonora to help him on to Moon. Once he was situated, Eleonora tied Jaime's horse to Moon's saddle, and climbed on behind him to grip the reins. She clicked her tongue again and held Jaime's frame tightly in place upon the saddle as Moon took to her feet again. The lion tried not to groan once Moon began to gallop, no matter how much pain he was in. He tried concentrating on the warmth Eleonora's body was exhuming against his back, the sweet smell of rose petals drifting from her hair and the rhythm of her breaths. His grip on the saddle began to loosen as blood seeped thicker from his wound, and his vision began to blur. Eleonora felt his weight grow heavier against her chest.
"Oi, alright up there?" she said, nudging his lightly.
"Yes, fine," he coughed, hastily blinking his eyes.
"Well, I need you to stay awake," she replied. "You hear me?"
"I am wounded, not deaf," he snapped.
It only took a few more strides before Jaime began to slouch, his head drooping down against his chest as he grew too weak to hold it up any longer. Eleonora dug her heels deeper in to Moon's sides, quickening their pace. She could feel his breaths become quick and short. Night released an alarming howl as she kept stride with Moon.
"Talk to me," she insisted.
"What?" he said in a quiet voice.
"Talk to me," she said, "Just say something. It matters little what you say, but start speaking."
"I have nothing to say to you," he grimaced. "We're in this dire state of affairs all because of your stupidity."
"Hardly," she objected, unable to fight the urge to argue even in his feeble state. "If you hadn't insisted on following me around like a lost puppy then we would both be back to Winterfell by now."
"You think I wanted to guard you?" he scoffed. "All I wanted was to suffer through Robert's idiotic hunt, and return safely back to your ridiculous igloo of a castle before sunset."
"You could have said 'no,'" Eleonora raged. "I wish you had."
"Oh, yes, I'm quite certain my opposition to the king's wishes would have gone over well," he seethed. "He is already my greatest admirer, so having me beheaded for refusing his order would have never even crossed his mind."
"Please, as if the King would kill the twin brother of his wife," she jeered, "a Lannister at that."
"You obviously don't know Robert Baratheon," he frowned, softer this time. "He can scarcely bare the sight of me. For fun, he stations me outside his bedchambers while he fucks whores and humiliates my sister. He's been looking for a good enough reason to have my head on a spike for years. He'll love nothing more than to hear I was wounded only to be rescued by a girl."
"You shouldn't care what others think of you," said Eleonora in a much quieter voice.
"I don't," he wheezed, his chest barely rising anymore.
Jaime's shoulders slouched more so just as Winterfell was in sight. His eyes half closed, his skin pale as snow as they passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, through the inner walls.
"Yes, you do," she replied with unwavering confidence. "All decent men care about their reputations enough to want to protect them."
—