blegh

Robb Stark Headcanons

a little romantic, sfw, gender neutral reader, my personal read on his character

Robb doesn't like public displays of affection. Don't get it wrong, though. He claims you publicly. He defends you against any slander even from his bannermen or his mother. He publicly labels what you are. His lover. His. His.

The halls are dim, even with the torches surrounding the center. The walls are cold. The elders' looks, unforgiving.

"The lowborn is no one!"

"A nothing."

"Even worse, the lowborn is not of the North!"

Robb Stark stares at his people. You, stationed at the edge of the council table. Not seated. Not even faced. You have no place here.

"No one gets to label my partner for me."

Everyone shushes everyone else when he speaks.

His eyes meet yours. And for a second, he decides.

"One more word, and I cut off tongues."

"Robb..." Catelyn softly warns. His eyes challenge his mother's. Quietly. But it lingers.

The best kind of affection he can offer publicly is a name uttered like a prayer. A gaze given like certainty of your place within the walls. Fingers on your jaw to check if you're hurt. A hand circling your elbow absentmindedly. Worriedly. A loose leaf taken out of your hair in a way that says he looks at you. And listens.

But he changes privately. He lays on your bed like a log, but his right arm is stretched. That's your place. Beside his ribs. Face on his chest. His breathing at the top of your head.

He doesn't do pecks. He doesn't lightly kiss your cheek. Do you think his avoidance of public affection makes him yearn less?

No

In close quarters, the privacy the woods can offer, or in corridors where no one lingers, his hands cup your cheeks.

"Don't get used to the distance, my love." He chuckles. Rare nowadays, but welcome.

His thumb brushes your lip, eyes following like a hungry wolf.

Robb Stark breathes down on your mouth before he closes the space.

He doesn't do half's. He completes. His tongue caressing yours, hand on your waist, the other pulling your head closer by the nape. Like he's drinking from a chalice.

He doesn't usually initiate touch. What he initiates is conversation. His attraction isn't born from looks first. It is your mind, your smile second.

He asks you about the crossroads he hits. If you think it wise to trust a minor lord for a task. If you think it would be better if he accepts a deal from another house.

But in terms of attraction, he is neither an "ass guy" nor a "chest guy." If anything, he'd be a "face guy." He likes pretty. It's simple, really.

He makes sure you're provided for. Jewels? Done deal. A dress you took a liking to from a court lady? A similar one is already waiting for you tomorrow. Boots a messenger wore to deliver? Suddenly, a servant is asking where in Westeros could he have gotten it from.

In the same sense, if you're foreign and missing something from your home, he tries.

You sit outside the castle walls for once. You want to taste something that isn't here. Your skin yearns for the sun. Your robes are in fatal need of other colors.

He finds you staring at a tree, its branches spreading out like arms covering Winterfell from harm. Faces emerge from its trunk.

"Didn't know you'd be here."

He walks to the space beside you.

"I want something." You say it empty. Like you're asking for water in a pool.

"Tell me, and it's done." He says, matter-of-fact. Like he can fill the pool and more.

"I don't know. I just miss... soy sauce." (Feel free to edit this in your mind. I just can't think of anything rn haha)

You can tell his face crumples slightly. Confused. Wondering what the hell soy sauce is.

"You want... soup... that is grown from the ground."

You laugh a little. And leave it at that.

But tomorrow, the castle cook will show up at your door, asking what kind of bean he can start fermenting.

Robb Stark is direct. He doesn't waste time on explaining and coming up with metaphors. Maybe that is what war teaches young boys. That words have no time to be misunderstood.

So forgive him when the first few times of you sulking will confuse him. If you tell him to go away, he physically walks away. Before he seeks you out an hour later. If you start ignoring him, he will not talk to you. Even if he follows you to wait when you'd talk.

His directness is sometimes frustrating. He calls out when he is getting a little frustrated.

"You could just tell me what is the problem, so I could fix it."

"This isn't a game."

"Stop."

So there's no mindless begging. No guesses. He asks you directly.

Worst thing? Once he's older, he will choose honor over devotion. Just like Eddard. Just like a Stark. And you are expected to sit with it. Until he starts getting afraid of losing you.

── .✦ in which you are arranged to be married to Troy Otto for resources in the apocalypse

── .✦ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

You swear you could hear bells ringing. They should've been, but the dry air of Southern California sounds through the ranch instead. No one claps. No one cheers. Everyone stares. Especially him.

Tall. Dirty blond. Scruffy.

You walk through an aisle just made from space. Your people stand at your right. The ones who control a nearby dam. The people on the left wore farmer clothes. At least, that's what you saw on children books. Plaid and jeans. Others looked like "rednecks" --- whatever your favorite youtuber called them.

He looks at you from head-to-toe, his hands resting on his hips, head a little bowed. You could tell he's assessing his bride. His arranged wife. His ranch's saving grace.

You get to the makeshift altar. No one could be bothered to prop up bouquets in the apocalypse, so the altar is only marked by the officiant. One of the people from your group. You never really bothered to know his name. Could've been Jeff.

"You cook?" Your husband says barely below a whisper.

He's smiling, trying to be kind but he comes out cocky, and right then do you notice his almost-perfect little teeth.

You know you sneered. But you still tried to smile.

"Whatever I can."

And maybe it started there. Maybe the transactional intimacy of his palms gripping your cheek, his teeth gnawing on your lips, his warmth only dampening your shoulder when he's holding your gun... Maybe it was then it all started.

After the ceremony, he barely addresses you unless it was to ask.

"Y'ever made what ranch folks eat?"

"Ever cleaned a whole cabin by yourself?"

"You're not as brown as I woulda thought. You mixed?"

"You ever killed?"

If he ever did try to talk without questions, it was about you.

His "exotic wife," he doesn't correct his militia.

How he has to "break you in," but that one's from his dad.

So when you got to his cabin, you knew he would make you sit on the couch first. There is no scent but faint gunpowder and oil. Somehow, everything is kept clean. Not bad for a man, you think, as you notice his boots neatly tucked in a corner.

"Name?" He asks, taking a journal and pen. He sits directly across you, his knees apart, body slacking. A coffee table sits in the center; a broken line meant to keep you apart.

"Y/N. You?"

Your throat knots, trying to swallow your own saliva that felt like a sandstorm after a day in the California desert.

He pauses and glances up, lips curling into a small smile. Cocky yet again.

"Name's Troy. Would do you good not to forget it."

"I see you cook and clean--- you told me that. You've killed a good number of those freaks yourself. Pat your back."

You continue to watch him. You knew getting married would suck, but who fucking knew it'd be like this? You could've made a resume before coming.

"And you can't seem to control your face." He laughs. "Not a problem with me, darlin'"

He closes his journal, wrapping the pen along its string. He places it on the coffee table, curling his fingers together as he leans forward.

"We live in a reckoning," he starts, "you do what I say when I say, else you want problems in our lil setup."

He looks at you. Just your eyes.

"You're a pretty thing, but that ain't workin' on me. We on the same page, Y/N?"

You nod. Before you could speak, he grins and walks away, his weight denting the sofa for a few seconds. You stay seated, confused.

A few moments go by before he comes back with a blanket and a singular pillow.

"I'll be sleeping here?" You ask almost in disbelief. But you can't lie. His sofa beats the stiff dorm beds back at the dam.

"You can't be sleeping with me. Not tonight."

He frowns, mood changing in almost an instant, but he catches himself.

You stare, just in silence. But he scoffs, setting down your solitary blanket and pillow.

"Look, I don't know you yet. One o' the only things I know is that your teeth look like a bunny's."

You sigh, sitting down on your "wife sleeping set."

"Look at you, all comfy already. Just tell me what you need, sweetheart," he says as he turns away, but you stand up, muttering an "I..." but the silence places it just above a muffled moan.

He stops, glancing at you.

"One of the things that made our families' deal is... your guns. I need your... protection." You almost whisper the last part.

He chuckles as he steps towards the door, locking it.

"You're my wife. Now, what kind of husband would I be if I didn't do that?"

He closes the space between you and him, his fingers wrapping around your cheeks as he props your head to look up to him. You hold onto his wrists and yet he doesn't move an inch.

You feel his grip on your face like a vice slowly tightening. You feel drool almost spilling out your lips, but he holds your face upwards to meet your eyes.

He's smiling

In the dim light of the lamps, you almost swear his eyes were still beautiful. Still blue. You knew he could kill you. But would it hurt to say you almost didn't mind? Almost?

"Long as you don't step outta line, you'll be fine," he continues, "but you get it, don't you?"

You nod, almost finding it impossible to move your head as his strength overwhelms your neck.

He lets go, his fingers traveling up your face, resting on your hair. The top of your head almost rings, his hand sitting snuggly on it.

"'S just you and me, bunny. This the safest you could ever be."

You stay with your aunt. The one that shouts at 7 in the morning for school as she makes you a plate for breakfast. You remembered, you have to thank her for taking you in after your mom asked. This is your second week in the American continent. Your university papers and visa were your main problem, but hey, now it's whether you'll pick the ruby or plain gold ring.

"Oh dear, I find the gold one prettier on you--- especially with your skin tone."

Was that racist?

You had to think. You weren't used to the place. Just heard that Southern California, especially around the countryside, had questionable... tendencies. But the lady in front of you seems to mean well.

"Ma'am, do you think I can get that... pearly hair thing...? Along with the gold ring?" You try to do what your aunt does at flea markets.

"Why, of course! I love your hair, sweetheart." She turns around to take the hairpin. "I never thought Asians could have really curly hair. You mixed?"

You shake your head sheepishly. "Just... Southeast."

"Ah, see, kids call 'em jungle Asians." She laughs a little. "How old you said you were?"

"I didn't..."

She must have sensed your discomfort, and so the dirty blonde woman places your ring and hairpin in a bag.

"That'll be 15, sweetie."

You falter a little. Hell, that's so much more than you expected, but you felt too embarrassed to say anything else. Just pay and go. You go through the last 20 in your wallet. Just like that.

You hurriedly walk away from the store, mentally cursing yourself. Until a man--- tall, dirty blond, blue eyes that stare slightly too long on your face... speaks from a bench. His knees are apart, back slacking against the rest, one of his arms resting on it. He had a drink on his hand. You would think it was whiskey. Or some other drink you saw on TV that Americans drink. But the smell carries. It was juice.

"Damn darlin', ya got ripped off." He chuckles as he says it, gazing down at you. "Could've gotten those for 3 bucks."

You flinch a little, pink timberlands stopping abruptly on sand.

"You always act like a bunny?"

"I... no?"

"Well, you don't speak up, you freeze when you think you're in danger... dangerous things to be in this part o' town."

You mutter a little sorry, mustering up a small smile, just to get out of the whole thing. God. You HAVE to get home. It's getting too weird in here.

You hear him look. The sticky feeling that rings your ears. He probably stares at your pink boots as you walk away. Probably takes another sip of the apple juice in his white translucent cup.

At least, now, all you have to do is go home. Ride a bus? A cab? Shit. They don't have jeepneys here. Or tricycles.

And so hours pass like that. Your legs tremble a little as you go on a road you have NEVER been on before. Or maybe you have. The trees look the same. And, hey! That's the same dead tree you always pass by--- NOT! You are lost.

The sun burns your cheeks. Even when it doesn't compare to the sun back home. Hopefully, it doesn't scorch your arms hiding under the wool jacket you mistakenly took with you. Maybe it wasn't much of a mistake, after all.

The ground moves a little as a truck slows down beside you.

"Ain't you the little bunny back at the fair?"

The same grind-y voice startles you. You abruptly stop again. So does his truck.

"Yeah, it's you, alright. Listen, you know your home or nah?"

A pause.

"I... I do!" Liar.

He laughs. "Get on, sweetheart."

You shake your head, hurriedly walking again. You refuse to die here. Especially not to an American man. What would your dad back at home say?

He catches up almost instantly, his truck still matching your pace.

"I don't bite, princess."

You shake your head, almost crying. God fucking damn it. When will this day end?!

"Hey, c'mon, I know I look like a killer, but I promise I don't let people die. Especially pretty ones like you."

He grins as if he knows he just made it ten times scarier to be with him. And it would amuse him if you still went with him.

But he probably spots the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. Probably.

"Look, don't be too hard on yourself, alright? I saw you on my way home, and I almost am. That means you've been walking 'round here for hours."

You stop. He stops too.

"This side of town ain't safe. Especially for you. You should thank your lucky stars no one else's around."

You've heard about this on the internet. Something about suns and towns. And how your curly hair and tanned skin aren't exactly welcome.

"Look, I can drive you home, darlin', just tell me where. Would suck to leave you drying out here."

The sun did glare at you. Sure, not like back home, but still mean enough that you don't even sweat. Not anymore. You feel sand in your throat when you gulp. Your feet pinpoint where blisters are starting to form.

You nod and open the passenger door.

You mention an address. The one your aunt hammered you to memorize last week.

"You were going waaays off." He laughs.

You blush a little, though you aren't sure if it just came off as sunburned cheeks.

"Name's Troy. You?"

"Y/N" You almost whisper.

"Got a bottle at the back. Think it'd do you good to take a sip."

You check. There's a set of unopened water bottles.

"Dad stocking up. Y'all should too. End's comin'"

You glance at him, confused. He looks back at you. Just now do you notice how blue his eyes are. It's dark, like a deep ocean's. It isn't like the ones you saw in movies, ones that looked like ice. But even then, Troy's freezes you all the same.

Bu the moment stops there. A distracted driver is never a good thing. The tires screech as Troy stomps on the brake. A woman, bloody and in neon sportswear, lies dead just a few meters away.

You gasp, opening the door, ready to help.

"Close the damn thing, bunny." He doesn't shout, but his voice fills the truck anyway.

You do close the door.

Troy stares, as if waiting for something. His finger taps on the steering wheel. His other hand rests on his door, ready to open it, for whatever moment he's waiting for.

The woman gurgles blood, you see droplets dance above her mouth. Her twisted head emerges in your vision, her chest facing you. Her ponytail is also neon. Before she could kneel back up, Troy reverses the truck, away from the woman.

"Y/N, listen to me. Call whoever's in your house. Tell 'em to lock y'all's doors." You nod, dialing your aunt's number.

"Where do I go?"

He doesn't answer for a while.

The Wedding's March sounds through the church's walls, painted angels seemingly dancing in its high ceilings. You walk through the crimson path laid in velvet, clad in white. Veiled. Slow.

A man awaits upon the altar. Tall. Red hair and red eyes, but somehow pale cheeks. Eyes sullen. As if a soldier surrendering in war.

Empress Latil sits a floor over everyone else, overseeing the union of her knight, and a scorned but powerful noble.

"As we join them in holy matrimony

Sir Sonnaught

and

[][][][][][][]

"

Voices get tuned out.

Sir Sonnaught gazes upwards, longing for the sky.

You are the river of fire under his bloody feet.

- - - - - - - - - -

When did it start?

When red hair and blazing eyes swept you off your feet. When his hands carried you back up on your soles. When a boy bent down to dust the leaves off your bubblegum pink dress.

"Forgive my carelessness, my lady. I was not aware of your presence."

Why did this kid speak like the grownups?

"I apologize for... for falling down..." you trail off. Your 6-year-old vocabulary fails you.

And maybe balance within the universe, as you heard your father speak with other bearded men, does exist in this cruel, cruel world. For just as your mouth fails you, the red-haired boy lifts his lips into a grin.

And all is all right in the world.

"I see no need for your apologies, miss. Still, I must insist that you pay a visit to my estate. Let our physician treat your knees."

And that's when you noticed blood trickle down your ankle.

When you have reached the height of a young lady, when your knees were strong enough to carry bags of books, and lugging around the palace to go from one tutor or another, that is when you met the princess. Her black hair reminds you of a starless sky. A storm.

And maybe you should have known then, when you have noticed the same fiery red mop of hair follow her around, and not you.

But all good things must come to an end.

When the empress has started taking in consorts, your family with no male heir grew shaky on their feet. They cling to who and what they can. They cling to the nearest royalty. The Melosi.

And so here you are.

Within a chamber. Listening out than in. The empress and the knight just on the other side of the door.

"I will always be your man."

For how long?

"Eternally."

No tear comes out the eyes of the wicked. No one mourns them, just as they are incapable of mourning anyone.

You are the fjord wedged between her majesty and her knight.

And what could be more wicked than that?

The knob twists. Before Sir Sonnaught could enter, you hurry to the bed, feigning sleep. But you pant. You sweat. The blankets wrinkle too much on his side.

"My lady... I... I did not think you heard it..."

"I didn't! I... I have just woken up. Goodness, what time is it?"

"...a quarter after midnight."

"Oh! See, I'm such an early riser." You yawn. "I start my day at this time. Do use the bed as long as you'd like."

"My lady..."

Your eyes are heavy, yet you stand anyway. You smile at him as you pass him by.

"My lady!" He catches your wrist.

"Sir Sonnaught...?" you freeze, unsure, like a rabbit caught by the ankle.

"You are my... I am your husband now." He says it with finality. No doubt. No celebration.

"I apologize for treating you like-"

You yank your wrist from his grip.

"There is nothing wrong, sir! See, who wouldn't love her majesty, yes?"

"Right... Her Majesty is worthy of praise, but..." he pauses, "you are worth of praise too, and I must-"

"Nonsense, dear sir! I am nothing compared to our empress."

"You are my wife."

His hands land on your shoulders. Heavy. Careful.

"Yes. And you wish it was not so."

"You are the most fitting for me. Out of all the ladies in the empire."

"That only sounds as if you compare yourself to her majesty, and you have fallen short."

He stays silent.

"It is my mistake to think we could delude ourselves, my lady, forgive me."

His hands fall to his sides, eyes downturned, staring at the floor. Anywhere but your eyes.

"I will fulfill my duty as your husband."

His hands caress your fingers.

"And you..." his fingers find their way to your chin, "fulfill your fate of enjoying your life, no matter what you must do."

Yes. And maybe then he would look at you the way he looks at her majesty.