what the water gave me

Her breath hitches, caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan as he tongues over her collarbone; she lets her eyes fall closed, leaves crescent moons in his back with her perfectly manicured nails.  Something starts in her as he groans, breath hot against her pulse, and she can’t believe she did that, that it’s because of her. She twists her head to catch his lips, presses their mouths together with a tenderness that surprises the both of them.

She is tense, waiting for the pain and when he enters her, as gently as he can manage, she bites her lip and buries her face into the curve ofhis shoulder to keep from crying out.  They’ve told her, jokingly, to lie back and think of England, to think of the strong son she’ll have to carry on the family, not with the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes from the pain or him, right there above her, so close and so real.

Her breath hitches, caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan as he tongues over her collarbone; she lets her eyes fall closed, leaves crescent moons in his back with her perfectly manicured nails.  Something starts in her as he groans, breath hot against her pulse, and she can't believe she did that, that it's because of her. She twists her head to catch his lips, presses their mouths together with a tenderness that surprises the both of them.

He doesn’t think so, not now.

“I—” He breaks off for a second and wonders if she thinks he’s searching for a lie. “Nobody told me who you were, that first weekend. When we met. I mean, I knew who you were and who your father was but—I must have been very dim, maybe I was expected to understand but I didn’t, not until my father spoke to me later. I’m not trying to sound put upon, that’s not what I mean, I only—I’ve always liked you, Roslin. Even if this isn’t what it should be. I’m going to try.”

It’s the first time they’ve said in words what exactly their marriage is and there is something raw about it, a little naked, as though calling it the sham it is will somehow make it all fall apart.

She won’t cry, she refuses to cry, but it makes her shudder with relief to hear him say it, to learn that he hadn’t known, that first time, that their fathers were making a match for them; he hadn’t known, and still he’d kissed her.

It doesn’t matter, then, that it’s all been arranged by their puppeteers and that they’ve been sewn into their wedding finery.  It doesn’t matter that they’re not in love, it only matters that they like each other and they could be, one day.

She wonders if this is how it starts, with him looking at her like that, his eyes so big and soft and truthful.

“I will, too,” she says, honestly, seriously, and she does not hesitate for a moment when she draws him close and kisses him again.

She relaxes when he says it, seems reassured and he wonders if they do have a chance, after all, if it’s not always going to be the way it’s been thus far, mannered and stiff and at a distance. He’s never been very good at that, he’s all on the surface, always has been.

She is tense, waiting for the pain and when he enters her, as gently as he can manage, she bites her lip and buries her face into the curve of his shoulder to keep from crying out.  They've told her, jokingly, to lie back and think of England, to think of the strong son she'll have to carry on the family, not with the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes from the pain or him, right there above her, so close and so real.

But their families are old families; the ostentatious diamond, cool against her finger as chipped ice, was the only option, though she would have chosen something smaller, more practical, and likes to think he would have done the same.  She likes to think they have something in common, more thank just their nerves and the fact that they’ve been thrown together like this.  She watches him as he carefully removes his jacket and settle it over the back of a chair, slowly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and not looking at her much at all.  She knows, of course, that he’s gone to whores; he is not unused to making love with a woman he does not know, but she can sense his nerves and his hesitation.  This isn’t making love, it’s making a life, it’s cementing an alliance and the fact weighs as heavily upon them as their unfamiliar gold.

It’s easier to forget all this now, to pretend they’re not placing years in front of them with this. She’s beautiful, she really is, the curve of her neck, her thin waist, her small, high breasts. He almost forgets all of it for a second in the feel of her, but then she looks at him, wide eyed and he remembers who she is and who he is and he smiles at her lightly. She must think he’s an idiot, he’s the one who’s meant to keep himself together in this. Her hands move to the fastening of his trousers and he helps her undo them (he is already hard through them) and he tries to see if she still looks nervous, if she’s hesitant.

Why did no one tell her?

A bit daring, her hands move to the clasps on his trousers, because she does know what must be done, and suddenly, as she’s thumbing the waistband over his hips, she goes rigid again, dark eyes wide as her husband stares at her, his fingers helping her’s.  She nods as he asks again, are you certain?, and his concern is genuine, filling up his eyes, and she wishes she could tell him that she wants this, she wants to be married to them and that even if she’s scared she wants it, because while they both know this is a business exchange more than anything, she likes him and she wants to make him happy, wants to be his friend, wants to be his wife.  But there aren’t the words, not now in the half dark with their fingers fumbling together, and she nods again, presses her fingertips lightly into the bits of bare skin that she finds, and tries not to blush.

He moves closer again, puts his lips against hers and kisses her far more deeply than he ever has before, hands on her waist through the thin silk of her negliee and though he’s been perfectly kind and gentlemanly through everything, she can’t tell, she can’t tell if he feels like she does, or if he’s just doing what his father’s told him.  She stills, shrugs back from him and searches his face a sign and can’t find one.

He doesn’t think so, not now.

“I—” He breaks off for a second and wonders if she thinks he’s searching for a lie. “Nobody told me who you were, that first weekend. When we met. I mean, I knew who you were and who your father was but—I must have been very dim, maybe I was expected to understand but I didn’t, not until my father spoke to me later. I’m not trying to sound put upon, that’s not what I mean, I only—I’ve always liked you, Roslin. Even if this isn’t what it should be. I’m going to try.”

It doesn't matter, then, that it's all been arranged by their puppeteers and that they've been sewn into their wedding finery.  It doesn't matter that they're not in love, it only matters that they like each other and they could be, one day.

She wonders if this is how it starts, with him looking at her like that, his eyes so big and soft and truthful.

The newspapers and Panorama have deemed it all a sham, their marriage, nothing more than an exchange of children like handshakes in a business deal, and it’s true, she knows, but it doesn’t have to be.  There are people writing in the papers that she should have the right to choose her husband, but don’t they know she has?  She’s chosen to do her duty as her father’s daughter, even chose Edmure as the kindest of the lot.  He is a stranger to her, an unread book, but she plucked him off the shelf willingly because she’s chosen to read him.

Roslin looks away as he breaks the kiss, smoothing down the lace on her bridal gown, but she can see the sincerity in his voice.  She bites her lip, feeling childish and small under his gaze as her hands shake; she’s nervous, so very nervous, but she doesn’t want this to be a business deal, she wants it to be a marriage, a proper marriage and she shakes her head at him slightly.

“Lie back on the bed,” he says, gently, and she listens, resting back on the pillows.

But their families are old families; the ostentatious diamond, cool against her finger as chipped ice, was the only option, though she would have chosen something smaller, more practical, and likes to think he would have done the same.  She likes to think they have something in common, more thank just their nerves and the fact that they’ve been thrown together like this.  She watches him as he carefully removes his jacket and settle it over the back of a chair, slowly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and not looking at her much at all.  She knows, of course, that he’s gone to whores; he is not unused to making love with a woman he does not know, but she can sense his nerves and his hesitation.  This isn’t making love, it’s making a life, it’s cementing an alliance and the fact weighs as heavily upon them as their unfamiliar gold.

It’s easier to forget all this now, to pretend they’re not placing years in front of them with this. She’s beautiful, she really is, the curve of her neck, her thin waist, her small, high breasts. He almost forgets all of it for a second in the feel of her, but then she looks at him, wide eyed and he remembers who she is and who he is and he smiles at her lightly. She must think he’s an idiot, he’s the one who’s meant to keep himself together in this. Her hands move to the fastening of his trousers and he helps her undo them (he is already hard through them) and he tries to see if she still looks nervous, if she’s hesitant.

Why did no one tell her?

A bit daring, her hands move to the clasps on his trousers, because she does know what must be done, and suddenly, as she's thumbing the waistband over his hips, she goes rigid again, dark eyes wide as her husband stares at her, his fingers helping her's.  She nods as he asks again, are you certain?, and his concern is genuine, filling up his eyes, and she wishes she could tell him that she wants this, she wants to be married to them and that even if she's scared she wants it, because while they both know this is a business exchange more than anything, she likes him and she wants to make him happy, wants to be his friend, wants to be his wife.  But there aren't the words, not now in the half dark with their fingers fumbling together, and she nods again, presses her fingertips lightly into the bits of bare skin that she finds, and tries not to blush.

He moves closer again, puts his lips against hers and kisses her far more deeply than he ever has before, hands on her waist through the thin silk of her negliee and though he's been perfectly kind and gentlemanly through everything, she can't tell, she can't tell if he feels like she does, or if he's just doing what his father's told him.  She stills, shrugs back from him and searches his face a sign and can't find one.

The newspapers and Panorama have deemed it all a sham, their marriage, nothing more than an exchange of children like handshakes in a business deal, and it’s true, she knows, but it doesn’t have to be.  There are people writing in the papers that she should have the right to choose her husband, but don’t they know she has?  She’s chosen to do her duty as her father’s daughter, even chose Edmure as the kindest of the lot.  He is a stranger to her, an unread book, but she plucked him off the shelf willingly because she’s chosen to read him.

Roslin looks away as he breaks the kiss, smoothing down the lace on her bridal gown, but she can see the sincerity in his voice.  She bites her lip, feeling childish and small under his gaze as her hands shake; she’s nervous, so very nervous, but she doesn’t want this to be a business deal, she wants it to be a marriage, a proper marriage and she shakes her head at him slightly.

“Lie back on the bed,” he says, gently, and she listens, resting back on the pillows.

But their families are old families; the ostentatious diamond, cool against her finger as chipped ice, was the only option, though she would have chosen something smaller, more practical, and likes to think he would have done the same.  She likes to think they have something in common, more thank just their nerves and the fact that they've been thrown together like this.  She watches him as he carefully removes his jacket and settle it over the back of a chair, slowly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and not looking at her much at all.  She knows, of course, that he's gone to whores; he is not unused to making love with a woman he does not know, but she can sense his nerves and his hesitation.  This isn't making love, it's making a life, it's cementing an alliance and the fact weighs as heavily upon them as their unfamiliar gold.

It’s not his marriage, not really, he knows that. His father and Walder Frey didn’t all-out broker the deal but they have as well have. He’d met her at one of his father’s parties, a few months ago, during one of their weekends in the country. She’d been there with her father, a rather pinched old man who had made Edmure nervous when he spoke to him. Roslin had been younger than him, a good deal—he’d thought at first that she must have just left school but she told him she was twenty-three, later, and  smiled lightly at his surprise. They’d danced together that night, at her insistence, and it had seemed like play-acting to him, dancing in the stiff air of the hall. His father had been trying to get Walder to join him in funding one of his projects, something he hadn’t cared to share with Edmure and Edmure hadn’t bothered to try and learn about.

It’s not their marriage, really, and he feels vaguely sorry for her, wonders how much she even wanted to marry him, how much had been her father pushing her on, as his did. She likes him, he thinks, she’s always seemed as though she does. It’s a business deal, the two of them, and they won’t admit it, can’t admit it but she knows it as much as he does. She must.

He takes her coat as they go into the hotel, after the wedding. It was a small wedding, his father barely well enough to attend, the wedding party mostly taken up by her family (Robb had asked him if he planned to dance with Roslin’s cousins with a light laugh, making a gesture to the line of girls, all of them plain and pinched). It’s an unfamiliar gesture, more play-acting. He was raised to be a gentleman, of course, to take women’s coats, to hold doors but Roslin is his wife and the usual gestures feel strange with her, like they are children trying to be adults.

Turning to him, she see’s he’s not looking at her, but staring at his reflection in the shine of his shoes, her white wedding coat draped over his forearm.  Tentatively, Roslin reaches out a kid gloved hand to brush a crumble of dead leaf from the shoulder of his dark wool overcoat.  At the contact he raises his eyes to hers, and she smiles to see the tiny bit of snow melting in his hair.

He looks concerned, as if she might be laughing at him, his eyebrows meeting in a look of bewildered confusion.  ”What is it?” he asks, corners of his mouth turning down.

She thinks about how she never wanted this, not really; not the borrowed wedding gown or all the silk and lace in her new trousseau or his grandmother’s wedding band or the pale blue ribbons lacing the flimsy, innocent negligee beneath her dress.  She didn’t want it, not one bit, she did as she was told and felt lucky it was him and not someone else.  Now, though, she thinks that as long as she keeps that look off his face, they could be happy, maybe.

They are quiet for the rest of the walk to the room and he keeps a hand lightly on her back as they walk. She’s patient as he fumbles for the key in his coat pocket, momentarily afraid he’s lost it entirely and he holds the door for her.

She really is beautiful, he thinks, not in the sort of way he’s noticed before. The light shows the curve of her neck, the outline of her body showing through her dress. She’s always been pretty but he’s never really wanted her before, not like this and it’s almost a surprise to him, now. He’s not sure if she wants him at all, if it’s only duty, going through her family’s motions. I have always done my duty, Cat said once, and seemed a little proud and a little sad. He wouldn’t think of Roslin, young and unsure as she is, as like his sister but perhaps they are alike, more than he would have thought.

She faces him, as though she’s expecting something and he kisses her, gently, longer than he has before and she’s receptive, unsure, a little still under him but doesn’t seem to turn him away.

The newspapers and Panorama have deemed it all a sham, their marriage, nothing more than an exchange of children like handshakes in a business deal, and it's true, she knows, but it doesn't have to be.  There are people writing in the papers that she should have the right to choose her husband, but don't they know she has?  She's chosen to do her duty as her father's daughter, even chose Edmure as the kindest of the lot.  He is a stranger to her, an unread book, but she plucked him off the shelf willingly because she's chosen to read him.

Roslin looks away as he breaks the kiss, smoothing down the lace on her bridal gown, but she can see the sincerity in his voice.  She bites her lip, feeling childish and small under his gaze as her hands shake; she's nervous, so very nervous, but she doesn't want this to be a business deal, she wants it to be a marriage, a proper marriage and she shakes her head at him slightly.

It’s not his marriage, not really, he knows that. His father and Walder Frey didn’t all-out broker the deal but they have as well have. He’d met her at one of his father’s parties, a few months ago, during one of their weekends in the country. She’d been there with her father, a rather pinched old man who had made Edmure nervous when he spoke to him. Roslin had been younger than him, a good deal—he’d thought at first that she must have just left school but she told him she was twenty-three, later, and  smiled lightly at his surprise. They’d danced together that night, at her insistence, and it had seemed like play-acting to him, dancing in the stiff air of the hall. His father had been trying to get Walder to join him in funding one of his projects, something he hadn’t cared to share with Edmure and Edmure hadn’t bothered to try and learn about.

It’s not their marriage, really, and he feels vaguely sorry for her, wonders how much she even wanted to marry him, how much had been her father pushing her on, as his did. She likes him, he thinks, she’s always seemed as though she does. It’s a business deal, the two of them, and they won’t admit it, can’t admit it but she knows it as much as he does. She must.

He takes her coat as they go into the hotel, after the wedding. It was a small wedding, his father barely well enough to attend, the wedding party mostly taken up by her family (Robb had asked him if he planned to dance with Roslin’s cousins with a light laugh, making a gesture to the line of girls, all of them plain and pinched). It’s an unfamiliar gesture, more play-acting. He was raised to be a gentleman, of course, to take women’s coats, to hold doors but Roslin is his wife and the usual gestures feel strange with her, like they are children trying to be adults.

Turning to him, she see's he's not looking at her, but staring at his reflection in the shine of his shoes, her white wedding coat draped over his forearm.  Tentatively, Roslin reaches out a kid gloved hand to brush a crumble of dead leaf from the shoulder of his dark wool overcoat.  At the contact he raises his eyes to hers, and she smiles to see the tiny bit of snow melting in his hair.

He looks concerned, as if she might be laughing at him, his eyebrows meeting in a look of bewildered confusion.  "What is it?" he asks, corners of his mouth turning down.

She thinks about how she never wanted this, not really; not the borrowed wedding gown or all the silk and lace in her new trousseau or his grandmother's wedding band or the pale blue ribbons lacing the flimsy, innocent negligee beneath her dress.  She didn't want it, not one bit, she did as she was told and felt lucky it was him and not someone else.  Now, though, she thinks that as long as she keeps that look off his face, they could be happy, maybe.