#* robb.

early morning fog rolls over the hills of her home, a wispy blanket of grey over lush green, covering the grass and trees as far as the eye can see. the cold clings to her skin, her woolen cloak, its dew fresh and sweet on her lips. in the distance a lone bird calls, its song filling the thick air. it is silent otherwise, every creature great or small clearly aware of their presence, and that of robb's men no doubt close behind them.

elia descends from nimwe, gently petting the mare's neck. she bristles and shivers underneath her touch, nickering softly – still alert after the gallop up the hill, a race lost to the northern king's larger, more agile steed. she gives the mare another reassuring pat before glancing over her shoulder in search of robb, a smile pulling at her lips. he's standing closer than she thought, head turning from the horizon to meet her gaze. she notices that his eyes are nearly the same shade as the sky, a shade of grey touched by blue. the silver is mirrored by the shining surfaces of his armor, gleaming in the light of the watery sun. it is easy to imagine why they called him the young wolf. he looks like one.

he takes another step closer. a twig snaps under his foot. although they are still a foot apart, elia has to crane her neck to keep his gaze. his brows knit in and he chuckles suddenly, reaching to pluck something from her hair, shows it to her; a crumpled leaf, no doubt caught there sometime during their ride. despite the stutter of her heart and the sudden flush of her cheeks, elia laughs and shakes her head, about to speak when he beats her to it. every time you smile at me, he says, slowly, thoughtfully, northern brogue rolling off his tongue, i get this flutter in my chest.

elia's smile falters and fades. silence falls between them. his words are not intended as flattery or seduction, instead enveloped with wonder and something not unlike accusation, as if the feeling has snuck up on him. and of course it has. his heart belongs to the past. it is buried somewhere in the cold dark earth of the riverlands, with his wife and child, his mother. yet here she is stealing it back like a thief in the night.

she recalls her grandmother's words the night before. olenna redwyne had stared at them all evening over dinner, taking small sips of her wine, intelligent eyes glimmering with some idea. her wrinkled hand, dripping with jewelry, had laid over elia's suddenly, a gesture of rare affection. my dear, why don't you take his grace out riding tomorrow morning ? the fresh air will do you well. and highgarden is so lovely in the early hours. you must see it.

the suggestion seemed innocent enough at the time, but clearly the queen of thorns had known something. is this why she sent them out together – in the hopes that something might blossom between them ? the thought perturbs her. what did her grandmother want with the king in the north ? elia cannot help but think of her dead half - sister. margaery would doubtlessly have understood. she would have known the importance of winning robb's affection. an assured alliance, at the very least. quite possibly a throne and title. indeed, margaery would have played this game perfectly, if her grandmother's stories are to be believed. she would have told robb that in that case, she would make an effort to smile more. she would have found a way to wrap him around her finger, slowly but surely. but she is not margaery. she will not play their game.

elia hesitates. slowly she reaches out to take his gloved hand, placing it over her chest so he can feel the unsteady patter of her own heart. her thumb reassuringly strokes his knuckles, tracing a familiar pattern. this, at least, is real. " i seem to suffer from a similar affliction. " a moment's respite, just the two of them in the clearing, their warm, huffed breaths clouding the air between them. a minute passes before she lets him go, bowing her head to break their gazes. " we should head back. your grace. "

she has been confined to bed for a full day, torn between the most horrible pain known to mankind and the anticipation of knowing she will soon hold a child in her arms. not just any child: hers, hers and robb's, surely the sweetest babe one could possibly dream of. her hair is matted with sweat, face flushed red, body trembling. she thinks of robb, imagines it is his hand she clutches as she pushes one last time, teeth gritted, screaming in determination. there's the sound of a scuffle outside, but elia does not hear it. she knows before she feels it, before she hears the happy shout from aemie, her closest friend among her lady's maids. there's a beat of silence and she listens anxiously. then it comes: a cry, high-pitched and loud and strong. her relief is immediate, as is the joy, a euphoria so strong it overpowers the pain. elia beckons to hold him, a choked half-laugh, half-sob leaving her lips, greedily accepting the babe into her arms. a boy. tiny hands, closed in tiny fists as he wails, five perfect fingers on each, ten perfect toes in the air as he kicks, a sweet round face with a sweet button nose, the reddish-brown curls on his head still matted, eyes firmly closed and mouth opened to express his rage at the world. he quiets only when she places him at her breast.

“ milady ! ” only now elia becomes aware of the noise outside, the flustered gaggle of girls that have clustered around the closed door. she raises her head, dazed, protectively clutching the child closer before she recognizes the voice outside the door. what a timing, as ever. easy smile finds weary lips. she props herself up despite the pain, pushes her hair back. her boy gives a small, sweet grunt of protest in her arms. “ let him in, ” she orders.

silence falls between them. elia stares at him, feels herself run ice - cold, draws in a strangled breath. gaze flickers over his frame, for a moment unsure that she heard him right. only when she holds his gaze, and in his grey eyes finds the same longing present as in his soft - spoken words, does she cross the distance between them, the hem of her dress dragging over the cold stone floor.

slender, trembling fingers find his face. warm to the touch. there is a beat, a sweet moment in which the only sound is the rush of her own blood and the drum - like pounding of her frantic heart in her ears. she closes the last inch of distance between them. nose nudges against his, testing, waiting before her rose lips brush his. she is careful at first, a hitched breath escaping her, before she kisses him with conviction, lips bruising passionately to his. elia winds her arms around his neck, fingers finding his auburn curls, winding and tangling in them. it is too easy to forget everything but them, everything but the feeling of him so close, the taste of his mouth. everyone already thinks they live in sin. they might as well make it true. “ robb. ”

another mind - numbingly late night, having poured endlessly over a board with pieces meant to represent their armies and allies, discussing endless strategies. a headache has plagued her for the last five hours. it is just them now, unable to tear themselves away from this terrible, never - ending war they've gotten dragged into. elia pinches the bridge of her nose, looks up only when he speaks in his familiar northern brogue. things would be so much easier if we were honest with each other.

@madesins

she paces the stone hallways like a madwoman, her long chestnut hair in loose strands, red woolen robe dragging over the floor. cold hands wring together in anguish. it takes at least half an hour to gather enough courage, but then she pushes open the doors to his chamber, just about bursts in, then immediately halts in her step. breath catches in her throat. she does not know what she expected, but he is still awake, reading by candlelight, letters or a map, she does not know, does not care.

" don't go, " she says. childish words. she is ashamed of the pitiful plea; it colors her cheeks red. still she cannot help herself: she kneels down before him, as she did the night she pledged her loyalty to him. " not yet, your grace. we need more men, more time. give me time. i will marry, i will convince the reach to turn against the lannisters. if you march on them now- " she dares not finish that thought.

fear cuts deeper than swords, he tells her. she knows what he means. he must lead, must make the lannisters fear the young wolf again. he has always played their fear to his strength. but by the gods, he does not know what it does to her. she feels it in her throat, in her heart, chilling her to her bones, robbing her of her breath and voice. " i understand, your grace, i understand you must- but please. just give me time. "

i dared @peacespun and now i'm paying the price emotionally

the words, showing remarkable vulnerability, are uttered so softly that they are barely audible against the sound of the merry drums, flutes, and lutes that always fill the great hall of highgarden. nonetheless the words startle her from her reveries. she turns to look at robb stark, but he is staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the musicians. only a tightened jaw gives away his emotion. her heart gives a tight squeeze as she realizes what horrors it must remind him of. without thinking, elia reaches to lay a hand over his to comfort him. fingers barely brush his, however, before she jerks back. her heart beats in her throat, heat flushing her cheeks. she is no longer a healer, and more importantly, this is not her cottage. there are many eager eyes and whispers. the time has passed that she can comfort someone with a simple touch.

there are a thousand things she wishes she could tell him. that his brothers and sisters may still be alive and somewhere out there, safe. that his bloodline needn't be wiped out, that he needn't be the last stark. i could be your family, she yearns to say. it is a naive desire that burns deep in her heart. she has loved him since the day she found him seated at her table, wounded in soul and body. it is a wish she knows she can never express. robb stark had a wife he dearly loved and tragically lost. when he remarries again, as he eventually must to hold power in westeros, it will be to another. a northern lady for winterfell, perhaps, or the beautiful targaryen girl she has heard so much about, if his ambitions lie with the iron throne (he would be a fair ruler, a good king). but it could never be her, will never be her. her grandmother may have acknowledged her, but in the eyes of westeros she will always be a bastard. they are worlds apart.

elia looks back up at the young wolf of winterfell, eyes soft. " i'm so sorry about your family. " her voice is hushed, so that the rest of the table need not hear their conversation. though she has spoken the words before, they ring no less true. " it is a terrible thing to have those you love taken so cruelly from you. there is no remedy in this world that could lessen your pain. time helps, if only a little. " she pauses briefly. there are a thousand things she wishes to say to him, but there is only one thing she can truly offer. " i am not family, your grace. but know that you will always find an ally and friend in me. "