This came out more traditionally slashy than bodice-ripper, but it is what it is. May the Gods forgive me for this is epic-length.
The first time that Robb Stark was swept off his feet was in a military camp, at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. He’d been conferring with his mother, taking her council as a young lord in his position, fatherless, newly-crowned, was wont to do, and although he did not permit his inner turmoil to show on his face, his stomach was tied in knots, his heart in his throat. Such great responsibility, and he barely a man grown. But Robb would act as his father would have done, and assume the weighty mantle of duty in this, and in everything.
He thought that he was alone when a figure, heavily cloaked, entered his tent.
“Your Grace.” The voice was soft, just above a whisper, and Robb rose with a start, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.
“Who goes there?” he called, trying to mask the trepidation in his voice.
“Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort,” was the answer, and Robb shuddered. Roose Bolton, with his colorless eyes and his odd mannerisms, had always unnerved him. Unmanned him, more like. He sat, back straight, as the older man divested himself of the odd pink cloak and sat opposite him, eyes passing over the map of battle positions to Robb’s face, taking in the tense features, the rigid posture.
“It is good that you are here,” he said gruffly. Perhaps if he lowered his voice it would make him more a man. “I mean to send your forces against Lord Tywin, and there is much to discuss.”
“Tywin Lannister,” Bolton replied, drawing the name out, smiling slightly. “A hard man to break. May I ask why I am not given the van? My battle experience would demand such an honor.”
Robb faltered a bit. “I should send a hard man against a harder man,” he said, then remembered himself. “But it is not your place to question your king, Lord Bolton.”
Bolton smiled thinly, but it did not meet his eyes. “Pray forgive me, your Grace. I meant not to question, but only to inquire.” He took Robb’s hand, clasping it. “I certainly do not intend to…unsettle you.” His grip was iron and he did not let go. Robb was oddly torn between wanting to break free of his grasp, but oddly compelled to remain still, as though he were in the presence of a snake about to strike. They sat there, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity, until Bolton slid his hand away. “I frighten you, don’t I? Your Grace.”
“It is not that you frighten me. It is more the tales that are told of you.”
Bolton laughed drily. It seemed oddly loud in the silence. “It is really the tales that are not told that you should worry about.” He stood then, putting a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Gods, you are but a boy.”
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: The Young Wolf & The Leech Lord, Part I
Date: 2012-03-06 01:27 am (UTC)The first time that Robb Stark was swept off his feet was in a military camp, at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. He’d been conferring with his mother, taking her council as a young lord in his position, fatherless, newly-crowned, was wont to do, and although he did not permit his inner turmoil to show on his face, his stomach was tied in knots, his heart in his throat. Such great responsibility, and he barely a man grown. But Robb would act as his father would have done, and assume the weighty mantle of duty in this, and in everything.
He thought that he was alone when a figure, heavily cloaked, entered his tent.
“Your Grace.” The voice was soft, just above a whisper, and Robb rose with a start, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.
“Who goes there?” he called, trying to mask the trepidation in his voice.
“Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort,” was the answer, and Robb shuddered. Roose Bolton, with his colorless eyes and his odd mannerisms, had always unnerved him. Unmanned him, more like. He sat, back straight, as the older man divested himself of the odd pink cloak and sat opposite him, eyes passing over the map of battle positions to Robb’s face, taking in the tense features, the rigid posture.
“It is good that you are here,” he said gruffly. Perhaps if he lowered his voice it would make him more a man. “I mean to send your forces against Lord Tywin, and there is much to discuss.”
“Tywin Lannister,” Bolton replied, drawing the name out, smiling slightly. “A hard man to break. May I ask why I am not given the van? My battle experience would demand such an honor.”
Robb faltered a bit. “I should send a hard man against a harder man,” he said, then remembered himself. “But it is not your place to question your king, Lord Bolton.”
Bolton smiled thinly, but it did not meet his eyes. “Pray forgive me, your Grace. I meant not to question, but only to inquire.” He took Robb’s hand, clasping it. “I certainly do not intend to…unsettle you.” His grip was iron and he did not let go. Robb was oddly torn between wanting to break free of his grasp, but oddly compelled to remain still, as though he were in the presence of a snake about to strike. They sat there, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity, until Bolton slid his hand away. “I frighten you, don’t I? Your Grace.”
“It is not that you frighten me. It is more the tales that are told of you.”
Bolton laughed drily. It seemed oddly loud in the silence. “It is really the tales that are not told that you should worry about.” He stood then, putting a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Gods, you are but a boy.”