She found herself curious to know more about his family. Her own consisted of her two brothers, Raynald and Rollan, and her sister Eleyna, her uncle, her mother and her father. It was a small household, compared to some. “So each of your siblings got one? And what were their names?” She was about to ask another question, but she held back, eyes darting away. What was she doing? He had captured her castle… Yet she felt a sort of kindness toward him. A gentleness.
Jeyne followed his eyes to the direwolf currently curled up at his feet. He was… Rather cute this way, even though he had killed many men. That wasn’t lost on her. No that seemed to be the only fact she could gather. “Perhaps he will, or he won’t. How old is he?”
Her questions seemed to distract him from the work she did on his arm, which, was a blessing in itself. She knew it must be painful, but the way he talked to her, he didn’t seem to notice as long as they talked. So she continued to do so, even as she washed the wound and helped him into a clean shirt. Her brother’s clearly, it had shells stitched into the neck of it. She recognized it as one she had mended once before. It was a bit snug on the Northern king, but it would have to do, she had nothing else she could offer him.
"Perhaps, but a maester would probably require better stores than what we have, better rooms. The Crag is rather dilapidated." She blushed softly as he spoke of repaying her kindness. Glancing away from his eyes, she shook her head softly. "It was only the right thing to do. You were injured. I doubt any would rather let you suffer your injury even though you stormed our castle and took it."
She swallowed, looking at him this time. “Besides, it would be cruel to not help you.” Courage… A good heart, something steeled her spine and let her brown eyes find his bright blue. She felt his gaze on her and couldn’t help the hammer that stuck at her heart. Why was he staring at her? She wasn’t pretty… In fact she was rather plain. Why was he staring so intently? What had she done?
Shells clinked together as she nodded rising from the bed. “Allow me to tell them and I shall return with some food for you and Greywind. Perhaps then… I can tell you more of The Crag.” She blushed brightly as it registered that she had captured his attention. His interest. Was that… Was that a good thing? She curtsied, turning to leave the room, inform his men and return with food. At least by the time she returned, she would have a story for him… Other than the time she and her brother jumped from a rock’s edge, pretending to be people of the ocean, and shells they collected for her hair. Something… A bit more interesting. Maybe something he’d like to hear.
Informing the men outside of his Recovery and telling them to inform the other’s, she went to the kitchens, gathering meat, bread, cheese, anything she thought the King and his wolf would enjoy, grabbing a wineskin as well. The maid in the kitchen just smiled and gave her a better tray then the one she had before. When she returned, new guard were posted and she entered the room with no problem from them. Setting the tray on her vanity, she spoke again. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t really know what you Northerner’s eat, but I did the best I could. She tossed a bone to Greywind, carrying the plate of food and wineskin, to the king. “I hope this is enough.”
“My siblings or their direwolves?” Or what remained of them? One of the troubles of becoming king had blossomed from a bud in his mind: would she speak, listen, interact because it was what a king wished, or was there interest behind hazel irises, interest that sparked attention and a primary desire to listen, to speak?
“There’s Bran, Rickon, Arya and Sansa. And Jon.” Even though Jon’s name had almost been uttered in afterthought, there was no doubt in the young king’s mind that Jon was every part a Stark as he was. A brother, from blood to brawn, and when he drew a pathetic wooden pike that they tended to joust with, parrying a flimsy lunge with the broadest of grin across undoubtedly Stark-ish thin lips, and a Brother till the end, whether it be guarding the North from the feral beings that whickered and cried beyond the Wall, or by his side. It was strange to think of, sometimes. The features that had contorted on Jon’s face—undoubtedly Stark-ish. More so than Robb’s, the trueborn heir to Winterfell and the North.
“Bran’s wolf is Summer, and Rickon’s is Shaggydog. Arya had Nymeria, Sansa had Lady and Jon has Ghost.” Had. He has five siblings but they had five direwolves. For they still remained—Sansa and Bran and Rickon and Arya and Jon. Jon, not even the Stark he so distinguished, had outlived the summer children that leapt and crawled and still cried for their mother when the likes of the Mountain That Rides storms through their towns, their villages, with tempests of cruelty and hate and malice.
“Grey Wind is, uh… we found him before Bran fell. He’s not that old—a couple years old.” A couple years old and as tall as Robb’s waist, sure to grow taller, greater, an overpowering sight draped in fur and steeped in blood—perhaps men had perfect reason to fear the beast at his side: the Targaryens had dragons, the Starks have direwolves.
“I didn’t take much of your castle in last night—more pressing issues. Castles can be rebuilt, maesters can be called from the Citadel—you give no reason for concern… just as the Targaryens fall, other houses can rise from ashes. There is no certainty—five kings, five claims, but only one future.”
Her kindness was unexpected; the whole scene, with sea-shells and gold emblazoned on the collars, the cold, stone grey of the wolf at his feet and unexpected light in the conversation- perhaps it was freedom that nuzzled against his cheeks; this was no talk of a king, but a boy. A boy with a family, so far in the North and South and spread along even past the Wall—Jeyne was no Lannister, nor sympathetic to their cause.
“There is a difference between duty and kindness. You have shown me more kindness than some Northmen themselves. As long as the Lannister army does not attack, no more shall be harmed. I am a man of my word, as my father was.” His fingers tugged at the hems of the sleeves; it was snug, barely stretching over flesh and barely tickling the bottoms of his wrists, but appreciated nonetheless. A shirt steeped in blood had little promise of comfort or kingliness.
He’d wait in silence for the girl, light hues covering the length of the room: so different to Winterfell, without dark furs and the hot springs it was once built upon, and though it crumbled, it was homely.
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