(A/N: Final Edited Chapter; New Content)

Forgive My Sins | Chapter Four: Him | (Winter is Coming)

They feasted every night, with music and delicious food and loud conversation, though none with the same kind of formality as the Welcome feast, and for the most part, Sybel had managed to avoid him.

The ease with which he had winked at her from the training grounds, in front of the other men—though she was sure no one had really seen as they were all too busy watching the different simultaneous sparring matches—made her worry that he would do it again, in front of the crowd in the hall and almost everyone she knew. In front of her father. And she was sure no good would come from her lord father's knowledge of the way the man known as Kingslayer behaved towards his sweetest, most expressive daughter.

But he hadn't tested those boundaries like that in public again, and a whole week passed without any kind of confrontation or conversation with that particular Lannister. She thought she had become particularly adept at circumventing any situation that might prove to place her in his presence but really, she had no real reason to speak with him and he had no real reason for seeking her out. So, there were no special skills of avoidance involved because there was simply no cause for them to be in each other's company in the first place, and her heightened awareness of him at the start of the week shifted to complacency by the end.

It was not as easy to avoid his stares though; his eyes not so easily ignored. The way they followed her; settled on her; clapped down on her and wouldn't let up, intent on making her uncomfortable. She thought maybe this was purposeful and he was punishing her for something—for the discomfort in her gut was hardly a reward—because why else would he be so committed to making her uneasy, to making her shift on her feet and feel the tightening in her back and the prickling in her neck. Had she slighted him; unknowingly insulted him, and this was his polite retribution? It was odd to her, for the people of Winterfell she knew—granted she did not know all that many, but she knew enough—did not behave in such a way.

But he did.

And the week passed, filled with those stares, and she had thought she was losing her mind, for she felt the burn of eyes on her, again and again, watching intently and she would twist and turn about, searching through the crowd. Now though, she didn't need to search. His eyes found her and she didn't startle because there was no one else who stared like that.

The hall was not so crowded, the air not so stifling, and she sat with her brothers and Theon. Robb was talking, his reddish brown whiskers twitching as his mouth and jaw worked together. Jon was on her other side, his brows furrowed slightly in his perpetually serious and concerned expression despite the light topic of conversation. Theon said something and Jon's furrowed expression deepened slightly, though this was not unusual considering he and Theon were not friends the way Robb and Theon were, and Jon was far less tolerant and forgiving of Theon's…well, crass tongue and general rudeness. Which was also not really a surprise when it was more often than not directed at poor Jon.

(For Theon was a ward of Ned Stark, stolen from his father, family and homeland when he was too young, and for all intents and purposes, an outsider inside the walls of Winterfell; a kraken among wolves; a sea creature stranded on dry land. And while they had never mistreated Theon, and in fact treated him like something akin to family—at the very least, a trusted companion—it still carried a weight of dissonance, a level of internal conflict that meant on the occasions when Theon needed to restore his mind's balance, he sought out the person lower on the societal hierarchy than himself—a bastard.)

Sybel was not paying attention to the conversation and was instead concentrating on schooling her features, the way she had been taught by Septa Mordane; the way every woman of good breeding was taught—hiding behind polite smiles. This was a different experience for Sybel, because she'd never needed to force a smile in her life; it always came easily, naturally. But Jaime Lannister made her struggle.

She smiled at him as though she were oblivious to his intent, like she had accidentally looked at him as he looked at her and the whole situation was slightly humorous. She sensed that frustrated him and it made a small contented, triumphant pleasure settle in her chest; let him feel an ounce of the frustration that had been hovering on her like a second skin since he arrived at Winterfell.

She was an awful pretender though and she guessed he saw through her act easier than she would've liked. But she remained consistent in her courteousness—she had been taught by the most persistent Septa—so while she would tense up, or blush, she refused to acknowledge it. After a week, she realized maybe he wanted her to acknowledge it. And while she couldn't understand why he insisted on doing this to her, she also didn't understand why she was letting it affect her so much; letting it consume so much of her thoughts and time. All she had to do was properly ignore him and focus her energy on living her life as usual, but she kept letting herself get sucked into this game of his. She wasn't sure she could take much more of it; she wasn't cut out for these kinds of games; she didn't like that kind of scrutiny from him—the kind that examined her carefully and seemed to know more than she thought she was letting on.

What was worse though was that his scrutiny also made her skin… hot. The way his eyes—from across the room, they were like green fire—stuck on her so closely, so purposefully that he actually made her skin tingle. His focus on her, ignoring anyone else around him simply to watch her, heated her skin. Her heart would race and her breathing would become irregular and her brain would circle around the fact that of everyone in the hall, he was fixated on her. And she disliked in those moments that he was so very handsome.

That tingling made her uncomfortable, the way it travelled around her body and lingered in her gut, but especially because she was sure she shouldn't feel it. Certainly not from him just staring at her and certainly not because it was him doing the staring. She thought maybe he knew just how it affected her and that was why he did it—because his staring was decisive and he wanted her to know it too.

"You're very quiet tonight," Robb remarked and it took a moment for Sybel to realize that he was talking to her.

She grinned quickly and shrugged off-handedly, putting away her circling thoughts and telling herself to stop overthinking it. "Maybe I just don't have anything to say."

"You always have something to say," Theon snorted, his teeth visible through his expression of mild disbelief. It was not untrue—Sybel was often lively and engaged at feasts and parties and really any social environment, and she realized then how odd she must be behaving, sitting still and pensive, and why Jon was watching her so closely.

Sybel glanced up to find Jaime still looking at her, his beautiful eyes zeroed in on her neck with an intensity that made her gulp, made her blush. She downed her cup of wine to distract herself, just to have something to do with her hands, suddenly far more conscious of herself and how she held herself, how she walked, how she talked, how loud her laugh was. Her sudden hyper self-awareness made her even more awkward in her own skin and her cheeks heated to red. Sybel laughed nervously, seeking diversion. She found it easily in Theon, and a gentle teasing smile lifted her lips. "That's because I usually have to compensate for your lack of stimulating repertoire, Theon."

Robb snickered. Theon grunted, unimpressed, though found his lips twitch up on their own accord under her warm stare. She could see the gap between his front teeth. He snarked at her in reply, "You are a witty one, aren't you?"

She shrugged and smiled her way out of the rest of the conversation, her face warm from the alcohol. Their father permitted them the one cup of wine at feasts and usually Sybel would drink it slowly. She normally never finished her cup; she did not enjoy the taste, nor the lingering after-taste, but she enjoyed the way it warmed her body and made her feel light and bubbly. So really, it was a foolish decision to drink her whole glass in one go and she knew it almost as soon as she'd done it. But especially now as she felt a newfound kind of courage fill her chest and she thought, maybe, instead of waiting Jaime Lannister out until she no longer reacted to his staring, confronting him was a much better idea. And so she had made her way through the hall in the direction she thought he was in.

He seemed to hover in the same spot at some point every night, in the corner that was probably the best place to see everyone from. He was social enough; conversed with others, engaged in recounting old battles and funny stories with the other guardsmen—the younger ones especially seemed to seek these stories out; but mostly others steered clear of him. Sybel was never really sure how genuine any of these interactions were—his smile was always slightly…off; always slightly mocking though never a sneer. Haughty and superior but not outwardly dismissive or derisive. Sybel almost felt like she was watching a show; watching a man who thought it was all a farce. He seemed perfectly happy with this and would instead sit with his brother drinking and frequently looking back at their sister on the raised platform at the front of the hall.

It did not even occur to Sybel that she knew his routine far too well and perhaps he was not the only one staring a little too much. It also did not occur to Sybel that perhaps she found him a little too interesting. In fact, there was a number of things that did not occur to Sybel; especially not at that moment as she made her way over to him, determination painted all over her face. His head tilted to the side to contemplate her as she made her way over, and the determination swelled in her chest too.

"Lady Sybel." He almost sounded surprised. Sybel got right to the point, the wine loosening her tongue just enough that she dropped some of her learned manners.

"You watch me, ser, far too closely for comfort and far too closely than someone of our acquaintance should, and just when I think I'm free of your stare, I feel your eyes press on my skin again." Hot and intense. "Why?"

The side of his mouth was lifted in a curious smirk, and he hadn't moved from his position leaning against the wall. Smoothly, lowly, he asked, "did it ever strike you that perhaps I simply like to watch you?"

She stared, her mouth parting a little because she had not been expecting that answer and she had no prepared response. And suddenly she had the feeling that he was just toying with her. "I think… I think you like the unease that settles inside me when you do, far more."

He quirked his lips as if they shrugged, an eyebrow lifting. "Perhaps."

She squinted her eyes at him. "Why?"

Maybe he was just bored here, in the north, and wanted something to play with to keep him occupied, and there she was, an almost perfect target; a Stark, a woman, achingly innocent. He considered her then, and his gaze was unblinking, but his next words weren't a reply to her question. In fact, he ignored her question altogether. "Your youngest sister is a wild thing, and your other sister will be very beautiful, but you… I would bet everything I own that you have every man here wrapped around your dainty little fingers."

Sybel frowned and looked down at her hands. They were small, her fingers somewhat stubby, more clumsy looking than anything else, like they weren't particularly suited to delicate, dexterous tasks. Perhaps that was why her needlepoint was only very average. "They're not that dainty. And you would lose everything you own if you made that wager."

He shook his head but his eyes never left her. They unnerved her, because she couldn't read them. "But I wouldn't."

Sybel frowned again and made no reply. She didn't know how to respond to his words, didn't know what he was trying to gain from them, and so she just stared at him until she noticed her mother looking in their direction, and she moved away from him.

"A pleasure as always, my lady." Sybel was sure it was mocking.

Her head spun suddenly, her stomach shouting it's unhappiness with her, and she decided just to go to bed. A headache was beginning to form and she already regretted her decision.

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Sybel was awake before Alyse even knocked at her door.

She had been awake for a little while, thinking and regretting and staring at her fingers. She must have seemed silly last night to Ser Jaime Lannister; a little bit of wine plied and she would surely spill all her secrets—the little bit more than usual that she had, had been enough to strengthen her courage and send her in his direction. She was glad then that father only ever allowed her one glass at feasts. She did not want to think what she would've been brave and foolish enough to say if she'd been allowed two glasses.

Sybel sat upright as Alyse let herself into the room quietly, humming softly to herself. She smiled at Sybel when she noticed her already sitting up, "awake early this morning, m'lady?"

Alyse knelt at the fireplace, stoking the dying embers and adding more wood to bring it back to life. Sybel's fingers absentmindedly ran through Inferno's thick coat. Her bed and room were warm despite the fire having died down low at some point in the early hours of the morning and Sybel thought it might have been from the heat radiating from the direwolf pup's body pressed right against her thigh.

"I…my mind is preoccupied, I suppose," Sybel sighed, and flopped backwards, staring at the ceiling.

"Is this about ser Jaime Lannister?" Alyse asked, standing up and brushing her hands off against the white linen wrapped around the front of her skirts, dark smudges left behind.

Sybel jolted back up, eyes wide. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to finally ask, "uh, why…why would you ask that?"

By this point, she had Alyse's full attention, the slightly older woman's eyes twinkling with mischief and surprise. Her mouth was lifted in a teasing smile, as she picked up several new books Sybel had left around, closing the open pages gently after sliding in pressed flowers she pulled from her skirts, and placing them with the others. (Alyse had taken to always keeping those pressed flowers in her pockets when she came to Sybel's rooms for that very reason.). Her eyes were intent on Sybel. "Oh, just because he has been staring at you a lot ever since he got here."

"Don't be ridiculous, he has not." But Sybel's mind replayed Jaime Lannister's words from last night and her chest tightened.

It had never occurred to Sybel that others may have been watching them, noticing them, the way she watched and noticed, and she suddenly felt incredibly stupid. Just how many people had seen her walk up to him last night? Had her father? It wasn't odd for Sybel to walk up to others and strike up a conversation; in fact, Sybel did that all the time. She was polite and friendly, with an ever-ready smile; the exact kind of person people went out of their way to say hello to. It was perfectly within her nature. But she supposed while walking up to Jaime Lannister wasn't necessarily odd, it was noticeable. It hadn't been her intention to be noticed, but to be fair she also really wasn't sure what her intention had been or what she was trying to accomplish. He already knew she knew he was staring and all she'd really done was create more questions for herself.

Then her chest tightened even more. How many people had heard her words and his replies?

"He most certainly has. And who could blame him?" She winked and Sybel flushed. "He seems quite… focused, m'lady."

"You are teasing me." Sybel's face had never felt so red and heated before.

"Undoubtedly," she laughed. "But I have seen him staring some, m'lady."

Sybel was quiet, staring at her fingers, before asking, almost as a whisper, "Is it very noticeable?"

Whatever Alyse had been expecting from her teasings, it wasn't that. The handmaiden's tone had been light and playful, the way it always was with Sybel who was too modest and sweet to know just how she'd grown into herself, and just how much notice it had brought. Sybel's replies were always embarrassed or quickly dismissive because she didn't know how to respond—which really was part of why Alyse loved teasing her so—but never had there been any note of panic.

Alyse's interest perked and she paused what she was doing to join Sybel on her bed, leaning towards her in a conspirator way, as though Sybel was about to spill a very many secrets to her. There were times when it was easy for both girls to forget that one was a lady and one was a handmaiden. But they had done a similar thing many times over the years, especially once they'd grown and noticed that boys were not quite as horrible as they first suspected. Sybel trusted Alyse with her secrets, knew they were safe with her, and vice versa.

"Why, your face is as red as your hair, m'lady!" She giggled.

Sybel groaned in embarrassment. "Alyse, please. Do you think my father has noticed?"

"I had only been teasing, m'lady. I did notice some staring but honestly thought nothing of it, but your reaction—" she cut herself off with a gasp, her eyes widening and the feverish light in them told Sybel that Alyse was jumping to the most dramatic assumption she could. "Does he have intentions towards you?"

"Gods, no!" Sybel spluttered. Then her frustration from every encounter with that Lannister poured forth before she could stop it. "He is beyond frustrating; he seems to think everything is a joke and won't be dissuaded in his staring, which he knows makes me uncomfortable. I just don't understand why he won't stop, surely he has better uses of his time than to continually… harass me with his eyes."

Alyse snorted a laugh which she quickly tried to suppress at Sybel's indignant look. She couldn't stop her mouth quirking though. "You know, my mother always told me that if a boy is mean to you, it is because he has an interest in you."

It was a saying mothers told their daughters after they came home crying because the other little boys had hurt them; meant to reassure and calm them enough to send them back out to play so they could continue on with their chores unimpeded. Sybel snorted. "When we were children, maybe. But he is well past the age to be pulling hair and throwing mud."

"I don't think boys ever really out-grow it, m'lady, and he certainly has you thinking about him an awful lot." She gave Sybel a pointed look.

"I…" Sybel frowned, thinking about that Lannister again and how he behaved, how amused he always seemed whenever he looked at her, as though she were a child, blindly falling right into the game he set up. As though he thought her too young or naïve or childish to really understand anything he said because it was all loaded with a second meaning. Like she was the joke in everything he said. There was no doubt in her mind that he held no interest in her beyond entertaining himself. "I think… I think he's bored, and I am just an easy target to play with and mock."

Alyse just looked at Sybel before patting her hand and standing up to continue her tidying of Sybel's rooms. "Then just try to ignore him, m'lady, and he will stop eventually. Now put it from your mind and come with me, the markets are on today so let me get you ready."

She chatted animatedly, distracting Sybel from her thoughts. She really didn't want to go too far into her own head about Jaime Lannister, because if she did, she'd have to think about the fact that she was inexplicably curious about him despite knowing that she was just a source of entertainment to him. And she didn't want to think about how somewhat pathetic it made her, knowing what she did and still kind of wanting to see him. She really ought to take Alyse' advice and ignore him; he clearly wanted a reaction and all she had to do was not give him one.

Sybel watched the ease with which Alyse saw to water being prepared for a bath, tidying up her room and pulling out thick dresses to air before settling on a deep green one, hanging it up on the screen in preparation. When the water was ready, she delicately scented it with a floral oil, maybe rose, before turning to Sybel and helping her undress.

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The markets were fully set up just before noon but Sybel found herself ambling through before then, as stalls were erected and vendors carved out a space for their wares to be displayed. She had avoided breakfast in case he was there, but she was regretting it now as her stomach rumbled.

Farmers and craftsmen from outside the walls of Winterfell passed through the gates, and merchants from all across Westeros travelled the roads, wagons loaded with their goods. Fruits and breads and pastries, fabrics and trinkets and jewelry, wine and animal skins, ointments and cosmetics. Sybel wandered through, Inferno close at her heels, though the multitude of sights and smells and people moving about provided plenty of stimuli for the pup that she darted about quickly, exploring as much as she could. She always came back though, checking in with Sybel before scurrying away again.

Sansa and their mother found her a little later and they stopped in at different stalls together, admiring and complimenting. Sansa ensured their mother looked at every beautiful scrap of fabric and jewel that caught her eye, ever eager to appraise the beauty and acquire further items. Sybel's eyes skimmed over the wares admiringly, however always came back to the seller for quick, friendly conversations. Some sellers had been coming for as long as she could remember and she enjoyed checking in with the ones that travelled far from Winterfell to see how they were since last they saw each other, and to hear any marvelous tales they had. Sybel loved the stories about all the places and things she had never seen and would likely never see.

Sybel found considerable enjoyment in the slight chaos of the markets and when Sansa and their mother stopped in at Ilia's stall, Sybel stayed just long enough to pull funny faces at Ilia's daughter before wandering off. Sansa wanted different fabrics to sew another dress and Sybel knew from experience how long it would take them to choose the right fabric; it was something they bonded over and they barely even noticed she was gone.

Many people came to the markets to trade and buy, and the owners of the goods were shouting about them to passerby's. Men held up fruit, declaring the juicy sweetness of their fruit to be better than their rival fruit sellers; women claimed special properties of their lotions and ointments that would produce soft skin for any user; prices were shouted over the chatter of the crowd. It was always a lively gathering and it made Sybel content just to walk through the middle of it and be surrounded by that energy and buzz.

Sybel paused in her strolling when she caught the familiar scent of cinnamon and cooked berries and she followed her nose to a stall filled with baked pastries and cakes. Her stomach growled more insistently now that she stood before the familiar, delicious smelling treats. There was a baker in the kitchens of Winterfell, who made the lemon cakes Sansa so loved, but this vendor she knew made the most delicious cherry pies she had ever tasted, and when his face was turned in her direction, she grinned. "Willem!"

The man jerked in surprise, eyes darting down to her before recognition filled his face. He smiled and almost immediately reached for one of the little cherry pies. "Milady, how do you fare on this cold morning? I take it you'll be wanting one of them pies then?"

"Am I so predictable?" As she replied her breath formed white puffs around her face and she let out a short laugh. He grinned at her, wrapping the pie in thin sheets of baker's paper, making barely a whisper of noise. Sybel had discovered his stall many years ago and it was a small tradition of hers to stop in and see him and buy one of those pies. "How are Danya and Myger?"

Willem smiled proudly. His wife Danya had given birth to a strong little boy when Sybel first met him and at the time, it had been all the baker could talk about, to anyone who would listen. Sybel had been young and an eager listener. "Myger has gotten much bigger since you saw him last. Danya spends all day chasing after him. She is exhausted on her feet when I arrive home."

"I can imagine," Sybel grinned. She had met the little boy twice, on the occasions Willem had to bring him to the markets with him, and both times Sybel had noted how wriggly the boy was, always trying to run about and play, always diverted by something new. Sybel had never seen a boy so easily distracted by everything all at once.

"Especially considering she is with child again," Willem grinned, tying the coarse string around the wrapped pie. "She told me this morning."

Sybel clapped in delight, and knowing how devout in his faith of the Seven Willem was, said "but that is great news! I will pray to the gods for your wife's good health and that your new child will only bless your family more."

"Thank you, milady." He grinned and held the pie out to her and when she tried to hand him some coins, he shook his head, his grin displaying his festive mood. "No charge, milady. Your kind words to our gods are more than enough."

Sybel shook her head. "I insist."

She almost worried that in his celebratory mood, he'd give away all his cakes and pastries simply because he was so happy. With another child on the way, they would need every coin they could get. She handed the money over, congratulated him again, wished him well and then she hurried off before he noticed she had given him more coins than what the pie cost.

She ate the pie as she walked, slowly winding through the markets, concentrating hard on the sweetness and satisfying feeling in her belly now that she'd eaten. She conversed with several more people she knew. She laughed with some of the guards who had seen Arya practicing swordplay with the butcher's son, and fell into conversation with fruit sellers about the perfect time to pick certain fruits so that they will be the most ripe. She admired the wares and origins of those wares that the merchants displayed and spent a long time sniffing the different scented oils before purchasing a sweet smelling one that carried a familiar floral undertone, though she racked her memory for the name of the flower and came up empty. She placed it in her basket beside the empty butchers paper that her pie had been wrapped in, almost tempted to go back for another.

She was perusing the gem-encrusted, delicately curved necklaces when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye right beside her and she startled noticeably as the tall body leaned casually against the grey stone wall beside the stall. She froze almost immediately at the flashes of gold and green in her peripheral, before leaning closer to inspect the gems of a necklace, trying to focus herself. Their last conversation played in her mind. Perhaps I simply like to watch you.

Did he also simply like to follow her?

Just ignore him. That was all she had to do; continue to inspect the jewels and pretend not to see him and he would surely become bored and walk away.

Perhaps she underestimated his tenacity, because several minutes passed and he was still there. The small of her back began to ache from her awkward hunched forward position and she had thoroughly inspected each item of jewelry. She was sure she just looked foolish now and she pursed her lips, letting out a sigh.

"Ser Jaime." She really needed to work on ignoring him.

"Lady Sybel," he replied smoothly, and Sybel could practically hear the smirk in his voice. He knew what she was trying to do. She kept her gaze locked on the gems. "Does your mother always let you wander off on your own?"

"But I am not alone," Sybel said lightly, her eyes flicking up to the stall owner. "Barden is here. He makes the most delicate, beautiful jewelry in all of the north, don't you think?"

Barden's cheeks tinged pink at her words, and she lightly trailed a finger over the necklace she was admiring, the green emeralds embedded in silver metal-worked flowers and a delicate chain. Jaime Lannister did not look impressed.

"I mean," the Lannister said, ignoring her question and rolling his eyes, shooting the jeweler an unfriendly look, "without an escort."

"I don't need an escort."

Barden interjected then, his voice a little harsher, a little more determined than she was used to, and she thought maybe her earlier praise gave him encouragement to speak up in the legendary Jaime Lannister's presence. "Half the men here know Lady Sybel and would gladly jump to her defense if she needed it."

"And the other half?" He asked snidely in reply, irritation on his face at the jeweler's addition to their conversation. The jeweler was posing a challenge to the knight's line of questioning, and he clearly didn't appreciate it, though she certainly did.

She sighed and properly looked up at him. The ends of his golden hair flopped into his eyes on one side of his face because his head was tilted to stare at her. He wasn't dressed in his armour, and so she guessed he wasn't on duty today, and even though he stood there so casually, Sybel didn't think anyone would be able to overlook him amongst the crowd when he shined like that.

She pursed her lips at him. "The other half are merchants and travellers I've never seen before, but I would think if someone needed help, they would offer some aid."

She smiled at Barden again, and thanked him, wishing him good fortune as another potential customer arrived to admire his jewelry, before continuing on her way. Her eyes roved over the people around her as she noticed the Lannister fell into step beside her, not so close as to appear to be walking with her, but far enough away that it would look as though they were merely walking in the same direction.

When he spoke again she was barely paying him any kind of attention; there was too much to take in at the markets to be able to focus in on any one person for very long. She didn't want to miss anything. But the insult in his tone, the vague, underlying hint of disgust, managed to bring her focus back to him. "If you truly think that's how the world works, you're more naïve than I thought."

She frowned then, and bodily turned to face him in a sharp movement, stopping right in the middle of the market, and he stopped too, surprised. Those walking along behind her had to swerve suddenly to avoid crashing into them, but she was too focused on him to notice.

She'd had this conversation before, about how she trusted everyone implicitly and didn't see things the way they were—with Robb and Jon and her father, and even Jory, though that conversation had been filled with fewer accusations of naivety and was more like he was trying to prod her towards a realization. But she didn't need to realize anything; her view wasn't shaded—she saw it all. It wasn't that she was thoughtlessly ignoring what was right in front of her or that she ignored the bad to pretend things were cheery and good—she simply liked to focus on that good more than the bad.

And, because, she'd said many times before, we are imperfect creatures. I should not like to be judged solely on the parts of me that are bad. But even then, they had not understood, and they walked away shaking their heads, continuing to think her foolishly blind.

On a deeper level though, she honestly just didn't know what to do with the bad, where the good she could relish in; appreciate in its entirety; stand witness to. The good aligned with the very nature of her soul and its manifestation in the world—she understood it, she felt it. But the bad—she would never fully comprehend the bad, not as the privileged daughter of a noble house, never left to want for anything and shielded from the world.

So she really was in no mood to have this conversation repeated. Especially by someone she barely knew, who had already demonstrated a proclivity for vexation when it came to her. Her voice was sterner than she intended. "If you truly think the world is so sinister, then I pity you."

"You pity me?" he asked incredulously, his brows furrowed furiously at her.

"Yes," she held firm. "If you spend all your time expecting the worst, then you're missing opportunities to see the good."

He scoffed, but Sybel thought she could see the tiniest upturn to the corner of his mouth, barely even noticeable. Something was amusing him. Probably her; it always seemed to be her. It frustrated her that he thought her funny when she was trying to be serious. "I think I have experienced enough of life to know just how utterly ridiculous that notion is."

"Maybe," Sybel shrugged, but her eyes were scrutinizing him. "Or maybe you, ser, are a perfect example of how accurate my notion is."

For a moment, she thought they would descend into an intense staring match in the middle of the markets, ridiculous as it was, because the seconds trickled by and his face remained neutral and blank. But then he spoke and she did not have to worry. "How foolish."

"It is not foolish; we view things differently—you expect horrible things from people and I prefer to think people are inherently good." Her mouth twitched and her eyes flashed in something akin to irritation, ready to end this back and forth between them. "What matter is it to you anyway?"

He was quick to answer this time, and the words were delivered with that practiced flourish that she automatically associated with him as being fake and somewhat mocking. Far too practiced to be any kind of believable. "Any good knight would be concerned for a lady's safety when she insists on going out and about on her own."

Somewhere behind them, there was a loud yelp followed by a low growl, and Sybel whistled, never moving her eyes away from the man in front of her. Seconds later, her direwolf was by her side, having lopped over from where she causing mischief. Sybel's fingers smoothed over the fur atop her pup's head. "I am perfectly safe in Winterfell."

The knight eyed Inferno warily before glancing back up at her. "Undoubtedly no one would cause you any kind of harm with your pet by your side."

Sybel laughed lightly and took a step forward to get them moving again, as people were beginning to watch them curiously. Standing in the middle of the walkway like that drew attention to them, making her worry that gossip would spread and word would reach her family of their conversation. And again she felt the need to hide it from them. Aware of prying eyes and ears, she considered her words more carefully than before. "I thank you for your worry about my safety, ser. It is very kind, and you are surely as true a knight as any."

"And you're back to speaking those pretty words." He said, and Sybel could hear the displeasure in his voice. Her septa had taught her to speak charmingly, as a noble lady should, with care and reserve and flattery. Sansa was far better at it, as Sybel had an annoying habit of slipping in and out of those proper manners—but it seemed that Jaime Lannister did not appreciate it, and she did not know what to make of that.

She refrained from pointing out he did the same thing just moments ago, and instead asked, "Do my pretty words bother you, ser?"

She heard her mother calling to her then, and she turned her head to look over her shoulder to find her. When she glanced back, Jaime Lannister had disappeared into the crowd, and so she went in search of her mother and sister and tried to forget their odd conversations.

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Sybel looked up at the sound of the heavy door opening, and her Lord father entered Winterfell's library. He seemed to pause at the doorway, turning his head from side to side, searching.

"The Maester isn't here, father," Sybel called to him and when his eyes landed on her, he strode over to her with a purpose that suggested he had found what he was looking for.

"Your mother said something very concerning to me earlier this afternoon," Sybel's Lord father said somberly. His tone wasn't necessarily a warning about the direction of their conversation, for he said everything somberly. It was more the fact that he'd sought her out to tell her this.

"Oh?" Sybel asked, her eyebrows lifting but she continued to peruse the stacks of books and pages of parchment wrapped in straps of leather. Her father and the Maester perhaps doted on her too much and let her have free reign of Winterfell's library, even though it wasn't strictly proper for a young girl of Sybel's age to spend so much time with her nose stuck between musty pages of old books, reading the musings of old men. But then, her father mused, they let her get away with perhaps just that little bit more than any of the others. "What did she say?"

Sybel trailed her hands over stacks, smiling up at her father. The library had always been a calming place for Sybel, almost reverent. The library was something akin to what the Godswood was for her father. She felt the pulse in those pages, in the ink and scribbles, and she saw with eyes that weren't her own.

"She said you argued with the Lannister knight in the markets today."

His tone was firm and disproving. Sybel blinked as her heart launched into her throat, stuck. It took a moment for her to make enough room to speak. "I would not say we argued."

Too late, she had the thought to say something less alarming than that, for she could practically see her father's mind whirring into action, conjuring worse and worse thoughts. But Sybel had been wholly unprepared for any conversation about that Lannister, even though she'd spent enough time worrying.

And this was what she had been dreading; her father becoming aware and noticing. She wasn't sure why she was so worried for him to find out—though she immediately knew that was a lie. She knew why she didn't want her father to find out. Because he would put an end to it. And that, really, was the wisest course of action. It would be best to let her father take over and sort it for her; she would no longer have to ignore him; no longer feel like she was a player in a game she did not want to have a role in; no longer feel so watched. She would no longer have to worry or spend so much of her waking thoughts on him.

But.

Sybel was quickly finding she was not so ready to have this (whatever it was) end.

And then she felt foolish. Foolish for thinking there was something going on between them and for wanting it to continue.

This was becoming a cycle for her—convincing herself there was something going on and worrying others would find out, before convincing herself that she was so very foolish and that in fact there was nothing going on and she had likely made it up. A product of a creative but bored mind.

Her cheeks reddened. Her father's eyes missed nothing.

"What would you say you did then?"

Sybel cleared her throat. "He was only expressing his concern for my safety."

He frowned. "I would feel immensely better if you would no longer speak to him… He is not one to become familiar with."

"I am hardly familiar with him." She felt the pleading bleed out her eyes.

"I should think not."

Her brain whirled. "Father, they are guests here. I would be remiss if I were to undeservedly snub him." It would not be out of character for her to feel this way. It went against everything she had been taught by her Septa, to ignore a guest, especially if they came to her. She could think of nothing so mortifying, but the guilt nestled deep in her gut when the voice in the back of her head piped up saying this wasn't the whole reason. Especially when her lord father looked as though he thought it genuine for Sybel. She could almost see the wariness evaporate from the lines of his face, his furrowed brow slackening.

He sighed. "Sybel…"

"He has done nothing but…consider my safety." It was not entirely true, she knew, and felt her stomach twist at the intentional lie. She had never lied to her father before and she felt a warning go off inside her because that was the most worrying thing of this whole situation. She gently touched his arm, face earnest and genuine, pushing away her own thoughts. "He is simply doing his knightly duty. I can't find it in me to hold the same distrust you hold, father."

And then, in a softer voice, tentative, "Please don't force it on me."

She didn't distrust him—she was just so incredibly confused by him. But she wanted to figure it out for herself and not let her fathers and brothers views colour her. They had always done that; sought to protect her, to guide and direct her with that purpose in mind, never letting her make sense of things on her own. With this though, she felt an intense need to defend and keep it to herself, at least for a little longer. She would tell her father the truth, once she had figured it out for herself.

She could see the internal conflict on his face. Torn between wanting to scoop Sybel up and hide her in the tallest tower of Winterfell, not trusting any others with her, and showing he trusted Sybel to act and be the lady she was becoming. Eddard Stark would never stop his children acting true to themselves, always walking beside them and offering sage counsel but never trying to change them, and he had seen them—all of them—flourish and grow into their own. He found he could not begrudge it of his eldest daughter, as much as he wanted to.

Finally, he sighed. "Just be mindful, Sybel."

He took solace in the thought that she was the least brash, brazen or impulsive of his children.

Sybel had an uncanny ability to make him re-evaluate his own actions and thoughts, his own prejudices. It came at times when he wasn't expecting it, and it didn't help that her eyes were so like his own and he could see so much of himself there; in those balanced, wise eyes, as though they were beyond their years. And as much as he considered her naïve, she did always make him consider the possibility that his view was the one coloured by something else. With an inward chuckle, he realized he had never been so reflective as he had in the past few years, ever since she started to become a woman, carrying the wisdom of her sex.

She smiled, saying softly "I always am, father."

He nodded an I-know at her and reached up to pull a leather-bound stack down from a high-up shelf, handing it to her. "Maester Luwin tells me you have a particular interest in the lands to the South at the moment. You may find this one interesting."

She pulled it in to her chest, wrapping her arms around it and smiled as he left her to her continued perusal of the library.

He would not place any restrictions on his daughter. She had done nothing wrong, nothing he should be concerned about.

He would, however, certainly be keeping a close eye on Jaime Lannister.

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.

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It was the morning of the thirteenth day of the King's visit to Winterfell and men filled the courtyard. They were readying horses while young squires sprinted about, passing riding gloves and collecting spears and swords. There was to be a hunt.

Sybel stood to the back of the courtyard, on the way to her lessons, watching the commotion. She saw Robb astride his horse next to their uncle Benjy, the elder's face long and solemn and vigilant. Uncle Benjy always looked like he was alert and searching, ever ready for whatever came at him. Robb in comparison looked youthful and soft; he did not have the pockmarked skin or the dark eyes of the battle-hardened. That was something Sybel was grateful for.

Ahead of them, the King and her father were talking together like old friends, despite the amount of time it had been since they saw each other last, and Sybel saw her father grin—fleeting though it was. Sybel's thoughts drifted to the offer the king had made her father; to be his Hand and help him rule the Seven Kingdoms.

It was a glorious honour and Sybel could not think of a man better suited for the responsibility. Since the King's entourage had been with them, Sybel had heard snippets of stories as the men and women passed her by, of the King's partying ways; of his proclivity for drink and women and lack of concern for coin spent and all things requiring his attention and time as ruler. Sybel supposed he was the King—that was why, after all, he had the Hand and his council; to advise and guide him where needed; to assist him in his kingly duties. Sybel's lord father had been advising and guiding her whole life, never leading her astray, always there with a solution or a listening ear. He would make a perfect hand for the King.

"Don't tell me," a familiar voice jolted her out of her musings, her stomach dropping because she thought she'd be able to pick that voice out anywhere and that fact concerned her. She turned to face Jaime Lannister, his slanted position leaning against the stone wall, arms across his chest and a smirk twisting his lips. Sybel rarely saw him without that smirk; it seemed to be a permanent part of him. "Your delicate feminine sensibilities make you squeamish at the thought of a hunt."

Today, his whole body screamed how completely disinterested he was in anything she had to say. He drawled his words out, his tone faintly making fun of her but mostly spelling his boredom. And he said it like a statement rather than a question; as though he knew her so well; as though her thoughts and opinions were so predictable and common that he hardly needed to ask, exactly the same as every other noble lady's and he couldn't be more uninterested. A quick flash of irritation flared through her at his arrogance and clear dismissal of her.

Her voice was prim with exaggerated politeness in reply, almost as a rebuttal for his assumption of familiarity. "You should not presume to know me so well, Ser Jaime."

"Am I wrong?" He challenged, voice a scoff. Sybel couldn't understand why, if he was so bored by her—if she was so uninspiring and uninteresting—why he kept showing up beside her. Why he kept speaking to her when it would be so easy for him to just walk by her and ignore her presence. Or maybe it wasn't so easy to ignore her, just like she was finding it wasn't so easy to ignore him.

(She caught herself searching for gold and green. She'd admonish herself quickly, confused as she was by her own searching considering she had spent far too much time mulling over him and thinking him improper.)

His appearance and attitude this morning reminded her how vexing he could be when he wanted and for the life of her she couldn't understand those times when it wasn't easy to ignore him. She felt like she had been trying to figure him out the moment he arrived at Winterfell, trying to figure out why he was always on the offence with her, always insistent that she tell him what he wanted to know even when he simultaneously expressed how little she interested him. Like now. Maybe it was his utter paradoxical way of behaving that made it so difficult for her to just stop. Or that he demanded so much of her but gave so little of himself.

When he stared at her expectantly, she sighed. "On the contrary, I find hunting of the utmost importance for human sustenance."

His face really gave nothing away (he never did) but she thought, maybe, his eyebrows lifted for a small part of a second as though she had surprised him somehow. Or perhaps she simply wished to see something more of him than the arrogant knight he was playing and her mind was conjuring just that for her. "Should they be expecting you to join their party then?"

Sybel's frown deepened and she shook her head. "You mistake me, ser. I only meant that it is not the act of hunting that repulses me. It is the eagerness of men to kill." She said it dispassionately, not argumentative in the slightest, because she'd had this conversation many times before too.

Sansa pretended not to know how the meat ended up on her plate and Arya seemed to have an almost morbid fascination with anything even remotely involving bloodshed—knights, swordplay, hunting; but Sybel's focus had always been on the animal, ever the more sensitive child. Sybel's family almost always knew her opinions on everything simply because it was painted so clearly on her face, hunting no different, and her sweet brothers had spent many conversations when she was young, reassuring her that the animals didn't suffer when they went hunting. That had appeased her for many years before she realized that while her brothers and father may be more somber about it, as they typically were about everything, others were not, and in fact hunting was often a game.

She looked back over the men in the courtyard and saw the excitement, confirming her words. She was about to look away when her eyes landed on Robb to find him watching them unsurprisingly, jaw clenched in displeasure. Of course. Robb had eyes as good as a bird of prey's when it came to his sisters.

She looked back at the golden knight when he spoke again, voice light almost like he wanted to laugh. "Isn't that the point of sport though, for it to be enjoyable?"

He said it like he thought her a silly girl.

Maybe she was a silly girl.

She hated the way he made her question herself in every way. She wondered if he even knew the internal turmoil he caused her on a near daily basis.

She frowned, words coming slow as she gestured at the crowd, like she couldn't comprehend how he couldn't see it for what it was. "This is not a sport. You track an animal for miles, taunting and frightening it. This is the torment and suffering of an animal before you deign to deliver a death blow, if your aim is true."

"My aim is always true." It was a boast.

She pressed her lips together and acquiesced politely. "Then I shall leave you to your sport, kind ser, and hope your aim is as true as you say."

This time, she definitely saw the flaring of his nostrils. She felt that her suspicions were further confirmed and solidified every time they spoke; it was her polite and properness that triggered his irritation. It bothered him when she spoke how she had been taught to speak to highborns especially, always treading gently and appearing agreeable and demure. It had always felt silly to Sybel, unnatural, because she would if anything become too-familiar with those she met, giving away more of herself and learning more of them. But with Jaime Lannister, she was retreating to those stiff pleasantries more and more often, unsure of him and his intentions, and for the first time conscious of how much she was giving away and how little she was learning in return.

She left him then, continuing on to her lessons, sure she may be reprimanded by her Septa for her tardiness. She saw Bran run by, his direwolf pup close behind and she called out to him to be careful. Undoubtedly he was on his way to climb the walls as he always did. Bran liked to watch the procession of people enter and leave Winterfell and Sybel thought it was because he liked to be the first to know everything, curious little boy that he was. She smiled on her way to her lesson room.

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The sun hadn't even reached its apex in the sky when Bran fell from the tower and everything seemed to just… stop.

She had been in the middle of her lessons when she heard the commotion outside. The running footsteps. The muffled voices. The lone howling direwolf that set off the others. That was when she thought something had to be very, very wrong and she shot up, dropping her needlework to the ground without a thought and hurrying towards the heavy doors. She thought Arya was close behind her.

Her heart thumped in her chest and she thought maybe she was being silly and overreacting. But she had never heard the ominous, unified howl of seven direwolves and she felt a pit form in her stomach where everything inside her dropped to, leaving her feeling lightheaded, hands clammy.

She thought her heart had stopped when she found Jory and saw the alarm on his face. He answered the question written so clearly on her face. "Your brother, Lord Bran… he's taken a fall, my lady. He's not waking up."

When she thought back on it later, she couldn't remember much after the howling started, at least not until later that night as she was laying in bed completely awake. Arya and Sansa had crawled in with her hours before, but they had only recently settled as Sybel stroked their hair and hummed softly to them, their breathing turning deep. Rickon hadn't stopped clinging to her all night and refused his own room, so he was tucked into her side too. She stared up at the canopy above her bed and the day came back in fractured moments as the direwolves continued to howl.

Holding Arya to her, her face whiter than usual as the blood drained to that pit in her stomach. The long wait outside the chamber doors as the Maester and whoever else worked to save her little brother. Sansa's crying and her mother's praying, Jon and Robb's helplessness in the face of needing to do something to help and being unable to. Rickon's screaming, confused at what was going on and being scared because no one was reassuring him. When she realized later, the screaming finally registering in her mind, she cuddled him to her then, mumbling and rocking. Her father was in the godswood. The Maester's worried face. Their mother sent them to their rooms when it grew late. There was no feast that night.

The only thing she remembered with stunning clarity was the thought repeating over and over in her mind.

My fault.

Their mother hated when Bran climbed the walls, ramparts and towers of Winterfell but Bran would always be at it regardless, stalwart as a mule and digging in his heels when there was something he wanted to be doing that he knew he wasn't allowed to do. Sybel and Robb and Jon always seemed to be warning him of the scolding he would receive if their mother caught him, but he was never deterred and so they let him be. Because he never fell. Not curious and stubborn Bran. Not sure-footed Bran.

How wrong they had been. How wrong she had been.

She felt guilt slither into that pit in her stomach that hadn't gone away, because she'd seen him. Not long before he fell, she'd seen him clearly on his way to climb and she didn't stop him.

And she knew it didn't make much sense to blame herself, but it was all she could really do. She wasn't a Maester trained in healing, and she was no septon who could speak to the gods and beg. She could do nothing but torture herself with if-only's.

If only she had watched him closer, but she hadn't even considered that falling was a thing that could happen for Bran. If only she had of been paying more attention to him; if only her head had not been clouded with thoughts of Jaime Lannister. If only.

Then her sweet, innocent little brother would not be lying broken and bleeding on his bed, fighting for his very life.

She felt the tears then, leaking out the corners of her eyes and making tracks down the sides of her face to dampen her curls and pillow.

It was early morning when she finally fell into a fitful, restless sleep.