RP: Catspaw Who: Robb Stark/McLellan (with visions of Renly Baratheon, Loras Tyrell, Ygritte, and Jon Snow) When: 24 August 2013 Where: Baratheon Playroom, House Baratheon, Los Angeles, Ca. Dream Location(s): A grotto near the Fist of the First Men (beyond the Wall); and near Storm’s End Status: Complete Word Count: 1335
”I don’t ever want t’ leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever.”
The air felt thick. Damp. Cool but not unbearably so. The sound of water drip-drip-dripping nearby. Here, the walls and pool's edge were slippery with age-old buildup of soggy, half-decayed lichen colored a sickly hue. So slippery that if you weren't careful, you'd lose your footing and tumble in with a great loud splash.
Laughter. A man and a woman. Young lovers frolicking about with nary a care. Ripples of sound radiating outward, bouncing off a stone womb. Light flickered here, torchlight fading fast but it mattered little, not when the water you swam and tussled and romped in wasn't half as chilly as you'd expected. The company kept you warm enough, after all. Flame-kissed hair and luck had gotten him this far; saved him (for now) from a cruel death at frozen world's end, and with the Others close to breaching the Wall there was little time but here... here time stood still.
Quite still. Quiet as a tomb except for the ceaseless drip-drip-dripping. Hidden paradise and no mad wildling tale of Gendel’s long lost children could ever drive you out.
If I could show her Winterfell... give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us...
The dream was indeed pretty and sweet and fanciful but Winterfell would never be his to show.
Robb absolutely seethed at the visions turning inside his head. Unable and unwilling – morbid curiosity compelled him to stare down the very worst of it like a man – to turn away from the nightmare cinematography he'd somehow tapped into this day. Staticy at first, reminding him of one of those dusty tellys with the giant picture tube, wedged in the corner of a home for old-age pensioners. Then the images became clearer, less abstract as ancient set warmed up with a low, electrical hum. Jon's pale, bare bottom and just a hint of thigh muscle slick-wet from impromptu bath time. A shoulder, freckled and milky white and far too narrow bumped his lover's rather brazenly.
Pushy, Robb scoffed with derision, his jaw muscles aching from the steady grinding of back teeth. One of those bints that won't give up. Can't pry them off with a fucking crowbar or dynamite.
He'd come across his fair share of birds exactly like that – always grasping, always “conveniently” underfoot and always wanting to get into your trousers. Ready to go completely psycho the moment you tried to extract them from your life. The kind of girl (if you could stop shagging them long enough to think with something other than dear old John Thomas!) you ran from and not toward.
“I think it must be true. Else why refuse Ygritte? She’d hardly give you any fight at all, seems to me. The girl wants you in her, that’s plain enough to see.”
Ygritte. That name made some noise, loud as a church bell, in fact. Scottish ginger slag with a penchant for shenanigans and piss ups, Jon had reported so very neatly.
Bastard, oathbreaker... turncloak.
And at that instant of realization, when two and two made a perfect four Robb McLellan wanted to commit murder...
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
”LIES!” Loras raged, whirling like a sudden tempest to slit first the throat of Emmon Cuy, then stabbing the same dagger hilt-deep into the gut of Robar Royce. Craven yellow-bellies such as these bleed out fast enough. Breathing heavy, his lips curled in disgust at the dark red stains that marred his vibrant rainbow cloak. Loras tore at the clasp, wrenching it free as silk gave way to his despair, turning the once fine cloth into rags. The dream was over – their dream dead and gone before it even had a chance to properly flourish. Mad from grief he’d become a shrieking fury these last hours, seeking vengeance for Renly’s ultimate betrayal.
Renly. How would he manage now that his guiding star was gone? Its bright light prematurely extinguished. Now the world seemed a truly dark place. Highgarden stood at a murky, ponderous crossroads: Swear allegiance to Stannis and Storm’s End or throw their lot in with King Joffrey? Neither seemed very appealing as he slowly sank to his knees, picking up an abandoned gauntlet that had belonged to his lord, his king…
My love.
Clutching the glove to his breast Loras tenderly stroked the articulated armour. Shaky, bloody fingers touched the beautiful green enamel and gilt that caught the waning daylight, just as the man it once belonged to had so dazzled in the same manner.
A choked sob escaped him. Just one, for he would mourn Renly in his own fashion later. After he escorted the body back home and gave him a proper burial. Someplace hidden – In the pear orchard. Near the fence but not too far from your favorite tree. The one we always met under when I was still your squire.
“I will kill that bitch when I find her,” he swore quietly to the Seven, promise made a poisonous brew when fueled by so much hate and the agonizing heartache of a love taken away all too soon.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Coming back to himself, Robb shook his body like a dog dispelling water after being caught out in a heavy rain. He needed to leave this cloying, tiresome chamber, reeking of dark mysteries and sex. Sleek surroundings that had once been so inviting now twisted his mind in knots, surely the cause of these unholy, unwanted mental conceptions he couldn’t seem to escape. He was still shackled, though not nearly as much as he had been previously. Seems Renly had felt pity on him and had commanded at some point (Robb couldn’t remember exactly when) the removal of random pieces of naughty kit, freeing fingers and toes, eyes and mouth but Robb still felt as if he were nailed, quite firmly, to the floor.
Renly Baratheon was the last of an old breed of man: feudal, noble, seeking glory for its own sake. It had stirred Robb once. Set something deep inside him on fire. But Lord Strange was also cunning and so very sly, viewing the world as one big playground his and his alone. The master puppeteer pulling invisible strings and levers; manipulating time and space just beyond unsuspecting prey’s line of sight. Not really caring how he received particular delights so long as he got it. And always with that damnable dazzling smile and a witty quip so equally charming and disarming. Pleasure, and the getting of money, ruled all here.
“A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short…”
God, he could barely stand the sight of them at that moment. Renly. Loras. Jon. A perfect trifecta of sexual deviants. Robb had lost his lover along the way; his shy boyfriend had cast off bonds of propriety and strict, stifling English boarding school upbringing and fallen right in line like a good little boy. Why, at this very moment Robb suffered through not only this blasted loop of… brain vomit… but the sight of young Jon Snow on his knees, happily deep-throating a cock that most certainly was not his own.
It made his stomach lurch and grumble as jealousy burned like acid. What a ruddy rabbit hole they’d fallen down! Until this weekend of horrors came to a conclusion, he’d be forced to bear it all in relative silence. Images real and imagined ruining any chance Robb had of ever enjoying himself or custom-blended scenes of the highest order.