robbstark requested Robb/Jeyne + 96 (in the storm)
“You’re beautiful,” Robb had told her once, with all the reverence of a parishioner before the alter of the Seven.
Jeyne had flushed, half with embarrassment, half with pleasure. No one had ever spoken to her like that before—she was pretty enough, she knew, a few hedge knights had even penned a few lackluster odes to her dark hair but her eyes were a bit too slanted, her skin more bronze than white. Her prettiness, such as it was, had never been put a light in the eyes of the man like there was in Robb’s.
“Your Grace,” she had pleaded, her blush not a feigned, coy thing. She had felt uncomfortable with his frank appreciation of her; even as the Queen in the North she had known she wasn’t the fairest woman to behold; there had been Catelyn Stark whose grief had only made her beautiful, a tragically beautiful thing, and there had been Dacey Mormont with her severe hair and her angular face. “Please.”
He had kissed her, slowly, urging her down onto the bed. She had gone without a murmur of protest, because after all it was her duty to provide her king an heir—but she had liked it too, and she hadn’t told her Septa that. She had liked his wide, naked chest and the feeling of his bearded mouth moved over her heated flesh. He had made her feel wanton and wild, and he had felt less a king more a man, as well. She had never made love to a king, in this bed, and it had pleased her immensely.
“It’s like looking into the eye of a storm,” he had mumbled into her sweaty flesh, licking the salt from her skin. “The eye of the storm and beyond I can see the winds that will tear me apart. It’ll tear me apart but I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll have this, something just mine. You—just mine.”
He had trembled, and she had stroked his hair until he had slept, exhausted, on top of her. And even though he had compressed the air from her lungs, she had liked his solid weight on top of her, bearing her into the bed, and had slept too, encased in him—Jeyne hadn’t known how she felt, being his storm, but he was her safe harbor, her rock, her cocoon. She had fallen sleep burrowed into his warm.
A bitter wind rattled her shutters of her tower. Jeyne’s tear-crusted lashes fluttered, and she awoke to the brewing of a dark, twisting storm bearing down on the shores of the Craig.
made to match (Robb/Jeyne)
He comes to her mid morning, finds her in their rooms where she has not left since waking and once going down to meet with her mother. She sews, mending one of his tunics, and finds the pulling of thread and needle rhythmic and soothing to her flustered thoughts. Her mother often leaves her this way, even now after she has done her duty and secured their fate.
can't you see (i'm dying to drown) - robb/jeyne - mermaid AU
asked by howlands
She saves him from drowning.
It’s an impulse that sends her shooting across the water, kicking her fin at a frenzied pace.
Jeyne wonders if she should have, if he was worth it—she saw him leap into the water despite the shouts of his companions, saw the curve of his mouth curled at the corners before he crashed into the waves and didn’t resurface.
But she couldn’t watch him die.
He’s not moving when she catches his arm and pulls him up, and he lays limp in her arms as she swims to the surface. Jeyne can barely drag him onto land, lets a wave propel them onto the sand. The water laps at his feet, but he’ll be safe there, she thinks, pressing on his chest.
His eyes are blue when he opens them, dazed and unfocused, still coughing up seawater. He touches her face and Jeyne flinches away until she hears him say, “please, please,” in a cracked, salt-worn voice and she stills, peering down curiously at him as he watches her, fingertips brushing back her hair, the smile returning to his lips.
“I knew you were real,” he says.