Simba had heard the howling, and, unable to resist, had arrived to investigate. Sure enough, there was a ... creature of sorts in the Sorting Room. It looked like a human, mostly, but its head looked kind of like a hyena. He looked and smelled like he might be hurt, too. Simba approached with caution, his ears and tail upright and alert. He sniffed at the boy-thing carefully, trying to look welcoming.
Lions were not plentiful in northern Westeros, save for the one on the Lannister banner. Neither Robb nor Grey Wind had ever seen a four-legged lion in the flesh, and he wasn't really sure what to make of Simba at first. He fell back into a crouch and perked his ears up, looking wary and alert.
When Simba came close, though, Robb realized what he was: a cub. A child. Not a threat, but -- he sniffed -- not a good meal, either. He stood on his feet and barked.
Simba flinched, his ears flattening. Then, cautiously, he stood upright again, ears picking up. It didn't seem to be a threat -- just a greeting -- so he smiled hesitantly and took a step closer.
He gave a small, playful smile and responded with his best attempt at a roar. Maybe they could be friends, he thought.
Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus on a slice of bread with some mustard.
Not that Doug liked mustard. ...And not that Doug prepared babies on slices of bread. ...Also, not that Doug would ever eat Jesus. ...Um. This was entirely beside the point, OH DEAR LORD.
The thing had a ... a head! Except not! It was a wolf! And this was so American Werewolf in London (or perhaps Paris?) that he almost kind of wanted to cry. Or, just, you know, poke it, and wonder just what the medical implications of that would be, because even he hadn't screwed up that badly on a procedure before.
"You've, uh. Got a, uh."
How does one share with another that they should not hone such wolf-like tendencies?
Doug yelped, jumping back a step and letting his eyes widen. "I don't... Nice doggy! Head! Thing!" he squeaked, one of his eyes twitching in wake of the situation.
Obvious prey! The wolf side of him delighted. He let out a sharp bark and slid forward, his eyes narrowing, the growl getting louder.
Except -- wait, no. Robb was still in there, somehow, the real Robb, and he knew that killing an innocent man for no reason probably wasn't the right thing to do. Not what the King would do. He reined himself in, stopping in his tracks. The growling ceased, although his fingers all but twitched with energy.
Arya was seriously considering never, ever coming into the Sorting Room again.
She might not have recognized her brother if she hadn't heard the stories about what had happened at the Red Wedding. She hadn't seen him or Gray Wind in two, maybe three years, after all. But when you hear that one of your older siblings was murdered by his host and mutilated in such a horribly inventive way, there's really only one connection to make when presented with someone mutilated in the exact same way.
For the first time since his arrival, Robb didn't feel confused at all. The recognition was instant: family! pack! Little sister! Moments later the name floated through his brain: Arya!
He bounded towards her with a sound of delight, all of Robb's kingly restraint forgotten in his joy.
Arya scrambled back, reaching for Needle or her wand or whatever was closest, before she stopped herself. This was (presumably) Robb and Grey Wind, and while they had never been as close as she and Jon had been, he was family and probably wasn't going to intentionally hurt her, so she forced her hand away from anything that could be used as a weapon. "It's you, right?" she finally said, voice quavering.
Robb skidded to a halt as Anya jumped away, a soft keen of surprise escaping his lupine throat. What was she-- she was family, she was his family, why was she running? Reaching for a... a weapon? And why was she looking at him like...
Oh. Oh, of course. In the heat of the moment he'd forgotten, but... Shame swept over Robb, shame and grief. How could he have forgotten what he was now? He'd just been so excited to have a packmember back. He wilted a little, his shoulders slumping, and when she asked the question he just chuffed softly and nodded his big, shaggy head.
This latest applicant was something Remus had never encountered before. It was like a werewolf transformation gone horribly, horribly wrong.
He approached the boy... wolf... person cautiously. "Hello," he said carefully, wondering if he could be understood. Already his mind was pondering the puzzle this boy presented, and he viewed him with wary fascination.
Robb smelled the caution on him, the wariness; it wasn't enough to excite him the way Doug's had, but that and something... else, something strange that he smelled on the man were enough to make him hesitate. He blinked at Remus and made a soft, curious sound, taking a step away.
"It's all right," Remus soothed, not moving any closer, but trying to appear harmless. He added, after a moment's thought, "You're in a safe place." Even if he couldn't be understood exactly, he hoped the reassurance would help.
Remus was right about that much. Robb still seemed a little uncertain, but his hackles settled slightly, and he didn't move away again. He wasn't entirely sure he believed the man -- he wasn't sure he'd ever assume that anywhere was safe again -- but at least he wasn't trying to kill him. Openly.
He tipped his head to the side, appearing to be waiting for Remus to continue.
It would be hard not to recognize Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf was nothing if not distinctive, even if he'd had a nose the last time Robb had seen him. The sight alone filled him with quaking anger -- and then the dwarf mentioned the name Frey, and something came back in Robb's memory. A party. And pain.
The howl he let out, filled with rage and grief, was wordless; but the snarl that followed it might almost have sounded like "Lannister." Robb took a step towards Tyrion, his eyes alight with menace.
One tended to lose one's sense of diplomacy, it seemed, when one's head was switched.
Thoughts were running through him too fast for the wolf's brain to keep up. He shook them off and settled for running on emotion: anger was good. He took another step closer, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He pulled his lips back and showed off all his teeth, sharp and yellow-white.
If he could thank the Freys for one thing, it was that he certainly had a natural weapon at his disposal now.
Comments 103
"Hi. I'm Simba. Are you a hyena?"
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When Simba came close, though, Robb realized what he was: a cub. A child. Not a threat, but -- he sniffed -- not a good meal, either. He stood on his feet and barked.
Reply
He gave a small, playful smile and responded with his best attempt at a roar. Maybe they could be friends, he thought.
Reply
Not that Doug liked mustard. ...And not that Doug prepared babies on slices of bread. ...Also, not that Doug would ever eat Jesus. ...Um. This was entirely beside the point, OH DEAR LORD.
The thing had a ... a head! Except not! It was a wolf! And this was so American Werewolf in London (or perhaps Paris?) that he almost kind of wanted to cry. Or, just, you know, poke it, and wonder just what the medical implications of that would be, because even he hadn't screwed up that badly on a procedure before.
"You've, uh. Got a, uh."
How does one share with another that they should not hone such wolf-like tendencies?
Reply
A lot of fear.
It was kind of exciting.
He took a step closer to Doug and growled softly, the fur on the back of his neck rising.
Reply
Doug yelped, jumping back a step and letting his eyes widen. "I don't... Nice doggy! Head! Thing!" he squeaked, one of his eyes twitching in wake of the situation.
Reply
Except -- wait, no. Robb was still in there, somehow, the real Robb, and he knew that killing an innocent man for no reason probably wasn't the right thing to do. Not what the King would do. He reined himself in, stopping in his tracks. The growling ceased, although his fingers all but twitched with energy.
Reply
Arya was seriously considering never, ever coming into the Sorting Room again.
She might not have recognized her brother if she hadn't heard the stories about what had happened at the Red Wedding. She hadn't seen him or Gray Wind in two, maybe three years, after all. But when you hear that one of your older siblings was murdered by his host and mutilated in such a horribly inventive way, there's really only one connection to make when presented with someone mutilated in the exact same way.
"Robb?" She hesitated. "Gray Wind?"
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He bounded towards her with a sound of delight, all of Robb's kingly restraint forgotten in his joy.
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Oh. Oh, of course. In the heat of the moment he'd forgotten, but... Shame swept over Robb, shame and grief. How could he have forgotten what he was now? He'd just been so excited to have a packmember back. He wilted a little, his shoulders slumping, and when she asked the question he just chuffed softly and nodded his big, shaggy head.
Reply
He approached the boy... wolf... person cautiously. "Hello," he said carefully, wondering if he could be understood. Already his mind was pondering the puzzle this boy presented, and he viewed him with wary fascination.
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He tipped his head to the side, appearing to be waiting for Remus to continue.
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Still, he'd noticed the Stark girl's reaction to this boy, and so he approached cautiously.
"Hmmm. Interesting fashion statement the Frays made there," he remarked to nobody in particular.
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The howl he let out, filled with rage and grief, was wordless; but the snarl that followed it might almost have sounded like "Lannister." Robb took a step towards Tyrion, his eyes alight with menace.
One tended to lose one's sense of diplomacy, it seemed, when one's head was switched.
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"All right. You've made your point. You don't like me."
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If he could thank the Freys for one thing, it was that he certainly had a natural weapon at his disposal now.
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