Sweetrobin was angry.
The castle was full of strangers again. They ran through the halls like frightened mice, boots thudding on stone, voices echoing off the high ceilings until his head hurt. He hated the noise. He hated the smell of them—sweat and fear and something sour that clung to their clothes.
"Make them fly," he whispered into his blankets. "Make them fly, make them fly."
Flying was easy. Mother had shown him. A man who stole her jewels had been taken to the Moon Door. Sweetrobin had pressed his face to the cold glass and watched. The man had flailed his arms the whole way down, getting smaller and smaller until he hit the rocks far below and became nothing but a red speck.
It was the best game.
Maester Colemon said it was wrong to say such things, but Sweetrobin didn't care. He was Lord Robert Arryn. Mother said he could make anyone fly if he wanted. Lords were allowed.
But Mother lied this time. She hugged him tight and whispered that these people were guests. Lords had to be polite to guests.
Sweetrobin didn't understand polite.
Mother gave him sweetmilk anyway, thick and white and tasting of honey and dreams. He drank it and slept, and when he woke the strangers were still there, only quieter now. Scared.
Then two new people came.
One was a tall red-haired woman who looked like Mother but thinner and taller. Mother called her "sister" and made Sweetrobin call her Aunt Catelyn. The other was a tiny monster with a big head, white-and-gold hair, and eyes of two different colors. Everyone called him the Imp.
They argued with Mother in the high hall. The Imp said something clever and everyone laughed. Mother grew furious. She said they were wicked, that they had killed Father with poison.
After that Sweetrobin never saw them again.
The castle grew quieter.
No more running feet. No more loud voices. The strangers stayed in their rooms or stood in corners whispering. Outside, no one came up the mountain anymore.
Except Uncle Petyr.
Sweetrobin remembered Uncle Petyr. Back in the noisy red castle, Uncle Petyr used to visit at night when Father was away. Mother would send Sweetrobin to bed, but he could hear them laughing through the walls.
He hated that laughing.
Then they had left the red castle on a big ship and climbed this high mountain where Mother could be with him every day. Sweetrobin had been happy.
Until Uncle Petyr came.
The day he arrived, Sweetrobin had been playing with his wooden knights. One knight knocked the other off the table and Sweetrobin clapped. Mother laughed too—but then she ran to the door and threw her arms around Uncle Petyr.
"Look, Sweetrobin! Uncle Petyr is here!"
The thin man smiled down at him and patted his head.
"Do you remember me? I used to visit you in King's Landing."
Sweetrobin stared into those gray-green eyes.
Fox eyes.
He wanted Uncle Petyr to fly.
But Uncle Petyr stayed. He talked to Mother in the hall, in the corridors, in Mother's bedchamber. Every time he was near her, Mother laughed—loud, bright laughs that made her eyes too shiny. Whenever Sweetrobin tried to find her, the door would close and Mother would say, "Go back to your room, sweetling. Mother is busy."
He stood in the hallway holding his broken wooden knight and didn't know where to go.
That night he dreamed of a fox sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him with gray-green eyes. The fox opened its mouth, showing sharp teeth, and lunged.
Sweetrobin woke screaming.
After that the fits came more often. Maester Colemon gave him more sweetmilk. He bled him more too. Sweetrobin would wake with white bandages on his arms and a hollow buzzing in his head.
Mother visited less and less.
When she did come she wore beautiful gowns and painted her face, smiling the same bright smile she gave Uncle Petyr. But her eyes were wrong—too wide, too bright, like glass about to shatter.
One day she cupped his face and said, "Sweetrobin, Mother is going to be married."
Sweetrobin blinked.
"Married?"
"To Petyr," Mother said, voice full of that strange happy music. "He will be your new father."
Sweetrobin opened his mouth but no sound came out.
The wedding was in the sept. Hundreds of candles burned. Mother wore deep blue and a crown of flowers. Uncle Petyr stood beside her, smiling. Many people stood below them, clapping and nodding and smiling too.
But Sweetrobin could see the truth.
None of the smiles reached their eyes. Everyone's mouths turned down at the corners. Their eyes were empty.
He closed his own eyes and buried his face in his knees.
"Make them fly," he whispered.
When he looked again the wedding was over.
Later that night the castle woke to shouting. Doors slammed. Boots pounded. Sweetrobin was dragged from bed by Maester Colemon, who was trembling.
"Come, my lord. Quickly."
The maester carried him through corridors filled with angry voices. In the high hall many people stood—strangers in gold and crimson and white. The fat king with the same name as him was roaring. The golden-haired prince stood beside him, calm and smiling the way foxes smile.
Mother was there too.
Sweetrobin ran to her and buried his face in her skirts. She smelled wrong—sharp and frightened. He was hungry. He wanted milk. But the shouting grew louder. Fingers pointed at Mother and at him. Uncle Petyr knelt before the fat king, head bowed, talking fast.
Suddenly Mother stopped crying.
She scooped Sweetrobin up, holding him so tight he couldn't breathe. Then she ran.
The hall blurred. Torches streaked past. Shouts chased them. Sweetrobin saw men rushing forward with swords.
Then there was wind—cold, rushing upward.
He saw blue sky and white clouds.
And the white castle growing smaller and smaller beneath them.
"I'm flying!" Sweetrobin cried, arms flung wide.
Mother's laugh was wild and bright as they fell together, the wind tearing at her blue gown and his nightshirt, the rocks rushing up to meet them far below.
The young eagle soared.
For one perfect moment, he was free.