The Undone and the Divine
by mardia

The Undone and the Divine

mardia

Summary

If the gods were going to take him away from Cersei and everything he’d known, bind him to a boy half his age, Jaime almost would have preferred it if Robb Stark had been a fool, had been as dull and self-righteous as his father. Seven hells, he could at least have been ugly.

Notes

None

Chapter 1

It was a measure of how worried Tyrion was that he was actually forgoing the wine and the whores on their journey to Winterfell.

He’d dug up every scrap of information he could find about the North, the Starks, Winterfell itself and was determined to drum this wealth of knowledge into Jaime’s head, as though Jaime cared, as though anything mattered in the world now that he’d had this soulmark branded on his arm, tying him to Ned Stark’s son.

Jaime had attempted to hide the mark, but that had only worked for a few days; the mark was glowing with pain by the time the ravens arrived from Winterfell, a stiff letter in Ned Stark’s hand reporting that his eldest son Robb had developed a soulmark on his sixteenth nameday, the direwolf of House Stark with the lion of House Lannister facing opposite. He asked if any of the Lannisters had reported a soulmark on their arms to the Citadel, and just like that, Jaime’s life was done.

Robert had slapped his knees and roared, pleased that the gods had marked his old friend’s house for favor, even if it had meant his friend’s heir was saddled with the Kingslayer. He’d promptly released Jaime from the Kingsguard before he or Cersei could have uttered a word of protest, but what could they have said? No, Jaime would prefer to live his life as a eunuch in a white cloak rather than live with his intended? That he wanted to ignore a sign from the gods?

He could still remember Cersei’s rage, the smashed glasses and spilled wine, every word hissed out between her teeth like the sound of a whip. The fury and betrayal in her face when she’d tried to kiss him, embrace him, and it all went wrong, his mark flaring with pain, nausea cramping his stomach, until he couldn’t bear her touch anymore and had to twist his body away from her. Her, his sister, his lady, his other half.

Tyrion rapped his knuckles on the wooden table, jerking Jaime out of his reverie. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

“Of course I am,” Jaime said, gesturing with his goblet. Someone had to drink the wine, if Tyrion wouldn’t. “The North remembers, blah blah, direwolves, blah blah, Bran the Builder, blah. Did I leave anything out?”

A muscle jumped in Tyrion’s jaw, but he didn’t shout. Instead he let out a long exhale of breath, and looked Jaime in the face. “Jaime, it’s done. You could flee for Essos tomorrow and it would not change the essential fact that you are bound to Robb Stark and as such, can no longer be with anyone else.”

He didn’t say Cersei’s name; they were in an inn, never mind that they were in a private room, all the walls could have ears. It didn’t matter, they both knew what he meant.

Jaime stared into his brother’s face. “You're glad this happened, aren't you? That I've been taken away from the Kingsguard, from Cersei, and that there's no way for me to come back."

If he'd denied it, Jaime didn't know what he would've done, but Tyrion immediately burst out, "Of course I am! This could be your salvation, if you weren't too stubborn to realize it!"

"My salvation?" Jaime growled, outraged.

Tyrion scrubbed at his hair in frustration, hissing, "Yes! Yes, it is! You would've never left on your own, Cersei would have never let you go, and with every year, the risk of exposure and scandal would have increased. Now you're safe, and Cersei is safe, and our family is safe." He stared into Jaime's face and said, emphasizing each word, "This is a gift. Stop sulking and be grateful."

He promptly left, lowering himself from the chair with a dark, pointed look at Jaime as he took the wine away with him, and Jaime was left alone to ponder the wreck that his life had become.

And beneath his sleeve the mark ached, a low, throbbing pain that didn’t stop.

The Lannisters’ arrival to Winterfell was imminent, and Robb was desperately afraid he would faint for the first time in his life.

His fretting had become so obvious that even Theon had given up on his japing, everyone watching him with confusion and sympathy, because no one knew what to say. This was a gift from the Gods, but how could it be a gift to be forever linked to the infamous Kingslayer?

His father had been grim-faced throughout, his voice clipped as he shared the little he would about Ser Jaime Lannister that was worthy of praise. “He’s as handsome as they say, and he’s as good with a sword as they say. He doesn’t lack physical courage, and he’s brilliant in battle.” He’d hesitated as he looked at Robb, but refused to sweeten his assessment with any kind lies—for his father, Jaime Lannister was an oathbreaker, who’d stabbed the Mad King in the back the moment it became politically feasible to do so and not a moment before, and there was nothing about the man to admire.

And so Robb had thought the same, right up until his first vision had come, a nightmare of green fire and a mad king laughing, Robb screaming himself awake with the words ‘burn them all’ echoing in his ears.

The dreams didn’t stop, the memories didn’t stop, and little by little, Robb accepted them to be true…even if he had no idea what to do about them, not yet.

But now the day of the Lannisters’ arrival at Winterfell was here at last, and Robb was near light-headed from lack of sleep, and a wave of Lannister knights and servants were entering the courtyard, the sun glinting off their golden armor, the whole scene unreal, like a dream.

Ser Jaime’s arrival felt like part of the dream too, a shining golden knight, too beautiful to even seem real—was there one physical flaw to the man? If there was, Robb couldn’t see it, and Lannister’s perfection only made him more aware of the dark smudges beneath his eyes, how pale and drawn he looked from his sleepless nights.

Though if anyone knew about sleepless nights, it was Lannister.

Sansa let out a little happy sigh as Lannister dismounted—she was the most optimistic of everyone in Robb’s family, insisting that the Gods would not make a mistake, that surely everything would work itself out. And to do her justice, Jaime Lannister did look like a knight out of a song, with his golden hair and handsome face, his chin lifted as he smirked at them all. “What a charming family. Lord Stark, you are blessed indeed.”

Robb could practically hear his father’s teeth grinding as he made the introductions, first his mother, and then going to Sansa and Arya and Bran and little Rickon, leaving Robb for last.

Lannister’s gaze sharpened as he looked at Robb, and Robb could hear the edge to his voice as he said, “Ah. You’re the one who’s meant to be my other half.”
Robb’s tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth, and for a moment he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. Lannister was just so—he was here and Robb had been reliving his nightmares for weeks now, how in the hells was he supposed to address the man?
His mind utterly, horrifically blank, Robb opened his mouth and asked the very last question he should ask, and the only question he could ask.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about the wildfire?”

If Robb had ever believed that his dreams were nothing more than a delusion, Jaime Lannister’s face would have put an end to that. His skin went gray, the smooth smirking expression on his face changing to one of disbelief and shock. He even took a faltering step back, as though Robb was a threat.

“How,” Lannister choked out, then fell silent, staring as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“Robb, what is this?” his father asked, and Robb realized too late that they were in front of an audience, in front of everyone, and this was the absolute last place he should have started this conversation. “Why are you asking about wildfire?”

“It’s nothing,” Lannister said sharply, and whatever restraint Robb had left shattered at that.

“Nothing?” he asked in disbelief, taking a step forward. Lannister didn’t retreat any farther, but he watched Robb as though he was a viper, waiting to strike. “It’s the reason you killed the Mad King, and you call it nothing?”

“Jaime, what’s happening?” It was Lord Tyrion, the Imp, who was speaking now, awkwardly dismounting from his horse and approaching his brother, a worried look on his face.

Lannister looked to be beyond words now, staring at Robb with wide, stricken green eyes, as though he were a ghost made flesh. “I…”

Robb knew that everyone was watching, that he was turning this meeting into an outrageous spectacle, and yet some instinct drove him forward regardless. “During the last days of the Rebellion, King Aerys ordered his pryomancers to lay out wildfire caches underneath the city. The city had been sacked by Lannister forces, and you were in the throne room with the King, begging him to surrender. An honorable surrender, you said. It would keep everyone safe—the princess Elia, the children, even Aerys himself, little though the Mad King deserved it.” Robb was standing in the keep of Winterfell as he spoke, but he was there too, in a throne room he’d never seen before except in the borrowed nightmares of a man he’d never met before today. He could almost feel the armor of the Kingsguard on his body, the white clock fluttering behind him as he strode forward.

“But the King didn’t care about saving the lives of his grandchildren. He wanted to watch his enemies burn, and he didn’t care how many innocents burned with them,” Robb continued, his voice rising over the murmurs of the crowd, of his mother’s anxious voice asking, “Ned, what is he saying?”

“Burn them all, Aerys said,” Robb continued, and everyone could see Jaime Lannister flinch at the words. “You couldn’t believe it at first, even though you’d seen the barrels of wildfire, hidden in the tunnels. But then the pyromancers started to leave, they were going to set the city ablaze, slaughter countless innocents, all on the word of a mad king too evil and insane to rule.” Robb felt the echo of a sword he’d never swung in his hand, the weight of it heavy, his hand slick with sweat as he lifted it up for a blow he’d never delivered.

“So you killed them. And you killed the king who gave the order.” Robb swallowed, coming back to himself—to the crisp morning air in Winterfell, to the shocked silence of the audience around them, to Jaime Lannister’s stricken, pale face, as Robb recounted a decades-old nightmare for them all.

Lannister was breathing heavily, and he burst out, “How—how could you—”

“Sometimes, with a Marked pair, the gods offer up visions of the past,” Robb said, his voice sounding as though it came from a distance. “Maester Luwin said it was…it was given as a gift. So we could reach a better understanding of each other.”

Lannister burst out into wild, raw laughter at that, nearly hysterical. “A better understanding!” He bent over double, gasping for air, even as his brother reached out to him, confusion and worry written all over his face.

“Robb,” his father said, stepping forward to grip his arm. “Robb, is this…is this true?”

Robb took a breath. “Have I lied, Ser Jaime?”

Lannister didn’t speak, even with his brother anxiously shaking his elbow, murmuring softly, “Jaime. Jaime, you have to answer.” Lannister shook his head, denying it still, and Robb demanded incredulously, his temper spiking, “What possible reason could you have to deny it now?”

Lannister lifted his head at that, teeth bared in a snarl and his eyes narrowed with fury—and even as Robb’s stomach clenched at the sight, he met Lannister’s gaze squarely. They were bound together for the rest of their days, there was no point in retreating now.

And Lannister must have realized that as well, as his face twisted, and then he looked away, muttering roughly, “It’s true.”

Robb felt his knees turn to water with relief—at last, at last he’d said it—even as the crowd gasped around then and Ned Stark let out a string of curses he’d never expected to hear from his father, all he could feel was relief, because it was done, the truth revealed at last.

*

“Well, that certainly wasn’t what I expected,” Tyrion Lannister says later that afternoon.

They were all gathered together in his mother’s solar, and Robb asked, his earlier bravado having deserted him the moment that Jaime Lannister stalked off to his guest quarters without a second look back for him, “How is he?”

Tyrion gave him a sharp glance, then shrugged a little. “Quiet. Shaken.” He paused, then said, “I’d heard stories of the visions that a Marked pair could receive, but to actually witness it…truly, the gods move in mysterious ways.”

His father, who’d mostly been silent since they’d retreated to the solar, finally spoke. “Robb, how did you know your visions were true?”

Robb shakes his head, helplessly. “I didn’t think they were, not at first. But they were so…so vivid and consistent, they came night after night and never changed, not once. They had to be real. My imagination isn’t that good. Or that awful.”

His imagination couldn’t conjure anything as awful as the Mad King, with those gleaming eyes, those disgusting long fingernails, and that hoarse rattle of a voice muttering, Burn them all.

“Forgive me, I still don’t understand,” Catelyn said, lifting up her hand. “I can accept that this is true, but what I can’t understand is why no one, not even my husband, has heard this story before now.” She turned to look at Tyrion. “You honestly expect us to believe that your brother told no one—”

“Lady Stark, if I’d known the truth, my brother wouldn’t have carried the name Kingslayer for all these years,” Tyrion said bluntly. His mouth pursed, and he said, more carefully, “I knew…I knew his time in the Kingsguard under Aerys weighed on him. I knew he’d seen terrible things. But believe me, the first I heard of the wildfire plot was today, from your son’s lips.”

“But why wouldn’t he say something?” Robb’s father burst out, frustrated. “He’s had years to speak, to defend himself. We all knew what Aerys was, he would have been believed. All he had to do was speak.”

Tyrion frowned, pacing a little. Robb watched him curiously—he made an interesting figure, it was true, but somehow within just a few moments of meeting the man, his lack of height dwindled in importance, not when compared to his obvious force of personality, the clear intelligence in his face. Robb had heard that the man was a lush and a whoremonger, but he looked sober and presentable now. “The only thing my brother would say,” Tryion said at last, and Robb could hear the frustration in his voice, “was that…it didn’t matter. That no one cared why he did what he did, just that he’d done it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Robb said without thinking. “Of course it matters! He didn’t do it for ambition, he didn’t do it as part of some Lannister plot, he did it to save thousands of lives! How can that not matter?”

Tyrion was watching him now, a sad little smile on his face. “I don’t know, but he’s convinced it doesn’t.” His eyes flickered, and he gave Ned and Catelyn an odd little look before saying, “Of course…as far as our father was concerned, it didn’t matter.”

Ned looked affronted. “You mean to say that your father knew the truth of the affair, and he never said—”

“What I mean to say,” Tyrion said, each word deliberate, “Is that for years now, it’s served my father perfectly well to have his son known as the infamous Kingslayer. Just as it serves him still to have the notorious Gregor Clegane in his service, no matter his crimes against the Princess Elia and her children. It’s…it’s like the Rains of Castamere, you see? If you can believe those at the head of House Lannister can act without honor, that there’s nothing we won’t do to achieve our ends—”

“Then nobody will act against them,” Ned said, voice thick with disgust. “And this is the house my son is binding himself to.”

“Your son is bound to my brother,” Tyrion pointed out. “Unless you’re going to still insist that he has no honor, even despite your own son’s testimony?”

Ned’s mouth thinned a little, but he nodded his head, acknowledging. “Of course.” He looked to Robb and said, “It does matter, that you’re bound to a man who hasn’t forgotten his honor after all.”

Robb knew it was true, but he also knew that, for whatever reason, Jaime Lannister wouldn’t thank him for revealing the truth about him. Robb couldn’t understand it, a few weeks of carrying this secret with him and he was ready to go mad from the horror of it; how could Jaime carry it with him for all these years and never speak of it? How could it not be anything but a relief, to have the truth out at last?

"I'm not going," Jaime said.

Tyrion looked at him, deeply unimpressed. It didn't seem right that Tyrion had gotten up before him this morning, but here they were, with Tyrion sober as a judge and Jaime the one nursing a hangover. “You’re going if I have to drag you out of bed by the hair,” he said, flatly. “Or do you think you can just hide in here all day and only emerge to sit like a silent lump at dinner?”

Jaime scowled. Dinner had been an excruciating ordeal—the Stark bannermen wouldn't be coming until later, for the actual wedding, but it had still been the entire household of Winterfell watching him, pity and confusion in all their faces, and all of Jaime's sharp, clever words had become dust on his tongue.

So he'd forced the food and that awful Northern ale down his throat, and kept his head down so as to avoid anyone's gaze—particularly Robb Stark's—and had promptly fled back to his guest quarters the second he was able, ordering more wine for himself on the way, which he'd promptly guzzled down until he could finally fall asleep in a drunken stupor.

It could only be a brief respite and he knew it. Ned Stark had insisted that they delay the question of who would stay heir to their house until Robb reached the age of eighteen, insisted that Jaime stay in Winterfell until then, and Tywin had acquiesced, so desperate by then to get Jaime out of the Kingsguard that he would have agreed to almost anything. So that meant that Jaime would be here for two years, at least, and Tyrion was right, he'd have to find a way to live here, and antagonizing everyone in Winterfell was not the way to do it.

But his head was pounding, and he still felt scraped raw and exposed, so Jaime rolled over in his bed and muttered, "I'd like to see you try."

He probably should've expected Tyrion's fist in his hair, but he certainly hadn't expected Tyrion to pull quite so hard, it was a miracle he didn't have a chunk of hair missing from his scalp.

But for all of Tyrion’s warnings, Jaime was at his most obnoxious while Catelyn Stark stiffly escorted him through the walls of Winterfell. He sauntered and smirked, cheerfully called Catelyn his goodmother every chance he got, and counted it as a victory every time he saw her lips thin.

Finally, once he’d won an irritated huff of breath from her, Jaime said, in his most innocent tones, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lady Stark, surely I’m keeping you from your duties.”

She paused, and tilted her head a little at him. “Not at all,” she said, her voice calm, even if her blue gaze (so like her son’s) was sharp and knowing. “I’ve cleared my entire day, Ser Jaime, I’m completely at your disposal. There’s nothing more important than showing my son’s future consort around his new home.”

Seven fucking hells. “How generous of you,” Jaime said, through his teeth. “Still, you must be bored.”

“Not at all,” Catelyn said smoothly. “And besides, your brother warned me you’d be like this.”

Jaime nearly choked on his tongue. “I’m sorry? My brother what?”

Catelyn was actually smirking at him now. Oh, it was a faint little smirk, easily deniable, but there it was all the same. “Your brother was kind enough to warn me of any…little foibles you might display today, and preemptively begged my pardon.”

"Begged your pardon!" Jaime repeated, his voice rising, so furious he could barely see—now Tyrion was conspiring against him with the Starks? But Catelyn just raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed by his outrage, and Jaime caught the rest of his words behind his teeth.

Once she was satisfied he wouldn't start shouting again, Catelyn continued in her measured way. "I won't pretend to understand you, ser, but that will not stop me from my duties."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Of course not, you're a Stark, there's nothing you love so much as duty."

Catelyn's mouth twitched. "You'll be a Stark too by the week's end," she pointed out. "At least while you're in the North."

He flinched at hearing that, and Catelyn didn't miss that either, her eyes narrowing as she watched him.

In desperation, Jaime blurted out, "You cannot possibly approve of any of this. I'm twice your son's age, my reputation is lower than dirt, and my family is a byword for treachery all throughout Westeros. Why are you pretending otherwise?"

But Catelyn looked at him with bewilderment, as if he was the strange one here. “The gods have marked you for my son,” she said. “It’s not for me to approve or not.” She started to walk down the corridor again, tossing over her shoulder, “Though if you could refrain from constantly behaving at your worst, that would certainly be helpful.”

“You haven’t seen me at my worst,” Jaime promised her.

Catelyn turned to face him, still with that faintly baffled look to her, as if she couldn’t understand him at all. “Why on earth would you want me to?”

And what could Jaime say to that?

Through gritted teeth, Jaime straightened his shoulders and said, "Lady Stark, I beg your pardon, but I have to cut this short. If you'll excuse me?"

Catelyn tilted her head at him. "Certainly, ser."

Jaime bowed his head, and walked off, his back stiff and anger lengthening his stride. Gods, but he needed to hit something right now.

*

Theon let out a low whistle, admiring. "He‘s even more talented with a sword than I expected."

Robb just nodded, at a loss for words. They were watching Jaime Lannister spar with some of his knights in the yard, from the landing above, far enough away so they likely wouldn't be overheard but close enough to watch everything, including the sheen of sweat on Lannister's skin, the way his linen shirt (which he was already stripped down to by the time Theon had dragged Robb outside) clung to his back and shoulders.

He'd already knocked four men to the ground, trained knights, all of them fully-grown men, two of which had at least three inches and a full stone of weight on him, and he'd made it all look so easy, practically inevitable—of course he wouldn't be beaten, of course none of his challengers could land a blow on him.

Theon smirked at Robb and said, sly, "Suppose you're not so wroth over being bound to the Kingslayer now, are you?"

Robb punched him in the shoulder, not bothering to check the force of the blow. "Don't call him that."

"All right, all right, I was only japing," Theon grumbled, rubbing his shoulder.

Robb was going to scold him further, but a loud roar came out from the yard—Jaime had knocked his latest opponent down into the dirt, another Lannister knight who was calling out, in mingled amusement and alarm, "I yield! I yield, my lord!"

Huffing, as if he was annoyed he hadn't been given a better fight, Jaime pushed his hair off his forehead and helped haul the knight up to his feet. "Next!" he called out impatiently, swinging his sword in his hand.

"Well, his temper certainly hasn't improved from this morning," a voice said wryly, and Robb turned to see Lord Tyrion approaching them, his father and mother a step behind.

"Lord Tyrion," Robb said, nodding his hello, but couldn't help but press, "His temper?"

"Ser Jaime was a little short this morning when I gave him a tour of Winterfell," his mother explained, with a quick warning glance at Tyrion that Robb didn’t miss. "Nothing too concerning."

His father snorted at this, but didn't argue. Robb grimaced as well, looking back down at where Jaime was standing, hand on hip, waiting for the latest victim to step up. There didn't look to be many takers, either from the Lannister knights, or from the Winterfell household.

"I shouldn't have confronted him in public," Robb muttered. "I knew I should have waited, I just—it was all I could think of."

"You did my brother a great service yesterday," Tyrion says, looking at him sharply. "He'll realize that, once he stops being such an ass."

“What about you, Ser Rodrick?” Jaime called out, and Ser Rodrick didn’t look exactly pleased to be named, but he stepped forward, ready to face his inevitable defeat, only to have Jon, who’d been watching in the crowd, pipe up.

“I’ll go.”

“What is he doing?” Theon asked, speaking for, well, everyone. Robb couldn’t understand it, Jon was never the type to put himself forward, let alone step into a spectacle like this…

And then Jon nervously glanced up to where they were watching, and Robb understood. His brother was trying to help.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance he’ll take it easy on my brother?” Robb asked, the question mostly rhetorical.

But as if he’d heard them, Jaime did glance up at the landing where they were watching, his expression unreadable–but it didn’t matter, he was looking at Robb, finally, after a night and a day of watching Jaime Lannister’s gaze turn anywhere but at Robb, he was meeting Robb’s gaze at last.

I want to be the only thing he can think to look at. Robb couldn’t have said where the thought came from, but it felt right, a lingering warmth low in his belly, even after Jaime had looked away and said to Jon, “Well, let’s see what Ned Stark’s bastard can do with a sword.”

Jon squared his shoulders and lifted his wooden sword, and then they were at it—but this was different, Robb could already see it, Jaime was holding himself back, testing Jon’s limits rather than galloping over them. They went through several passes, Jon managing to parry every blow, before Jaime pulled back, considering.

“Again,” he said, and they did go again, and Robb felt the pride rising up in him, pride in Jon for stepping forward, for holding his own against Jaime Lannister, even if it was only a sparring session where Lannister was clearly checking himself.

Jon lost, of course, this wasn’t a song or a fairytale, but he’d lasted longer than anyone could’ve expected, and Jaime was saying, “You need to build up the strength in your arm, and your footwork is too sloppy. Whatever drills you’re doing now, you need to double them—” The advice went on, all of it given in an unimpressed tone, but it didn’t matter, not compared to the slow-dawning joy on Jon’s face as he realized that Jaime Lannister, likely the best swordsman alive in all of Westeros, took him seriously.

“How is Jon getting a lesson in sword-fighting from Jaime Lannister?” Theon hissed, outraged. “Of all the gods-damned luck—”

“He made his own luck,” Robb said, smiling. Not just for Jon, but because this felt like the first real thing he could hold on to, something from Lannister that felt true, that wasn’t a false smile worn like armor or the stiff line of his back as he walked away.

Robb realized that his father was watching him now, assessing him in that quiet way of his, and Robb straightened, the smile falling from his face. Ned didn’t say anything, just stepped forward to the railing and called out, “Ser Jaime.”

The yard went silent, and Robb could see Jaime’s back stiffening; when he turned to face them, his face had gone cold again, mouth thin and his jaw tight. “Lord Stark,” he said, and Robb could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“I’d like you to join me in my solar for a private word,” Robb’s father said.

Robb’s stomach was already sinking, even before Jaime smiled tightly and dipped his head low, the sneer back in his voice as he said, “As my future goodfather commands.”

He sauntered off, all southern arrogance once more, and as he left, Tyrion said, “I’d like to join you, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“I would mind,” Ned said, but not unkindly. “With all respect, Lord Tyrion, I can’t get the true measure of your brother if you’re shielding him.”

Tyrion’s lips thinned, but he said, “Try and see it from my brother’s perspective. He comes here to marry a boy he hardly knows, the son of a man who despises him, only to have the most painful incident of his life exposed and discussed before strangers.” He turned to Robb and added, urgently, “I don’t blame you for it, you did my brother a service, but he won’t see that yet, all he can see is the exposure and humiliation. Let him have another day for his temper to cool, and then we can all—”

Ned just shook his head. “No. I’ll speak to him now.” As Tyrion opened his mouth to argue some more, Ned walked away, with Robb’s mother following.

“When my father says he’ll do a thing, he does it,” Robb explained to Tyrion, who was now scrubbing at his dark blond hair in frustration.

“Oh believe me, the Stark stubbornness is becoming quite familiar to me,” Tyrion said, clearly disgruntled. He sighed, and looked up at Robb. “Well, come on then. If your father’s going to take Jaime’s measure, then I’m going to take yours, young Stark. Walk with me.”

He sauntered off, much in the way his brother had, utterly confident that Robb would follow. And, after sharing a bemused glance with Theon, Robb did.

*

It hurt, keeping the smile on his face as he stood there in Ned Stark’s solar, but Jaime managed it somehow. “Your bastard son might become half-decent with a sword someday, if he got proper training,” he said, lightly. “Of course, I can see how that would be awkward. Wouldn’t want him to outshine any of your trueborn children.”

Stark didn’t respond to the jab about Jon Snow, which was yet another maddening thing to stoke Jaime’s temper—fathering the bastard was the one weakness Ned Stark had ever shown, the very least he could do was flinch when Jaime flung it at him.

Instead, he nodded to the chair facing his desk and said, in tones so polite Jaime almost thought it was a jape, “Will you sit down?”

“I’ll stand,” Jaime said, unable to keep the snap from appearing in his voice. Stark’s eyes flickered up to look at him, and then he nodded a little, and sat down in his own chair.

Jaime realized his error immediately, with the difference in their positions, it was almost as if Jaime was being called down to face his own father, made to stand there like an idiotic boy and listen to every mistake he’d made—

“Tell me about it,” Stark said.

Jaime could taste the bile in his mouth. “No,” he said flatly, and he could hear Tyrion’s huff of exasperation in his head—Stark already knew, he was about to become Jaime’s kin, what was the point in baiting him now?

There was no point, except for Jaime’s battered pride, and the fact that Ned Stark could have asked, all those years ago, and he hadn’t. Jaime saw no point in answering him now, when it was far too late to do any good.

But Stark was looking at him like he could see it, the wound covered by scar tissue that Robb Stark had taken a knife to and made newly bleed once more, and he said, “I’d forgotten how young you were when you joined the Kingsguard. Fifteen, wasn’t it?”

Jaime’s throat was so tight that it almost hurt to answer, “Yes.”

“That didn’t seem very young to me, then,” Ned said quietly. “It does now, with my eldest barely a year older than that.”

“Don’t,” Jaime said, his hands curling into fists at his side. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

Stark looked at him, then asked, “What would you have of me, then?”

“Nothing,” Jaime spat out. Stark just looked at him, that dour honest face blank and unreadable, and a blinding fury rose up in Jaime, so thick he thought he would choke on it.

“You self-righteous shit,” he spat out, forgetting that this man was about to be his goodfather, that it was his castle Jaime was standing in, his son that Jaime would be marrying at the end of the week. “You never had to sit there and listen to Aerys raping his wife while she begged for him to stop, you never had to sit there and watch him burn victim after victim, you weren’t there when he decided to destroy an entire city, and yet you sit there and judge me? Me?”

His chest was aching, his head was pounding, and Ned Stark just sat there and took it, as Jaime vented nearly two decades’ worth of anger and shame at his head.

“By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right do you judge me, when your friend Robert looked at the broken bodies of Elia Martell’s children and smiled? When you killed Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy? What possible right do you have to—”

His vision blurred, his throat closed up, and Jaime turned away, faced the wall rather than let Ned Stark see one more inch of him.

For several moments the only sound in the room was that of Jaime’s harsh breaths, as he attempted to piece together some sort of composure.

When Ned finally spoke, his voice was soft with weariness. “I should have asked you what happened that day. And for whatever role I played in leaving you to carry this burden alone, I ask your pardon.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, but didn’t speak. It shouldn’t have mattered, hearing that, and he hated that it did.

Ned continued, saying next, “But whatever anger you still hold for me—I only ask that you not turn it towards my son.”

That got Jaime to turn around and look at him, as nothing else would have. “I haven’t done anything to your son,” he pointed out, indignant.

“You’ve avoided him since you arrived at Winterfell,” Ned said, and Jaime scowled, because that was the truth, and it had been perhaps a futile hope that it wouldn’t go without comment from any of the Starks. “I can’t imagine you welcomed this bond, any more than we did at first. But—it’s here. You’re here. You’ll be his spouse and his partner, as he’ll be yours.”

“So?” Jaime prodded.

Ned’s eyebrow rose, and he said evenly, “So don’t be an ass.”

A huff of air escaped Jaime’s mouth before he could stop it, and if it wasn’t a laugh, it wasn’t not a laugh either. “I was wondering how long it would take to crack that composure of yours,” he said. “Your wife’s lasted longer than you have.”

“Cat’s always been the patient one of the two of us,” Ned said, undeterred. “Well? Will you think on what I’ve said?”

As if Jaime would be able to do anything else. He didn’t admit to that, however, just shrugged and said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

*

Gods help him, but Jaime was almost looking forward to going on this morning ride with Robb Stark, if only to escape Tyrion and his lecturing. “What on earth do you know about courting someone?” Jaime had asked, waspish.

“More than you,” Tyrion had said, and launched right back in, as if after two days he already knew how to deal with the Starks better than Jaime did, except that it was probably true, fuck him. Tyrion had certainly been quite cozy with Lady Stark last night at dinner; he’d even seen Catelyn chuckling at one of his brother’s jokes.

Robb was waiting for him in the stables, and he greeted Jaime with a hesitant smile, nodding at Jaime’s new cloak as he said, “I see Sansa gave you her present already.”

The fur cloak was heavy on Jaime’s shoulders, the weight and bulk of it unfamiliar to him, but he was warmer than he’d been at any point since he’d come north. And it had felt…churlish, to reject the gift, especially when it had come with Sansa Stark’s bright, earnest face as she’d carefully presented the cloak to him this morning. “It was kind of your sister to make it,” he said, as lightly as he could manage. “She’s even made one for Tyrion, he swears he’ll never take it off so long as he’s here.”

“I’m glad,” Robb said, a corner of his mouth tilting up. “Can’t have you southerners freezing in your thin silks.”

“How dare you,” Jaime said dryly, mounting his steed. “Those are the finest silks that Westeros has to offer, even if they’re painfully inadequate for this frozen pit.”

He’d thought Robb would frown at the insult to his home, but Robb just scoffed, swinging himself up into the saddle. “If you think this is cold, I hate to see what you’ll be like when a true winter comes.”

With any luck, they would be living at Casterly Rock well before a true winter arrived, but Jaime held his tongue on that. See, Tyrion, I can learn, he thought to himself, and smiled at Robb instead. “Shall we?”

He didn’t miss the sudden flush that rose to Robb’s cheeks, but Robb nodded and said, steadily enough, “Of course.”

To Jaime’s relief, they don’t speak very much as they travel out of Winterfell. He’s almost able to lose himself in the ride, enjoying the wind in his hair and the unfamiliar scenery. They have to slow down once they get back into the woods proper, the path narrow enough that they can no longer ride side by side.

Jaime stared at the back of Robb’s head, and tried very hard to think about how this was the first day that his mark had been quiet on his arm, no pain whatsoever. He’d been stoking his anger deliberately since his arrival at Winterfell, Jaime could admit it now, even if only to himself. With his anger at a boil, it was easier to shut everything else out—the dull ache in his arm, the instinctive desire to look for Robb Stark when he entered a room.

This wasn’t real. It was a compulsion brought on by the Mark, Jaime hadn’t chosen it, he didn’t want it—but the litany of reasons to hold onto his anger were slowly crumbling, weakened by Ned Stark’s apology, by Tyrion’s arguments, by Sansa Stark shyly offering him the cloak she’d spent weeks making for her brother’s intended.

It had been weakening from the moment he’d looked into Robb Stark’s face and seen the last thing he’d expected to see—understanding.

Jaime set his teeth, glaring at Robb’s dark curls. If the gods were going to take him away from Cersei and everything he’d known, bind him to a boy half his age, Jaime almost would have preferred it if Robb Stark had been a fool, had been as dull and self-righteous as his father. Seven hells, he could at least have been ugly.

“Here we are,” Robb said, as they emerged upon a stream. They both dismounted and led their horses to the water, and Robb knelt down as well, splashing the water over his face. Jaime hesitated, then joined him, shivering as he cupped the water in his hands and drank—the water was delicious, but so cold it made his teeth hurt.

“Are we sure the North isn’t in winter already?” he grumbled, shaking out his hands.

“Oh trust me, when it’s winter you’ll know,” Robb said, voice dry. “But…I didn’t bring you here just to have you drink at this stream.”

Jaime turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. Robb sounded nervous, for the first time since Jaime had met him—not that they’d spoken much since their first meeting. “Oh?” Jaime asked. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Stark. Why am I here?”

Robb looked at him for a moment, then stood to walk away, pacing a little. It was nothing like their first meeting at all, when Robb had looked at him with the faraway gaze of a seer and methodically stripped Jaime down to the bone. Here, he looked like what he probably was—a handsome sixteen year old boy, untested and ill at ease as he attempted to communicate with his bondmate, who was twenty years older and a stranger to him.

Finally Robb turned around and said, bluntly, “I’m sorry for our first meeting. How I…how I spoke to you. The truth needed to come out, I still believe that, I just…I wish I’d done it better.”

“You mean that wasn’t on purpose?” Jaime asked. Robb looked bewildered, and so Jaime elaborated, “I thought you blurted it out as soon as you could to spread the news that your future husband wasn’t quite the oathbreaking monster the kingdom thought I was.”

Robb looked shocked at the idea. “I—it wasn’t calculated.” He paused, then admitted, “Honestly, I was so sleep-deprived I barely knew what I was doing. All I could think about was…getting it out of my head and out into the open. However I could.”

Jaime thought back to their meeting, and he thought he could remember it now—the desperation in Robb’s voice as he’d insisted on having the truth from Jaime. He could understand it now, a little better. Of course Robb had been at his wits’ end, living out another man’s nightmare. Of course he’d be desperate to confirm it as truth.

They were quiet for a moment, the only sound around them the quiet rushing of the steam, the birdsong in the trees. It was a beautiful spot, Jaime had to admit, lush and green, the sunlight filtering through the trees.

“How did you stand it?” Robb asked quietly. “Two whole years in the Kingsguard, watching over the Mad King.”

“I endured it because I had to,” Jaime said. “To be fair, I hardly knew what I was in for when I made my oaths. I thought…gods help me, I thought it was an honor.” He smiled bitterly, stretching himself out on the ground, letting his cloak fall to use it as a blanket. “I was something of an idiot at fifteen, you see, I still believed in honor and chivalry then. To be knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, to be judged worthy of guarding my King…it was like a dream.”

And to never be parted from Cersei…but that was something he was hardly going to admit to Robb now.

“I didn’t have the wits to realize I was being used as a hostage to ensure my father’s good behavior,” Jaime continued. “Much in the way your friend Theon Greyjoy is being used to ensure his father’s good behavior.” Robb looked pained at the comparison, but didn’t argue. “And once I was in the Red Keep…I was trapped. Like everyone else there.”

He paused, then asked the question that had been lingering at the edge of his mind for a while. “Is that the only vision you’ve had, of what I witnessed during Aerys’ reign?” Robb nodded, and Jaime said, “I’m glad. You shouldn’t have those memories in your head.”

He actually meant it, too.

But Robb frowned a little. “You were my age, when you lived through Aerys’ rule. If you lived it, then I can stand to hear about it.”

“What, you want to hear about what it was like?” Jaime asked, disbelieving. “You want to hear about your grandfather being cooked in his own armor, while the entire court watched it happen and no one, not even me, said a word in protest? Or guarding the King’s bedchamber and listening to him rape and beat his wife, night after night, knowing that no matter what I did or didn’t do, I was breaking my oaths?” His voice was rising, and Jaime checked himself with an effort; Robb was watching him with horror, those blue eyes wide in his pale face.

But Robb squared his shoulders, like he was readying himself to face an adversary, and said, swallowing hard, “Yes. If it helps me understand you better, then…yes. I want to hear it.”

It took Jaime a moment to find his words. “Has anyone ever told you, boy, that you’re too fucking honorable for your own good?” He wanted to say the words with a sneer, but he knew he hadn’t.

“No,” Robb said, then the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too fucking stubborn for your own good?”

A huff of laughter escaped Jaime’s mouth. “More times than I can count.”

It was a good moment, and Jaime was content to let it linger; he didn’t look away from Robb, which was how he caught the shift of the mood as it happened, Robb’s eyes moving over his face, the hint of a flush to his cheeks as his eyes sparkled with interest—with attraction.

It was nothing new, watching someone admire his looks, Jaime had received that admiration his entire life, and he hadn’t ever cared, but this was the first time he actually thought of doing something about it. He couldn’t have explained why, not to himself and certainly not to Cersei if she were here—but she wasn’t here, not in this quiet green place, where Jaime felt…clean and at peace, for the first time in twenty years.

“Could I…” Robb paused, then asked, lifting his chin up. “I hadn’t had the chance to ask before, but…” Jaime raised an eyebrow, questioning, and Robb said in a rush, “I’d like to see your mark. Please.”

“As my future husband commands,” Jaime said, and he’d meant it to sound like a tease, a jape, but it didn’t quite sound like that at all. He got up to his feet, slowly, pushing up the sleeve of his tunic to expose the mark on the inside of his forearm.

Robb let out a soft noise at the sight of it, lifting his hand as though he meant to reach out—before visibly checking himself, his hand still caught mid-air.

“It’s all right,” Jaime said, barely recognizing his own voice. “It’s your Mark, after all, just as much as it’s mine.”

He took a few steps forward, and that was enough for Robb, who did reach out, his hand solid and warm as it curved around Jaime’s forearm, his thumb moving across the wolf’s head, the delicate touch sinking into Jaime’s skin like a brand, hot and overwhelming.

Jaime looked up into Robb’s face, watched those blue eyes growing wider as Jaime stepped closer, his lips parting—and Jaime leaned in, and kissed Robb Stark’s soft-looking mouth, sharp and quick, as if he’d been dared to do it.

If it had been a test, Jaime wasn’t sure which of them had passed. He’d meant—he was almost sure he’d meant it to be brief, except that Robb was inhaling sharply against his mouth, and then he was kissing Jaime back, clumsy and ardent, and at the first tentative pass of Robb’s tongue against his mouth, Jaime abruptly lost his entire mind, a wave of hot lust running through him as he clutched at Robb’s hips, pushing Robb back against the trunk of the great oak tree behind him, pinning him there.

Robb gave as good as he got, his hands clutching at Jaime’s leather jerkin, gasping into Jaime’s mouth as Jaime held him still and took him, captured his mouth in bruising kisses and let his hips rock forward mindlessly, working his thigh in between Robb’s legs and feeling a savage triumph as Robb groaned against his mouth, rubbing his erection against Jaime’s thigh.

It was madness, it was too much and too soon, except that it was also the best thing Jaime had felt in weeks, and why not, when the gods had given Jaime to Robb and to the North in the first place? Why not take whatever pleasure he could get with this boy and his soft mouth and lean, strong body?

Testing, Jaime reached between them and lets his hand rest on the ties to Robb’s breeches, and Robb made a high, desperate noise in his throat, gasping out, “Oh holy hells, please—”

Jaime grinned, finding that he liked the sound of Robb’s desperation. “As you wish,” he says lowly, nipping at Robb’s throat, the soft shell of his ear, as he made quick work of the ties and slipped his hand in, curling his fingers around Robb’s cock. It was already leaking at the tip, and the sobbing breath Robb took as Jaime started to touch him in earnest was sweet to Jaime’s ears.

It didn’t take very long, just a few pulls and Jaime’s thumb moving back and forth over the slit of Robb’s cock before Robb was spilling over into his fist, his face buried in Jaime’s neck as he came apart. Jaime was left hanging onto his control by a thin thread, he could almost taste the echo of Robb’s lust, an accelerant to his own, and he was already reaching for the ties to his own breeches when Robb stirred, saying hoarsely, “Wait.”

And it was Robb’s fingers nimbly working his breeches open, and Robb flicked his gaze up at Jaime, pausing for just a moment before he took a breath, and slowly slid down to his knees.

It was plain as a pike that Robb didn’t know what he was doing, but that didn’t matter, not when his mouth was hot and wet and on his cock. Jaime barely stifled a yell when Robb’s tongue swirled around the head, his fist pressing against the bark of the tree as he tried not to grab too hard at Robb’s curls, tried not to choke him with the restless shifting of his hips.

Robb’s blue eyes flicked upwards again, his mouth obscenely stretched around Jaime’s cock, and then he swallowed, and Jaime gasped and came in Robb’s mouth, cursing all the while.

He felt dazed, afterwards, as if he’d received a blow to the head. “Where on earth did you learn to do that?” Jaime asked, washing his hands clean in the stream.

“In the brothel at Wintertown,” Robb said absently, and as Jaime turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, Robb clearly realized how it sounded and said quickly, “Not like that!”

“Oh?” Jaime asked, grinning as he sat back on his heels. “How did you mean it, then? Go on, tell me about your scandalous adventures in the brothel.”

Robb glared at him a little for that, but huffed and said, “It wasn’t like that, I don’t go visit whores, not like Theon does. It isn’t honorable.” He glanced at Jaime, and admitted, “And I don’t—I mislike the thought of fathering a bastard.”

Ah. Robb was watching him warily, waiting for the barb; Jaime smiled gently and prodded, “But this time?”

There was a flicker of relief on Robb’s face, before he theatrically groaned and said, “But once the Mark appeared, Theon insisted I should at least know what I was doing, so he dragged me down to the brothel, where I…” It was incredible, how red his face was now. “I got…lessons.”

“Lessons?” Jaime repeated, gleeful. “Were there diagrams? Texts you had to copy and memorize?”

“It was more of a practical demonstration,” Robb muttered. “Ros and Satin were very helpful.” He paused, then said, “Though really, most of the explanations were just plain common sense.”

“Such as?” Jaime prodded, wondering idly just how far that blush went down Robb’s chest.

“Go slow, use oil, pay attention.” Robb frowned a little, then added, “I hadn’t thought to bring the oil with me, I’ll remember it for the next time.”

Jaime’s eyebrows flew up again. “The next time?”

Robb looked at him and said, dryly, “Apparently I need to stay prepared, in case you decide to ravish me against a tree again. I wouldn’t want my husband to think me lacking.”

Jaime stared at him for one wild moment, then burst out laughing. Robb was chuckling too, so obviously pleased with himself and his joke that it made the whole thing even funnier, and Jaime laughed until his sides hurt. There were tears standing in his eyes by the time he finally composed himself, and when he opened his eyes, Robb was watching him still, smiling, his face full of…

Jaime’s stomach lurched, because that was hope in Robb Stark’s face, hope that he and Jaime were reaching an accord, an understanding, that this everlasting bond would in fact be a blessing from the gods. And of course he was hopeful, why wouldn’t he be, he was a sixteen year old boy who’d forever had the world at his feet, who’d never had a single thing go wrong in his entire gods-blessed life—of course he would think that being tied to Jaime was a good thing.

Jaime tore his gaze away, making a show of brushing off the dirt and grass as he got to his feet. “We should probably head back.”

When he finally looked at Robb again, the smile on his face had faded, but the light in his eyes hadn’t gone. “Of course,” Robb agreed, and they went to mount their horses for the ride back to Winterfell.

The bannermen were all arriving, and it was Robb’s duty to greet them alongside his mother and father, to be present and make a good showing as the Stark heir–and all Robb could think of was Jaime. Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.

He could feel the bond flickering to life between them, like the beginnings of a campfire slowly being fed with kindling, soft breath stirring the embers to life. Robb could sense Jaime now, at least some of the time, a presence in the back of his head that never quite left. Sometimes he could even feel flashes of what Jaime felt—unease, amusement, unhappiness.

He hoped that last emotion would fade, with time. His mother had counseled him on it, warned him that love and trust would take time to build, that he shouldn’t be discouraged if it came slower than he wanted.

As if Robb had conjured him up just by thinking of him, Jaime appeared in the courtyard—wearing Lannister colors, yes, but the fur cloak was over his shoulders. Lord Umber, the latest of their bannermen to arrive, visibly paused upon seeing him, but he took Jaime's outstretched hand without blinking, saying next, "Ser Jaime. I see you're as handsome as they say. Are you as good with a sword as they say, too?"

Jaime's mouth curved up, and he replied, "No. I'm much better."

Umber liked that, letting out his booming laugh. "Hah! We'll see, we shall see about that."

And to Robb's relief, it went on like that throughout the whole day and into the evening, Jaime in a far more mellow mood than he'd been his first few days here, greeting each of their guests with an easy charm that was impossible to resist, and it seemed that no one could resist. Robb watched it happen over and over again, the eyes moving over Jaime with disbelief—is that really him, how is he that handsome, I'd like to see what he can do with that sword. Jaime looked completely unconcerned with the scrutiny, not even seeming to notice the way that Alys Karstark or Ardal Manderly were ogling him, though Robb did, and glared at them both for it.

Tyrion was also circulating throughout the Great Hall, and Robb held his breath over that too, he didn't want to see his future goodbrother insulted in his home, and was relieved to see Jon keeping close to Lord Tyrion the whole time. But even that seemed unnecessary after a moment, as Tyrion very obviously had at least the same amount of charm as his brother did, if not more, he'd even succeeded in getting Lord Karstark to laugh at something he’d said.

Relieved, Robb turned back to where Jaime was greeting Dacey Mormont with a smile and a kiss to her hand—there was nothing in it, Robb knew that, and yet as Dacey gawked up at him, the color flooding her cheeks, Robb found himself stepping forward and pointedly hooking his arm through Jaime's.

Thank the gods, Dacey came to her senses quick enough, saying to Robb unabashedly, "Well, your soulmate's handsome enough to turn the head of a septa, congratulations."

"Thank you," Robb said, dryly, and Dacey grinned at him.

"Don't tell me you're jealous," Jaime murmured in his ear as they walked away, his breath warm against the shell of Robb's ear. Robb shivered a little, but said stoutly, "Don't be ridiculous. I mislike the way people keep staring, that's all." He eyed Jaime up and admitted, rueful, "Though Dacey's right; with your looks, you must be used to it."

Jaime just rolled his eyes, further proving Robb's point, except that he said, "As if half the crowd here aren't gawking at your good looks, rather than mine." Robb would have blushed at the compliment, except that Jaime said next, "Frankly, so long as I don't hear the title Kingslayer thrown around, I'll be fine."

"They wouldn't dare," Robb said, affronted at the thought of it. "Also I'm sure they've all heard the truth of it by now."

Jaime hummed, but didn't argue. But now that Robb was looking more closely, he thought he could see it, the tension Jaime was carrying at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes were constantly scanning the crowd, as if he was waiting for an attack or a threat to emerge.

"Should we sit down, get you something to eat?" Robb offered.

"Please," Jaime said. "And a drink as well—I'll even take that dirty water that you call ale."

Just for that, Robb flagged down a servant to bring them two tankards of ale, and Jaime grinned at him and downed half the tankard in one go, barely making a face afterwards. They were seated next to each other, so close that their thighs were brushing together, and the candlelight was doing remarkable things to Jaime’s hair, turning it to pure gold.

They were at a feast, in front of the entire North and Robb’s family, it wasn’t right for Robb to be staring at Jaime like this, his body going hot all over as he remembered what had happened in the woods, with Jaime’s thigh between his legs, Jaime’s hand on his cock, what it had felt like to go down on his knees for Jaime and—

His entire face red, Robb quickly buried his face in his own tankard, but even that didn’t do any good, because once he emerged, Jaime was watching him, eyebrow raised and his expression amused.

“What?” Robb said, defensive; Jaime smiled and didn’t answer.

They were seated next to each other at dinner too, and Robb prayed to all the gods that no one could see how he was flushing as he put meat on Jaime’s plate. Jaime was no help, of course, smiling knowingly at Robb and leaning in to whisper in his ear, “What an attentive husband I’ve found.”

Robb’s knife landed on his plate with a clatter, Jaime’s smile only growing larger as it did, and Robb hissed under his breath, “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Jaime’s smile deepened. “Do I need to?”

Robb glared at him, because the answer was obvious, and he turned to his tankard and downed the rest of it in one long gulp.

A few seats down, Tyrion was speaking to Dacey Mormont, saying, “Since Lady Sansa was kind enough to outfit me with a proper fur cloak, I do plan to see more of the North than I have so far, now that I’m assured I won’t freeze to death along the way.”

“Anything in particular you’d like to see?” Dacey asked.

“Well, I certainly do want to see the Wall, it sounds extraordinary. And of course, I’d like to visit the godswood before the wedding ceremony, I've never seen a proper weirwood tree before," Tyrion said lightly.

Lord Roose Bolton's head went up at that, as he asked, "So there will be a ceremony in the godswood, then?"

The table quieted, people around them waiting for the answer, and Tyrion blinked innocently. "Of course. We are in the North, after all, where else are weddings performed?”

Roose Bolton's eyes were glittering a little, and Robb was sure he heard malice in the man’s soft voice as he prodded, "And the ceremony in the sept? Will that be taking place before or after?"

"What ceremony in the sept?" Tyrion asked coolly. "The only wedding rites I know of happening will be the ones in the godswood, before the old gods of the North."

That was not the plan, and the frozen look on Mother's face made that perfectly clear, but Tyrion was still meeting Lord Bolton's gaze calmly, and next to Robb, Jaime leaned in and whispered, "I don't know what Tyrion is up to, but believe me, we should let him get on with it."

Robb nodded a little, and within just a few moments he saw that Jaime had the right of it; there was a release of tension around the table at Tyrion’s words, as though people had heard something they weren't expecting to hear but that they approved of utterly. Robb even saw Greatjon Umber nodding along, saying something to his son and looking pleased.

His mother’s lips were pressed tightly together, and his father’s expression was very carefully blank, but Jaime pressed his thigh against Robb’s under the table, reassuring, and Robb leaned in against him, willing his body to relax.

Eventually the feasting came to an end, and Robb was so weary by this point that his head felt like it was swimming, but he wouldn’t ignore the summons to his mother’s solar, particularly when the invitation wasn’t just for him.

“What happened to your plan of charming Catelyn Stark?” Jaime asked his brother as they made their way up the stairs, and Tyrion huffed.

“This is just a very small bump in the road,” he insisted.

But his mother was pacing when they entered, lines deepening in her forehead as she saw them all. “Thank you for joining me, I will try to keep this brief,” Catelyn said, folding her hands in front of her. “Lord Tyrion, I…appreciate your tact when dealing with Lord Bolton, but I don’t wish to see your brother forced into forsaking the Seven. Lord Stark built a sept for me when we wed, there’s no reason the old gods and the new can’t coexist here in Winterfell.”

Jaime looked at Robb, who looked helplessly back—his mother’s faith has always been something Robb respected without fully understanding; he attended his mother’s sept and his father’s godswood, and he never worried about the conflict between either. It wasn’t until tonight that Robb realized that might have been a mistake.

Meantime, Tyrion was looking at his mother with a faint frown. “I assure you it’s not a problem,” he said slowly. “Jaime’s never been very devout, and even if he were, the political situation here requires that Robb and Jaime make vows in the godswood, and nowhere else.”

“What political situation?” Robb’s mother asked, eyebrow raised, and Tyrion paused again, looking at her strangely, before turning to his brother.

“Don’t look at me,” Jaime said, shrugging. “You started all this in the first place.”

Tyrion gave his brother an exasperated look, before turning to his mother with an apologetic expression on his face. “Lady Stark, it was not my intention to alarm—”

Impatient, Robb’s mother interrupted him. “Lord Tyrion. You are a charming man, but charm is not what I want from you right now. I want honesty. What political situation?”

Tyrion didn’t speak at first, then he lifted his chin. “All right. Forgive me for saying it, but Lady Stark, it’s clear that you think the greatest threat to your son’s rule here is Jon Snow. It’s not.”

Robb stiffened, and he saw his mother do the same. “You sound very confident about that, Lord Tyrion,” Catelyn said, and Robb winced at the frost in her tone.

“Tyrion,” Jaime said, warning, and Tyrion turned his head to look at his brother, saying in an aggrieved tone, “I had meant to wait before bringing it up, allow me some tact.” He sighed and turned back to face Catelyn. “I am as confident about this as anyone can be in this changeable world,” Tyrion said. “A week’s time is enough to see Snow’s affection for his siblings, Robb included, and moreover, the boy simply doesn’t have the needed personality for a conspiracy or coup to rise up around him. Can you imagine him managing to keep a secret of that magnitude even for a day?”

“No,” Robb said immediately, putting as much force behind it as possible. “And he wouldn’t even if he could.”

“People do change,” Catelyn said coolly, and Robb turned to his mother, betrayal like ice in his stomach. He opened his mouth to say the gods only knew what, but Jaime put a hand on his arm, the faint pressure a warning.

“They do,” Tyrion said. “But rarely, and never all at once. If Jon Snow were to turn on your son, it would be years in the making, and very far in the future, if it happens at all. But what is here, now, is the North’s resentment of your religion, and therefore their resentment of you and the children you raised in the light of the Seven.”

His mother’s lips were pressed so tightly together that they were a thin line in her white face. “Resentment,” she repeated, very softly.

Robb’s stomach was churning, remembering Roose Bolton’s glittering, malicious gaze, and the silence around his father’s table. “My mother has never tried to convert or force anyone into worshiping her gods.”

“No, of course not,” Tyrion said quickly. “And I haven’t heard anyone claim otherwise. It’s just…” He paused once more, before sighing heavily and saying, “You don’t know, do you, that the servants here refer to the sept as Lady Stark’s sept. Some of your bannermen too. Not the sept, or even the Winterfell sept, but Lady Stark’s sept.”

Robb had noticed the way that Tyrion had been everywhere in Winterfell these last few days, talking to everyone from the serving maids to Ser Rodrick to their blacksmith, and hadn’t thought anything about it—Tyrion Lannister was so obviously the sort of man who enjoyed hearing his own voice that he’d never thought to think twice about seeing him talk to everyone. He hasn’t thought it was for this, to gather information on his family and his home, and reveal things about them both that even Robb hadn’t seen.

“She’s a southern lady,” Jaime said into the silence, mildly. “They can’t be surprised she worships the Seven.”

“They’re not surprised, but they don’t like it,” Tyrion said, finally pushed past all tact and soft diplomatic words. “And they really don’t like that she’s raised her children to follow her gods as well as the old ones. And now the heir to Winterfell’s marrying another southerner, and not just some soft southern lady, but the Lannister heir—it could cause problems. Not now while Ned Stark lives, but in the future.” He turned back to Catelyn and said, with real sympathy, “My lady, forgive me—you can worship how you please. Your son’s husband cannot. Their children cannot.”

His mother was pale and stiff with mortification, and beyond that, alarm. “And you think one ceremony in the godswood will solve this?”

“No,” Tyrion said. “But it’ll be a start. Particularly because your bannermen will all be hopeful that some of their children will marry your younger children, and then once Robb and Jaime adopt their heir, that it will be their grandson ruling in Winterfell. They’ll be dormant and content, so long as that’s a possibility.”

A muscle jumped in his mother’s jaw, and she said, still all frost, “So now you mean to direct all my children’s future marriages, Lord Tyrion?”

“I don’t mean to direct,” Tyrion said, remarkably humble, given how he’d just finished lecturing Robb and his mother on the politics of the North, and told his mother all the ways she’d misread her position in Winterfell. “Only to warn, and to advise.”

“He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” Robb said, later, once Tyrion and Jaime had departed.

“I asked him for honesty,” his mother said, looking very tired. “I cannot blame the man for giving it to me.” She looked down at her hands and added, very low, “Particularly when it involves the danger I’ve apparently put my son in.”

“Mother,” Robb began, but with no way to continue. Catelyn smiled a little, bitterly, and shook her head. “It’s all right, Robb. It’ll be all right.”

She was his mother, so Robb believed her, even though he still worried that she’d be proven wrong.

*

“Be honest with me,” Robb said to Theon and Jon the next morning at breakfast, when they were among the first to rise. “Have you heard the sept here referred to as my mother’s Sept?”

Theon and Jon were rarely in accord, even when Robb wished they would be, but it gave him no pleasure to see them looking at each other with identical grimaces. “Fuck,” Robb muttered. “And you didn’t think to say anything?”

“What could we say?” Theon asked. “Your father built that sept for her, were we supposed to question his judgment because of servants’ gossip? Bring your mother’s wrath down on our heads?”

She wouldn’t have been wrathful, was what Robb wanted to say, but he knew it wasn’t true. Tyrion Lannister might have been able to speak hard truths to his mother, but Jon, his father’s bastard, and Theon, a Greyjoy hostage, wouldn’t have been given the same latitude.

“Is she very upset about it?” Jon asked, and Robb paused before answering. There was no resentment in Jon’s voice, no hint at all that he was enjoying Lady Stark’s discomfort, and Robb remembered his mother’s cold words from the night before and felt that unhappy twist in his stomach again.

He’s so good, Robb thought. At least Tyrion Lannister can see that, even if my mother can’t.

“She’s not pleased,” Robb said at last. “But…I think she sees the wisdom in it.” He hoped so, at least.

“At least it means one less delay before you’ve got your new husband in your bed,” Theon said slyly, and Robb tried not to blush, he did, but his face was growing hot, and it only got hotter as Jon and Theon stared at him.

Theon started to grin. “I’d wondered what you and Lannister could’ve been up to in the woods all that time. Couldn’t resist getting a taste before you made your vows?”

Robb thumped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be crude,” he muttered, face flaming.

“That’s not a denial,” Jon murmured, sly, and Robb stared at his brother in betrayal.

“What, you too?”

Jon grinned. “You’ve already been Marked, that’s as good as a wedding. And it’s not as if either of you can sire bastards with each other. So? Did you?”

Robb was so red by this point he could have burst into flames, but he nodded, and Theon whooped. “Not—just hands. And mouths.”

Theon looked so smug, as he said, “So the trip to the brothel did do you good,” he said, chuckling. “You’re welcome, Stark.”

“I don’t recall thanking you,” Robb retorted.

“Ah, I’ll get my thanks during the bedding ceremony,” Theon said with a wink. “I won’t lie, I’m looking forward to seeing Jaime Lannister in his smallclothes—”

“There’s not going to be a bedding,” Robb said immediately, a hot wave of anger coming over him at the thought of it.

Theon blinked, then smirked. “Not willing to have anyone else see your husband naked, is that it?” he teased, and Robb could feel himself flushing, but it was true. He’d seen the way that everyone looked at Jaime, from the serving maids to some of the knights to even Septa Mordane, who he’d occasionally seen blinking at Jaime in sheer disbelief that the gods could make a man so fair. And that was fine, Robb understood it, but to have strangers touching—

“No one is touching him on our wedding night except for me,” Robb said, his voice flat. Theon’s eyebrows rose, and he shared a look with Jon that Robb refused to read anything into.

“Lot of disappointed wedding guests,” Jon said, mild, and Robb scoffed.

“Aye, and they’ll just have to live with their disappointment,” he said, and thankfully there was no more talk of any bedding ceremonies after that.

There was still one major ceremony to go through, and Robb met with Jaime in the godswood to discuss it.

Jaime was already waiting for him there, looking closely at the weirwood tree, at the oozing red sap dripping from its mouth and eyes. "Who carved the faces into these trees?"

"The Children of the Forest, if you're a believer," Robb said easily. In his fur cloak, Jaime could've been any believer coming to worship before the old gods. It was a bright day, and sunlight streamed through the branches and red leaves of the weirwood tree to catch in Jaime's hair, outlining the planes of his face in gold.

"So tell me how weddings work, for believers of the old gods," Jaime said.

Robb cleared his throat. "Well, we'll be standing before the tree, obviously."

"Oh, obviously," Jaime said with a smirk.

"It's fairly simple," Robb said, before walking through it all, how his father would be performing the rite, how it would be Tyrion giving Jaime away ("He's going to love that," Jaime interjected) and the words they would say to each other, to seal their marriage.

"Well now, that is straightforward," Jaime said, sounding pleased. "If you knew how long a wedding can take in a sept, you'd be grateful to Tyrion for getting us out of the whole thing." He paused, then added more delicately, "I hope Tyrion didn't upset your mother too much last night. Sometimes he's so focused on being clever that he forgets to be polite."

"No, it's all right," Robb said immediately, then considered. "Well. My mother might take a little more time to admit it, but she meant what she said, about preferring honesty to charm." He shook his head, remembering Jon and Theon's lack of surprise at breakfast this morning, and added, "Only a few days, and your brother has discovered things about my family and my home that I didn't even know."

"Oh, don't worry," Jaime said, moving to sit down on one of the weirwood tree’s oversized roots, before pausing. "I am allowed to sit on this, yes? It's not considered sacrilegious?"

"It's your Seven that always fuss over sacrilege," Robb said, amused. "Sit where you like."

Jaime did, then said, "Don't worry over it. By now Tyrion has a half-dozen schemes at the ready to solve any lingering resentment in the north about southern invaders marrying into House Stark."

Robb wanted to laugh, but checked himself. Eyebrow raised, he asked, skeptical, "Hundreds of years of history, and you think it can be solved in the blink of an eye?"

"Well," Jaime drawled, "You haven't had a Lannister to solve the problem for you before."

Robb barked out a laugh at this, and Jaime grinned back at him. "I hate to put your brother at work solving tangled political realities, but if he's volunteering..."

"Oh please, this is the sort of thing Tyrion lives for," Jaime said, smiling fondly. "Truthfully, I think he’s enjoying the chance to be my protector, for once. Usually it’s the reverse.”

Surprised and curious, Robb asked, “What did you need to protect him from?”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, then he said, “My father and sister, mostly.” He gave Robb a slantwise glance and asked, “Or has the North somehow been unaware of Tywin Lannister’s loathing for his younger son?”

Robb chose his words with care. “It wasn’t hard to guess, but I’d hoped…I hoped the tales were exaggerated.”

“If anything the truth is probably far worse,” Jaime said. “Not every highborn family is like yours. And my family in particular is…unhappier than most.”

He didn't say it with sadness, more like he was sharing a simple fact. That made the picture he painted even bleaker, and it cast a different light over the last few days—Tyrion defending his brother at every turn, moving through Winterfell as though he would drink up all its secrets in one great gulp if he could, why he’d confronted Robb’s mother over the politics involved in this wedding.

“Would you like your brother to stay in the North?” Robb asked. “After we wed?”

Jaime didn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes searching Robb’s face. At last he said, slowly, “I would.”

“Then he shall,” Robb said. “I’ll have to speak to Father, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Another long pause, and in that pause Robb felt a flash of emotions that weren’t his, wary disbelief and fragile hope mixed together, and then it was gone, leaving Robb to ache in its aftermath.

You can trust me, Robb wanted to say. But that wouldn’t do any good, he already knew. Whatever life Jaime had lived since the death of Aerys Targaryen, it had left him jaded and distrustful. If Robb was going to gain Jaime’s trust, he’d have to earn it, and it would take time.

So instead of pushing, Robb just smiled and asked, “So? How do you find our godswood?”

“Magnificent,” Jaime agreed, and he sounded relieved too. “Though I had wondered if you had an ulterior motive in asking me here, given yesterday‘s exploits—“

All the blood in Robb’s body immediately flooded his face, at least the blood that wasn’t traveling south. “I wasn’t, I hadn’t,” he stuttered, reduced to babbling in the face of Jaime Lannister’s slow, teasing smile.

“Oh?” Jaime prodded, getting to his feet with more grace than should have been possible. “So you weren’t looking for me to ravish you against a tree once more?”

“Not these trees,” Robb said weakly, a little scandalized, and Jaime laughed at him, but softly. He kept coming forward, and Robb stood his ground, dazed, wondering if Jaime really would, and if so, if he’d possibly be able to resist—

But the kiss that Jaime gave him was brief, a light brushing of his lips against Robb’s and then he was gone, stepping back. “Shame. We’ll just have to wait until the wedding, then.”

As he sauntered off, Robb stared at his retreating back and he decided at some point, he was absolutely going to get his own back—even if the gods only knew how he’d manage it.

After all that, the actual wedding passed by in a blur. Jaime moved through it all in a daze, moving where he was told to move, standing where he was told to stand, saying what he was told to say.

The only thing that felt real was Robb’s warm, solid hands in his, Robb’s solemn young face as Jaime stared right into his eyes, dark in the torchlight, and said hoarsely, “I take this man.”

Robb’s hands tightened compulsively around his, and like that, it was done—Jaime was his, he belonged to Robb Stark and to Winterfell and to the North, all of his other oaths crumbling to dust before this one.

If Robb could see how unsteady Jaime was, he gave no sign of it, other than his firm grip as they accepted the cheers and congratulations of the small crowd around them–most of their guests were waiting back in the Great Hall of Winterfell, it was only their families and a select few bannermen at the actual ceremony.

Jaime realized, after a moment, that the congratulations were sincere—Lord Umber clapped him on the shoulder so heavily he thought it might have been a blow from a hammer, but Umber’s grin was broad and real, and Jaime accepted his congratulations in bemusement, and went on to the next man, Lord Manderly, who shook his hand heartily and said he looked forward to seeing Jaime spar in the yard. Even Ned Stark was smiling, the lanterns illuminating his face as he embraced Robb, smiling over his son’s shoulder at his wife, happy at this occasion—at watching his son marry Jaime.

In one week, Jaime’s reputation had been restored to him. It was a gift Jaime had never thought to ask for, something he thought the gods could never fulfill, and he could’ve howled with disbelief over it, that it was Robb Stark, a sixteen year old untested boy, who had handed him back his honor and the world’s respect.

And it would be the world, and not just the North; Tyrion had made it clear the tale was spreading out through the kingdoms, ravens flying out from Winterfell along with the whispers within its halls, and somehow the entire thing had become Tywin’s fault, with the Starks and their bannermen all deciding that Tywin had kept the true facts of King Aerys’ death hidden on purpose, set Jaime’s reputation and honor on fire for his own dark ambition.

Jaime could see Tyrion’s hand in that, but when he’d tasked his brother with it, Tyrion had just shrugged, unrepentant. “It’s basically true,” he’d said. “Father could have had the story from you years ago. Ned Stark didn’t ask, it’s true, but neither did he, and he let you carry the name Kingslayer all these years.”

Robb murmured in his ear as they walked back to Winterfell, leading the procession, “Are you all right?”

Jaime shook his head, coming back to himself. “I’m fine,” he said, and was determined to make it be true.

Because what reason did he have to not be fine?

It was easier once they were back in the Great Hall, even with the cheering and the music and all those smiling faces—it was just another feast, and Jaime was a Lannister, he knew how to behave at a feast, when everyone’s eyes were on him.

But Robb was more anxious, his hand curling in the small of Jaime’s back as they moved to their seats, at the center of the great table. He was picking up on Jaime’s distress, Jaime realized, and so he leaned in quickly and murmured, “I’m all right, I promise you.”

Robb looked at him for a moment, blue eyes searching his face, and then he nodded, accepting it—accepting Jaime’s word. “All right.” He turned to the room with a smile, the handsome young heir celebrating his new marriage.

And sitting next to him, Jaime smiled as well, and the incredible thing was how easily the smile fit on his face.

He could even find relief in it, that it was done and settled. And there was…there was something sweet in seeing how gleeful Robb’s siblings were, at how easy it was to make them smile. Sansa blushed even more easily than Robb, particularly when Jaime bowed to her and asked her to dance, and the color was still high on her cheeks as Jaime led her through the steps. Arya wouldn’t dance, as Robb had warned him, but she would corral him in a corner with her brother Bran, the two of them pressing him for details of his last tourney triumph, if Loras Tyrell really did have a cloak made of living flowers to wear in the joust—

“He does,” Jaime had told them, “And it’s even more ridiculous in person.”

Robb had finally dragged him away, saying to his siblings, “I’m taking him back, you can pester him later,” ignoring Arya’s protests as he’d led Jaime through the crowd, his arm wrapped around Jaime’s waist.

“I don’t mind telling your sister about what a prat Loras Tyrell is,” Jaime said, amused.

“Hm? Oh no, that’s not it, Alys Karstark has been eyeing you for ages and I think she’s getting up the nerve to ask you to dance,” Robb said, casting a dark eye at the Karstark girl, and Jaime had to laugh.

“If you’re this jealous now, I have no idea how you’ll handle the bedding ceremony in a few hours,” he teased, and Robb paused, looking surprised.

“We’re not having a bedding ceremony,” he told Jaime, and as Jaime’s eyebrows went up, the color rose in Robb’s cheeks as he said defensively, “I’m not having strangers put their hands on you during our wedding night.”

Jaime stared back at him, his mouth going dry. It ought to have been funny, a young man’s meaningless posturing, and yet, something in Robb’s matter-of-fact assertion, that he’d claimed Jaime as his and would treat him as such, before the whole world—

Robb was looking back at him, startled, his eyes wide and very blue, and Jaime gritted out, his voice hoarse, “How much longer do we need to stay here?”

“I—” Robb cleared his throat, and said faintly, “An hour? Maybe?”

“Fine,” Jaime said, and before he stepped back, let his hand trail along Robb’s hip, drinking in Robb’s sharp inhalation of breath, the spike of lust Jaime felt in his head that was a mirror to his own.

The last hour was an excruciating wait, Jaime gritting it out through sheer stubbornness, fixating on whatever random detail he could, such as Catelyn Stark gliding her way through the hall, speaking to Northern lord after Northern lord—she was caught in conversation with one of them now, Lord Glover, if Jaime remembered correctly, a thoughtful look on her face. With any luck, she’d taken Tyrion’s advice under consideration.

Tyrion was in the thick of it, of course, holding court at one table. He’d settled in well, these past few days, better than Jaime could have ever imagined. It was too early to hope for, well, for anything, but Tyrion hadn’t been drowning himself in wine as was his usual habit, and if he’d visited the local brothel, Jaime hadn’t heard of it.

The North could be good for him, Jaime couldn’t help but think, and that just led him to think of Robb’s offer, so easily given, without any conditions, because he knew it would make Jaime happy, and Robb wanted his husband to be happy.

Seven hells, Jaime knew nothing about being a husband. Bedding the boy was one thing, Jaime could do that much, but marriage? A partnership? What on earth did Jaime know of that?

He started at the feeling of a hand curling around his knee; Jaime turned to find Robb watching him, a line of worry appearing between his eyebrows.

Jaime let out a breath and admitted, “It’s annoying that you’re already reading me so well.”

“That’s what the bond is for,” Robb pointed out, but the worry was already starting to ease in his face.

“Yes, but why can’t I read you like that?” Jaime demanded, and Robb’s lips quirked up in a smile.

“Well, I’m not nearly as emotional, so perhaps—”

“Emotional?” Jaime hissed, only slightly playing up the outrage, and Robb was outright smiling now as he said, “You must admit, you’re definitely the more dramatic of the two of us—”

“Says the boy who greeted me by promptly announcing he’d had a vision from the gods,” Jaime retorted, but he was smiling as well; it was easy to smile like this, when Robb was inviting him to be part of the joke, when he was reaching out with an open hand.

“That was just being practical,” Robb said, defending himself, but then he glanced over Jaime’s shoulder and sighed with relief. “Father’s given me the signal, we can slip out now to avoid the bedding,” he said, and Jaime turned to see Ned Stark watching them, Ned giving a careful nod when he met Jaime’s gaze.

The musicians started playing a rowdy Northern song, and Lord Umber gave a shout as the floor filled with dancers, and in the general chaos, it was easy for Jaime and Robb to slip away.

They didn’t speak as they moved through the corridors of Winterfell, already becoming more familiar to Jaime over the past week; Robb was gripping his hand tightly, as though he feared Jaime would slip off into the darkness if he didn’t hold on.

They went to Robb’s quarters, the quarters that Jaime would share with him going forward, and as Robb closed the door behind him, Jaime saw that the servants had already been hard at work, moving his things to this room—that was his sword next to Robb’s, his trunk in the corner of the room.

“Do you want some wine?” Robb asked behind him, his voice nervous and hoarse. Jaime turned to look at him, and Robb nodded at the table. “They left some wine for us, if you wanted—”

“I think we’ve put this off for long enough,” Jaime said, his voice remarkably even, considering that he was practically vibrating from tension and lust, his body strung tight like a bow. “Don’t you?”

Robb blinked at him for a moment, the light from the fire bringing out the fiery tint to his curls, and then he was striding forward and pulling Jaime into a kiss, his mouth hot and tasting of spiced wine. Jaime responded immediately, pulling Robb in closer with an arm around Robb’s trim waist, his free hand stealing up to grip Robb’s soft hair, and he could have groaned with relief; at least this wouldn’t be a problem, whatever else was in Jaime’s future, bedding Robb Stark would never be a chore.

Even if he hadn’t already known that Robb came to this union a virgin, it would have been obvious, Robb’s hands were clumsy as he pulled at Jaime’s doublet, the ties to his trousers, hands moving over Jaime’s body as though he couldn’t decide where to begin.

To do him justice, Jaime was only marginally better, he’d managed to yank Robb’s doublet loose and had gotten a hand underneath it and Robb’s linen undershirt, and had promptly become distracted by the miles of smooth skin beneath his hands, at the high, desperate noise Robb made as Jaime’s hand moved along his flat stomach to trace the line of hair underneath his navel. “Wait, wait,” Robb pleaded, gasping as Jaime bit at his throat, “We at least have to get our clothes off—”

“I promise you, this can be done with our clothes on,” Jaime muttered, but he saw the sense in it, and they parted long enough to strip out of their clothes, Jaime going hot as he saw Robb’s wide-eyed, admiring gaze as he finally got free of his doublet and undershirt—thank the gods, he’d kept himself in good trim these past few years—and then Robb took off his undershirt and Jaime’s mouth went dry at the sight of his bare chest, all pale skin and a dusting of dark chest hair.

Robb flushed at his attention, the pink blush spreading down his chest, and he said in a tight voice, clearly almost at his breaking point, “Get your clothes off, otherwise we’ll never get anywhere tonight.”

“As my husband commands,” Jaime said, and the smile on his face made up for how breathless he sounded.

Once they’re both naked, Robb pushes the pile of furs on the bed to one side, moving to get onto the bed before he freezes, turning to Jaime with wide eyes. “How, I mean, which of us—”

“You can take me this time,” Jaime said, trying to sound relaxed about it. “I wouldn’t want your lessons to go to waste.”

They hadn’t, that much became obvious quickly. Robb was more patient than Jaime would have been, at his age; his hands were gentle as they moved along Jaime’s back, between his legs, as Jaime turned his face into the pillow and tried to force the tension out of his body.

The first slick finger did little for him, at least not right away, it wasn’t until Robb crooked his finger that Jaime started to swear, and pant, and found himself pushing back into Robb’s hand, his legs unconsciously spreading wider for the second finger, groaning as Robb finally gave it to him.

“Gods, what did they teach you in that brothel?” he found himself demanding, turning his head to look at Robb over his shoulder.

Robb looked absolutely wrecked, his mouth red from where he’d been biting at it, color high on his cheeks. “Ros showed me what to do on Satin,” he said, and Jaime found himself grinding his teeth at the thought of Robb putting his hands on a whore, and then Robb was saying, “She made him shriek with pleasure, by the end of it.” His blue eyes were hazy with lust as he said, “I watched what she did to him and I thought about doing that to you, and I—”

Jaime cursed, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees as he ordered, “Then get on with it, Stark.”

He wasn’t looking, but he could hear the smile in Robb’s voice as he said, “As my husband commands.”

Jaime would’ve said something clever, except that Robb was lining himself up and then slowly pushing his cock into him, gasping, his hands tightening on Jaime’s hips, and Jaime shuddered, his head hanging low as he breathed through the burn and stretch of it.

It did hurt, at first, and he was grateful for Robb holding himself still, for his obvious care—but then Robb kept holding himself still, and as the hurt faded and the heat rose up, Jaime found himself wanting more.

“Whatever lessons this Ros woman gave you, clearly they were incomplete,” he said, hoarsely. “At some point you’re supposed to move—”

“You really don’t ever stop talking,” Robb said, incredulous, but he was moving, finally, a sharp thrust, and then another, lightning bolts moving through Jaime’s bones as he did, and he was groaning and trying to match Robb’s rhythm, his hips shamelessly moving back, and then Robb stopped, holding himself still once more, his breathing loud and harsh in the room.

“Robb—”

“Give me a minute,” Robb pleaded, leaning forward so that he was curled over Jaime’s back, the weight of him a hot brand on Jaime’s skin, his breathing coming in warm puffs along the nape of Jaime’s neck. “I just, I need a minute to—”

There was a flush of pride at that, that Robb was already so desperate that he was nearly on the verge of losing it completely, spilling early, except that Jaime was also desperate, he was also on the verge of losing it completely, so he snapped back,“You’re sixteen, a warm breeze could get you hard, we’ll just go again—“

“Gods above, stop talking,” Robb said in desperation, and before Jaime could make another retort, Robb reached around to take Jaime’s cock in his hand, and Jaime abruptly lost the breath to make a single word.

It was a short fall after that, Jaime coming apart between Robb’s cock and Robb’s hand, utterly humiliating noises spilling free from his mouth as he gave it up like the whores who had taught Robb how to do this, and the embarrassment would’ve killed him if it hadn’t been for Robb’s voice cracking in his ear, Robb’s soft mouth pressed against his shoulder as he came, spilling slick and hot inside of Jaime.

Jaime was of absolutely no use in the aftermath, his face still turned into the pillow as Robb heaved himself out of the bed and to the nearby basin of water; the most he could do was mutter, “I can manage that,” as Robb returned to gently wipe up the mess between Jaime’s legs.

“I want to,” Robb said, gently guiding Jaime onto his back so that he could clean Jaime’s cock. Jaime lay back against the pillow and watched him, this boy who was still mostly a stranger to him, for all the intimacies they’d already shared, for all that Jaime belonged to him now.

Stop sulking and be grateful, Tyrion had lectured him, and the awful thing was that Jaime could see the day coming where he would be grateful, grateful that he’d been greeted with Robb Stark’s guileless blue eyes and honest faith, grateful that he’d been given the chance to turn away from his bed of incestuous lies and dishonor.

Robb was looking at him now, his gaze faintly quizzical, and Jaime put a smile on his face. “Looks like your lessons weren’t left incomplete after all,” he drawled, and Robb rolled his eyes.

“You’re never going to let me forget about that, are you,” he said, dropping the cloth to the floor and stretching out next to Jaime.

“Oh, I probably will,” Jaime said. “In about five to ten years.”

Robb laughed and groaned in the same breath, rubbing at his eyes as he said, “Is there any way I can distract you?”

You already are too much of a distraction, Jaime could have said, but instead he answered, “Oh, I think you’ll find a way.” He moved to roll on top of Robb, his husband, sliding their mouths together, rocking against him, already knowing that the lust and desire would make the rest of the night easy, and he was proven right.

That would be the trick to surviving this, Jaime decided. He had to take it moment by moment, one step in front of the other—if he thought of this as the rest of his life, if he thought about how he would be separated from Cersei for the rest of his life, he would go mad from the weight of it all. But moment to moment, he could survive that.

He was a Lannister. He knew how to survive anything. Even his own marriage.

Chapter 2

Summary

Content notes: discussion of off-screen spousal abuse, references to murder and rape

Notes

Posting this a little bit early, but I had the edits finished and I'm eager to get this chapter out there.

"You want to restore Moat Cailin?" Robb repeated in astonishment.

Jaime just grinned at him as he laced up his trousers. "As Tyrion has pointed out, I will need something to do here besides constantly bedding my husband."

It had been over a month since their wedding, they’d been fucking multiple times each day and they'd already started this morning with an enthusiastic romp between the sheets, and still Robb blushed. "I wouldn't mind," he said, but added, "But you truly think it can be done?"

"I think it has to be done," Jaime corrected, reaching for his jerkin. Robb had already dressed, and he got up from the edge of the bed to help Jaime with the buckles. Jaime paused momentarily, as he always did when Robb did this, as if he was still startled by it.

Jaime recovered after only a moment, however, saying, "The North will always be open to attack as long as Moat Cailin stays an abandoned wreck. We passed by it during our travels north, and just the sight of it made me itch. I won't be living in a kingdom so vulnerable."

"But the expense!" Robb protested. "Every Stark that’s ruled the North has known that Moat Cailin should be restored, but finding the coin to do it is another matter entirely."

Jaime smirked as though Robb had said something amusing. "Darling, you're married to a Lannister now. We don't care about expense."

"Well, you're married to a Stark," Robb replied, "And we do care about expense, especially because winter—"

"Winter is coming, I know," Jaime said, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry, I have no intentions of emptying Winterfell's accounts for my pet project."

Robb knew that he was speaking the truth, but still warned, "Just—be careful how you approach my father about it." Jaime's relationship with Robb's father had certainly improved since Jaime’s arrival in the North, but Robb wouldn't call it good either.

"I'll be as grave as the High Septon during a sermon," Jaime promised, and Robb groaned and silently prepared to act as the intermediary between his husband and his father, yet again.

But he'd done Jaime an injustice. when Jaime talked about the plans at dinner, he approached it with as much seriousness as Robb had seen him approach anything, emphasizing the need for protection against future attacks, that it would be best to handle the repairs now, with the Seven Kingdoms at peace and plenty of Starks available to rule at Moat Cailin. "We can give it to Bran for a holdfast when he's older," Jaime said, and Robb smiled at the awestruck look on Bran's face.

Robb's father was frowning as Jaime spoke, but thoughtfully. "I see the need for it, Ser Jaime, but I cannot gamble Winterfell's future by taking out a loan from the Iron Bank." A glint in his father’s eye appeared, and he added, "Nor would I be willing to apply to your father for the funds."

"Given how often he's called upon to bail out his other goodson, I'm sure my father will appreciate your restraint," Jaime japed, and Robb watched as his parents' expressions flickered at the not-so-veiled jab at King Robert. "But no, the funds I mean to use for this are my own."

"Yours?" Robb's mother asked.

"Does the Kingsguard really pay that well?" Theon asked, and then let out an 'oof', likely from Jon kicking him under the table.

"I have an inheritance from my mother," Jaime said, rolling his eyes at Theon. "While the salary for the Kingsguard isn't quite as high as young Greyjoy thinks, it was more than sufficient for my needs. I never had to touch the capital, and between the interest and Tyrion's wise investments made on my behalf, it's grown into a tidy sum." He turned to raise a goblet towards Tyrion, adding, "Thank you for that by the way, little brother."

Tyrion smirked and lifted his own goblet back. "You're welcome. And my thanks to you as well, brother, for never developing any expensive habits in King’s Landing such as gambling or...other pursuits," he ended lamely, seeming to only then realize he was at the table with several small children.

"Do you mean whores?" Arya asked, and both their mother and Sansa immediately hissed in perfect unison, "Arya!"

"What?" Arya said in injured tones. "That's what the servants say King Robert spends his money on. And Theon's always spending his allowance on—"

"I can see we'll have to keep you busy with your lessons, rather than on spurious gossip," Catelyn said, glaring at Arya, who only barely looked abashed at her mother's disapproval. "Starting with a reminder of what is and is not appropriate to discuss in public."

"In Arya's defense, she's not wrong," Jaime murmured into his goblet, and gave Robb an innocent look as Robb nudged him warningly with his knee.

Ned's forehead had creased at the mention of the king, but he got the discussion back on track, speaking over Catelyn's lecturing of Arya to say, "Do you have a plan for where to begin?"

"Tyrion's made some sketches, along with some preliminary estimates," Jaime said. "With your permission, Lord Stark, I'd like to travel with Tyrion and Robb down to the Neck, do a more in-depth survey there. We can write to Casterly Rock, have them send the master builders who helped repair the sewer system at the Rock."

His father took a moment, then nodded. “It's a good plan. We'll discuss it further in my solar tonight, after dinner."

The solar ended up being quite the crowded room after dinner, as everyone (minus Robb's mother, who was putting Rickon to bed) quickly piled in to hear more of the plans. At his father's desk, Ned and Tyrion were thrashing out the plans between them, Tyrion saying, "Restoring all twenty towers would be far too much at this stage, you're right there, but the three main towers that are partially upright still, those could be restored and then we could start on building a canal..."

Meanwhile Jaime was indulging Arya and Bran's questions, as he pointed to the map of Westeros on his father's table and explained why Moat Cailin was so important, even if it was an ancient ruin in a swamp. "Whoever holds Moat Cailin holds the key to the North, you see?"

"But the kingdoms are at peace, aren't we?" Bran wondered.

"We might not always be," Jaime said. "And it's important to prepare for all eventualities, not just the ones you want to happen."

Robb’s attention was caught elsewhere, as he heard his father saying, “Still, the cost—“

“Jaime wasn’t japing about the tidy sum he has tucked away,” Tyrion said, sounding amused. He scribbled something down on a piece of parchment, saying, “I’d have to send a raven to be sure of the exact amount, but that is a fairly accurate assessment of the money Jaime can put to hand at the moment.”

Ned’s jaw didn’t quite drop, but his expression became especially blank as he saw the total. Curious, Robb moved to stand behind his father, leaning in to read it as well, and his jaw did drop, as he stared from Tyrion to Jaime, wide-eyed.

“Fuck me, the Lannisters really do shit gold,” Theon said, peering over Ned’s other shoulder. Robb’s father looked back at him, unimpressed, and Theon blushed. “Sorry, Lord Stark.”

Ned looked down at the parchment again, and said to Jaime, “Ser Jaime, you’re certain you want to do this? It’s your inheritance, it’s not covered by the marriage contract your father negotiated. You are under no obligation here.”

Robb could see the exact moment that Jaime thought of making some smart remark, but he thankfully restrained himself, saying only, “I’m aware of that, Lord Stark. I won’t regret my decision.”

His father looked at Jaime for a moment, then nodded his head.

Later, as everyone was moving to retire, his father asked Robb to stay back for a moment. Robb shared a glance with Jaime, but obediently stayed back, waiting until the door closed behind his siblings before asking, “What is it, Father?”

"I received a letter from King's Landing today," Robb's father said, sitting back in his chair.

"Oh?"

"Jon Arryn confirmed they were able to find and dispose of the wildfire caches hidden under the Red Keep. It took them time, but thankfully the wildfire had become inert over the years."

Robb sighed with relief. "That's excellent news." His father's expression didn't shift, and Robb said cautiously, "Is something else the matter?"

His father didn't speak at first, then he asked carefully, "What has Ser Jaime told you of the king and his court?"

"Not very much," Robb said, cautious. "I don't think he was happy there." He hesitated before going on, but it was his father asking. "I don't think he has much love for the king, if that's what you mean."

"Yes, that's what I'd gathered," Ned said, frowning as he drummed his fingers on the desk. It could have been his imagination, but Robb thought he saw his father glance at the half-open scroll of parchment by his hand, the one sent from King's Landing.

“Father?” Robb pressed, and his father just shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he said, and smiled softly at Robb. “How is your marriage going?”

Robb deliberately did not think about this morning, where he’d pinned Jaime’s wrists to the bed before having him, or all the nights (and mornings, and afternoons) where the only thing Robb could focus on was getting his hands on Jaime, on making him come apart. “Fine.”

His father smiled a little bit. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time together,” he said, dryly, and Robb did feel his ears going hot, along with the rest of his face. “Just make sure you’re taking the time to talk as well, hmm?”

Robb made some inarticulate comment and promptly fled as soon as he could. Gods, but he needed to learn how to stop blushing.

“Ser Jaime, a moment?”

Jaime had been readying himself to leave Lady Stark’s solar, following the steward, but at her request he sat down, eyeing his goodmother warily. “Yes?”

Catelyn said, “I understand your brother will be staying with us for some time.”

Cautiously, Jaime answered, “Yes, your husband was generous enough to allow it. Will that be a problem?”

“No, not at all,” Catelyn said quickly. “On the contrary, I’m glad to hear it.”

Jaime flicked his eyebrows upwards, and Catelyn elaborated, flushing a little, “It’s just that your brother offered some advice…”

“And he turned out to be right,” Jaime finished, understanding now. “He’s got a nasty habit of that.”

Catelyn nodded, then admitted, in a rush of disarming honesty, “As aggravating to admit, he was right.” She swallowed and added, though it obviously pained her to say it, “I hadn’t realized—when Ned allowed for the sept in Winterhall to be built, he meant it as a gift, I never dreamed of using it as an opportunity to convert the North to the Seven. And yet…that seems to be what half of our bannermen have thought, all this time.”

Part of Jaime wanted to know what Catelyn had expected, the North was notorious for its distrust of anything that originated south of the Neck, but instead he said, sympathetically, “These things can take on a life of their own.” Catelyn smiled gratefully at him for this, and Jaime relaxed in his chair, knowing he’d said the right thing. “Or at least that’s what Tyrion’s always warning me of—he doesn’t want me to even enter the sept here, and I can’t say he’s wrong.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Well, I’ve never been a fan of incense.” At Catelyn’s unimpressed look, Jaime remembered Tyrion’s admonitions, and traded levity for sincerity, annoying though it was. “I’ve never been very devout, Lady Stark, and I won’t play the hypocrite and say otherwise. And the North isn’t the Westerlands—I highly doubt telling your bannermen ‘fuck off, I’ll worship where I please’ would be the correct course of action.”

To his surprise and pleasure, Catelyn actually snorted at this. “Yes, please restrain yourself from doing so, ser.” Her smile faded only a little, as she admitted next, “It has helped though, what your brother suggested—we’ll have Lord Manderly’s granddaughter fostering here by month’s end, and Lord Glover has asked us to host his daughter for a time.”

Jaime thought, trying to remember. “Wait, the solemn-looking one, still dressed in mourning?”

Catelyn nodded, looking faintly impressed that he knew who she was speaking of. “Lady Carys Hornwood—she was married to the heir of House Hornwood, but he died six months ago.”

Jaime made the appropriate noises of sympathy, but said, “That seems good, that you’ve got the lords reaching out to you more now.”

“It is,” Catelyn agreed, then took a breath. “And it wouldn’t have happened without your brother, so…if he has any other advice, I would be interested in hearing it.”

The gleam in Tyrion’s eyes upon hearing this was almost unholy, it was so gleeful. Jaime warned him, “By the Seven, Tyrion, try not to go overboard, will you?”

“When I have ever?” Tyrion asked, in injured tones; at Jaime’s raised eyebrow he waved his hand in easy dismissal. “Pah. Oh, but this is good news. If Catelyn Stark is practical enough to heed my advice, this situation becomes all the more promising.”

Jaime paused, wondering if he really wanted to know, before sighing as he asked, “What situation?”

Tyrion looked at him as if he were dense. “The succession, obviously. You’re going to need heirs, and unless you or Robb are hiding something under those breeches I don’t know about, those heirs will have to come from Robb’s siblings. If we don’t want Father interfering, we’ll need to handle it sooner rather than later, which means in practical terms that Sansa Stark is the most likely candidate. Therefore, who she marries is of the utmost importance.” Tyrion let out a sigh of relief. “I’ve been petrified that Lady Stark would insist on a southern marriage for her daughter, but this is very encouraging news.” He paused again before beginning to root through the scrolls on his desk, muttering, “Now where did I put that list of Northern heirs…”

Jaime chuckled. “I'll leave you to your plotting then.”

“And I’ll leave you to bedding your husband,” Tyrion replied, and Jaime made a rude gesture behind him as he left his brother’s quarters.

“Is everything all right?” Robb asked.

They were on the road to Moat Cailin, three days into their journey and spending the night at Castle Cerwyn, Robb and Jaime having been installed in the best guest quarters at the Castle, with Jon, Theon, Tyrion, and the rest of their escort installed in the same wing.

“Of course,” Jaime said, but Robb was getting better at reading his husband’s moods, deciphering whatever he sensed through the bond, and he knew this for a lie.

“Jaime,” Robb said carefully, and Jaime huffed, exasperated, yanking his undershirt over his head and tossing it away.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, but the snap to his voice made the lie obvious, even if Robb couldn’t already taste Jaime’s frustration and anger on his tongue. But Robb couldn’t understand why Jaime was angry, they’d had an easy journey to Castle Cerwyn, and their hosts were kind and welcoming, if a bit too plain-spoken for southern manners. Jaime hadn’t even seemed angry, not publicly, not once did he snap or sneer during dinner, not even through Jonelle Cerwyn’s admittedly mediocre harp playing. The only thing Robb could think of was…

“Was it Lord Cerwyn referring to your brother as the Imp during the introductions?” Robb asked, grimacing. Tyrion hadn’t blinked when Lord Cerwyn looked at him and said, “So this is the Imp of Casterly Rock,” but Robb had corrected it, as mildly as he could, saying, “This is my goodbrother, Lord Tyrion of Casterly Rock.” Lord Cerwyn had taken the hint, and no one at the high table had uttered the word imp for the rest of the night.

Jaime’s face wrinkled, as if he couldn’t understand what Robb was talking about. “What? No, of course not, I’ve heard things a thousand times worse, most of them from my own sister, and it wouldn’t even matter, the man stopped the minute you corrected him.” He stopped, and then repeated, angrily, “He stopped the minute you corrected him.”

Robb was even more bewildered now. “Did…did you not want me to?”

To this Jaime just snarled, an angry lion lashing its tail, and he stripped down to his smallclothes, tearing off his boots and breeches with real violence. For the life of him, Robb didn’t know what to say next. This wasn’t like Jon having a sulk, or Theon fretting himself into a bad temper—whatever had set Jaime off, he was in a rage that Robb hadn’t seen from him, not since the day he’d arrived at Winterfell, and perhaps not even then.

Robb was trying to decide on his next approach, when Jaime sat down at the edge of the bed, head bowed, his entire back tensed, and said slowly, “You don’t…you don’t see it at all. You think this is normal.”

“What, you being in a temper?” Robb asked, exasperated. “Gods, I hope not.”

“No, I mean all of this,” Jaime said, gesturing dramatically around him. “You defending my brother without thinking, the bannerman you corrected—in public—not taking offense at all, and that’s the least of it! Tyrion rips away all your mother’s delusions in one night, and she comes to me a few weeks later and thanks me for it, and tells me she’d be grateful for more of my brother’s advice! I haven’t heard a single person refer to me as Kingslayer once since I came here, because apparently everyone in the North is perfectly happy to accept the tale on the word of a Stark, and why shouldn’t they, everyone knows you don’t lie, and the worst of it is all of you walking around as though this is normal, as though this is how the world is supposed to work—”

Jaime’s voice was rising, an edge to it Robb never heard unless he was speaking of Aerys, and alarmed, he went over and placed a hand in the center of Jaime’s back, his hand rising and falling with every harsh breath Jaime took. “Of course it is,” he said, understanding slowly dawning on him, and with it, a creeping sort of horror. “What…did you expect me to sit by and watch your brother be insulted? Did you think that’s what this marriage was going to be, a bunch of Northmen sneering at you for the rest of your days?”

Jaime looked at him, and his expression was answer enough. Robb snapped, his outrage growing, “Well, it’s not, I don’t intend to have my spouse be miserable, not if I can do anything about it.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Jaime said, and he didn’t sound furious anymore, just bewildered. “I just…it’s all going too well.”

Everything was coming together into a horrible sort of sense, that a perfectly pleasant evening with a gracious host would push Jaime over the edge like this—Robb had seen the past few weeks as a good beginning, a foundation to build upon, but Jaime…Jaime looked at it all and just expected it to go wrong.

“What have you been enduring in King’s Landing all this time?” Robb asked, softly, and Jaime flinched at the question. At a loss for words, Robb stroked his back, his fingers tracing down the line of Jaime’s spine. He meant it as comfort, truly, but Jaime’s muscles rippled beneath his touch, and then Jaime was kissing Robb, desperately, his hands holding Robb’s face, trying so hard to distract—

And it almost worked, but Robb pulled away, saying softly, “Wait, wait. Jaime—”

Jaime gave a heavy sigh, pulling back. “I suppose you’ll want to talk,” he said, as if Robb was sentencing him to hard labor.

Robb couldn’t help but smile, even though he knew that this pouting was a distraction too. “Just a little longer,” he said. “I don’t…I don’t mean to be naive. And I won’t pretend that the North is some…perfect place without sin. It’s just…” Robb had to pause, to try to put into words an understanding he’d had since before he could almost talk, and finally burst out, “We don’t have time for those southern games they play in King’s Landing. When we say winter is coming, we mean it. And what that means is being able to trust the people next to you, as they must be able to trust you, otherwise you’re all dead beneath the snows.”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, then he said, “So you’re telling me that you’re not all absurdly virtuous, you’re all just ridiculously practical.”

“Yes, exactly,” Robb said, and Jaime actually chuckled, a dry, nearly noiseless thing, but it was still there. “Of course Mother will listen to your brother—he was right, and she won’t turn down good advice out of pride, not when it means a better future for me and for our house. Of course Lord Cerwyn isn’t going to purposely insult any of you, he knows it’s your Lannister funds that mean the restoration of Moat Cailin, and that benefits him and the entire North. It’s not…there’s no point to being cruel, being unkind. It’ll hurt us as much as it hurts you.”

He stopped talking there, because Jaime’s eyes were closed shut and the look on his face…

Robb was glad, suddenly, so glad for their Marks, for the gods giving Jaime to him, to the North. Not just for his own sake, but for Jaime’s, because it looked as though no one, except perhaps Tyrion, had had a care for him all this time, but Robb would, he wouldn’t stand to see Jaime or Tyrion forced to tolerate insult and dishonor.

Carefully, Robb pressed a kiss to the corner of Jaime’s mouth. Jaime started a little, pulling back to look at him, before kissing Robb back, deep and thorough.

Jaime used his mouth on Robb that night, touching Robb’s soulmark all the while, his thumb moving in relentless circles along the inside of Robb’s forearm while he licked and sucked at Robb’s cock until Robb was practically writhing on the bed, shouting as he came in Jaime’s mouth.

He was a limp wreck in the aftermath, but managed to pull himself together just enough to stroke the inside of Jaime’s arm as Jaime finished himself off with his hand, gasping as he spilled all over Robb’s hip and thigh.

Later, once they’d cleaned themselves up and were lying together beneath the furs, Jaime said into the darkness, “You Northerners still don’t make any sense to me.”

Robb yawned, sleepily turning his face into Jaime’s chest. “Don’t worry, we will.”

*

They were a week away from Moat Cailin when Robb got another piece of the puzzle, and it was completely unexpected when it came.

It had been raining for two days, the Kingsroad having devolved into a muddy rut, the wheels of their carriage getting stuck constantly, and by the time they finally reached the inn, everyone in their party was muddy and exhausted and grateful for the chance to spend a night beneath a dry roof.

The general mood did improve once they were settled in their private room, but Tyrion was still grumbling about the state of the Kingsroad with the master builders they’d brought from Winterfell, they’d been in the carriage the whole time, and had been rattled and bumped more than the rest of them on their horses.

“But this is what happens when there is no maintenance—” Builder Wollen was saying, and Tyrion interrupted, acidly, “No, this is what happens when our king cares for nothing but bedding whores and flinging good gold away on yet another one of his endless tourneys—”

“Wait, how much money could these tourneys cost?” Theon asked, nudging Jon. “If there’s real money to be made, I might head down South, see how many of those fancy knights I could beat at archery.”

“Might be worth your time,” Jaime said. “The prize money’s usually about fifty thousand for the winner of the joust, twenty thousand for the runners-up.”

All of them stared at Jaime. “Forty thousand…what, exactly?” Robb said, his voice rising up in disbelief.

“Forty thousand gold dragons, darling, do keep up,” Jaime said, with a smirk. “When I called the king a spendthrift, did you think I was exaggerating?”

“Gods be good,” Jon gasped, looking as aghast as Robb felt; forty thousand gold dragons? For one tourney? Robb thought of how many glass gardens that could be made for the same amount, how many mouths could be fed with the food that money could buy, and felt ill.

Even Theon, hardly known for being careful with his coins, was astounded. “Forty thousand dragons for every tourney?”

“Oh my dear lad, the cost of a tourney is far higher than that,” Tyrion said. “You’re forgetting the costs of the other prizes, hosting everyone who attends, feeding them, stabling their animals, housing their servants—” He cut himself off, laughing at the look on Robb’s face. “Jaime, I think I’ve shocked your husband, he looks like he’s about to have a fit of the vapors.”

“I feel like I’m about to have a fit,” Robb said faintly, and Jaime rubbed his arm comfortingly, but he still had that hard smile to his face, the one that he always seemed to wear when the subject of King Robert came up.

“Never mind our fat idiot of a king,” he said, and gestured to Tyrion. “Tyrion, you’ve got that cyvasse board with you, don’t you? I’ll give you a game.”

The conversation moved on, but Robb couldn’t, he was still stewing over it, and after dinner and once they’d gone up to their quarters, he couldn’t help but ask, even though he already knew the answer, “Was it true what Tyrion was saying at dinner? When he talked about the waste at King’s Landing?”

Jaime snorted, undressing casually by the fireplace. “What, are you still clinging to whatever fairytales your father’s told you about Robert Baratheon? Still thinking of him as the Demon of the Trident? Well, that demon’s been drowned by wine and whores, and the only war he’s waging is against his own treasury.” He kept taking his clothes off, as if that was the end of the matter, as if they would go to sleep and let the subject lie.

As if Robb couldn’t feel the anger building up inside of Jaime, a bitter rage that felt…old, yet all the more vivid for how long it had been building.

"You don't like the King, do you," Robb said slowly.

"He's the king, it doesn't matter if I like him," Jaime said. Robb waited him out, and at last Jaime said, tightly, not looking at him, "He's been a cruel husband to my sister. A drunken whoremonger who buries the crown in debt while he humiliates my sister in public with his women and his bastards, and in private he blames her for not being his sainted Lyanna Stark." A pause, then Jaime said, bitterly, "I will say this for him, on the nights when his temper got the worst of him, Robert never actually hit her, no matter how much he threatened to.”

Robb inhaled sharply, and Jaime finally looked at him, his eyes wild and filled with so much bitterness and fury that it was a miracle he hadn't choked on it before now. "So tell me, dear Robb, what about the man I've just described should I like?"

Robb’s throat was aching, for Jaime, for his sister who Robb had never met. “Is she safe?”

Jaime jerked at the question. He didn’t speak for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. She’s…it’s easier now that they have three children; less reason for them to interact, to even see each other very much during the day. He hasn’t touched her in years. And I…before I left, I had my nephew Lancel join the Kingsguard to take my place. Robert won’t…he won’t dare to go too far, not when he’s so far in debt to Casterly Rock.”

Robb nodded, relieved and sorry in equal measure. “Did…was it always obvious? What he was?”

Jaime shrugged, still not looking at him. “Well, I never thought much of the man, but no. No, it wasn’t always obvious.” He shook his head a little. “Not that it would have mattered; my father wasn’t going to miss his second chance at making his daughter Queen.” Jaime paused and then said, his voice sounding odd somehow, “And my sister wanted it too, of course.”

“Does she regret it now?” Robb asked, thinking that it was one thing to want to be Queen of Westeros in the abstract, and another thing entirely to be the wife of Robert Baratheon, at least as he was now, and not as he’d been at the Trident, triumphant over Prince Rhaegar.

“She won’t leave him, if that’s what you mean. No, Cersei’s paid for her crown, and she means to have her due.”

“Still, that’s…a hard bargain to make,” Robb said. It was miles away from the tales of southern chivalry that his sister gloried in, a queen being threatened by the one man in the realm no Kingsguard could touch, a drunken lecher bankrupting the kingdom on tournaments he couldn’t afford, all while everyone looked the other way. “And for what it is worth, I am sorry for it.”

It couldn’t have been worth much, not when there was nothing he could do for Jaime, or his sister, but Jaime’s shoulders relaxed a little, as if it was worth something, being able to unburden himself. And even if Jaime spent most of the night awake, at least Robb was there, to hold him close, silently vowing to himself that Jaime would never be forced to go back to King’s Landing again, not if he didn’t want to. To hell with the South, Robb thought drowsily to himself. Jaime was well rid of it.

Moat Cailin was a ruin, but a magnificent one, and as Jaime found himself in the shadow of one of its towers, he found himself momentarily speechless. Tyrion was in raptures of course, climbing over what seemed every inch of the ruined castle with the builders, often forgetting to eat until Jaime literally dragged him off to break his fast, and even then he would barely touch his food, too distracted with arguing with the builders over how long it would take to restore Moat Cailin.

Jaime lectured him over it, but half-heartedly, it reminded him too much of when Tyrion was small and reading every book in Casterly Rock's library, cramming every speck of knowledge he could find into his brain, forever babbling to Jaime about the latest fascinating fact he’d discovered. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, seeing Tyrion so enthusiastic about something that didn't involve a brothel.

Truthfully the rest of them had little to do, at least by comparison. They went hunting for fresh game, and when Tyrion wasn't wrangling one of them into taking notes, they sparred and drilled. Jaime took his time sparring with Robb, Theon, and Jon, and occasionally all three of them at once, which gave him an excellent window into their various skills with the sword, and with the three of them as a group. (Even if being around them did make him often feel as though he were positively ancient.)

Theon was the most annoying of his husband's companions, by far, which was why when he asked one evening, with that smarmy smile of his, "Ser Jaime, tell me—which of us will become the better swordsman, me or Robb? And no favoring your husband, either!" Jaime felt no compunction about skewering the young squid's presumptions.

"Robb's going to be better than you, but Jon's going to be far better than you both."

There was a moment of perfect silence around the campfire, all three of them looking astounded—none more so than Jon, whose usual melancholic pout was replaced by a stunned expression. Theon, meanwhile, looked like he'd been slapped by a fish, while Robb, at least, was starting to look amused as his surprise melted away.

"Are you saying that Jon's better than us?" Theon demanded, indignant.

"I said he was going to be far better than either of you in the future," Jaime corrected, before adding, "But now that you mention it, he's also better than both of you now. Robb relies too much on brute strength, and you, Theon, rely too much on your speed. Now you—" he turned to a still-startled Jon, "—need to stop throwing half your sparring matches when you go against your brother."

"Jon!" Robb said, outraged, while Jon stammered, "I haven't—I don't!"

"You do and it's ridiculously obvious," Jaime said, before turning to Jory Cassel, who'd accompanied them on the trip. "I know the boy is in an awkward position thanks to Lady Stark, but he either needs to stop sparring with Robb entirely or he needs to stop holding himself back when he does. My vote is for the latter, personally, I hate to see potential wasted, but either solution will work."

Biting back a smile, Cassel nodded. "I'll speak to my uncle once we're back at Winterfell," he promised, meanwhile Robb was hissing furiously at his brother about why he'd do something so stupid, Robb had never asked him to pretend to be worse at sword fighting, and if he wanted to act as though he had cabbage for brains the least Jon could do was to leave Robb out of it. It was all very amusing, and Jaime leaned back on his elbows and settled in to enjoy the show.

But that had unforeseen consequences, as Jon had pulled him aside the day after and awkwardly thanked him for the compliment, as well as uselessly trying to explain why he’d felt the need to throw every match he’d had against his trueborn brother—as though it weren’t perfectly obvious why. “Think nothing of it,” Jaime said, because this whole gracious manner he’d adopted could only improve with practice. “As I said, I hate to see potential wasted.”

Jon nodded, and said, a wry twist to his mouth, “Well, it’s good to hear from a swordsman like you that I’ll be of real use at the Wall.”

Jaime stared at him. “What? The Wall?”

Jon started to look awkward—well, he always looked awkward, it was rather that the awkwardness increased. “Erm. Yes. I’ll be taking the black in a year or so. I’ve talked it though with my father and he agrees—“

“He agrees what, that you should waste your life in the frozen hellpit of Westeros?” Jaime interrupted, in rising outrage. Jon just blinked at him, as though it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, take that shining potential and throw it in the dirt, except worse, he was going to throw it away on a pile of ice—

Jaime tried to knock some sense into him, why he couldn’t have explained, except that Jaime found it viscerally offensive that the first lad that Jaime had deigned to offer the glory of his wisdom and expertise was going to throw it away just so he could go freeze his balls off with the Night’s Watch. It was no good, because Jon listened solemnly to all of Jaime’s excellent arguments and then said, with a sad smile on his face, “I hear you, I do, it’s just…there’s no place for me at Winterfell.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Jaime demanded, increasingly exasperated. “Are you going to be banished from your home if you don’t go to the Watch?”

“No, of course not,” Jon said, and he looked even sadder when he confirmed this, Jaime would never understand the boy. “My father’s always promised I would have a home there, and Robb has too, it’s just.” He stopped again.

“Just what, you don’t trust your father and brother to keep their word?” Jaime pressed.

That got a reaction, Jon showing the first spark of life as he lifted his head and said indignantly, “No! It’s just…there’ll be no place for me there, nothing to do. Lady Stark won’t…she won’t be happy to see me given a holdfast in the North, or given any real task of worth, and my father won’t…” He swallowed, throat working, and said very softly, “There’s only so much unhappiness my father’s willing to inflict on his lady wife, you see.”

Despite himself, Jaime felt an unwilling tug of sympathy. “Lady Stark won’t rule in Winterfell forever,” he pointed out, his voice gentling despite himself. “When your brother becomes lord—”

“My father’s not an old man,” Jon said, shaking his head. “And Lady Stark’s not an old woman either. It could be decades before Robb becomes Lord Stark and even then…” His face twisted. “It’s wrong, looking forward to the day my father and his wife die, just so my life can begin. Do you see?”

And despite himself, Jaime did see—not just the impossibility of Jon’s position, but how closely it mirrored Tyrion’s. Despite their obvious differences, all Jaime could see at that moment was the similarities, the same beaten-down expression, the lack of hope for a better future, all because of who their fathers were…or rather, who their fathers weren’t. And Ned Stark might have been a more loving father than Tywin Lannister, but at this moment, Jaime was hard-pressed to believe he was a better one.

Jon must have read some of this on his face, because he said, relieved, “So, you understand then.”

“Oh, I understand, I still think you’re an idiot,” Jaime said, and Jon scowled at him.

It shouldn’t have mattered to Jaime, what was it to him if Jon Snow wanted to waste his life on top of the Wall? And yet it kept nagging at him through the rest of the day and into the night as well, right up until Robb looked at him in their tent and said, “Right, what’s wrong?”

Jaime opened his mouth to say ‘nothing’, closed it, and then said instead, “You’re not going to like it.”

He was right, Robb did not like it. Sitting up on the pile of blankets and furs, practically vibrating with outrage, Robb hissed furiously, “My brother isn’t going to the gods-damned Wall!”

“Of course he isn’t,” Jaime retorted. “We just need to figure out a way to keep it from happening.”

Robb was barely comforted. “I’ve told him, I’ve told him a dozen times, he will always have a place at Winterfell so long as I’m there—”

“Yes, but you’re not the lord of Winterfell yet, and he very reasonably doesn’t wish to wait for your father to die before he finds a purpose for his life,” Jaime pointed out. At Robb’s stricken expression, Jaime held his hands up, saying, “I understand, I think it’s a waste myself, that’s why I’m telling you now so we can do something about it.”

Still grumbling, Robb finally lay down on their bedrolls, settling against Jaime’s side. Jaime wondered out loud, still sitting up, “Could he be fostered somewhere? He’s a bit old for it, but a loyal bannerman—“

Robb shook his head. “I overheard Maester Luwin and my father once, as a child—Jon Arryn had sent a raven, offering to see Jon fostered somewhere, I think at Dragonstone with the Baratheons, but Father refused. He would never hear of Jon being raised anywhere but Winterfell.” His expression twisted in frustration, as Robb added next, “And he was right, Jon’s place is here with his family—“

“We need to give him a better alternative than the Wall,” Jaime said, still thinking. “Something that’s still honorable.”

That was when it finally occurred to him. Honestly, it was embarrassing that it took so long. Smiling, Jaime stretched out on the bedroll, informing Robb, “I’ve got it.”

The skeptical look on Robb’s face was rather insulting. “Do you now?”

“Have a little more faith,” Jaime said, and he ignored all of Robb’s hissed questions until the next morning, when he strode over to Jon and said, “You’re not going to take the black.”

Jon squinted up at him; it was his turn to cook the porridge over the fire that morning. “Is this because Robb was shouting about it all through the night?”

“The tents are thin, we could all hear you,” Theon said helpfully.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to take the black,” he repeated patiently, “Because you’re going to stay here and be my squire instead.”

It was incredible, how quickly Jon’s sulky expression melted away into pure disbelief. “I’m…”

“You’re going to be my squire, and after a few years and quite a lot of diligent scrubbing of my armor, you’re likely going to become a knight as well,” Jaime said. He had a lot more words planned, starting with how Jon should realize what an honor it was, Jaime had never bothered to take a squire on until now, never mind all the courtiers at King’s Landing scrambling to have their second and third sons get the privilege. But Jon’s face was so raw with disbelief and hope that Jaime found himself letting all his fine words go, and saying simply instead, “It’ll be a better use for your talent than freezing your balls off at the Wall.”

Jon swallowed, and whispered, “But, Lady Stark—”

“Leave Lady Stark to me,” Jaime said. “Or better yet, leave her to Tyrion, she likes him better anyway.”

Tyrion threw up his hands at this, saying sarcastically, “Oh, of course, leave me to do all the hard work,” but his expression was warm, and he gave Jaime a little nod of approval.

Robb, of course, was practically dancing with impatience, and he finally called out, “Is that a yes or not, Jon?”

Jon waited a minute, then gave Jaime a shy smile, the expression so endearing that Jaime could only laugh when he said, “Well, who am I to tell Jaime Lannister no?”

“At last, some proper respect,” Jaime said, and Robb thumped him on the back as he came forward to pull his brother into a hug, congratulating and lecturing him practically in the same breath, I’m so glad for you mixed with I told you it was going to work out, now don’t ever come up with such a foolish plan again.

Of course, it meant a ridiculous amount of work for him, not least of which would be training Jon to meet his lofty standards, but Jaime found himself almost looking forward to it. He’d been watching Jon closely these past few weeks, and Jon had already taken his advice and example to heart, Jaime could see the improvement already. And once Jaime had the chance to really get him working, well. He would be something to see indeed. Jaime had to find some preoccupation to fill the time up here, aside from flinging his money at this restoration of Moat Cailin and fucking his handsome husband, he might as well spend it making sure there was at least one other dangerous swordsman out there in Westeros.

And it felt…well, it felt right doing this, not just for Jon, but for Robb, who’d been so immediately distraught at the thought of losing his brother, at realizing this was one problem that he couldn’t solve. And Robb’s gratitude was so sweet, not just in the moment, but later that night in their tent, when he’d cupped Jaime’s face in his hands and kissed him deep, murmuring against his mouth, “Thank you.”

Jaime felt the glow from it all the way down to his toes, that effervescent joy Robb had been carrying with him all day, and he said, his voice a low rumble, “Oh, I think you can thank me better than that.”

“Oh, can I?” Robb asked, half-laughing, and he tumbled Jaime down to the bedroll without hesitation.

Upon their return to Winterfell, Robb found himself busier than ever. As the heir to Winterfell, he’d hardly ever been idle, but his marriage brought with it new responsibilities and duties, not least of which were the ones stemming from the Moat Cailin restoration, because even though Tyrion was more than willing to handle the entire project himself, that wouldn’t have been right or fair. It was House Stark who was benefiting, it should be House Stark overseeing it.

So in the midst of being responsible for making the final decisions about Moat Cailin, Robb was also managing his usual duties as heir to Winterfell, as well as making sure that Jaime and Tyrion continued to adjust to life in Winterfell—but more often than not, Robb found himself watching as Winterfell adjusted to Jaime and Tyrion.

Take the Sansa and Arya problem. His sisters were quarreling more than ever, and the more they quarreled, the more Arya turned to such unladylike behavior as archery and swordplay, which in turn set Sansa off even more, which led to more quarreling, and so it went on and on.

Except for the day that Arya appeared out of nowhere during Bran’s archery practice and hit the bullseye dead on in her first try, and Robb sighed and laughed in equal measure, readying himself to be the one to chase Arya off, except Jaime paused from where he was watching Jon going through endurance drills to say, interested, “Was that your arrow, Arya?”

Arya nodded brightly, and Jaime looked from her to the target and then said, ignoring poor Jon wheezing for air, bent nearly double with his hands on his knees, “Do it again.”

Arya’s entire face lit up, and she immediately notched her arrow and let it fly—and she hit the bullseye again, just like Robb knew she would.

Jaime laughed, but then he said, “Well, you’d better keep at it, then. Wouldn’t want talent like that to rust away, would we?”

Robb could think of several people in the castle who would love nothing more in fact, but Arya’s face was so joyful that he couldn’t bear to be the voice of discouragement, so he ignored Bran’s huffs and let Arya take her place next to him, knowing all the while that soon enough—

“Arya!” Sansa shrieked from the walkway above. “What are you doing?” Septa Mordane was right on Sansa’s heels too, glowering, and just like that, yet another argument was about to boil over, in front of the entire household, except then Jaime said, casually, “Don’t worry, Septa, Arya’s fine where she is.”

Septa Mordane spluttered. “Ser, I hardly think—”

“I hardly think your time will be well spent watching the girl fail to embroider a simple flower,” Jaime said, still in that charmingly casual manner of his. “I’ve seen Arya’s embroidery, it’s shit. Her aim with an arrow isn’t.” Robb bit his lip at seeing Septa Mordane’s nonplussed expression, and at the way Arya was frantically nodding her head in agreement.

“It’s not proper,” Sansa insisted.

“Of course it is,” Jaime said. “Archery’s a perfectly ladylike occupation in the South. Margaery Tyrell’s widely agreed to be one of the most desirable and accomplished ladies in all of Westeros, and I happen to know she’s quite the talented archer.”

Robb had to put his fist over his mouth to keep his composure. Sansa was thoughtful now, and Jaime wore an elaborately innocent expression in the face of Septa Mordane’s glowering. Theon was far less subtle, though at least he managed to cover his amusement with a bout of coughing.

“Really, Sansa should be joining us as well,” Jaime said, and Robb stared at him, because there was a reasonable suggestion, and then there was pushing your luck to an absurd degree. “It’ll do her good to expand her talents beyond the needle.”

“Me?” Sansa said, eyes wide with shock. “Doing archery?”

“You’ve got the height and the shoulders for it,” Jaime said. “Come on then, no time like the present.”

He continued to look up at Sansa, clearly expecting her to agree, and Robb would have never believed she would, except Robb knew what it was like to be on the other end of Jaime’s expectant stare, what it felt like to know you had to answer it. And that was why Robb’s jaw was the only one that didn’t drop as Sansa slowly descended and took her place next to a bemused Bran and a gleeful Arya, staring at the bow in her hand as though it were a snake.

As Theon gawked, Robb said slowly, “Right, so…”

Later, while Theon was taking over the archery lesson (and Robb was keeping his ear open to make sure he minded his language while doing so) Jaime approached, and Robb leaned in to whisper, “That was clever, mentioning Margaery Tyrell like that.”

“Mm, I thought so,” Jaime said, as smug as Robb knew he would be (as smug as he deserved to be, Robb had to admit). “It even had the benefit of being true.”

Of course that wasn’t the end of it, with Robb’s mother bringing it up in the solar that evening after the children had gone to bed, pointing out, politely, that it wasn’t Jaime’s place to determine what Arya and Sansa needed to learn in order to be the ladies they would have to be, and that Arya especially needed to adjust so that she would be able to thrive in the South—

Except then Tyrion looked up from the latest budget estimations for Moat Cailin, and asked simply, “Why does she need to thrive in the South? Is she going to be marrying outside of the North?”

His parents shared a look, then his mother said slowly, “That…hasn’t been decided.”

“But it’s unlikely,” his father said, and when his mother gave him an impatient look, Ned shrugged. “I’d like to keep Arya close, which would mean a marriage in the North.”

“Well, there you go,” Jaime said with a shrug. “Women train and fight in the North, unless I hallucinated the frankly terrifying women of House Mormont at the wedding.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Robb interjected, because it seemed unfair to make Tyrion and Jaime take the brunt of the work. “And it’ll mean that Arya gets to work on something she’s good at and enjoys, which means she’ll be less frustrated, which means—”

“Less squabbling,” his father said, nodding. He turned to Robb’s mother and said, “She is threatening to burn all of her embroidery in the fire if she doesn’t continue her archery lessons.”

Catelyn huffed. “She needs to be well-rounded, Ned.”

“So have her practice other talents as well,” Tyrion offered. “A language or two. I can teach High Valyrian if it’ll help.”

“Sansa would like that as well,” his mother mused, obviously starting to weaken. She looked to Robb’s father and smiled ruefully, admitting, “And less arguments around the keep would be nice.”

“Please,” Robb said with feeling, and everyone laughed, but at the end of it, Arya did get to keep her archery lessons, something that Robb and Jon had fruitlessly pursued for years, and Jaime and Tyrion had accomplished in a day.

Jaime was dismissive of it that night in their quarters, saying, “Anything for a quiet life. Besides, your sister has talent. Did you see that bullseye?”

To Robb’s surprise, both Arya and Sansa loved their language lessons—Robb had poked his head in, one afternoon, to find them riveted as Tyrion walked them through basic Valyrian vocabulary, with Lady Carys Hornwood sitting quietly in a corner listening, her embroidery hoop lying abandoned in her lap, apparently having become Tyrion’s third student at some point.

“Your brother should have become a maester,” Catelyn said to Jaime at dinner later that night.

“He wanted to be one as a child,” Jaime said casually, drinking deeply from his goblet. “My father wouldn’t hear of it.”

Robb grimaced, unsurprised, but his mother pressed, “Why not?”

“Because that would have meant coming up with a plan for Tyrion that wasn’t just praying the Stranger would take him in the middle of the night,” Jaime said, his voice pitched low so no one could overhear.

His mother’s mouth was pinched with displeasure, and she looked to where Tyrion was entertaining everyone with one of his tales. From here, Robb could see how Bran’s eyes were shining with delight, and even his father was smiling. “Your brother is a kind and intelligent man—“

“You think I don’t know my brother’s worth?” Jaime asked. “Lady Stark, there is a reason why I want to keep my brother in the North away from my father and sister, and it’s not because I think he’ll enjoy the weather, it’s because I’m tired of seeing him drown his despair in wine and women.” He glanced over their shoulders at Tyrion, and that startlingly vulnerable expression flashed across his face again, the one that only appeared when he spoke of his family. “You’ve given him work worthy of him, Lady Stark, I’m glad for it.”

But the amusing thing was that the more work Tyrion had, the more he seemed to seek out—aside from his lessons with the girls, his work on Moat Cailin, and gods only knew what political advice he was giving to Mother, Tyrion decided he wanted to have the Northern legends and tall tales that servants like Old Nan used to scare children with transcribed and collected, and he promptly wrangled Lady Carys into transcribing them, as she apparently had beautiful calligraphy and knew the runes from the Old Tongue, which Tyrion was quite excited by.

Robb wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that upon hearing it, his father called Robb to his solar where it finally came out that he was concerned about the risk to Lady Carys’ reputation.

“I don’t think that’s a concern,” Robb said, trying for indignation and mostly just landing on bemusement. “He’s known for frequenting brothels, not seducing highborn ladies.”

“This isn’t a usual case,” his father said, and blinked at Robb’s incomprehension. “Robb, don’t you know about Carys Hornwood and her husband?”

“Other than the fact that he’s dead?”

Ned sighed. “Your mother did say we should bring you more into our household discussions,” he murmured to himself. “Robb, Cahal Hornwood was—was a brute. From all accounts, he beat and terrorized his wife to the point where the household servants feared for her life. It was a blessing when he died of fever a year into the marriage. After he died, Lady Carys…did not wish to stay in House Hornwood, or to return to her father’s house.”

Horrified at the tale, Robb asked, “Did her father actually refuse to house his own daughter?” It seemed absolutely impossible with what Robb knew of jolly, harmless Lord Glover, but if Jaime’s tales of the south and King’s Landing had taught him anything it was that nothing could be assumed upon appearance.

But thankfully, his father was shaking his head. “No. My understanding is he would have taken her back, and gladly, but she…she has yet to forgive him, for arranging the match over her objections.”

Robb was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “The scar on her chin, I hadn’t thought anything of it, but…is that…”

“I believe so,” his father confirmed heavily. “But you see, Robb, why caution in this is needed. For Lady Carys’ own ease of mind, if nothing else.”

Robb nodded, thought it over and said slowly, “I still don’t think Lord Tyrion poses any danger, especially not physically, but I can speak to him, if you like.”

His father looked relieved. “Thank you, Robb.”

Robb did as his father asked, feeling awkward, but he needn’t have worried; Tyrion already knew of Lady Carys’ past, and was understanding—if a little amused—at the notion of being a threat to anyone. "Fear not, she'll come to no harm from me," Tyrion promised. "Though I must say, judging from how she is around me compared to the rest of the men in the keep, I'm not the sort of man she fears." Robb's face must have shown his confusion, as Tyrion raised an eyebrow and said, "So you hadn't noticed the way she does her best to avoid you, Greyjoy and indeed any man here capable of swinging a sword or throwing a punch?"

Robb thought back to the last few weeks, to the quiet, retiring woman who seemed to fade into the walls to the point that Robb had stopped noticing her at all, her plain oval face and dark hair becoming just part of the background, and was stricken. "Has she—has anyone tried—"

"No, no, I already checked," Tyrion said, waving his hand. "I did have to remind young Greyjoy that not every woman is a willing receptacle for his crude flirting, but even he got the point."

"Good," Robb said; he was still going to speak to Theon himself, later. He paused and added, "But thank you. For taking that on yourself."

Tyrion's mouth curved and he said easily, "Think nothing of it."

After that, Robb did keep an eye out for Lady Carys, and found nothing to worry over, she was usually in quiet conversation with Septa Mordane, or one of the girls, with Sansa and surprisingly Arya competing for her attention. But more often she could be found discussing her studies with Tyrion, earnestly debating some treatise from a long-dead maester, or asking where a dictionary for High Valyrian could be purchased. Robb couldn’t imagine this thoughtful, bookish woman thriving in House Hornwood—which, he supposed, was the whole point.

“You and Mother should tell me more of these things,” he said in an undertone to his father. “I want to be involved.”

His father looked at him for a moment, then inclined his head. “You will be,” he promised.

Honestly, Jaime should have gotten a squire ages ago. He knew perfectly well why he hadn’t, but now Jon Snow was here, Jaime was delighted, not just with the chance to pass on his own brilliance to the next generation, but with the chance to needle the boy every chance he got.

He was just such a delightful target for teasing, with his suspicious dark gaze and his constant pouting, Jaime loved to say the most outrageous things and wait for Jon to stare at him incredulously, or start spluttering with disbelief. Best of all was when Jon finally would break and let out of one of his bone-dry rejoinders, the more effective for how rare and unexpected it would be.

The needling was delightful, of course, but it wouldn’t have been worth the effort if the boy didn’t have real talent and the dedication to make something of it. He followed every drill and exercise without complaint, that Stark stoicism good for something; he would have trained day and night had Jaime not insisted that the boy get some rest before he did himself injury.

Jaime hadn’t thought much of what he was doing, when he made the original offer—it had been mostly for Robb, and for the chance to shield Jon Snow the way he had tried to shield Tyrion all their lives. So it took him time to realize exactly how many feathers he’d ruffled, picking Ned Stark’s bastard as his squire, singling him out from everyone else in the keep. Theon Greyjoy’s jealousy was obvious and easy to ignore, but the quiet observation from the men-at-arms was harder to disregard, the silent assessment of Jaime as a teacher, of Jon as a squire and student.

One afternoon, Jaime had told Jon he would have to polish his armor after their sparring, and Jon just cocked a dark eyebrow and said, “Oh, is that armor you have? I thought it was just some fancy southern filigree.”

Jamie let out a bark of laughter, and Jon looked so quietly pleased with himself—and then his gaze drifted upwards, and all the humor and joy was wiped off his face in a moment.

Startled, Jaime turned around to look—and it was Catelyn Stark on the landing above them, watching. She wasn’t openly sneering, the way Cersei would have at the sight of one of Robert’s bastards, but the coldness on her face was possibly worse than an open sneer, just because it was so opposed to her usual quiet warmth.

“Lady Stark,” Jaime said, pleasantly. “Was there something you wanted?”

She continued to look at them both for a long moment, then shook her head. “No,” she said, and went off.

Jaime waited until she was out of sight, then turned back to look at Jon, who was staring down at the ground. “Whatever smart thing you’re about to say, don’t,” he mumbled, all the life drained out of him.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Jaime said, lying through his teeth. “Other than to tell you your footwork is getting sloppy again.”

He would have loved for Jon to let out another one of his quiet jokes, or even just roll his eyes, but Jon just nodded and went into a fighting stance, his face blank and solemn once more, and for no reason at all Jaime wanted to kick something.

He took the problem to Tyrion and Robb later that evening, where they were sharing Dornish wine—Tyrion was currently on a kick of introducing Robb to better liquor than the Northern ale that was so readily available, and Robb was humoring him. Jaime had thought that Tyrion might see a way through it, because he usually did when Jaime was stumped on a problem, but when he’d finished speaking, Tyrion just looked at him and shook his head. “Leave it alone, Jaime.”

Jaime looked from him to Robb, who looked sorry but not as though he disagreed, and sat back in his own chair. “I thought she’d accepted that you were right about Jon not being a threat,” he said.

Tyrion shrugged. “I think she has, mostly, but that doesn’t mean she likes the boy any more for all that. He’s her husband’s bastard, the constant reminder of his betrayal, and here you are working to make him one of the most dangerous swordsmen in Westeros. Of course she’s not pleased.”

Robb looked gobsmacked. “You think Jon can rise that high? Really?”

“Why else would I bother with him?” Jaime demanded. “Not that it helps to have Jon turn into a miserable lump the moment your mother glares daggers at him.” It was unfair to say, and Jaime was sorry for saying it the second that Robb’s face shut down into unhappiness once more. “Robb—”

“No, you’re right,” Robb said lowly. “It’s just…none of us know what to say about it. Afraid of making things worse, I suppose.”

“Things could be worse,” Tyrion offered. “Most highborn women in your mother’s position would have just had him smothered in the crib as a babe. Compared to that, some cold looks are really nothing.”

Robb looked absolutely horrified by that, instead of comforted. “How, what, why would you say that? Why would you even think it?”

Half-afraid that Robb would work himself into an apoplexy, Jaime reached out to clap his shoulder. “Easy,” he said, liking the way that Robb reflexively relaxed at his touch, even as he still looked a little too wild-eyed for Jaime’s liking. “No one is insulting your mother’s honor.”

“I’m saying she wouldn’t do that,” Tyrion insisted. “Really, it’s a compliment.”

“I’m afraid to ask what you consider an insult,” Robb said, and Tyrion actually laughed. But Robb was still frowning, and he said next, “Perhaps…if I did speak to her…”

Tyrion grimaced. “She’d take it better from you than perhaps anyone else, but I still doubt she’d take it well. It’s not…it’s not about Jon, you understand that, don’t you? It’s about your father, and the mysterious woman so alluring that she broke Ned Stark’s honor, even if only for one night.”

“What do you mean, mysterious?” Jaime said. “Surely the family knows who…”

Robb looked even guiltier as he shook his head, saying quietly, “No one knows who Jon’s mother is, not even Jon. Father won’t speak of it, ever.” He licked his lips, and said, cautiously, “The servants used to…there were rumors about a lady from House Dayne…”

His voice was hushed and tentative, a clear sign of how taboo the subject really was at Winterfell, and Jaime was baffled. The Starks were a disgustingly happy family on the whole, loving and content, which made the few cracks in the foundation all the more startling when they did appear.

But Robb had asked a question, and Jaime shook his head in reply. “It wasn’t Ashara Dayne,” he said, and Robb blinked, surprised.

“You’re so sure?” Tyrion asked, equally surprised.

“I am,” Jaime said, grimacing. “It was…quite the topic of conversation at court at one time. The honorable Ned Stark, fathering a bastard and raising him at Winterfell in front of his wife…courtiers can be vipers,” he offered to Robb as an apology. “There’s nothing to do at King’s Landing but listen to bards and gossip viciously. Anyway, someone worked out the timing of it, made some inquiries…Lady Ashara did give birth during the Rebellion, but to a stillborn girl, and months before your brother would have been born. Whoever Jon’s mother is, it’s not her.”

Robb looked displeased at the thought of his father’s honor being used as gossip fodder, but he nodded slowly, accepting it.

“Interesting,” Tyrion said softly, his eyes flickering. Jaime turned to look at him, because he knew that tone in Tyrion’s voice, this was now an intriguing mystery for Tyrion, but Tyrion waved his warning look off, saying, “But it’s unfortunately not the point. My advice is to leave well enough alone, but if you can’t do that Robb, I would speak to your mother in private, and gently. And if it’s going badly, then leave it be. Your brother’s position at Winterfell is secure thanks to Jaime, there’s no point in rocking the boat now.”

Robb nodded again, and then he looked at his wine goblet, and promptly knocked it all back in one go.

“Well, that’s one way to appreciate that vintage,” Tyrion said, and promptly refilled Robb’s glass.

As it turned out, Robb did not have a head for Dornish strongwine, and he was listing dangerously to one side as they left Tyrion’s quarters. “You’re three sheets to the wind,” Jaime complained, even as he slung Robb’s arm across his shoulders so that he could support Robb’s weight and keep Robb on his feet.

“The wine was good,” Robb slurred. “Strong though.” He giggled. “S’why they call it strongwine.”

“Wonderful, you’ve turned into a wit,” Jaime said, rolling his eyes, but fondly. Robb just turned his face into Jaime’s shoulder and giggled again, and Jaime’s stomach lurched, but not because of the wine—he’d had the sense to restrain himself to only two full glasses, unlike his fool husband and fool brother.

By the time they reached their own quarters though, Robb’s mood had changed to drunken melancholy. He collapsed back into their bed, still fully dressed, and he said mournfully, “I should’ve said something sooner.”

“About what?” Jaime asked, distracted, as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked off one of Robb’s boots.

“About Jon,” Robb mumbled. “I should have said something to my mother. Maybe if I had…”

“It probably wouldn’t have done any good,” Jaime said, pulling the other boot off as well.

“It might have,” Robb insisted. “But I held my tongue instead, even though I knew…I knew she was wrong. It’s cowardly.”

Jaime looked at him with surprise, not liking the self-disgust in Robb’s tone. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he said, his own voice sharp. “You think I ever really challenged my father when it came to Tyrion?”

“Yes, but your father is a horror,” Robb said, but quickly lifted his head up, looking stricken. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it!”

“So you just meant to think it?” Jaime said, less offended than amused, and more at Robb’s expression than anything else.

“Of course I do,” Robb said, his face immediately turning into a scowl. “Gods help us if he ever visits Winterfell, I honestly think my mother would challenge him to a duel if she were a man. Did you know he’s trying to get Sansa as a wife for one of his nephews?”

“I did,” Jaime confirmed, sighing. He’d written to his father to warn him off the idea, but his father clearly hadn’t listened. His father’s real goal was to keep Jaime as his intended heir, but Jaime ruling the North while Tyrion was cut out of the line of succession for the Westerlands entirely would be a juicy consolation prize.

“Like it’s our duty to help him disinherit Tyrion,” Robb said, practically snorting with outrage. “Like we’d trust him to find a worthy husband for Sansa!” He shook his head with vehemence. “No. We got the best of the Lannisters already, House Stark doesn’t need any more lions, thank you.”

The laughter bubbled up to the surface, until Jaime’s shoulders were practically shaking. “Is that so?”

Robb beamed up at him, his face so open and happy, even as a gleam of mischief appeared in his eyes. “I’m referring to Tyrion, of course. But you’re not half-bad either.”

“Not half-bad!” Jaime repeated, playing up his outrage. “See if I help you with your boots again, you drunken oaf.”

“You will,” Robb said, with total confidence, reaching out to pull Jaime on top of him. “You’re mine now, remember?”

Jaime stared down into Robb’s face, into his half-lidded eyes, and said hoarsely, the humor running out of him and the lust rising up in its place, “Make me remember it.”

Robb blinked, and then surged up to kiss him, his teeth sharp on Jaime’s lower lip, his mouth tasting of wine, and Jaime closed his eyes and clutched him close, knowing that Robb would make him remember, and that he would love every second of it.

There was something about the hunt to find a husband for Sansa that Robb’s parents weren’t telling him. Robb knew it, even as he sat in his father’s solar one evening with his parents, Jaime, and Tyrion, discussing the merits of a marriage with Harrion Karstark, Jon Umber, Domeric Bolton, the list went on and on, seemingly endless, and yet—

Tyrion was in favor of a Northern marriage to one of their bannermen, and after hearing his reasoning, Robb was as well. And after hearing of Carys Hornwood (and Queen Cersei) Robb misliked the notion of his sister traveling far away to live amongst strangers, tied to a husband they didn’t know or trust. If Sansa stayed in the north, wed to a bannermen they knew, one who was already sworn to them…

“Do you honestly think we’d see your sister wed to a man not worthy of her?” Catelyn asked, chiding.

“You can’t know who a man is before the wedding,” Jaime said, surprisingly—he’d mostly stayed quiet during these discussions, content to follow Tyrion’s lead except for the occasional clever or teasing remark. “Not really. Not who he’ll be when he’s alone with his wife, with no one else to see.”

Robb’s father stared at Jaime for a long moment, before turning to share a look with Robb’s mother. Neither of them seemed surprised by Jaime's words.

After a moment, his father sat back in his chair and said, "I like the idea of my daughters staying in the North, and Robb's not wrong about the importance of keeping them close, should...should their husbands not be everything they should be." He paused, and then said, heavily, "But there is one potential southern marriage that we have to consider carefully."

Tyrion looked as surprised as Robb felt; this entire evening, they hadn't so much as discussed a single southern House. "Are we talking about the Tyrells? Because if you were concerned about Harrion Karstark being too old for Sansa, then Willas Tyrell certainly is—"

"And Loras Tyrell is...well, let's just say he's both unsuitable and unavailable," Jaime said, his voice dry in a way Robb didn't understand, but knew was likely about some piece of southern gossip that he could get out of Jaime later, if need be.

"We're not speaking of House Tyrell," Catelyn said, watching them all closely. No—she was watching Jaime and Tyrion closely. "We mean House Baratheon."

For a moment, Robb didn't understand—was Renly Baratheon looking to marry Sansa? And then he saw the frozen look on Tyrion's face, felt the growing disquiet from Jaime, and he understood.

"Do you..." Robb stopped and cleared his throat, willing his voice not to rise in alarm. "Do you mean Prince Joffrey?"

His father nodded, watching them as closely as his mother. "Jon Arryn's written, as has the King—it's long been a dream of Robert's, to join our houses together through marriage." He paused, his eyes flickering between Jaime and Tyrion, before turning to look at Tyrion head on. "I don't disagree with anything you've said, about the need to foster closer ties within the North, to ensure that Robb and Jaime's heirs are of the North. But turning down an offer of marriage from the Iron Throne, the chance to see Sansa become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms...that's not something to toss away lightly."

"Which is why," Catelyn said, her voice calm but as implacable as steel, "If there is a reason why we should refuse a marriage between Sansa and Joffrey, now is the time to say so."

There was a beat of perfect silence, and then Tyrion breathed out deeply through his nose. "There is every reason to refuse a marriage between Sansa and Joffrey," he told them.

Once again, neither of his parents looked surprised. "Why?" Ned asked.

Tyrion opened his mouth, but it was Jaime who spoke first. "The debt, to begin with." A muscle was leaping in his jaw, but Jaime's voice was even as he said, "Lord Stark, you know full well I have little love for Robert Baratheon, but when I tell you the man is a bad king, I speak nothing but the truth. He's a spendthrift who currently has the country in debt to the tune of five million gold dragons—"

That broke his parents' composure, both of them looking utterly aghast. Robb had had a fair amount of warning, from what he'd heard from Jaime, and even he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, hearing the full amount said aloud.

"How?" Catelyn breathed out, horrified.

Ned leaned in over his desk, saying, "Jon Arryn would never countenance—-"

"Jon Arryn can't control the King," Jaime retorted. Underneath the table, Robb reached out to touch his knee, feeling the tension vibrating through Jaime's body, and Jaime breathed out. Obviously choosing his words with care, Jaime said next, "Jon Arryn is a good man, dedicated to the realm. But he could have the combined wisdom and knowledge of every maester in the Citadel, and Robert still wouldn't listen to him when it comes to curbing his expenses. No one can check Robert Baratheon, on anything, that's why he empties the kingdom's coffers on wine, women, and tourneys, and why he has at least a dozen bastards scattered through the South."

It was rare that Robb had ever seen his father at a loss for words. Robb understood it; for as long as he'd remembered, his father had hammered the importance of careful management of wealth into his head. For a Northern lord, it was unthinkable to fritter your House's money away with winter a constant threat to your smallfolk and bannermen.

"Who is he in debt to?" Catelyn asked.

Jaime shrugged. "Everyone, if I'm honest, but the main parties are House Lannister and the Iron Bank." He turned to Tyrion. "At least half of the debt is owed to the Iron Bank, isn't that right?"

Tyrion nodded grimly, his chin resting in his hand as he watched them all.

"Gods be good," Ned said, rubbing a hand over his face. "What can Robert be thinking?"

Robb hesitated, because really, the debt alone should have been enough, but…it was Sansa. He had to speak. "Even if the Crown's finances weren't in such a state, we shouldn't let Sansa go to King's Landing. The King—" He checked himself, looking at Jaime, who was watching him closely. After a beat, his chin dipped in a tiny nod, and weak with relief at the unspoken permission, Robb rushed out, "The King is a cruel husband to his Queen. I don't want…Sansa shouldn't have such a man as her goodfather, who would set such an example for his sons. I'm sorry, but it's true."

His father looked stricken, turning to Jaime. "Your sister?" he asked, voice soft.

Jaime's lips were white, and his leg was rigid beneath Robb's hands. "He's..." Jaime checked himself, shaking his head. "I won't speak of it further, except to say that Robb's right. Sansa shouldn't have a man like Robert Baratheon as her goodfather. She's a gentle, sweet girl, she doesn't belong in the filthy cesspit of a court that Robert's cultivated there, or to watch him drink himself to death while he disgraces my sister and the crown so many people bled and died for him to get."

"I'd rather have Sansa marry into House Bolton, flayed man sigil and all," Robb muttered, and meant it.

Tyrion had kept quiet so far, it wasn't until he shifted in his chair that Robb even thought to look at him. "Yes," Tyrion said, in a very quiet voice that still commanded all their attention. "Sansa is a gentle, sweet girl." He swallowed, and lifted his eyes. "Which is why, even if Robert Baratheon was Aegon the Unlikely come again, she still shouldn't marry Joffrey. My nephew is...he is not worthy of her hand."

"Tyrion," Jaime said urgently, while the rest of them just stared.

Tyrion gave Jaime a hard look, his face tight, before turning back to Robb’s parents. "He's a vicious, spoiled, cruel boy who shouldn't be trusted with your daughter's happiness,” Tyrion said.

Stunned, Robb looked at his parents. "Those...are some very strong words, Tyrion," Catelyn said after a moment, her eyes wide.

“I take no pleasure in saying them, my lady,” Tyrion said. “But it’s true.” His gaze flicked over to Jaime. “Isn’t it, brother.”

Robb didn’t need to look at Jaime to know the look on his face. He could feel it, the tension in his jaw, his lips pressed tightly together. But he looked anyway, and the expression on Jaime’s face was as awful as he knew it would be.

But Jaime didn’t lie. “It is,” he said, and said nothing else.

Tyrion was still watching Jaime with that hard gaze, and he said softly, “The cat, Jaime.”

Robb could feel Jaime recoiling at that, the hot wave of anger and betrayal, and beneath that, shame, enough to have Robb’s own stomach churning miserably. “We don’t have to—” Jaime started to hiss, and Tyrion cut him off.

“We do. If we’re going to convince the Starks to turn down the future king of Westeros, then yes, we do.”

Jaime glared furiously, but Tyrion just stared back at him, calm and relentless, and Robb held his breath, watching the battle silently play out.

He already knew who would win—he trusted Jaime—but it was a relief, when Jaime’s gaze turned to him, and his resistance crumbled. “There was a pregnant cat in the kitchens,” Jaime began, and Robb tried, he really did try to keep the horror off his face as Jaime unemotionally told the tale, of a butchered animal and a gleeful boy covered in blood. But it was impossible.

He could feel how much this hurt Jaime, to expose his nephew this way, to reveal this shame, and Robb took his hand, which was resting on the table. Jaime’s fingers were still for a moment before he gripped Robb’s hand back, bruisingly tight.

When he finished, no one spoke for a long time. At last his father stirred, and Robb held his breath, but all Ned said was, “Thank you, Jaime.”

Jaime gave a tight nod.

“The question is,” Catelyn said next, “How do we refuse Robert?”

“Very, very carefully,” Tyrion cautioned, looking relieved to be discussing practicalities at last. “Emphasize your bannermen misliking that your heir has married a Lannister, how you’ve become aware of their resentment of Lady Stark—my apologies,” he added, and Robb’s mother waved him off. “It should do. No one wants political turmoil in the North. We can write to Cersei as well, play up on her prejudices against uncouth Northern barbarians. It should do.” Tyrion exhaled, and added, “But in order for this to work, we cannot speak of this to anyone else. You can’t even write to Jon Arryn of your concerns—“

“He should know,” Ned began, frowning, but Tyrion immediately retorted, “He lives in the Red Keep, what makes you think he doesn’t know of this already? It’s Jon Arryn’s task to manage, not yours. You are the Lord of Winterfell, not the Hand to the King. Leave Jon Arryn to his duties and focus on what you owe to your children and the North.”

It was the bluntest that Robb had ever heard Tyrion speak to his parents, but thank the Gods, his father didn’t take offense, just nodding curtly after a small pause.

“You should be careful with what you write to Jon Arryn regardless,” Jaime said. He lifted an eyebrow at Tyrion, sardonic. “If we’re exposing all the Lannister secrets, then we might as well talk about how Grand Maester Pycelle is my father’s creature, and will certainly report anything you write to Jon Arryn to my sister.”

“Seven fucking hells,” Robb blurted out, and his mother didn’t even grimace at the profanity. The Grand Maester, corrupt? Loyal to a man other than the King?

Jaime bared his teeth at Robb in a mirthless smile. “Aren’t you overjoyed with the family you’ve married into, dear husband?”

Robb narrowed his eyes at him. “Yes,” he replied flatly. “Because we got the best of the Lannisters, as I’ve told you before.”

Jaime flinched at hearing it, and Robb squeezed his hand, both in confirmation and apology.

“Aye,” Ned said, to everyone’s collective surprise. “We did.” As they all looked at him, Ned inclined his head, to Jaime and Tyrion both. “You’ve done our house and our children a service, and I won’t forget it.”

Jaime didn’t speak, just nodded back while Tyrion said, “Think nothing of it. We are family, after all.”

Later that night, in their bed, Robb wrapped his arm around Jaime’s waist, pulling him close. He kissed the nape of Jaime’s neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders, and said softly, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Jaime said, echoing his brother’s words. But the tension in his body didn’t ease, giving the lie to his words.

Robb breathed out, and kissed his neck once more, and didn’t speak. There’d been enough talking for one night, he decided, they’d said all they needed to say.

There was no reason why Jaime’s nightmares should have returned. Life in Winterfell was practically idyllic, something out of the songs—they’d had a week’s worth of sunny days in a row, a profitable hunt where Jaime and Robb had brought down a stag together. The repairs to Moat Cailin were going swimmingly, Jon’s swordplay was improving by leaps and bounds, and Jaime had even gotten to go out and fight a roving band of wildings that had slipped past the Wall and were menacing a small settlement north of Winterfell. He was even learning what it meant to run a household the size of Winterfell alongside Catelyn, the work no longer seeming as dull as it had when he was a young lord in the Westerlands. And best of all, every night he had a loving husband in his bed. How could this life be anything but idyllic?

And yet, without fail, the nightmares kept coming. Sometimes they were just awful memories replaying in his mind—Aerys ordering him to his knees before the Iron Throne, gripping his face as he demanded to know if Jaime’s father was plotting treason, those horrible long fingernails cutting into Jaime’s skin, right below his ear.

“You still have the scar,” Robb had murmured after they’d awoken together, his fingers stroking Jaime’s skin gently, even as his eyes grew cold. “He deserved a harder death than what you gave him.”

Other times, the nightmares were even worse, a foul mixture of the remembered and the imagined, Jaime standing in the Queen’s chambers as Cersei cursed him for abandoning her, demanding he cut down her enemies. Jaime cutting down a criminal in the yard only to see the man’s face morph into Robb’s, his face gone horribly slack in death. Behind him, Sansa wept as she was forced to marry Joffrey, who was covered in blood and cackling, his fingernails grown out and his blond hair a tangled mess, just like—

And every night, Jaime woke from his nightmares in a cold sweat, choking on his terror while Robb held him tightly, his voice steady in Jaime’s ear. “It’s not real. Jaime, it’s not real, you’re in Winterfell now, you’re in the North, King’s Landing is miles away—”

Jaime would slump back into Robb’s arms once the words became clear, going limp from relief. Once, in an inexcusable show of weakness, Jaime had choked out, still shaking, “Promise me, promise me I don’t have to go back.”

Robb had been stroking Jaime’s hair, and he said immediately, the pressure of his hand increasing, “I’ll see you shackled in the cells before I let you be sent back to that pit.”

Jaime should have pulled himself together, should have made a bawdy joke about what else they could do with the shackles, but instead he’d gone even weaker with relief, with the knowledge that Robb’s word was as good as gold, as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

He’d never have to go back to King’s Landing again, if he didn’t want to. And as the months passed, more and more Jaime had to admit to himself that he didn’t want to go back, that he could easily live out the rest of his life here in the North, where he could breathe clean air and live an honorable life. Even if Jaime still believed that honor was an illusion, at least in the North everyone shared in the illusion, his new family most of all.

It felt like a betrayal, to be happy here when it meant a life away from Cersei. And yet, even as he sent his sister letters that were never answered, the guilty relief at her silence only grew. Whatever else this was, he didn’t have to sneak and lie and hide any longer, use everything he was and everything he had in service to cuckholding the king and keeping his family’s secrets.

It felt unfair, and yet…Jaime wouldn’t undo it, even if he could. He could say it was for Tyrion’s sake, that he knew the North and House Stark would give his brother a life that Tywin never would and that Jaime never could, but deep down, Jaime knew it for a lie.

He didn’t want his old life in King’s Landing back. Not now, not ever again. And knowing that, knowing he was abandoning Cersei twice over had Jaime choking on his guilt and shame.

When put like that, Jaime deserved every nightmare he got.

He couldn’t talk about it with anyone. Not even Tyrion, who had adjusted to the North with shocking speed, and now was the happiest Jaime had ever seen him, a trusted advisor to Ned as well as Catelyn now. Ned was even taking Tyrion’s advice about gathering information, creating a counter to the spy networks that Tyrion had revealed to him one evening, Tyrion astounded at Ned’s astonishment that he was being spied on by Tywin Lannister, Varys, and Peter Baelish.

“They didn’t even know about Baelish owning the local brothel!” Tyrion had exclaimed. “Honestly, it’s a wonder how they’ve managed this long, it really is.”

“Good thing they have you now, isn’t it?” Jaime replied.

Tyrion tilted his head up, considering. “I always knew my presence was a gift,” he said loftily.

“And you’re happy here,” Jaime said, pressing even though he already knew the answer.

Tyrion’s eyebrows came together. “Of course I am,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

Jaime swallowed, and stared down into his goblet, not answering.

“Ah,” Tyrion said, and because he was a kinder brother than Jaime deserved, he didn’t push any further, and he didn’t say I told you so.

*

Of course, there were still things about Jaime’s new life in the North that he didn’t like.

“Surely you’ve seen snow before, even in the Westerlands,” Robb said, his voice warm with amusement.

Jaime turned to stare at him. “It’s summer.” He gestured dramatically at the window, where you could see white flakes drifting gently down. “Why the fuck is it snowing?”

“Because it’s the North, and summer snows are expected from time to time,” Robb said, openly grinning now.

The dark circles under his eyes weren’t there, for once—Jaime hadn’t had a nightmare for the past few nights, and thus he and Robb had been able to get some actual sleep. In the morning light, Robb looked carefree and relaxed, like he had nothing to worry over at all, nothing except for his delicate southern husband.

And to keep that smile on Robb’s face, Jaime played up his indignation at the weather, heartily complaining about the ridiculousness of snow in summer— “Your house words shouldn’t be Winter Is Coming, they should be Winter Is Always Here!” he grumbled, and Robb laughed and threatened to lock him up in the hot springs for the day, to which Jaime immediately retorted that he wouldn’t need to be locked up, he’d stay there happily until this infernal snow went away.

“How will you manage when a true winter comes?” Robb asked, still laughing as they entered the Great Hall to break their fast.

“By getting very, very drunk,” Jaime retorted, and went to sit next to Tyrion, who was huddling in his fur cloak, his scowling face peering at everyone over the collar.

Thankfully, Tyrion was just as outraged over this foul weather as Jaime was, even if Robb was openly snickering at them. “If you two want to spend the day indoors, no one will stop you,” Robb said, smiling. “Wouldn’t want you delicate southerners to catch a chill.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, young Stark,” Tyrion said, loftily.

“No, no,” Jaime said, in tones of martyrdom. “If I’m doomed to spend my life in this hideously absurd climate, the sooner I adjust, the better.”

Robb’s smile deepened, and Jaime could see where the laugh lines around his eyes would be, once he got older. “Your fortitude is an example to us all.”

Jaime went searching for his squire afterwards, and finally tracked Jon down in the godswood, where he wasn’t alone, but rather giving sword lessons to Arya and the Manderly girl who had arrived in Winterfell weeks earlier. Lady Carys was there as well, perched on a tree root with a pile of knitting in her lap.

“Now what have we here?” Jaime asked, eyebrows raised and biting back a smile as practically everyone—with the exception of Lady Carys—jumped in surprise as he spoke. Arya even tried to hide her training sword behind her back.

“I was just…showing them some examples of swordplay,” Jon said quickly.

“By giving them all training swords and having them spar?” Jaime asked.

“Uh,” Jon said, faltering.

“I talked Jon into giving me lessons,” Arya said quickly.

“And I talked Arya into bringing me along,” Wylla Manderly said next, while Arya nodded in confirmation.

Jaime turned a questioning eye to Lady Carys, who said in her usual bland way, “Oh, I’m chaperoning the sword lessons.”

“Yes, because a chaperone is all that’s needed to make this proper,” Jaime said sarcastically.

He looked at them all for a moment, the swords slack at their sides, Arya’s stubborn chin and Jon’s hangdog expression, and then he said, “Well, let’s see it then.”

Jon blinked. “See what?”

“Let’s see what you’ve been teaching the girl. I don’t want my reputation to suffer, after all, if you’ve been training her all wrong.”

“Your reputation?” Arya repeated, scowling, but Jon put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t mind him, he’s just like that,” he said, rolling his eyes. It was so much harder to get a rise out of Jon these days, a pity.

Arya was still scowling, but she listened to her brother and got into a fighting stance. It became quickly clear that Jon wasn’t wasting his time indulging her, the girl already had better form than her brother Bran, and quick reflexes like Jon.

Jon raised an eyebrow once they finished, asking dryly, “Well? Have I tarnished your legacy, ser?”

“Just for that bit of sarcasm, you can polish my armor twice,” Jaime said, but he conceded, “Arya’s not entirely hopeless, I suppose.”

Jon smiled, and said to Arya, “That means he thinks you have talent.”

“So you won’t stop me from continuing?” Arya pressed.

“Stop us, rather,” Wylla corrected, tossing back her moss-green curls.

Jaime took a beat to consider it, his eyes flicking back and forth between the girls, Jon, and Lady Carys, before saying, “No. I won’t. Now, let’s have you all go again, and mind your wrists…”

The lessons continued for a week before they were found out, Septa Mordane spilling the tale to a disapproving Catelyn, and Jaime walked in right as Jon and Arya were being raked over the coals, Jon silent while Arya protested at the top of her lungs.

“If you’re looking to blame someone, blame me,” Jaime said, standing in the doorway. “I was supervising them.”

“Were you,” Catelyn said, flat.

“Turns out your daughter has a talent for swordplay as well as archery,” Jaime said. “Talent ought to be nurtured, I always say.”

Catelyn’s lips thinned, and she said, icily, “My daughter is not your squire. She is a young girl, who will have to learn to become a lady of Winterfell, and that includes learning the duties she doesn’t care for, and not just indulging her whims at every turn.”

Jaime didn’t know why he’d gotten himself involved in this, let alone why he said next, “A lady should also know how to defend herself, for the times when a knight isn’t there to save her. Or for when it’s the knight she needs to defend herself against.”

“This is not King’s Landing,” Catelyn said, her voice tight. “We are not at war.” Jaime could hear the rest of what she wasn’t saying, which was and my daughter isn’t Elia Martell.

“So now is the perfect time for her to learn,” Jaime replied, with a smile, and even as he smiled he knew it wouldn’t soften Catelyn Stark. “While she’s safe at home, and while the kingdom is at peace.”

Unfortunately Catelyn was not convinced by his logic, but Jaime got Jon out of there without too many strips being ripped from his back, which was some kind of victory at least. But the argument kept going, and seemingly everyone had an opinion on it—from Lady Stark to Septa Mordane to Sansa, to Rodrik Cassell and Maester Luwin, to Robb and Theon, even Tyrion and Lady Carys, opinions varying from Septa Mordane insisting Arya should put aside her childish desire to learn swordplay to Jon and Robb arguing she should keep on learning to Tyrion saying it was a shame to stop her but why create such a fuss, when the girl was never going to become a warrior or a knight?

And to his surprise, Jaime found that he had an opinion as well, one strong enough to keep him arguing on Arya’s behalf. He couldn’t have explained why, not to Tyrion, not even to himself, but the stubborn set of Arya’s mouth and jaw reminded him of Cersei when they were small, and she would dress in his clothes and go running down to the yard to learn swordplay.

He’d always thought it a shame that she couldn’t keep going, that it became the first of many things he couldn’t give his sister.

But even as Jaime blamed his defense of Arya on his long-held loyalty to his sister, something about it didn’t ring quite true.

Robb pointed it out one night late in their quarters, when Jaime was sitting up in their bed still ranting about Ned refusing to intervene, even if it was for one side or the other. “He could settle this all with one word and he won’t, it’s infuriating,” Jaime huffed. “A blind man could see your sister’s too talented and stubborn to quit now, and it’s not like we’re in the South or at court, no one except Septa Mordane and your mother even cares, even Sansa’s not minding so much now that she’s got the example of the Manderly girl in front of her and she’s succeeding with her archery—”

Robb was watching him with a tolerant air and heavy-lidded eyes, and Jaime cut himself off with a huff of air. “It’s too late for me to be talking about this still, isn’t it,” he said.

“Mm,” Robb said, neither confirming nor denying it.

“You just want to go to sleep already, don’t you.”

“I do,” Robb confirmed immediately, but smiled to soften the blow. “But I’m glad to see you defending Arya like this, it means a higher chance of success and a happier outcome for her. It’s kind of you.”

Jaime bristled at this coddling. “It’s not kind,” he insisted. “It’s just logical.”

A crease appeared between Robb’s eyes, his expression becoming more alert. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Jaime asked, genuinely confused.

“Don’t pretend to be disinterested, as though it doesn’t matter to you at all what happens,” Robb said. “You care, there’s nothing wrong with that, I don’t know why—” He checked himself, then said more softly, “I don’t know why you feel like you need to pretend to be a worse man than you are. It’s not true, and it’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise.” Jaime shifted, a growing panic rising inside of him, and Robb’s voice rose, because of course he could sense it too, and he said urgently, “Just look at everything you’ve done since you’ve arrived, everything you’ve done for Jon alone—”

Jaime couldn’t bear to hear any more, not a single word, and so he rushed in to kiss Robb quiet, and he could feel Robb’s frustration now, pulsing in the back of his head, even as Robb kissed him back, pushed him down into the bed and climbed on top of him. Jaime could feel the frustration in Robb’s tight grip on his wrists, in the scrape of his teeth against Jaime’s lip.

Robb was absolutely relentless, taking Jaime apart with slick fingers before pushing into him, dragging Jaime’s hips up for a better angle as he fucked him, until it felt as though Jaime was choking on each thrust, every inch of his body on fire.

And Robb was there, in his mind as well as his body, inescapable, all bright determination and love, a relentless love underpinning everything, the force of it was like jumping off the cliffs at Casterly Rock into the sea below, surrounded by water, caught between drowning and swimming.

“I don’t,” Jaime gasped out, high and desperate, eyes squeezed shut as though that could shield him from anything, “I can’t—“

“You can,” Robb promised him, ragged. “You can, Jaime, look at me, just look—“

And it was impossible to deny him, especially now, and that was how Jaime found his peak, coming apart as he stared into Robb’s shadowed face, entirely open and exposed, and the worst part was that despite it all, he felt safe.

Robb was even more unwavering in the aftermath, even if he did Jaime the favor of staying silent; he curled himself around Jaime’s back, pulling Jaime in close with an arm around Jaime’s waist, all of which spoke for him anyway.

And Jaime found himself answering, despite himself.

Into the darkness, Jaime made a confession, one he never expected to make, and the only one he could ever give. “I wish I had known you were coming. I would have…” His throat was so tight that it hurt to speak, but Jaime choked out, “I would have tried to meet you with a clean heart.”

Robb breathed in and out, and said softly, “You’re here now. That’s all that matters to me.”

You deserve better, is what Jaime should have said.

But it was easier to stay silent in Robb’s arms, accepting the love he didn’t deserve.

*

He didn’t deserve his good fortune, but he could honor it, and that was why Jaime went to his brother’s quarters the next morning and asked, without preamble, “How do I convince Father I don’t want to inherit Casterly Rock?”

Tyrion, as had become his habit since arriving in the North, was already awake and at work at his desk. He raised his eyebrows, setting his notes to one side. “Father already knows you don’t want it, he doesn’t care about that. What you need is to make sure he knows he won’t get you back as his heir, no matter what.”

“Fine then, how do I do that?” Jaime demanded.

“You write to Jon Arryn and to the King, confirming that you are relinquishing your right to Casterly Rock and the Westerlands in order to rule the North with your husband,” Tyrion said. “Once it’s confirmed with the King, Father can’t do anything about it but grumble. And it’s not as if you’ll be doing nothing, you’ll be co-ruling half the continent. Any reasonable parent would be ecstatic at the thought.”

“If Father was reasonable, he’d have named you as his heir the minute I joined the Kingsguard,” Jaime muttered. He glanced at his brother to see how Tyrion would take it, and was relieved to see no bitterness in his face, just a rueful amusement.

“I think the Reynes and Tarbecks are an excellent example of our father’s reasonableness, don’t you?” he replied. “Anyway, write the letters, and show them to me before you send them. We’ll want to tell Ned as well, make sure he knows in case the Hand or the King write back.”

Thank the gods, none of the Starks made much of a fuss about Jaime’s decision—likely they were forewarned by Tyrion. Ned said simply, “I’m glad to hear it.” Catelyn’s relief was palpable, but she limited herself to a smile.

It was Robb who said, “Thank you,” and dropped a kiss on the corner of Jaime’s mouth after dinner, as they walked back to their chambers. Jaime’s face went hot, and he muttered, “Don’t thank me, it’s the only possible decision.” Before Robb could say anything else, Jaime lifted his husband’s hand and kissed the back of it.

"We need a navy,” Robb’s husband declared one afternoon, in the room that had become their joint solar. They had only one desk, but it was massive enough that both Jaime and Robb could sit at it easily.

"And just where do you plan to find one?" Robb asked, dryly. It had been a running lament of Jaime’s, how the North didn’t have a standing navy, and Robb knew better than to indulge him in pointless speculation, but it still happened anyway.

"Sea Dragon Point would make a strong holdfast and harbor," Jaime said next.

Robb fixed his husband with a look. "That didn't answer my question. And there's not the population there to sustain a decent-sized holdfast, let alone a harbor and navy. And White Harbor's always been where the North's trading has been concentrated anyway, along with the fleet."

"Always has been isn't the same as forever will be," Jaime retorted. "I know I'm not the cleverest Lannister, but even I can predict that the Ironborn won't stay quiet forever. We'll need a navy on the western coasts to help keep them in check."

Robb could have focused on the part about the Ironborn, which is what Jaime wanted him to do, but he couldn't stop himself. "Who told you you weren't clever? Your father?"

Jaime sat back in his seat, emotion flickering across his face for a moment before he wrenched it back into that smooth blankness. It didn't matter, not when Robb could sense his emotions anyway, but Robb wished that Jaime still didn't feel the need to hide, even now after nearly a year's worth of marriage. "No, actually. My sister. She...she used to say we were...two halves of a whole. We both had the beauty, but she had the brains, and I had the strong sword arm. Together we were meant to be unstoppable."

"Is that why you stayed in the Kingsguard? To be your sister's sword arm?"

"That was part of it," Jaime said, watching Robb closely.

The pain in the retelling was obvious, but Robb knew better than to comment on it. Just like he knew better than to say what he really thought, which was that it was rather cold of Cersei Lannister to reduce her twin brother to nothing more than a beast of burden—but perhaps that wasn't fair. And either way, saying so would do nothing but put Jaime's back up, and he spoke about his sister and his childhood rarely as it was.

"Well, I disagree," Robb said, keeping his voice light. "Everyone looks like a dullard compared to your brother, that doesn't mean your ideas don't have merit."

Jaime's smile had more than a hint of relief in it, even as he lounged back in his seat and said, "Trying to build up my ego now, are you?"

"Your ego needs no help from me," Robb said, and was rewarded with Jaime's laughter, his mood lightening further. "No, I think you aren't wrong about wanting a navy, I just don't think it can be accomplished in a moon's turn. Let's finish with the Moat Cailin restoration before you go and transform the rest of the North, aye?"

Jaime grinned, but they did settle down into discussing Moat Cailin's progress in earnest. The repairs were continuing in good time, and to everyone's surprise, a fledgling village had already formed in the shadow of the half-repaired towers, spurred on by the steady influx of craftsmen and laborers from the South, more and more of them arriving with their families as well.

"I'd expected to have a harder time bringing workers in," Robb admitted, reviewing the latest reports.

"The majority of them seem to be arriving from King's Landing and the surrounding Crownlands," Jaime observed. "It makes sense—there's more people than available work in the capital, and an empty stomach will spur you into tolerating a lot, even the summer snows of the North."

"We might need to send more men-at-arms to help keep the peace," Robb said, making a note of it. "And to make sure we don't have any wandering septons looking to establish themselves in new territory before Bran can take his seat."

"Oh, so you no longer think the old and new gods can coexist?"

Robb rolled his eyes. "They can when there’s a Northern lord who knows what he’s doing." He frowned a little, looking at the report more closely, and said, "But it's not just from the south that people are coming, the castellan's reporting that many of the more recent arrivals are smallfolk from the lands around the Dreadfort."

"From House Bolton?" Jaime asked.

"Yes."

Jaime sat up a little straighter at the note in Robb’s voice. "Is it usual to have people migrating within the North like that?"

"No," Robb said thoughtfully. "Especially not that far." He was about to say more, but there came a careful knock at the door. Thinking it might be Jon or one of his parents, Robb called out, “Come in.”

To his surprise, it was Lady Carys who came in, with Tyrion at her heels. Her usually impassive face looked uneasy, but Tyrion looked perfectly relaxed, asking lightly, “I hope we aren’t interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Jaime said, an eyebrow lifted.

Lady Carys barely waited for Tyrion to take his seat before blurting out, “Ser Jaime, I have…a problem that your brother suggested you would be able to assist with.”

Surprise flickered across Jaime’s face, but he said, “I can certainly try.”

Robb couldn’t begin to guess what Lady Carys would need help with that she wouldn’t go to his mother over, but he certainly didn’t expect that she, after Tyrion gave her an encouraging nod, would square her shoulders and say stoutly, “I want you to show me how to defend myself with a dagger.”

“You want to do what?” Robb asked, genuinely surprised.

“Well, it’s not as if I can carry a sword with me everywhere I go,” Lady Carys retorted, the first glimpse of life that Robb had ever seen from her—at least, the first time he’d seen it directed at anyone other than Tyrion or the girls.

“No, of course not, I mean—” Flushing, Robb clarified, “I mean, is there a reason you would fear for your safety here, Lady Carys? Has anyone—”

Lady Carys watched him closely, as if she were taking his measure, before saying, “I don’t fear for my safety here in Winterfell, no, at least not more than anywhere else in the North. I would like to learn how to defend myself, however, and Lord Tyrion said that since your husband has been so good as to help train Arya in swordplay, he’d be willing to do this as well.”

"Did he now," Jaime said, looking pointedly at his brother.

"Well, given that my skill with a dagger amounts to knowing the sharp bit is supposed to go into someone else, I thought it best that Lady Carys be taught by a master," Tyrion said.

"And you're the most suitable teacher." Lady Carys added.

Jaime's eyebrow went up. "How so?"

Carys' jaw was set, and she said, "You're a bonded man. I can ask you for a favor without worrying my request might be...misconstrued."

Jaime titled his head. "You mean that I won't try to bed you."

"Precisely."

Jaime glanced at Robb, then said carefully, "As flattered as I am, Lady Carys, I should reassure you that I doubt anyone in this castle would...do you an outrage."

Lady Carys' expression hardened. "I doubt it as well," she said. "But I prefer to deal in certainties."

Her scarred chin was jutting out, and Robb knew exactly who had given her that scar, and why Lady Carys would want something more tangible than a man's word to keep herself safe. Jaime knew it as well, because he didn't press further. "Very well. Do you have a dagger already, or should we—"

Lady Carys promptly retrieved a dagger from the folds of her skirt, a delicately crafted thing that fit well in her palm, but with a sharp edge.

"I had the blacksmith knock something together," Tyrion explained in his casual way. "Shockingly plain by Lannister standards, of course, which makes it fitting for a Northern lady."

Lady Carys' mouth momentarily curved up, and she said to Tyrion, "Thank you for recognizing I don't need fripperies on a weapon." But her humor was gone when she turned back to Jaime, asking with a touch of anxiety, "It is suitable, isn't it?"

"No, it's perfect," Jaime assured her. "You'll want something discreet that you can keep hidden on your person, not some gaudy and oversized dagger meant only for show."

"You really have become a Northman," Robb couldn't help but interject, and Jaime turned to flash him a charming grin.

Jaime quickly settled on a time and place where they could meet in private for training, one that didn’t conflict with Tyrion’s myriad duties—and Robb saw how Lady Carys relaxed even more, at the confirmation that Tyrion would be there to supervise.

Robb didn’t understand her, not really. But she was here in Winterfell, helping to teach her sisters, growing a friendship with his goodbrother, and above everything else, she was a woman who came to Winterfell seeking sanctuary. And since everything and everyone in Winterfell was his responsibility (or would be) Robb figured he should start to understand Lady Carys.

And as he glanced down at the desk, with the reports from Moat Cailin staring back at him, Robb had an idea of where to begin.

"Lady Carys, a word?” At her inquiring look, Robb laid out the most recent report from Moat Cailin, Robb explained about the most recent report from Moat Cailin, the one that told of the smallfolk previously pledged to House Bolton leaving to settle around Moat Cailin and the Neck. As a member of House Hornwood, who were the closest neighbors to the Dreadfort, she might have seen something, heard rumors to explain this exodus.

Lady Carys listened in what Robb knew to be her usual impassive way, which was why her words came as such a shock. She said, steadily, "That doesn't surprise me at all. And if the smallfolk have really found a way to escape Roose Bolton's rule, then I'm glad for them."

Robb's eyebrows flew up. "I know he has the reputation of being a stern lord—"

"There is stern, and then there is brutal," Lady Carys said, her quiet voice gaining an edge. She paused before going on, as if realizing that she'd spoken too freely, before glancing at Tyrion as if for reassurance.

Tyrion gave it, saying gently, "Anything you have to say can be trusted with Jaime and Robb."

Lady Carys nodded, taking a deep breath as she said, "I didn't reside at House Hornwood very long, but that was long enough to see the smallfolk crossing into their borders to poach game, because they couldn't make a living in their villages, not with the taxes that House Bolton levies. And I heard other things...dark things of Roose Bolton in particular. They were all rumors, nothing proven, but I ask you, what decent lord is believed to be capable of flaying and torturing criminals in this age? There's even—" Lady Carys checked herself, before saying lowly, "I hope and pray it’s not true, but there are even those that whisper that House Bolton still holds to the practice of First Night."

"That's impossible," Robb said immediately, and Lady Carys' lips tightened. Hastily, Robb added, "I mean, First Night's been banned in the Seven Kingdoms for centuries!"

"Allegedly, Roose Bolton brought it back in the wake of the Rebellion,” she said, then added reluctantly, “It could have just been servants’ talk, but…I think it’s true. I could believe anything of that man.”

“Gods above,” Robb groaned, rubbing at his face as the true horror of this sank in. “If this is proven—”

“It would explain a lot,” Tyrion murmured, and as Robb turned to him in disbelief, Jaime prodded, “Tyrion, what does that mean?”

Tyrion opened his mouth, paused, and then turned to Carys. "Lady Carys, if I could ask for your discretion—"

Carys's dark eyebrow rose, and she said dryly, "Well, I was going to stand in the courtyard at midday and shout out all your secrets, but now that you've asked me not to, I suppose I can oblige."

Surprised and delighted, Robb let out a crack of laughter, and Lady Carys' cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Tyrion just grinned and said to Jaime, "You see why I like her?"

"Your discernment is impeccable, little brother," Jaime said. "Now tell us what you've been up to regarding House Bolton."

Tyrion's smile melted away, and he looked grave. "Right. So as we all know, Lord and Lady Stark have been working on finding a northern bridegroom for Sansa. From a purely political standpoint, Domeric Bolton's the best pick of the lot—"

Robb pulled a face, his distaste clearly mirrored by Lady Carys. "I still think we should give Smalljon Umber a closer look."

"I did say from a political perspective," Tyrion said. "They're the largest and most powerful house in the North after House Stark, with none of the pesky southern ties like the Manderlys, and it would go a very long way to resolving any lingering bad blood between the Boltons and the Starks."

"But to give Sansa a goodfather like Roose Bolton," Jaime said, wrinkling his nose.

"And who's to say the son's not as bad as his father? Or worse?" Robb asked.

"That's why I started making some very delicate inquiries regarding young Domeric. He's currently being fostered in the Vale, and from all accounts is a promising young man. No bad habits, well-liked by Lord Redfort's household. So far I haven't been able to find a single bad word spoken against him." Tyrion took a breath. "That is not the case when it comes to his brother."

"I never heard of Roose Bolton having a second son," Robb said, surprised.

"Not a trueborn son," Tyrion elaborates. "A bastard by the name of Ramsey Snow, who is already developing a certain...reputation."

"Reputation for what?"

Tyiron throws up his hands. "I can't say for sure! No one from the area is willing to even speak of it, they all just shudder and change the subject, even when I promise that no harm will come to them."

"Who are your sources, if I may ask?" Jaime prodded.

Tyrion grimaced a little, and glanced at Carys, who just looked back at him and said, "They're the whores at the brothel, are they not?"

“Well, yes, but I was trying to be discreet,” Tyrion said, with a flash of humor. He grew serious once more, saying, “One of the women there has brought her younger sister in to work as a laundress. They originally lived in a small holdfast a few miles away from the Dreadfort, before their father died. The younger sister can’t work as a whore, however, she’s too…scarred.”

“Scarred,” Jaime repeated, flatly. “You don’t mean from the pox or a bad childhood fall—”

“I mean that someone, almost certainly Ramsey Snow, took a knife and carved this girl’s face open,” Tyrion responded. “But even though they live in Wintertown now and I’ve given them my word they’ll be protected from reprisals, they still won’t go to Lord Stark and make any complaints against Roose Bolton’s bastard son.”

Robb sat back in his seat, his dismay and alarm a growing weight in his stomach. “We have to take this to my father. If Roose Bolton and Ramsey Snow are really…” He shook his head. “Roose Bolton is our most powerful bannerman, and House Bolton has never gotten along with the Starks. Even to this day they cling to the memory of when they were the Red Kings. Confronting him…it won’t be easy.”

“So let’s make sure we do it right,” Jaime said. “And make sure that Roose Bolton can’t wriggle out of his responsibility for what he and his son have done.”

He sounded entirely confident, and Robb took a breath and took that confidence on, until it became his own.

Jaime was fairly impressed at how quickly the Starks started moving, once it was confirmed that Roose Bolton was a monster.

They snuck the whore and the laundress into the keep, thanks to Theon, and carefully questioned them and got their sworn testimony to Ramsey Snow’s crimes, as well as details of the particular villages around the Dreadfort that the bastard liked to terrorize in particular.

“They say he has a cave,” the laundress Branda told them in Ned Stark’s solar, trembling faintly from head to toe. Ramsey Snow had cut her face open at the corners of her mouth, the thick scars twisting her freckled face into a constant, macabre smile, even as tears dripped down her ruined cheeks. “A place where he…does things to women. To their bodies.”

“How many people know about the cave?” Ned asked. He’d kept his voice mild and soft throughout, so as not to terrify the poor girl any more than she already was, but Jaime could see the tension in his rigid shoulders and pinched mouth.

“Everyone knows,” Branda whispered. “Everyone.”

Her sister, Fion, was calmer, even cold in her fury. “So you want my sister to risk her neck in giving sworn testimony against Lord Bolton and his demon of a son, without any protection—”

“She will be protected,” Ned said. “I give you my word as a Stark.”

Fion laughed at that, sharp and bitter. “What does the word of a Stark mean to girls like us? Will it give my sister money to care for herself in her old age? Will it keep her safe when the Boltons come looking for revenge?”

“Yes,” Ned said, not bristling at her mockery and disbelief. “That is what it means.”

Fion’s mouth twisted, and then she turned away from Ned to look at Tyrion, who was sitting at the side table with Maester Luwin as the maester transcribed the girls’ testimonies. “Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion said, gently, “I wouldn’t have brought you and your sister here if I didn’t trust in Lord Stark’s word, Fion. You and your sister will be safe.”

If Ned was offended at the fact that it took Tyrion, a southerner and a Lannister, to convince his own smallfolk to trust him, he showed no sign of it. And the girls had agreed at last, putting Xs at the bottom of the scroll detailing their allegations against House Bolton, witnessed by Ned, Jaime, and Tyrion.

There was more, of course. Ned sent a raven to his old friend Howland Reed in the Neck, and Lord Reed had promptly traveled to Moat Cailin to gather further evidence of the Boltons’ crimes, and by the Seven, he’d found it—a young couple who’d fled their homes so that the bride wouldn’t be subjected to First Night, grieving mothers mourning the daughters who’d been chased to death by Ramsey Snow and his hounds, a father who’d disowned his son for joining in Ramsey Snow’s crimes, and had to flee with the rest of his family before their son became a kinslayer at Ramsey Snow’s urging.

It was a mountain of evidence that couldn’t be ignored, and it wouldn’t be.

“Ramsey Snow is a mad dog,” Ned said grimly in his solar, the afternoon after they’d received Howland Reed’s reports. “And you don’t do anything with a mad dog but put it down.”

“I agree,” Jaime said, but asked next, “And his father?”

Ned’s mouth thinned. “As a lord and as my bannerman—” the disgusted snarl Ned put on that last word was impressive, it really was, “Roose Bolton is entitled to a trial. He’ll get one.” Jaime held his tongue, but Ned turned to look at him as though Jaime had spoken, saying harshly, “You’d have me manage it differently, I suppose. Bring him down the way your father brought down House Reyne and House Tarbeck.”

Jaime didn’t respond to the goading, not right away. First, because he’d managed quite well this past year giving Ned a healthy amount of distance, and Ned had responded in kind. Secondly, because he’d seen the look on Ned’s face during Branda’s testimony, as it was revealed just what kind of crimes had been happening in the North all this while, all as Ned had ruled as Warden of the North. Any bitterness Ned turned Jaime’s direction was, Jaime knew, only a fraction of the bitterness that Ned turned towards himself.

But that was the Starks for you.

“If you’re going to give Bolton a trial,” Jaime said, measured, “then you had better make sure there is only one possible verdict to come out of it. I won’t have this man living on as a problem for Robb to solve in the future, just because we can’t manage to solve it now.”

Ned nodded, saying darkly, “On that we’re agreed. Roose Bolton must and will pay for the atrocities he’s committed, and the crimes he’s allowed his son to commit.”

“And he doesn’t get to go to the Wall when he’s found guilty,” Jaime added. “I won’t have him alive and able to cause mischief, even if he is stripped of his lands and titles.”

Ned’s mouth grew even thinner at that, but he eventually nodded. “Agreed.”

To Jaime’s endless relief, Ned had proven to be reasonable enough to allow a measure of deception—the supposed reason for their trip out east would be to visit Karhold and speak to old Lord Karstark about a possible fostering at Winterfell for one of his sons, with perhaps a betrothal to Sansa in the cards. And of course the route to Karhold would mean going through Roose Bolton’s lands, and perhaps speaking to some of the smallfolk along the way…

“Seems cruel to get Lord Karstark’s hopes up,” Robb said that same night, with forced levity. “Uncle Benjen once said that Lord Karstark would empty his coffers for the chance of seeing a child of his wed to a Stark.”

“Perhaps he won’t be disappointed,” Jaime offered, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his boots off. “I doubt Domeric Bolton will be a candidate for your sister’s hand after this.”

Robb’s mouth turned down at this, and he stared down at the linen undershirt he’d just pulled off as though he had no idea why it was still in his hands. “I miss the days when our biggest concern was who Sansa would marry.” His mouth twisted further as he added, “Now I’m preparing to send you off to capture a pair of madmen.”

His feet finally free from his boots, Jaime tilted his head up to look at his husband. “Do you think the Boltons are the most dangerous foe I’ve faced? Because if so, I clearly haven’t told you enough about fighting the Ironborn during the siege of Pyke—”

“I that I’d be happier if I was at your side,” Robb muttered.

Jaime paused, realizing that this would not be something he wouldn’t be able to tease Robb into a better humor over. Pulling the undershirt out of Robb’s unresisting hands, Jaime let it fall to the floor before reeling Robb in with a gentle pull to his wrist. “We can’t risk the heir to Winterfell and the Lord of Winterfell in the same action,” he said, as gently as he could. “And your father needs me there, not just for my sword, but so Roose Bolton and all his men know that House Lannister stands with him.”

“I know the logic behind it,” Robb said, sharp. “I even agree that it’s the right decision, I just—I want to keep you safe. The North was supposed to be better for you than King’s Landing.”

“Of course it’s better here,” Jaime said, only realizing after he’d said it that he meant every word. He’d known it to be true for ages now, he just hadn’t planned on ever admitting it out loud. “Did you think you would be able to shield me from everything?”

“Maybe,” Robb grumbled, still mutinous. “I can try at least.”

There was more that Jaime could say, starting with pointing out that he’d faced the Kingswood Brotherhood before Robb was even alive, or that after a year, their bond was stable enough to handle the separation—or even Jaime being injured or killed, if it came to that. (On second thought, that probably wouldn’t be very comforting.)

But Robb was so worried, Jaime could sense just how helpless he felt, and he knew Robb didn’t want logic at this stage, or for Jaime to point out how skilled he was with a sword and how unlikely it was that any of Bolton’s men would so much as touch him.

And finally—Jaime liked that Robb wanted to keep him safe. His entire life, he’d been the one shielding others, as Tyrion’s protector, as Cersei’s strong sword arm. No one had ever looked to him and thought that he would need protecting, at least not before now.

So instead of approaching it with logic, or teasing, Jaime just stood up and pulled Robb into a kiss, drawing it out until Robb was with him fully, clutching at his back and rocking his hips forward, and they tumbled down to the bed together.

Robb took the lead throughout, tying Jaime’s wrists together above his head with a strip of cloth, working himself open with oil-slick fingers while Jaime cursed and writhed helplessly, inflamed at the sight.

“Let me touch you,” he panted out, gasping as Robb slowly sank down onto Jaime’s cock, rocking back and forth to find the best angle. “Robb—”

“No,” Robb said, low, his face flushed and the sweat gleaming on his shoulders, shuddering as he took Jaime in fully. “No, I’m going to do this, and you have to take it—”

And Jaime did, he took it all, lying there as Robb worked himself back and forth on his cock, rising and falling until Jaime was nearly incoherent, the hot clench of Robb’s body around him the only thing in the world that mattered at all.

“You will come back to me,” Robb demanded, his voice cracking as he dropped down to brace his arms on either side of Jaime’s head. “Not a single drop of your blood will be shed, not a hair on your head harmed—”

“Is that an order?” Jaime gasped out, his hips snapping upwards, drawing a whimper from Robb’s mouth.

“Yes,” Robb hissed out, fucking himself on Jaime’s cock. “Yes, yes—”

Later, as they were catching their breath, with Robb a heavy weight across Jaime’s chest, Jaime promised, “I’ll come back, and I’ll bring you Ramsey Snow’s head on a spike as a present.”

“Leave his head at the Dreadfort, even if it’s not attached to his shoulders,” Robb said. “Just come back, and make sure Jon’s safe as well.” There was an unhappy note in there; as Jaime’s squire, Jon was riding out with their party, and Jaime knew Robb felt a touch of jealousy over that, in addition to his worry.

“Of course I will,” Jaime agreed. “He’s the first squire I’ve had, I can’t have him dying or getting maimed before I actually manage to knight him. Imagine how it’ll make me look.”

Robb let out a huff of laughter at that, and Jaime smiled into his hair, dropping a kiss into the dark curls before letting sleep take over him.

It was an impressive sight, the day that Robb’s father and husband rode out to bring the Boltons to justice. His father had the greatsword Ice strapped to his back, and in his furs and armor he was every inch the Northern lord and successful veteran of two wars.

Jaime was in his Lannister colors, for the first time in ages, and the red and gold finery felt foreign to Robb’s eyes (who had become accustomed to seeing Jaime in hunting leathers, in Stark colors) but he couldn’t deny Jaime looked well in them.

It was a tactical decision as much as anything else, Robb knew—the smallfolk might recognize the Lannister colors, might respond to a stranger more positively than they would his father, and what had things come to that this could even be so?

They’re going to go fix it, he reminded himself. They would bring the Boltons to justice, and bring honor back to the North, and then they would come home.

Jon looked all nerves as he rode out on his gelding, but he managed a smile for them all and a wave for Arya, before he rode out with the rest of the party in a thunder of hoofbeats and waving banners.

Robb knew the sense of emptiness was just from watching everyone depart, not anything to do with the bond or any premonition of disaster, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

As he watched them all disappear down the bend in the road, Robb felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turned to see his mother by his side, a gentle and understanding smile on her lips. She didn’t lie and tell him that the time apart would go by faster than expected, or that everything would be fine, she just said gently, “Staying busy will help. You’ll see.”

And because he knew that his mother had sent her husband off to war twice, and that she knew what she was speaking of, Robb believed her.

He followed her advice over the next few days with mixed results. Robb held court in his father’s name, held training in the yard, answered ravens and looked after his siblings, but all the while he waited for Jaime to appear at his shoulder, to hear Jaime’s teasing voice in his ear, to find Jaime’s lean body warming his bed.

But there was no one at his shoulder, only silence at his ear and a cold bed to greet him at night.

Robb managed as best he could, but what became his undoing wasn’t Jaime’s absence, but the dreams that came to Robb while he was gone.

At first they were vague, dim impressions of long blond hair spread out on a pillow, a woman’s soft body pressed against his own, the smell of perfume surrounding him. But then they became more vivid, more real—shockingly obscene visions of himself as Jaime, entangled in bed with this woman, fucking her in a lustful frenzy, watching as her beautiful face twisted in ecstasy as she moved beneath him, her long blond hair streaming over the pillow…

It took Robb longer than it should have to put the pieces together, to realize these weren’t dreams, but visions given to (or inflicted upon) him by the gods, all for a greater understanding. All so that Robb could know the best thing Jaime had done…followed by knowing the worst thing that Jaime had done.

Because it was brutally obvious who the woman was, why her blond hair was a perfect match for Jaime’s, why her features were so familiar, even when they were twisted with lust.

Robb knew who she was, even before hearing Jaime gasp out her name, “Cersei, Cersei,” in exactly the same tone that he gasped out Robb’s name in their marriage bed.

And just like the visions of wildfire that he’d received a year ago, Robb didn’t believe it to be true, he didn’t want it to be true—

—and yet, eventually, he had no choice but to know that it was true, as horrible as it was, and no matter what it would cost him.

Chapter 3

Notes

To misquote Ted Lasso, right now we’re in the dark forest, but at some point we’ll get out.

Content notes for violence and Boltons being Boltons.

Ramsay Snow was on his knees before them all, and yet he had a faint smile on his face, as though it didn't matter at all that he was moments away from losing his head.

The bile rose up in Jaime’s throat, looking down into those pale, utterly mad blue eyes. For a moment, he was back in the throne room of the Red Keep, looking at Aerys Targaryen—but it was years later, he was in the forests of the North, and this time, thank the Gods, he was not alone.

They’d had an absurdly good run of luck leading up to this—easy weather all the way to the Dreadfort, smallfolk in their holdfasts all too eager to speak, once they were assured they were speaking to the Lord of Winterfell, to the Jaime Lannister. The local baker had even put together a small party to guide them, the men pathetically eager to do something now that the risk was off their shoulders. Not that Jaime could blame them.

And they’d found the bastard, him and his vicious hounds and his pathetic minions, but they’d found him too late for the girl he was already in the process of carving up. It had been a short, brutal fight—Jory Cassel’s arm had been mauled by one of the hounds, but they’d had too much manpower not to win, particularly with the archers they’d brought, and before long, the hounds were all dead, Ramsay Snow and his beastly little followers were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs, and the poor dead girl had been decently covered with Jon Snow’s cloak.

“Have you anything to say before I pass judgment?” Ned asked. You would have called his face expressionless, unless you caught a good look at his eyes, and saw the anguished fury there.

Ramsay Snow shook his head. “Only that I have followed in the steps of every Bolton man before me.”

Jaime ground his teeth together, and behind him one of the men let out an oath.

Ned’s expression didn’t shift. “Then in the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, I, Eddard Stark, sentence you to death.”

And for all his grand proclamations and demonic ways, Ramsay Snow’s head came off his shoulders as easily as any other condemned man’s.

His little acolytes didn’t fare so well; two blubbered and wept, one pissed his breeches. His fury rising after hearing the second man futilely plead for mercy he didn’t deserve, Jaime muttered in an aside to Ned, “Let me help you rid the world of this craven scum.”

Ned paused, but shook his head. “I’ve passed the sentence, so I must be the one to swing the sword. There will be time yet before you’re called on to do the same.”

So it was Ned who swung his greatsword for every execution, not bothering to clean it in between swings. By the time it was over, the great Valyrian sword was dripping with blood.

Jon had held it together throughout the entire grim affair, not flinching or looking away once, even if the horror of it all was written clear across his face, but his voice cracked as he asked, gesturing at the body of the dead girl, “What do we do with—”

One of their guides from the village grimaced. “Alyssa, her name was. We’ll carry her body back to her family, milords. Least we can do.”

“We’ll give an escort before we head on to the Dreadfort,” Ned declared, and no one argued.

There was very little speech during the slow trek back to the village, no crowing or bragging from any of the men. Jaime understood; this wasn’t the sort of victory you could glory in.

Glancing behind him, Jaime noticed that Jon still looked utterly wretched, his face practically gone grey and his dark eyes lost and unseeing.

After a moment, Jaime slowed his mount, maneuvering so that he’d fallen back far enough that he and Jon were now riding side by side, the rest of the party moving ahead of them.

“I’m all right,” Jon muttered before Jaime could speak, still not looking at him.

“Of course you aren’t all right,” Jaime said. “How could you be, after what we’ve seen today?”

Jon’s face crumbled, and when he finally looked at Jaime, he looked like a lost child. “How could—how—”

“I don’t know,” Jaime said to him. “All men carry beasts within them, but most never let theirs out, or even know the beast is there. Others…they’re nothing but beasts, you understand? They can’t be checked, they can’t be reformed or reasoned with—the only thing you can do is put them down.”

Jon swallowed, thinking it over. “So you don’t think…it wasn’t because he was a bastard that he—”

“Of course not,” Jaime said heatedly, understanding in a flash where this questioning of Jon’s was headed. “Gregor Clegane’s as trueborn as I am, and he’s an abomination, his name loathed and feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And furthermore, if I ever hear you so much as hint that you have anything in common with the filth your father just exterminated, I’ll wring your damned neck.”

It was an stupid threat, Jaime had to admit—how would the threat of being strangled make Jon feel better? But somehow it worked, as Jon huffed out something close to the ghost of a laugh, before nodding, resolve forming on his face as he looked at Jaime. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by keeping your guard up when we get to the Dreadfort,” Jaime replied. “Because I fear that all this was the easy part of our travels.”

*

Jaime kept his hand on the hilt of his sword from the moment they rode in through the gates of the Dreadfort.

He had very reluctantly agreed to Ned Stark’s insistence that Roose Bolton face a trial, but from the moment Jaime caught sight of the cold-eyed bastard, holding out the platter of bread and the bowl of salt, Jaime immediately had a wild fantasy of leaping down from his saddle to swing his sword and take Roose Bolton’s head off his shoulders in one great blow.

“Lord Stark,” Bolton said, his voice and face utterly blank. If he knew what they were there for, he gave no sign of it. “Please, partake of my bread and salt.”

Ned looked at him, and then dismounted. Jaime immediately came down from his mount as well, standing at Ned’s shoulder as he ate the bread and salt.

“Lord Bolton,” Ned said quietly once he was finished, “it is my duty to inform you that your son, Ramsay Snow, is dead.”

Bolton’s face didn’t shift, not by an inch. They could have been talking about the harvest, rather than the death of his son. “News has already reached me of his death.”

Ned nodded at this, watching him closely. “Then you know he was executed for his crimes against the smallfolk on your lands.”

That finally got a reaction, a muscle in Bolton’s jaw leaping as he said, “I was astonished to hear of his brutal acts, Lord Stark. Believe me, had I known what the wretched boy was doing, I would have taken his head myself.”

“So kinslaying would have been another crime committed in these lands,” Jaime said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Astonishing, what’s tolerated here.”

Roose Bolton turned a flinty gaze towards him. “Ser Jaime, I hope you are not accusing me of complicity in Ramsey’s crimes—”

“No, it’s not your bastard’s crimes you’re being charged with,” Jaime retorted, and Bolton’s expression flickered, as though he knew exactly what Jaime’s wordplay was referring to.

Ned gave him a sharp, quelling look, and Jaime subsided for the moment.

“Your son’s crimes are beyond question, we caught him…in the act of dismembering one of his victims, a young girl he’d just killed. However,” Ned paused, then said, “A trial will be called, to address what has been discovered.”

“The boy’s dead. What’s left to discuss?” Bolton demanded, and there it was—the flicker of fear in his eyes.

“The crimes you have been accused of, Lord Bolton,” Ned said, and Jaime felt it as his words rippled throughout the courtyard.

“The crimes I have been accused of?” Bolton’s face was starting to go red. Even his iron control had a breaking point, it seemed, and it was bitterly satisfying to watch.

“You stand accused of rape and murder, Lord Bolton,” Ned said evenly. “In connection with having restarted the barbarous practice of First Night.”

“Though I’m sure we’ll find even more atrocities, as we keep looking,” Jaime mused out loud. “Plenty of time for that.”

Jaime didn’t bother watching Bolton’s face as Ned laid out the details of the trial, how it would be held at Winterfell, the lords that would stand alongside Ned in judgment, instead he watched the men-at-arms behind Bolton, their alert gazes, how they were clearly ready to spring into motion at just one sign from their lord.

“And if I refuse to cooperate with this absurdity?” Bolton demanded through clenched teeth.

“You made oaths, Lord Bolton,” Ned said in warning, his voice hard. “Including the oath to recognize my authority over you as Warden of the North.”

“Just what do you think you’re going to do but submit, Bolton?” Jaime asked. “You think you’ll be able to hold out here forever? Against the combined forces of the North and the Westerlands? Never mind the assistance that King Robert will no doubt offer, as news of your house’s crimes travels down south. King Robert won his throne by defeating madmen, and you and your son are nothing if not mad.”

“Tell your goodson to watch his damned tongue,” Bolton said, his face growing even darker, eyes glittering.

Oh yes. Jaime knew a madman when he saw one. He’d given Bolton credit, he hid it better than his son, and certainly wasn’t as far gone as Areys, but the madness was there all the same.

Ned’s gaze flickered between them for a moment, then he said, evenly, “Whatever madness has happened here, Lord Bolton, Ser Jaime is correct—it will end here. One way or another, it will end.” His voice hardened, and Ned Stark continued, “Even if I personally have to take this fortress apart with my bare hands, brick by brick, and raze it to the ground to make it so. I will never condone the atrocities that have happened here under your watch and in your name.” A muscle leapt in his jaw, and Ned’s voice was thick with disgust as he finished. “The day of the Red Kings has long passed, Bolton. They won’t be coming back.”

Later, Jaime would turn over Ned’s words in his mind, trying to understand why they moved him so, why his heart had leapt as he’d listened to Ned speak—it took him far too long to admit that it was because it was a speech that he knew his father would have never made, never even have thought to have made.

But now, in the moment, there was no time for that, as Jaime saw, even as the seconds slowed to a crawl, he saw the exact moment in which Roose Bolton decided he had absolutely nothing left to lose—and that if he was already a dead man, at least he could take a Stark with him to the grave.

Jaime let out a yell of warning, even as he reached out to shove Ned down, pushing him to the ground as Bolton whipped out the dagger from his belt and moved to plunge it into Ned Stark’s chest. Jaime gritted his teeth as a band of fire was driven through his shoulder, but it was his left shoulder and not his right, he could manage this. He had to manage this, otherwise he was a dead man.

Gritting his teeth, he bought himself a few precious seconds by kicking Bolton squarely between the legs, enough time to pull the dagger free from his shoulder—there was a dizzying spurt of blood, but now Jaime had an extra weapon in his hand, and enough time to pull out his own sword.

Dimly, Jaime was aware of the chaos around him, men shouting, the clash of steel. But Jaime didn’t have time for any of that, not when his prey was lying there before him.

Bolton had no weapon left; Jaime bared his teeth and said, “Lost your blade? Stupid of you.” And before Bolton could say or do anything else, Jaime slid the blade of his sword right through the treacherous bastard’s gut.

A cry erupted from behind him, and Jaime whirled around in time to see one of Bolton’s men rushing him, sword raised, but Ned was already there, cutting the man down with his greatsword.

The fighting was already dying down, as the Dreadfort’s men realized their lord was already bleeding to death on the ground. Jon was all right, Jaime realized after a frantic scan of the crowd, his sword unsheathed and dripping blood, but there were three men down and unmoving. Jaime didn’t recognize two of them, but the third—

“Fuck,” Jaime spat out, staring at Jory Cassel’s body. “Fuck the Seven.”

He turned away from the dead man, from Jon’s devastated face, from their now-prisoners kneeling in the dirt, and looked back at the dying Roose Bolton, futilely trying to keep his guts from spilling free.

The fever of the battle, short as it was, was already starting to wane, and Jaime knew he’d be in a world of pain once the injury to his shoulder really started to register—fuck, there had better be a maester in this accursed place. But for now, rage was keeping him on his feet, pushing him forward as he lifted his sword and pointed it at Bolton’s throat.

“Your house is going to die with you,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Your head and your bastard’s head will go on the ramparts of your own keep as a warning, I’ll see your heir sent to the Wall or the Citadel, and your name will go into the fucking dirt, I’ll make sure of it. My word as a Lannister.”

Bolton’s pain-glazed eyes went wide, his mouth opened in a gurgle, blood already dripping from his lips—and Jaime stuck his sword through Bolton’s throat, blood gushing everywhere.

He swayed a little on his feet as he stepped back from the corpse, and Jon was there with a steadying hand on his arm. “Jaime! Oh gods, your shoulder—”

“It’s fine, I’ve had worse,” Jaime said impatiently, even as he felt an unwelcome wave of dizziness. He looked to where Ned was kneeling over Jory’s body, swallowed and said, “Go and get this hellpit of a fortress secured, and then get a maester who can see to my arm.”

He ended up sitting in the dirt himself, hand clutching his wounded shoulder, the dizziness going only worse as he felt a wave of terror and anger that wasn’t his own. Jaime closed his eyes, and tried to reach back to his husband in Winterfell, trying to send some type of signal to indicate that he was fine, but he couldn’t know if he’d succeeded.

At least with the unexplained pain in his shoulder, Robb now had an excuse for why he was so hollow-eyed and pale. His mother didn’t seem to entirely believe it, and Tyrion definitely didn’t, but they had much bigger issues to deal with.

Something had happened at the Dreadfort, they all knew that much, thanks to Robb howling in pain while holding court in his father’s name. He’d been handling a dispute over sheep, abruptly interrupted when he’d screamed and clutched at his shoulder, a blaze of pain running through it as though he’d been stabbed.

Or as though his soulmate had.

The pain had reduced to a dull throb by evening, and Robb knew that Jaime was alive—he’d been able to feel Jaime’s anger and hatred, the fierce energy that came when he was in a fight.

Something had happened at the Dreadfort, but Jaime was alive, and Robb had to trust that his father and Jon were all right.

Which just left the other disaster to deal with.

For a week now, Robb had been cursed with the foul, obscene visions of his husband, his soulmate, fucking the Queen of Westeros, who was also his twin sister, committing the crimes of incest and treason in one profane act.

Well. Not one act. They’d been at it for years, as best as Robb could work out, the locations of their…trysts changing from what Robb knew to be rooms within the Red Keep to a place Robb could only assume was Casterly Rock, to an inn that was in King’s Landing, to the damned Kingswood, to—

And he’d heard them. It hadn’t been enough to see it, to feel Jaime’s desperate and all-consuming lust for his own sister, but he’d had to hear it all—the day that Cersei Lannister convinced her brother to reject his birthright and join the Kingsguard, all by trading up her virginity and promising to continue the to be his mistress once she’d married Rhaegar Targaryen. Well, that marriage had never come to pass, but Robb had to give the woman credit—she’d certainly kept her word. Jaime had had her for years, all throughout her marriage to the king, right up until, presumably, Robb’s mark appeared on his wrist to stop their foul union in its tracks.

But Robb feared that wasn’t the end of it. Because amidst the treason and the incest and the lies, he’d seen the same image over and over again, three golden crowns, shrouded in black.

Three crowns. Three royal children, all said to be as blond as their mother…and their uncle.

Please, gods no. But Robb knew that while the gods were almost certainly listening they would not relent. They would make him see it all, bear witness to the worst thing that Jaime had done, force him to face it so that he could…what?

Robb had no idea. And now that he had this ache in his shoulder, a reminder of the wound Jaime had received while in the service of House Stark, defending the laws of the North, serving under his father’s command—

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage. He wanted all of this to not be happening.

Robb wasn’t a child, he knew that soulbonds didn’t come with a guarantee of happiness or even a contented life. Sometimes (though rarely) the bonds broke, or the couple wasn’t compatible. If one of the two died before the bond was stabilized, the other partner’s life would be in grave danger, and the maesters all agreed they were unlikely to be the same afterwards, even if they did survive the loss of their soulmate.

But nothing compared to trying to ignore or disregard your Mark. The pain of it aside, ignoring your Mark, your bondmate, it never led to anything good. You had to look no further than the awful fates of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower for proof of what happened when god-given Marks were ignored in favor of politics and Targaryen marriage practices. After the Dance, everyone from Last Hearth to Sunspear, from White Harbour to Oldtown could agree—disregarding one’s Mark entirely would lead to utter catastrophe, for the Marked pair and their Houses.

Robb hadn’t done that. He’d followed his Mark, he’d married his bondmate, he’d worked to tie their lives and their families together without hesitation or fear…and this was the result? How could this possibly be fair? How could this be the destiny the gods had in mind for him, for House Stark?

But here they were, and here he was. The Mark was still on his arm, his husband was still guilty of unspeakable crimes, and the gods had deemed it necessary somehow for him to be hopelessly and fully aware of it all, while not being able to do a damned thing about it.

*

The raven came to Winterfell just two days after Robb felt the burning pain in his shoulder. Ramsey Snow was dead, and so was Lord Bolton, killed by Jaime after Bolton had broken guest right and tried to kill Robb’s father just inside the gates of the Dreadfort. His father was fine and so was Jon, but Jory Cassel was dead, slain while defending Jon from one of Bolton’s soldiers.

“Gods above,” Catelyn had whispered as Maester Luwin gave them the news. “I’ll have to tell Ser Rodrik, and the children need to know that Ned won’t be returning home as soon as we thought…”

There was a letter from Jon as well, short and pained, his brother’s sadness and bewilderment clear in every word. Gods. He should have been there at Jon’s side, guarding his brother’s back with a sword in his hand.

And of course, there was a letter for Robb from Jaime. Robb could hear Jaime’s voice in every line, Jaime’s handwriting even more untidy than usual as he recounted what had happened.

I know you’ll be furious when you hear the news, Jaime wrote, and angrier still that you weren’t here to fight at our sides, but I’ll confess I’m glad you’re safe at Winterfell. What’s happened in these lands is too foul for words, and you’ve had enough trouble borrowing my nightmares, I don’t want to see you gain new ones of your own.

Robb had to close his eyes for a long moment after reading that.

Jon’s taken Jory’s death and the horrors we’ve seen hard, but I’ve kept him busy with our new project. While your father is busy commanding Lord Karstark and Lord Hornwood to the Dreadfort to help uncover the full scale of the Boltons’ crimes, I’ve set Jon and a few others to the task of disposing of the flayed skins Roose Bolton kept in a tower as trophies. I won’t lie, my first thought was to burn them so that in whatever hell Bolton now resides, he’d know his disgusting trophies are truly gone. But your brother got very upset at the suggestion, saying that in the North you bury your dead, and that whatever else these skins were, they were once people, and should be afforded that respect. It was the first proper sign of life I’d seen from the lad in days, so I told him to have at it. He and the other men have been digging graves just outside the gates. I’d thought of helping, but the maester here (a wretched creature, I’ll enjoy sending him to the Wall for his dereliction to the laws of the realm) insists I need to rest my shoulder, and digging graves is two-handed work.

I’d like nothing more than to head back to Winterfell and leave this cursed place behind, but your father will be here for a while yet sorting through the wreckage of what the Boltons have done, and Jon certainly won’t leave before your father does, and so here I stay with them. It’s not all bad—the Hornwoods will be arriving shortly, along with Lord Karstark, and I look forward to seeing them try to explain just how it’s possible that they missed what was happening in their neighbor’s lands. Your father won’t leave it at that, of course, he’s already talking of calling all the lords of the North to Winterfell and reminding them of their oaths. There’s some hideous rumor that the Umbers also practice First Night, which nearly gave your father a stroke when he understood what the locals were saying. Others say it’s just a rumor that Roose Bolton put about to discourage the smallfolk from fleeing to Umber lands for help, but the truth has yet to be determined.

There was a blot of ink on the page, as though Jaime had paused for a moment, his quill hovering above the parchment, then the letter finished with—

I can’t say I wish that you were here, but I do miss you. This will be a wretched business to sort through, and I’ll be glad to return home when it’s over.

Yours, Jaime

Robb had been reading the letter for what must have been the seventh or eighth time when there was a knock on the door to his solar.

The last thing that Robb wanted at the moment was company, but he still lifted up his head and called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and it was Tyrion, looking at him with too-sharp eyes, even as he asked mildly, “All right if I join you this evening?”

“Certainly,” Robb said after a brief pause, and he knew that Tyrion was noticing the strain in his smile as he said it.

He didn’t comment on it, though, not right away, just levered himself up into the seat opposite the desk, carefully setting a bottle of wine in front of Robb. “Arbor Gold,” he said with relish. “I think your palate has been sufficiently trained by now to appreciate this.”

Robb looked from Tyrion’s face to the wine bottle, then said, “If you wanted to talk to me, Tyrion, you could have just said. You didn’t need to bribe me with the most expensive wine in Westeros.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “With how you’ve been avoiding everyone these past few days, I did think I might need a tool at my disposal.”

“I haven’t been avoiding anyone,” Robb said, his gaze flickering away before he caught himself.

When he looked back at Tyrion, Tyrion’s eyebrow was still up, if anything, it had gone even higher. “You have, and it’s been noticed. Your mother’s starting to worry—she says she hasn’t seen you so upset since the days your Mark came in, and you were being plagued by visions from the gods.” Robb flinched at that, and Tyrion saw it, curse him. His forehead creasing with concern, Tyrion leaned in and said, “Robb—”

“It’s nothing, I’ve just been thinking too much over this awful business with the Boltons,” Robb said quickly, too quickly.

“If you’re going to lie, be better at it,” Tyrion said, dryly. The light from the fire caught on his hair—Lannister gold, like Jaime’s. Like Queen Cersei’s.

Robb looked at him, his clever goodbrother, a man who had perhaps the finest mind in all the Seven Kingdoms, who’d only taken a week to get the measure of Jon, Robb’s mother, and the entire bloody North, and he felt a cold certainty wash over him.

Of course Tyrion would know about his siblings. The cleverest man in Westeros, so adept at seeing through people, at getting the measure of a situation—of course he knew. How could he not know?

“You’re right,” Robb said after a moment, looking straight into Tyrion’s face. “I was lying before.”

Tyrion exhaled as he leaned back in his chair, saying, “Finally we get the truth out of him. Well, whatever it is, I’m sure we can solve—”

“I received another vision from the gods,” Robb interrupted him, his voice hard, even as that cold calm stayed with him, as though he were blanketed in snow.

Tyrion looked startled at this. “Oh?”

“It was of Jaime,” Robb said. “And the queen. They were…together.”

Tyrion froze in his seat, his face going utterly blank from shock. Were the situation any less dire, Robb could have almost laughed at the sight of Tyrion Lannister being lost for words.

Instead he just felt his heart breaking, as he saw the confirmation of Jaime’s sins in Tyrion’s stricken face and rigidly still body.

"You knew," Robb said.

Tyrion inhaled, holding out a shaking hand. “Robb.”

“You knew,” Robb continued, relentless. “You knew of their—”

“I didn’t know,” Tyrion burst out. “At least not…” He scrubbed at his face, then admitted softly, “I didn’t know for a long time. I wondered, I suspected, but it wasn't until the last few years that—" He stopped, then said, "Cersei would have been his destruction. I hoped that somehow he could be saved from this madness, and when the Mark appeared on his wrist…it was enough to make me a believer in the gods’ mercy, as ill-deserved as it was."

“And the children,” Robb ground out, his stomach twisting at the mention of the gods’ supposed mercy. “The princes and the princess—they’re his too, aren’t they?”

Tyrion closed his eyes, pained. “Robb, don’t—”

“Tell me,” Robb insisted.

Tyrion opened his eyes, looking suddenly weary, “Will it help anything, for me to confirm it now?”

“To know if my husband’s committed treason along with incest and adultery?” Robb snapped out, refusing to feel guilty at the full-body flinch Tyrion gave at that. “Yes, Tyrion, I think it would help to know the full scale of Jaime’s crimes.”

“Fucking hells,” Tyrion muttered, burying his face in his hands again. He didn’t speak for a moment, and as Robb felt his fury rising, he opened his mouth, but Tyrion said softly, “Yes. To the best of my knowledge…yes.”

It shouldn’t have felt like a blow. Robb already knew what those three golden crowns meant, and yet the bile rose up in his throat anyway.

“This is why you didn’t want Sansa to marry Joffrey, isn’t it,” Robb said, bitterness coating every word. “Because you knew he wasn’t really Robert’s son?”

Tyrion winced. “It…was one of my reasons, yes.” He paused, then said, “I wasn’t lying about his personality. Joffrey really is a spoiled, vicious little shit who I wouldn’t trust with a dog, let alone with your sister. And…” Tyrion trails off, a pained look on his face, before he took a breath and said, “And I know this is true because I know exactly where he got his vicious ways from: my sister.”

He looked directly at Robb as he said it, and Robb felt a chill. “You think she’s dangerous.”

“I think she’s dangerous to you, your family, and everyone and everything you love,” Tyrion says, emphatic. “Why do you think I was so desperate to see Jaime settled in Winterfell? It’s because you’re safe here in the North, both of you. In Casterly Rock, all it would take is one servant loyal to Cersei and you’d be drinking poisoned wine, or having a convenient fall from the stairs. The danger’s even worse in King’s Landing, she’s had years to gather minions to do her every bidding. You wouldn’t make it past a month.”

Robb’s mouth was dry, and he had to fight back the shudders of horror. “She would…even to her brother’s own—“

Tyrion was shaking his head. “There is nothing Cersei loves more than herself. Oh, she’s called Jaime her other half, but that’s not real. It doesn’t mean anything. She had him sacrifice his honor and his future all for her advantage, while it cost her nothing—she has the crown, and the neglectful husband who leaves her to her own devices, and the three children she can claim openly as her own. He was left with nothing but dishonor and a white cloak. And she’s furious that he’s out of her reach now, she’d do anything to lash out at the person she blames most for it.”

“As if I had a choice!” Robb lashed out, furious. “As if I have had a single choice about any of this—”

But it was no good, Robb could see it now. Even as he wanted nothing more than to shout and rail, hurl his anger at Tyrion like a hammer, Robb knew it would do no good.

He dropped his head into his hands, wanting to scream or to weep, he didn’t know which.

Tyrion did him the courtesy of not speaking until Robb managed to pull himself together, wiping at his face as he raised his head.

“Will you renounce him?” Tyrion asked, his voice tense and his body rigid, waiting for the final blow.

Robb looked at Tyrion, at his pale face, and his stomach churned, as he finally had to give the answer he’d spent this entire time trying to avoid.

“I can’t,” Robb admitted, his voice choked, shamed and furious in equal measure. “Even if it’s treason, even though I cannot fathom the sheer selfishness and stupidity—I can’t. I just can’t.”

Tyiron stared at him, face pale with shock. “Gods save us, you actually mean that, don’t you?”

Robb was too heartsick to bristle at the naked relief and hope in Tyrion’s voice. “Aye.” He was quiet for a moment, then said slowly, “I can’t…I can’t see a way to telling anyone that doesn’t result in the realm going to war.”

“That’s very true,” Tyrion said quickly, and as Robb looked at him, he said defensively, “I admit I’m interested in preventing the total destruction of my house, but it’s also the plain truth. My father would never believe it, and he’d go to war to stop the king from disinheriting his grandchildren. He’s spent too much in gold and lives by now to do anything else.”

From everything Robb knew of Tywin Lannister, that was the plain truth. “I don’t like the thought of treason, but I don’t like the thought of you and I being on opposite sides of a war, either.”

Tyrion looked disconcerted at this. “You—”

“Is it a shock to hear that I’ve grown fond of you?” Robb asked, defensively glaring at him. It was true, of course, every time this past week that Robb had even considered turning to his mother and revealing what he’d seen, he’d balked. For a thousand different reasons, some he was more willing to admit to than others, but just this past evening, he’d watched Tyrion easily distract his siblings from their worries and sadness over Jory Cassel. He’d kept the conversation moving, smiling as he’d encouraged Arya to display her newfound talent at elaborately insulting people in High Valyrian, setting everyone, even their mother, to laughter.

Tyrion had become part of the fabric here at Winterfell, and Robb couldn’t bear the thought of tearing him out now, all over sins not of his own making.

(And it was easier to think of what he owed Tyrion, of wanting to keep his goodbrother safe in the North, rather than to think of what it meant to side with Jaime in this, what it meant to keep Jaime close, rather than renouncing him.)

Tyrion’s expression wavered, and he cleared his throat. “No. I, ah, I am glad to hear it.” He paused, then said with more certainty, “For whatever it is worth, Robb…you have my loyalty. House Stark has my loyalty. I know this decision pains you, but I am more grateful for your mercy than words can express.”

The sincerity of it had Robb’s eyes stinging. Tyrion, because he was capable of tact, didn’t comment, or press further, just slipped down from his chair and turned towards the door, ready to leave Robb be for the night.

But there was still one last thing. “Tyrion,” Robb said. As Tyrion looked back to him, Robb said. “Don’t write to him. When he comes—” home, was what Robb couldn’t say, and so he changed it to, “When he returns to Winterfell, I’ll discuss this with him myself. I don’t want you interfering before then.”

Tyrion opened his mouth, checked himself, and said after a very long pause, “All right.” He watched Robb’s face closely, then said, as if he couldn’t help himself, “But you won’t—”

“I won’t ever speak of it to anyone but yourself and Jaime,” Robb said. He licked his dry mouth and added, the words heavy on his tongue, “My word as a Stark.”

There was something painful in seeing the total relief come over Tyrion’s body and face at that. He didn’t say anything else, just nodded and quietly left the room.

Robb was still for a moment, then he abruptly reached out to grab the wine bottle Tyrion had left behind, uncorking it and drinking straight from the bottle. He choked a little at first, but the more he drank, the easier it went down.

By the time that the gates of Winterfell were finally in sight, Jaime’s agitation had him nearly at the breaking point.

He didn’t need the bond to know that something was wrong, that was clear from the lack of letters from Robb, and the odd constraint in Tyrion’s brief notes sent to them at the Dreadfort. But he could feel it, the odd emptiness where Robb’s steady presence usually was, occasionally broken up by waves of pain and anger, despair and disgust.

Jaime had no idea what could have possibly caused it, but he wanted to be free of the Dreadfort and back with his soulmate as soon as possible.

Now, after weeks of delay and upheaval, Jaime was finally returning, and even Lord Karstark’s sour company and Lord Hornwood’s constant excuses were a small price to pay when they finally rode in through the gates; Jaime didn’t have eyes for anyone else, not even Tyrion, when he caught sight of Robb standing in the courtyard, pale and stone-faced.

Despite the punishing pace Jaime had set to get here as soon as possible, he hesitated for a moment before dismounting from his horse. The look on Robb’s face…

But Robb was moving forward, looking at him now with a shadowed gaze. Jaime reached out to touch his face, his thumb just barely brushing one of the dark circles under his eyes. “What’s this?”

He felt the shutter that went through Robb. “Nothing,” he murmured. His eyes searched Jaime’s face for a moment, then he nodded at Jaime’s shoulder. “How are you healing?”

“My shoulder’s fine, Robb.” Jaime stroked Robb’s hair, and Robb shut his eyes, his expression crumbling. “Robb, what—”

“Not now,” Robb said, opening his eyes and pinning him with a gaze that was full of determination, that momentary despair disappearing. “We have guests—”

“Guests who will be busy washing the dirt off and settling into their chambers,” Jaime protested. “Robb, you’ve been in turmoil for weeks now, you didn’t write to me once, I already know it’s bad. Tell me.”

He couldn’t think what it could be, and the uncertainty was unbearable.

And yet, when Robb gave him another long searching look before abruptly nodding, conceding, “Not here. In our rooms,” Jaime almost wished he hadn’t pushed so hard. Whatever was happening with Robb, he could already tell that solving it would not be an easy task.

Of course, slipping away to their own quarters was more easily said than done—he had to greet Catelyn, and Robb’s siblings, and embrace Tyrion, who looked just as stressed as Robb, giving Jaime a pained grimace of a smile, and just what in the hells was going on?

The dread of whatever was coming felt like a physical weight on his back as Jaime followed in Robb’s wake through the halls of Winterfell. The moment that they were in their chambers, the door shut behind them and the guards safely out of earshot at the end of the corridor, Jaime turned to Robb and said, “All right, out with it.”

Robb wasn’t looking at him; he was by the window, staring out through the glass. “I had another vision.”

Jaime exhaled, relief mingling with his concern. “I’m sorry to hear it. Was it about Aerys?”

“No, it was about you. You were lying with a woman.” As Jaime turned to ice, Robb’s voice went on, relentless, stripped of all emotion. “She had blond hair, like yours. She had your eyes. And until her marriage to the king, she had your name.”

He was still breathing. It seemed incredible that he could still be breathing after this blow. “Robb,” Jaime choked out through numb lips, and had no idea how to continue.

The face Robb turned to him was the face of a stranger. “Are you going to try and deny it?”

His entire body felt numb. “Would it do any good if I did?”

“No,” Robb admitted. He looked at Jaime for a moment, then asked, almost casually, “Are the children yours?”

Jaime couldn’t speak at all now.

Robb was watching him closely, and Jaime thought he could finally see a spark in his eyes—the anger that had to be there coming to the surface at last. “Tyrion said they were, but I might as well confirm it with you. The visions were a little less clear on that point.”

If he’d been capable of moving at all, Jaime would have staggered. “Tyrion—”

“He noticed something was wrong and came to the solar one night to check on me.” Robb went quiet and then said, heatedly, “He’s a far better brother to you than you deserve, I hope you know that. One word to Jon Arryn or the king, and he’d have been able to inherit Casterly Rock years ago with you and your father out of the way.”

Jaime stared at him. “That’s what you have to say to me?”

Robb raised his eyebrow. “I’ve had weeks now to contemplate your treasonous acts, I daresay I’ve considered them from each and every angle by now.” He gritted his teeth and added, eyes glittering, “Though no matter how often I think on it, I cannot fathom how fucking selfish—”

“It wasn’t selfishness,” Jaime murmured in a low voice. “Hate me for it if you must, but it wasn’t selfish, I gave up everything for her—”

“You risked the entire realm!” Robb shouted, then shot a furious glance at the door. Glaring at Jaime, he hissed, stepping closer, “You cuckolded the king of Westeros, you’ve destroyed the royal succession! Should this be discovered, it would be a civil war between the Crown and House Lannister, with all the other kingdoms caught in the middle—you’ve endangered all of Westeros, how can that be anything but monstrously selfish!”

It felt like ice was running through his veins now, instead of blood. “No one could find out—”

“You fucked your sister dozens of times in the Red Keep, planted three blond cuckoos in House Baratheon, and you tell me that no one could figure it out? That no one will think to wonder, or start to suspect?” Disgust dripped from Robb’s voice. “All that wanton destruction, and for what? So you and your sister could imitate the madness of the Targaryens?” Robb stared at him for a moment, then turned away. “Gods be good, I don’t even know how to look at you right now.”

The silence that followed that…it felt like a physical blow.

At last Robb spoke again, still staring at the window, keeping his face turned away from Jaime. “When did it start?”

“Does it matter?” Jaime asked dully.

“Yes,” Robb said, with absolutely no room for disagreement.

“We were young.”

“I gathered that much, given that you were fucking your sister in an inn at the age of fifteen,” Robb said, brutal. “How young? Sansa’s age?”

“Younger.” Jaime sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling too weary to stay on his feet.

“As young as Bran?” Robb asked, disbelieving. Horrified. It had been years, the memory growing dim from how long Jaime had avoided remembering it, but the horror was, after all, familiar—Jaime had seen it on his mother’s face, ages ago.

“I don’t…I don’t know. As long as I can remember, Cersei was…she said…”

He looked up, sensing a spike of emotion from Robb at that, and when he did look up, Robb was watching him again, head tilted to one side, like a hunting dog who’d caught the scent. “What did she say to you?”

“We were two halves of the same soul,” Jaime said slowly. “The same person, but in two bodies. She said it couldn’t…it wasn’t a sin, if we were the same person, if I was the other half of her. And I believed her. I always believed her.” Bile rose in his throat. “I believed her, right up to the day that the gods put the Mark on my wrist, and then…”

His throat was too tight to go on, but Robb, displaying a ruthlessness that Jaime honestly hadn’t known he had in him, pressed, his voice hard, “And then what?”

Jaime lifted his head and said, “And then I knew she was wrong. That we were wrong.”

Robb was quiet for a moment, then a twisted, bitter smile appeared on his face, and gods, how Jaime loathed seeing it on him, on his bright-eyed, idealistic husband. “No wonder you looked at me like you hated me, that first day in the courtyard,” he said softly. “Gods, I couldn’t understand it then…”

“It wasn’t,” Jaime began, nearly choking on the words. “It wasn’t like—it wasn’t even about you, I didn’t even know you then. I’d just been uprooted from Cersei, from everything I knew—” Robb was watching him, those blue eyes cold, and Jaime burst out, the truth spilling free, “You were there to prove that my entire life was built on a lie, and yes, when I came to Winterfell, I hated you for it. Do you want to know how long that lasted? A day. I couldn’t resist you any longer than that. By the end of that week, I was yours, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself yet.”

For just a moment, the ice cracked, emotion rippling across Robb’s face—and then he was turning away again, staring fixedly at the desk where just a few weeks before, they’d been arguing yet again about the need for a proper navy for the North and how to properly assess the suitors for Sansa’s hand when the time came. “You should have told me,” he gritted out.

Jaime had to laugh at that, the sound wild to his own ears. “How? Was I supposed to turn to you one evening and confess my greatest crime, the thing you’ve so eloquently pointed out could put my house to ruin and send the Seven Kingdoms into civil war? What could I have told you, Robb?”

“Anything!” Robb shouted back, whirling around to face him, eyes wet and his expression wretched, haunted. “Anything would have been better than, than having to see it for myself, night after night! And then I had to stay silent about it, I couldn’t speak of it to anyone, not until Tyrion got it out of me—”

Jaime’s stomach roiled. “And now? Will you speak of it now?”

Robb watched him, expression gone opaque once more—except for those glittering eyes. “Are you asking me to help conceal your treason?”

A bitter taste flooded into Jaime’s mouth. Somehow, he managed to get out, “I’m asking if you’ll condemn the…the children.” He wasn’t such a fool as to ask for mercy for himself, or for Cersei.

Robb looked at him for a long, long moment. “No,” he said finally. “I won’t.”

If he hadn’t already been sitting down on the bed, Jaime would have had to collapse onto it. “You…”

“I can’t reveal what I know without risking a war. Even if war could be averted somehow, it would still lead to the total destruction of your house,” Robb said—gods be good, he really had been thinking this all through. “You and your sister may deserve it, and your father certainly does, but Tyrion doesn’t. The—” he seemed to choke on his words for a moment, but forced out, “The children don’t deserve it. And the shame would only rebound on House Stark, never mind that the crimes aren’t our own, we’d still have to carry the weight of them. So no, I won’t speak.”

Jaime was the one who couldn’t speak. It was a mercy he didn’t deserve, Robb was right on that score, and the granting of it left him weak, burdened—he never knew before now how heavy the weight of mercy could be.

Or maybe that was just grief, knowing what he’d just lost, what he was going to lose.

Willing his voice to stay even, Jaime began by saying carefully, “I won’t insult you by offering my thanks, but—”

“Is there any insult you could offer that would be worse than this?” Robb asked, bitterness coating every word.

Jaime faltered, but pushed on. “But you won’t be burdened with this much longer. I’ll go to King’s Landing, convince Cersei that we need to flee and take the children—”

Robb was staring at him as though he’d grown a second head. It shouldn’t have been a relief, his husband staring at him like he’d gone mad, but anything was an improvement on that look of disgusted betrayal. “You mean to break your marriage vows to me, so you can run off with your sister and your bastard children?” Robb asked, very softly, but the outrage in it was ringing like a bell from the Great Sept—along with something that almost sounded like jealousy, but that wouldn’t be true, not when he was so obviously tainted in Robb’s eyes now.

“I mean to take this burden off your shoulders, ”Jaime said, emphatic. “I’d leave a confession behind—between that and your word of what you saw, even my father won’t have a leg to stand on, and war can be averted. We’ll go across the Narrow Sea, hide in Essos—not even Varys will find us.”

It was a fate Jaime would have welcomed years before—incredible that it would taste like ash to him now.

Truly, the gods were crueler than he could have ever believed. To give him this now, when he’d stopped even wanting it, and right after the bond had stabilized enough to make it even possible—the irony was awful enough to choke on.

But Robb was still staring at him with disbelief. “All right,” he said, abruptly. “Say I go along with this. Say you go to King’s Landing and talk to your sister. Why in the world do you think she’ll agree to go into exile now?”

Jaime stopped. Taken aback, he said slowly, “She’ll have to. Now that you know—”

“If Cersei was willing to run off with you and abandon her crown, she would have done it by now,” Robb said, brutally. “No, she’ll just arrange to have me murdered instead.”

Jaime jerked at that, shaking his head. “No. No, she wouldn’t—”

“Tyrion is quite convinced that she would, and I find myself trusting his judgment more than yours,” Robb said, still in that casually brutal way, as though they weren’t discussing the possibility of his murder. “No. You’re not going to King’s Landing, and you’re not fleeing to Essos.”

Jaime was so stunned by this proclamation that it took him ages before he could speak. “So then what am I going to do?”

“You’re going to stay in the North,” Robb said, face expressionless again. “You won’t run back to King’s Landing, you will never be alone with your sister again—” this last part was nearly spat out, “And you will at least pretend to value your brother’s life above your lust for your sister.”

Now that was a deep cut. “Of course I value Tyrion!” Jaime snapped out, rising to his feet. “How can you say otherwise?”

“How can I not?” Robb countered. “You know the king better than I do; do you think he’d believe that Tyrion knew nothing of what was going on? That it wouldn’t be his head on the executioner’s block, after yours and Cersei’s?”

Jaime was numb from horror at the vision Robb laid out. “He’d have never—”

“No? Well, maybe Tyrion would have been on the battlefield instead,” Robb said. “He’s a clever man, he’d make a brilliant tactician—if he could manage to stay out of the fighting.”

“Stop it,” Jaime whispered. “You’ve made your point.”

A muscle in Robb’s jaw twitched, and just then, Jaime could hear all the angry words that Robb was holding back, all the vitriol he had yet to fling at Jaime’s head. In this room, he was a lifetime away from the husband who’d woken Jaime from his nightmares with a gentle voice and gentler hands.

But Jaime didn’t have the right to mourn that man. His sins had finally caught up with him, after years of avoiding the gods’ punishment. It made a horrible, vicious sense that there would be interest due on the debt.

And his punishment would be this, to live in the wreckage of the miracle he’d never deserved, but once had thought he could keep.

Jaime lifted his chin. “Do you want me to move to other quarters?”

Robb was quiet for a while, obviously tempted, before jerkily shaking his head. “We’re meant to be—it’ll cause questions. Questions we can’t afford to have people asking, not now.”

It made a hideous logic, never mind that it would make them both miserable, continuing to share a marriage bed. Jaime nodded, once, and gritted out, “I should…I need to talk to Tyrion.”

Robb nodded in turn, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “Go.”

Feeling like a man twice his age, Jaime headed for the door, only turning back once his hand was on the handle. “Robb—”

“I won’t tell,” Robb said dully, not looking at him. “I already promised your brother. Gave him my word as a Stark.”

Jaime set his teeth against saying anything—no thanks, no apologies. They would be worthless, set against the weight of everything that had happened, the crimes that Jaime was making Robb carry.

Gods. What a ruin he’d made of everything.

Jaime turned and left, before he could go on and make it worse still.

*

Of course, Tyrion was waiting for him, wine at the ready and with sympathy Jaime didn’t deserve.

“Drink at least two full glasses of that before you start talking,” he’d ordered, and Jaime went ahead and did as ordered. Gods knew he wasn’t to be trusted making decisions anymore.

Once the wine was moving through his veins, Jaime offered up quietly, “I can see you on a boat to Essos before the month’s out. If you don’t want to risk being in the North, just in case…”

Tyrion’s forehead was furrowed. “In case of what?”

Jaime shrugged. “Should we be discovered, if…” It took an effort to go on, but he managed, “If Robb can’t keep this secret, you don’t deserve to be punished for—”

Tyrion shook his head. “I don’t worry that Robb will tell. Don’t get me wrong, he’s absolutely furious at having to hide this, but he—” Tyrion stopped, and then said, “He said he was too fond of me to relish the thought of facing me opposite a battlefield.”

“Of course he did,” Jaime said, a faint smile coming to his lips. If anyone deserved Robb’s mercy and continued regard in all this, it was Tyrion. “And he…he said he gave you his word.”

“The word of a Stark,” Tyrion confirmed, a faint smile appearing, if only momentarily. “No, I think we can rely on that, if nothing else. And even if I didn’t feel confident in the notion of a Stark keeping their word, I wouldn’t leave you here on your own, even if I…”

“Even if?” Jaime prodded once Tyrion trailed off.

Tyrion sighed. “After I heard about the visions that Robb was granted, I went to the godswood, and I pledged myself to House Stark before the old gods, if only they would show mercy on you and the children.”

Jaime sat back in his seat, stunned. “Since when have you been a follower of the old gods of the North?”

“Since it became increasingly clear that not only do they still have their eyes on us, but they are continuing to directly intervene in our affairs!” Tyrion hissed, looking wild-eyed. “Jaime, think! Do you honestly believe this is happening out of nowhere? For Robb to have one vision granted directly from the gods was strange enough, but now two of them? And both of them are about the very things you would have never admitted to on your own?”

It felt as though the wind was knocked out of Jaime. “You can’t know…” he trailed off weakly.

Tyrion’s gaze was hard. “Jaime. We can’t afford to pretend this isn’t happening. And any advantage we can get, we need. So yes, I will go down on my knees and pledge my loyalty to whoever the fuck I need to in order to make sure you and the children get out of this alive.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“He’s never going to forgive this,” Jaime said finally.

“He won’t tell,” Tyrion quickly began, and Jaime shook his head.

“Of course Robb won’t tell; he gave you his word, and he wants to keep you safe,” Jaime said. “But he won’t forgive this. Not my sins, not the children, not the burden of this secret. Robb won’t forgive me for any of it.”

Tyrion’s gaze slid away, and after a moment, he pushed the wine skin closer to Jaime, a tacit agreement that Tyrion was too kind to confirm with words.

And so for the first time in gods only knew how long, Jaime outdrank Tyrion in the space of one evening. The wine helped, but only so far, because while it dulled the immediate pain, Jaime’s mind kept wandering to other memories, other times when he could have said no to Cersei and didn’t, not when they were children and she kept terrorizing Tyrion, not when they were fifteen and she was convincing him to join the Kingsguard, not when she had finally become Queen and took him into her bed once more.

He’d never said no, because nothing had ever been more important than Cersei. Not Jaime’s vows as a knight, not the laws of man or the laws of the gods, not even—to his growing shame—his brother Tyrion, who he’d never managed to fully shield from Cersei’s malice.

“I should’ve been a better brother to you,” he slurred at one point, looking blearily at Tyrion from where he was resting his head on the desk.

“You’re an excellent brother to me,” Tyrion said kindly.

Jaime tried to shake his head, but the desk was in the way. “Robb said. Said I wasn’t.”

“He was angry,” Tyrion said, after a moment. “He didn’t mean—”

“Mm. No, he did. I know he did. I know exactly how he feels, that’s the whole point of the bond.” Jaime tried to laugh, as he said next. “I can tell exactly how much disgust he feels for me now, I promise you.”

Tyrion didn’t reply to that (how could he) but after a moment, Jaime felt him pat his hand, the gesture awkward in its painful sincerity.

“What an absolute cockup I’ve made of my life,” Jaime muttered.

“It could be worse,” Tyrion offered up.

Jaime actually lifted his head up at that. “How.”

“You could be bald,” Tyrion said solemnly. It was a terrible, weak joke, but Jaime found himself helplessly snickering anyway.

Tyrion once again proved he was a better brother than Jaime deserved, as he let Jaime sleep at the foot of his bed for the evening. He fell into a heavy sleep, and in another act of mercy he didn’t deserve, the old gods made sure Jaime didn’t dream of anything at all.

His husband looked like utter shit.

A small, nasty part of Robb was pleased to see Jaime looking so low, with his eyes bleary and red-rimmed and his hair unwashed, and with the general air of a man who had tried to drown himself in wine the night before, and who had found no relief in it.

The rest of him, the cold methodical part that ruled now, that side of him noted that they’d have to make a better show of it going forward, if they were going to conceal everything from his family. He’d already heard from Jon this morning about Jaime drinking the night away in Tyrion’s chambers (according to the servants) and how Jaime had missed his usual morning spar with Jon as a result.

But Jaime was present and sober now as they joined Robb’s father in his solar, along with a small crowd consisting of Maester Luwin, Vayon Poole, Robb’s mother, and Tyrion. Robb held himself apart from Jaime, letting Jon and Tyrion stand between them, shielding his mind away from the gray, sour taste of Jaime’s misery and self-loathing, holding on instead to the cleansing fire of his own fury until it burned every other emotion away, and left nothing but a cool clarity in the ashes.

His father didn’t wait on ceremony once they were all gathered—he just began immediately, detailing the crimes they’d uncovered at the Dreadfort, how many of Lord Bolton’s men were being held in Winterfell’s dungeons awaiting trial (the number was depressingly high), and the reparations being made out of the Bolton treasury to the victims (the precious few that were still alive) and to their families.

All the Northern lords would be coming to Winterfell and bearing witness, and his father had already written to the Vale to summon Roose Bolton’s heir, Domeric, who was off fostering with House Redfort.

“Will the boy stand trial as well?” Tyrion asked.

His father grimaced. “So far there is no sign that Domeric Bolton either participated in or even knew of his father and brother’s actions. There is not a single complaint against him.”

Jaime stirred for the first time since entering the room. “You can’t seriously mean to let the boy inherit his father’s seat.”

“If it’s proven he’s innocent—”

“He’ll go to the Dreadfort and continue the reign of terror his family’s held over those lands for fuck knows how many generations,” Jaime retorted, a flush rising on his pale cheeks. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and the beard he’d grown in his time away made his face look leaner, more gaunt—almost wolf-like. “Gods above, am I the only one who remembers how fresh some of the human skins were at that accursed place?”

Ned’s nostrils flared. “And you heard from the maester—”

“A wretched creature who was ready to swear to anything to save his own skin—”

“—that Domeric Bolton was kept far away from his father’s brutality. He was sent away to the Vale at the age of seven, and only came home infrequently; it’s not impossible that he was truly ignorant of his father’s crimes.”

Jaime was staring at his father as though he’d grown a second head. “Do you honestly mean to tell me, after everything we saw, after we witnessed Ramsey Bolton carving open an innocent girl, and Roose Bolton trying to stick his dagger in your throat, that there is a single member of that wretched family worth saving? Good gods, Ned, I know you Northmen like to cling to your honor, but this is—”

To Robb’s shock—to everyone’s shock—his father abruptly slapped the desk with his palm, the loud bang of it stunning the room into silence. Color high on his cheeks, Ned snapped out, incensed, “I will not punish a son for his father’s crimes. I know what the Seven say about the sins of the father, but that is not the Northern way, and it is not my way. Not so long as I draw breath.” He seemed to come back to himself, looking down as he said in a tight voice, “That is the reasoning that led to the murders of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen in the Red Keep at the end of the rebellion, and not even you, Ser Jaime, would defend that act.”

Despite himself, Robb’s gaze flicked back to Jaime’s face, just in time to see it leeched of all color.

“Ned,” Robb’s mother murmured, and his father glanced towards her, shifting his shoulders as if to shake his anger away. “I think we’ve rather drifted from the point.”

“Aye,” his father muttered, taking a breath. “When Domeric Bolton is here, I want him guarded at all times. His aunt is Barbery Dustin, his mother was Lord Ryswell’s sister, and none of them bear any love for me or our house. The last thing we need is even the appearance of a conspiracy between them, it’ll only infuriate the other lords even more. I’ll have enough to do as it is keeping the Greatjon calm.”

“He denies practicing First Night, then?” Robb asked.

“As loudly and vociferously as he can,” Maester Luwin said. “The letter was written in his own hand, if I’m not mistaken, and the number of inkblots show…well, a certain agitation.”

“Forgive me,” Tyrion said, clearing his throat. “But, under the circumstances, I feel it must be asked. Can his word be trusted on this? Can any lord’s words be trusted on this matter?”

His father leaned back in his chair. “I would trust Lord Umber’s word on this,” he said, then grimaced. “But if you’d asked me six months ago if the Boltons would be capable of the depravity we’ve just witnessed…” He trailed off, looking exhausted, and his mother laid a hand on his shoulder. He reached up to squeeze it wordlessly, then focused on Tyrion once more. “But you’re not saying this just to raise suspicions of every one of my bannermen,” Ned said, raising an eyebrow. “What scheme do you have in mind now, Tyrion?”

There was a faint thread of amusement in his voice, but more than that, there was trust—because Tyrion had proven himself loyal, and his father was returning that same loyalty back, it was the Stark way. Robb’s stomach clenched, because Tyrion deserved it, he’d been responsible for uncovering the Boltons’ evil acts as much as anyone, Robb couldn’t risk seeing Jaime’s crimes heaped upon his head, he couldn’t.

“It’ll take time,” Tyrion cautioned. “But I think…perhaps a northern progress. A tour of sorts, where you visit each and every one of your lords and their keeps over the next year. Ostensibly it will be about strengthening ties, granting them the honor of having the Warden and his family visit, but in reality—”

“In reality we will be spying on them,” Ned finished dryly.

“We will be ensuring that they are keeping to the laws of gods and men,” Tyrion corrected. “It’ll give us a chance to speak to the smallfolk on their lands, make sure everything truly is as they should be. And if any lord demures, or tries to delay…well, that will simply mean they warrant a closer look.”

His father was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “It’s a good plan.”

“And you should take Jaime with you,” Tyrion added casually. “Under the circumstances, it’s possible the smallfolk might feel more comfortable speaking to someone who isn’t a northerner. Robb can stay behind and hold Winterfell in your name, it’ll be good for people to see that the future of House Stark is secure.”

Robb held his face carefully still throughout all of this, and beneath the churning sea of emotions he did not want to examine at all, there was a flicker of admiration at how neatly Tyrion had handled that. Trust a Lannister to be the perfect partner for subterfuge.

The fact that the subterfuge was necessary, that he needed his own goodbrother to find a way to keep him and Jaime apart, likely for months at a time—well. Robb wasn’t going to think of it.

Steeling himself, he followed Jaime out of the solar as the meeting ended, asking curtly in a low voice, “Are you planning to spend the night in Tyrion’s quarters again?”

Jaime stiffened, but kept his face utterly blank, even as his eyes darted over Robb’s shoulder, ensuring they were out of earshot. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

He said it as though the answer didn’t matter either way, which sent Robb’s temper soaring. “I would prefer that quite a lot of things be different,” he snapped back, working to keep his voice low. “But what I need is for people not to notice that anything is—” He checked himself, and said, even more quietly, “Jon was looking for you this morning, people noticed you weren’t in our quarters last night.”

“All right,” Jaime said, still in that toneless voice. “Anything else?”

Despite the beard and the unwashed hair and hollow cheeks, his husband still looked beautiful somehow. Like one of the illustrated pilgrims in his mother’s copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. It was infuriating. Robb wanted to knock him down to the ground, he wanted to shout in Jaime’s face, he wanted to shake him. Anything to make this horrible gnawing misery go away.

He wasn’t going to get it. Because this man, as beautiful and as horrible as he was, was the burden the gods had sent to him to keep.

“No,” Robb said, and walked away.

*

As the Northern lords arrived in a slow trickle, the days moved just as slowly.

Robb did his best to keep a good face on it, keeping a smile on his face for his younger siblings, helping where he could as his mother frantically prepared for the guests that were arriving, watching and learning as his father carefully crafted the strategy he would take, once all his bannermen had arrived at Winterfell.

And he did his best to look out for Jon, who had been quiet and hollow-eyed since his return from the Dreadfort. It wasn’t his usual brooding (the brooding that had lessened once Jaime had taken him on as a squire) this was heavier, darker.

“Are you sleeping any better?” Robb asked his brother at breakfast one morning. Jaime had been an unmoving lump beneath the furs as Robb had risen that morning, still as the grave, but Robb knew he had been awake, of course.

Jon lifted one shoulder, neither confirming or denying, but the dark circles under his eyes told the story for him.

“You should go to Maester Luwin for some dreamwine,” Robb urged, but Jon made a face.

“I tried that, it only made the dreams worse,” he said, poking at his morning porridge. “With the dreamwine, it’s like I know I’m dreaming, but I can’t make myself wake up. I can’t even move. I’d rather stay up all night instead than go through that again. Besides, Jaime says the dreams’ll go away on their own.”

“Does he?”

Jon stopped poking his food, and looked him right in the face. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing,” Robb denied, reflexively. Jon gave him a flat look for this, and Robb amended it to, “Nothing you have to worry about.”

Jon pursed his lips a little. “He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping well. And he’s not having fun with the swordplay like he usually does.” He paused, then asked more quietly, “Have you two quarreled?”

“Why would you think we’ve quarreled?” Robb tried to parry.

“Because he flinches whenever your name comes up,” Jon said. He was watching Robb carefully, the same patient look on his face that their father had, that look that Robb knew like his own hand, because this was his brother, who he loved and trusted.

Robb opened his mouth, and in that half-second, all the reasons why he couldn’t speak rushed back to him. Tyrion. The faceless blond children in King’s Landing that Robb raged over, but didn’t want to see destroyed. The thousands that could die to salvage Tywin Lannister’s pride.

(Jaime, Jaime watching him without any hope, Jaime in his sister’s arms, Jaime’s head taken off his shoulders by the swing of a sword.)

Robb swallowed. “It’s fine. Nothing for you to worry over.” Jon’s mouth turned downwards, and abruptly, Robb leaned in to throw an arm around his brother’s shoulders, shaking him a little, the solid weight of Jon’s body against his a relief. “It’ll be all right. Trust me?”

Jon looked at him sidelong, but finally smiled. “Of course.”

Robb breathed out in relief, shaking Jon’s shoulder again before letting him go, holding on to his own promise like a lifeline. It’ll be all right. I will make it be all right. Whatever it takes.

So Robb held his tongue. Each day, each night, he held his tongue.

In public, at least.

“Do you miss them?” Robb asked one night in the dark. He could hear Jaime breathing next to him, and he knew that Jaime wasn’t asleep either.

It took a moment for Jaime to respond. “Miss who?”

Jaime had taken to sleeping beneath the furs, while Robb slept on top of them—it had been their custom since that morning where Robb had woken up to find himself wrapped around Jaime like a vine and had immediately recoiled, unable to hide his fury and disgust, and Jaime unable to hide his flinching misery.

(Robb wasn’t sorry for it, how could he be sorry for it? And yet, the bitter hurt that Jaime had felt had found its echo in him, somehow. So they wordlessly fell into this habit instead, and Robb told himself it was better.)

“The children,” Robb found himself saying, staring up at the canopy over their beds, meant to keep out the cold. “Your…blond cuckoos. I wondered if you missed them.”

The pause was shorter this time, and when Jaime spoke, he sounded incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just wondering,” Robb said, marveling at the coolness of his own voice. “After all, you risked so much to bring them into the world. Surely you must miss them now that you’re clear across the continent.”

His mental shield was as unyielding as granite, so he couldn’t actually feel whatever it was that Jaime was feeling, but he somehow knew it anyway. “No,” Jaime said finally. “I don’t miss them. I was never—” He stopped speaking.

Robb’s nostrils flared, and he said, very evenly, “Go on.”

“I was never allowed to be very close to them,” Jaime gritted out. “It wasn’t…it wouldn’t have been prudent.”

“You are japing,” Robb said, in flat disbelief. “That’s what you call being prudent?” His voice was rising, and with an effort, he reeled it back in. “Was that your idea or the Queen’s?”

“Does it matter?” Jaime asked.

“So it was hers then,” Robb said, grimly. “Of course it was. Another degradation to add to the list.”

“Don’t,” Jaime said, his voice harder now, body tensing up next to his.

Robb should have stopped, but he couldn’t help himself, the words kept spilling out anyway, like a river flooding its banks during a spring flood. “Just because you can’t admit the filthy pit that she’s dragged you into, all your lives, doesn’t mean that I have to play along. I saw it, in case you’ve forgotten, every lure she cast out, every manipulation, every time you cast aside your honor and your duty and your sanity—”

Quick as a whip, Jaime’s hand leapt out to grab at Robb’s shoulder, his grip bruisingly tight. “Enough. Enough, Robb.” As Robb choked on his fury, Jaime said in a rasp, “Whatever…whatever Cersei is, whatever she did, I did follow her, I chose to follow her. The…the sin of it is mine, as much as it is hers.”

“I am well aware of that,” Robb spat out, hating the way that the warmth of Jaime’s hand seemed to be sinking right into his bones. “And now, thanks to the gods’ favor, your sins, and hers, are mine to carry as well.”

There was a long, painful silence. “I know,” Jaime said at last, sounding so utterly weary that for a moment, Robb’s throat threatened to close up on him, his eyes burning. “If I had known you were coming…”

“You’d have met me with a clean heart,” Robb finished for him, his throat aching with the grief he refused to let free. “I know.”

He couldn’t even picture it, that was the worst part. That shining future that should have been his, the storybook golden knight…Robb had never had that, not from the first. There had only ever been this Jaime, with his secrets lurking in the shadows, even as he’d dazzled Robb from the first moment they’d met.

Abruptly sick of everything, including himself and his own rage, Robb turned away to face the wall, his back to Jaime, curling up into a ball and waiting for sleep to overtake him.

It took a long time.

*

The only place that Robb found himself able to relax, truly, was in Tyrion’s quarters, with the doors shut and bolted and a glass of wine before him.

It should have been more awkward than it was, Tyrion was Jaime’s brother, and Robb and Jaime were painfully at odds, but Tyrion was so frank about the entire situation that it perversely made things simple—they both knew where they stood, and that neither of them would speak of it to anyone else.

“You don’t resent him at all, do you?” Robb asked one evening, as the candles burned low. “He’s put you in a terrible position—“

Tyrion spread his hands open. “There have been times where I would have shaken him until his bones rattled, if I were capable of it and if I’d thought it would do any good. But he’s my brother. For a long time, he was the only one who cared for me at all. I can’t turn my back on him. Could you ever turn your back on Jon?”

“Jon would never give me cause to,” Robb retorted.

“If he did,” Tyrion pressed, patient. “If he had one weakness—a terrible one, a dangerous one—would it wipe out your childhoods? The lifetime he’s been at your side?”

Robb hesitated. “I would shake him until his bones rattled, and if that didn’t work I’d beat the sense into him,” he muttered.

“But you wouldn’t abandon him.”

“No,” Robb conceded at last, though it tasted sour on his tongue. He looked at Tyrion and said, after a moment, “You’ve never asked me to forgive him.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Would it do any good if I did?” As Robb shook his head, Tyrion shrugged. “There you go then. I’m not so much a fool as to bash my head against a brick wall.” He paused, then said, haltingly, “Besides…I can’t help but think you were given the truth of it for a reason. Though I’m damned if I can see why the gods would burden you with this, and wait a year to do it.”

Robb shivered. “I can’t think about that. If I do, I’ll go mad with wondering.” But even as he said it, Robb did wonder—he’d been wondering, and would go on wondering still. Why this vision, why now, when it was too late to denounce Jaime, too late to cut him and Tyrion loose? “You really think this is all part of some…larger plan, don’t you?”

Tyrion nodded firmly. “I do.” He laughed self-consciously, and said, “I keep going to the godswood, waiting for the old gods to give me a sign, but so far they’ve declined.”

Robb felt his mouth curving up. Tyrion’s conversion to the old gods from the Seven had been a great topic of conversation around Winterfell, with most people bemused but pleased. Old Nan in particular was very smug, convinced that it was her tales of the North that sent Tyrion on, as she put it, “the path of common sense, which always leads to a heart tree”.

“Father says he’s never seen someone talk quite so much in a godswood before,” Robb said, finally smiling. “Particularly someone who obviously expects to hear someone talk back.”

“Well, that’s the problem with a religion that has so few rules to it,” Tyrion said. “Nobody can tell me I’m worshiping wrong, now can they?”

Robb had to chuckle at this. “No, they cannot.”

“Not that I’ll have much time to get acquainted with the old gods,” Tyrion said. “We’ll be very busy over the coming weeks, of course.”

“No one will grudge you a few moments in the godswood,” Robb said, but frowned a little. “We’re going to be a long time untangling this mess, aren’t we? The Boltons, I mean.”

“Mmhm,” Tyrion agreed.

Robb squared his shoulders. “All right. How can I help?” Wallowing over the destruction of his marriage would do him no good, and here at least, he could be of some use.

Tyrion’s mouth quirked, and he said, “Have you spoken to Lord Karstark’s sons?”

“Not very much, not yet,” Robb said.

“You should start,” Tyrion said. “And Lord Umber’s son as well, when the Umbers arrive.”

Robb took that in. “All the heirs to the major Northern houses,” he said. “Anything I should keep in mind when speaking to them?”

Tyrion’s mouth curved up. “Do you know, Robb, I think you would have done very well in the south. With a little practice.”

“I’ll stick to Northern intrigues, thank you very much,” Robb said dryly, and Tyrion laughed.

But it was easier than Robb would’ve thought, falling into conversation with people like Harrion Karstark, Cley Cerwyn, Asher Forrester. They were eager to speak to him, of course, the heir to Winterfell, husband to the man who’d killed Roose Bolton. Jon stuck close, as did Theon, and it was perhaps not entirely surprising that Jon was more popular with the others than Theon was.

There was only one topic of conversation to be had, of course.

“The Boltons must have been mad,” Cley Cerwyn said, urgently. “What did they think was going to happen, that they would never be caught?”

“They weren’t caught, not for a long time,” Theon pointed out. “You get away with your crimes for that long, why would you think you’d get caught out? Or that anyone would care if you were?

“Yes, we all know how the ironborn behave, Greyjoy, but we do things differently in the North,” Asher Forrester retorted.

“Apparently you don’t do things that differently after all,” Theon replied, and both Asher and Cley bristled at that.

“He’s right,” Jon said quietly from where he was sitting. “Much as I hate to admit it.” He looked up to find everyone watching him, and said, halting, “It’s not…it’s not enough to say that the Boltons were mad, although they were. We need to ask why they got away with it for so long.”

Everyone was quiet at that, before Asher asked, hesitant, “Did…did any of the smallfolk say why they never came to Lord Stark? Or any of the neighboring lords?”

Jon said, heavily, “They had a lot of reasons. Mostly, they just feared the reprisal from the Boltons. Some of them, gods help us, thought it was like this everywhere in the North.” Cley Cerwyn cursed at that, and the faces around the table became grimmer.

“We will be working to put this right for a long time,” Harrion Karstark said quietly. “All of us.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his voice low. “We will.”

But the conversation that stuck out the most was the one that Robb had with Smalljon Umber, when he and his father arrived at Winterfell. Robb had been in the courtyard when they arrived, the Umber party thundering in on their horses, the Greatjon’s face grimmer than Robb had ever seen it on one of his visits to Winterfell.

He’d gone before Robb’s father on one knee, head bowed low. “My lord.”

Robb’s father had bade him rise, but there had been a crease between his eyebrows as he said it, and they immediately disappeared in the direction of what Robb knew was his father’s solar. That left Smalljon Umber, looking awkward with his size, easily the tallest man there now his father was gone.

“Here,” Robb said. “Let me show you to your guest quarters.”

Smalljon was quiet at first, following Robb through the corridors like a very large shadow. Robb kept the conversation light at first, asking about their journey down to Winterfell, talking about the large feast that would be held once all the lords had arrived.

Smalljon didn’t say much in response, not until they reached his guest quarters and he abruptly said, “It’s not true, you know. What they’ve been saying about First Night in our lands. We don’t—my father doesn’t do that. I don’t do that.”

“That’s good to hear,” Robb said. “Do you know why anyone would say otherwise?”

“My father’s grandfather was…an evil man,” Smalljon said, heavily. “He…believed in the old way. The wrong way.”

“But you and your father don’t.”

“No,” Smalljon said, with force to it. “We would never.”

Then you’ll have nothing to worry about, is what Robb didn’t say. “I am glad to hear that, Smalljon. Truly.”

Smalljon searched his face for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Will you tell me how you discovered it all, then?”

Robb looked at him a moment, then nodded, and began to tell it all. Following Tyrion’s instructions, he didn’t leave out the part where Tyrion had been evaluating all the candidates for Sansa’s hand—and he saw a spark of interest in Smalljon’s face at that—and how that, combined with the exodus of smallfolk from the Dreadfort to the lands around Moat Cailin had finally let them to the right path, to asking the right questions, and finally getting the answers.

“And it was Jaime Lannister who slew Roose Bolton,” Smalljon said.

“Aye, it was,” Robb said, after a moment.

“It’s funny,” Smalljon said, with a tiny laugh. “I’ve always believed in the gods, but I’d never thought to see them move in the world this way.”

“How do you mean?” Robb asked.

Smalljon looked surprised at the question. “I mean in what they did, bringing the Lannisters here.” He tilted his head at Robb, saying, “Surely you’ve thought of it too? It was your marriage to Jaime Lannister that started all of this.”

Robb opened his mouth to deny it, but couldn’t. “I…hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said at last.

“Really?” Smalljon asked, obviously surprised. “If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.”

Robb felt a chill go through him. “There’s a lot to consider.”

“Hah, I’ll bet!” Smalljon exclaimed. He grew more solemn, saying next. “I’m glad, though. Whatever purpose the gods have for you both, this was obviously part of it. If the Lannisters hadn’t come when they did…I don’t know when or how we could have stopped the Boltons.”

“We would have stopped them,” Robb said, but his voice was hollow.

Smalljon didn’t look like he believed it either. “Would we? I swear it to you, Robb, I swear it on my mother’s grave that we never heard of what the Boltons were doing. But our lands border theirs. If we didn’t hear of anything, and the Karstarks and Hornwoods didn’t hear of it, then—”

“Then how could anyone else,” Robb finished for him.

Smalljon nodded. After a moment, he chuckled and said, “You know, on the journey down here, my father said that after witnessing the sack of King’s Landing during the war, he’d have never thought he’d be grateful for a Lannister’s intervention, and yet here he was, having to praise Jaime Lannister. Guess the gods like to make fools of us all on occasion.”

“Yes,” Robb agreed. “Sometimes they do.”

It clung to him, all throughout the dinner in the great hall that night. Even as he talked to Smalljon on one side and Theon on the other, even as he looked past where Tyrion and Jaime were talking to each other at another table, it stayed with him.

Was it really that simple? A straightforward chain, from his marriage to the downfall of the Boltons—Lannister gold to build Moat Cailin, Tyrion’s cleverness to unwind years of the Boltons’ hidden crimes, Jaime’s sword to dispatch Roose Bolton, and all of it guided by the old gods.

And if it was…was that enough? Did saving King’s Landing make up for nearly twenty years of sin and treason? Was planting three bastard children in the royal succession balanced out by helping to save the North from Roose Bolton and Ramsey Snow?

Robb had no answer for that. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to have one.

As it turned out, it was possible to keep going, even after your life had been smashed to pieces.

Somehow, Jaime kept breathing, kept getting up each morning, and he didn’t run for Essos or the Wall. That was the biggest victory of all, every time that he went to his cold marriage bed and didn’t run from the wreckage he’d caused, or the beautiful young man whose life he’d ruined.

Here he was, staying in the wreckage, and slowly bleeding out as he did.

It helped (as much as anything could help) that Tyrion kept him busy, sent him to talk to one bannerman after another, sifting through to see which ones of them had known, which ones of them had suspected, and which ones truly had had no idea of what was happening on the Bolton lands.

“Lord Hornwood is lying through his fucking teeth when he says he didn’t know,” Jaime reported one afternoon in Ned Stark’s solar. “It’s worth following up.”

Ned grunted at that. “Aye,” he said grimly. He looked at his quill but didn’t pick it up. “Barbary Dustin’s arrived this morning.”

“Domeric Bolton’s aunt?” At Ned’s tight nod, Jaime raised his eyebrow and asked, “I know she’s the Lady of Barrowton, but you seem remarkably worried about a minor bannerman of yours.”

“Not worried,” Ned corrected him. “The history between our houses is…rather complicated.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Jaime asked, “Am I just supposed to start guessing what you mean by that?”

Ned’s mouth thinned, but he elaborated, “Barbary was a Ryswell before she married, and my brother was fostered with her family. They were…rather close, and she had hopes of marrying him and becoming Lady Stark, but my father’s ambitions ran higher.”

“He wanted the daughter of a Lord Paramount with a fat dowry,” Jaime translated.

“Yes,” Ned conceded. “Brandon seemed content enough with his engagement, but.” He stopped again.

Jaime sighed. “Ned. I can’t assist if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It was rumored that he and Barbary…that he took Lady Barbary as a lover. Took her maidenhead. And then he didn’t marry her, and died in King’s Landing not long after.”

“And she resented never being made Lady Stark,” Jaime said.

“That, and her husband was one of my companions in Dorne. He died,” Ned said, swallowing. “He died along with most of my men, I couldn’t bring back his bones. I couldn’t bring back any of their bones. Just my sister’s.”

There was a distance to Ned’s gaze, as though he wasn’t here in this room in Winterfell, but rather still trapped in the desert sands of Dorne, surrounded by dead men. His men, and the Kingsguard who Jaime once called brothers.

He swallowed, not asking the dozens of questions he’d never asked about that day, and said instead, ruthlessly keeping himself in the present, “So Barbary Dustin blames you then. For all of it, likely. Her husband’s death, her broken hopes of being the Lady of Winterfell. And now you’ve uncovered a scandal that could destroy her nephew.”

Ned’s face grew even grimmer. “Exactly.”

Jaime clicked his tongue. “You’re right. The woman is definitely going to be a problem.”

And sure enough, she was.

It started with Jaime’s conversation with the Greatjon, at one of the smaller tables in the Great Hall. Jaime had been ready to suspect Greatjon Umber of anything, after the stories they’d heard from the smallfolk, but the Greatjon had disarmed him from the first. He’d gone to one knee in Ned’s solar and sworn that he knew nothing of the Boltons’ crimes, that First Night was not practiced in his lands, and he was willing to take them straight to his lands and let them question his smallfolk, out of his hearing.

“What do you know of Domeric Bolton?” Jaime asked him quietly.

Greatjon grimaced. “Nothing much,” he’d admitted. “I know he’s lived half his life in the South, learning how to be some poncey knight.” Jaime raised an eyebrow, and Greatjon huffed. “You’ve at least bloodied your sword in real combat, and not just those ridiculous tourneys. Let those fancy summer children face a horde of roving wildings, or a ship full of those cursed ironborn, then I’ll take them seriously.”

Jaime had done both by this point in his life, and fared well each time, so he conceded the point. “So the boy…”

Greatjon shrugged. “As I said, I don’t know him. Thought it was ridiculous Roose sending his son out of the North at all, never mind at such a young age, but I assumed it was so his son could catch a highborn lass from the South with a great big inheritance. Nothing compared to yours, of course, but something sizeable. Having an heir with the word ‘ser’ in front of his name couldn’t hurt with that.”

“You don’t think it’s peculiar?” Jaime prodded. “Keep his son and only heir at a distance, away from any witnesses, anyone who could speak out against him the way they did against Roose…” As Greatjon’s eyes went wide, Jaime said urgently, “What if Roose was hedging his bets? Keeping his trueborn son looking pure as fresh snow. A nice polite boy, taught in all the southern graces, some poncey knight as you say…would you think to be wary of him?”

Greatjon looked grim. “No.”

“I’ve been studying the history of the North,” Jaime said. He hadn’t been able to convince Ned, not yet, but one look at the Greatjon and Jaime knew he’d be ready and willing to do anything to convince the Starks and the North of his loyalty, to set himself apart from Roose Bolton. “Time and time again the Boltons have betrayed the Starks, betrayed the North. They’re given chance after chance, but the treachery in them always rises back up to the surface.”

“And you’re wondering why they should be given another chance now,” Greatjon said. His face drew into a scowl as he said, “Breaking guest right, rape and murder, trying to kill Ned Stark…no. I can’t see a reason to give Domeric Bolton a chance either.”

“Do you think the other lords might feel the same?” Jaime asked, delicately.

The Greatjon snorted. “If they don’t, I’ll bang their heads together until they see sense.”

So that was satisfying, but nothing else was. A day later, Jaime had retreated to Tyrion’s small solar, a pathetic attempt at hiding away from the rooms he shared with the husband who rightfully despised him, with some vague idea of looking over the latest Moat Cailin reports.

He was on the verge of suggesting to Ned that he travel down to the Neck, to supervise the rebuilding and the work on the canal. He didn’t want to do it, but it seemed a better solution than living in Winterfell, bracing for the day when Robb’s silence would break.

Sunk in his own misery, it took a moment for Jaime to hear the knocking at the door. Irritated, he called out, “Come in already.”

One of the maids tentatively poked her head in, saying quietly, “M’lord, Lady Dustin is here to see you,” but then a crisp voice said, “Step aside, girl, I can announce myself.”

Jaime sat back in his chair as Barbary Dustin walked into the room. She didn’t look like very much, pale and dark-haired like so many women of the North, solidly built like most women in middle-age, but her mouth was thin and hard with displeasure.

“Lady Dustin,” Jaime said, and made no effort to get up from his chair.

“Ser Jaime,” she replied coolly, then set a withering glare upon the poor maid. “Leave us, girl.”

The maid scurried out. Sensing a fight, and grateful for the chance, Jaime gave her his most infuriating smile and said, “What can I do for the Lady of Barrowton?”

“You can stop trying to get my nephew executed,” Barbary Dustin said.

Jaime’s smile didn’t slip. “Why, Lady Dustin, why would you fear that? Has your nephew done anything that would warrant an execution?”

Lady Dustin glared at him. “He has done nothing, and you know it, Lannister. And yet you are working to turn all the Northern lords against him, Umber is already baying for his blood—”

“Yes, the Greatjon has taken the slander against his House very personally,” Jaime said. “Your goodbrother made a point of accusing Lord Umber of the same perversities he was committing himself. Did you think Lord Umber would receive that news with a shrug?”

“That was Roose, not Domeric,” Lady Dustin said, nostrils flaring.

“I’m sure we’ll hear tales of your nephew’s evil deeds before long,” Jaime said. “I find it highly unlikely that the apple’s fallen very far from this twisted family tree.”

“You won’t find anything,” she said, voice hard and sure. “Domeric is not his father, nor is he anything like that foul bastard Ramsey Snow.”

“Perhaps,” Jaime conceded. “But you are overestimating how much his supposed innocence will matter. His father and brother have tainted House Bolton for generations to come, and what use is a lord who can’t command the respect of his peers or the smallfolk?”

Lady Dustin looked at him for a long moment, and then a small, wintery smile appeared on her face. “So there it is,” she said. “You’re after the Dreadfort. Want to hand it off to one of Ned Stark’s sons, I suppose, perhaps that bastard squire of yours.”

“What an excellent suggestion,” Jaime said. “Though quite honestly, I’ll settle for keeping it out of the hand of a traitor.”

“Domeric is not a traitor,” Lady Dustin spat at him. “And how ironic it is, to hear the son of Tywin Lannister argue that the child should be punished for their fathers’ sins. Tell me, Ser Jaime, how many times have you feasted at Casterly Rock to the minstrels singing The Rains of Castamere?”

Jaime got up from his seat. Blood boiling, he shot back, “Tell me, Barbery Dustin, when your cunt of a nephew turns traitor like his father, shall I mount his decapitated head upon the walls of Barrowton?”

Quick as a snake, Lady Barbery lashed out with her hand, the sound of her slapping Jaime’s face ringing out through the room. Jaime’s head whipped to one side, and he snatched her wrist, using his grip to jerk her in closer.

“Your nephew,” he whispered to her, his cheek stinging all the while, “has the blood of traitors in him. Are we to wait until he’s a man grown, fermenting terror and rebellion in his lands, before we stop him? Are we to wait until he’s old enough to seek revenge for his father’s death, and he comes for the Starks with a sword in his hand and hatred in his heart?”

Lady Barbery bared her teeth. “He is not his father.”

“No,” Jaime agreed flatly, releasing her wrist. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Should I go to Ned Stark, then, and warn him against the day when you turn into your father?” she replied in a vicious hiss. “Should we prepare for the day when you send out your knights to murder and rape unarmed women, and dash their babies’ heads against the wall? All the world knows what kind of man Tywin Lannister is, and I dread the day when you rule at Winterfell with that half-Tully by your side. That will be a dark day for the North indeed.”

Jaime opened his mouth to say the gods only knew what at the wretched woman, only to be interrupted by Tyrion saying urgently, “Jaime.”

They both turned to see Tyrion standing in the open doorway, with Lady Carys behind him, both of them looking wary. Tyrion gave Jaime a deeply unimpressed look, then said politely, “Lady Dustin, allow me to escort you to your rooms.”

Lady Dustin took a moment to reply. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion, but I believe I can find my own way.”

“Oh no, I insist,” Tyrion said, keeping his voice pleasant, but his gaze was sharp. “You are a guest after all, and we take guest right very seriously here.”

That was a particularly well-placed arrow, and from the way Barbary Dustin twitched, it had hit the mark. But she swept out with her head held high, because her arrows had landed too, little though Jaime wanted to admit it.

He waited until the door was shut behind them all before sinking back into his seat, shoulders slumping.

Tyrion came back not five minutes later, fuming. “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he snapped out, climbing into the other chair to better glare at him.

Jaime lifted a shoulder. “Barbary Dustin has outed herself as an unreasonable partisan of her nephew’s cause, she’ll find few allies here. Her resentment of Catelyn and Ned is too obvious.”

“If I thought that was why you picked a fight with the woman, I wouldn’t mind,” Tyrion retorted. “But you didn’t do it for our cause, you did it because you wanted someone to lash out at, and Barbary Dustin was the nearest to hand. She’s an unpleasant woman, it’s true, but she’s also desperately trying to save her sister’s son from paying for his father’s crimes.”

His father’s crimes. The phrase rang unpleasantly in Jaime’s ears, and he found himself saying, distantly, “When was the last time someone mentioned Princess Elia and her children to you?”

Tyrion blinked. “I can’t remember,” he said slowly. “There was a Dornish bookseller, in King’s Landing, he wouldn’t take Lannister coin, but nobody else dared. Only Aunt Gemma, sometimes, she’d complain about the stain on our family name…mind you, she never said it anywhere that Father could hear her.”

“Father wouldn’t have cared about the Boltons,” Jaime said.

“No,” Tyrion agreed.

It hurt to go on. “He could’ve…he could’ve disowned Clegane. Handed the brute over to Dorne.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “But our father has never been the sort to abandon a tool he could make use of in the future.” He waited for more, but as Jaime continued to stay silent, he asked gently, “Jaime, what are you thinking?”

He was thinking of Robb’s accusation, how he’d flung it in Jaime’s teeth that he’d risked war for the chance to keep Cersei, risked the realm and the lives of his entire family, Tyrion and Cersei, his father and the children that Jaime would never claim as his own. The accusation had cut deep, because it was true, and because it was something Jaime could never correct. He’d never touch Cersei again, but the harm was done, there were still three golden cuckoos in the Red Keep, and if they were ever discovered…

Jaime had been tempted, time and time again, to go to Robb and try to demand forgiveness, set his recent actions on the scale and try to argue that they made up for his sins. He’d only refrained because he’d known it would be pathetic and futile.

Now though, he knew that it would be futile for an entirely different reason. Because there was nothing he could do to make up for his sins, for the danger he’d placed on his brother, his children, his sister, the realm.

It was enough to make him choke on his despair, it was enough to make him weep. Except he’d done plenty of that, and it hadn’t helped. Nothing could make up for his sins, not even if he saved Ned Stark’s life a dozen times over.

But maybe…maybe he could start to make up for his father’s sins. At least one of them, anyway.

“I think…that I’m going to travel,” Jaime said slowly. “To the Westerlands.”

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, warning, “If you have some half-baked notion of going to the capital to run off with Cersei…”

“No,” Jaime said, and meant it. He couldn’t risk it, even if he wanted to…and wasn’t that a surprise, to realize he didn’t even want to go? His love for Cersei, the love that has consumed him, now felt like it belonged to another man entirely. “I’m just going to go to the Rock, I promise you.”

Tyrion’s forehead creased. “Why?”

“I miss the ocean,” Jaime said airily, and Tyrion gave him an exasperated look. “Robb and I need some distance,” Jaime said, more seriously. “He’s given his word, I know, but…he’s not a natural dissembler, and the longer this goes on, the more that people will notice. We’ll say I’m going to talk Father into settling the succession at last, bring back some miners with me so we can start looking for mineral deposits in the northern mountains.”

“Some breathing room for you two would help,” Tyrion agreed, but he was still looking at Jaime suspiciously. “Jaime, you won’t…you aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?”

Jaime smiled, and lied to his brother. “Of course not.”

*

Jaime had some notion of going off on his mad quest alone, like a hedge-knight from a storybook, but that notion came crashing against reality soon enough.

Specifically, the reality of his very stubborn squire.

“I’m going with you,” Jon said, mulish.

“Since when do Starks even want to go south of the Neck?” Jaime demanded.

Jon just gave him a very unimpressed look, lips pursed. “Something’s gone wrong between you and Robb,” he said. “I know it’s bad, because he won’t tell me about it and you’ve spent ages now looking like a condemned man, and meanwhile Tyrion is running about trying to distract us all from what’s going on with you two and how worried he is about it.”

Jaime should have denied it immediately, except that he couldn’t seem to find the air needed to speak.

Jon watched him, and then nodded a little, as if he’d just confirmed something. “I know why you’ve said you’re going to Casterly Rock, but you’re really going because you can’t stand to be here, and if things are that bad, then you need someone to look out for you.”

Jaime finally found his voice. “And you think that’s you?”

“Of course it is,” Jon said, as though it were obvious. “I’m your squire and your goodbrother. Even if I wasn’t worried about you, I’d still have a duty to look out for you.” He folded his arms over his chest, and said, with the air of someone laying down his winning hand, “And since you made me your squire, that means you have to take me along.”

“Are you that eager to polish my armor?” Jaime asked, but Jon just said, implacable, “If I have to.”

He’d looked so absurdly young as he’d said this, and Jaime should have cut him down to size immediately, except that he knew that Jon had thought this out through, in the same quietly methodical way he dedicated himself to learning the sword, and knowing he’d taken that much care in working out what had happened and how he could best help—

Well. Jaime found himself unable to do much else except bluster and then go to Ned Stark for permission to take his son on this ridiculous quest of his (that he hadn’t actually told anyone about).

He’d been sure that Ned would say no, except that when he’d gone to Ned, Ned had just looked at Jaime over his desk, arms folded over his chest (in a remarkable imitation of his bastard son) before asking, coolly, “What is going on between you and Robb?”

As Jaime stiffened in his seat, Ned continued, “I haven’t asked before now, but his unhappiness and yours has been obvious to everyone. We hadn’t wanted to interfere, but now with you suddenly requesting leave to travel back to the Westerlands, I feel I have to ask.”

Jaime set his teeth. Tilting his head, he asked, “I hear that Lord Manderly has been hinting that he’d like Jon as a bridegroom for one of his granddaughters, how is Lady Stark feeling about that?” As Ned glared at him, Jaime said, “You don’t ask about the state of my marriage, and I won’t ask about the state of yours. Now, do I have your leave to take Jon with me or not?”

Ned glared at him for a while longer, mouth grim, then he said abruptly. “Yes. Mostly because while I loathe the thought of any of my children within arms’ reach of your father, Jon is your squire, and he’s made it very clear that even if I refuse, he’ll just go anyway.”

Yes, that unfortunately did sound like Jon.

“Theon’s asked to go with you as well,” Ned added.

“Theon?” Jaime echoed, incredulous. “What in the hells am I supposed to do with him?”

“Take him to visit his family,” Ned said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Unless there’s some other purpose to this trip that you haven’t told me about,” he added, eyebrows raised.

Jaime glared, but what could he do? “Fine, I’ll take the idiot squid with me.”

But the worst of it was telling Robb. He hadn’t met the news with dismay or confusion, just stared at Jaime for a long moment with a face like stone and his presence in Jaime’s mind like a block of ice, before saying, “If this is a trick, and you mean to visit your sister instead…”

“I won’t,” Jaime said, doing his best not to show how deeply Robb’s distrust of him cut. Not that it mattered what showed on his face, when Robb could sense it all anyway. “Tyrion’s here, I won’t risk him like that. Not…not again.”

Robb looked at him, then nodded curtly before turning away, ending the conversation.

He did come out to the courtyard on the day of their departure, likely because Tyrion had urged him into keeping up appearances to some extent, especially with all the Northern lords still about. He hung back, however, when the rest of his siblings came up to wish him well, Arya the most miserable of them by far.

“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” she asked Jon, face woebegone. “I could be useful, I know I could.”

Jon smiled and bent down to kiss her hair. “I know, but you have your own task to keep to,” he said, giving a not-at-all subtle nod to Robb, who was saying farewell to Theon.

Tyrion was there as well, and pulled him down for a hug, whispering fiercely in his ear, “Whatever you have planned, don’t be an idiot. And I expect you back home within three months, Jaime.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jaime promised, and Tyrion just huffed in response.

The last of his goodbyes was with Robb, who looked at him levelly, eyes cool. He was no great liar, it was true, but his mask was getting better, and his shielding against Jaime’s mind had improved by leaps and bounds. Jaime felt the absence of his presence like an open wound. “I expect you back soon,” he said, and leaned in to drop a brief, cool kiss against Jaime’s surprised mouth.

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” Jaime said once he’d pulled away, his own lips buzzing, and with an ache in his chest.

Robb looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “See that you don’t,” he said, and stepped away.

Jaime rode out of the courtyard without letting himself look back once, followed by his squire and his unwanted squid of a companion, as well as the twenty guards that Ned Stark had insisted they take.

And as he rode away from Winterfell’s gates, the ache in his chest seemed to grow, until it finally settled into his bones, and Jaime knew he would carry it with him, no matter how far away he went.

He was fairly impressed by how long it took before Theon and Jon started pressing him in earnest about his plans, and why they weren’t taking the Kingsroad, but taking the river down all the way to the Saltspear, where they would eventually sail to Pyke, before going further on to the Westerlands.

“I agreed with Lord Stark that Theon could visit his family,” Jaime explained, taking note of the wave of emotion that washed over Theon’s face at the confirmation that yes, he’d be returning to the Iron Islands for the first time since the war. “Besides, I have a business proposition for your sister Yara. I understand she’s become quite the promising young sea captain.”

“What business,” Jon and Theon said in unison, then made faces at each other.

Jaime dismissed their questions with a wave of his hand. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Theon looked disbelieving, but it was Jon who said, slowly, “Didn’t you kill a lot of ironborn soldiers at the Battle of Pyke? And now you want us to sail to the Iron Islands so you can ask Theon’s sister to go on some voyage that you won’t give us any details on?”

Jaime pretended to consider it. “Yes, that sounds about right. Of course, if you’d prefer to return back to Winterfell…”

Theon took the bait, just as Jaime knew he would. “No! No, that’s fine. We’ll keep going.” And he shoved at Jon’s shoulder, clearly demanding that Jon take the bait as well, or at least keep his mouth shut.

Jon didn’t let it go at that, of course. He followed Jaime to the bedchamber they’d be sharing at the innhouse for the night, shutting the door behind him and saying flatly, “I don’t think we should go to Pyke.”

“Of course we should,” Jaime said, casually loosening the ties to his jerkin, not looking at Jon.

“No, we really shouldn’t,” Jon said, urgently. “It’ll just take one ironborn with a grudge and a dagger, and then you’re bleeding out on the shores of Pyke, and I’ve got to explain to Robb and Tyrion how I let you get injured, or worse, and then your father is likely going to go to war—”

“Gods be good, Jon, breathe,” Jaime said, alarmed. “Just how long have you been coming up with this dire vision of the future?”

Jon looked at him balefully. “We’ve been on the road for a week, I have had plenty of time to consider all the ways in which this trip could go wrong.” He eyed Jaime up before adding, “Especially when you aren’t telling me everything.”

He had that mulish look on his face again, shoulders squared and his mouth thin with displeasure, and Jaime had a sinking feeling that he would not, in fact, be able to brush Jon off this time. Worse still, he was reminded suddenly of being fifteen and watching the rest of the Kingsguard, his sworn brothers, brush off his questions or concerns, assuming that Jaime was too young, too stupid, to properly understand anything of real importance.

He’d thought it would be a lark, taking Jon on as his squire. An easy way to keep his husband happy. He hadn’t realized, then, the ties he was forging.

But here they were, and if Jaime was going to take on one responsibility he’d ignored for too long…he might as well pick up another.

“I need to hire a ship and a crew to carry a parcel,” Jaime said at last. “If everything goes as I hope in the Westerlands, I’ll be able to hand the parcel off to Yara Greyjoy and her crew, and they can sail on to its destination while we return back to the North.”

Jon’s shoulders began to relax. “Is this parcel at Casterly Rock, then?” he asked curiously.

Jaime shook his head. “We won’t be going to the Rock. At least not right away.”

“So where will we be going then?”

Jaime sat down on the bed, feeling very weary. He hadn’t meant to tell Jon this, not until they were safely in Lannisport, too far away to turn back. “You and Theon will be staying in Lannisport with the guards. I will be going to Clegane’s Keep,” Jaime said.

It didn’t take very long for Jon to realize what that meant. “The keep where Gregor Clegane lives?” At Jaime’s tiny nod, Jon paled. “What business could you possibly have with the Mountain?”

“Business that is long overdue,” Jaime said.

Jon started to shake his head, awareness slowly dawning in his eyes. “Jaime—”

“It’s an interesting tradition you Northmen have, dispatching your monsters once they’ve been exposed,” Jaime said. “Think it’s a tradition I might want to bring over to the Westerlands.”

“You’re going to try and kill Gregor Clegane,” Jon whispered. “You…the voyage you want Yara Greyjoy to sail off to…gods, is it to Dorne? You’re going to—”

“I’m going to kill Clegane and send his head and hands to House Martell, yes,” Jaime confirmed, marveling a little even as he spoke—Seven help him, it truly did sound utterly insane when said aloud.

Jon spluttered helplessly for another moment or two, before bursting out, “But it’s the Mountain! What if he kills you?”

“Then my father will have Clegane killed,” Jaime said, with a shrug he didn’t really feel. “Either way, the bastard’s dead.” He eyed Jon before adding more lightly, “And for the record, I do not appreciate your easy dismissal of my abilities—”

“This isn’t a jape,” Jon snapped at him. “This—you could die! They say the Mountain has the strength of twenty men, that he’s over eight feet tall, that he—”

“They say a lot of things,” Jaime interrupted. “He’s just a man, Jon. He bleeds like any other man.” But Jon was white-faced with terror, and Jaime swallowed before saying, “There are a handful of people in the entire realm with even a prayer of surviving a fight against Clegane, Jon, and I’m one of them. Being the best swordsman in Westeros has to be good for something. Let it be this.”

And Jaime knew that Jon, who was Ned Stark’s son to the bone even if he didn’t carry the Stark name, would not be able to stand against that argument.

He was right, as Jon shook his head a little, before finally sinking down on the edge of the bed next to Jaime. “Seven hells, Jaime,” he said at last, “If you get yourself killed fighting the Mountain, I’ll never be able to look Robb in the face again.”

Jaime bit back the several maudlin, self-pitying remarks he could have said to that, and said instead, “If you’d prefer not to come, we aren’t that far out from Winterfell, you could still—”

Jon jerked his head up, scoffing. “As if I’d leave you to face down the Mountain with Theon as backup,” he snorted, before saying more softly. “I’m your squire and your goodbrother. I told you, I have a duty to stand with you. No matter how reckless you’re being.”

“Thank you,” Jaime said.

They sat quietly together, then Jon said slowly, “We can’t tell any of the others, can we? Theon would just write back home to everyone and they’d come chasing after us, and the guards…hells, they’d probably tie you up and drag you back home.”

“They probably would,” Jaime agreed.

Jon nodded, breathing in and out before saying, “You are the best swordsman in Westeros, so you can beat him.” Despite the strength of his words, his voice wavered a little at the end, almost but not quite making it a plea.

Jaime had lied to Tyrion, to Robb and to Ned Stark, to just about everyone in order to go on this trip, but he found himself unable to lie to Jon. “On my best day…yes. I can beat him.”

Jon’s face wobbled for a moment, looking heartbreakingly young, before his expression firmed. “So we’d better make sure it’s your best day then, shouldn’t we?”

A tension Jaime hadn’t wanted to admit was there finally lessened. Reckless and foolish as this plan was, Jon was with him now, and there was no turning back. “Yes. We will.”

Chapter 4

Notes

I regret to confirm that everyone is still Going Through It in this chapter. Posting this a day early because it's ready to go and I'm in a mood and feeling impatient, lol.

Domeric Bolton didn’t look like the son of a monster. He was tall, with dark hair cropped close to his head, and eerily pale eyes. His clothing was of good quality but not ostentatious in the way that Robb associated with the South (he thought of Jaime’s ornately-worked armor, his crimson cloak, and flinched away from the memory of blithely teasing him about it, a lifetime ago).

Mostly, the thing that stood out about Domeric Bolton was how obviously terrified he was.

He wasn’t making an embarrassing display of it, no blubbering or whining. He’d arrived at Winterfell along with Lord Redfort, immediately dismounted from his horse and gone to one knee before Robb’s father, head bent low as he’d murmured, “My lord Stark.” It was only when he looked up that Robb could see that he was white to the lips, and his eyes round with terror.

Hardly anyone would have noticed the faint pause before Ned replied, “Arise, Ser Domeric.” He gestured, and Ned’s mother stepped forward with servants carrying the bread and salt, the goblet of wine.

Robb was almost sure that Ser Domeric paled even more at the sight of the ritual that his father had so blatantly disrespected, but he took the bread and salt, and drank the wine.

His hand was trembling the entire time.

“Lord Redfort, welcome to Winterfell,” Robb’s mother was saying now, as Lord Redfort approached. He was a portly man with a bushy beard, and he wore a worried expression.

They should be worried. Every time Robb thought of what had happened at the Dreadfort, his blood started boiling. He had no idea how his father could stand there so calmly, looking at the son of the man who tried to kill him. But Robb had been given his instructions, and so he also stood calmly next to his father, and when Ned gestured for Robb to follow them all into his solar, Robb went without a word.

Tyrion was waiting for them there, his gaze sharp as he greeted them all. Robb would give Domeric this, he didn’t gawk at Tyrion’s lack of height the way that Lord Redfort was gawking.

It was…annoying, having to search out virtues in Domeric Bolton, and all the more annoying that Robb could find them.

Once they were all seated, Robb’s father began unceremoniously. In his calm voice, he said to Domeric, “I know you’ve been made aware, in a general sense, of what happened at your father’s castle, and what we uncovered, but there are some further details that have emerged that you should know about.”

Domeric nodded, face still pale. “Of course, my lord. Anything you have to say, I will hear.”

Ned nodded, and then he began outlining the full scope of the crimes committed by the Boltons over the past twenty years. He didn’t linger on the details, but even the bare facts were horrifying enough. Robb kept his eyes on Domeric the whole time, observing as Domeric’s skin grew even paler (a thing Robb hadn’t been sure was even possible) and his mouth trembled, as he heard the long list of his family’s crimes.

When his father had finally come to an end, Tyrion took up the thread of conversation. “There were human skins found in a tower. Did you have any knowledge of their existence, or that your father was flaying men to death?”

“No,” Domeric said quickly. “I hadn’t—when I was at home, there were certain rooms I wasn’t allowed to enter.”

Tyrion’s eyebrow lifted. “You never asked him why?”

“I never dared to question my father,” Domeric said, then glanced down at his hands, shamed. “Though it is clear now that I should have.”

Lord Redfort stirred at this, saying to Domeric, “You were a boy of seven when you left for the Vale. What child that age is capable of defying their father?”

“Of course,” Tyrion said soothingly. “And to be clear, your father never mentioned the practice of First Night to you? Never indicated he’d brought the tradition back?”

“No, gods no,” Domeric said. “There was never any sign of that at all, I swear it to you.”

“So you never heard of your bastard brother’s conception,” Robb interjected. “How he hung the woman’s husband on the branch of a tree, then raped her underneath her husband’s corpse.”

“Lord Robb, I must protest,” Lord Redfort said faintly, and Robb turned to glare at him.

“We have spent months now investigating the depravities that occurred on his family’s lands,” he said, voice hard. “My father nearly died at Roose Bolton’s hands, my brother spent days burying the bodies of the victims, and my—” His voice stopped, then he went on, calmly, “My own husband and soulmate was wounded, defending my father and his men. Loyal Stark men have died defending my family from Roose Bolton. And now you want to be squeamish when we ask questions?”

“Robb,” his father said, very gently, and Robb sat back in his seat, breathing out heavily through his nose.

“It’s fair,” Domeric said, his own voice small. But he looked to Lord Redfort, and said, more surely, “It’s more than fair that I answer.” He squared his shoulders when he looked at Robb, his voice stronger when he said, “I never knew the story of how my brother was conceived. I barely knew of my brother at all, my father…was very insistent that we be kept apart.”

That matched with the information they’d been able to uncover, and Robb glanced over to Tyrion, who gave him a minute nod.

They kept going, of course, but Domeric Bolton was, in the end, so obviously what everyone said he was—a sixteen year old boy raised on southern traditions of chivalry and honor, who’d been kept carefully away from his family’s darker acts. An innocent. Even if his name was Bolton.

And Robb knew, looking at his father now, that his father’s mind had been made up.

“Lord Stark,” Domeric said, once the questioning had come to a pause, “I know…I know that my father failed you. As a bannerman, as a lord of the North and Westeros, and as a host. I know that his death was…more than justified. And I…I wish to say that, however you demand justice of me and my house, it will be done.” He came out of his seat, and went down to one knee, head bowed. “Even if it means that I make my vows to the Night’s Watch, or if my neck must meet your blade.”

For a moment, the only sound that Robb could hear was the crackling of the fire in the grate.

“Arise, Ser Domeric,” his father said. “I will not be requiring your death, or that you take the black.”

Domeric jerked his head up, shocked, and Lord Renfort stared in disbelief. “You…you won’t?”

Ned shook his head. “No.”

Domeric’s face was a picture of absolute confusion. “Why not?”

“Justice will not be served by executing a boy innocent of all crimes beyond that of having a villian for a father, and a beast for a half-brother,” Ned said, his voice firm, the same way it had been when he’d explained his final decision to Robb and Tyrion, a week earlier.

“Oh, thank the Seven,” Lord Redfort burst out, wiping at his forehead. “Lord Stark, I swear to you, you will not regret this decision. Domeric is a true knight, and he is worthy of the mercy you have shown.”

But his father shook his head. “It’s not mercy I’m offering, but a heavy burden,” he told Domeric heavily. “You will spend the next three years here, as a ward of my house. Following that, you will take your seat as Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort. That is not a gift, given the stain on your House. Your neighbors will distrust you. Many of your smallfolk will leave your lands. News of what has happened has spread throughout the kingdoms, and you will likely find it harder to make a good marriage when the time comes. You will spend your entire life met with suspicion, working to overcome the legacies of your father and brother, and you will die knowing that work will have to go on with the children and grandchildren that will follow you.”

Domeric’s expression was grave as he listened to the future his father painted for him, but his chin was raised high, and when Ned asked, “So, Ser Domeric…are you sure that this is the future you want?” Domeric’s voice was strong and steady as he said, “Absolutely.”

*

“Would Roose Bolton have been caught sooner in the south?” Robb asked Tyrion later that day, in his solar.

Tyrion sat back in his seat, considering. He’d been growing out his beard over the last month or so, and Robb thought it suited him. It certainly made him look like more of a Northman, particularly when he wore his fur cloak. “Possibly.”

“How? Would a septon have reported his crimes?”

Tyrion snorted. “Any local septon likely would’ve been bribed or coerced by Bolton into keeping his mouth shut.”

“But theoretically,” Robb pressed. “A local septon could have reported him to the king, or to the High Septon.”

“If they were brave enough, and weren’t killed outright by Bolton or his men,” Tyrion conceded, then leaned in over the desk, suddenly alarmed. “Robb, please don’t tell me that you’re thinking the solution to all this is bringing the Faith of the Seven to the North.”

Robb scoffed. “Of course not. It’s just…I know my father is working on improving the roads in the North, so that people and news can travel more easily, and I know that having Domeric here as a ward should help, but I hadn’t realized how…vulnerable the North is, to men like Roose Bolton and Ramsey Snow.”

Tyrion was watching him sympathetically. “The lower population and sprawling vastness of the North were a benefit to the Boltons, it’s true. What are you proposing we do about it?”

“I hardly know,” Robb admitted. “I keep thinking…if the maester at the Dreadfort had said something, but of course he wouldn’t have, he was sworn to serve House Bolton. Even if he had reported it to the Citadel, would they have passed the information on?”

“Likely not,” Tyrion said with a grimace. “The entire point of the maesters is that they serve their lords, not any higher authority.”

“And all the servants in House Bolton are meant to do likewise,” Robb said. “And we can’t bring the septons and septas to the North, not without causing a full-scale rebellion—”

“To put it mildly,” Tyrion agreed.

“But what if we had something like the septons? Or like the motherhouses in the south?” Robb said, growing more excited by the idea as he spoke. “We could send out teachers and healers to serve in local holdfasts, nearby major keeps…they would work to help the smallfolk, but they’d be paid by and sworn to House Stark.”

Tyrion was thinking it over, which meant the idea wasn’t totally ridiculous. “It would cost money,” he warned, but added more brightly, “But thanks to Baratheon waiving the tax rolls so that your father can improve the roads at a quicker pace, not to mention the long-term wealth that will come from Moat Cailin and the increase in trade….hmm.”

“I know the North is slow to change, but this would be a good time to bring in change. None of the bannerman can grumble, not when they’re so eager to prove their loyalty and worthiness in the wake of the Boltons’ treachery,” Robb said, and Tyrion grinned at him.

“Clever boy,” he said, approving. “And thanks to your father sparing Domeric, even the Ryswells and Dustins won’t push back. No, you’re right, there is an opportunity here…”

They were deep into the calculations and possible locations when someone knocked on the door; it was Maester Luwin, with a letter from Jon for Robb. Robb took it with a smile and thank you, ignoring Luwin’s carefully inquisitive gaze, and unrolled it once Luwin had left.

(Jaime had yet to write once. Robb told himself he was glad for the silence.)

“What does Jon say?” Tyrion asked.

“Not much,” Robb said, scanning the page. “They’ve reached Flint’s Finger and will be sailing on from there to Pyke.” He smiled a little. “Jon writes that Theon is obviously all nerves and excitement at the thought of seeing his home after so long, and just as determined to hide it.” Robb paused before adding, “He says that Jaime is well.”

“Good,” Tyrion said.

Robb held onto the words as long as he could, but they came out anyway. “Do you know what he’s really doing in the Westerlands?”

“Aside from giving you space?” Tyrion said. “My brother’s a restless man, if you show him a problem, he wants to throw himself at it. He always wants to be doing something. But this is…a problem he can’t solve with a sword. So he’s gone traveling instead.” He looked at Robb more closely. “Unless you think it’s something else.”

Robb stayed quiet, turning it over in his head. “He was…determined, the day he left,” Robb said finally. “Not happy, but…relieved, almost. Like he’d set his course, and was glad the decision was made.”

The feeling had been muted, a thin shadow of what Robb would have felt, in the early days of their bond, when everything was wide-open with possibilities, but it had been there. Had Robb not been holding so closely to his own anger, his own determination to keep Jaime at a distance, he might’ve asked more questions.

But then, that would have meant being willing to hear the answers.

“He’s not going to King’s Landing,” Tyrion said with confidence.

Robb grimaced, unable to deny that he’d been wondering that exact thing for weeks now. “How can you be so sure?”

“For one thing, he can’t take Theon to court, the place would be in an uproar,” Tyrion said drolly, and Robb scoffed but also nodded, acknowledging the point. “For another…Jaime knows now what Cersei is. What she can’t be to him. He won’t forget that, even now that he’s left Winterfell.”

Idly, Robb twirled the quill in his fingers, keeping his grip light with an effort so as not to break it. “Don’t be so sure. He…he loves her. Beyond all reason, for all their lives, he’s loved her and only her. One year in the North is hardly likely to change that.”

“He is married to you. Bonded to you,” Tyrion said, emphatic. “You can’t possibly think that Jaime will betray you now. Putting everything else aside, the simple existence of the soulbond alone prevents all that—infidelity is impossible with a bonded pair.”

"I know that," Robb said, tightly. "It doesn't mean he doesn't want to. It doesn't mean…he didn't pick this. He never chose me, he never chose this life in the North, but he chose her, over and over and over again. Even if I could accept all that he’s done, how can I—"

Never had Robb come so close to understanding his mother's resentment of Jon before now. Robb felt as though he could go mad from the weight of his jealousy and anger, his fury over knowing he was the second-choice, worse, that he was never a choice at all. And that was without the constant presence of one of Jaime's bastards in his home—if Robb had been forced to look upon Princess Myrcella every day, he honestly would not know what to do.

Tyrion said, filled with an assurance that Robb wished he shared, "You are the best thing to happen to my brother in his entire ill-spent life, and he knows it. Robb, I promise you, he's not such a fool that he doesn't know it."

Tyrion Lannister was likely the smartest man that Robb had ever met or was likely to ever meet. And yet…Robb was sure that he was wrong. He had to be. Robb couldn’t dare let himself hope for anything else.

*

Two days later, Robb stood at his father’s side in the Great Hall, watching as his father spoke to all the lords of the North.

“I never thought this needed to be said,” Ned intoned, his cold stare sweeping across the Hall and leaving everyone frozen in its wake. “Rape and murder are crimes that go against the laws of the land, and against the laws of the land. That includes First Night, which is an abominable tradition, one that should be left in the dirt rather than resurrected.”

Robb looked to where the Umbers were sitting. Both the Greatjon and his son looked solemn and angry, but not guilty or afraid. And yet despite everything—the Smalljon’s promises, the oaths the Umbers would take today, House Stark would still have to search the truth out for themselves on his father’s tour of the North.

“Anyone found guilty of such crimes, no matter how highborn, will face the King’s Justice,” Robb’s father continued. “This I swear, on my honor as a Stark. Our ways are harsh, but they must hold for everyone, lords and smallfolk alike.”

“Hear, hear,” old Lord Manderly called out, thumping the table with his fist, and the Hall quickly erupted into cheers and more table-banging, until it felt like the very walls were vibrating with sound.

It was stirring and emotional, and yet…the small, cynical part of Robb thought, let’s see if their smallfolk would cheer for their lords like this.

After that, his father had the lords come up, one House at a time, to renew their vows to House Stark, and through them to the laws and reign of Robert Baratheon.

He saw Ser Rodrick watching from the side, face solemn but the grief obvious if you knew what to look for, and Robb’s stomach lurched at the memory of Jory, who’d taught him how to set a trap and skin a rabbit, who’d died saving Robb’s brother, whose death could not be for nothing.

He saw one or two of the lords, as they approached the high table, glancing at him and looking confused—likely wondering where Jaime was. Robb met each of their gazes squarely, and every time, they looked away first.

Lord Glover looked rather agitated as he came up to make his vows, but that likely had more to do with Carys than anything else—she’d made a point of avoiding both her father and anyone from House Hornwood as much as possible, and Robb knew that both Tyrion and his mother had willingly aided her in doing so. Tonight she was eating her supper in her quarters, and Robb knew there were guards stationed at the door, just in case.

And finally, it was Domeric Bolton’s turn.

There was a low rumble of disconnect as he’d walked up to Robb’s father—even a few hisses, but his father’s glare quickly put a halt to that. Lady Dustin was glaring at people as well, her dark gaze sharp enough to cut stone.

Domeric was white as snow when he stood before Robb’s father, but he placed his sword down without hesitation, and his voice was strong as he said, “To Winterfell I pledge the faith of the Dreadfort. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my lord. My sword and spear and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you.”

The words rang out in the silence of the hall.

His father said, with quiet confidence, “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor.”

His father’s choice of mercy had confounded more than a few of the lords, Robb knew. He hadn’t actually been in his father’s solar when the Greatjon had found out, but that hadn’t mattered, half the castle heard Lord Umber’s roaring. There might even be a lord or two that thought his father weak, for not cutting off Domeric’s head or sending him to the Wall, for not destroying the Boltons entirely.

But looking at Domeric and his father now, Robb knew—this was the harder, braver choice. To stick to your convictions even when it made your path more difficult, to save the boy whose father had betrayed you. And for Domeric, what it must have cost him to look into the face of the man his father had failed to destroy, and promise before the whole of the North that he would be a better man and lord than his father had been.

For all of their sakes, Robb wanted his father to be right. And he’d work himself into the ground to prove his father right, if he had to.

After the oaths were made, and everyone had sat down to eat and drink their fill, Barbary Dustin approached Robb. “Lord Robb,” she said coolly. “I hear you and Lord Tyrion have some scheme involving an order of healers for the North.”

Robb watched her with more than a little wariness. He knew of her confrontation with Jaime, before he’d left, and he knew of her reputation. “We do,” he said. “Though it’s in the early stages, yet.”

Lady Dustin hummed. “You should make sure the healers are women. Midwives. The smallfolk are likelier to trust a woman.”

Robb blinked. “I’ll take that under advisement, my lady.”

She nodded sharply. “Anything to weaken the Citadel’s grey rats and their hold over us,” she said with a snort. “Anyway, it’s a decent enough idea, you’ll let me know if I can offer any assistance.”

Robb made very sure that his eyebrows didn’t go up at hearing this. “Thank you, Lady Dustin, we’ll keep that in mind.”

She nodded again, but seemed reluctant to walk away. “He’s a good boy, you know.”

Robb knew that Lady Dustin was known as a hard woman, and that she had little love for his parents or his House, but he couldn’t help but feel sympathy at her obvious worry for her nephew. “He’s made a good showing, these last few weeks,” Robb told her, and meant it. “If he holds to his oaths, we’ll hold to ours. You have my word on it, as well as my father’s.”

Barbary’s posture didn’t relax, but the stiffness to her mouth finally eased. “You have some sense to you, that’s a relief. I look forward to dealing with you in the future, Lord Robb.”

The last time that Jaime had set foot upon the shores of Pyke, it was to go to war and kill every ironborn soldier he saw. Now here he was, looking to hire an entire crew of them for his mad quest. Truly the gods moved in baffling ways.

There was a figure waiting for them as they disembarked from the boat that ferried them from the mainland, a woman wearing trousers and leathers like a man, with a sword at her side. “Yara Greyjoy?” Jaime called out.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” the woman said, with a smirk on her face that was quite familiar. Yes, that was a Greyjoy all right. “You’re a brave man, to come to these shores after all the blood you spilled here.”

“If it’s a fight you’re looking for, Lady Yara, I assure you I’m more than available,” Jaime replied, smiling broadly at her. “But what I’m looking for is a ship, and a captain and crew to sail her.”

“And will we need to suffer your fine company on my ship?” Yara asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Jaime promised her.

“And you’ll pay what you promised in your letter?”

Jaime nodded. “Half the fee now, the second half to be paid out after you’ve completed your voyage and I hear that the parcel has been delivered.”

“All right, you’ve got a deal,” Yara said, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. Jaime paused for a moment—shaking hands with an ironborn, Father would be shuddering if he could see Jaime now—but then he took her hand in his. Her hand was rough with calluses, and her grip firm but not absurdly so. Not a woman desperate to prove herself then. Good.

Her gaze drifted past Jaime, and her expression grew somber. “Theon.”

Theon steps forward, looking absurdly young and unsure of himself. “Yara.”

The two siblings just stared at each other. Hardly the touching reunion scene. At last Yara said, mouth pursed, “You look well. They must be feeding you decent meals in Ned Stark’s keep.”

“I’m treated well,” Theon promised, swallowing before he lifted up his chin. “I’m the best archer in all of Winterfell, in fact.”

“Good,” Yara said. She turned away from her brother—Jaime watched as Theon’s face fell—and fixed her attention on Jon. “And who is this?”

Jon shifted his feet, unused to being looked over so boldly. “I’m Jon Snow.”

Jaime was expecting Yara to press further upon hearing Jon’s surname, ask if he really was the Bastard of Winterfell, but perhaps he should have foreseen what she did say instead.

“Well now,” Yara said, looking Jon over with an expression that Jaime could only describe as lascivious. “Aren’t you a pretty thing.”

Jon spluttered. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t know they made them this pretty in the North,” Yara continued shamelessly, as her brother looked on, aghast, and the guards started to grin. “Think I might have to bring my ship up there more often, if this is the quality of men I can find.”

Jon’s face was slowly turning a shade of red that Jaime associated with cherries, or elderly men suffering from apoplexy. “I—you—” To Jaime’s amusement, as Yara sauntered away to lead them towards the castle, Jon turned to him and hissed, “What is she doing?”

“Propositioning you,” Jaime replied. “I’d take it as a compliment.” As Jon spluttered in outrage, Jaime clapped his hand on Jon’s shoulder and said, “Personally, I’d be more worried about making it across that bridge than whether Yara Greyjoy’s going to steal your virtue.”

Jon looked off towards the distance, where the bridges crossed the ravine, and sighed heavily.

“You could stay back with the ship,” Jaime offered, not for the first time, and Jon wordlessly glared at him. “Or not.”

“Come on,” Jon said, trudging after the Greyjoys. “Let’s try and get through this day without you getting stabbed by an ironborn.”

*

It was a good thing that Jaime was so set on his course, because looking at Balon Greyjoy’s withered, petulant face was hardly a pleasant experience.

It had been a cold welcome, their party rushed through the bread and salt ritual and ushered through the damp corridors of the keep into the main hall, where Balon Greyjoy was waiting.

There was no tender embrace for Theon, who took one hesitant step forward to his father before falling back, his shoulders curling inward anxiously.

“So here is my son after all these years,” Balon Greyjoy said, his sour face not lightening at all, not even when faced with his son who he hadn’t seen for over a decade. “With the spawn of Tywin Lannister and Ned Stark as his companions.”

Theon flinched a little bit, but Jaime gave the old drowned fucker his widest grin. “How lovely it is to see you again, Lord Greyjoy. Last time I saw you, you were on your knees before Robert Baratheon begging for your life.”

“You’re a bold man to come here,” Balon said, glowering. “I could set my men on you, have you run through with a sword, watch all that fine Lannister blood spill over my floors.”

Jaime sensed the Winterfell guards drawing tighter around them, Jon shifting anxiously on his feet, but he didn’t blink. “You could try. You’d fail. And after I was done butchering you and everyone else here, my father and his father—” with a nod at Jon, “—would arrive with their armies to salt and burn this place to the ground. It’d be a reaving the likes of which even the ironborn have never seen, I promise you that, Balon. So let’s stop pretending you have the guts to face me in battle again, and either feast us like the guests we’re meant to be, or let us go on our way.”

Balon’s face turned beet-red, and Jaime smiled in the face of his toothless fury, because Jaime was right, and everyone in the room knew it.

Dinner was a miserable affair, of course, with Theon quiet and shamed, Balon resentful and glowering, and Jaime grimly eating everything that was put on his plate to prove that he could not be made uneasy by these bastards. The only moments of levity were when Jon attempted to fend off Yara’s teasing advances, and when Jon jumped in his seat with a scandalized expression, clearly having just been pinched somewhere, Jaime muffled his snort in his goblet.

“Sure you don’t want to join Lady Yara in her quarters?” Jaime teased at the end of the evening, as Jon grimly followed Jaime into his guest quarters.

Jon sent him a scowling glance. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered. “I’m staying here tonight, otherwise you absolutely will get stabbed in your sleep.”

“This absurd insistence of yours that I’m a helpless maiden unable to defend myself,” Jaime said, rolling his eyes.

“This absurd insistence of yours on baiting people who already have every reason to want you dead,” Jon retorted, with perhaps more justification. He wouldn’t even take off his boots, and insisted on sleeping in front of the door, his sword unsheathed, no matter how Jaime pointed out the number of guards outside the door, the fact that Jaime had his own sword, or that if Jon were to somehow get stabbed by one of the ironborn, war would break out regardless.

No one could beat the Starks for stubbornness, that was sure.

But all of Jon’s paranoia was for naught, as they made it through the night without anyone being stabbed, and were able to break heir fast in the main hall the following morning and board Yara Greyjoy’s ship without incident.

“So then, Lannister, what is it you’re having us ship to Dorne then? And who are we delivering to?” Yara asked as the ship started to move out of the harbor.

“You’ll be delivering it to House Martell,” Jaime said.

Yara’s eyebrows shot up. “What on earth could the son of Tywin Lannister have for the Martells, aside from…” As her voice trailed off, her eyes grew wider and wider.

Theon was looking between his sister and Jaime, growing more and more alarmed. “No,” he said, a flat denial. “No, there’s no…” He whirled around to stare at a guilty-looking Jon, pointing his finger as he yelled, “Snow! Did you know about this?”

“If you think I’m transporting Gregor Clegane as a prisoner to Dorne,” Yara said, warningly, and Jaime rolled his eyes.

“Well, he’s not going to be alive when you do it, now is he?”

That shut both Greyjoy siblings up in a hurry, both of them now staring at Jaime wordlessly. “You’re going to kill the Mountain,” Theon said at last, voice flat with disbelief, as the noise from the nearby guards and crew started to grow, as more and more people started to pay attention to what they were saying. “That’s the point of our travels? We’re here so you can kill your father’s evil murdering bannerman?”

“Yes,” Jaime confirmed, and behind him, he heard one of the guards mutter, “The fuck did he just say?”

After a moment, Yara Greyjoy started to laugh. “I’ll say this for you, Lannister, you’re not dull.”

Theon stared at his sister. “You can’t possibly still be planning on helping with this…this madness!”

“Of course I am,” Yara said, scoffing. “There’s no way I’m going to miss attending what’s sure to be the most legendary duel of our time.” She turned a sharp smile on Jaime and added, “After all, even if you get killed, you’ve already paid me in gold.”

“Watch your elbow, Bran,” Robb called out, and not for the first time that afternoon.

He’d taken to supervising some of the children’s sword lessons, in the wake of the bannermen finally leaving Winterfell. Ser Rodrick still did the majority of the training, of course, with their mother’s reluctant consent, but at least twice a week, Robb met his siblings and Wylla Manderly in the godswood and watched them poke and prod at each other with wooden swords.

And when the children rested at the roots of the heart tree, Robb would practice grappling with Carys Hornwood, because even though she had her dagger and knew where to stick it if needed, Arya would willingly practice her sewing in the godswood if she was only allowed to watch as Carys learned how to gouge a man’s eye out.

Today though, they’d barely begun when Robb heard footsteps approaching, and held up his hand to signal that they needed to pause. “Who’s there?” It wasn’t exactly a secret that Robb was giving lessons in the godswood, but they didn’t want an audience either.

“It’s me,” Sansa called out as she came into view, puffing a little bit from exertion.

“What are you doing here?” Arya asked.

Sansa opened her mouth to answer, then tilted her head in obvious confusion. “Is that an embroidery hoop?”

“Maybe,” Arya said, even as she moved to hide the hoop from view.

“Is that how your stitches have gotten so much better?” Sansa asked. “Jeyne and I couldn’t understand it!”

“Arya and I agreed a different environment would allow her to focus better,” Carys said mildly, and Sansa’s cheeks went pink. “Did you need something, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa came back to herself, straightening her posture as she said, “I’d…like to learn how to use a dagger.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Arya and Bran said in disbelieving unison, “You?” Next to them, Wylla let out a low whistle, tucking her moss-green hair behind her ears.

Robb shared their disbelief. “Really?”

Sansa’s cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “I can learn if I want to!” she huffed. “Lady Carys has learned, and Arya gets to practice with swords—”

“Of course you can,” Robb said quickly, hoping to head off one of Sansa’s sulks, or another argument between his sisters. “But why do you want to? You’ve never shown any interest before—” An awful thought came to Robb, and he said urgently, “Sansa, is this about Domeric Bolton? Has he tried—”

“No!” Sansa gasped, eyes going wide. “No, I just…I just want to, that’s all.”

Robb wasn’t quite sure that he believed it, something must have spurred this on, but Carys said in her calm way, “If you want to learn, then you can.” She put down the wooden dagger they used for practice, and brought out one of her real daggers, unsheathing it as she did so. (Tyrion kept commissioning daggers for her from Mikken, and Carys was growing quite the collection as a result.)

As she encouraged Sansa to take the dagger in her hand and feel the weight of it, Robb moved closer to Arya to ask, keeping his voice low, “Has Bolton been hanging about?” He couldn’t imagine how, Domeric had been at Winterfell for so short a time and every member of the household watched him like a hawk…and yet, he was a Bolton.

“No,” Arya said, but she was scowling and her hands were curled into fists. “But now I’m going to be watching him—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Robb ordered. “Leave it to me.” Arya scowled up at him, mutinous, and Robb said, warningly, “Arya.”

“Fine,” Arya muttered, but Robb resolved to watch her too, just in case.

Sansa did not take naturally to the dagger, looking squeamish when Robb demonstrated how to stab a man in the kidneys, and looking horrified at the thought of gouging someone’s eyes out. But she stayed, and she learned, and when Robb doubtfully asked if she wanted to join them for the next lesson, Sansa gave a firm nod.

“All right,” Robb agreed, looking to Carys, who just shrugged a little. Robb gestured, and Carys heeded his unspoken request, ushering the others ahead of them and out of the godswood, telling Arya that her stitches were coming along nicely, and that they would be able to show Lady Stark her progress soon, and wouldn’t that be nice? Meanwhile, Wylla and Bran were playing with sticks, the dull clack-clack noises fading as they moved ahead of Robb and Sansa, who were walking at a slower pace.

Robb took a breath, and said, carefully, “Sansa, I’ll teach you anything you want to know about a dagger, I promise. But I must ask, why are you suddenly so interested? If someone’s scared you—”

“No one’s scared me,” Sansa said, exasperated now. “Least of all Ser Domeric, I think he’s more scared of us than I am of him!”

Robb didn’t relent. “So what is it then, if not Bolton?”

Sansa looked down at the ground. “Just…I heard some of the maids talking about the trip that everyone’s taken, to visit Theon’s family on the Iron Islands.”

“Yes,” Robb said slowly.

“They were talking about…about reaving. About how they hoped that Theon wouldn’t come back to Winterfell and bring the iron ways with him, but then one of them said that he’d be a fool to try, with how our father treats rapers, even when they’re highborn.”

“Sansa—“

“And i know about Carys’ husband too, the one who died,” Sansa added quickly. “How…how he was cruel to her, that he hurt her. Old Nan says it was a blessing that he died when he did, because men like that, their wives almost never outlive them.”

“Sansa,” Robb said, taking his sister by the shoulders, looking with worry into her face. Gods, she was already growing so tall, he didn’t have to stoop to meet her gaze the way he did with Arya. “Sansa, none of that will ever happen to you—“

“It wasn’t supposed to happen to Carys either!” Sansa burst out. “She’s highborn, her father’s one of our bannermen! But now she has a scar on her face and they say she’ll never wed again, and what if I’m sent to marry someone who lives far away, like in the Riverlands or the Reach or—“

“You aren’t being sent away from the North!” Robb protested. “Sansa, Father’s planning to marry you to one of our bannermen, not send you off clear across the continent! And wherever you go, we’ll be sending you there with a whole host of attendants, including at least one sworn shield that can get you safely away if need be. Not that we’d ever let you be married off to someone awful,” he said quickly. “But even in the worst case, Father and I would storm the keep to get you back, clap your husband in irons, and then we’d bring Tyrion in for the really nasty part of our revenge.”

Sansa’s face had been on the verge of crumbling, but at this she let out a watery laugh. “Tyrion?”

“You can’t tell me he wouldn’t come up with something truly inventive,” Robb said, relieved to see Sansa’s expression finally brightening a little.

She glanced down, then smiled a little bit. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“It’d probably involve scorpions,” Robb agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders as they began walking again. “Or boiling hot oil.”

They walked together peaceably for a moment, then Sansa asked, curious, “I’m really going to marry one of Father’s bannermen?”

“One of their heirs, anyway,” Robb confirmed. “We can’t all of us be marrying southerners, the lords will start grumbling.”

Sansa smiled, but asked next, “Is this…is this so you can adopt one of my children for your heir?”

Robb looked at her closely. “That’s part of it, yes.” He paused, but Sansa didn’t seem upset at this turn of their conversation, so he said, “It’s important, with me marrying Jaime, that the next heir to Winterfell be seen as…entirely Northern. Does that make sense?”

Sansa nodded. “Like how Father’s been encouraging us to pray in the godswood more, and how you never go into Mother’s sept now.” She gave Robb a sideslong glance. “I do pay attention to things, you know.”

“Yes, I’m seeing that,” Robb said. “Does it bother you? That you’ll have to stay in the North, that you won’t be able to go down to the South and take part in all those tourneys and wear all those light southern dresses of lace and silk…”

Sansa looked a little wistful, but shook her head. “I like the thought of staying closer to home,” she said. “It’ll be safer that way, won’t it?”

“Yes, it will,” Robb said, fervently.

Sansa nodded in agreement. “I hope Jon and Jaime return soon, from the Westerlands,” she said, looking at Robb.

Robb swallowed, but kept his expression calm. “So do I,” he agreed, and it felt—mostly—true.

*

Robb wasn’t a fool, he knew his family was worrying over him. Tyrion was doing his best to deflect their attention, but even he could only do so much. Robb tried to keep a good face on everything—he attended court, he watched his siblings, he attended his lessons with Maester Luwin, he ate three square meals a day, and on the surface he was the calm, collected, perfect young heir.

Inside, he had gone to ice. Even his Mark felt numb to the touch.

Sleep was hard to come by. He wasn’t plagued by any more gods-sent visions, and he didn’t dream of Jaime with…with the queen. He just had a hard time falling asleep, he kept reaching out in his sleep for a warm body that was never there.

They must have reached the Westerlands by now. Robb didn’t know what they were doing there, how long they planned to stay, or what would happen when they returned.

The dark circles under his eyes never faded, and his mother was dropping increasing hints about how he should visit Luwin for some dreamwine.

Thankfully, conversations around the keep were not focused on Robb, but on the horrifying news coming out of the Riverlands, where House Frey seemed to have descended into absolute anarchy. Old Walder Frey was dead at last, their grandfather wrote to Catelyn in his crabbed handwriting, and Stevron Frey should have succeeded him as the firstborn son, but he’d dropped dead of what was either apoplexy or poison, and then there seemed to have been a brawl that led to three men dying, and after that…rumor after lurid rumor followed, until the Freys’ servants had finally fled the Twins for Riverrun and their Lord Paramount’s protection. And the stories they had to tell…

“Kinslaying?” Robb exclaimed, while Tyrion let out a low whistle of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

His mother shook her head, the scroll from her brother Edmure in her hand. “I only wish that my brother was japing,” she murmured.

“So they were, what, cannibalizing each other like rats trapped in a barrel?” Tyrion asked, looking both fascinated and appalled.

“Well, they haven’t been eating each other—gods, I hope they haven’t been,” Catelyn said, turning a little green at the thought, and glancing back at the letter as if to check. “No, it’s just been stabbings and poisonings and people being found dead with broken necks at the bottom of the stairs—“

“Well, that could’ve been an accident,” Robb said, more to comfort his distressed mother than because he really believed it.

“Another Frey was found with a broken neck at the bottom of a tower,” Catelyn said.

“Oh.”

“And another was found dead at the bottom of a well.”

“Gods be good,” his father muttered, incredulous.

“Edmure writes that he’s had to station guards everywhere, but the place is like a rabbit warren—“

“Appropriate, given how often they procreate,” Tyrion japed.

“There have been two more murders there since my brother arrived!” Catelyn exclaimed. “To think that this madness is happening in the Riverlands…”

“Is Uncle Edmure under any threat?” Robb asked.

“He says no, that so far the Freys seem determined to kill each other and are leaving any non-relatives out of it,” Catelyn said.

“Well at least they’re consistent in their crimes,” Tyrion remarked. At Robb’s mother giving him an exasperated look, Tyrion protested, “It’s an atrocity, I agree, and I don’t envy the task set before your brother in putting things to right, but you have to admit there is more than a touch of the ridiculous about the whole sordid affair.”

“It seems oddly fitting for Walker Frey,” Catelyn admitted. “Even amidst all the horror and the blood, his family looks utterly foolish and absurd as well.” She signed a little. “And Edmure writes that my father’s fallen ill again. Ned, could we—“

Robb’s father shook his head. “I’m sorry, Cat, but with all the unrest in the North, I can’t be away from Winterfell for that long, and I don’t feel right sending you down the Kingsroad with both the North and the Riverlands in such disarray.”

His mother looked disappointed but unsurprised.

“I’ve received a letter from Challon,” his father continued, naming the castellan they’d named to oversee Moat Cailin. “He says they’ve seen an increase in newcomers lately, most of them from the Riverlands.”

“It may be a good idea to travel there to oversee things for a time,” Tyrion suggested. “Robb and I could go there in your name, with the appropriate amount of guards, of course.”

His fainter glanced at Robb, then said mildly, “Perhaps once Jaime and Jon have returned from the Westerlands.”

Robb felt his face going still and blank, even though he knew that was a tell in and of itself. “Perhaps,” he said, and both of his parents were watching him now. Robb had never wanted to flinch beneath the weight of their gazes before.

“Has Jaime written to say when he expects to return?” Catelyn asked.

“My brother has always been a terrible correspondent,” Tyrion said lightly, taking the attention off Robb as best as he could. “Thankfully, Jon is far more dutiful in his letter-writing, and so I understand that their party has managed to leave Pyke without anyone getting stabbed, which was hardly the case the last time my brother visited that charming island.”

His mother’s lips thinned out at the mention of Jon, and Robb watched it with a dull flare of annoyance—Jon wasn’t even here, could she not let even this tiny mention go?

“You’ll forgive me for saying it, Tyrion, but I’m more worried about your father’s welcome than I am about Balon Greyjoy’s,” Ned replied. It had taken Robb some time to realize how disquieted his father was at the idea of Jon and Theon visiting the keep where Tywin Lannister ruled, but then, he’d witnessed firsthand during the rebellion how deep the Lord of Casterly Rock’s ruthlessness ran.

“Understandable,” Tyrion said. “But I assure you, my father is not conducting the Rains of Castamere on a weekly basis. None of them have anything to fear from my father, not even young Greyjoy.”

Robb knew, even before his mother opened her mouth, that she was going to ask yet again why Jaime was even in the Westerlands to begin with, and he didn’t want to hear it, so he got to his feet, offering everyone a brief smile. “It’s getting late, I should be off to bed.”

“Oh, but Robb—” Catelyn began, but Ned cut her off.

“Get your rest, son,” he said, kindly, and shared a look with Robb’s mother that had her subsiding and offering her own good-nights as Robb left.

*

It was easier to look his father in the face than it should have been. Robb had become a party to treason by concealing the true parentage of the royal children, and he knew what his father, Honest Ned, would say to that. His father would have sent the raven to the Red Keep denouncing the queen, her bastard children, and the faithless Kingsguard knight who got them on her the moment that he’d learned the truth, never mind if that same faithless knight was his goodson, or Robb’s husband.

Robb couldn’t do it. And as the weeks went on, the reasons he had for holding his tongue only grew stronger—not just for Tyrion, not just to avoid a war that would split the continent in half, not just to save three innocent children from facing the wrath of an enraged king.

Because the more Robb thought about it, why should he act in defense of Robert Baratheon? The man may have been his father’s closest friend once, but he was also a drunkard and a whoremonger, with at least a dozen bastard children of his own scattered across Westeros, and he kept pulling the kingdom further and further into debt. At least one of his bastards was born to a highborn lady, conceived at his own brother’s wedding (in the marriage bed!) so who was to say that they wouldn’t be facing another Blackfyre rebellion in fifteen years’ time? From that angle, Robert had done nearly as much to threaten the safety of the realm as Cersei had.

But such justifications, valid though many of them were, they all paled before the true reason that Robb kept his silence.

Jaime may have been a traitor, he may have broken all the laws of the gods and men, but the gods had given him to Robb, for good or for ill, and Robb wouldn’t give him up. Not to the executioner’s blade, not to the black cells beneath the Red Keep, not to the Night’s Watch, and certainly not to Cersei Lannister.

And every morning that he woke up to a cold bed and an empty space where his husband had once been, the more his certainty settled in his bones, and the easier it became to meet his father’s gaze without guilt.

Not that any of this lessened Robb’s rage towards his husband. Quite the reverse, in fact.

*

“May I speak with you about something?” Carys asks him one afternoon. She’d approached him at the end of his training session with Ser Rodrick and asked if he would accompany her on a walk. Intrigued, and surprised that Tyrion wasn’t shadowing her, Robb agreed.

It had been drizzling earlier, but the rain had let up until it was a fine mist. “So what did you wish to talk about?”

Carys pursed her mouth, then she said, “The septa is a fool and a poor teacher.”

Robb’s eyebrows flew up, both at the subject matter and the blunt speech; Carys saw it and flushed. “I told Tyrion he should be the one to speak to you, he would have been far more graceful about it all.”

“No, it’s all right,” Robb said, but he asked next, “But you said that Tyrion wouldn’t speak—does he not agree with you, then?” That would have been a surprise, Tyrion and Carys always seemed of one mind, whenever he saw them together.

“Oh, he agrees, he just says he won’t take credit for any more of my good ideas,” Carys said, sounding disgruntled. “Apparently I need to get better at speaking my mind to more people than just him, or some such nonsense.” Despite her words, there was a fond smile playing around her lips, and Robb watched her for a moment, a sudden (yet likely very overdue) thought occurring to him.

“He has an annoying habit of being right,” Robb agreed, and Carys smiled at him, a dimple appearing in her cheek. As if realizing she was perhaps revealing more than she wished to, she shook her head, a flush rising to her face and the tips of her ears.

“But that’s not the point. Robb, I have been observing the girls at their lessons for some time now. Septa Mordane is…well-intentioned, I’m sure…”

Robb had to snort at the late attempt at diplomacy. “She’s just a fool and a poor teacher,” he finished, parroting Carys’ earlier words.

Carys looked harassed, but said, “Well—yes.” And what followed next, for all of her seeming reluctance, was a well-considered argument that Septa Mordane was a poor choice to teach Northern ladies, given her clear ignorance of—and disrespect for—the traditions and religion of the North.

“She plays favorites with the girls,” Carys said. “The more southern the girls behave, the more they are praised, regardless of actual merit. Your sister is a sweet girl, but much more of this, and she’ll be spoiled beyond saving. And Arya wouldn’t be half so willful if the Septa wasn’t constantly picking at her, or was a teacher she could respect—”

“And Arya won’t mind people she disrespects,” Robb said, understanding now.

“Worse still, Septa Mordane is forever comparing her to Sansa, or letting the other girls call Arya names—”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ve put a stop to it,” Carys said, grimly. “And I think things are better now, especially with Arya able to focus on her swordplay and her language lessons, not to mention her friendship with Wylla, but I don’t think it would have—or should have—gotten as bad as it did, had Septa Mordane been a better teacher or simply kept better control of the classroom. Besides—” Carys stopped.

“Carys,” Robb prodded after a moment.

Carys looked apprehensive, but met his gaze squarely. “Before I came to Winterfell, I thought your mother exactly what the rumors painted her to be—a stubborn lady from the South, who held us all in contempt and wished to see the entire North converted to her religion.” As Robb stared, the flush that had faded from Carys’ cheeks came back, redder than before. “I know now how wrong I was, of course, but the fact remains, even if your mother is not like that, Septa Mordane is. And a woman like that should not be teaching the daughters of House Stark.”

She fiddled with her hands before folding them before her, giving a little nod to herself, as if to confirm that she had said her piece and would take whatever came next.

Slightly winded, Robb could only say a faint, “Well.”

“So will you speak to your mother, then?” Carys asked.

Robb said, without thinking, “You could—” And then Carys fixed him with a look, silently asking him if he really thought she was willing to go that far and tell Lady Stark that her beloved septa, the one that had taught her and her sister as a girl, was bad at her job, and Robb sighed a little. “No, fair enough. Yes, I’ll speak to her.”

He went into the discussion with his mother with more than a little trepidation, but to Robb’s surprise, his mother took it better than he’d feared, listening to him calmly before saying with a sigh, “Yes, I’d been starting to wonder the same.”

“Really?”

His mother looked more than a little exasperated. “I am capable of changing my opinion, Robb.” Robb quickly nodded in response, and after giving him a long suspicious look, Catelyn seemed satisfied that he wouldn’t argue, continuing to say, “I thought the problem was that Arya simply wouldn’t work at anything she wasn’t already interested in, but that’s not true. Carys and Tyrion have done wonders with her.”

“They have,” Robb agreed, relieved. “And I think—I think that it would be better for Sansa as well, not to be held to such a strict definition of what a lady should be.”

Privately, Robb was determined that by the time Sansa was of an age to marry, she’d be one of the deadliest ladies in the North with a dagger.

“Especially because she’s going to be marrying in the North,” Catelyn agreed. She sighed again, but said, “I’ll speak to your father. We’ll need time to find a suitable replacement.”

“Good,” Robb said, pleased that their talk had been so painless. He got to his feet, saying, “I’ll leave you to your work,” only to be halted by his mother saying, urgently, “Robb, wait a moment.”

Robb paused, before slowly settling back into his seat. “All right. Is anything wrong?”

His mother fixed him with a searching look. “I rather think I should be asking you that question.”

It felt as though he’d had a bucket of ice water flung in his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Robb,” Catelyn said, looking at him with such open sympathy. “I’m your mother. You think I can’t see when you’re unhappy?”

Robb shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, and as his mother’s expression shifted to one of disbelief, he repeated forcefully, “I am. Has anyone said I haven’t been keeping up with my duties, or my training, or—”

“No, no, of course not,” his mother soothed. “Sweetling, it’s just…” Robb held himself stiffly, not letting himself crumble, or reach out to hold his mother’s outstretched hand. “Marriage can be difficult. The gods know with your father….” She stopped, the ghost of Robb’s bastard brother in the words she left unsaid, and murmured instead, “It took time for us to trust each other. To build the marriage we have now. Sometimes I think…if I had had someone here to talk to, here in the beginning, it may have eased my sorrows.”

“I have people to talk to,” Robb said, hot with discomfort. “Tyrion—” He stopped speaking, because the last thing he wanted was for his parents to try and interrogate Tyrion instead; he would hold up to their questioning, Robb was sure of that, but he didn’t want to put Tyrion into an even more awkward position.

His mother smiled sadly. “Yes, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with Tyrion lately.” She paused, as if to give him the opening to speak further, to share with her what he’d presumably confided in Tyrion, but Robb clenched his teeth and said nothing.

That was the only way to get through this, he’d vowed to himself. He wasn’t a good liar, had never been taught how to be one, and so silence would have to be his defense.

So he held his tongue, and waited his mother out, guilt churning in his stomach all the while. All his life he’d been a dutiful son, and it felt wrong to spurn her now, but what else could he do?

As she realized he wouldn’t speak, a flicker of hurt appeared on Catelyn’s face, before she smiled bravely, putting a good face on it. “Sometimes I wonder how on earth we ever managed here, without Tyrion Lannister wandering about the halls, telling us how to better manage our affairs.”

Robb made the corners of his lips twitch upwards, mimicking a smile. “He has an annoying habit of being right, that’s what I told Carys earlier.”

His mother looked interested at this, pressing, “Carys was speaking to you of Tyrion?” At Robb’s nod, she sat back in her seat, humming. “Your father’s been thinking of granting Tyrion a keep of his own, here in the North.”

Robb blinked at this. “Really?”

“We would miss having him here, but it’s a fitting reward for all he’s done. And it would make it easier for him to marry.”

“Marry?” Robb repeated. “Who—” Then he realized. “You mean to have Tyrion marry Carys?”

“You think they’d make a poor match?” his mother questioned.

“No,” Robb said. “I think they’d make an excellent match, but I doubt very much that Carys is looking to marry anyone now. Or ever.” Though he thought back to the way Carys had never feared Tyrion, even in the beginning when she’d shied away from every other man in Winterfell, and he wondered…

“She’d marry Tyrion,” Catelyn said with total confidence. “But for her father to agree, Tyrion would need to hold a keep in his own right, which is where your father comes in.”

“He is, technically, still the heir to Casterly Rock,” Robb had to point out. “Granting him a holdfast here, no matter how deserved, would not be received well by Tywin Lannister.”

His mother made a face. “You’re not wrong, but I increasingly find it hard to care about what that man thinks.”

Robb’s eyebrows flew up, and he couldn’t help but tease, “To think I’d hear my mother speaking so terribly of the Warden of the West.”

His mother snorted. “I could say much harsher things about Tywin Lannister, believe me. What a cruel beast of a man. By all rights, Tyrion should be named as his heir, and yet he’s here, exiled from his home, with no chance of inheriting what is due to him. It’s outrageous. I can’t imagine being blinded by your hatred like that.”

The words jangled in Robb’s ears, as all of the momentary ease he’d won slipped away. And perhaps because he’d spent all these weeks holding back the most dangerous truth of all, this other truth slipped free of his mouth, almost without thought, and certainly without planning.

“Of course you can imagine it. You hate Jon the same way that Lord Tywin hates Tyrion.”

His mother went sheet-pale, and she stared at him as though she could not believe what he’d just said. Robb couldn’t believe he’d said it either.

When she finally spoke, it was in a voice so quiet and cutting that he barely recognized it as hers. “What did you just say?”

The Robb Stark of a year ago would have quailed before her anger, would have immediately apologized.

“You blame Jon for Father’s betrayal the same way that Lord Lannister blames Tyrion for his wife’s death,” Robb said, remembering Jaime confessing the source of his father’s apathy for Tyrion, late one night in their chambers. “It’s cruel and unfair of you, but you’ve kept on with it anyway. So yes, I do think you have something in common with Tywin Lannister, even though we both wish otherwise.”

His mother’s face had drained of color at this point, except for two angry spots of red on her cheeks. Robb supposed that he ought to feel sorrier about it. “His presence here is an insult and a threat to you and all your siblings,” she began, her voice shaking with anger, but Robb cut her off.

“If there’s an insult in Jon existing, it’s Father who made it, not Jon. And he’s never been a threat. Tyrion and Jaime realized that their first week here, but you still can’t admit it, because—” His voice caught, but Robb pressed on. “Because it suits you, having an excuse to hate a boy who never did you any harm.”

His mother just stared at him wordlessly, a world of hurt and pain in her blue eyes.

Robb didn’t say anything else, he just got up and left the room.

*

His father was, unsurprisingly, furious with him. Had Robb been younger, Ned might have taken a switch to his backside, but Robb was a man grown and married, so the only tools his father had left to use were his words and his disapproval.

Robb had been summoned to meet his father in the godswood rather than within the castle walls, likely to cut down on the servants’ gossip. (Robb was sure that news of his fight with Catelyn had already spread through the keep—Tyrion had taught him how much servants and guards always heard, saw, and therefore knew about the families they served.)

His father was pacing as Robb entered the clearing. He looked up at Robb, and said bluntly, “You owe your mother an apology.”

“I’m sorry I upset her,” Robb conceded. “But what I said was the truth, and we all know it.”

A muscle leapt in his father’s jaw. “Your mother has dealt with Jon’s presence the best that she could. Do I wish their relationship was warmer? Of course, but that hardly means her conduct can be compared to Tywin Lannister—”

“No, because Tywin lost a wife,” Robb said. “What has my mother lost? Nothing.”

Ned looked infuriated at this, his chest swelling as he began to speak, but Robb cut him off. “You were the one to bring Jon here, even in the face of Mother’s anger, because you wanted him to know his family, and for us to know him. So that we could love him as family should. So when I stand up for him, as a brother should, how are you surprised by it?”

His father didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, he took a deep breath, visibly getting his temper back under control. “Robb, the decisions I made were the ones that I thought best for everyone, but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been a cost. For your mother and for Jon.” His voice firmed as he said next, “And if you want someone to blame, you put the blame on me and not your mother, who deserves your love and respect, and who will have that respect so long as I am lord here. Is that understood.”

Robb nodded.

“Good,” his father said. “So you’ll come with me now and apologize—”

“Was Ashara Dayne Jon’s mother?”

His father actually staggered back a step, his face actually draining of color, much the same way that Catelyn’s had earlier. “What—who gave you that name?”

“She’s apparently the leading candidate, according to the gossips in King’s Landing,” Robb said evenly.

His father’s face was slowly turning red. “Lady Ashara’s name is not something you can be casually tossing about—”

“Are you seriously arguing that your silence is to protect the woman’s reputation?” Robb asked, astounded. “Your silence has led to bored courtiers at the Red Keep openly placing bets on whether or not she was Jon’s mother! It’s the entire reason that Jaime says it almost certainly wasn’t her, those same court gossips dragged up the truth of her stillborn daughter.” His father looked stricken at this news, and Robb pressed on, his eyes narrowed, “So who was she then? It’s not as if anything will change if Jon knows who his mother is. Mother will still hate him, he’ll still have the name Snow, the only thing that would change is that he could finally stop wondering—”

“Robb, that is enough,” his father thundered, and the strange choking fury that had pushed Robb so far couldn’t push him to keep speaking, not when Ned Stark sounded like that.

For a long moment Ned looked at him, then he said, very quietly, “I don’t think this is being driven by your love for your brother. Not all of it. You’ve been angry and unhappy for a long time, and while I am sorry for it, and for whatever caused this rift between you and Jaime—” Robb stiffened at this and his father’s gaze sharpened as he saw it, and he went on, “Neither myself nor your mother is at fault for what’s gone wrong in your marriage. And it’s unfair and unbecoming of you to use that as an excuse to lash out.”

The fury and hurt rose up so swiftly that Robb thought he would choke on it, and he turned away, not wanting his father to see his face, and that was how Robb’s gaze fell on the face of the weirwood tree, forever weeping.

His father waited for Robb to respond. When Robb didn’t speak, he sighed and said, “Take your time out here, if it gives you peace. But when you come inside, you will give your mother an apology.”

Robb wordlessly nodded, not looking away from the tree, not even when he heard his father’s footsteps finally retreating.

As Robb breathed in and out, his righteous anger slowly drained away, leaving him tired and ashamed.

Even though he had been speaking the truth today, to both his parents, that didn’t change the reason for why he’d flung those truths at his parents’ heads. It wasn’t to improve things for Jon (if anything, his mother was likely to resent Jon even more) it was because for weeks now, Robb had all this pain and frustration pent up inside of him, and nowhere to direct it.

So he’d turned his attention to his mother and her unfair treatment of Jon, because Jaime wasn’t here for Robb to be angry at, and because Robb couldn’t talk to anyone about what was truly upsetting him to begin with.

His father had told him to stay out here and try to find some peace, but how could he? Where could he find peace, with the foul memories of Jaime with his sister still haunting him, with the knowledge that if Jaime had the choice, he never would have come North, he never would have picked Robb over—

He couldn’t forget any of it, and he couldn’t bring himself to let Jaime go either. If it was a choice between sending Jaime off to Essos, never to be seen again, and keeping him here in the North, even with this tangled mess of anger and hurt and frustration always between them…Robb knew which he’d choose, and was furious with himself for the choice.

It may have been cowardice, but Robb wished he’d never received that second vision, that he’d never discovered the truth of Jaime’s true relationship to the queen. He would have been living in ignorance, it was true, but he would have been happy and content living in that lie.

Slowly, Robb got to one knee before the heart-tree, the same site where he’d married Jaime Lannister more than a year ago, and he said out loud to the gods, “Take it back. Please.”

He didn’t even know what he should be asking for—to remove the memories of Jaime’s sins? To take away the soulmark? To take away his tangled, hopeless love for a man who would never put him first?

It didn’t matter. There was no reply, of course, nothing but the wind moving through the branches, rustling the blood-red leaves.

The closer they got to Clegane’s Keep, the more feverish their preparations became.

Of course, there wasn’t much to the preparations; either Jaime would kill the Mountain, or the Mountain would kill him. If it was the latter, there was only one thing left to do.

“Just get Jon and Theon out of there alive,” Jaime said to the head of the guard, Theo. “Jon might have some foolish notion of trying to avenge me, don’t let him. Get the boys to Casterly Rock and tell my father what’s happened, he’ll take care of the rest.’

Theo looked a little pale beneath his bushy beard. Well, pale for a Northman, which meant he looked like a damned ghost, even in the bright Westerlands sunshine. “And who will protect them from your father’s wrath?”

“Jon’s the son of Ned Stark,” Jaime said. “Even my father at his worst isn’t fool enough to go against the Warden of the North and the king’s best friend. He’ll be reasonable enough.”

Theo looked unconvinced. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but we wouldn’t be here in the first place if your father was capable of being reasonable.”

And truthfully, there was little that Jaime could say to that.

But at least the guards weren’t arguing the necessity of what Jaime was doing, only Theon was arguing against it. “Why are you doing this now?” he’d demanded in a huff, the day they’d left Lannisport. “The rebellion happened nearly twenty years ago.”

Jaime had just ignored him, as was his usual wont when it came to the Greyjoy heir, so it fell to Jon to say, “He’s doing this because no else can or will.”

Theon grumbled. “I still say we should’ve brought an army with us. Or at least hired a Faceless Man.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay in Lannisport if you fear for your safety,” Jaime pointed out.

“No, no, I’m committed,” Theon said hastily, with a quick glance at his sister, who was watching him closely. Yara had been doing a lot of that over their journey from Pyke. Observing the brother she barely knew, questioning him about his studies, his training, how often he left Winterfell.

Jaime doubted she was pleased with the answers, and he was proven right when, as they took a break for food and rest, Yara said abruptly, “Theon, you need to know something.”

Theon looked up from where he was resting against the trunk of a tree, mouth stuffed full of dried meat and bread.

“There’s going to be a Kingsmoot, after Father dies,” Yara said.

Theon inhaled, and started to choke on his food, hacking and coughing as he scrambled to his feet.

“Well, fuck,” Jaime said, with a sign. He fucking knew that leaving Balon Greyjoy alive at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion was a mistake, and now here they were.

Jon looked between them all with confusion. “I don’t understand, what’s a Kingsmoot?”

“The traditional way that the ironborn select a leader after the old one dies,” Jaime said, grimacing. “All the captains gather together and vote for their preferred candidate.”

“It’s part of the Old Ways,” Yara confirmed, glancing over at them, arms folded over her chest. “Our way.”

“Your ways involve raping, pillaging, thieving and murder, I’d hardly count those as traditions to be proud of,” Jaime said waspishly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hells, what a mess.”

“No,” Theon said in denial, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t—I’m Father’s heir! I’m meant to rule the Iron Islands!” His voice was rising, going shrill, and Jaime watched him with a mix of pity and distaste. He’d never cared for or thought much of the boy beyond his connection to the Starks, to Robb, but this was not a scene he cared to witness, let alone be part of.

“Can that even happen?” Jon asked Jaime in an urgent whisper, as Yara continued to talk to an increasingly hysterical Theon. “Theon being disinherited like this—I thought the whole point of him staying at Winterfell was so that the next leader of the Ironborn would be taught our ways and so that there wouldn’t be another rebellion.”

“Yes, and it seems the ironborn object to a leader who will have spent the majority of his life in a landlocked keep,” Jaime muttered. “Honestly, it could go either way—if they elect a sensible leader who’ll keep the peace, the Crown might let it slide. On the other hand, Robert loves waging war, and would jump at any excuse to fight another one.”

Jon frowned as he worked that out. “But…setting Theon up as a puppet on the Salt Throne…would that even work?”

“Probably not,” Jaime said grimly. “At any rate, I wouldn’t bet on him surviving long.”

“Oh, hells,” Jon groaned.

This was absolutely going to be a mess, Jaime thought as Jon went over to speak to Theon and Yara. The Crown would have to be informed, as would Jaime’s father, to see if something could be done, though Jaime doubted it—if Balon Greyjoy wanted to disinherit his son, that was his right. And, as Yara was pointing out to her brother now, Theon was a poor choice to succeed him. He’d been away from the islands for most of his life, he wasn’t a sailor, he’d been raised by the very people who’d quashed the Greyjoy rebellion. Of course the ironborn would resist, it had been ridiculous to assume they’d do anything else. The only option left now, Jaime assumed, would be to evaluate the remaining candidates to see which of them was the least awful and push them forward. He’d have to write to Tyrion so they could start—

But, Jaime realized, with a cold shiver down his spine, he might never get the chance to write his brother, or see this issue with House Greyjoy resolved. Even if he were to write and send a letter to Tyrion right this moment, if the duel with Clegane went poorly, Jaime would be dead long before the raven even reached Winterfell.

Jaime let his breath out slowly. He was here. He was here, and there was no turning back now. Besides, he might be dead soon…but he wasn’t dead yet.

*

It was midday when they finally arrived at Clegane’s Keep. The sun was beating down on Jaime’s head as he told the wizened servant, “Go get your master. Tell him Jaime Lannister is here to see him.”

As the servant bowed and scurried off, glancing back at Jaime curiously, Theon muttered from the back, “I cannot believe this is happening.”

That makes two of us, Jaime thought. The sunny day was taking on an unreal quality to it, like a mirage in the desert. But it had been that way their entire trip, the gently rolling hills of Jaime’s childhood feeling unfamiliar to him now, with Jaime thinking longingly of the thick woods of the North with their plentiful shade. Half of their party had gotten sunburned before they’d even left Lannisport, and even Jaime found himself wilting beneath the hot sun, more days than not.

What the fuck was he even doing here, trying to right a twenty year-old wrong? Elia Martell had been buried in Dorne for almost two decades now, avenging her wouldn’t do anything to fix the wreck that Jaime had made of his own life.

Why was he even here?

But even as he asked himself the question, Jaime did know why. Because he was tired of hating himself, tired of searching for ways to distract himself from his self-loathing, his lost honor.

It had been easy to pretend to be honorable in the North. It was easy to kill a monster like Roose Bolton when the lord he fought for wouldn’t tolerate rape and murder at any price. It was easy to be kind to Jon Snow when the loved one he had to please was Robb instead of Cersei. It was easy to avoid making mistakes when it was Tyrion advising him, instead of Jaime being left to his own devices.

But there was no one left to hide behind, not here. No Cersei to blame for his crimes, no Robb to justify his good deeds. Just him, and the man that he had decided to kill.

And then Clegane emerged through the front door, ducking his head a little as he walked through the doorway—you’d have thought the man would make the doorway bigger to accommodate his ridiculous height, Jaime thought, a little hysterically.

Clegane wasn’t wearing armor. Somehow that made him look more intimidating, not less, because you couldn’t delude yourself into thinking the armor was adding to the man’s bulk. No, the bastard really was that fucking large.

Shit.

“Gods be good,” Jon whispered, looking thunderstruck. The rest of their party looked just as shocked, even Yara Greyjoy was a little pale.

Clegane bowed his head once he caught sight of Jaime. “Ser Jaime,” he rumbled. “I hadn’t received word you were coming.”

Somehow Jaime found his tongue. “Yes, that would be because I didn’t send word that I was coming. Would be rather awkward, considering.”

Clegane’s forehead furrowed. “Considering?”

Jaime dismounted from his horse. Now that the moment was here, finally, a sense of calm was settling over him. This was a battle, and he was a knight, this was what he knew how to do, this was what he was for.

“Considering that I’m here to kill you,” Jaime said, offering him a bright smile, making sure to show all of his teeth.

“What?” Clegane demanded, clearly dumbfounded at the notion of his lord’s son and heir coming to his lands and threatening to kill him.

Jaime squared his shoulders. “Ser Gregor Clegane,” he said, formally, “I accuse you of the rape and murder of Princess Elia Martell, and of the murders of her children, Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen. And I mean to fight you, in a trial by combat, to prove your guilt before gods and men.” As Clegane gaped at him, Jaime finished by saying, “Now go get your sword. I’d prefer not to kill an unarmed man if I don’t have to.”

“Is this a jape?” Clegane asked, his voice rising. “You come here and accuse me of murder, when you know full well—” Jaime raised an eyebrow, and Clegane checked himself, clearly choking on the words he wanted to say, but didn’t dare utter aloud, not even here, in the heart of the Westerlands.

Jaime’s smile broadened, and it didn’t even feel like a lie. “If you have something to confess, Ser Gregor, then by all means, let us hear it. We can even escort you to King’s Landing, you can make a full retelling of it before the entire court.”

His face rapidly darkening with fury, Clegane took a threatening step forward. “You—”

“Yes?” Jaime prodded, eyebrows raised. “Do I need to explain myself again? I’m here to kill you, Clegane. You should take advantage of my generosity and get your armor and sword, before I get impatient and cut you down where you stand.”

Clegane’s eyes darted about, as if any of the guards, Jaime’s companions, would gainsay him. But trust a Northerner to keep their face impassive; even Jon had recovered himself, and his face was set in the hard lines that made him look like an echo of his father.

Gritting his teeth, Clegane spat out. “Fine. Let’s get this farce over with.”

As he turned to storm back into his keep, Jaime called out after him, “Don’t think of holding back, either. I’ll be fighting to kill, Clegane. You should do the same.”

Clegane paused for one moment, his back stiffening, before storming away.

Once he was out of sight, Jon hissed furiously at him, “What are you doing? Are you trying to die?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jon,” Jaime said, as jauntily as he could. With Clegane not within sight, however, his bravado was starting to falter. “But if I do—”

“I’m not running,” Jon said, in a voice like iron.

Jaime turned to look him square in the face. “If you have ever had any love or respect for me at all,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “—then you will do as I say, and not waste your life on some foolish quest for revenge.”

Jon looked furious. “We’re here in the first place because you’re on a quest for revenge!” he shot back. “I’m not going back to Robb and telling him I ran like a coward while his soulmate was being slaughtered!” He breathed out heavily, and said next, “Not that it matters, because you are going to beat him.”

“Of course I am,” Jaime agreed, swinging his sword in his hand, rotating his wrist.

“Or,” Theon offered in a tone of forced calm as he approached, though staying well clear of Jaime’s blade, “When he comes back out, I could just shoot the big fucker in the head with my bow and arrow, and we could be done with this nonsense!”

Jon scowled, not just because he didn’t like Theon’s suggestion, but because part of him obviously wanted to agree. “That’s not honorable—”

“Fuck honor, the man’s a giant!” Theon retorted. “He’s a monster straight out of Old Nan’s tales, and you want to stand there and talk about rules? If this goes wrong, we really will be standing in front of Robb and explaining how we let him become a widower!”

As Theon continued to rant to anyone who was listening, Jon leaned in closer to Jaime and said, softly, “Don’t make me give Robb that news. You kill him, you stay alive, and then we go home.”

“Aye,” Jaime agreed, as he saw Clegane emerging once more from the darkness of the doorway, armor gleaming in the sunlight. “He dies, I live, and then we go home.”

*

In the years and decades to come, the bards will sing of the day that Jaime Lannister slew Gregor Clegane. There are always a great many references to gold in the ballads, of course, and tortured metaphors about mountains crumbling and whatnot.

The most popular ballad, originating in the Reach, portrays the entire affair as the culmination of one grand redemptive journey, where the purity of the North freed the “tarnished lion” to act according to his truer, better nature. There was an entire verse in the song comparing the clean mountain air of the North to the foul, corrupting miasma of King’s Landing, never mind that Winterfell wasn’t even in the mountains—the lyrics apparently scanned better with the inaccuracy.

Within twenty years, Jaime and Robb had become famous lovers on par with Florian and Jonquil, except according to many a young maiden, they were even better, because they were married and as such, their happy ending was assured.

Two things held true, however. First, the ballads were never performed in Casterly Rock, and only rarely in the Westerlands, so long as Tywin Lannister ruled as Warden of the West.

And secondly, the first bard to popularize the song in King’s Landing had his tongue cut out by sellswords, his lifeless body dumped in the river.

*

Of course, the actual duel was far less heroic and inspiring than any bard would write.

Jaime’s ears were ringing. Clegane had smashed his gauntleted fist into Jaime’s face, breaking his nose, and so now his face was one throbbing mass of pain, with the dripping blood no doubt making him look a fearsome sight. Then there was the aching in his ribs, at least one of them was broken— as Jaime tried to get up onto his hands and knees, he tried to take in a deep breath through his mouth and his ribcage howled in protest. Two broken ribs, then, at least.

“Jaime?” It was Jon who was kneeling next to him now in the dirt, his hand a careful weight on Jaime’s shoulder. His voice was high with worry as he said, “Jaime, we need to go.”

Through eyes streaming with tears from the pain, Jaime looked up to see several of Clegane’s men approaching, all of them armed, even as the Winterfell guards closed in around them protectively.

Teeth clenched against the rising nausea, Jaime looked to Clegane’s lifeless corpse, blood still oozing from his slit throat. That hadn’t been the death blow, but Jaime had not been willing to risk anything by that point. “The head, the hands,” he said hoarsely. “We take them with us. His household can bury the rest. Or throw it on a midden heap, fuck if I care.”

“All right,” Jon agreed. “Let’s get you up, and then I’ll take care of it, aye?”

“Aye, aye,” Jaime agreed, hissing through his teeth as he slowly moved to his feet, bracing his weight on Jon’s arm. Jon quickly transferred the keeping of Jaime to Theon, who seemed to be stunned speechless, and went to fulfill his assigned task, unsheathing his sword and making quick work of it.

The gathered crowd was silent. All of the household had come to watch, by the end. Jaime didn’t see many signs of grief, just the same speechless astonishment.

Yara had come over with the chest that she would be using to carry her grisly parcel to Dorne, and Jon quickly transferred the parts into it, his own hands coated in blood.

Jaime closed his eyes against the sight. It was done. It was done and he was alive and still standing—well, mostly standing, he was having to brace rather a lot of his weight on Theon, but it was either that or fall over.

“You all right, then?” Theon asked in a low murmur. “Will you be able to ride?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Jaime replied, the blood from his broken nose slipping into his mouth, warm and metallic on his tongue.

He then promptly emptied the contents of his stomach all over Theon’s boots, which settled the question.

*

“Surely this can wait,” Jon protested in the manse.

Jaime tried his best to focus on Jon’s face. The healer that had just left had promised that the blurry vision would resolve itself (and Jaime’s early attempts at jousting in his youth bore that out) but it was damned inconvenient right now. “No, it can’t. Sooner rather than later my father will come looking for me, even if news of my arrival somehow hasn’t reached his ears by now. And Greyjoy needs to be on her way by then. Now, are you going to write this for me, or must I ask Theon to do it?”

Jon grumbled but sat down to the table, dipping his quill in the inkwell.

Jaime kept it simple, at least at first. He confirmed for Prince Doran who he was sending to their shores, and what was in the trunk for them. He’d originally meant to leave it there, but somehow his mouth kept going anyway, as he explained that during Aerys’ reign, he had not been allowed to write to his family at all, and thus had been unable to know what his father planned, when he’d sacked the city. He couldn’t actually admit that his father had given the order to murder Doran’s sister and her children, but they all knew.

“I was chasing the last of the pyromancers in the tunnels when Clegane and his men stormed the Keep,” Jaime said out loud, staring up at the ceiling. “War is a brutal business, but that…it’s no excuse for what happened to her. To the children.”

He breathed for a moment, in and out. Elia Martell’s face appeared before her, not as it was at the last, bloodied and ruined, but as it was when she was alive, the princess of Dorne and Westeros, and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“She’d have made a good queen,” Jaime said. “I don’t…I can’t say what Rhaegar would have been as king, but she would have been a good queen. Better than the Targaryens deserved. I liked her. I’ve regretted her death, and the deaths of her children, every day since. I thought…that there was nothing to be done, about what happened. I was wrong. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize it.”

He fell quiet, and then waved a hand irritably in Jon’s direction. “Leave that last part out, that’s just rambling.”

“I don’t have another piece of parchment here,” Jon pointed out.

Jaime huffed. “All right, fine. Use my seal, and get it off to Yara.”

Jon nodded, bowing his head low over the parchment as he scribbled the last line, and then Jaime felt him slipping the signet ring off Jaime’s finger to seal the letter.

Time moved oddly after that. Jon finally convinced him to drink the milk of the poppy that the healer had left behind, and in the absence of pain, Jaime was finally able to go to sleep.

He dreamed of Robb, sitting on the roots of the great weirwood tree, watching him with grave eyes. Jaime was kneeling before him, saying, pleading, “I did my best.”

Robb lifted an eyebrow as the wind whistled through the branches, stirring his dark curls. “Did you?”

“I have,” Jaime promised, reaching out to touch him. “I will. Robb—”

Someone approached him from behind and shook his shoulder, and Jaime lashed out in irritation and alarm, but the hand didn’t go away, and Jaime blinked his eyes open to realize he was in Lannisport, not the godswood at Winterfell, and he was lying down in bed, rather than kneeling before Robb and begging for forgiveness.

And it was Jon who was shaking his shoulder now, Jon’s worried face in the candlelight as he said, “Jaime, you have to wake up, the guards say your father is here—”

“Oh, hells,” Jaime groaned. The milk of the poppy was still having its effect on him, as the swoop of dismay he felt at hearing of his father’s appearance was far more muted than it would be, normally. “You’ll have to let him in.”

He made Jon help him up into a sitting position, and with not a moment to spare, because those were his father’s quick, heavy footsteps outside the door, his father’s irritated voice saying, “Step aside, young Greyjoy, or I will not be responsible for what happens next.”

And then the door opened, and there his father was. Grim-faced, mouth thin with displeasure, Tywin Lannister strode into the room as though he owned it, which since they were in the Westerlands, he basically did.

Theon was hovering in the doorway, looking worried, and his alarm visibly grew as Jaime’s father snapped out, not bothering to look back over his shoulder, “Leave us.”

Greyjoy immediately left, because say what you would about the squid, he had good self-preservation instincts. Jon, of course, didn’t, which is why he didn’t move from Jaime’s side, the reckless fool.

“With all due respect, Lord Lannister,” Jon said, “Ser Jaime has just been dosed with milk of the poppy, he may not be able to answer your questions clearly. I can certainly answer them, however, as I witnessed the entire duel.”

Jaime’s eyebrows lifted up at this, and he surveyed Jon with admiration. That was some quick thinking, and he would’ve said as much had Jon not turned to give him a stern glare, and so he subsided.

It was futile, of course, there would be no pacifying Tywin. With that bitter knowledge in mind, Jaime titled his head back and asked, as insolently as possible, “Lost any bannerman lately, Father?”

Jon stiffened, and his father’s face only grew more rigid. Had Jon not been standing there, bearing witness, Tywin would’ve struck him, Jaime knew. One of those heavy blows to the face, open-handed, because Tywin Lannister would never be so crass as to use a closed fist when disciplining his children.

But Jon was there, and his father ground his teeth before demanding, “You will explain yourself. Now.”

He’d just dictated a long, rambling letter to Doran Martell, attempting to do just that—but here he didn’t need to hunt for the right words, for an apology that was so long overdue. Only the brutal truth would do here.

“Clegane was overdue for his meeting with the Stranger,” Jaime said. “And I got tired of carrying the weight of your crimes on my back.”

His father’s eyes glittered with rage. “You dare—”

“I should have dared twenty years ago,” Jaime said over him, recklessly, and Tywin looked shocked at the interruption. “I should have denounced you all right there in the throne room, but I didn’t, and I’ve carried the shame of that ever since.”

His father was going to hit him now. Jaime knew it, even before he saw his father’s arm rising up—

And then, Jon stepped between them, and took the blow meant for Jaime, full across the face. He stumbled a little from the force of it, falling back into Jaime’s side, and Jaime’s mind went blank both from the pain of his injuries being jostled, and the white-hot shock of what had happened, at realizing that his father had hurt Jon.

“Jon,” he found himself saying, suddenly as furious as his father was, “Jon, get out of the way, let me deal with this—”

But Jon didn’t move. Instead he straightened, and said, his voice shaking only a little, “My lord, your son is unwell and recovering from his injuries. I beg you to excuse us, so that he is given a chance to rest and recover.”

His father had regained his control, and was surveying Jon closely, eyes hard.

“Yes,” his father said at last, slowly. “It’s clear that my son needs rest, which he will get plenty of. At Casterly Rock.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, and for a moment, Jaime wondered in alarm if he would try and protest—

“Of course,” Jon said finally. “We’ll all be glad of your hospitality. I’ve been curious to see my goodbrother’s childhood home.”

As warnings went, it was hardly subtle, but then it didn’t need to be. Not with half of Jon’s face bright red from the slap, and Jaime’s blood started boiling all over again, looking at it, at the thin trickle of blood at the corner of Jon’s mouth.

“You should,” he started hotly, but Jon’s boot trod on his bare foot, not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Another non-subtle warning.

Tywin didn’t speak for a while, looking at Jon with narrowed eyes as the silence stretched out horribly. “I’ll expect you and your party to be ready to leave within half an hour,” Tywin snapped out finally, turning his glare upon Jaime.

“Certainly, my lord,” Jon said deferentially, and Tywin strode out with a sweep of his golden cape, still obviously seething.

Once the door was shut behind him, Jon slumped in obvious relief. “Gods,” he said, heartfelt. “Thankfully we already know Yara’s ship left the harbor, I’d hate to see what your father would do to her.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jaime told him, frowning up at Jon as Jon reached out to grab Jaime’s tunic and help pull it over his head.

Jon looked at him incredulously. “What, was I supposed to let him hit you? As injured as you are? No, don’t answer that, you’ll say something idiotic. Again.”

“It was the truth,” Jaime said, his voice only a little muffled by the tunic.

“Yes, and your father clearly doesn’t care to hear it!” Jon retorted, but he was starting to shake a little.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said, looking at where Tywin’s blow had done the most damage. “He’s a brute, you didn’t deserve—”

“Neither do you,” Jon said, looking stricken. “Jaime…” But whatever he would have said, Jon didn’t, just letting out a huff of breath as he shook his head.

There wasn’t much talking after that. Jon quickly hustled Jaime into looking somewhat presentable, and Jaime was hustled out of the manse and into the waiting wheelhouse, as ornate and gaudy as anything else Lannister-owned. Perhaps it was his year in the North that had him looking at it with fresh eyes, the same fresh eyes that had led him to travel to the Westerlands to kill his father’s favorite monster, all in the futile hope of…

Jaime turned away from his father’s coldly infuriated face, and looked out the window instead, the glass fogging from his breath, blurring his view.

And somewhere buried deep in his brain, something flickered, like an ember that hadn’t quite blown out—but then his temples throbbed again with pain, and whatever was there was lost, as if it had never been there at all.

Chapter 5

Notes

as one of my friends joked, I've practically been posting all of the chapters a day early, there's no reason in stopping the tradition now.

“What the fuck is your brother up to,” Robb demanded, his voice muffled from the handkerchief being pressed to his face.

He’d been practicing dagger work with Sansa, who’d taken surprisingly well to it, when without warning, blood had started dripping from his nose. That might have been nothing on its own—Sansa’s alarmed shriek notwithstanding—but Robb had felt an unexpected burst of pain in his chest, a sudden pounding to his heart that had nothing to do with what Robb was doing, with where Robb was.

Carys and Sansa had helped him sit down on the ground while Arya, Wylla, and Bran all ran off for the maester and their parents and who knew else, and it was Tyrion who first arrived with Maester Luwin, their faces pale.

“I don’t know,” Tyrion said, insisting, “I don’t!” as both Carys and Maester Luwin gave him hard looks. Even Sansa was glaring at him. “Jaime could’ve fallen from his horse, perhaps?”

“Kicked by a horse, more like,” Robb said, groaning as he tested his ribs. It felt as though he’d been hit by a battering ram, gods.

“Can you sense anything?” Tyrion pressed.

Robb gritted his teeth, but there was no use protesting, so slowly, like walking across ice, he reached out with his mind, and immediately recoiled, as waves of pain hit him, throbbing in his temples, his nose, his ribs, coupled with a wave of nausea so strong he began to retch.

“What’s happening to my brother?” Sansa was demanding, voice high with panic, while someone rubbed soothing circles on Robb’s back. Robb had no idea of course, but he knew where this was coming from—Jaime, it always seemed to go back to Jaime.

Robb tried, he did try to sense something more, an emotion, a vision, anything, but there was a terrifying blank at the center of everything—there was the pain, the nausea, the blood from his nose that hadn’t actually been broken but felt like it had, but that was all. No explanation for it, aside from the obvious assumption that wherever he was, Jaime had found trouble. But what in the hells could touch a Lannister in the Westerlands?

Robb was forced to rest in bed for the day, over his loud protests, and to have someone keeping vigil. All of his siblings came to his chambers, even little Rickon, who climbed up into his bed with his stuffed toy wolf and demanded a story.

Arya and Sansa came in together while Rickon was napping against Robb’s side, both of them carrying their embroidery hoops. Arya abandoned hers the first chance she got, however, coming to Robb’s side and asking earnestly, “Do you feel better now?”

“I do,” Robb promised.

“We can go if you need rest,” Sansa offered up anxiously.

Robb gave her a smile, saying gently, “I’d like the company.” Sansa gave a tentative smile in reply, and she and Arya settled in, Arya on the bed, and Sansa in the chair by the small writing desk.

Bran came in not two minutes later with a set of playing cards, saying, “Robb, I thought—” Then he saw the rest of his siblings already gathered there, and scowled. “You couldn’t have waited for me?”

“You were slow,” Arya retorted.

“I had to find the cards!”

“Keep it down,” Robb said as Rickon stirred. “Bran, come over here and I’ll give you a game, eh?”

It took a while before any of them asked, and of course it was Arya who finally did. “So…so that was Jaime who got hurt? Not you, right?”

“Aye,” Robb confirmed.

Arya’s nose wrinkled. “But you don’t know how or why.”

“No.”

“And Jon, do you know if Jon’s okay?”

Robb hesitated, but shook his head. He wanted to believe that if Jon were hurt, or worse, that Jaime’s emotions would travel through the bond, but he couldn’t fool himself. Their bond had been weakened, deliberately so by Robb’s own decisions, and this was the consequence of it. “I’m sure he’s fine, Theon too,” he told Arya, told all of them. “Tyrion’s probably right, and Jaime just took a nasty tumble from his horse.”

He would have felt better had his siblings believed it, but from the looks that Sansa, Arya, and Bran all shared, they clearly didn’t. He couldn’t blame them, he didn’t believe it either.

The rest of the day dragged on, slowly—there were more visitors, Carys and Tyrion and even Domeric Bolton, who came in with his guard tailing his shadow and said, in his strictly polite southern way, that he hoped Robb was feeling better. His courtesies were something that Domeric wore as armor, Robb had noticed. Everyone from his parents to the most low-ranking servant were treated with the same exquisite manners, everything controlled and correct. A shield to be used, Robb figured, in the castle where the only reason he lived was due to Ned Stark’s command.

“Thank you,” Robb said, electing not to say any of this aloud. His father had made his decision, and so far Domeric Bolton had not proved himself unworthy of that mercy. As long as both held true, Robb would hold to his word and leave the boy alone.

Domeric nodded tightly and left, and Robb turned away to stare out the window. There was a summer snow coming, all the servants swore it, and Robb agreed. There was just something in the air…

Absently at first, his nails scratched against the soulmark on his arm, then dug in more deliberately. He didn’t draw blood, but his fingernails pressed in until there were faint crescent marks marring the wolf’s snarling face, with Robb wondering if Jaime could feel it, wherever he was, whatever he was doing…

Eventually he slept, light and unsatisfying, and woke in the twilight to find his mother sitting at his bedside with her own embroidery hoop, just as Arya and Sansa had earlier.

She hadn’t yet noticed he was awake, frowning at his own stitches, and Robb looked at his mother for a moment. He’d made his apologies, and his mother had quietly accepted them, and they hadn’t spoken of it since…but there was a tension between them now, a constraint to everything.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Robb said, and his mother startled at the sound of his voice. “Sorry, I just…everyone’s been in and out, keeping watch, but I really am fine.”

His mother crooked an eyebrow at him, carefully stabbing the embroidery with her needle, so as not to lose her place. “I think we both know that hasn’t been true for a long time now.”

Robb looked away. There was no denying it, there never had been. “I can’t speak of it,” he said finally, because that was—strictly—true.

“He’s your husband,” Catelyn said. “Of course your loyalty is with him.” She paused, before offering more delicately, “But if my advice could help…”

Robb bit his lip. “I wish it could,” he said, and that too, was true. “But this is…” He searched for the right words, and finally settled lamely on, “It’s something we have to work out for ourselves.”

His mother nodded slowly, looking down at her embroidery with a faint frown. “I will admit as a parent, the past year has been a little beyond me,” she said at last. “I always knew you would marry, and an alliance with one of the Great Houses was always a likely possibility, but this has been….”

“Beyond belief,” Robb offered, a little dourly. “None of the songs about soulmarks made it sound like…mysterious bloody noses and feeling like you’ll be sick at any moment.”

His mother chuckled a little, conceding, “No, they do not.” She gave him a sidelong glance before asking, “Has it been more difficult lately?”

Robb chewed at his mouth, trying to decide what he could say. He’d been quiet for so long and it hadn’t hid anything, his family knew he wasn’t happy. And this was his mother, who for all her faults, loved him dearly and only wanted the best for him. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to admit something. “It’s…been harder lately. To sense him through the bond.”

His mother was watching him gravely, forehead creased with worry, but she nodded. “Well. The gods have been kind to us thus far, let us hope they continue to be so.”

“Do you really think that?” Robb found himself asking. “Everything that’s happened this last year…I have a hard time believing it’s all because of the gods being kind.”

His mother looked ready to lecture him over his blasphemy, but visibly checked herself. “What do you believe, then?”

Robb considered. “I don’t know what I believe. Just that it feels like I’m being moved from place to place, like a piece on Tyrion’s cyvasse board.”

Catelyn folded her hands in her lap, sitting back in her seat a little as she said, “That was how I felt after your uncle Brandon died, and I was told I had to marry your father in his place. I think I complained to my maid about feeling like a horse being traded at a fair.”

“Hard for me to imagine you complaining,” Robb admitted, and his mother smiled at him.

“I was young once,” she said. “Young and afraid, unable to see what my future would be.” She looked around his quarters, as if taking it in, Winterfell, the North, the House she had married into. “But I did have choices. Not in what happened, perhaps…but how I chose to respond. That was within my power.”

It was a lesson lightly given, and yet it landed all the same. Robb looked down at his hands, fingers plucking nervously at the furs, and he said, before he could lose his nerve, “I’m sorry. For what I said—for being so awful.”

His mother didn’t reply, not immediately. When Robb finally looked at her, she looked sad. Shaking her head, Catelyn said, “You are your father’s son. Honest to a fault. I can’t be surprised by that.” She got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “Your father will join you up here for supper,” she said. “He’s been fretting, and it’ll do him some good to spend a meal with you in private.”

“I know I’ve been worrying him,” Robb admitted.

But his mother paused. Not quite looking at him, she said, “Not just for you. He…regrets letting your brother go off with Jaime.”

Robb blinked at his mother. She’d just willingly referred to Jon. Not only that, she’d called him Robb’s brother. Not half-brother, not bastard, just…brother.

Because he knew his mother wouldn’t like him to comment on it directly, Robb said instead, “Jaime…he’ll look after Jon. I know he will.”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to push, his mother relaxed a little. “Tell your father that, please,” she asked. “I think it will ease his mind.”

He did tell his father that when Ned came in to check on him, and the heavy furrows in his father’s forehead did ease, but only somewhat. “It’s the Westerlands,” Robb said at last. “Hardly enemy territory.”

His father grimaced. “No, of course not.” But after this long of hiding a secret himself, he could tell by now when his father was hiding something. Even if it was just his worry for Jon.

Robb waited his father out, and won. “I haven’t liked to say anything, not with Jaime and Tyrion now a part of the family,” Ned said. “But Tywin Lannister is…an evil man. Worse, he’s the type of man to justify his cruelty as something…logical. Reasonable, even.”

“Like with Tyrion,” Robb offered up.

“Exactly,” Ned said. “Tyrion would make an excellent Lord Paramount—even in wartime, it wouldn’t matter that he can’t wield a sword like other men, not when his mind means that he could be a brilliant general, commanding from the rear. There’s no logical reason Tyrion shouldn’t be the heir to Casterly Rock, but Tywin’s working to disown him anyway. Because it suits him to be cruel.”

“It wouldn’t suit him to hurt Jon, though, Jon means nothing to him. And Jaime is his own son,” Robb pointed out, even as he felt a cold thread of fear twisting up inside of him.

His father looked at him for a moment, and then said quietly, “I’m sure you have the right of it.”

*

And then the first raven from the Westerlands arrived. Ravens in the plural actually, enough of them to have Maester Luwin rushing into the Great Hall during breakfast, parchment in hand and his face pale from shock.

His father was the first to see him and immediately got to his feet, saying in a hoarse voice that Robb barely recognized, “Don’t tell me—”

“My lord,” Maester Luwin said quickly, his hand out in reassurance, “My lord, Jon Snow is fine, he’s written—”

His father staggered a little, reaching back to balance himself with a hand on his chair. He recovered quickly, however, gesturing impatiently at Maester Luwin to hand the letter over. Once he had it, he read it silently while everyone watched him do it, except for Arya who was sitting by their father’s side; she wriggled close enough to read it, her tiny face peeking over his arm, and that was how she gasped, mouth falling open, “Jaime fought the Mountain?”

“Oh gods,” Robb found himself saying, and he got out of his seat, reaching out—his father gave him the letter, saying urgently, “Robb, they’re both alive, Jaime and Jon are fine, that’s what Jon is writing about—”

But everything rapidly faded away once Robb started reading the words, the sight of his brother’s familiar handwriting making the words somehow even more unbelievable. Dimly he was aware of his mother urging everyone to go to the solar, so they could discuss this privately, and calling the governess over to take Rickon, who started to loudly complain that he wanted to hear too—

“Robb,” Tyrion was saying now, shaking his arm, his face as gray as fog. “Robb, tell me—”

Robb numbly handed the letter over. “They’re all alive. Clegane’s dead.”

Tyrion was the one holding the letter now, but he wasn't reading it; instead he stared up at Robb, mouth agape. “You’re japing,” he said.

“Read it for yourself,” Robb said. He felt—he didn’t know what he was feeling. It was impossible. Jaime and Jon on some wild quest to kill Gregor Clegane? It was ridiculous, a tale fit only for the most melodramatic bards, and certainly nothing that would involve his steady, reasonable brother, or the man that Robb was married to—

The disbelief carried him through the quick journey to his father’s solar, with Arya rushing after them saying she wanted to hear, that she needed to know if Jon was all right, and then Sansa and Bran insisted on coming too, and it was a measure of how shocked his own parents were by the news that they didn’t object, and so the Starks all piled into the solar together, along with Tyrion and Maester Luwin.

Robb ended up getting custody of Jon’s letter, because there were half a dozen more waiting for his father in the solar, Maester Luwin explaining that Theon had also written, as had the head of the guards, and there was a note from Lord Tywin himself…as his parents started to discuss it all in low tones, pausing to answer his siblings’ questions, Robb sat in a chair, only barely aware of Tyrion’s worried gaze.

“Robb?” Maester Luwin asked, his gentle voice finally cutting through. “Robb, are you all right?”

The dam burst.

“I’m going to kill him,” Robb said quietly, the parchment crumbling in his clenched fist.

“Robb—”

“I will actually murder—that reckless idiot! What a godsdamned fool! What in the fuck was he thinking?” Robb’s voice was ringing out now, and Arya and Bran were staring at him, everyone was staring at him, but he couldn’t stop, the fury kept rising up within him like a wave, until he was practically shaking with it.

“Robb, I know that you’re upset, but please try to moderate—”

But Robb was past caring about his mother admonishing him for his language. Incensed, he uncrumpled the scroll again to read aloud, “Robb, do not worry, aside from a broken nose, some cracked ribs, and an aching head, there is not very much wrong with Jaime. Fuck’s sake, have you ever heard such complete bullshit—”

“Robb,” his father said sternly, while Arya muffled her giggles against the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “You have every reason to be upset, but you still need to control yourself.”

Still seething, Robb obediently shut his mouth, and when his father gestured with his hand, Robb gave him the scroll without protest.

As he scanned Jon’s letter again, Ned said mildly, “Truthfully, if these are all the injuries that Jaime received, he’s a fortunate man. I don’t think there are—were, I should say—even ten men in all Westeros who could have fought the Mountain and prevailed.”

“Which is likely part of why Jaime went, he knew he would be the only one who could beat Clegane in combat,” Tyrion pointed out, and Robb turned to stare at him.

“Are you defending this—”

“No, of course not!” Tyrion retorted, indignant at the very suggestion. “It was an idiotic thing to do—had Jaime just consulted me in the first place, I’d have shouted at him until he saw sense, then simply hired an assassin. Well, given that we’re talking about Gregor Clegane, perhaps three assassins.”

Robb’s father frowned. “It was a noble act,” he said, quellingly. “And the only honorable solution under the circumstances.”

“My father will certainly disagree with you,” Tyrion said. A shade of anxiety appeared in his face, as he asked next, “Has Jon…has he written anything about my father, his reaction?”

His father sighed. “He writes that your father arrived at Lannisport and…required that their party come with him to Casterly Rock, where Jaime has been ordered to stay until his injuries have fully healed.”

As they all took that in, Tyrion sat back in his chair and said, “Well, that’s going to go horribly.”

Ned fixed him with a hard stare. “Will they be safe at Casterly Rock?”

Tyrion looked startled by the question. “Of course, I…” He then trailed off, before saying, “My father is many things, but even he balks at kinslaying, I assure you. Jaime has always been his favorite, anyway, and he’d have to be a madman to try and injure the son of Ned Stark, bastard or no. Even Theon—he’s your ward as much as he’s a hostage, my father won’t lash out at him.”

It was the same reasoning that Robb had offered up to his father, yet it was somehow less reassuring from Tyrion, who could only offer in his father’s defense that the man wouldn’t stoop to kinslaying. What kind of man, what kind of father could Tywin Lannister be when that was the best his son could say of him?

But they all knew the answer to that. Tywin Lannister was the man who’d destroyed two entire houses, all the way down to the women and children and servants, he was the man who’d overseen the brutal sack of King’s Landing during the war, who had ordered the murders of Princess Elia and the Targaryen children.

“But he’ll be angry,” Robb said. “Won’t he.”

Tyrion let out a breath. “He’ll be livid. To be publicly defied by his son like this…I can’t even picture the depths of his rage.”

“Will they be all right?” Bran burst out anxiously, and that was when Robb realized they’d been discussing all of this in front of his younger siblings, all of them looking distraught now.

“Of course they will, sweetlings,” his mother said quickly, drawing Sansa and Arya into her arms, with his father gently clapping Bran on the shoulder. “Won’t they, Tyrion,” she added, giving Tyrion a pointed look.

“They’ll all be absolutely fine,” Tyrion agreed, a shade too heartily, if the skeptical looks from Arya and Sansa were any indication.

Tyrion saw them too, and he carefully got out of his chair and walked over to the children. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “My father is not—he is not a kind man. And Jaime, Jon, and Theon are likely going to have an unpleasant stay at Casterly Rock until his anger cools. But they aren’t in any danger, and they’ll be home safe and sound soon enough.”

The children did look comforted by this, Bran nodding, his eyes downcast, before Arya next to him muttered, “I’m sorry your father is so awful, Tyrion.”

“Arya,” Catelyn said, gently chiding.

“He is awful, though!” Sansa protested in her sister’s defense. “Jaime wouldn’t have had to fight the Mountain if Lord Tywin was even a little bit decent and honorable!”

“She’s not wrong,” Robb pointed out to his mother, who sighed but didn’t argue. Instead she quickly hustled his siblings out of there, saying they should be at their lessons.

His father, though, was scowling. As the door closed behind his mother and siblings, he suggested, “Perhaps I should travel to Casterly Rock, escort them all home. If Tywin knows I’m coming—”

“Oh, that’s a terrible idea,” Tyrion quickly said. “Forgive me, but there’s nothing more likely to push my father over the edge. To have the Warden of the North arrive, uninvited, making it seem as though he and his hospitality can’t be trusted—”

“I don’t trust him,” Ned snapped. “Not with Jaime, not with Theon, and certainly not with my son.”

“The last thing we should do is inflame things further,” Tyrion counseled, holding his hands out in front of him, clearly trying to placate Robb’s father. “Jon’s a clever, cautious boy, he’s not going to get into trouble. And Theon…well, he’s not cautious or clever, but he does have some self-preservation instincts.”

“And Jaime will be fine, because your father’s not a kinslayer,” Ned said, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You understand how unsettling that is to hear, aye?”

Tyrion sighed, spreading his hands out wide. “I do. But it’s what I have.”

His father turned his attention to Robb. “What do you say, Robb? Jaime’s your husband, after all.”

“Oh, I want to sail right down to Lannisport and drag them all home, and I’d be dragging Jaime back by his hair,” Robb immediately said, heated. “But…” He glanced at Tyrion and shook his head. “Tyrion knows his father far better than either of us do, and if he’s sure this is the right course to take…”

“It is,” Tyrion said, sounding both firm and relieved. “I promise you that it is.”

Ned shook his head, but didn’t argue further, just saying instead, “Fine. But I’m writing to your father to make it clear I expect them home as soon as possible, and I won’t be diplomatic about it either.”

“You’re a Northman, nobody expects diplomacy from you,” Tyrion said. “Although perhaps I could look the letter over, just to be…” Ned stared at him, and Tyrion absided. “Yes, of course. Write whatever you wish, it’s not like my father isn’t known to hold grudges or anything.”

“Oh, he can hold a grudge, can he?” Robb’s father asked, sarcastic. “That’s good, because so can I.” And the low growl in his voice made it clear he should be believed.

*

The next day, Robb found himself sitting in the godswood. He’d avoided coming here since that last confrontation with his father, what felt like an eternity ago—but he’d woken up at dawn this morning, restless and unable to go back to sleep, and he found himself getting dressed and heading to the godswood.

He didn’t pray. He just sat in the grass, breathing in the cool morning air, his mind empty and quiet, but even that was a relief, to be here and looking up into the face of the gods, and not feel rage or despair.

The sun had nearly completely risen by the time that Robb heard footsteps approaching, and he turned in time to see Carys appear, looking surprised at his presence.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think anyone else would be here so early—”

“That’s all right,” Robb assured her, getting up to his feet with a wince; he’d been sitting for too long, and his legs were stiff. “I’ll leave you to your prayers, my lady.”

“Wait, please,” Carys said quickly. Robb halted, looking at her curiously; Carys chewed at her lip for a moment before earnestly asking, “How are you, Robb?”

Taken aback, Robb blurted out the truth before he could think twice. “I have no idea.”

Carys’ eyebrows flicked up, and then she nodded. “Well, that’s fair enough. I have no idea what to make of it all, and I’m not even married to the man,” she said frankly, and Robb let out a choking laugh.

“Yes, that seems to be the overwhelming reaction,” he said.

Carys offered him a little smile, before turning to face the tree. Still not looking at him, she asked, “So, are you going to forgive him then?”

Robb started at this, and then wished he hadn’t. “What do you mean by that?”

Carys paused, very obviously thinking her words over, before saying, “It hasn’t exactly been a secret that you two have not…that there’s been a rift between you both. And you are not the type to be spiteful or petty, so it could not be…could not be a small matter.” She looked at him and added quickly, “I don’t know what it is, and I don’t need to know what it is. But I…I know what it is like, to have a husband who has done something truly unforgivable. Is Ser Jaime like that, then?”

Robb took several deep breaths before answering. “That’s what I’ve been trying to decide.”

Carys nodded. “A weighty decision,” she said. She swallowed before adding, “May I offer some advice?”

“Yes,” Robb said.

“When the decision takes this long to make, it’s sometimes because you already know what the answer is, and the real struggle is about accepting it,” Carys said.

“And did you have an answer?” Robb asked. Carys looked at him with surprise, and he clarified, “About your father, I mean. Not your husband.” It had been brutally clear, by the time Lord Glover left Winterfell, that the rift between him and his daughter had not been mended.

Carys pursed her lips. “Cahal broke my bones and he tried to break my spirit, but it was my father who broke my trust and my faith in…in everything. In the end, I couldn’t forgive either of them. But only you can answer if it’s the same for you and Ser Jaime.”

Robb weighed her words, and he knew she was right.

“I keep telling myself there’s nothing to be done,” he said slowly. “That I don’t have a choice in any of it…but that’s not true.”

“You almost always have a choice,” Carys agreed. “But I won’t press you to make one now, if you’re not ready. I can’t pretend I’m not interested in what you decide, though. If the rift is not repaired, then Ser Jaime is likely to leave Winterfell to oversee the rebuilding of Moat Cailin.”

Robb was still baffled, before he realized what this was about. “And if he leaves,” Robb said slowly, “You fear that Tyrion will go with him.”

A deep flush spread over Carys’ cheeks, but she was still looking him squarely in the face, which Robb could only respect. “I do,” she admitted at last, her voice low. She looked down at the ground, biting at her lip. “I was married to a man who…despised me for being more clever than he was. You cannot blame me for liking a clever man, one who thinks my cleverness is the best thing about me.”

“Oh, you never need to defend Tyrion’s worth to me,” Robb said, meaning it. The flush remained on her cheeks, but Carys looked reassured by this. “And for what it’s worth, I wish you luck…I love Tyrion, but I would have never thought of him as the marrying type.”

A slow, confident smile appeared on Carys’ face. “Oh, he will be,” she assured him, and Robb found himself believing her.

His father’s punishment began to take shape almost immediately. Jaime was ushered into his old childhood quarters and promptly drugged with more milk of the poppy and whatever else was in that foul concoction that Maester Creylen poured down his throat.

A few moments later, as the sour taste lingered on his tongue, Jaime's vision went black to the sound of Jon protesting—though over what, Jaime didn't know. Not then.

When he woke up the next morning, it was to an empty room, a parched mouth and an aching head. His ribs had been freshly wrapped; Jaime tested his range of movement warily and gasped at the pain. After gulping down water from the pitcher left at his bedside, he slowly forced himself to his feet and headed towards the door.

He was met at the door by a servant and a guard—not one of the Winterfell guards, but one in Lannister colors.

"Ser Jaime, is there anything we can get you?" the male servant asked, eyes lowered.

"You can get my companions," Jaime said.

The servant didn't blink. "Apologies, ser, but Lord Lannister made it clear you shouldn't be disturbed."

"And I'm telling you that I want to see my companions," Jaime said sharply. "Now." Neither the servant nor the guard reacted to that, and worse still, they didn't move out of the doorway. The guard in particular was a beefy sort, with at least two inches on Jaime.

Normally that would have concerned him not at all, but Jaime was in no condition to push his way past them, especially without any weapons or armor...which, Jaime was now realizing, was the entire damned point.

He still had to try. "Fine, then I'll find my companions," he snapped, and took a step forward, only to be halted when the guard put a meaty hand on his chest, above the bandages.

"Get your fucking hand off me," Jaime snapped, pushing his hand away.

"Apologies, ser," the guard said woodenly. "But your father's instructions were quite clear. You are to remain in your quarters, alone, while you recuperate from your injuries."

Jaime ground his teeth. "And I'm sure you've been given orders to stop me leaving by any means necessary."

Neither one of them answered. They didn't have to.

Slamming the door in their faces might have been a petty gesture, but it was the only one Jaime had left to him, and he would take as much satisfaction in it as he could, even if the motion left him curling in on himself and biting at his lips to stifle the noises of pain from escaping his mouth.

If Jaime had had any doubt that this was a punishment from Tywin, the absence of any clocks from the room would have made them disappear. No clocks, no hourglass, the only way that Jaime had to measure time was the position of the sun in the sky, the rate of the candles melting, and the regular visits of servants to bring him his meals. The servants didn't speak to him, and after prodding a few times, he gave up on getting any reactions from them. They had their orders, and every servant of Tywin Lannister knew the cost of disobeying his orders.

So he stayed in the room, and he waited.

*

Years and years later, Jaime would try to make light of those weeks. “Only my father would consider being trapped in one of the grandest rooms in Casterly Rock a punishment,” he’d jape.

But as always, Tywin Lannister had known precisely what he was doing. The days dripped on, so painfully slow, broken up only by his meals that were delivered by mute servants and his daily visit by that craven of a maester. The rest of the time, Jaime was left to sit there and rot.

It was brutal. To have nothing to occupy himself, no one to speak to, just him and his thoughts, his memories, his cold realizations of just how he’d ended up here in the first place—

More than once, he found himself promising to the old gods he still struggled to think of as real and present in the world, let me escape this and I’ll be good. I will act as a good knight, a good lord…I’ll do anything, just so long as I can go home.

The only comfort Jaime had was in his dreams, where instead of the nightmares he feared, he dreamed of Robb almost every night—mundane little flashes of Robb with his siblings, Robb training in the yard, Robb deep in discussion with his parents or Tyrion. Robb, smiling up at the sky during another summer snow, the white flakes catching in his dark curls.

He didn’t know if they were real. He hoped they were, but took comfort in them nonetheless.

And on his arm, his soulmark throbbed—not with pain, but a steady pulsing, as if it matched his own heartbeat. Or someone else’s.

*

The first sign that Jaime’s imprisonment was coming to an end was the sound of raised voices approaching, one of them with a very familiar northern accent…

And then the door slammed open, and it was Jon, followed closely by his Uncle Kevan, out of breath and flushed.

Jaime blinked at all of them. For one wild moment, he entertained the idea that all of them—Jon, his uncle Kevan, Theon and the guards peeking in from the doors—that they were all hallucinations, but he discarded that. He hadn’t gone that mad during his enforced solitude.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked urgently.

“Fine,” Jaime tried, his voice hoarse and rusty from three weeks of disuse. “The forced solitude has been…refreshing.” His bravado wasn’t at all convincing, as Jon’s eyes sparked with anger, his mouth going thin.

“You see, lad, my nephew is fine,” Uncle Kevan started, but Jon turned to stare him down. Jaime couldn’t see the look on Jon’s face, but it was formidable enough to have his Uncle Kevan taking a step back, expression wary.

Just what had Jon been up to these past few weeks?

But then Jon turned back to Jaime, mouth still pinched tight, but clearly forcing himself to be calm. “Come on, you’ll be staying with me now, until we finally leave for home.” He stepped closer and helped Jaime get to his feet with a hand on his arm, not stumbling at all when Jaime had to lean against him while he caught his balance. The simple touch had Jaime’s eyes stinging, and he leaned against Jon a little more than he absolutely had to.

“I can walk on my own,” Jaime felt he had to protest, for his own pride.

“Fine, then I’m the one who needs to be escorted,” Jon replied without missing a beat. “The Rock is very confusing, I don’t want to get lost again in the corridors.”

But Uncle Kevan was blocking the doorway. Jaime raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he would actually try and stop them—surely if Jon had gotten this far, it was with Tywin’s tacit approval, but Uncle Kevan was clearly unhappy about it.

“Lord Kevan,” Jon said, in a voice that was like frost. “I trust we will not have any problems as I escort my goodbrother to his new chambers, yes?”

Jaime bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing any reaction, and Kevan’s flush deepened. “Of course not,” he said, too heartily. “Truly, lad, these dramatics are unnecessary—”

“Oh, I think they are,” Jon said, without inflection. “And I’m sure my father will agree with me.”

Well wasn’t that an interesting nugget of information. The implicit threat worked too, as Kevan’s face twitched, but he stepped aside without any further protests.

They did have an escort to the wing where guests were stationed, but it was Theon and the Winterfell guards, not a single Lannister guard to be seen, even though there were plenty of servants gawking as they walked past. Jaime had technically been at the Rock for weeks now, he should have been accustomed to the open wealth of the Rock, everything gilded, the high arching ceilings and stained glass windows, but he’d been trapped in one room, and his time at the North had changed him more than he’d realized. It all just looked so…gaudy.

His mind was wandering, Jaime needed to focus.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Jaime asked, as lightly as he could manage. Given that he was also focused on staying upright and not giving any hint that his ribs still weren’t healed all the way, it was perhaps not as successful as it could have been.

“Jon’s brought the hammer down on your father is what,” Theon whispered, but still louder than need be. “And now we’re all just left praying we don’t get fed to the fucking lions.”

“I don’t think lions like squid very much, so you’ll be fine,” Jon said dryly.

Theon scoffed. “If anyone’s getting eaten first, it’s you, Snow. I thought Lord Tywin was going to carve you open with his soup spoon at last night’s dinner, for fuck’s sake.”

“Wait, what?” Jaime demanded.

“Theon’s exaggerating,” Jon said quickly, while Theon muttered, “I am really not.”

Through a truly heroic effort, Jaime refrained from asking any real questions until they were in Jon’s quarters, with the door shut behind them and their guards outside.

“So what did you write to your father then?” Jaime asked. “Because whatever it was, it clearly worked.”

A corner of Jon’s mouth tilted up. “I haven’t written to my father,” he said. “And I explained, very clearly, to Lord Tywin that I wouldn’t be writing to my father at all until I got to see for myself that you’re doing well. And that Theon wouldn’t be writing to my father, and none of our guards either. And then I invited him to think on what my father would make of it, not hearing from us for weeks on end, with our last known location being Casterly Rock.”

“You threatened him,” Jaime said blankly, staring.

“Of course,” Jon said. “Threats seem to be the only thing your father comprehends.” His face twisted into a scowl as he added, “He certainly doesn’t understand things like loyalty, or basic decency, so yes, I threatened him, and it worked.”

“He’s not going to forget—”

“Good,” Jon said stoutly. “He should remember that House Stark can’t be dismissed so easily. And if he hates me, then what of it? It’s not like any of us are coming back to the Westerlands any time soon after this.” He fixed Jaime with a stern look. “Are we, Jaime.”

“Oh, does the hospitality of House Lannister not suit?” Jaime japed, even as his mind still reeled from the efforts Jon had made on his behalf, the risk he’d so matter-of-factly taken, confronting Tywin Lannister in the very heart of Casterly Rock.

“The castle is beautiful, the views are astonishing, the inhabitants are wretched,” Jon replied, unrepentant. Jaime laughed, and then winced, as pain radiated out from his chest.

Jon watched him with worry. “How are your ribs healing? I can get another healer in if you’d like…”

Jaime waved this off. “Creylen is my father’s creature, but he knows his business. Broken ribs always take time to heal.”

Jon looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, but eventually decided he was telling the truth. “All right, but we are leaving once the month is up. We’re heading straight for home, and there won’t be any more quests we’ll be dealing with. Any monsters that need killing will have to wait for another knight to do the slaying.”

Jaime chuckled, but softly enough so that his ribs weren’t jarred again. “Agreed.”

*

It took time to adjust to his new surroundings. Truthfully, his imprisonment hadn’t ended, the prison had just grown to include an entire wing of the castle. But at least now the end was finally in sight. Jaime had gone from a crushing solitude meant to break him, to friendly and constant company. He was never alone now—Jon and Theon made sure that at least one of them was with him at all times, and it was the Stark guards that were their shadows in the guest wing, not a single one of his father’s men-at-arms within sight.

Not that Jaime ventured very far outside of their quarters, or out of the guest wing—he didn’t want to see his father, or his uncle Kevan. If he did, Jaime honestly wasn’t sure what he’d do. And he wanted…it was easier, to know his time in that room had ended when it was Jon at his side, even when it was Theon’s crass comments he was listening to during the small dinners they had in their rooms. If he could see them, if he could hear them, then Jaime wasn’t alone anymore.

He didn’t speak of it. It was bad enough that Jon was witness to the times that Jaime would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and shaking from his nightmares. He didn’t need to talk about how his father had tried to break him, or how close Tywin had come to succeeding.

Uncle Kevan had tried to visit a time or two, but had been chased out every time by Jon’s flat, unyielding stare.

“I don’t even think my uncle’s afraid of what your father could do, I think he’s just afraid of you,” Jaime observed after his uncle’s latest retreat.

Jon snorted. “I would feel guilty about throwing my father’s name around so much to get my way, except your family deserves far worse.”

It was a strange thing, viewing his family through Jon’s eyes. Strange and illuminating.

Theon sailed through the door not long after Uncle Kevan’s aborted visit, calling out, “We’ve got letters,” and sure enough, his arms were full of parchment. “There are ones for me and for Jon, plus all the letters Jaime’s been kept from reading because the maester’s a c—”

“Yes, thanks, Theon,” Jon said sharply, with a pointed look at the maids currently laying out their meals for luncheon.

Most of the letters were for Jaime, having piled up while he was locked away—there was the expected lecture from Tyrion, who castigated him for going on a mad quest to kill Gregor Clegane instead of just sensibly hiring an assassin to do the deed, and warned him against further enraging their father.

I’ve assured the Starks that our father is not a kinslayer, Tyrion wrote, but we are all unfortunately aware that there are many things a father can do to his son without actually killing him. So please be cautious for once in your life, and come home before your poor husband has an apoplexy.

The reference to Robb caused a sharp little twist in Jaime’s stomach, but that was nothing compared to picking up the next scroll and recognizing Robb’s handwriting. For just a moment, Jaime forgot how to breathe.

The letter itself was short and to the point.

Jaime,

I could wring your neck for not telling me what you were planning. Do you think I enjoyed collapsing in the godswood with an aching head, a bloody nose, and having my ribs feel as though they were on fire? Dueling the Mountain? You absolute bloody—

Here there was a line heavily scratched out, Jaime would have to hold it up to a window to see if he could make anything of it.

My father is anxious to see you all safe within the walls of Winterfell, but no one knows better than me the extent of your injuries gained from facing that beast, so you will take care to heal properly before traveling home.

You’ve made promises to me, after all. And I intend to see you keep to them.

Robb

The parchment nearly fell from Jaime’s nerveless fingers. It was Robb in that letter, vibrant and real, not the coldly furious stranger that Jaime had left behind.

The hope rose up inside of him like the rapid fluttering of a bird’s wings, and it took everything he had to smother it. Robb was naturally kind and considerate, and not wanting Jaime to die at the hands of Gregor Clegane didn’t mean that he’d forgiven Jaime for his sins and his crimes.

Carefully, Jaime set the letter from Robb to one side, before he started trying to take apart every word, every blot where Robb might have hesitated with his quill.

He set himself instead to working through the letters by date—the earnest worry from the rest of the Stark children in their letters had his stomach twisting into knots, as did Catelyn’s kind message. Even Ned Stark had written, less stiffly than Jaime might have expected, and the line of you have my thanks for righting an injustice that has burned my conscience these past twenty years drew a flush to his cheeks.

The latest round of messages had obviously arrived just a week ago, and the worry from everyone was palpable—Jon had not been bluffing, then, when he’d said that none of their party had sent word to Winterfell these past three weeks.

I know you to be a poor correspondent at the best of times, but this is surely pushing it, brother, Tyrion wrote, his handwriting scratchier than usual. Worse still, you’ve infected Jon and Theon with your bad habits—there hasn’t been a word from them either, nothing but our father’s bland assurances that you are healing well and that everyone is enjoying the hospitality of the Rock, and that your stay might be extended further. I leave it to you to picture Ned Stark’s reaction to hearing that. So curious are the Starks about your time in Casterly Rock, that I fear they may seek out their own journey to the Westerlands shortly.

Jaime lifted his head to say, “Jon, please tell me you made sure our messages were sent by the maester.”

“Of course, what do you take me for,” Jon said with a huff. “I sent Theo out to Lannisport as well, to have him send some backup messages just in case the ravens here all suddenly dropped dead along the way.”

“Good, because if Winterfell doesn’t hear from us soon, I think your father really will raise the banners and march down the Kingsroad to set siege to my father’s keep.”

Jon grimaced, glancing down at his own letter. “Aye, you might be right about that. I didn’t want them to worry, I just…Tyrion warned me, before we left home, that however paranoid I would find myself when it came to dealing with your father, I should double it. And when he kept you away from us…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t take the risk.”

“You made the right decision,” Jaime told him, the words only a little bitter. He knew what his father was, as did everyone else in the room, there was no use pretending otherwise. Had it not been for Jon’s intervention, Jaime might still be locked up in that room, or worse yet, suffering another one of his father’s brutal punishments disguised as a lesson.

He turned back to Tyrion’s letter.

No one knows better than me how…consuming our father’s attention can be, Tyrion wrote next, the ellipsis as pointed as three dots of ink could possibly be. Should you need a distraction, I find a measure of court gossip to work wonders, and Varys has been kind enough to keep up a correspondence, which is how I know the following facts about what our nephew Joffrey has been up to…

Jaime could feel his face settling into grim lines as he read about what Joffrey (and Cersei) had been doing in King’s Landing. The worst part was that nothing was a surprise; Joffrey had been a horror for years, and Cersei had always been blind to her eldest son’s faults.

At least they’d managed to save Sansa from the grim fate of becoming Joffrey’s betrothed. The Starks would have never allowed the wedding to happen, of course, not once they’d understood Joffrey’s true nature and that Sansa was far more likely to become a Queen Rhaella rather than another Good Queen Alysanne.

“Everything all right?” Jon asked, having noticed his disquiet.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said, dismissive, but Jon was still watching, and so Jaime elaborated, “My nephew has been…behaving badly.”

An understatement so ridiculous as to be almost criminal, but he might as well have not bothered, because Jon’s face went deliberately neutral, while Theon’s eyebrows flew up. It had been impossible to quell all the gossip about Ned and Catelyn refusing a crown for their daughter, and it was too much to expect that people wouldn’t have started to speculate why.

Particularly if rumors of Joffrey’s behavior were starting to spread, and if Varys was openly writing to Tyrion of it, they certainly were.

For the space of a heartbeat, the old urge to protect his family at all costs stirred, but it faded, almost as quickly as it appeared. The best thing Jaime could do for Cersei, and Joffrey, was to keep his distance. If Jaime was still in the Red Keep, wearing his white cloak, he had no illusions about his ability to convince Cersei that Joffrey needed stopping, not coddling. She’d have set him to covering up Joffrey’s sins, no matter how bloody or how vile—and they were becoming more bloody and more vile, if the rumor of what he was doing with those poor whores was even remotely accurate. And the stories of bruising on Myrcella’s arms and wrists, in exactly the shape of fingers…

Fucking hells.

“I think,” Jaime said slowly, putting the parchment down to one side, “—that I will need to have a conversation with my father soon.”

Jon was visibly alarmed at this. “Don’t tell me you want to speak to him alone—”

“Oh, no, I’ll be in full view of you and the guards the whole time, don’t worry,” Jaime said.

“If you mean to have us all sit down to dinner, you can count me out,” Theon said, fervent. “Every time I looked up from my plate and accidentally caught his eye, the food turned to dust in my mouth, I swear it did.”

“Gods forbid you be prevented from stuffing your face, Grejoy,” Jaime said, rolling his eyes. “But no, I have something different in mind. I’ve been terribly lax with your training during this journey, Jon. Wouldn’t want your skill with a sword to get rusty, would we?”

Jon sighed a little. “It’s not as though I’ve been lazing about,” he protested, but half-heartedly.

“Excellent, so then you can show me what you’ve been doing these past few weeks,” Jaime replied. “And if my father happens to come upon us while we’re at the training ground, well, we can hardly help that.”

Jon made a little face but didn’t argue. It was Theon who said, in his obnoxiously honest way, “In that case we’re fighting with live steel. If I’m going to be that close to an angry Tywin Lannister, I’m going to be armed.”

*

For all his nonchalance the day before, when Jaime actually saw his father entering the training ground, he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from leaping forward and wrapping his hands around Tywin’s throat.

The force and the purity of his anger came as a shock. He'd resented his father for most of his life, but it had always been overcome by fear and love. There was nobody Jaime had feared like his father, and there was no one Jaime loved like his father.

But as he watched Tywin stride towards him, in all his Lannister finery, all Jaime felt now was anger for what his father had done, and an impatience to have this all over with.

"I see you've finally deigned to make an appearance," his father observed, once he was at Jaime's side. "No more malingering?"

Jaime ignored the jab. "I'm supervising my squire's training," he said, nodding at Jon, who was currently in the midst of sparring with Theon.

"Ah, yes. Your bastard squire," Tywin remarked. "At least the boy's got talent to match his impudence."

"Did you think I'd bother with taking a squire otherwise?"

"So many of your decisions have been so confounding that I no longer feel that I can predict what you're capable of," Tywin retorted.

Well, that was plain speaking. "I did you a favor when I dispatched Clegane," Jaime said.

His father bristled at this, staring daggers at him. "You have the audacity to—" He cut himself off, and said grimly, "We will not be discussing Clegane here, not in public."

"Well, we won't be discussing it privately," Jaime told him. As his father raised his eyebrows, Jaime said, "You can't seriously expect that I'll willingly be alone in a room with you now, after everything you've done."

Jaime would savor the affronted look on his father's face for the rest of his days. Not bothering to wait for a further reaction, Jaime turned forward again to focus on the boys. "Jon, keep your damned elbow up!" he called out. "Theon, stop worrying about showy tricks and start worrying about your feet."

His excellent advice didn't do Theon much good, as Jon had him disarmed and yielding the bout in three more moves.

As Jon helped Theon up to his feet, Jaime knew it could be prudent to at least get out of arms' reach of his obviously seething father, but he had never been able to claim that particular virtue.

Besides, Jaime had slayed the Mountain, he'd cut down Roose Bolton, he'd run Aerys Targaryen through with his sword at the age of seventeen—it was long past time he stopped cowering before his father. Especially when Jon Snow had dared to stand up to Tywin on Jaime's behalf; if Jaime couldn't match his own squire's courage when it mattered most, then what was the point of any of this?

And as Jaime had gambled upon, his father did regain control of his temper. As the boys split up to begin sparring with two of the northern guards, Tywin observed, "The Snow boy does have the look of the Starks. You can hardly see any of his Dornish heritage."

Jaime eyed him warily. "Ashara Dayne isn't his mother, it was proved years ago that the timing was all wrong for him to have been the product of a tryst between her and Ned Stark at Harrenhal."

There was the faintest hint of smugness about Tywin's mouth, a sure sign that he was up to something. "I doubt very much he’s the result of a tryst between the Lady Ashara and Ned Stark. Whether he's the son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne from Stark's time in the Black Cells...that has yet to be disproven."

It took a moment for Jaime to absorb what his father was implying, and another moment to make sure his response was controlled enough to escape notice from anyone else, Jon especially. "You think Jon is the son of Brandon Stark?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" Tywin asked coolly, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "It always strained credulity that a man who valued his honor as much as Eddard Stark would ever stoop to not only sire a bastard, but then shame his wife by raising that bastard along his trueborn children. But if the boy is his older brother's get..." He shrugged.

"You think that Ned lied about the boy's paternity to, what, make sure he didn't have a rival for the title of Lord of Winterfell?"

"Any man's honor might crumble when he's on the verge of inheriting control of half the continent. And a bastard is a bastard, no matter where the trueborn father fell in the line of succession—but still, better not to muddy the waters."

On the surface, it was a plausible theory. It took care of the timeline of Jon's birth, and answered why Ned Stark would have come back from Dorne with a bastard son whose origins he refused to explain.

And yet, Jaime's overwhelming reaction to this oh-so-plausible theory was that it was bullshit.

Whatever mystery there was about Jon's origins, this wasn't the solution. Jaime knew it, but protesting to his father now would do no good. On the contrary, it would likely make his father even more convinced that he'd discovered the truth, and once his father was assured that he had a weapon to use against the boy who'd dared defy him...

Denial wasn't going to solve this, Jaime needed a distraction.

"Is that your grand scheme of revenge?" Jaime wondered, keeping his voice light and dismissive. "Strike back by causing a succession crisis in the North through claiming Jon's the son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne?" He scoffed, before dropping the bait. "You'd do better to focus on the real crisis facing our house, rather than trying to create a false one for the Starks."

A muscle in Tywin's jaw pulsed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Thank you, Tyrion. "I'm talking about your grandson Joffrey," Jaime said. "Don't tell me that you don't know what's being said about the boy in King's Landing."

That muscle kept ticking in his father's jaw, it was actually rather fascinating. "Exaggerations and spiteful lies," Tywin said. "Your sister has assured me of it."

"Yes, Cersei would say that," Jaime said, pushing past the quick pang of guilt. "She's coddled and shielded the boy for years, making sure the truth's never revealed."

"And just what is the truth, precisely?" Tywin demanded, nostrils flaring.

Jaime went in for the killing blow. "That our golden crown prince is Aerys Targaryen reborn, but with Lannister coloring."

His father went absolutely, completely still, a predator surveying the landscape. "Tell me."

Keeping his voice low and quiet, his body turned to the side so that no one could make out what he was saying by watching his lips move, Jaime laid out in brutal and clear detail all of Joffrey's sins, both those he'd covered up in the past and those he'd heard of now, through Varys.

And just to be sure, Jaime added last, "Why do you think the Starks refused a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa? It was because Tyrion and I knew we couldn't risk Ned Stark rising up with his banners upon realizing his beloved daughter was at the mercy of a mad prince, just as her aunt was—"

But that was too much for Tywin, who snapped out harshly, "Enough!"

The training ground went quiet at the sound of his raised voice, and Jon called out warlily, "Jaime?”

"It's fine, continue with your training," Jaime promised, as Tywin strove to regain control over himself. "These are harsh words, Father, I know," he murmured, once the attention on them had subsided. "But if anything is to be salvaged from this, then they have to be said."

Tywin didn’t speak for a long moment, finally letting out a long, controlled breath through his nose. “What has your sister been playing at?” he demanded. “Her role as Queen is to prepare Joffrey to assume the throne, how can she have been this negligent?”

That voice, that face, it all meant nothing good for Cersei. Jaime knew it, and yet he had to keep going. This was the best and only way he could serve his sister now, by giving her what she truly needed, and not what she asked of him. “She coddles him. Shields him from Robert and Jon Arryn, both of whom she despises. And so Joffrey is spoiled, Myrcella and Tommen ignored, and your legacy is left to crumble from within, likely to be ruined within one generation.”

Lips pursed, Tywin asked briefly, “Tommen?”

Jaime sighed, knowing what his father was asking. “You would find him soft.” Tywin grimaced, but Jaime cautioned, “But a boy can learn strength. Can you teach someone to come back from madness?”

Tywin’s gaze was as sharp as a razor. He didn’t speak right away, just stared as Jaime as though he could cut right through him with just his eyes, and Jaime held his breath—

But Tywin said next, “Clearly I will have to attend to our family’s legacy in the Red Keep, then,” He turned to look ahead, hands clasped behind his back as he ordered casually, “Write to your brother and have him sail from White Harbor to King’s Landing. If he leaves now we should arrive in the city at roughly the same time—”

“I’m not sending Tyrion to King’s Landing,” Jaime said.

Affronted, his father snapped, “What possible use will he be to you in the North?”

“Aside from assisting with the rebuilding of Moat Cailin and handling the repercussions of Roose Bolton’s death?” Jaime asked rhetorically. “Tyrion deserves better than being at your beck and call while you deny him his rightful inheritance.”

Quick as a whip, his father lashed out and seized Jaime’s forearm in a brutal grip. “Watch yourself, boy.”

Jaime looked his father directly in the eye. “Or what? You’ll have my nose broken again? Order me whipped? Strike out against Jon or Theon while they’re here as your guests? You could do all of that and it won’t change anything. Tyrion will still stay North. My future will still be with the Starks. And Joffrey will still be on the verge of destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

Your threats mean nothing, Jaime thought but didn’t say aloud. But some of it must have shown anyway, because his father’s lips curled away from his teeth, a sneer born of equal fury and frustration.

“The North has ruined you,” he observed in disgust, flinging Jaime’s arm away. “You could have ruled the Westerlands, and instead you’ll waste your life in that frozen pit.”

Jaime shook his head. “I haven’t been your heir for decades now. And you’re wrong—the North saved me.” And for just a moment, as Jaime said the words aloud, he could swear that he smelled snow in the air.

*

Their actual departure from Casterly Rock occurred with little fanfare. Officially this was because his father’s upcoming trip to King’s Landing was the priority, but everyone knew the truth—his father was washing his hands of Jaime.

Jaime didn’t care. The Rock had stopped being his home years ago, and if he’d learned nothing else this past year, he knew now that his destiny was in the North, even if he didn’t yet understand the shape of it.

(Robb had sent him more letters. Jaime had memorized each and every one, no matter how brief and careful they were. Even so, he refused to hope that they were a sign of anything more than Robb’s fundamental decency and determination not to expose their rift, even as his soulmark throbbed and ached beneath his sleeve.)

In the relief and bustle of finally leaving, Jaime didn’t watch as carefully as he should have, and was too late to prevent his father from whispering something in Jon’s ear as they were about to ride out to the port to board their ship. Jaime had his theories about what was said, judging from Jon’s stricken eyes, but he couldn’t get Jon alone until they were finally at sea.

After supper, while Theon contrived to lose half his monthly allowance at cards to the sailors, Jaime pulled Jon aside for a private talk on the deck, as the sun slipped closer to the horizon and the sky was a brilliant wash of pink and gold. “You’ve been brooding more than usual today,” he said. “If you’re fearing whatever revenge plot my father may have cooked up, don’t worry. He can’t touch you in the North, and he’ll be preoccupied soon enough in King’s Landing dealing with my nephew.”

“That’s not it,” Jon protested, before biting at his lips, his nerves obvious. “It…your father said something earlier. About my parentage.”

In a flash, Jaime understood, and cursed his father. “He spoke to you about your Uncle Brandon and Lady Ashara,” Jaime said grimly. At Jon’s startled look, he confirmed, “Oh yes, he tried to convince me of it as well. It’s utter nonsense, Jon, surely you see that.”

“Of course,” Jon said, but the assurance rang a little hollow. As Jaime’s eyebrows started to climb, Jon added hastily, “I know it’s not true, Jaime.”

“Of course it’s not true,” Jaime said, but the troubled look on Jon’s face didn’t ease, and Jaime said urgently, “Jon, my father said that out of nothing more than spite. He’s furious with me and unable to do anything about it, so he chose this method of lashing out at you instead.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, but thank the gods, started to nod. “My father wouldn’t…he wouldn’t have lied like that.”

“No,” Jaime agreed, and meant it. Ned Stark was a humorless ox of a man, and Jaime still didn’t like him very much, but he couldn’t imagine Ned Stark lying about this, especially not for anything so small and petty. Other men would have, in order to keep their older brother’s get away from a lordship, but not Ned Stark. “Even if your father was the sort of man to lie to secure his position, there wouldn’t have been any point to it. By the time you were born, the war had been won. His best friend was sitting on the Iron Throne. There wouldn’t have been anyone to challenge his claim to the North, and certainly not for a bastard infant boy.”

Jon was relaxing as he spoke, the tension leaving his body, but the frown didn’t leave his face. “I know you’re right. I just…he’s never spoken of my mother. Not once, not to anyone. I don’t even know why he won’t speak of her. If she was…if she was a whore, or a serving girl, or a highborn lady, whatever she was, I could handle it. But he won’t speak, and I can’t…I can’t help but look for reasons why.”

Jaime was quiet, before finally admitting, “I can’t explain why your father hasn’t told you of your mother”

Jon glanced at him. “You told Robb you were sure it wasn’t Ashara Dayne.”

“I did,” Jaime said. He eyed Jon up, and asked, “Does that disappoint you?”

Jon shrugged, the wind stirring his dark curls. “My entire life, I’ve wondered who she was. I used to dream about her, and in my dreams, she was always highborn, beautiful and kind with a gentle voice. A childish dream…I don’t need that dream to be true, not anymore, I just need to know.”

His voice cracked at the end, face crumbling into misery, and Jaime silently cursed Ned Stark, his honor, and his silent tongue. What harm could it possibly do, to give the boy this much? The gods knew it wasn’t as if Catelyn Stark could resent the boy more, if anything the total secrecy around Jon’s mother had likely made her resentment worse.

But cursing Ned Stark now wouldn’t do much good, not in the face of Jon’s misery.

He couldn’t give Jon the truth of who his mother was, but he could maybe give Jon a more important truth instead.

“Whoever she was, that doesn’t matter,” Jaime told him. “What matters is that your father loved you enough to claim you as his, to bring you North and raise you among your family, no matter if his wife protested or the rest of the world thought him a fool for it. Your father loves you, Jon. Nothing in the world matters compared to that.”

Jon stared out at the waves, no doubt comparing Ned Stark to what he’d seen of Tywin Lannister, or Balon Greyjoy. After a long silence, he looked at Jaime and said abruptly, “I’m sorry your father’s such a shit.”

Surprised at the language, but not the sentiment, Jaime barked out a laugh, and Jon smiled. “Aye, he is,” Jaime agreed, as his mirth finally settled. “But I’m free of him now, and so is Tyrion. That’s what matters.”

“And we’re going home,” Jon said, the longing for Winterfell clear in every word.

“Yes,” Jaime agreed, as he felt his own twist of longing, not just for the old gray castle, but for who lived there. “We are.”

That night, Jaime dreamed he was back at Winterfell. There was a storm outside the window, the wind howling, snow swirling—but he was safe and warm in his bed beneath the furs, with Robb draped along his back, his leg hooked around Jaime’s thigh and his nose buried in the nape of Jaime’s neck.

When he woke, it was an honest surprise to be alone in his bunk. Jaime groaned and reached down to palm his aching cock, trying to think of anything but Robb, Robb’s lean pale body, his wide pink mouth…he tried, and he failed miserably, of course, but at least he’d tried.

*

For their return trip, they sailed past the Iron Islands this time, rather than towards them.

Despite his better judgment, Jaime had asked Theon if he’d wanted to sail to Pyke again, this time to confront his father and his supposed plans for a Kingsmoot. Theon just stared at him as if he were mad. “Do you honestly think it a good idea?” he asked, doubtful.

“No, it’s a terrible idea,” Jaime said immediately. “But I traveled out to the Westerlands to kill Gregor Clegane and infuriate my father, so if you also want to do something criminally reckless, I don’t feel I can stop you.”

Theon snorted, but sobered quickly. “I…no. No. There’s no point, is there? My father…” He trailed off, and shook his head.

“Your father is a bitter, spiteful old man,” Jaime said. Jon was giving him a pleading look, and Jaime sighed and elaborated on something he’d already told Jon in private. “To your father…I fear that you will always represent his humiliation during the failed rebellion. I doubt anything you have or haven’t done could change that.”

Theon’s face twisted in misery, and he looked away. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “For the advice. I will not return to Pyke again.”

He’d moped about the ship the next few days, as Jon fretted and gave Jaime even more pleading looks, as though he could solve this. The headache of Theon Greyjoy was something Jaime would happily hand over to Ned Stark, Theon was his ward and his problem, not Jaime’s, and the gods be praised for that small mercy.

“How do you think the Martells took your…gift?” Jon asked one night at supper, as Theon poked at his food without eating it (a recent habit of his, Jaime had taken to asking if as a squid, Theon preferred his fish raw, and that usually goaded him into eating at least the bread, but not tonight).

“I have no idea,” Jaime said. Before leaving Lannisport, they had received word from Yara Greyjoy that the Martells had received her and her gory package at Sunspear, but had been frustratingly blank on the Martells’ reaction, only emphasizing that she’d completed her task, and would be expecting payment in full upon her return. “They might be grateful. Or Prince Oberyn might try and kill me because I stole his chance at revenge. You can never really tell with that House.”

Theon stirred at this. “Are the stories of the Red Viper all true, then?”

“Oh yes,” Jaime agreed. “Rhaegar Targaryen was lucky that the prince was already exiled to Essos when he ran off with Lyanna Stark, otherwise Oberyn Martell likely would’ve killed him well before Robert Baratheon and his warhammer even got within reach.”

“You knew them all, didn’t you?” Theon said. “Everyone in the war, on both sides…you knew them all.”

“I don’t think anyone truly knew Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jaime said. “We all hoped and prayed that he would be a good king and not like Aerys, but—“ He waved his hand, dismissing the pain and despair of that time as best he could.

“It’s hard to picture that,” Jon said thoughtfully. "I just know him as the mad Targaryen prince who kidnapped and raped my aunt," Jon said. Jaime tried to control his face, but Jon had grown too perceptive over this past year, as he tilted his head and asked, dark eyebrows flying up, "No?"

"I haven't said anything," Jaime protested, but both boys were watching him now, Theon's face brightening with interest for the first time since meeting his sister, and truly, the North had turned Jaime soft if he was considering ways to make Theon Greyjoy feel better. "It's just...whatever happened between your aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen tends to vary depending on who you speak to. Or on what they saw. Take the Dornish, or southern loyalists to the Targaryen cause—they all believe she went with him willingly."

“That can’t possibly be true,” Jon protested, indignant at the slur to his dead aunt’s memory.

Jaime grimaced. "You have to understand, Rhaegar hated the way Aerys treated his mother," he said. "And in two years, I never heard of him so much as raising his voice to Princess Elia, let alone his hand. To imagine him suddenly capable of violently kidnapping and raping a young maiden…”

“It could’ve been the Targaryen madness coming through at last,” Theon pointed out.

“It could’ve,” Jaime agreed. “But I was also at Harrenhal. Your aunt's dislike of her betrothed was...blatantly obvious at times. Have you seen Arya's face when she's forced to wear a fancy dress? Imagine that, but doubled, and all of it directed at Robert Baratheon." He shrugged. “People noticed, they talked…even before Rhaegar crowned her at the tourney.”

“I can’t believe it,” Jon said, but he sounded shaken this time, unsure.

Jaime lifted his shoulders. “The truth will never be known either way, and whether it was a kidnapping or an attempted elopement, Rhaegar was a damned fool at best, a dangerous madman at worst, and outrageously insulted his wife either way. She was…we hoped Rhaegar would be a good king. We knew that Elia would be a good queen.”

For a moment, Jaime wasn’t on the ship, he was back in the Red Keep as a young man, guarding the royal family at dinner, listening to Elia Martell determinedly making dinner conversation while the mad king muttered to himself, as he watched Rhaegar’s beautiful, solemn face, his expression remote, as though he’d gone somewhere that no one else could follow.

“But I’m sure you know all this already,” Jaime said, forcing himself back to the present. “Your father was at Harrenhal, and he fought in the Rebellion—he saw as much as I did. More, even, I was in the Red Keep during the whole of the war.”

“Father never speaks about the war,” Jon said. “Or about Aunt Lyanna—well, aside from how Arya looks like her.”

“Mm.” Jaime cast his mind back to the wolf-girl he’d seen at a distance, with a crown of winter roses in her lap. “Arya’s got her chin and eyebrows, it’s true, but you actually look the most like her out of your siblings, Jon.”

“Wait, I do?” Jon asked, startled.

“Of course. You’ve got her curls, her coloring, and your eyes are like hers,” Jaime said, but as he said it, he realized how true it was. Jon’s face was more solemn than hers, though, naturally serious and grave—his father’s influence, obviously.

“Suppose it doesn’t matter, in the end,” Theon mused. “Rhaegar had no business being around your aunt either way, and Aerys was a lunatic who had no business being on the throne at all. War would’ve come no matter what.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. “The Targaryens were doomed, no matter what.” And they were all gone now, Rhaegar and Rhaella, Aerys, and the hope and promise of Rhaenys, Aegon, and Elia…they were all nothing more than bones and memories.

His gaze caught on Jon’s profile, as Jon looked out the small porthole to the sea, and Jaime shivered suddenly for no reason that he could fathom.

“They’re here, they’re here!” Robb heard Arya shouting in the corridor just moments before she burst into his solar, throwing the door open with more force than one would have thought possible from a girl her size.

Without a pause, she rushed over to Robb and started trying to pull him out of his chair. “They’ve been spotted from the towers, they’re almost here, let’s go—”

“It’ll still be a quarter of an hour before they even make it to the gate, at least,” Robb pointed out, even as he obediently got to his feet and let Arya drag him wherever she pleased—in this case, to the south gate where Jaime, Jon, and Theon would be riding through in a quarter of an hour.

On the way, they were joined by Sansa, who looked him over with a critical air and said in a tone of faint disappointment, “You didn’t shave?”

“I doubt Jon or Theon will care if I’m clean-shaven or not,” Robb said, deliberately not getting the hint.

Sansa sighed, trading long-suffering looks with Arya—Robb was as glad as anyone that his sisters were getting along now, but it was alarming sometimes.

“I just thought it would be nice,” Sansa said, reproachful.

“Because Jaime’s coming home,” Arya finished for her, disregarding any attempt at subtlety.

“Arya!” Sansa hissed, while Robb’s lips twitched.

“Well, he is,” Arya said, exasperated, before turning back to Robb and asking, “Will you be glad to have him home, then?”

The flip, easy answer would be to say, well, I’ll be glad to have them all out of the Westerlands, and it was true, because even with everything Jon had obviously left out of his letters, it was clear that Tywin Lannister had lived down to his reputation. (It had taken Tyrion, Catelyn, and Maester Luwin to stop his father from storming down to the western coast after they’d gone more than a fortnight without a single letter from anyone.)

But it was his sisters who were asking, and Robb had been a fever of anticipation for days now, there seemed little point in pretending otherwise. Not when his Mark was pulsing in time with his heartbeat, not when he dreamed of lying with Jaime in their bed, had visions of him on the ship with Jon, of Jaime riding through the Northern forests on his way back to Winterfell, to Robb.

“Yes,” Robb admitted, “I’ll be glad to have Jaime home.”

Sansa and Arya beamed happily at him, before Sansa said thoughtfully, “Perhaps there is enough time for you to shave…”

“No,” Arya said forcefully, taking Robb’s hand to drag him away once more. “No shaving, there’s no time, they’re already here!”

“Sorry, Sansa,” Robb called back over his shoulders as he was dragged away in Arya’s wake, and Sansa just huffed loudly before picking up her skirts to rush after them.

It wasn’t a surprise to find Tyrion already waiting in the courtyard, but seeing Robb’s father with him was a surprise. Though it probably shouldn’t have been, his father had been more worried about Jon’s worrying silence and omissions from the letters that did arrive, more than anyone else.

And slowly the rest of the family came out to the courtyard as well, Bran arriving at a run, hair disheveled and ducking Sansa’s attempts to smooth it. His mother arrived more sedately, hand in hand with Rickon, who’d lately taken to resisting being carried in anyone’s arms.

And then there was the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and then the courtyard was full of men on horseback, Stark banners flying, and in the center of it all was Robb’s friend, Robb’s brother, and Robb’s husband.

Jon dismounted first and immediately swept Arya up in a fierce hug, swinging her around in a circle. It all dissolved into happy chaos from there, laughter and hugs and jokes, Robb thumping Theon on his back in greeting while privately noting how drawn his friend’s face was (something had happened at Pyke with Theon’s family, Robb knew it) and Robb’s father refusing to move from Jon’s side, his hand on Jon’s shoulder as though he feared that Jon would disappear, even now.

And retreating as best as he could into the crowd, there was Jaime. Of course, he wasn’t succeeding—half of Robb’s siblings had already embraced him, and by the time that Robb and Tyrion made their way through, Bran and Arya had attached themselves to Jaime’s side, earnestly telling him about their training and Carys and Sansa throwing daggers at trees.

But the moment that Jaime glanced up and his gaze caught on Robb’s…it felt like a hammer blow.

Thank the gods for Tyrion, who stepped forward first, and Jaime’s gaze was drawn away as he smiled down at his brother. He kneeled to embrace Tyrion gently, the hug lasting for a long time. From as close as he was, Robb could hear Tyrion say, “If you ever do anything so damned foolish again, Jaime…” But whatever threat he was going to offer up, Tyrion thought better of it, just clapping his brother on the back and saying as he pulled back, his voice a little hoarse, “I can understand being annoyed at House Frey’s catastrophe taking all the attention away from your heroics at the Dreadfort, Jaime, but this was a bit much, don’t you think?”

Jaime shrugged, not looking as smug as Robb might have expected—or really, as much as his actions deserved. “It was overdue.”

Tyrion nodded in acknowledgement. “That it was.” He glanced over to Robb, and then said lightly, “Though if you must be off slaying monsters, try not to get your nose broken again, will you? We thought poor Robb was dying of some mysterious ailment for a moment.”

And that, then, was Robb’s cue.

He shuffled forward, his legs feeling awkward and unsteady beneath him. Jaime didn’t speak, just watched him with wide eyes, shoulders braced for—for whatever he feared that Robb would say, or not say.

There was a bump to the bridge of his nose that hadn’t been there before, and while it technically did mar the former symmetry of his features, it also lended something to his face that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t look like the golden knight out of a storybook any longer, but Robb thought he would like this Jaime better anyway.

Eventually Robb found his words. “The Mountain, Jaime? Seriously?”

“Well, if I was going to go on a quest, it could hardly be something minor, now could it? I do have a reputation to keep up,” Jaime said, archly, but Robb could hear the nerves underneath.

No. No, he could feel them—the worry bubbling up inside of Jaime, even as he so clearly tried not to hope for anything. He’d been in a fever of anticipation too, and Robb could almost see it before him now, Jaime pushing the pace of the group to arrive as quickly as they could, even as he feared and hoped in equal measure for what he would find once they passed through Winterfell’s south gate.

Robb had kept coming forward all this while, close enough to touch. Slowly, Robb did reach out, his thumb rubbing against the bump in Jaime’s nose, the visible reminder of Gregor Clegane’s brutality. Jaime let out a shocked little exhale as Robb touched him, his mouth parting, and just like that, it was the easiest thing in the world to step forward, take Jaime’s face in his hands, and reach up to lay a deep, through kiss on Jaime’s parted mouth, staking his claim, letting the force of their renewed bond move through him like cool water.

By the time Robb finally pulled away, Jaime was shaking. Perhaps they both were.

“The next time you go on some reckless, mad quest,” Robb murmured, looking directly into Jaime’s dazed green eyes, “I am coming with you.”

“All right,” Jaime whispered. “Whatever you say.”

Robb smiled, dropping another light kiss on Jaime’s mouth, like sealing an oath. “Excellent.”

*

For someone who had returned to Winterfell as the conquering hero, Jaime was remarkably quiet as they walked to their quarters. There was no swaggering, no grand retelling of his triumph over Gregor Clegane; he just clung onto Robb’s hand like a lifeline as he trailed in Robb’s footsteps.

If Robb was honest, he didn’t need words—the weight of Jaime’s hand in his was enough, his presence in Robb’s mind was enough. He could feel it almost like a heartbeat, his mind spinning on a constant loop of, there you are, there you are.

Finally they were in their room, the maids who had been unpacking Jaime’s things and tending to the fire slipping out with murmured ‘m’lords’, and then the door was shut and it was just them, together and alone at last.

Jaime was staring at Robb with wild eyes, and he said raspily, “Don’t—if that was just for show, in the courtyard—”

Despite his own pounding heart, Robb lifted an eyebrow. “You think I’m that good of an actor? Suppose I should be flattered.”

But Jaime was clearly not in any mood for banter. “Robb, don’t toy with me. If you haven’t…” His voice trailed off, breaths quickening as Robb slowly approached him.

As he did before in the courtyard, Robb took his husband’s face in his hands, the sharp planes of Jaime’s face fitting so easily in his palms. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, then added with a flash of heat, “As opposed to when you went on this utterly mad quest in the first place.”

It was Jaime’s eyebrows that flew up this time. “Are you still upset about that?”

Robb pulled away, folding his arms over his chest and ignoring how cold his hands felt now that he wasn’t touching Jaime’s face. “About your apparent death wish? No, why would I be angry about that? It’s not as though you went off to fight one of the most feared and dangerous knights in the Seven Kingdoms without a word to me or your brother—”

His temper was up in earnest, so the sudden wave of amusement and joy came as a shock, as Robb focused once more on Jaime, who was grinning like a madman. “What?”

“It’s real,” Jaime said, his face glowing with happiness, and then he was the one coming forward to sweep Robb up into a kiss, hot and urgent, and Robb groaned and kissed him back, his entire body drawn tight with lust. Gods, weeks and weeks he’d spent in that empty, cold bed, wanting even as he’d tried to deny it, tried to deny how badly he needed this, Jaime’s body pressed against his, Jaime’s soft hair tangled in his fingers, Jaime’s desire spurring on his own—

Time blurred a bit, and by the time that Robb became aware of the persistent knocking at the door, he had Jaime flat on his back in their bed, half undressed, cock hard through the layer of his breeches as Robb wrenched open the laces. Mind fogged from lust, it took Robb a moment to make his mouth work well enough to call out, “Aye, what is it?”

“It’s me,” Tyrion’s muffled voice replied. “Loath as I am to interrupt your reunion—”

“Then don’t!” Jaime immediately shot back, hips fretfully rocking up into Robb’s hand, even as he was glaring at the door.

“But you’re wanted in Lord Stark’s solar,” Tyrion finished.

Robb grinded his teeth with frustration, and Jaime gripped his thighs to stop Robb from climbing off his lap. “For fuck’s sake, what for?” he shouted at his brother.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jaime—something to do with you being held captive by our father, who is now apparently carrying a deadly grudge against Jon Snow?”

Astonished, Robb turned to look down at Jaime. Grimacing, Jaime met his eyes and admitted, “Our time at Casterly Rock was more eventful than I would’ve wished.”

“Was it,” Robb said, unamused, and clambered out of his lap, ignoring Jaime’s pitiful groans. Served him right—if they were going to be interrupted because of more Lannister dramatics, then at the very least Jaime should be suffering as much as Robb was.

*

“All right,” Robb’s father said, arms folded across his chest as he stood before the fireplace, watching them all with a face like stone. “Let me hear it again.”

Jon, standing in the corner, sighed faintly. “Lord Tywin came to the inn where we were staying. He was angry with Jaime for killing Clegane. I was able to…intervene, eventually, and then Lord Tywin declared that we should all be guests at his home while Jaime recovered from his injuries.”

“Intervened?” Jaime repeated, incredulous. “Is that how you describe what happened?”

Jon shot Jaime an unamused look. “It’s the truth.”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Jaime,” Ned said. “My son has been rather stingy with the details so far.”

Jon winced. Jaime said, “Certainly,” straightening up in his seat as he did. “My father came to the inn, and he was in an absolute rage—I was rather groggy from the blow to my head and from being dosed with milk of the poppy, so I’m afraid I wasn’t very conciliatory in my replies.”

Jon scoffed. “You mean you deliberately baited him.”

“It was either that or cringe in fear, and neither would have changed his response,” Jaime pointed out, and Robb, standing behind him, squeezed his shoulder. Jaime reached up to touch his hand, saying, “Well, that just made him even more enraged, and he tried to strike me, but Jon stepped in and took the blow instead—”

“Excuse me?” Robb and his father shouted in near-unison. Tyrion, standing in the corner, just groaned, and Robb’s mother closed her eyes in despair.

“What was I supposed to do, just let him hit Jaime?” Jon protested, indignant. “He could barely stand on his feet after dueling Clegane—”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jaime muttered.

Jon scowled at him. “You vomited all over Theon’s boots, it was that bad.”

Meanwhile, Ned was staring aghast at Jon. “Why didn’t you write and tell me what was happening?”

Jon awkwardly shuffled his feet. “After Jaime was imprisoned—”

“Go back to the imprisonment,” Robb demanded, his voice sharp, and Jaime twisted around in his chair to look up at Robb. “Darling—”

“Don’t you start,” Robb said sternly, not letting himself be moved. “At this point I’m not letting you past the boundaries of Wintertown without me.”

It took an age, but eventually they got out all the details of Jaime’s separation from the others and his captivity, and how Jon, fearing that any truthful letter to Winterfell would be intercepted by the Lannisters’ maester, had hit on the solution of using his silence as a tool to force Tywin Lannister’s hand.

“Clever,” Tyrion said, looking at Jon with approval. “Very, very clever.”

Ned, on the other hand, was wearing a look of fury that Robb had never seen before. In a low voice, he spat out, “That foul, honorless piece of scum. I knew that none of you would be truly safe within that bloodthirsty beast’s walls, but I never dreamed he’d go so far. Gods!”

All of them were left speechless at the sight of Ned’s anger, and it fell to Robb’s mother to say soothingly, “Ned, it’s all right, everyone made it home safely—”

“No thanks to Tywin,” Ned growled, still bristling.

“And,” Catelyn continued, taking a breath, “I think your son should be congratulated on navigating such a difficult situation. He made sure that Jaime was freed, and they were all able to depart without any further scandal or conflict.”

In shock at his mother’s words, Robb quickly looked over to Jon. Mouth agape, Jon stared at Robb’s mother as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It took a pointed cough from Jaime for Jon to come to his senses, stammering out, “Th-thank you, Lady Stark.”

His mother gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement, not quite looking at Jon. “No need, it’s a simple fact.”

Ned was also watching her, the anger in his expression finally fading, replaced with surprise and gratitude. “Aye, my lady. You did well, Jon, very well indeed, even as I regret you being in that position to begin with.”

Jaime stirred at this, starting to say, his guilt sour in Robb’s mind, “Lord Stark, I—”

But Ned held up a hand. “Peace, Jaime. You avenged a monstrous crime by the only method available to you. If there’s anyone I hold responsible for this wild adventure, it’s your father, who was the cause of it all.” His expression darkened again. “And King Robert is also to blame for letting that murderer go free for so long.”

“We’ve received several missives from King’s Landing,” Catelyn explained. “Expressing the Crown’s…astonishment at the events in the Westerlands.”

Jaime snorted, unimpressed. “Give it a week and a few barrels of wine, and Robert won’t remember whatever nonsense he had the Hand write to you.”

“I care not what Robert thinks,” Ned said flatly, and Robb felt Jaime’s surprise at that like a vibrating string. “He should have demanded justice be done twenty years ago, he has forfeited any right to involve himself now.”

Jaime chuckled at this, but in approval. “I couldn’t agree more, but I certainly hope your reply to Jon Arryn was more diplomatic than that.”

His father shrugged. “All the proprieties were observed, Tyrion and Catelyn wouldn’t have had it otherwise.” He sighed and headed towards his desk, pausing to clap Jon on the shoulder as he walked past. “Well, it’s been a far more exciting journey for you than I would have wished, but everything does seem to have been settled in the main.”

“Ah,” Jaime said, sharing a quick look with Jon. “About that…”

Ned, in the process of sitting down in his chair, stopped mid-motion. “Gods be good,” he said in dismay. “Don’t tell me you got up to more trouble while you were away.”

“Not in the least,” Jaime protested. “But if we’re discussing fathers and their sons, we do unfortunately need to discuss Balon Greyjoy.”

Robb groaned loudly in dismay, and his father sighed as he finally sat down in his chair. “I should have known,” he said, waving a weary hand at Jaime. “All right, let’s have it.”

*

The moment that they returned back to their quarters, Robb pinned Jaime against the heavy oaken door and kissed him fiercely, teeth nipping at Jaime’s lower lip while his hands impatiently worked his breeches open. The only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat and Jaime’s quiet moans, the only thing he cared about was getting his hands on Jaime and staking his claim once more.

“Robb,” Jaime panted out, gasping as Robb moved his mouth lower and started to kiss along his jawline, the tendons of his throat. “You—ah!” Robb’s thumb was moving along the slit of Jaime’s cock, using the increasing slickness to speed up his strokes, reveling in the way that Jaime shuddered and thrust his hips forward into Robb’s grip.

“Mm?”

“If we’re…oh fuck…if we’re doing this, then,” Jaime’s voice rose sharply as Robb gently brushed a finger behind his balls, but he continued bravely, “Then shouldn’t we move this to the bed?”

“Why?” Robb asked, mouth brushing along Jaime’s collarbone. “I think I’ll enjoy having you up against the door.”

“Yes, but I’ve been fantasizing about you fucking me for weeks now,” Jaime said, voice aiming for exasperated but just hitting plaintive instead.

Robb grinned as he finally pulled away. “Have you?”

Jaime looked satisfyingly disheveled, but still far too clothed for Robb’s liking. “If I’d known this would be my welcome home, I’d have fantasized about every filthy sexual act that two men could do together, but since I didn’t, I stuck to the basics.”

Robb laughed and said, “Far be it for me to deny you.”

Once they were in the bed, though, Jaime’s too-wide eyes and grasping hands made it obvious that he still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a dream. Robb understood it, he was still feeling the giddy edge of disbelief that this was real, that Jaime was alive and safe and here, in Robb’s hands once more.

Jaime was so eager, in fact, that when he finally got Robb’s tunic over his head, it was with such force that Robb heard the fabric ripping. “That’ll need repairing,” Robb chuckled, before ducking his head for more hungry kisses.

He forced himself to slow down once he was working Jaime open with slick fingers, his hand nearly dripping from the oil he’d spilled because he was clumsy with eagerness. It was Jaime who was trying to rush him, saying with impatience, “Damn you, I’m ready—”

“You’ll take what I give you,” Robb growled without thinking, but he noticed how Jaime’s breath caught at that, his body going pliant beneath Robb. Robb grinned sharply down at his husband and kept going at the pace that pleased him, no matter how Jaime cursed and pleaded.

It was all worth it when he was finally sinking into that tight, clenching heat, staring into Jaime’s dazed eyes as he slowly pulled out before snapping his hips forward, reveling in it as Jaime gasped and arched his back, pushing back into it.

There was nothing gentle about this, from Robb’s brutal thrusts to the way that Jaime clawed at his back, his hands clutching at Robb with a grip so tight that Robb knew he’d have bruises come morning. They weren’t silent either, a profane mix of filth and endearments spilling from Robb’s mouth as Jaime mindlessly agreed, “yes, yes, yes” to everything that Robb said, until words were finally beyond him and there were only noises left.

The pleasure between them grew and grew, until Robb could swear that he could see it behind his eyelids, a golden light growing in intensity until it was nearly blinding, and Jaime was there with him, Robb knew it, as Jaime finally cried out and spilled onto their bellies, and Robb groaned and followed him, collapsing on top of Jaime’s limp body, exhausted and sated.

For this round, anyway.

He had Jaime ride him not long after, his hands fitting in the grooves of Jaime’s narrow hips as Jaime rose and fell on his cock, an uneven flush spreading out over Jaime’s chest as his hair hung over his face, but it didn’t matter, not with the bond blooming back to life, Robb could taste everything that Jaime was feeling, his love and his lust and his surrender, all of it sweet as summerwine.

“Don’t think I’ll be done with you after this,” Robb said hoarsely, reaching up to pinch at Jaime’s nipples and relishing the sharp burst of pleasure that radiated out from Jaime. “I’ve got months to make up for—”

“Good,” Jaime shot back, teeth gleaming as he grinned sharply down at Robb. “I’m keeping you to your word, Stark.”

Robb was as good as his word, wearing his husband out until Jaime finally conceded defeat, at some point much later that evening. “All right, all right, you’ve forgiven me, I believe you,” he wheezed up at the ceiling, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Mercy, please, you’re going to kill me.”

Robb laughed and pulled his husband closer. “Don’t worry,” he said, yawning as he petted Jaime’s chest hair. “I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

“Thank the gods,” Jaime sighed, his heartbeat a steady drum against Robb’s palm as he dropped off into sleep.

It was the plain truth. He was Robb’s, all of him, the golden storybook knight as well as the weary repenting traveler. He’d once thought he couldn’t bear the weight of it all, but Robb knew now that what he couldn’t bear was the loss, of drifting away, lost and alone, without the anchor of their bond to keep him tethered and true.

And they had time now, to work it all out. They had the time and the trust, because Jaime had come back to him, when it would have been so easy for him to slip away. But he’d come home, and he was safe, and Robb wouldn’t be such a fool as to let him go twice.

On that thought, Robb yawned and closed his eyes, trusting that he would follow his husband into sleep soon enough.

*

Even in the midst of their reunion, with Robb dragging Jaime off into the nearest deserted corners of the keep as though they were newlyweds again, life kept moving around them.

Winterfell was a hive of activity once more. His father didn’t waste any time reacting to the news of what Balon Greyjoy had planned for the succession of the Iron Islands, writing to the Hand and the King to press for Theon’s wardship to be passed over to Lord Manderly at White Harbor, so that Theon could at least learn properly how to sail and captain a ship. Robb discovered, to his surprise, that Ned had been pushing for this for years, having easily foreseen the problem in having an ironborn heir that hadn’t been on a ship since the age of eight, but never being able to convince Robert Baratheon of the risks until now.

Theon was gobsmacked when he found out. “You…you wanted me to learn how to captain a ship?” he’d asked Robb’s father in his solar, his voice quiet.

“Of course,” Ned said, looking surprised that the question was even being asked. “I know…” He’d frowned, then said heavily, “I know your time here has been more…complicated than that of a usual fostering.” Theon’s mouth quirked upwards, sardonic, and his father acknowledged it with a nod of his head. “But I hope you know that I have only ever wanted the best for you.”

Theon looked down at that, mouth pinched tight. Robb tactfully kept silent, and when Theon finally looked up, it was with a glint to his eye. “You don’t think I can win the Kingsmoot, do you?”

His father wouldn’t lie, even now. “I don’t know,” he told Theon honestly. “But I think the fact that your father is even entertaining this does not bode well for you, and I would not have you placed at a disadvantage should it happen, not if it’s in my power to help you succeed.” He took a breath, and said next, “But if you don’t want it, if you’d prefer to stay here, then—”

“No,” Theon said quickly, looking startled at his own vehemence. “No, if…if I can go to White Harbour, then I want to.”

“All right,” Ned said, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Then let’s see what we can do to make that happen.”

That night Robb did something he hadn’t had much cause to do since his wedding, and he spent the evening in Theon’s quarters, sitting on the floor with Theon and Jon, the three of them drinking from a cask of ale. “I think White Harbor will be good for you,” he told Theon, leaning back on his hands as he did.

“Do you now, Stark?” Theon said, sounding amused.

“Course. You’ll finally get the chance to show us Northmen what a kraken can do on the waves.”

Theon grinned at hearing that, giving him a little salute. HIs expression grew more serious, though, and Theon asked, “You really think the king will listen to your father?”

“Well he’s got bigger problems closer to home, doesn’t he?” Jon offered up, getting to his feet to refill his mug. “Father’s offering a solution; he’d have to be a fool to reject it.”

“There is that,” Theon agreed, then chuckled. “You know, mad prince or not, I don’t envy Joffrey Baratheon whenever his grandfather arrives in King’s Landing to whip the little bastard into shape. Between Jon and Jaime, the Old Lion was in a proper rage when we left.”

Robb pulled a face. Tyrion had shared the latest rumors coming out of the Red Keep with him, stomach-churning though they were. “As long as Tywin stays away from us all, I don’t give a damn what he does.”

Jon’s nose wrinkled. “He already tried to get his revenge, don’t worry,” he said, taking a deep draught from his drink.

“What does that mean?” Robb demanded, leaning forward to stare at his brother closely.

Jon looked startled by the vehemence. “Robb, it’s nothing serious,” he began, then huffed in annoyance at the unrelenting stare Robb fixed on him. “He just tried to start some trouble over my mother, that’s all.”

Robb blinked, not expecting that. “Your mother?” Knowing how tender a topic this was, he glanced over to Theon to make sure his friend wasn’t going to let loose with an ill-timed jape, but Theon looked equally mystified.

Jon’s mouth turned down, unhappy. “He said…he said that after looking at me, he was more inclined than ever to believe the rumor of Lady Ashara visiting Uncle Brandon in the Black Cells before he died.”

“That…was he really trying to imply…”

“That I’m secretly Uncle Brandon’s son?” Jon finished wearily. “Yeah. He was.”

Into the silence Theon declared, “Drowned God, what a miserable twat.”

“It’s not true,” Robb said, rejecting the suggestion immediately. “Father would never lie about that.”

“I know,” Jon said, to Robb’s relief—he trusted Jon, of course, but would have hated to see him brooding over any poisonous whispers from Tywin Lannister. “Father wouldn’t lie about that. There wouldn’t be any point to it, and it’s not in his nature.”

“Would’ve probably been easier for him if you were just his nephew,” Theon mused. “At least when it comes to Lady Stark, anyway.” Robb glared at him for that, and Theon rolled his eyes. “What, you know it’s true.”

“Yes, thank you Theon,” Jon said, with a roll of his eyes as well. “Lady Stark’s actually been…very kind lately. It’s odd.”

Robb tried not to let anything show on his face, but it didn’t work, as Jon’s eyebrows went up and he said slowly, “Robb…”

“I may have had a discussion with my mother,” Robb admitted. Jon continued to look at him, not speaking, just waiting him out, and Robb groaned and gave in. “We had a fight about it.”

“A fight?” Jon repeated in disbelief.

Robb sighed and gave up the rest of it. “I accused her of treating you the same way that Lord Tywin treats Tyrion, except with even less cause to do so.”

Jon’s mouth fell open. “Robb, you didn’t.”

“Had you gone completely mad while we were away?” Theon demanded.

“I was very angry,” Robb said defensively, then looked at a still-shocked Jon and said, “Besides, I should have spoken to her about it sooner.”

Jon’s cheeks went pink. “Robb, you needn’t have—”

“You’re my brother,” Robb said firmly. “So yes, I did need to.”

Jon ducked his head at this, flush deepening and spreading to his ears and neck. It was Theon who said, “You’re still alive and breathing, so I should take it that your mother somehow didn’t flay you to ribbons for your disrespect?”

Robb chuckled. “No, but Father was furious with me. We’ve worked it out since though, there’s no need for you to worry,” he added to Jon, who looked relieved at the news.

“Between you and Jaime, I don’t know which one of you needs to be kept in check more,” Theon said, grinning.

“That’s just ridiculous,” Robb scoffed. “I’m not the one going off on a dangerous quest to fight a murderous half-giant—”

They continued in that vein for the rest of the night, trading japes and stories, and when Robb finally left Theon’s room, it was on slightly unsteady feet and a warm glow of contentment in his belly.

Jon left at the same time, and as they were about to separate to their own rooms, he called out, “Robb?”

Robb turned to face his brother, and Jon wordlessly pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Robb’s shoulder. “You didn’t need to, but thank you.”

Robb hugged him back, just as tightly. There were a dozen things he could say, but he settled for the most important one. “As long as I have a place in Winterfell, then so do you,” he told Jon, pulling away to look into his face, making sure it sunk in. “You hear me?”

“Aye, I hear you,” Jon said, his eyes shining in the torchlight.

Jaime was waiting up for him when Robb arrived, looking over the latest correspondence from Moat Cailin at the desk, but turning to the door as Robb came in. “You didn’t need to stay up,” Robb said, smiling even as he said it.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can never manage taking off your boots when drunk,” Jaime said dismissively, coming forward to lead Robb over to the bed.

“I’m not that drunk,” Robb insisted, but he went where directed, sitting down on the featherbed with Jaime’s guidance.

“Then maybe I just like taking your clothes off,” Jaime suggested, eyes gleaming.

“Well, you are very good at that,” Robb conceded, smiling like a fool. Gods, it was good to have this again, to be like this with Jaime again.

Jaime seemed to agree, if the smile on his face and the bubbling joy Robb sensed was any indication. He kneeled down on the floor to pull Robb’s boots off, and Robb mused, as first one foot and then the other was freed, “You do look good on your knees.”

Jaime looked up at that, smirking at Robb. “I can do more than just look pretty from down here, if you like.”

In answer, Robb spread his legs open, and Jaime’s smile only deepened, becoming more predatory. That was more than fine with Robb, of course.

After two delightfully satisfying rounds, Robb was finally lying in the bed with Jaime beneath the furs, his head resting on Jaime’s chest as Jaime toyed with his hair, his trimmed nails scraping deliciously along the scalp.

Robb was practically melting into a puddle from the pleasure of it all, but he stayed coherent enough to say, “I hope your awful father won’t spread that ridiculous story about Uncle Brandon and Lady Ashara.”

“Won’t do him much good if he does,” Jaime pointed out. “He’ll have bigger things to work about soon enough, anyway.”

Robb snorted at this, not disagreeing, but he said next, “Utter nonsense. As if my father would lie, for such a small reason.”

Jaime’s hand stilled in Robb’s hair. “Say that again.”

Robb frowned in confusion but obediently repeated, “My father would never lie for anything so small.” He started to sit up, alarmed at the tension coming off Jaime in cold waves. “Jaime, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Jaime said abstractedly, his gaze turned distant and away from Robb.

“Jaime,” Robb said, forceful.

Jaime finally looked back at him, eyebrows still furrowed, but his gaze was alert and present again, if apologetic. “I don’t know if it’s anything, not yet.” Robb opened his mouth, and Jaime added quickly, “I don’t, Robb, it could be nonsense. Let me think it out first.”

He was obviously sincere, and Robb sat with that for a moment before saying finally, “No secrets.”

“Not a one,” Jaime agreed, without hesitation, leaning forward to kiss him. Robb kissed him back, tenderly, and felt the tension slowly leave his body, as it left Jaime’s.

They eventually went to sleep still tangled together, and it seemed fitting that their dreams were tangled up as well, visions of long-dead Targaryens that Robb had never met, mixed with the more familiar sight of Robb’s father sitting in the godswood, but instead of the greatsword Ice in his hands, it was a small, blanketed bundle, and dimly Robb could hear a baby gurgling, even as his father looked up into the face of the weirwood tree, worry and determination clear on his face.

Robb slowly drifted awake, soon after dawn, with the worrying sensation of something not being quite right. He reached out with his hand to find Jaime’s side of the bed cold and empty.

With an unhappy groan, Robb cracked his eyes open to see Jaime, not in bed where he belonged, but standing by the window, robe loosely belted and staring moodily out at the courtyard.

“You’re too far,” Robb mumbled as Jaime turned back to him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, even in the gray morning light. They were safe and sound in their quarters, and yet Robb could feel Jaime’s unease whispering in the back of his head.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Robb softly urged as Jaime climbed back into bed.

Jaime didn’t speak right away, just looked down at him with an expression both tender and grave. He slowly let out a breath, his hand moving forward to tangle in Robb’s hair, the solid weight of it reassuring. Robb breathed out as well, matching his breathing to Jaime’s, until they were perfectly in sync.

Only then did Jaime say, “I think I know who Jon’s mother is.”

*

It took a very long time for Robb to believe it.

They thrashed it out, round and round, as the sun rose in the sky, only pausing when the maids came to tend the fire, looking curiously at their taut expressions.

It couldn’t be true. It was fantastic, impossible. Jon, the son of—

Impossible.

And yet, for every denial Robb gave, Jaime had another point to make in favor of his theory. Jon’s birthplace was Dorne. His father always speaking of Jon having “Stark blood”. Jaime’s insistence that coloring and hair aside, Jon had features in common with Prince Rhaegar, with Queen Rhaella.

There was the inescapable fact that three of the Kingsguard had been at the Tower of Joy, instead of on the battlefield with Rhaegar or guarding the rest of the royal family in the Red Keep—which begged the question, what or who exactly were they guarding?

And the final, undeniable point—his father’s silence about Jon’s origins had never made sense. It was a pointless kind of cruelty, something his father wouldn’t do, not just to protect the memory or reputation of a whore or a serving maid or even a woman like the Lady Ashara Dayne.

But he would do it to shield an even bigger, more dangerous secret. To protect a nephew who would surely be killed by the king if he knew the truth. To protect the last piece of his dead sister…

His whole life, there had been a hole in the story of how Jon came to Winterfell, a blank space in the shape of the nameless woman who gave birth to Robb’s brother, his almost-twin.

Robb didn’t want this to be the explanation that filled in the missing piece of Jon’s story. He didn’t want to think of his father committing treason against the king, lying to everyone for twenty years, and he really didn’t want to believe that Jon had been in danger all this time—was still in danger, if this was true.

And yet, it felt true. It fit, it explained everything.

“Do you want to just leave it alone?” Jaime asked gently, while Robb sat on the edge of their bed, head in his hands.

“Can I?” Robb asked; a genuine question, and Jaime treated it as one.

He sat down heavily next to Robb, delicately resting his hand on Robb’s knee. “This will sound ironic coming from me, but I don’t want you burdened with the weight of keeping this secret from Jon.” Robb lifted his head to look over at him, eyebrow raised, and Jaime gave a tiny, rueful shrug. “I told you it was ironic.” Robb nodded, acknowledging the point.

“It might not even be true,” he said.

“There’s only one person who can answer that,” Jaime replied, and he was right, of course he was right. There was only one thing for them to do, and Robb had to do it. He’d never be able to look Jon in the face again if he didn’t.

Thank the gods, there wasn’t any of their family in the Great Hall when they finally came down, just a few stragglers left picking at their morning meal. Robb had no appetite, but Jaime forced a bowl of pottage on him, and some bread. He was thrumming with barely-leashed energy; for Robb this revelation came as a bolt from a clear sky, but for Jaime, it was the answer to questions left unanswered for two decades.

A part of Robb wanted to linger over his food, delay the confrontation, but that was no use. So they went out of the Great Hall in search of his father, and found him in his solar, with Robb’s mother and Vayon Poole, the three of them going over Winterfell’s accounts.

A perfectly ordinary scene, one that Robb had witnessed countless times all his life, and his throat was closing up, looking at them now.

His parents both looked up when they came in, and Catelyn said with an easy smile, “Hello, Robb, Jaime.”

“Hello, Mother,” Robb said, trying for a tone that was just as easy, and failing.

Jaime succeeded better, his voice light as he said, “Apologies for interrupting, but it couldn’t wait. Steward Poole, if you could excuse us?”

“Certainly, ser,” Poole said, too polished to give away any surprise on his face. His parents watched with some concern, but didn’t protest, and it wasn’t until Poole left that his father asked, “Robb, what’s going on?”

Robb opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. This was his father, the man he and Jon had spent their lives worshiping and trying to emulate in all things. To stand there and ask him if he was a liar, a traitor to the Iron Throne, it—

Helplessly, he turned to Jaime, who stepped forward without hesitation, his hand slipping into the small of Robb’s back as he said, “We need to talk to you about Jon’s mother.”

His father stiffened. “That is not your concern.”

Robb found his voice. “Tywin Lannister thinks Jon’s the son of Ashara Dayne and Uncle Brandon.”

His mother inhaled sharply, her face going pale. Glancing quickly at his father, who hadn’t moved a muscle, she asked, “He said this?”

“To me and to Jon,” Jaime confirmed.

“Does Jon believe it?” Ned asked, tightly.

“No,” Jaime said, and Robb watched the relief wash over his father’s face. “He didn’t believe you would lie about that, and I agreed with him.”

“Well, of course Ned wouldn’t,” his mother said, hotly. “I’m glad to hear that the boy—that Jon has more sense than to believe it.”

“I’ll speak to Jon,” Ned said. “Make sure he knows not to worry, even if he does have the sense not to believe such foolishness.” He turned back to the accounts, as if the discussion was over.

Robb took a deep breath, but Jaime put a hand on his arm, stopping him, stepping into the breach on Robb’s behalf.

“You know, I’ve never been able to understand it,” Jaime began, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the crops, or the training regimen for the men-at-arms. “ You’re not a cruel man, Lord Stark. I was raised by a cruel man and I served an even crueler king; I know what it looks like when a man cares nothing for those closest to him. That’s not you, you love your son and you love your wife. Yet here you are, leaving them both tormented and defenseless against all the rumors and gossip, all because you refuse to name Jon Snow’s mother.”

“Enough, Ser Jaime,” Ned snapped, his face like granite and his voice just as hard. “I understand you’ve grown fond of Jon, but this is not your place.”

Despite the hard words, Robb could see it—the color leaving his father’s face, how his hands had clenched into fists on the table, so tightly that they’d gone white at the knuckles.

But Jaime was unmoved. “I was never able to understand it, until now. You wouldn’t leave them in torment. Not unless the truth was more dangerous.”

His father stormed to his feet, the chair’s legs scraping against the floor with an awful screech, his face terrible in its fury. “Shut your damned mouth,” he told Jaime, even as Robb’s mother gasped, and Robb felt his knees turn to water.

He knew that look. He’d seen it in Jaime’s face, all those months ago when Robb had confronted him about his own unspeakable secret, and he saw it again now too—the growing fear, the disbelief that discovery had finally come, after all these years.

“Gods be good,” Robb found himself saying through numb lips. “It is true.”

The dawning horror on his father’s face was awful to see. “Robb—”

Jaime was watching him with alarm, but Robb met his face and nodded, silently urging him to continue. This had to be done, no matter what was left behind in its wake.

Jaime inhaled and said, determined, “Was she still alive? Your sister, Lyanna—was she still alive when you reached the Tower of Joy? Did she ask you to lie to save her infant son, or did you take the burden on yourself?”

The question was left to ring in all of their ears. Robb watched his father’s face shift, from fear and fury to shock, and then finally an awful, bleak acceptance.

His shoulders dropped, and Ned Stark seemed to age ten years in the space of a moment. “She was alive. Long enough to give me the boy’s name, and to make me promise that I would protect him, no matter the cost.”

“No,” his mother said faintly; when Robb looked over to her, she seemed to be trembling from head to foot. “No, this…no.”

“Cat,” his father said, quickly reaching out to her, face wounded when she recoiled from him, and Robb’s stomach clenched with misery witnessing it. “Cat, you have to understand, I promised—”

“You promised?” Catelyn repeated, in a strangled gasp. “You—for almost twenty years I have seen that boy as a threat and an insult, and now you tell me that he is my nephew? That every moment of anguish I ever felt, every pang of jealousy for the faceless woman who held your heart and your loyalty—all of it was for a lie?”

Ned jerked at this, staring at her. “The only woman who has ever held my heart is you,” he said, emotion thick in his voice.

“And how was I supposed to know that?” Catelyn cried out.

As this was happening, Robb slowly made his way to a chair and sat down. Jaime came to stand by him, his face clouded with concern. Robb reached for his husband’s hand, and asked aloud, in a voice that was as steady as he could manage, “Who else knows?”

His parents turned as one to face him again, looking surprised at the reminder that they were not in fact alone. “What?”

“I’ve just found out that my brother is really my cousin, and that if this truth is ever revealed, that King Robert will demand his head and likely yours,” Robb said with an effort. “So who else knows?”

His father looked pained, but admitted, “Howland Reed, he was with me at the Tower of Joy. The Daynes may suspect, but they’ve never spoken of it if so.” He swallowed. “I meant—by not telling anyone, I meant to keep you all safe, if my treason was ever brought to light.”

“Because the boy is a secret Targaryen,” Catelyn whispered, sinking back into her chair. “The Mother have mercy on us all.”

“He is a Stark,” his father said, forcefully. “He is my blood, my sister’s blood. She died begging me to—” He stopped with an effort, turning away towards the window, but not before Robb could see the tears shining in his eyes.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Robb turned to Jaime, who was watching him with sympathy and with strength—strength that Robb would need to lean on, strength that Robb could lean on.

“So how do we keep him safe?” Robb asked them all.

His mother sighed, collecting herself, the effort of it plain on her face. In a strained voice, she said, “If Jaime could work out the truth on his own—”

“I found it out because I knew Rhaegar, yes, but really because I was wondering about the mystery of Jon’s mother,” Jaime said. “Take the mystery away, and no one will have cause to wonder.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we tell people the truth,” Ned said, incredulous, and Jaime scoffed.

“Obviously not. What I’m saying is that we take my father’s spiteful suggestion and turn it into a shield to protect Jon. Let the world think he’s your brother’s son—it’ll give more weight to your request, when you ask Robert to legitimize him as a Stark.”

His father’s eyes grew wide at this, but he didn’t argue. Promisingly, neither did Robb’s mother, even as she listened closely while Jaime spoke.

“He’ll be legitimized and knighted within the year,” Jaime continued on, “And then you tell him the truth, and the matter can finally rest.”

“Won’t that be even more dangerous?” Catelyn questioned.

“It’s less dangerous than letting him stew in his confusion, or having him find out from anyone else,” Jaime said. “Jon’s a good lad, with no thought of causing trouble. You give him his heart’s desire and he can handle the truth, we all know it.”

“He was willing to go to the Night’s Watch to stop being seen as a threat,” Robb reminded his mother. “He doesn’t even want Winterfell, he would never dream of trying to rise up and claim the Iron Throne.”

His mother swallowed, but dipped her head in the smallest of nods, conceding the point.

His father, though, was looking at Jaime with suspicion. “And you would do this? Hide the truth from Robert, from your sister and your father?”

Jaime snorted. “What am I going to do, deliver you all to the executioner to have your heads chopped off?” He looked at Robb, and Robb knew he was the only one who could see the rueful acknowledgement in Jaime’s face as he said, “What’s a little light treason, between family?”

Robb finally broke. With a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and as his parents looked on, he surged up from his seat to pull Jaime into a fierce kiss, trying to say thank you and I love you without saying a word.

From the delicate way that Jaime held his face and kissed him back, Robb knew he understood.

*

“Do you really think the king will legitimize Jon?” Robb asked.

It was now dusk, and they were sitting in the godswood together, before the weirwood tree.

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. Robert loves your father more than he loves his own brothers, he’ll sign the papers without a second thought.” He looked Robb over and asked, “Do you think you can wait and keep this secret from Jon until he does?”

“Yes,” Robb said, and meant it. For all their lives—no, he didn’t think he could do that (he was still marveling at his father keeping this secret for so long) but a year at the most, knowing they were only waiting so they could keep his brother safe? He could do that, for Jon and for his family.

Jaime smiled, but there was something grim in it. “Yes, well, I’ve given you quite a lot of practice at keeping secrets, haven’t I?”

Robb considered. In the joy and relief of their reunion, they hadn’t ever actually talked about Jaime’s secret, the nephews and niece that were really his sons and his daughter, the other grand treasonous act that could set the Seven Kingdoms aflame if it was ever revealed.

“Children aren’t responsible for their parents’ actions,” Robb said slowly. His father had said that about Domeric Bolton, had clearly held to that belief when it came to Jon, and this was one more lesson from his father that Robb was willing to take to heart.

He looked Jaime in the eyes and said, knowing it was true, “You are my family. That means that they are my family. And if I can protect them the way that we’re protecting Jon…” He shrugged, a weight coming off him as he did. “Aye. I can do that, and gladly.”

He felt Jaime’s amazement rippling over them both, as Jaime searched his face. Robb met it all with ease, smiling at Jaime’s disbelieving expression, and then Jaime said abruptly, “Stand up for a moment.”

Confused but willing, Robb got to his feet. Jaime didn’t stand up with him, instead he moved so that he was now on one knee before Robb.

“Jaime—”

“Give me a moment, I want to make sure I’ve got the words right,” Jaime said, eyes shut as he concentrated, but on what Robb didn’t know.

Eyebrows lifted, Robb waited, and was rewarded when Jaime opened his eyes, and took Robb’s hand in his.

“To the Starks and Winterfell I pledge my faith,” Jaime began, his voice strong, his eyes shining. “Hearth and harvest I yield up to you. My sword and shield and spear are yours to command. Grant me your mercy and your love and your trust, and I shall never fail you—” His voice broke at this, but Jaime bravely pushed on, “I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.”

Robb had to swallow twice before he could speak. Blinking the tears away, his heart full, he finally said hoarsely, “You changed some of the words.”

“I thought I would improvise,” Jaime told him, smiling softly.

Slowly, Robb sank to one knee before him as well, so that they were on even ground, as they should be. “From this day to my last day,” he offered up in return, “I am yours, and you are mine.”

Before the weirwood tree, in the sight of the old gods, he kissed Jaime, sealing their oaths. And in that moment, the rustling of the leaves in the evening breeze sounded like approval.