"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.