“What the fuck is your brother up to,” Robb demanded, his voice muffled from the handkerchief being pressed to his face.

He’d been practicing dagger work with Sansa, who’d taken surprisingly well to it, when without warning, blood had started dripping from his nose. That might have been nothing on its own—Sansa’s alarmed shriek notwithstanding—but Robb had felt an unexpected burst of pain in his chest, a sudden pounding to his heart that had nothing to do with what Robb was doing, with where Robb was.

Carys and Sansa had helped him sit down on the ground while Arya, Wylla, and Bran all ran off for the maester and their parents and who knew else, and it was Tyrion who first arrived with Maester Luwin, their faces pale.

“I don’t know,” Tyrion said, insisting, “I don’t!” as both Carys and Maester Luwin gave him hard looks. Even Sansa was glaring at him. “Jaime could’ve fallen from his horse, perhaps?”

“Kicked by a horse, more like,” Robb said, groaning as he tested his ribs. It felt as though he’d been hit by a battering ram, gods.

“Can you sense anything?” Tyrion pressed.

Robb gritted his teeth, but there was no use protesting, so slowly, like walking across ice, he reached out with his mind, and immediately recoiled, as waves of pain hit him, throbbing in his temples, his nose, his ribs, coupled with a wave of nausea so strong he began to retch.

“What’s happening to my brother?” Sansa was demanding, voice high with panic, while someone rubbed soothing circles on Robb’s back. Robb had no idea of course, but he knew where this was coming from—Jaime, it always seemed to go back to Jaime.

Robb tried, he did try to sense something more, an emotion, a vision, anything, but there was a terrifying blank at the center of everything—there was the pain, the nausea, the blood from his nose that hadn’t actually been broken but felt like it had, but that was all. No explanation for it, aside from the obvious assumption that wherever he was, Jaime had found trouble. But what in the hells could touch a Lannister in the Westerlands?

Robb was forced to rest in bed for the day, over his loud protests, and to have someone keeping vigil. All of his siblings came to his chambers, even little Rickon, who climbed up into his bed with his stuffed toy wolf and demanded a story.

Arya and Sansa came in together while Rickon was napping against Robb’s side, both of them carrying their embroidery hoops. Arya abandoned hers the first chance she got, however, coming to Robb’s side and asking earnestly, “Do you feel better now?”

“I do,” Robb promised.

“We can go if you need rest,” Sansa offered up anxiously.

Robb gave her a smile, saying gently, “I’d like the company.” Sansa gave a tentative smile in reply, and she and Arya settled in, Arya on the bed, and Sansa in the chair by the small writing desk.

Bran came in not two minutes later with a set of playing cards, saying, “Robb, I thought—” Then he saw the rest of his siblings already gathered there, and scowled. “You couldn’t have waited for me?”

“You were slow,” Arya retorted.

“I had to find the cards!”

“Keep it down,” Robb said as Rickon stirred. “Bran, come over here and I’ll give you a game, eh?”

It took a while before any of them asked, and of course it was Arya who finally did. “So…so that was Jaime who got hurt? Not you, right?”

“Aye,” Robb confirmed.

Arya’s nose wrinkled. “But you don’t know how or why.”

“No.”

“And Jon, do you know if Jon’s okay?”

Robb hesitated, but shook his head. He wanted to believe that if Jon were hurt, or worse, that Jaime’s emotions would travel through the bond, but he couldn’t fool himself. Their bond had been weakened, deliberately so by Robb’s own decisions, and this was the consequence of it. “I’m sure he’s fine, Theon too,” he told Arya, told all of them. “Tyrion’s probably right, and Jaime just took a nasty tumble from his horse.”

He would have felt better had his siblings believed it, but from the looks that Sansa, Arya, and Bran all shared, they clearly didn’t. He couldn’t blame them, he didn’t believe it either.

The rest of the day dragged on, slowly—there were more visitors, Carys and Tyrion and even Domeric Bolton, who came in with his guard tailing his shadow and said, in his strictly polite southern way, that he hoped Robb was feeling better. His courtesies were something that Domeric wore as armor, Robb had noticed. Everyone from his parents to the most low-ranking servant were treated with the same exquisite manners, everything controlled and correct. A shield to be used, Robb figured, in the castle where the only reason he lived was due to Ned Stark’s command.

“Thank you,” Robb said, electing not to say any of this aloud. His father had made his decision, and so far Domeric Bolton had not proved himself unworthy of that mercy. As long as both held true, Robb would hold to his word and leave the boy alone.

Domeric nodded tightly and left, and Robb turned away to stare out the window. There was a summer snow coming, all the servants swore it, and Robb agreed. There was just something in the air…

Absently at first, his nails scratched against the soulmark on his arm, then dug in more deliberately. He didn’t draw blood, but his fingernails pressed in until there were faint crescent marks marring the wolf’s snarling face, with Robb wondering if Jaime could feel it, wherever he was, whatever he was doing…

Eventually he slept, light and unsatisfying, and woke in the twilight to find his mother sitting at his bedside with her own embroidery hoop, just as Arya and Sansa had earlier.

She hadn’t yet noticed he was awake, frowning at his own stitches, and Robb looked at his mother for a moment. He’d made his apologies, and his mother had quietly accepted them, and they hadn’t spoken of it since…but there was a tension between them now, a constraint to everything.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Robb said, and his mother startled at the sound of his voice. “Sorry, I just…everyone’s been in and out, keeping watch, but I really am fine.”

His mother crooked an eyebrow at him, carefully stabbing the embroidery with her needle, so as not to lose her place. “I think we both know that hasn’t been true for a long time now.”

Robb looked away. There was no denying it, there never had been. “I can’t speak of it,” he said finally, because that was—strictly—true.

“He’s your husband,” Catelyn said. “Of course your loyalty is with him.” She paused, before offering more delicately, “But if my advice could help…”

Robb bit his lip. “I wish it could,” he said, and that too, was true. “But this is…” He searched for the right words, and finally settled lamely on, “It’s something we have to work out for ourselves.”

His mother nodded slowly, looking down at her embroidery with a faint frown. “I will admit as a parent, the past year has been a little beyond me,” she said at last. “I always knew you would marry, and an alliance with one of the Great Houses was always a likely possibility, but this has been….”

“Beyond belief,” Robb offered, a little dourly. “None of the songs about soulmarks made it sound like…mysterious bloody noses and feeling like you’ll be sick at any moment.”

His mother chuckled a little, conceding, “No, they do not.” She gave him a sidelong glance before asking, “Has it been more difficult lately?”

Robb chewed at his mouth, trying to decide what he could say. He’d been quiet for so long and it hadn’t hid anything, his family knew he wasn’t happy. And this was his mother, who for all her faults, loved him dearly and only wanted the best for him. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to admit something. “It’s…been harder lately. To sense him through the bond.”

His mother was watching him gravely, forehead creased with worry, but she nodded. “Well. The gods have been kind to us thus far, let us hope they continue to be so.”

“Do you really think that?” Robb found himself asking. “Everything that’s happened this last year…I have a hard time believing it’s all because of the gods being kind.”

His mother looked ready to lecture him over his blasphemy, but visibly checked herself. “What do you believe, then?”

Robb considered. “I don’t know what I believe. Just that it feels like I’m being moved from place to place, like a piece on Tyrion’s cyvasse board.”

Catelyn folded her hands in her lap, sitting back in her seat a little as she said, “That was how I felt after your uncle Brandon died, and I was told I had to marry your father in his place. I think I complained to my maid about feeling like a horse being traded at a fair.”

“Hard for me to imagine you complaining,” Robb admitted, and his mother smiled at him.

“I was young once,” she said. “Young and afraid, unable to see what my future would be.” She looked around his quarters, as if taking it in, Winterfell, the North, the House she had married into. “But I did have choices. Not in what happened, perhaps…but how I chose to respond. That was within my power.”

It was a lesson lightly given, and yet it landed all the same. Robb looked down at his hands, fingers plucking nervously at the furs, and he said, before he could lose his nerve, “I’m sorry. For what I said—for being so awful.”

His mother didn’t reply, not immediately. When Robb finally looked at her, she looked sad. Shaking her head, Catelyn said, “You are your father’s son. Honest to a fault. I can’t be surprised by that.” She got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “Your father will join you up here for supper,” she said. “He’s been fretting, and it’ll do him some good to spend a meal with you in private.”

“I know I’ve been worrying him,” Robb admitted.

But his mother paused. Not quite looking at him, she said, “Not just for you. He…regrets letting your brother go off with Jaime.”

Robb blinked at his mother. She’d just willingly referred to Jon. Not only that, she’d called him Robb’s brother. Not half-brother, not bastard, just…brother.

Because he knew his mother wouldn’t like him to comment on it directly, Robb said instead, “Jaime…he’ll look after Jon. I know he will.”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to push, his mother relaxed a little. “Tell your father that, please,” she asked. “I think it will ease his mind.”

He did tell his father that when Ned came in to check on him, and the heavy furrows in his father’s forehead did ease, but only somewhat. “It’s the Westerlands,” Robb said at last. “Hardly enemy territory.”

His father grimaced. “No, of course not.” But after this long of hiding a secret himself, he could tell by now when his father was hiding something. Even if it was just his worry for Jon.

Robb waited his father out, and won. “I haven’t liked to say anything, not with Jaime and Tyrion now a part of the family,” Ned said. “But Tywin Lannister is…an evil man. Worse, he’s the type of man to justify his cruelty as something…logical. Reasonable, even.”

“Like with Tyrion,” Robb offered up.

“Exactly,” Ned said. “Tyrion would make an excellent Lord Paramount—even in wartime, it wouldn’t matter that he can’t wield a sword like other men, not when his mind means that he could be a brilliant general, commanding from the rear. There’s no logical reason Tyrion shouldn’t be the heir to Casterly Rock, but Tywin’s working to disown him anyway. Because it suits him to be cruel.”

“It wouldn’t suit him to hurt Jon, though, Jon means nothing to him. And Jaime is his own son,” Robb pointed out, even as he felt a cold thread of fear twisting up inside of him.

His father looked at him for a moment, and then said quietly, “I’m sure you have the right of it.”

*

And then the first raven from the Westerlands arrived. Ravens in the plural actually, enough of them to have Maester Luwin rushing into the Great Hall during breakfast, parchment in hand and his face pale from shock.

His father was the first to see him and immediately got to his feet, saying in a hoarse voice that Robb barely recognized, “Don’t tell me—”

“My lord,” Maester Luwin said quickly, his hand out in reassurance, “My lord, Jon Snow is fine, he’s written—”

His father staggered a little, reaching back to balance himself with a hand on his chair. He recovered quickly, however, gesturing impatiently at Maester Luwin to hand the letter over. Once he had it, he read it silently while everyone watched him do it, except for Arya who was sitting by their father’s side; she wriggled close enough to read it, her tiny face peeking over his arm, and that was how she gasped, mouth falling open, “Jaime fought the Mountain?”

“Oh gods,” Robb found himself saying, and he got out of his seat, reaching out—his father gave him the letter, saying urgently, “Robb, they’re both alive, Jaime and Jon are fine, that’s what Jon is writing about—”

But everything rapidly faded away once Robb started reading the words, the sight of his brother’s familiar handwriting making the words somehow even more unbelievable. Dimly he was aware of his mother urging everyone to go to the solar, so they could discuss this privately, and calling the governess over to take Rickon, who started to loudly complain that he wanted to hear too—

“Robb,” Tyrion was saying now, shaking his arm, his face as gray as fog. “Robb, tell me—”

Robb numbly handed the letter over. “They’re all alive. Clegane’s dead.”

Tyrion was the one holding the letter now, but he wasn't reading it; instead he stared up at Robb, mouth agape. “You’re japing,” he said.

“Read it for yourself,” Robb said. He felt—he didn’t know what he was feeling. It was impossible. Jaime and Jon on some wild quest to kill Gregor Clegane? It was ridiculous, a tale fit only for the most melodramatic bards, and certainly nothing that would involve his steady, reasonable brother, or the man that Robb was married to—

The disbelief carried him through the quick journey to his father’s solar, with Arya rushing after them saying she wanted to hear, that she needed to know if Jon was all right, and then Sansa and Bran insisted on coming too, and it was a measure of how shocked his own parents were by the news that they didn’t object, and so the Starks all piled into the solar together, along with Tyrion and Maester Luwin.

Robb ended up getting custody of Jon’s letter, because there were half a dozen more waiting for his father in the solar, Maester Luwin explaining that Theon had also written, as had the head of the guards, and there was a note from Lord Tywin himself…as his parents started to discuss it all in low tones, pausing to answer his siblings’ questions, Robb sat in a chair, only barely aware of Tyrion’s worried gaze.

“Robb?” Maester Luwin asked, his gentle voice finally cutting through. “Robb, are you all right?”

The dam burst.

“I’m going to kill him,” Robb said quietly, the parchment crumbling in his clenched fist.

“Robb—”

“I will actually murder—that reckless idiot! What a godsdamned fool! What in the fuck was he thinking?” Robb’s voice was ringing out now, and Arya and Bran were staring at him, everyone was staring at him, but he couldn’t stop, the fury kept rising up within him like a wave, until he was practically shaking with it.

“Robb, I know that you’re upset, but please try to moderate—”

But Robb was past caring about his mother admonishing him for his language. Incensed, he uncrumpled the scroll again to read aloud, “Robb, do not worry, aside from a broken nose, some cracked ribs, and an aching head, there is not very much wrong with Jaime. Fuck’s sake, have you ever heard such complete bullshit—”

“Robb,” his father said sternly, while Arya muffled her giggles against the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “You have every reason to be upset, but you still need to control yourself.”

Still seething, Robb obediently shut his mouth, and when his father gestured with his hand, Robb gave him the scroll without protest.

As he scanned Jon’s letter again, Ned said mildly, “Truthfully, if these are all the injuries that Jaime received, he’s a fortunate man. I don’t think there are—were, I should say—even ten men in all Westeros who could have fought the Mountain and prevailed.”

“Which is likely part of why Jaime went, he knew he would be the only one who could beat Clegane in combat,” Tyrion pointed out, and Robb turned to stare at him.

“Are you defending this—”

“No, of course not!” Tyrion retorted, indignant at the very suggestion. “It was an idiotic thing to do—had Jaime just consulted me in the first place, I’d have shouted at him until he saw sense, then simply hired an assassin. Well, given that we’re talking about Gregor Clegane, perhaps three assassins.”

Robb’s father frowned. “It was a noble act,” he said, quellingly. “And the only honorable solution under the circumstances.”

“My father will certainly disagree with you,” Tyrion said. A shade of anxiety appeared in his face, as he asked next, “Has Jon…has he written anything about my father, his reaction?”

His father sighed. “He writes that your father arrived at Lannisport and…required that their party come with him to Casterly Rock, where Jaime has been ordered to stay until his injuries have fully healed.”

As they all took that in, Tyrion sat back in his chair and said, “Well, that’s going to go horribly.”

Ned fixed him with a hard stare. “Will they be safe at Casterly Rock?”

Tyrion looked startled by the question. “Of course, I…” He then trailed off, before saying, “My father is many things, but even he balks at kinslaying, I assure you. Jaime has always been his favorite, anyway, and he’d have to be a madman to try and injure the son of Ned Stark, bastard or no. Even Theon—he’s your ward as much as he’s a hostage, my father won’t lash out at him.”

It was the same reasoning that Robb had offered up to his father, yet it was somehow less reassuring from Tyrion, who could only offer in his father’s defense that the man wouldn’t stoop to kinslaying. What kind of man, what kind of father could Tywin Lannister be when that was the best his son could say of him?

But they all knew the answer to that. Tywin Lannister was the man who’d destroyed two entire houses, all the way down to the women and children and servants, he was the man who’d overseen the brutal sack of King’s Landing during the war, who had ordered the murders of Princess Elia and the Targaryen children.

“But he’ll be angry,” Robb said. “Won’t he.”

Tyrion let out a breath. “He’ll be livid. To be publicly defied by his son like this…I can’t even picture the depths of his rage.”

“Will they be all right?” Bran burst out anxiously, and that was when Robb realized they’d been discussing all of this in front of his younger siblings, all of them looking distraught now.

“Of course they will, sweetlings,” his mother said quickly, drawing Sansa and Arya into her arms, with his father gently clapping Bran on the shoulder. “Won’t they, Tyrion,” she added, giving Tyrion a pointed look.

“They’ll all be absolutely fine,” Tyrion agreed, a shade too heartily, if the skeptical looks from Arya and Sansa were any indication.

Tyrion saw them too, and he carefully got out of his chair and walked over to the children. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “My father is not—he is not a kind man. And Jaime, Jon, and Theon are likely going to have an unpleasant stay at Casterly Rock until his anger cools. But they aren’t in any danger, and they’ll be home safe and sound soon enough.”

The children did look comforted by this, Bran nodding, his eyes downcast, before Arya next to him muttered, “I’m sorry your father is so awful, Tyrion.”

“Arya,” Catelyn said, gently chiding.

“He is awful, though!” Sansa protested in her sister’s defense. “Jaime wouldn’t have had to fight the Mountain if Lord Tywin was even a little bit decent and honorable!”

“She’s not wrong,” Robb pointed out to his mother, who sighed but didn’t argue. Instead she quickly hustled his siblings out of there, saying they should be at their lessons.

His father, though, was scowling. As the door closed behind his mother and siblings, he suggested, “Perhaps I should travel to Casterly Rock, escort them all home. If Tywin knows I’m coming—”

“Oh, that’s a terrible idea,” Tyrion quickly said. “Forgive me, but there’s nothing more likely to push my father over the edge. To have the Warden of the North arrive, uninvited, making it seem as though he and his hospitality can’t be trusted—”

“I don’t trust him,” Ned snapped. “Not with Jaime, not with Theon, and certainly not with my son.”

“The last thing we should do is inflame things further,” Tyrion counseled, holding his hands out in front of him, clearly trying to placate Robb’s father. “Jon’s a clever, cautious boy, he’s not going to get into trouble. And Theon…well, he’s not cautious or clever, but he does have some self-preservation instincts.”

“And Jaime will be fine, because your father’s not a kinslayer,” Ned said, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You understand how unsettling that is to hear, aye?”

Tyrion sighed, spreading his hands out wide. “I do. But it’s what I have.”

His father turned his attention to Robb. “What do you say, Robb? Jaime’s your husband, after all.”

“Oh, I want to sail right down to Lannisport and drag them all home, and I’d be dragging Jaime back by his hair,” Robb immediately said, heated. “But…” He glanced at Tyrion and shook his head. “Tyrion knows his father far better than either of us do, and if he’s sure this is the right course to take…”

“It is,” Tyrion said, sounding both firm and relieved. “I promise you that it is.”

Ned shook his head, but didn’t argue further, just saying instead, “Fine. But I’m writing to your father to make it clear I expect them home as soon as possible, and I won’t be diplomatic about it either.”

“You’re a Northman, nobody expects diplomacy from you,” Tyrion said. “Although perhaps I could look the letter over, just to be…” Ned stared at him, and Tyrion absided. “Yes, of course. Write whatever you wish, it’s not like my father isn’t known to hold grudges or anything.”

“Oh, he can hold a grudge, can he?” Robb’s father asked, sarcastic. “That’s good, because so can I.” And the low growl in his voice made it clear he should be believed.

*

The next day, Robb found himself sitting in the godswood. He’d avoided coming here since that last confrontation with his father, what felt like an eternity ago—but he’d woken up at dawn this morning, restless and unable to go back to sleep, and he found himself getting dressed and heading to the godswood.

He didn’t pray. He just sat in the grass, breathing in the cool morning air, his mind empty and quiet, but even that was a relief, to be here and looking up into the face of the gods, and not feel rage or despair.

The sun had nearly completely risen by the time that Robb heard footsteps approaching, and he turned in time to see Carys appear, looking surprised at his presence.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think anyone else would be here so early—”

“That’s all right,” Robb assured her, getting up to his feet with a wince; he’d been sitting for too long, and his legs were stiff. “I’ll leave you to your prayers, my lady.”

“Wait, please,” Carys said quickly. Robb halted, looking at her curiously; Carys chewed at her lip for a moment before earnestly asking, “How are you, Robb?”

Taken aback, Robb blurted out the truth before he could think twice. “I have no idea.”

Carys’ eyebrows flicked up, and then she nodded. “Well, that’s fair enough. I have no idea what to make of it all, and I’m not even married to the man,” she said frankly, and Robb let out a choking laugh.

“Yes, that seems to be the overwhelming reaction,” he said.

Carys offered him a little smile, before turning to face the tree. Still not looking at him, she asked, “So, are you going to forgive him then?”

Robb started at this, and then wished he hadn’t. “What do you mean by that?”

Carys paused, very obviously thinking her words over, before saying, “It hasn’t exactly been a secret that you two have not…that there’s been a rift between you both. And you are not the type to be spiteful or petty, so it could not be…could not be a small matter.” She looked at him and added quickly, “I don’t know what it is, and I don’t need to know what it is. But I…I know what it is like, to have a husband who has done something truly unforgivable. Is Ser Jaime like that, then?”

Robb took several deep breaths before answering. “That’s what I’ve been trying to decide.”

Carys nodded. “A weighty decision,” she said. She swallowed before adding, “May I offer some advice?”

“Yes,” Robb said.

“When the decision takes this long to make, it’s sometimes because you already know what the answer is, and the real struggle is about accepting it,” Carys said.

“And did you have an answer?” Robb asked. Carys looked at him with surprise, and he clarified, “About your father, I mean. Not your husband.” It had been brutally clear, by the time Lord Glover left Winterfell, that the rift between him and his daughter had not been mended.

Carys pursed her lips. “Cahal broke my bones and he tried to break my spirit, but it was my father who broke my trust and my faith in…in everything. In the end, I couldn’t forgive either of them. But only you can answer if it’s the same for you and Ser Jaime.”

Robb weighed her words, and he knew she was right.

“I keep telling myself there’s nothing to be done,” he said slowly. “That I don’t have a choice in any of it…but that’s not true.”

“You almost always have a choice,” Carys agreed. “But I won’t press you to make one now, if you’re not ready. I can’t pretend I’m not interested in what you decide, though. If the rift is not repaired, then Ser Jaime is likely to leave Winterfell to oversee the rebuilding of Moat Cailin.”

Robb was still baffled, before he realized what this was about. “And if he leaves,” Robb said slowly, “You fear that Tyrion will go with him.”

A deep flush spread over Carys’ cheeks, but she was still looking him squarely in the face, which Robb could only respect. “I do,” she admitted at last, her voice low. She looked down at the ground, biting at her lip. “I was married to a man who…despised me for being more clever than he was. You cannot blame me for liking a clever man, one who thinks my cleverness is the best thing about me.”

“Oh, you never need to defend Tyrion’s worth to me,” Robb said, meaning it. The flush remained on her cheeks, but Carys looked reassured by this. “And for what it’s worth, I wish you luck…I love Tyrion, but I would have never thought of him as the marrying type.”

A slow, confident smile appeared on Carys’ face. “Oh, he will be,” she assured him, and Robb found himself believing her.

His father’s punishment began to take shape almost immediately. Jaime was ushered into his old childhood quarters and promptly drugged with more milk of the poppy and whatever else was in that foul concoction that Maester Creylen poured down his throat.

A few moments later, as the sour taste lingered on his tongue, Jaime's vision went black to the sound of Jon protesting—though over what, Jaime didn't know. Not then.

When he woke up the next morning, it was to an empty room, a parched mouth and an aching head. His ribs had been freshly wrapped; Jaime tested his range of movement warily and gasped at the pain. After gulping down water from the pitcher left at his bedside, he slowly forced himself to his feet and headed towards the door.

He was met at the door by a servant and a guard—not one of the Winterfell guards, but one in Lannister colors.

"Ser Jaime, is there anything we can get you?" the male servant asked, eyes lowered.

"You can get my companions," Jaime said.

The servant didn't blink. "Apologies, ser, but Lord Lannister made it clear you shouldn't be disturbed."

"And I'm telling you that I want to see my companions," Jaime said sharply. "Now." Neither the servant nor the guard reacted to that, and worse still, they didn't move out of the doorway. The guard in particular was a beefy sort, with at least two inches on Jaime.

Normally that would have concerned him not at all, but Jaime was in no condition to push his way past them, especially without any weapons or armor...which, Jaime was now realizing, was the entire damned point.

He still had to try. "Fine, then I'll find my companions," he snapped, and took a step forward, only to be halted when the guard put a meaty hand on his chest, above the bandages.

"Get your fucking hand off me," Jaime snapped, pushing his hand away.

"Apologies, ser," the guard said woodenly. "But your father's instructions were quite clear. You are to remain in your quarters, alone, while you recuperate from your injuries."

Jaime ground his teeth. "And I'm sure you've been given orders to stop me leaving by any means necessary."

Neither one of them answered. They didn't have to.

Slamming the door in their faces might have been a petty gesture, but it was the only one Jaime had left to him, and he would take as much satisfaction in it as he could, even if the motion left him curling in on himself and biting at his lips to stifle the noises of pain from escaping his mouth.

If Jaime had had any doubt that this was a punishment from Tywin, the absence of any clocks from the room would have made them disappear. No clocks, no hourglass, the only way that Jaime had to measure time was the position of the sun in the sky, the rate of the candles melting, and the regular visits of servants to bring him his meals. The servants didn't speak to him, and after prodding a few times, he gave up on getting any reactions from them. They had their orders, and every servant of Tywin Lannister knew the cost of disobeying his orders.

So he stayed in the room, and he waited.

*

Years and years later, Jaime would try to make light of those weeks. “Only my father would consider being trapped in one of the grandest rooms in Casterly Rock a punishment,” he’d jape.

But as always, Tywin Lannister had known precisely what he was doing. The days dripped on, so painfully slow, broken up only by his meals that were delivered by mute servants and his daily visit by that craven of a maester. The rest of the time, Jaime was left to sit there and rot.

It was brutal. To have nothing to occupy himself, no one to speak to, just him and his thoughts, his memories, his cold realizations of just how he’d ended up here in the first place—

More than once, he found himself promising to the old gods he still struggled to think of as real and present in the world, let me escape this and I’ll be good. I will act as a good knight, a good lord…I’ll do anything, just so long as I can go home.

The only comfort Jaime had was in his dreams, where instead of the nightmares he feared, he dreamed of Robb almost every night—mundane little flashes of Robb with his siblings, Robb training in the yard, Robb deep in discussion with his parents or Tyrion. Robb, smiling up at the sky during another summer snow, the white flakes catching in his dark curls.

He didn’t know if they were real. He hoped they were, but took comfort in them nonetheless.

And on his arm, his soulmark throbbed—not with pain, but a steady pulsing, as if it matched his own heartbeat. Or someone else’s.

*

The first sign that Jaime’s imprisonment was coming to an end was the sound of raised voices approaching, one of them with a very familiar northern accent…

And then the door slammed open, and it was Jon, followed closely by his Uncle Kevan, out of breath and flushed.

Jaime blinked at all of them. For one wild moment, he entertained the idea that all of them—Jon, his uncle Kevan, Theon and the guards peeking in from the doors—that they were all hallucinations, but he discarded that. He hadn’t gone that mad during his enforced solitude.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked urgently.

“Fine,” Jaime tried, his voice hoarse and rusty from three weeks of disuse. “The forced solitude has been…refreshing.” His bravado wasn’t at all convincing, as Jon’s eyes sparked with anger, his mouth going thin.

“You see, lad, my nephew is fine,” Uncle Kevan started, but Jon turned to stare him down. Jaime couldn’t see the look on Jon’s face, but it was formidable enough to have his Uncle Kevan taking a step back, expression wary.

Just what had Jon been up to these past few weeks?

But then Jon turned back to Jaime, mouth still pinched tight, but clearly forcing himself to be calm. “Come on, you’ll be staying with me now, until we finally leave for home.” He stepped closer and helped Jaime get to his feet with a hand on his arm, not stumbling at all when Jaime had to lean against him while he caught his balance. The simple touch had Jaime’s eyes stinging, and he leaned against Jon a little more than he absolutely had to.

“I can walk on my own,” Jaime felt he had to protest, for his own pride.

“Fine, then I’m the one who needs to be escorted,” Jon replied without missing a beat. “The Rock is very confusing, I don’t want to get lost again in the corridors.”

But Uncle Kevan was blocking the doorway. Jaime raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he would actually try and stop them—surely if Jon had gotten this far, it was with Tywin’s tacit approval, but Uncle Kevan was clearly unhappy about it.

“Lord Kevan,” Jon said, in a voice that was like frost. “I trust we will not have any problems as I escort my goodbrother to his new chambers, yes?”

Jaime bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing any reaction, and Kevan’s flush deepened. “Of course not,” he said, too heartily. “Truly, lad, these dramatics are unnecessary—”

“Oh, I think they are,” Jon said, without inflection. “And I’m sure my father will agree with me.”

Well wasn’t that an interesting nugget of information. The implicit threat worked too, as Kevan’s face twitched, but he stepped aside without any further protests.

They did have an escort to the wing where guests were stationed, but it was Theon and the Winterfell guards, not a single Lannister guard to be seen, even though there were plenty of servants gawking as they walked past. Jaime had technically been at the Rock for weeks now, he should have been accustomed to the open wealth of the Rock, everything gilded, the high arching ceilings and stained glass windows, but he’d been trapped in one room, and his time at the North had changed him more than he’d realized. It all just looked so…gaudy.

His mind was wandering, Jaime needed to focus.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Jaime asked, as lightly as he could manage. Given that he was also focused on staying upright and not giving any hint that his ribs still weren’t healed all the way, it was perhaps not as successful as it could have been.

“Jon’s brought the hammer down on your father is what,” Theon whispered, but still louder than need be. “And now we’re all just left praying we don’t get fed to the fucking lions.”

“I don’t think lions like squid very much, so you’ll be fine,” Jon said dryly.

Theon scoffed. “If anyone’s getting eaten first, it’s you, Snow. I thought Lord Tywin was going to carve you open with his soup spoon at last night’s dinner, for fuck’s sake.”

“Wait, what?” Jaime demanded.

“Theon’s exaggerating,” Jon said quickly, while Theon muttered, “I am really not.”

Through a truly heroic effort, Jaime refrained from asking any real questions until they were in Jon’s quarters, with the door shut behind them and their guards outside.

“So what did you write to your father then?” Jaime asked. “Because whatever it was, it clearly worked.”

A corner of Jon’s mouth tilted up. “I haven’t written to my father,” he said. “And I explained, very clearly, to Lord Tywin that I wouldn’t be writing to my father at all until I got to see for myself that you’re doing well. And that Theon wouldn’t be writing to my father, and none of our guards either. And then I invited him to think on what my father would make of it, not hearing from us for weeks on end, with our last known location being Casterly Rock.”

“You threatened him,” Jaime said blankly, staring.

“Of course,” Jon said. “Threats seem to be the only thing your father comprehends.” His face twisted into a scowl as he added, “He certainly doesn’t understand things like loyalty, or basic decency, so yes, I threatened him, and it worked.”

“He’s not going to forget—”

“Good,” Jon said stoutly. “He should remember that House Stark can’t be dismissed so easily. And if he hates me, then what of it? It’s not like any of us are coming back to the Westerlands any time soon after this.” He fixed Jaime with a stern look. “Are we, Jaime.”

“Oh, does the hospitality of House Lannister not suit?” Jaime japed, even as his mind still reeled from the efforts Jon had made on his behalf, the risk he’d so matter-of-factly taken, confronting Tywin Lannister in the very heart of Casterly Rock.

“The castle is beautiful, the views are astonishing, the inhabitants are wretched,” Jon replied, unrepentant. Jaime laughed, and then winced, as pain radiated out from his chest.

Jon watched him with worry. “How are your ribs healing? I can get another healer in if you’d like…”

Jaime waved this off. “Creylen is my father’s creature, but he knows his business. Broken ribs always take time to heal.”

Jon looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, but eventually decided he was telling the truth. “All right, but we are leaving once the month is up. We’re heading straight for home, and there won’t be any more quests we’ll be dealing with. Any monsters that need killing will have to wait for another knight to do the slaying.”

Jaime chuckled, but softly enough so that his ribs weren’t jarred again. “Agreed.”

*

It took time to adjust to his new surroundings. Truthfully, his imprisonment hadn’t ended, the prison had just grown to include an entire wing of the castle. But at least now the end was finally in sight. Jaime had gone from a crushing solitude meant to break him, to friendly and constant company. He was never alone now—Jon and Theon made sure that at least one of them was with him at all times, and it was the Stark guards that were their shadows in the guest wing, not a single one of his father’s men-at-arms within sight.

Not that Jaime ventured very far outside of their quarters, or out of the guest wing—he didn’t want to see his father, or his uncle Kevan. If he did, Jaime honestly wasn’t sure what he’d do. And he wanted…it was easier, to know his time in that room had ended when it was Jon at his side, even when it was Theon’s crass comments he was listening to during the small dinners they had in their rooms. If he could see them, if he could hear them, then Jaime wasn’t alone anymore.

He didn’t speak of it. It was bad enough that Jon was witness to the times that Jaime would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and shaking from his nightmares. He didn’t need to talk about how his father had tried to break him, or how close Tywin had come to succeeding.

Uncle Kevan had tried to visit a time or two, but had been chased out every time by Jon’s flat, unyielding stare.

“I don’t even think my uncle’s afraid of what your father could do, I think he’s just afraid of you,” Jaime observed after his uncle’s latest retreat.

Jon snorted. “I would feel guilty about throwing my father’s name around so much to get my way, except your family deserves far worse.”

It was a strange thing, viewing his family through Jon’s eyes. Strange and illuminating.

Theon sailed through the door not long after Uncle Kevan’s aborted visit, calling out, “We’ve got letters,” and sure enough, his arms were full of parchment. “There are ones for me and for Jon, plus all the letters Jaime’s been kept from reading because the maester’s a c—”

“Yes, thanks, Theon,” Jon said sharply, with a pointed look at the maids currently laying out their meals for luncheon.

Most of the letters were for Jaime, having piled up while he was locked away—there was the expected lecture from Tyrion, who castigated him for going on a mad quest to kill Gregor Clegane instead of just sensibly hiring an assassin to do the deed, and warned him against further enraging their father.

I’ve assured the Starks that our father is not a kinslayer, Tyrion wrote, but we are all unfortunately aware that there are many things a father can do to his son without actually killing him. So please be cautious for once in your life, and come home before your poor husband has an apoplexy.

The reference to Robb caused a sharp little twist in Jaime’s stomach, but that was nothing compared to picking up the next scroll and recognizing Robb’s handwriting. For just a moment, Jaime forgot how to breathe.

The letter itself was short and to the point.

Jaime,

I could wring your neck for not telling me what you were planning. Do you think I enjoyed collapsing in the godswood with an aching head, a bloody nose, and having my ribs feel as though they were on fire? Dueling the Mountain? You absolute bloody—

Here there was a line heavily scratched out, Jaime would have to hold it up to a window to see if he could make anything of it.

My father is anxious to see you all safe within the walls of Winterfell, but no one knows better than me the extent of your injuries gained from facing that beast, so you will take care to heal properly before traveling home.

You’ve made promises to me, after all. And I intend to see you keep to them.

Robb

The parchment nearly fell from Jaime’s nerveless fingers. It was Robb in that letter, vibrant and real, not the coldly furious stranger that Jaime had left behind.

The hope rose up inside of him like the rapid fluttering of a bird’s wings, and it took everything he had to smother it. Robb was naturally kind and considerate, and not wanting Jaime to die at the hands of Gregor Clegane didn’t mean that he’d forgiven Jaime for his sins and his crimes.

Carefully, Jaime set the letter from Robb to one side, before he started trying to take apart every word, every blot where Robb might have hesitated with his quill.

He set himself instead to working through the letters by date—the earnest worry from the rest of the Stark children in their letters had his stomach twisting into knots, as did Catelyn’s kind message. Even Ned Stark had written, less stiffly than Jaime might have expected, and the line of you have my thanks for righting an injustice that has burned my conscience these past twenty years drew a flush to his cheeks.

The latest round of messages had obviously arrived just a week ago, and the worry from everyone was palpable—Jon had not been bluffing, then, when he’d said that none of their party had sent word to Winterfell these past three weeks.

I know you to be a poor correspondent at the best of times, but this is surely pushing it, brother, Tyrion wrote, his handwriting scratchier than usual. Worse still, you’ve infected Jon and Theon with your bad habits—there hasn’t been a word from them either, nothing but our father’s bland assurances that you are healing well and that everyone is enjoying the hospitality of the Rock, and that your stay might be extended further. I leave it to you to picture Ned Stark’s reaction to hearing that. So curious are the Starks about your time in Casterly Rock, that I fear they may seek out their own journey to the Westerlands shortly.

Jaime lifted his head to say, “Jon, please tell me you made sure our messages were sent by the maester.”

“Of course, what do you take me for,” Jon said with a huff. “I sent Theo out to Lannisport as well, to have him send some backup messages just in case the ravens here all suddenly dropped dead along the way.”

“Good, because if Winterfell doesn’t hear from us soon, I think your father really will raise the banners and march down the Kingsroad to set siege to my father’s keep.”

Jon grimaced, glancing down at his own letter. “Aye, you might be right about that. I didn’t want them to worry, I just…Tyrion warned me, before we left home, that however paranoid I would find myself when it came to dealing with your father, I should double it. And when he kept you away from us…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t take the risk.”

“You made the right decision,” Jaime told him, the words only a little bitter. He knew what his father was, as did everyone else in the room, there was no use pretending otherwise. Had it not been for Jon’s intervention, Jaime might still be locked up in that room, or worse yet, suffering another one of his father’s brutal punishments disguised as a lesson.

He turned back to Tyrion’s letter.

No one knows better than me how…consuming our father’s attention can be, Tyrion wrote next, the ellipsis as pointed as three dots of ink could possibly be. Should you need a distraction, I find a measure of court gossip to work wonders, and Varys has been kind enough to keep up a correspondence, which is how I know the following facts about what our nephew Joffrey has been up to…

Jaime could feel his face settling into grim lines as he read about what Joffrey (and Cersei) had been doing in King’s Landing. The worst part was that nothing was a surprise; Joffrey had been a horror for years, and Cersei had always been blind to her eldest son’s faults.

At least they’d managed to save Sansa from the grim fate of becoming Joffrey’s betrothed. The Starks would have never allowed the wedding to happen, of course, not once they’d understood Joffrey’s true nature and that Sansa was far more likely to become a Queen Rhaella rather than another Good Queen Alysanne.

“Everything all right?” Jon asked, having noticed his disquiet.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said, dismissive, but Jon was still watching, and so Jaime elaborated, “My nephew has been…behaving badly.”

An understatement so ridiculous as to be almost criminal, but he might as well have not bothered, because Jon’s face went deliberately neutral, while Theon’s eyebrows flew up. It had been impossible to quell all the gossip about Ned and Catelyn refusing a crown for their daughter, and it was too much to expect that people wouldn’t have started to speculate why.

Particularly if rumors of Joffrey’s behavior were starting to spread, and if Varys was openly writing to Tyrion of it, they certainly were.

For the space of a heartbeat, the old urge to protect his family at all costs stirred, but it faded, almost as quickly as it appeared. The best thing Jaime could do for Cersei, and Joffrey, was to keep his distance. If Jaime was still in the Red Keep, wearing his white cloak, he had no illusions about his ability to convince Cersei that Joffrey needed stopping, not coddling. She’d have set him to covering up Joffrey’s sins, no matter how bloody or how vile—and they were becoming more bloody and more vile, if the rumor of what he was doing with those poor whores was even remotely accurate. And the stories of bruising on Myrcella’s arms and wrists, in exactly the shape of fingers…

Fucking hells.

“I think,” Jaime said slowly, putting the parchment down to one side, “—that I will need to have a conversation with my father soon.”

Jon was visibly alarmed at this. “Don’t tell me you want to speak to him alone—”

“Oh, no, I’ll be in full view of you and the guards the whole time, don’t worry,” Jaime said.

“If you mean to have us all sit down to dinner, you can count me out,” Theon said, fervent. “Every time I looked up from my plate and accidentally caught his eye, the food turned to dust in my mouth, I swear it did.”

“Gods forbid you be prevented from stuffing your face, Grejoy,” Jaime said, rolling his eyes. “But no, I have something different in mind. I’ve been terribly lax with your training during this journey, Jon. Wouldn’t want your skill with a sword to get rusty, would we?”

Jon sighed a little. “It’s not as though I’ve been lazing about,” he protested, but half-heartedly.

“Excellent, so then you can show me what you’ve been doing these past few weeks,” Jaime replied. “And if my father happens to come upon us while we’re at the training ground, well, we can hardly help that.”

Jon made a little face but didn’t argue. It was Theon who said, in his obnoxiously honest way, “In that case we’re fighting with live steel. If I’m going to be that close to an angry Tywin Lannister, I’m going to be armed.”

*

For all his nonchalance the day before, when Jaime actually saw his father entering the training ground, he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from leaping forward and wrapping his hands around Tywin’s throat.

The force and the purity of his anger came as a shock. He'd resented his father for most of his life, but it had always been overcome by fear and love. There was nobody Jaime had feared like his father, and there was no one Jaime loved like his father.

But as he watched Tywin stride towards him, in all his Lannister finery, all Jaime felt now was anger for what his father had done, and an impatience to have this all over with.

"I see you've finally deigned to make an appearance," his father observed, once he was at Jaime's side. "No more malingering?"

Jaime ignored the jab. "I'm supervising my squire's training," he said, nodding at Jon, who was currently in the midst of sparring with Theon.

"Ah, yes. Your bastard squire," Tywin remarked. "At least the boy's got talent to match his impudence."

"Did you think I'd bother with taking a squire otherwise?"

"So many of your decisions have been so confounding that I no longer feel that I can predict what you're capable of," Tywin retorted.

Well, that was plain speaking. "I did you a favor when I dispatched Clegane," Jaime said.

His father bristled at this, staring daggers at him. "You have the audacity to—" He cut himself off, and said grimly, "We will not be discussing Clegane here, not in public."

"Well, we won't be discussing it privately," Jaime told him. As his father raised his eyebrows, Jaime said, "You can't seriously expect that I'll willingly be alone in a room with you now, after everything you've done."

Jaime would savor the affronted look on his father's face for the rest of his days. Not bothering to wait for a further reaction, Jaime turned forward again to focus on the boys. "Jon, keep your damned elbow up!" he called out. "Theon, stop worrying about showy tricks and start worrying about your feet."

His excellent advice didn't do Theon much good, as Jon had him disarmed and yielding the bout in three more moves.

As Jon helped Theon up to his feet, Jaime knew it could be prudent to at least get out of arms' reach of his obviously seething father, but he had never been able to claim that particular virtue.

Besides, Jaime had slayed the Mountain, he'd cut down Roose Bolton, he'd run Aerys Targaryen through with his sword at the age of seventeen—it was long past time he stopped cowering before his father. Especially when Jon Snow had dared to stand up to Tywin on Jaime's behalf; if Jaime couldn't match his own squire's courage when it mattered most, then what was the point of any of this?

And as Jaime had gambled upon, his father did regain control of his temper. As the boys split up to begin sparring with two of the northern guards, Tywin observed, "The Snow boy does have the look of the Starks. You can hardly see any of his Dornish heritage."

Jaime eyed him warily. "Ashara Dayne isn't his mother, it was proved years ago that the timing was all wrong for him to have been the product of a tryst between her and Ned Stark at Harrenhal."

There was the faintest hint of smugness about Tywin's mouth, a sure sign that he was up to something. "I doubt very much he’s the result of a tryst between the Lady Ashara and Ned Stark. Whether he's the son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne from Stark's time in the Black Cells...that has yet to be disproven."

It took a moment for Jaime to absorb what his father was implying, and another moment to make sure his response was controlled enough to escape notice from anyone else, Jon especially. "You think Jon is the son of Brandon Stark?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" Tywin asked coolly, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "It always strained credulity that a man who valued his honor as much as Eddard Stark would ever stoop to not only sire a bastard, but then shame his wife by raising that bastard along his trueborn children. But if the boy is his older brother's get..." He shrugged.

"You think that Ned lied about the boy's paternity to, what, make sure he didn't have a rival for the title of Lord of Winterfell?"

"Any man's honor might crumble when he's on the verge of inheriting control of half the continent. And a bastard is a bastard, no matter where the trueborn father fell in the line of succession—but still, better not to muddy the waters."

On the surface, it was a plausible theory. It took care of the timeline of Jon's birth, and answered why Ned Stark would have come back from Dorne with a bastard son whose origins he refused to explain.

And yet, Jaime's overwhelming reaction to this oh-so-plausible theory was that it was bullshit.

Whatever mystery there was about Jon's origins, this wasn't the solution. Jaime knew it, but protesting to his father now would do no good. On the contrary, it would likely make his father even more convinced that he'd discovered the truth, and once his father was assured that he had a weapon to use against the boy who'd dared defy him...

Denial wasn't going to solve this, Jaime needed a distraction.

"Is that your grand scheme of revenge?" Jaime wondered, keeping his voice light and dismissive. "Strike back by causing a succession crisis in the North through claiming Jon's the son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne?" He scoffed, before dropping the bait. "You'd do better to focus on the real crisis facing our house, rather than trying to create a false one for the Starks."

A muscle in Tywin's jaw pulsed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Thank you, Tyrion. "I'm talking about your grandson Joffrey," Jaime said. "Don't tell me that you don't know what's being said about the boy in King's Landing."

That muscle kept ticking in his father's jaw, it was actually rather fascinating. "Exaggerations and spiteful lies," Tywin said. "Your sister has assured me of it."

"Yes, Cersei would say that," Jaime said, pushing past the quick pang of guilt. "She's coddled and shielded the boy for years, making sure the truth's never revealed."

"And just what is the truth, precisely?" Tywin demanded, nostrils flaring.

Jaime went in for the killing blow. "That our golden crown prince is Aerys Targaryen reborn, but with Lannister coloring."

His father went absolutely, completely still, a predator surveying the landscape. "Tell me."

Keeping his voice low and quiet, his body turned to the side so that no one could make out what he was saying by watching his lips move, Jaime laid out in brutal and clear detail all of Joffrey's sins, both those he'd covered up in the past and those he'd heard of now, through Varys.

And just to be sure, Jaime added last, "Why do you think the Starks refused a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa? It was because Tyrion and I knew we couldn't risk Ned Stark rising up with his banners upon realizing his beloved daughter was at the mercy of a mad prince, just as her aunt was—"

But that was too much for Tywin, who snapped out harshly, "Enough!"

The training ground went quiet at the sound of his raised voice, and Jon called out warlily, "Jaime?”

"It's fine, continue with your training," Jaime promised, as Tywin strove to regain control over himself. "These are harsh words, Father, I know," he murmured, once the attention on them had subsided. "But if anything is to be salvaged from this, then they have to be said."

Tywin didn’t speak for a long moment, finally letting out a long, controlled breath through his nose. “What has your sister been playing at?” he demanded. “Her role as Queen is to prepare Joffrey to assume the throne, how can she have been this negligent?”

That voice, that face, it all meant nothing good for Cersei. Jaime knew it, and yet he had to keep going. This was the best and only way he could serve his sister now, by giving her what she truly needed, and not what she asked of him. “She coddles him. Shields him from Robert and Jon Arryn, both of whom she despises. And so Joffrey is spoiled, Myrcella and Tommen ignored, and your legacy is left to crumble from within, likely to be ruined within one generation.”

Lips pursed, Tywin asked briefly, “Tommen?”

Jaime sighed, knowing what his father was asking. “You would find him soft.” Tywin grimaced, but Jaime cautioned, “But a boy can learn strength. Can you teach someone to come back from madness?”

Tywin’s gaze was as sharp as a razor. He didn’t speak right away, just stared as Jaime as though he could cut right through him with just his eyes, and Jaime held his breath—

But Tywin said next, “Clearly I will have to attend to our family’s legacy in the Red Keep, then,” He turned to look ahead, hands clasped behind his back as he ordered casually, “Write to your brother and have him sail from White Harbor to King’s Landing. If he leaves now we should arrive in the city at roughly the same time—”

“I’m not sending Tyrion to King’s Landing,” Jaime said.

Affronted, his father snapped, “What possible use will he be to you in the North?”

“Aside from assisting with the rebuilding of Moat Cailin and handling the repercussions of Roose Bolton’s death?” Jaime asked rhetorically. “Tyrion deserves better than being at your beck and call while you deny him his rightful inheritance.”

Quick as a whip, his father lashed out and seized Jaime’s forearm in a brutal grip. “Watch yourself, boy.”

Jaime looked his father directly in the eye. “Or what? You’ll have my nose broken again? Order me whipped? Strike out against Jon or Theon while they’re here as your guests? You could do all of that and it won’t change anything. Tyrion will still stay North. My future will still be with the Starks. And Joffrey will still be on the verge of destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

Your threats mean nothing, Jaime thought but didn’t say aloud. But some of it must have shown anyway, because his father’s lips curled away from his teeth, a sneer born of equal fury and frustration.

“The North has ruined you,” he observed in disgust, flinging Jaime’s arm away. “You could have ruled the Westerlands, and instead you’ll waste your life in that frozen pit.”

Jaime shook his head. “I haven’t been your heir for decades now. And you’re wrong—the North saved me.” And for just a moment, as Jaime said the words aloud, he could swear that he smelled snow in the air.

*

Their actual departure from Casterly Rock occurred with little fanfare. Officially this was because his father’s upcoming trip to King’s Landing was the priority, but everyone knew the truth—his father was washing his hands of Jaime.

Jaime didn’t care. The Rock had stopped being his home years ago, and if he’d learned nothing else this past year, he knew now that his destiny was in the North, even if he didn’t yet understand the shape of it.

(Robb had sent him more letters. Jaime had memorized each and every one, no matter how brief and careful they were. Even so, he refused to hope that they were a sign of anything more than Robb’s fundamental decency and determination not to expose their rift, even as his soulmark throbbed and ached beneath his sleeve.)

In the relief and bustle of finally leaving, Jaime didn’t watch as carefully as he should have, and was too late to prevent his father from whispering something in Jon’s ear as they were about to ride out to the port to board their ship. Jaime had his theories about what was said, judging from Jon’s stricken eyes, but he couldn’t get Jon alone until they were finally at sea.

After supper, while Theon contrived to lose half his monthly allowance at cards to the sailors, Jaime pulled Jon aside for a private talk on the deck, as the sun slipped closer to the horizon and the sky was a brilliant wash of pink and gold. “You’ve been brooding more than usual today,” he said. “If you’re fearing whatever revenge plot my father may have cooked up, don’t worry. He can’t touch you in the North, and he’ll be preoccupied soon enough in King’s Landing dealing with my nephew.”

“That’s not it,” Jon protested, before biting at his lips, his nerves obvious. “It…your father said something earlier. About my parentage.”

In a flash, Jaime understood, and cursed his father. “He spoke to you about your Uncle Brandon and Lady Ashara,” Jaime said grimly. At Jon’s startled look, he confirmed, “Oh yes, he tried to convince me of it as well. It’s utter nonsense, Jon, surely you see that.”

“Of course,” Jon said, but the assurance rang a little hollow. As Jaime’s eyebrows started to climb, Jon added hastily, “I know it’s not true, Jaime.”

“Of course it’s not true,” Jaime said, but the troubled look on Jon’s face didn’t ease, and Jaime said urgently, “Jon, my father said that out of nothing more than spite. He’s furious with me and unable to do anything about it, so he chose this method of lashing out at you instead.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, but thank the gods, started to nod. “My father wouldn’t…he wouldn’t have lied like that.”

“No,” Jaime agreed, and meant it. Ned Stark was a humorless ox of a man, and Jaime still didn’t like him very much, but he couldn’t imagine Ned Stark lying about this, especially not for anything so small and petty. Other men would have, in order to keep their older brother’s get away from a lordship, but not Ned Stark. “Even if your father was the sort of man to lie to secure his position, there wouldn’t have been any point to it. By the time you were born, the war had been won. His best friend was sitting on the Iron Throne. There wouldn’t have been anyone to challenge his claim to the North, and certainly not for a bastard infant boy.”

Jon was relaxing as he spoke, the tension leaving his body, but the frown didn’t leave his face. “I know you’re right. I just…he’s never spoken of my mother. Not once, not to anyone. I don’t even know why he won’t speak of her. If she was…if she was a whore, or a serving girl, or a highborn lady, whatever she was, I could handle it. But he won’t speak, and I can’t…I can’t help but look for reasons why.”

Jaime was quiet, before finally admitting, “I can’t explain why your father hasn’t told you of your mother”

Jon glanced at him. “You told Robb you were sure it wasn’t Ashara Dayne.”

“I did,” Jaime said. He eyed Jon up, and asked, “Does that disappoint you?”

Jon shrugged, the wind stirring his dark curls. “My entire life, I’ve wondered who she was. I used to dream about her, and in my dreams, she was always highborn, beautiful and kind with a gentle voice. A childish dream…I don’t need that dream to be true, not anymore, I just need to know.”

His voice cracked at the end, face crumbling into misery, and Jaime silently cursed Ned Stark, his honor, and his silent tongue. What harm could it possibly do, to give the boy this much? The gods knew it wasn’t as if Catelyn Stark could resent the boy more, if anything the total secrecy around Jon’s mother had likely made her resentment worse.

But cursing Ned Stark now wouldn’t do much good, not in the face of Jon’s misery.

He couldn’t give Jon the truth of who his mother was, but he could maybe give Jon a more important truth instead.

“Whoever she was, that doesn’t matter,” Jaime told him. “What matters is that your father loved you enough to claim you as his, to bring you North and raise you among your family, no matter if his wife protested or the rest of the world thought him a fool for it. Your father loves you, Jon. Nothing in the world matters compared to that.”

Jon stared out at the waves, no doubt comparing Ned Stark to what he’d seen of Tywin Lannister, or Balon Greyjoy. After a long silence, he looked at Jaime and said abruptly, “I’m sorry your father’s such a shit.”

Surprised at the language, but not the sentiment, Jaime barked out a laugh, and Jon smiled. “Aye, he is,” Jaime agreed, as his mirth finally settled. “But I’m free of him now, and so is Tyrion. That’s what matters.”

“And we’re going home,” Jon said, the longing for Winterfell clear in every word.

“Yes,” Jaime agreed, as he felt his own twist of longing, not just for the old gray castle, but for who lived there. “We are.”

That night, Jaime dreamed he was back at Winterfell. There was a storm outside the window, the wind howling, snow swirling—but he was safe and warm in his bed beneath the furs, with Robb draped along his back, his leg hooked around Jaime’s thigh and his nose buried in the nape of Jaime’s neck.

When he woke, it was an honest surprise to be alone in his bunk. Jaime groaned and reached down to palm his aching cock, trying to think of anything but Robb, Robb’s lean pale body, his wide pink mouth…he tried, and he failed miserably, of course, but at least he’d tried.

*

For their return trip, they sailed past the Iron Islands this time, rather than towards them.

Despite his better judgment, Jaime had asked Theon if he’d wanted to sail to Pyke again, this time to confront his father and his supposed plans for a Kingsmoot. Theon just stared at him as if he were mad. “Do you honestly think it a good idea?” he asked, doubtful.

“No, it’s a terrible idea,” Jaime said immediately. “But I traveled out to the Westerlands to kill Gregor Clegane and infuriate my father, so if you also want to do something criminally reckless, I don’t feel I can stop you.”

Theon snorted, but sobered quickly. “I…no. No. There’s no point, is there? My father…” He trailed off, and shook his head.

“Your father is a bitter, spiteful old man,” Jaime said. Jon was giving him a pleading look, and Jaime sighed and elaborated on something he’d already told Jon in private. “To your father…I fear that you will always represent his humiliation during the failed rebellion. I doubt anything you have or haven’t done could change that.”

Theon’s face twisted in misery, and he looked away. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “For the advice. I will not return to Pyke again.”

He’d moped about the ship the next few days, as Jon fretted and gave Jaime even more pleading looks, as though he could solve this. The headache of Theon Greyjoy was something Jaime would happily hand over to Ned Stark, Theon was his ward and his problem, not Jaime’s, and the gods be praised for that small mercy.

“How do you think the Martells took your…gift?” Jon asked one night at supper, as Theon poked at his food without eating it (a recent habit of his, Jaime had taken to asking if as a squid, Theon preferred his fish raw, and that usually goaded him into eating at least the bread, but not tonight).

“I have no idea,” Jaime said. Before leaving Lannisport, they had received word from Yara Greyjoy that the Martells had received her and her gory package at Sunspear, but had been frustratingly blank on the Martells’ reaction, only emphasizing that she’d completed her task, and would be expecting payment in full upon her return. “They might be grateful. Or Prince Oberyn might try and kill me because I stole his chance at revenge. You can never really tell with that House.”

Theon stirred at this. “Are the stories of the Red Viper all true, then?”

“Oh yes,” Jaime agreed. “Rhaegar Targaryen was lucky that the prince was already exiled to Essos when he ran off with Lyanna Stark, otherwise Oberyn Martell likely would’ve killed him well before Robert Baratheon and his warhammer even got within reach.”

“You knew them all, didn’t you?” Theon said. “Everyone in the war, on both sides…you knew them all.”

“I don’t think anyone truly knew Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jaime said. “We all hoped and prayed that he would be a good king and not like Aerys, but—“ He waved his hand, dismissing the pain and despair of that time as best he could.

“It’s hard to picture that,” Jon said thoughtfully. "I just know him as the mad Targaryen prince who kidnapped and raped my aunt," Jon said. Jaime tried to control his face, but Jon had grown too perceptive over this past year, as he tilted his head and asked, dark eyebrows flying up, "No?"

"I haven't said anything," Jaime protested, but both boys were watching him now, Theon's face brightening with interest for the first time since meeting his sister, and truly, the North had turned Jaime soft if he was considering ways to make Theon Greyjoy feel better. "It's just...whatever happened between your aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen tends to vary depending on who you speak to. Or on what they saw. Take the Dornish, or southern loyalists to the Targaryen cause—they all believe she went with him willingly."

“That can’t possibly be true,” Jon protested, indignant at the slur to his dead aunt’s memory.

Jaime grimaced. "You have to understand, Rhaegar hated the way Aerys treated his mother," he said. "And in two years, I never heard of him so much as raising his voice to Princess Elia, let alone his hand. To imagine him suddenly capable of violently kidnapping and raping a young maiden…”

“It could’ve been the Targaryen madness coming through at last,” Theon pointed out.

“It could’ve,” Jaime agreed. “But I was also at Harrenhal. Your aunt's dislike of her betrothed was...blatantly obvious at times. Have you seen Arya's face when she's forced to wear a fancy dress? Imagine that, but doubled, and all of it directed at Robert Baratheon." He shrugged. “People noticed, they talked…even before Rhaegar crowned her at the tourney.”

“I can’t believe it,” Jon said, but he sounded shaken this time, unsure.

Jaime lifted his shoulders. “The truth will never be known either way, and whether it was a kidnapping or an attempted elopement, Rhaegar was a damned fool at best, a dangerous madman at worst, and outrageously insulted his wife either way. She was…we hoped Rhaegar would be a good king. We knew that Elia would be a good queen.”

For a moment, Jaime wasn’t on the ship, he was back in the Red Keep as a young man, guarding the royal family at dinner, listening to Elia Martell determinedly making dinner conversation while the mad king muttered to himself, as he watched Rhaegar’s beautiful, solemn face, his expression remote, as though he’d gone somewhere that no one else could follow.

“But I’m sure you know all this already,” Jaime said, forcing himself back to the present. “Your father was at Harrenhal, and he fought in the Rebellion—he saw as much as I did. More, even, I was in the Red Keep during the whole of the war.”

“Father never speaks about the war,” Jon said. “Or about Aunt Lyanna—well, aside from how Arya looks like her.”

“Mm.” Jaime cast his mind back to the wolf-girl he’d seen at a distance, with a crown of winter roses in her lap. “Arya’s got her chin and eyebrows, it’s true, but you actually look the most like her out of your siblings, Jon.”

“Wait, I do?” Jon asked, startled.

“Of course. You’ve got her curls, her coloring, and your eyes are like hers,” Jaime said, but as he said it, he realized how true it was. Jon’s face was more solemn than hers, though, naturally serious and grave—his father’s influence, obviously.

“Suppose it doesn’t matter, in the end,” Theon mused. “Rhaegar had no business being around your aunt either way, and Aerys was a lunatic who had no business being on the throne at all. War would’ve come no matter what.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. “The Targaryens were doomed, no matter what.” And they were all gone now, Rhaegar and Rhaella, Aerys, and the hope and promise of Rhaenys, Aegon, and Elia…they were all nothing more than bones and memories.

His gaze caught on Jon’s profile, as Jon looked out the small porthole to the sea, and Jaime shivered suddenly for no reason that he could fathom.

“They’re here, they’re here!” Robb heard Arya shouting in the corridor just moments before she burst into his solar, throwing the door open with more force than one would have thought possible from a girl her size.

Without a pause, she rushed over to Robb and started trying to pull him out of his chair. “They’ve been spotted from the towers, they’re almost here, let’s go—”

“It’ll still be a quarter of an hour before they even make it to the gate, at least,” Robb pointed out, even as he obediently got to his feet and let Arya drag him wherever she pleased—in this case, to the south gate where Jaime, Jon, and Theon would be riding through in a quarter of an hour.

On the way, they were joined by Sansa, who looked him over with a critical air and said in a tone of faint disappointment, “You didn’t shave?”

“I doubt Jon or Theon will care if I’m clean-shaven or not,” Robb said, deliberately not getting the hint.

Sansa sighed, trading long-suffering looks with Arya—Robb was as glad as anyone that his sisters were getting along now, but it was alarming sometimes.

“I just thought it would be nice,” Sansa said, reproachful.

“Because Jaime’s coming home,” Arya finished for her, disregarding any attempt at subtlety.

“Arya!” Sansa hissed, while Robb’s lips twitched.

“Well, he is,” Arya said, exasperated, before turning back to Robb and asking, “Will you be glad to have him home, then?”

The flip, easy answer would be to say, well, I’ll be glad to have them all out of the Westerlands, and it was true, because even with everything Jon had obviously left out of his letters, it was clear that Tywin Lannister had lived down to his reputation. (It had taken Tyrion, Catelyn, and Maester Luwin to stop his father from storming down to the western coast after they’d gone more than a fortnight without a single letter from anyone.)

But it was his sisters who were asking, and Robb had been a fever of anticipation for days now, there seemed little point in pretending otherwise. Not when his Mark was pulsing in time with his heartbeat, not when he dreamed of lying with Jaime in their bed, had visions of him on the ship with Jon, of Jaime riding through the Northern forests on his way back to Winterfell, to Robb.

“Yes,” Robb admitted, “I’ll be glad to have Jaime home.”

Sansa and Arya beamed happily at him, before Sansa said thoughtfully, “Perhaps there is enough time for you to shave…”

“No,” Arya said forcefully, taking Robb’s hand to drag him away once more. “No shaving, there’s no time, they’re already here!”

“Sorry, Sansa,” Robb called back over his shoulders as he was dragged away in Arya’s wake, and Sansa just huffed loudly before picking up her skirts to rush after them.

It wasn’t a surprise to find Tyrion already waiting in the courtyard, but seeing Robb’s father with him was a surprise. Though it probably shouldn’t have been, his father had been more worried about Jon’s worrying silence and omissions from the letters that did arrive, more than anyone else.

And slowly the rest of the family came out to the courtyard as well, Bran arriving at a run, hair disheveled and ducking Sansa’s attempts to smooth it. His mother arrived more sedately, hand in hand with Rickon, who’d lately taken to resisting being carried in anyone’s arms.

And then there was the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and then the courtyard was full of men on horseback, Stark banners flying, and in the center of it all was Robb’s friend, Robb’s brother, and Robb’s husband.

Jon dismounted first and immediately swept Arya up in a fierce hug, swinging her around in a circle. It all dissolved into happy chaos from there, laughter and hugs and jokes, Robb thumping Theon on his back in greeting while privately noting how drawn his friend’s face was (something had happened at Pyke with Theon’s family, Robb knew it) and Robb’s father refusing to move from Jon’s side, his hand on Jon’s shoulder as though he feared that Jon would disappear, even now.

And retreating as best as he could into the crowd, there was Jaime. Of course, he wasn’t succeeding—half of Robb’s siblings had already embraced him, and by the time that Robb and Tyrion made their way through, Bran and Arya had attached themselves to Jaime’s side, earnestly telling him about their training and Carys and Sansa throwing daggers at trees.

But the moment that Jaime glanced up and his gaze caught on Robb’s…it felt like a hammer blow.

Thank the gods for Tyrion, who stepped forward first, and Jaime’s gaze was drawn away as he smiled down at his brother. He kneeled to embrace Tyrion gently, the hug lasting for a long time. From as close as he was, Robb could hear Tyrion say, “If you ever do anything so damned foolish again, Jaime…” But whatever threat he was going to offer up, Tyrion thought better of it, just clapping his brother on the back and saying as he pulled back, his voice a little hoarse, “I can understand being annoyed at House Frey’s catastrophe taking all the attention away from your heroics at the Dreadfort, Jaime, but this was a bit much, don’t you think?”

Jaime shrugged, not looking as smug as Robb might have expected—or really, as much as his actions deserved. “It was overdue.”

Tyrion nodded in acknowledgement. “That it was.” He glanced over to Robb, and then said lightly, “Though if you must be off slaying monsters, try not to get your nose broken again, will you? We thought poor Robb was dying of some mysterious ailment for a moment.”

And that, then, was Robb’s cue.

He shuffled forward, his legs feeling awkward and unsteady beneath him. Jaime didn’t speak, just watched him with wide eyes, shoulders braced for—for whatever he feared that Robb would say, or not say.

There was a bump to the bridge of his nose that hadn’t been there before, and while it technically did mar the former symmetry of his features, it also lended something to his face that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t look like the golden knight out of a storybook any longer, but Robb thought he would like this Jaime better anyway.

Eventually Robb found his words. “The Mountain, Jaime? Seriously?”

“Well, if I was going to go on a quest, it could hardly be something minor, now could it? I do have a reputation to keep up,” Jaime said, archly, but Robb could hear the nerves underneath.

No. No, he could feel them—the worry bubbling up inside of Jaime, even as he so clearly tried not to hope for anything. He’d been in a fever of anticipation too, and Robb could almost see it before him now, Jaime pushing the pace of the group to arrive as quickly as they could, even as he feared and hoped in equal measure for what he would find once they passed through Winterfell’s south gate.

Robb had kept coming forward all this while, close enough to touch. Slowly, Robb did reach out, his thumb rubbing against the bump in Jaime’s nose, the visible reminder of Gregor Clegane’s brutality. Jaime let out a shocked little exhale as Robb touched him, his mouth parting, and just like that, it was the easiest thing in the world to step forward, take Jaime’s face in his hands, and reach up to lay a deep, through kiss on Jaime’s parted mouth, staking his claim, letting the force of their renewed bond move through him like cool water.

By the time Robb finally pulled away, Jaime was shaking. Perhaps they both were.

“The next time you go on some reckless, mad quest,” Robb murmured, looking directly into Jaime’s dazed green eyes, “I am coming with you.”

“All right,” Jaime whispered. “Whatever you say.”

Robb smiled, dropping another light kiss on Jaime’s mouth, like sealing an oath. “Excellent.”

*

For someone who had returned to Winterfell as the conquering hero, Jaime was remarkably quiet as they walked to their quarters. There was no swaggering, no grand retelling of his triumph over Gregor Clegane; he just clung onto Robb’s hand like a lifeline as he trailed in Robb’s footsteps.

If Robb was honest, he didn’t need words—the weight of Jaime’s hand in his was enough, his presence in Robb’s mind was enough. He could feel it almost like a heartbeat, his mind spinning on a constant loop of, there you are, there you are.

Finally they were in their room, the maids who had been unpacking Jaime’s things and tending to the fire slipping out with murmured ‘m’lords’, and then the door was shut and it was just them, together and alone at last.

Jaime was staring at Robb with wild eyes, and he said raspily, “Don’t—if that was just for show, in the courtyard—”

Despite his own pounding heart, Robb lifted an eyebrow. “You think I’m that good of an actor? Suppose I should be flattered.”

But Jaime was clearly not in any mood for banter. “Robb, don’t toy with me. If you haven’t…” His voice trailed off, breaths quickening as Robb slowly approached him.

As he did before in the courtyard, Robb took his husband’s face in his hands, the sharp planes of Jaime’s face fitting so easily in his palms. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, then added with a flash of heat, “As opposed to when you went on this utterly mad quest in the first place.”

It was Jaime’s eyebrows that flew up this time. “Are you still upset about that?”

Robb pulled away, folding his arms over his chest and ignoring how cold his hands felt now that he wasn’t touching Jaime’s face. “About your apparent death wish? No, why would I be angry about that? It’s not as though you went off to fight one of the most feared and dangerous knights in the Seven Kingdoms without a word to me or your brother—”

His temper was up in earnest, so the sudden wave of amusement and joy came as a shock, as Robb focused once more on Jaime, who was grinning like a madman. “What?”

“It’s real,” Jaime said, his face glowing with happiness, and then he was the one coming forward to sweep Robb up into a kiss, hot and urgent, and Robb groaned and kissed him back, his entire body drawn tight with lust. Gods, weeks and weeks he’d spent in that empty, cold bed, wanting even as he’d tried to deny it, tried to deny how badly he needed this, Jaime’s body pressed against his, Jaime’s soft hair tangled in his fingers, Jaime’s desire spurring on his own—

Time blurred a bit, and by the time that Robb became aware of the persistent knocking at the door, he had Jaime flat on his back in their bed, half undressed, cock hard through the layer of his breeches as Robb wrenched open the laces. Mind fogged from lust, it took Robb a moment to make his mouth work well enough to call out, “Aye, what is it?”

“It’s me,” Tyrion’s muffled voice replied. “Loath as I am to interrupt your reunion—”

“Then don’t!” Jaime immediately shot back, hips fretfully rocking up into Robb’s hand, even as he was glaring at the door.

“But you’re wanted in Lord Stark’s solar,” Tyrion finished.

Robb grinded his teeth with frustration, and Jaime gripped his thighs to stop Robb from climbing off his lap. “For fuck’s sake, what for?” he shouted at his brother.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jaime—something to do with you being held captive by our father, who is now apparently carrying a deadly grudge against Jon Snow?”

Astonished, Robb turned to look down at Jaime. Grimacing, Jaime met his eyes and admitted, “Our time at Casterly Rock was more eventful than I would’ve wished.”

“Was it,” Robb said, unamused, and clambered out of his lap, ignoring Jaime’s pitiful groans. Served him right—if they were going to be interrupted because of more Lannister dramatics, then at the very least Jaime should be suffering as much as Robb was.

*

“All right,” Robb’s father said, arms folded across his chest as he stood before the fireplace, watching them all with a face like stone. “Let me hear it again.”

Jon, standing in the corner, sighed faintly. “Lord Tywin came to the inn where we were staying. He was angry with Jaime for killing Clegane. I was able to…intervene, eventually, and then Lord Tywin declared that we should all be guests at his home while Jaime recovered from his injuries.”

“Intervened?” Jaime repeated, incredulous. “Is that how you describe what happened?”

Jon shot Jaime an unamused look. “It’s the truth.”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Jaime,” Ned said. “My son has been rather stingy with the details so far.”

Jon winced. Jaime said, “Certainly,” straightening up in his seat as he did. “My father came to the inn, and he was in an absolute rage—I was rather groggy from the blow to my head and from being dosed with milk of the poppy, so I’m afraid I wasn’t very conciliatory in my replies.”

Jon scoffed. “You mean you deliberately baited him.”

“It was either that or cringe in fear, and neither would have changed his response,” Jaime pointed out, and Robb, standing behind him, squeezed his shoulder. Jaime reached up to touch his hand, saying, “Well, that just made him even more enraged, and he tried to strike me, but Jon stepped in and took the blow instead—”

“Excuse me?” Robb and his father shouted in near-unison. Tyrion, standing in the corner, just groaned, and Robb’s mother closed her eyes in despair.

“What was I supposed to do, just let him hit Jaime?” Jon protested, indignant. “He could barely stand on his feet after dueling Clegane—”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jaime muttered.

Jon scowled at him. “You vomited all over Theon’s boots, it was that bad.”

Meanwhile, Ned was staring aghast at Jon. “Why didn’t you write and tell me what was happening?”

Jon awkwardly shuffled his feet. “After Jaime was imprisoned—”

“Go back to the imprisonment,” Robb demanded, his voice sharp, and Jaime twisted around in his chair to look up at Robb. “Darling—”

“Don’t you start,” Robb said sternly, not letting himself be moved. “At this point I’m not letting you past the boundaries of Wintertown without me.”

It took an age, but eventually they got out all the details of Jaime’s separation from the others and his captivity, and how Jon, fearing that any truthful letter to Winterfell would be intercepted by the Lannisters’ maester, had hit on the solution of using his silence as a tool to force Tywin Lannister’s hand.

“Clever,” Tyrion said, looking at Jon with approval. “Very, very clever.”

Ned, on the other hand, was wearing a look of fury that Robb had never seen before. In a low voice, he spat out, “That foul, honorless piece of scum. I knew that none of you would be truly safe within that bloodthirsty beast’s walls, but I never dreamed he’d go so far. Gods!”

All of them were left speechless at the sight of Ned’s anger, and it fell to Robb’s mother to say soothingly, “Ned, it’s all right, everyone made it home safely—”

“No thanks to Tywin,” Ned growled, still bristling.

“And,” Catelyn continued, taking a breath, “I think your son should be congratulated on navigating such a difficult situation. He made sure that Jaime was freed, and they were all able to depart without any further scandal or conflict.”

In shock at his mother’s words, Robb quickly looked over to Jon. Mouth agape, Jon stared at Robb’s mother as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It took a pointed cough from Jaime for Jon to come to his senses, stammering out, “Th-thank you, Lady Stark.”

His mother gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement, not quite looking at Jon. “No need, it’s a simple fact.”

Ned was also watching her, the anger in his expression finally fading, replaced with surprise and gratitude. “Aye, my lady. You did well, Jon, very well indeed, even as I regret you being in that position to begin with.”

Jaime stirred at this, starting to say, his guilt sour in Robb’s mind, “Lord Stark, I—”

But Ned held up a hand. “Peace, Jaime. You avenged a monstrous crime by the only method available to you. If there’s anyone I hold responsible for this wild adventure, it’s your father, who was the cause of it all.” His expression darkened again. “And King Robert is also to blame for letting that murderer go free for so long.”

“We’ve received several missives from King’s Landing,” Catelyn explained. “Expressing the Crown’s…astonishment at the events in the Westerlands.”

Jaime snorted, unimpressed. “Give it a week and a few barrels of wine, and Robert won’t remember whatever nonsense he had the Hand write to you.”

“I care not what Robert thinks,” Ned said flatly, and Robb felt Jaime’s surprise at that like a vibrating string. “He should have demanded justice be done twenty years ago, he has forfeited any right to involve himself now.”

Jaime chuckled at this, but in approval. “I couldn’t agree more, but I certainly hope your reply to Jon Arryn was more diplomatic than that.”

His father shrugged. “All the proprieties were observed, Tyrion and Catelyn wouldn’t have had it otherwise.” He sighed and headed towards his desk, pausing to clap Jon on the shoulder as he walked past. “Well, it’s been a far more exciting journey for you than I would have wished, but everything does seem to have been settled in the main.”

“Ah,” Jaime said, sharing a quick look with Jon. “About that…”

Ned, in the process of sitting down in his chair, stopped mid-motion. “Gods be good,” he said in dismay. “Don’t tell me you got up to more trouble while you were away.”

“Not in the least,” Jaime protested. “But if we’re discussing fathers and their sons, we do unfortunately need to discuss Balon Greyjoy.”

Robb groaned loudly in dismay, and his father sighed as he finally sat down in his chair. “I should have known,” he said, waving a weary hand at Jaime. “All right, let’s have it.”

*

The moment that they returned back to their quarters, Robb pinned Jaime against the heavy oaken door and kissed him fiercely, teeth nipping at Jaime’s lower lip while his hands impatiently worked his breeches open. The only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat and Jaime’s quiet moans, the only thing he cared about was getting his hands on Jaime and staking his claim once more.

“Robb,” Jaime panted out, gasping as Robb moved his mouth lower and started to kiss along his jawline, the tendons of his throat. “You—ah!” Robb’s thumb was moving along the slit of Jaime’s cock, using the increasing slickness to speed up his strokes, reveling in the way that Jaime shuddered and thrust his hips forward into Robb’s grip.

“Mm?”

“If we’re…oh fuck…if we’re doing this, then,” Jaime’s voice rose sharply as Robb gently brushed a finger behind his balls, but he continued bravely, “Then shouldn’t we move this to the bed?”

“Why?” Robb asked, mouth brushing along Jaime’s collarbone. “I think I’ll enjoy having you up against the door.”

“Yes, but I’ve been fantasizing about you fucking me for weeks now,” Jaime said, voice aiming for exasperated but just hitting plaintive instead.

Robb grinned as he finally pulled away. “Have you?”

Jaime looked satisfyingly disheveled, but still far too clothed for Robb’s liking. “If I’d known this would be my welcome home, I’d have fantasized about every filthy sexual act that two men could do together, but since I didn’t, I stuck to the basics.”

Robb laughed and said, “Far be it for me to deny you.”

Once they were in the bed, though, Jaime’s too-wide eyes and grasping hands made it obvious that he still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a dream. Robb understood it, he was still feeling the giddy edge of disbelief that this was real, that Jaime was alive and safe and here, in Robb’s hands once more.

Jaime was so eager, in fact, that when he finally got Robb’s tunic over his head, it was with such force that Robb heard the fabric ripping. “That’ll need repairing,” Robb chuckled, before ducking his head for more hungry kisses.

He forced himself to slow down once he was working Jaime open with slick fingers, his hand nearly dripping from the oil he’d spilled because he was clumsy with eagerness. It was Jaime who was trying to rush him, saying with impatience, “Damn you, I’m ready—”

“You’ll take what I give you,” Robb growled without thinking, but he noticed how Jaime’s breath caught at that, his body going pliant beneath Robb. Robb grinned sharply down at his husband and kept going at the pace that pleased him, no matter how Jaime cursed and pleaded.

It was all worth it when he was finally sinking into that tight, clenching heat, staring into Jaime’s dazed eyes as he slowly pulled out before snapping his hips forward, reveling in it as Jaime gasped and arched his back, pushing back into it.

There was nothing gentle about this, from Robb’s brutal thrusts to the way that Jaime clawed at his back, his hands clutching at Robb with a grip so tight that Robb knew he’d have bruises come morning. They weren’t silent either, a profane mix of filth and endearments spilling from Robb’s mouth as Jaime mindlessly agreed, “yes, yes, yes” to everything that Robb said, until words were finally beyond him and there were only noises left.

The pleasure between them grew and grew, until Robb could swear that he could see it behind his eyelids, a golden light growing in intensity until it was nearly blinding, and Jaime was there with him, Robb knew it, as Jaime finally cried out and spilled onto their bellies, and Robb groaned and followed him, collapsing on top of Jaime’s limp body, exhausted and sated.

For this round, anyway.

He had Jaime ride him not long after, his hands fitting in the grooves of Jaime’s narrow hips as Jaime rose and fell on his cock, an uneven flush spreading out over Jaime’s chest as his hair hung over his face, but it didn’t matter, not with the bond blooming back to life, Robb could taste everything that Jaime was feeling, his love and his lust and his surrender, all of it sweet as summerwine.

“Don’t think I’ll be done with you after this,” Robb said hoarsely, reaching up to pinch at Jaime’s nipples and relishing the sharp burst of pleasure that radiated out from Jaime. “I’ve got months to make up for—”

“Good,” Jaime shot back, teeth gleaming as he grinned sharply down at Robb. “I’m keeping you to your word, Stark.”

Robb was as good as his word, wearing his husband out until Jaime finally conceded defeat, at some point much later that evening. “All right, all right, you’ve forgiven me, I believe you,” he wheezed up at the ceiling, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Mercy, please, you’re going to kill me.”

Robb laughed and pulled his husband closer. “Don’t worry,” he said, yawning as he petted Jaime’s chest hair. “I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

“Thank the gods,” Jaime sighed, his heartbeat a steady drum against Robb’s palm as he dropped off into sleep.

It was the plain truth. He was Robb’s, all of him, the golden storybook knight as well as the weary repenting traveler. He’d once thought he couldn’t bear the weight of it all, but Robb knew now that what he couldn’t bear was the loss, of drifting away, lost and alone, without the anchor of their bond to keep him tethered and true.

And they had time now, to work it all out. They had the time and the trust, because Jaime had come back to him, when it would have been so easy for him to slip away. But he’d come home, and he was safe, and Robb wouldn’t be such a fool as to let him go twice.

On that thought, Robb yawned and closed his eyes, trusting that he would follow his husband into sleep soon enough.

*

Even in the midst of their reunion, with Robb dragging Jaime off into the nearest deserted corners of the keep as though they were newlyweds again, life kept moving around them.

Winterfell was a hive of activity once more. His father didn’t waste any time reacting to the news of what Balon Greyjoy had planned for the succession of the Iron Islands, writing to the Hand and the King to press for Theon’s wardship to be passed over to Lord Manderly at White Harbor, so that Theon could at least learn properly how to sail and captain a ship. Robb discovered, to his surprise, that Ned had been pushing for this for years, having easily foreseen the problem in having an ironborn heir that hadn’t been on a ship since the age of eight, but never being able to convince Robert Baratheon of the risks until now.

Theon was gobsmacked when he found out. “You…you wanted me to learn how to captain a ship?” he’d asked Robb’s father in his solar, his voice quiet.

“Of course,” Ned said, looking surprised that the question was even being asked. “I know…” He’d frowned, then said heavily, “I know your time here has been more…complicated than that of a usual fostering.” Theon’s mouth quirked upwards, sardonic, and his father acknowledged it with a nod of his head. “But I hope you know that I have only ever wanted the best for you.”

Theon looked down at that, mouth pinched tight. Robb tactfully kept silent, and when Theon finally looked up, it was with a glint to his eye. “You don’t think I can win the Kingsmoot, do you?”

His father wouldn’t lie, even now. “I don’t know,” he told Theon honestly. “But I think the fact that your father is even entertaining this does not bode well for you, and I would not have you placed at a disadvantage should it happen, not if it’s in my power to help you succeed.” He took a breath, and said next, “But if you don’t want it, if you’d prefer to stay here, then—”

“No,” Theon said quickly, looking startled at his own vehemence. “No, if…if I can go to White Harbour, then I want to.”

“All right,” Ned said, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Then let’s see what we can do to make that happen.”

That night Robb did something he hadn’t had much cause to do since his wedding, and he spent the evening in Theon’s quarters, sitting on the floor with Theon and Jon, the three of them drinking from a cask of ale. “I think White Harbor will be good for you,” he told Theon, leaning back on his hands as he did.

“Do you now, Stark?” Theon said, sounding amused.

“Course. You’ll finally get the chance to show us Northmen what a kraken can do on the waves.”

Theon grinned at hearing that, giving him a little salute. HIs expression grew more serious, though, and Theon asked, “You really think the king will listen to your father?”

“Well he’s got bigger problems closer to home, doesn’t he?” Jon offered up, getting to his feet to refill his mug. “Father’s offering a solution; he’d have to be a fool to reject it.”

“There is that,” Theon agreed, then chuckled. “You know, mad prince or not, I don’t envy Joffrey Baratheon whenever his grandfather arrives in King’s Landing to whip the little bastard into shape. Between Jon and Jaime, the Old Lion was in a proper rage when we left.”

Robb pulled a face. Tyrion had shared the latest rumors coming out of the Red Keep with him, stomach-churning though they were. “As long as Tywin stays away from us all, I don’t give a damn what he does.”

Jon’s nose wrinkled. “He already tried to get his revenge, don’t worry,” he said, taking a deep draught from his drink.

“What does that mean?” Robb demanded, leaning forward to stare at his brother closely.

Jon looked startled by the vehemence. “Robb, it’s nothing serious,” he began, then huffed in annoyance at the unrelenting stare Robb fixed on him. “He just tried to start some trouble over my mother, that’s all.”

Robb blinked, not expecting that. “Your mother?” Knowing how tender a topic this was, he glanced over to Theon to make sure his friend wasn’t going to let loose with an ill-timed jape, but Theon looked equally mystified.

Jon’s mouth turned down, unhappy. “He said…he said that after looking at me, he was more inclined than ever to believe the rumor of Lady Ashara visiting Uncle Brandon in the Black Cells before he died.”

“That…was he really trying to imply…”

“That I’m secretly Uncle Brandon’s son?” Jon finished wearily. “Yeah. He was.”

Into the silence Theon declared, “Drowned God, what a miserable twat.”

“It’s not true,” Robb said, rejecting the suggestion immediately. “Father would never lie about that.”

“I know,” Jon said, to Robb’s relief—he trusted Jon, of course, but would have hated to see him brooding over any poisonous whispers from Tywin Lannister. “Father wouldn’t lie about that. There wouldn’t be any point to it, and it’s not in his nature.”

“Would’ve probably been easier for him if you were just his nephew,” Theon mused. “At least when it comes to Lady Stark, anyway.” Robb glared at him for that, and Theon rolled his eyes. “What, you know it’s true.”

“Yes, thank you Theon,” Jon said, with a roll of his eyes as well. “Lady Stark’s actually been…very kind lately. It’s odd.”

Robb tried not to let anything show on his face, but it didn’t work, as Jon’s eyebrows went up and he said slowly, “Robb…”

“I may have had a discussion with my mother,” Robb admitted. Jon continued to look at him, not speaking, just waiting him out, and Robb groaned and gave in. “We had a fight about it.”

“A fight?” Jon repeated in disbelief.

Robb sighed and gave up the rest of it. “I accused her of treating you the same way that Lord Tywin treats Tyrion, except with even less cause to do so.”

Jon’s mouth fell open. “Robb, you didn’t.”

“Had you gone completely mad while we were away?” Theon demanded.

“I was very angry,” Robb said defensively, then looked at a still-shocked Jon and said, “Besides, I should have spoken to her about it sooner.”

Jon’s cheeks went pink. “Robb, you needn’t have—”

“You’re my brother,” Robb said firmly. “So yes, I did need to.”

Jon ducked his head at this, flush deepening and spreading to his ears and neck. It was Theon who said, “You’re still alive and breathing, so I should take it that your mother somehow didn’t flay you to ribbons for your disrespect?”

Robb chuckled. “No, but Father was furious with me. We’ve worked it out since though, there’s no need for you to worry,” he added to Jon, who looked relieved at the news.

“Between you and Jaime, I don’t know which one of you needs to be kept in check more,” Theon said, grinning.

“That’s just ridiculous,” Robb scoffed. “I’m not the one going off on a dangerous quest to fight a murderous half-giant—”

They continued in that vein for the rest of the night, trading japes and stories, and when Robb finally left Theon’s room, it was on slightly unsteady feet and a warm glow of contentment in his belly.

Jon left at the same time, and as they were about to separate to their own rooms, he called out, “Robb?”

Robb turned to face his brother, and Jon wordlessly pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Robb’s shoulder. “You didn’t need to, but thank you.”

Robb hugged him back, just as tightly. There were a dozen things he could say, but he settled for the most important one. “As long as I have a place in Winterfell, then so do you,” he told Jon, pulling away to look into his face, making sure it sunk in. “You hear me?”

“Aye, I hear you,” Jon said, his eyes shining in the torchlight.

Jaime was waiting up for him when Robb arrived, looking over the latest correspondence from Moat Cailin at the desk, but turning to the door as Robb came in. “You didn’t need to stay up,” Robb said, smiling even as he said it.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can never manage taking off your boots when drunk,” Jaime said dismissively, coming forward to lead Robb over to the bed.

“I’m not that drunk,” Robb insisted, but he went where directed, sitting down on the featherbed with Jaime’s guidance.

“Then maybe I just like taking your clothes off,” Jaime suggested, eyes gleaming.

“Well, you are very good at that,” Robb conceded, smiling like a fool. Gods, it was good to have this again, to be like this with Jaime again.

Jaime seemed to agree, if the smile on his face and the bubbling joy Robb sensed was any indication. He kneeled down on the floor to pull Robb’s boots off, and Robb mused, as first one foot and then the other was freed, “You do look good on your knees.”

Jaime looked up at that, smirking at Robb. “I can do more than just look pretty from down here, if you like.”

In answer, Robb spread his legs open, and Jaime’s smile only deepened, becoming more predatory. That was more than fine with Robb, of course.

After two delightfully satisfying rounds, Robb was finally lying in the bed with Jaime beneath the furs, his head resting on Jaime’s chest as Jaime toyed with his hair, his trimmed nails scraping deliciously along the scalp.

Robb was practically melting into a puddle from the pleasure of it all, but he stayed coherent enough to say, “I hope your awful father won’t spread that ridiculous story about Uncle Brandon and Lady Ashara.”

“Won’t do him much good if he does,” Jaime pointed out. “He’ll have bigger things to work about soon enough, anyway.”

Robb snorted at this, not disagreeing, but he said next, “Utter nonsense. As if my father would lie, for such a small reason.”

Jaime’s hand stilled in Robb’s hair. “Say that again.”

Robb frowned in confusion but obediently repeated, “My father would never lie for anything so small.” He started to sit up, alarmed at the tension coming off Jaime in cold waves. “Jaime, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Jaime said abstractedly, his gaze turned distant and away from Robb.

“Jaime,” Robb said, forceful.

Jaime finally looked back at him, eyebrows still furrowed, but his gaze was alert and present again, if apologetic. “I don’t know if it’s anything, not yet.” Robb opened his mouth, and Jaime added quickly, “I don’t, Robb, it could be nonsense. Let me think it out first.”

He was obviously sincere, and Robb sat with that for a moment before saying finally, “No secrets.”

“Not a one,” Jaime agreed, without hesitation, leaning forward to kiss him. Robb kissed him back, tenderly, and felt the tension slowly leave his body, as it left Jaime’s.

They eventually went to sleep still tangled together, and it seemed fitting that their dreams were tangled up as well, visions of long-dead Targaryens that Robb had never met, mixed with the more familiar sight of Robb’s father sitting in the godswood, but instead of the greatsword Ice in his hands, it was a small, blanketed bundle, and dimly Robb could hear a baby gurgling, even as his father looked up into the face of the weirwood tree, worry and determination clear on his face.

Robb slowly drifted awake, soon after dawn, with the worrying sensation of something not being quite right. He reached out with his hand to find Jaime’s side of the bed cold and empty.

With an unhappy groan, Robb cracked his eyes open to see Jaime, not in bed where he belonged, but standing by the window, robe loosely belted and staring moodily out at the courtyard.

“You’re too far,” Robb mumbled as Jaime turned back to him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, even in the gray morning light. They were safe and sound in their quarters, and yet Robb could feel Jaime’s unease whispering in the back of his head.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Robb softly urged as Jaime climbed back into bed.

Jaime didn’t speak right away, just looked down at him with an expression both tender and grave. He slowly let out a breath, his hand moving forward to tangle in Robb’s hair, the solid weight of it reassuring. Robb breathed out as well, matching his breathing to Jaime’s, until they were perfectly in sync.

Only then did Jaime say, “I think I know who Jon’s mother is.”

*

It took a very long time for Robb to believe it.

They thrashed it out, round and round, as the sun rose in the sky, only pausing when the maids came to tend the fire, looking curiously at their taut expressions.

It couldn’t be true. It was fantastic, impossible. Jon, the son of—

Impossible.

And yet, for every denial Robb gave, Jaime had another point to make in favor of his theory. Jon’s birthplace was Dorne. His father always speaking of Jon having “Stark blood”. Jaime’s insistence that coloring and hair aside, Jon had features in common with Prince Rhaegar, with Queen Rhaella.

There was the inescapable fact that three of the Kingsguard had been at the Tower of Joy, instead of on the battlefield with Rhaegar or guarding the rest of the royal family in the Red Keep—which begged the question, what or who exactly were they guarding?

And the final, undeniable point—his father’s silence about Jon’s origins had never made sense. It was a pointless kind of cruelty, something his father wouldn’t do, not just to protect the memory or reputation of a whore or a serving maid or even a woman like the Lady Ashara Dayne.

But he would do it to shield an even bigger, more dangerous secret. To protect a nephew who would surely be killed by the king if he knew the truth. To protect the last piece of his dead sister…

His whole life, there had been a hole in the story of how Jon came to Winterfell, a blank space in the shape of the nameless woman who gave birth to Robb’s brother, his almost-twin.

Robb didn’t want this to be the explanation that filled in the missing piece of Jon’s story. He didn’t want to think of his father committing treason against the king, lying to everyone for twenty years, and he really didn’t want to believe that Jon had been in danger all this time—was still in danger, if this was true.

And yet, it felt true. It fit, it explained everything.

“Do you want to just leave it alone?” Jaime asked gently, while Robb sat on the edge of their bed, head in his hands.

“Can I?” Robb asked; a genuine question, and Jaime treated it as one.

He sat down heavily next to Robb, delicately resting his hand on Robb’s knee. “This will sound ironic coming from me, but I don’t want you burdened with the weight of keeping this secret from Jon.” Robb lifted his head to look over at him, eyebrow raised, and Jaime gave a tiny, rueful shrug. “I told you it was ironic.” Robb nodded, acknowledging the point.

“It might not even be true,” he said.

“There’s only one person who can answer that,” Jaime replied, and he was right, of course he was right. There was only one thing for them to do, and Robb had to do it. He’d never be able to look Jon in the face again if he didn’t.

Thank the gods, there wasn’t any of their family in the Great Hall when they finally came down, just a few stragglers left picking at their morning meal. Robb had no appetite, but Jaime forced a bowl of pottage on him, and some bread. He was thrumming with barely-leashed energy; for Robb this revelation came as a bolt from a clear sky, but for Jaime, it was the answer to questions left unanswered for two decades.

A part of Robb wanted to linger over his food, delay the confrontation, but that was no use. So they went out of the Great Hall in search of his father, and found him in his solar, with Robb’s mother and Vayon Poole, the three of them going over Winterfell’s accounts.

A perfectly ordinary scene, one that Robb had witnessed countless times all his life, and his throat was closing up, looking at them now.

His parents both looked up when they came in, and Catelyn said with an easy smile, “Hello, Robb, Jaime.”

“Hello, Mother,” Robb said, trying for a tone that was just as easy, and failing.

Jaime succeeded better, his voice light as he said, “Apologies for interrupting, but it couldn’t wait. Steward Poole, if you could excuse us?”

“Certainly, ser,” Poole said, too polished to give away any surprise on his face. His parents watched with some concern, but didn’t protest, and it wasn’t until Poole left that his father asked, “Robb, what’s going on?”

Robb opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. This was his father, the man he and Jon had spent their lives worshiping and trying to emulate in all things. To stand there and ask him if he was a liar, a traitor to the Iron Throne, it—

Helplessly, he turned to Jaime, who stepped forward without hesitation, his hand slipping into the small of Robb’s back as he said, “We need to talk to you about Jon’s mother.”

His father stiffened. “That is not your concern.”

Robb found his voice. “Tywin Lannister thinks Jon’s the son of Ashara Dayne and Uncle Brandon.”

His mother inhaled sharply, her face going pale. Glancing quickly at his father, who hadn’t moved a muscle, she asked, “He said this?”

“To me and to Jon,” Jaime confirmed.

“Does Jon believe it?” Ned asked, tightly.

“No,” Jaime said, and Robb watched the relief wash over his father’s face. “He didn’t believe you would lie about that, and I agreed with him.”

“Well, of course Ned wouldn’t,” his mother said, hotly. “I’m glad to hear that the boy—that Jon has more sense than to believe it.”

“I’ll speak to Jon,” Ned said. “Make sure he knows not to worry, even if he does have the sense not to believe such foolishness.” He turned back to the accounts, as if the discussion was over.

Robb took a deep breath, but Jaime put a hand on his arm, stopping him, stepping into the breach on Robb’s behalf.

“You know, I’ve never been able to understand it,” Jaime began, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the crops, or the training regimen for the men-at-arms. “ You’re not a cruel man, Lord Stark. I was raised by a cruel man and I served an even crueler king; I know what it looks like when a man cares nothing for those closest to him. That’s not you, you love your son and you love your wife. Yet here you are, leaving them both tormented and defenseless against all the rumors and gossip, all because you refuse to name Jon Snow’s mother.”

“Enough, Ser Jaime,” Ned snapped, his face like granite and his voice just as hard. “I understand you’ve grown fond of Jon, but this is not your place.”

Despite the hard words, Robb could see it—the color leaving his father’s face, how his hands had clenched into fists on the table, so tightly that they’d gone white at the knuckles.

But Jaime was unmoved. “I was never able to understand it, until now. You wouldn’t leave them in torment. Not unless the truth was more dangerous.”

His father stormed to his feet, the chair’s legs scraping against the floor with an awful screech, his face terrible in its fury. “Shut your damned mouth,” he told Jaime, even as Robb’s mother gasped, and Robb felt his knees turn to water.

He knew that look. He’d seen it in Jaime’s face, all those months ago when Robb had confronted him about his own unspeakable secret, and he saw it again now too—the growing fear, the disbelief that discovery had finally come, after all these years.

“Gods be good,” Robb found himself saying through numb lips. “It is true.”

The dawning horror on his father’s face was awful to see. “Robb—”

Jaime was watching him with alarm, but Robb met his face and nodded, silently urging him to continue. This had to be done, no matter what was left behind in its wake.

Jaime inhaled and said, determined, “Was she still alive? Your sister, Lyanna—was she still alive when you reached the Tower of Joy? Did she ask you to lie to save her infant son, or did you take the burden on yourself?”

The question was left to ring in all of their ears. Robb watched his father’s face shift, from fear and fury to shock, and then finally an awful, bleak acceptance.

His shoulders dropped, and Ned Stark seemed to age ten years in the space of a moment. “She was alive. Long enough to give me the boy’s name, and to make me promise that I would protect him, no matter the cost.”

“No,” his mother said faintly; when Robb looked over to her, she seemed to be trembling from head to foot. “No, this…no.”

“Cat,” his father said, quickly reaching out to her, face wounded when she recoiled from him, and Robb’s stomach clenched with misery witnessing it. “Cat, you have to understand, I promised—”

“You promised?” Catelyn repeated, in a strangled gasp. “You—for almost twenty years I have seen that boy as a threat and an insult, and now you tell me that he is my nephew? That every moment of anguish I ever felt, every pang of jealousy for the faceless woman who held your heart and your loyalty—all of it was for a lie?”

Ned jerked at this, staring at her. “The only woman who has ever held my heart is you,” he said, emotion thick in his voice.

“And how was I supposed to know that?” Catelyn cried out.

As this was happening, Robb slowly made his way to a chair and sat down. Jaime came to stand by him, his face clouded with concern. Robb reached for his husband’s hand, and asked aloud, in a voice that was as steady as he could manage, “Who else knows?”

His parents turned as one to face him again, looking surprised at the reminder that they were not in fact alone. “What?”

“I’ve just found out that my brother is really my cousin, and that if this truth is ever revealed, that King Robert will demand his head and likely yours,” Robb said with an effort. “So who else knows?”

His father looked pained, but admitted, “Howland Reed, he was with me at the Tower of Joy. The Daynes may suspect, but they’ve never spoken of it if so.” He swallowed. “I meant—by not telling anyone, I meant to keep you all safe, if my treason was ever brought to light.”

“Because the boy is a secret Targaryen,” Catelyn whispered, sinking back into her chair. “The Mother have mercy on us all.”

“He is a Stark,” his father said, forcefully. “He is my blood, my sister’s blood. She died begging me to—” He stopped with an effort, turning away towards the window, but not before Robb could see the tears shining in his eyes.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Robb turned to Jaime, who was watching him with sympathy and with strength—strength that Robb would need to lean on, strength that Robb could lean on.

“So how do we keep him safe?” Robb asked them all.

His mother sighed, collecting herself, the effort of it plain on her face. In a strained voice, she said, “If Jaime could work out the truth on his own—”

“I found it out because I knew Rhaegar, yes, but really because I was wondering about the mystery of Jon’s mother,” Jaime said. “Take the mystery away, and no one will have cause to wonder.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we tell people the truth,” Ned said, incredulous, and Jaime scoffed.

“Obviously not. What I’m saying is that we take my father’s spiteful suggestion and turn it into a shield to protect Jon. Let the world think he’s your brother’s son—it’ll give more weight to your request, when you ask Robert to legitimize him as a Stark.”

His father’s eyes grew wide at this, but he didn’t argue. Promisingly, neither did Robb’s mother, even as she listened closely while Jaime spoke.

“He’ll be legitimized and knighted within the year,” Jaime continued on, “And then you tell him the truth, and the matter can finally rest.”

“Won’t that be even more dangerous?” Catelyn questioned.

“It’s less dangerous than letting him stew in his confusion, or having him find out from anyone else,” Jaime said. “Jon’s a good lad, with no thought of causing trouble. You give him his heart’s desire and he can handle the truth, we all know it.”

“He was willing to go to the Night’s Watch to stop being seen as a threat,” Robb reminded his mother. “He doesn’t even want Winterfell, he would never dream of trying to rise up and claim the Iron Throne.”

His mother swallowed, but dipped her head in the smallest of nods, conceding the point.

His father, though, was looking at Jaime with suspicion. “And you would do this? Hide the truth from Robert, from your sister and your father?”

Jaime snorted. “What am I going to do, deliver you all to the executioner to have your heads chopped off?” He looked at Robb, and Robb knew he was the only one who could see the rueful acknowledgement in Jaime’s face as he said, “What’s a little light treason, between family?”

Robb finally broke. With a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and as his parents looked on, he surged up from his seat to pull Jaime into a fierce kiss, trying to say thank you and I love you without saying a word.

From the delicate way that Jaime held his face and kissed him back, Robb knew he understood.

*

“Do you really think the king will legitimize Jon?” Robb asked.

It was now dusk, and they were sitting in the godswood together, before the weirwood tree.

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. Robert loves your father more than he loves his own brothers, he’ll sign the papers without a second thought.” He looked Robb over and asked, “Do you think you can wait and keep this secret from Jon until he does?”

“Yes,” Robb said, and meant it. For all their lives—no, he didn’t think he could do that (he was still marveling at his father keeping this secret for so long) but a year at the most, knowing they were only waiting so they could keep his brother safe? He could do that, for Jon and for his family.

Jaime smiled, but there was something grim in it. “Yes, well, I’ve given you quite a lot of practice at keeping secrets, haven’t I?”

Robb considered. In the joy and relief of their reunion, they hadn’t ever actually talked about Jaime’s secret, the nephews and niece that were really his sons and his daughter, the other grand treasonous act that could set the Seven Kingdoms aflame if it was ever revealed.

“Children aren’t responsible for their parents’ actions,” Robb said slowly. His father had said that about Domeric Bolton, had clearly held to that belief when it came to Jon, and this was one more lesson from his father that Robb was willing to take to heart.

He looked Jaime in the eyes and said, knowing it was true, “You are my family. That means that they are my family. And if I can protect them the way that we’re protecting Jon…” He shrugged, a weight coming off him as he did. “Aye. I can do that, and gladly.”

He felt Jaime’s amazement rippling over them both, as Jaime searched his face. Robb met it all with ease, smiling at Jaime’s disbelieving expression, and then Jaime said abruptly, “Stand up for a moment.”

Confused but willing, Robb got to his feet. Jaime didn’t stand up with him, instead he moved so that he was now on one knee before Robb.

“Jaime—”

“Give me a moment, I want to make sure I’ve got the words right,” Jaime said, eyes shut as he concentrated, but on what Robb didn’t know.

Eyebrows lifted, Robb waited, and was rewarded when Jaime opened his eyes, and took Robb’s hand in his.

“To the Starks and Winterfell I pledge my faith,” Jaime began, his voice strong, his eyes shining. “Hearth and harvest I yield up to you. My sword and shield and spear are yours to command. Grant me your mercy and your love and your trust, and I shall never fail you—” His voice broke at this, but Jaime bravely pushed on, “I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.”

Robb had to swallow twice before he could speak. Blinking the tears away, his heart full, he finally said hoarsely, “You changed some of the words.”

“I thought I would improvise,” Jaime told him, smiling softly.

Slowly, Robb sank to one knee before him as well, so that they were on even ground, as they should be. “From this day to my last day,” he offered up in return, “I am yours, and you are mine.”

Before the weirwood tree, in the sight of the old gods, he kissed Jaime, sealing their oaths. And in that moment, the rustling of the leaves in the evening breeze sounded like approval.