Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the low hum of conversation and the crackle of enormous hearths, but the tension in the air was thicker than the furs draped over the benches. Banners of direwolves and lions hung side by side, uncomfortable allies, bound now by something far more intimate than treaties or hostages.

Jaime Lannister stood rigid at the front of the hall, golden hair freshly washed and braided with threads of crimson and silver, his usual mocking smirk nowhere to be found. The elaborate white and gold doublet they’d forced him into felt like a cage, the high collar brushing his freshly scent-marked neck. The maesters had given him suppressants for weeks to dull his heats, but nothing could fully hide the sweet, golden-amber scent that still clung to him, especially now, under the weight of so many northern eyes.

Across from him, Robb Stark looked every inch the Young Wolf and King in the North.

Robb was devastatingly attractive in the torchlight, broad-shouldered and powerfully built from years of training and war, his frame filling out the dark grey and white tunic with quiet confidence. Fiery red curls fell just past his shoulders, a few strands escaping to frame a strong, stubbled jaw. His bright Tully-blue eyes, sharp and intense, were fixed on Jaime with an unreadable expression. The alpha’s natural scent, crisp pine, fresh snow, warm hearth-smoke, and something deeper, more primal, rolled off him in waves, cutting through the hall like a northern wind. It made Jaime’s stomach tighten despite himself.

The septon’s voice droned on with the old words of union, but Jaime barely heard them. His golden gaze flicked up to meet Robb’s, defiant even now. The septon finally tied the ribbon around their clasped hands—crimson and grey—and declared them husband and wife under the old gods and the new. A cheer went up, half-hearted from the Lannister side, thunderous from the northerners.

...

The heavy oak door of the Lord’s chambers had barely closed behind them when the noise of the feast faded into a distant murmur. Only the crackle of the large hearth and the howl of the northern wind outside remained. Jaime stood motionless in the center of the room, spine straight as a lance, golden hair spilling over his shoulders. The ceremonial doublet had already been discarded; now Robb’s large, calloused hands worked slowly down the laces of the fine white shirt beneath. Each tug loosened the fabric, exposing more of Jaime’s pale, scarred skin to the warm firelight.

Robb was right behind him, close enough that the alpha’s broad chest brushed against Jaime’s back with every breath. The Young Wolf’s fiery red curls tickled Jaime’s bare shoulder as he leaned in, nose tracing the sensitive line of the omega’s neck. Robb inhaled deeply, a low, involuntary rumble vibrating in his throat at the rich, golden-amber scent that bloomed stronger now that suppressants were no longer dulling it

Robb's stubbled jaw scraped lightly against Jaime’s pulse point as he nosed higher, lips barely brushing Jaime's scent gland. One big hand slid around to splay possessively across Jaime’s flat stomach, steadying him, while the other continued its patient work on the laces. Jaime refused to lean back into the touch, but he couldn’t stop the faint shiver that ran down his spine when Robb’s scent wrapped around him like a cloak. It was maddeningly comforting and arousing all at once.

“You’re enjoying this far too much, Stark,” Jaime said, voice tighter than he wanted, the usual Lannister drawl fraying at the edges. His hands clenched at his sides, fighting the instinct to arch into the alpha’s warmth. “Tell me, do all northern wolves drool over their prey before they devour it?”

Robb chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through Jaime’s back. He finished with the laces and gently peeled the shirt open, letting it slide down Jaime’s arms until it pooled at his wrists. Broad palms smoothed over newly bared shoulders and down the lean muscle of Jaime’s arms, tracing old tourney scars with surprising reverence.

“Only when the prey smells this good,” Robb answered honestly, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below Jaime’s ear. His free hand drifted lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of Jaime’s breeches. “And only when he’s my husband now.” He nosed again, slower this time, dragging the flat of his tongue along the omega’s scent gland until Jaime’s knees threatened to buckle. The alpha’s voice dropped even lower, thick with restrained want.

“I’ll make it good for you, Jaime. I swear it.”

Robb’s hips pressed forward just enough for Jaime to feel the hard line of his arousal through their remaining clothes, the promise of a thick knot already beginning to swell at the base. The alpha’s bright blue eyes were dark with hunger when he finally turned Jaime around to face him, one hand cupping the omega’s jaw, thumb stroking over the sharp cheekbone. Robb walked him backwards to the massive canopied bed, the thick furs dipped under Jaime's weight as he laid back, golden hair fanned out across the pillows like spilled sunlight.

He didn’t fight as Robb pulled down his trousers, undressing himself soon after. He didn’t snarl or claw or spit venom the way part of him still wanted to. What was the point? This was his life now, traded like a prized mare, wedded to the Young Wolf to bind lion to direwolf. A hole for the Stark pup. A pretty omega bargaining chip with a Lannister name and a cunt that the alliance demanded be filled.

He spread his legs without being told, knees falling open, exposing the slick, flushed folds of his cunt to the firelight. His scent had thickened in the warm room, sweet amber and honeyed arousal mixed with the sharp edge of resignation. Jaime stared up at the carved wooden beams overhead, jaw tight, waiting for the inevitable.

Robb knelt between his thighs, broad and powerful, red curls wild and falling into his bright blue eyes. His massive cock stood heavy and flushed against his stomach, thick, veined, the head already glistening, the knot at the base swollen and promising. The alpha’s chest heaved with barely-leashed control as he gripped Jaime’s hips, thumbs pressing into soft skin, lining himself up.

The blunt head of Robb’s cock nudged against Jaime’s slick entrance, teasing the sensitive rim, ready to shove inside in one powerful thrust.

Then Robb stopped.

A harsh breath tore from his throat. His hands trembled once on Jaime’s hips before he pulled back sharply, as if burned. The alpha sat up, cock bobbing angrily between his legs, untouched and aching. Without a word he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving to the heavy chair by the roaring fireplace. He dropped into it, elbows on his knees, head bowed, red curls curtaining his face. The fire painted gold and orange across his broad, muscled back and the tense line of his shoulders.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of logs and the distant wind.

Jaime lay there, legs still parted, cunt clenching uselessly around nothing, slick slowly cooling on his thighs. Heat burned in his cheeks, humiliation, sharp and unfamiliar. He couldn’t even get fucked right, apparently. Not good enough for the great Robb Stark. Not even worth a quick rut to seal the damned pact.

Jaime pushed himself up on his elbows, golden eyes narrowed, voice dripping with bitter mockery to hide the sting.

“Well,” he drawled, the Lannister sneer firmly back in place, “this is humiliating for both of us, isn’t it? The mighty Young Wolf can’t even bring himself to mount his new wife. What’s the matter, Stark? Does the lion scent turn your stomach after all? Or are you just realizing you’d rather fuck a sheep than a Lannister?”

Robb didn’t look up immediately. His big hands flexed, then curled into fists. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, strained with something deeper than simple lust.

“I won’t do it like this.” He lifted his head, blue eyes meeting Jaime’s across the room, intense, conflicted, hungry but not cruel. “You’re lying there like a sacrifice on an altar, Jaime. I can smell the resignation on you… it’s choking the want right out of the air.”

Robb dragged a hand through his red curls, exhaling sharply. His cock was still hard, still leaking, but he made no move to touch it or return to the bed.

The fire had burned low by the time Jaime turned onto his side, curling away from the alpha still seated by the hearth. He pulled the heavy furs up over his bare shoulder and closed his eyes, jaw locked so tightly it ached. Humiliation sat like a stone in his throat, hot, choking, impossible to swallow. He couldn’t even get fucked right. The one thing every omega was bred and told they were made for, and here he was, legs still slick and open, cunt throbbing uselessly while the Young Wolf sat there like a statue of northern honor.

His omega, traitorous, needy thing, whined inside his chest, devastated. Rejected. Held open, offered, and turned away. It didn’t matter that the alpha was Robb Stark, the boy who’d once been his enemy. It only cared that an alpha had looked at him, scented him, and still walked away.

Sleep came eventually, thin and restless.

...

The next few days were worse.

Robb kept his word. He didn't touch Jaime again. They shared the lord’s chambers because the alliance demanded it, but the great bed might as well have been an ocean between them. Robb slept in the chair by the fire most nights, or on the narrow cot the servants dragged in when the silence grew too loud. He spoke only when necessary, polite, clipped northern courtesy that made Jaime want to scream.

“Good morrow.”

“The maesters wish to see you.”

“There’s more stew if you’re hungry.”

Jaime thanked the old gods and the new for the distance. He told himself he was relieved. No hands on him. No knot. No claim.

But his omega was utterly devastated.

It paced and clawed and whimpered behind his ribs every time Robb’s scent, pine and smoke and strong, warm alpha, drifted across the room and then pulled away again. Jaime bathed three times a day, scrubbing until his skin was raw, but nothing could rid him of the sour, sharp edge his own scent had taken on. Golden-amber had curdled into something bitter and metallic, like spoiled honey and old blood. The servants exchanged glances. The maesters asked careful, probing questions about heats and bonding and why the lord’s omega still carried no mating mark.

By the eighth night, Jaime had had enough.

He cornered Robb in the solar after the evening meal, the door slammed shut behind them. Firelight painted the room in harsh oranges and reds.

“Just get on with it, Stark,” Jaime spat, voice low and vicious to hide the tremor underneath. “Fuck me. Bite me. Do whatever it is you northern savages need to do to shut the maesters up. I’m tired of their side glances and their bloody questions. I’m tired of smelling like failure.”

Robb exhaled slowly, broad shoulders slumping. His bright blue eyes flicked over Jaime’s face, searching, conflicted, before he sighed, deep and resigned.

“Jaime…”

“Don’t.” Jaime’s golden eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare make this noble. Just do it.”

Robb stood. He was so bloody huge, taller, wider, every inch of him carved from years of war and winter. He crossed the room in two strides, caught Jaime by the wrist, and pulled him toward the bed without another word.

Clothes came off in silence. Robb stripped him efficiently, almost gently, then shed his own tunic and breeches. His cock sprang free, gods, it was obscene. Thick as Jaime’s wrist, veined and flushed dark, the head already leaking. The knot at the base was even bigger, swollen and heavy with the promise of what was coming. Jaime had never taken a cock before. Only Cersei, soft, slick, omega fingers and tongues and grinding in dark corners of the Red Keep. Nothing like this.

Robb laid him down on his back, pushed his knees up and apart, and settled between them. One big hand gripped Jaime’s hip to hold him open. The other guided that massive cock to his entrance.

“Try to breathe,” Robb murmured, voice rough.

The first push was brutal.

Jaime’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp as the thick head breached him, stretching his cunt wider than he thought possible. It burned, sharp, overwhelming. Slick helped, but not enough, he was tight, untouched, and Robb was fucking huge. Inch after inch sank in, slow and relentless, until Jaime’s belly felt full and the stretch bordered on too much. His hands fisted in the furs, golden eyes wide and wet.

“Fuck— Stark—” he choked out.

Robb’s jaw was clenched, red curls sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, stubble scraping Jaime’s neck as he leaned down. “You’re doing so well,” he breathed, the praise slipping out before he could stop it. “So tight… seven hells, Jaime.”

He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush, the swollen knot pressed right against Jaime’s rim. For a long moment Robb just stayed there, letting him adjust, chest heaving. Then he began to move, deep, powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside Jaime and forced broken sounds from his throat.

The omega in him sang even as his pride screamed. Finally. Claimed. Filled. The sour edge of his scent began to sweeten almost immediately, honey and amber blooming again under the heavy musk of alpha and arousal.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Robb growled against his neck, voice wrecked. “I’ll stop—”

“Don’t you dare,” Jaime hissed, legs wrapping around Robb’s waist despite himself. “Finish it.”

Robb’s teeth found the junction of Jaime’s neck and shoulder. He bit down hard as his knot finally caught, thick, burning, locking them together. Jaime cried out, back arching, cunt clenching rhythmically around the impossible stretch as the first hot pulse of come flooded him.

The mating bite sank deep. Blood and bond and alpha scent crashed over him like a wave.

Robb shuddered through his release, hips grinding in tiny, possessive circles, knot pulsing again and again until Jaime was overflowing, belly slightly swollen with it. When the knot finally began to go down, long minutes later, Robb didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to Jaime’s, breathing hard.

Jaime rolled away the moment Robb’s knot deflated enough to slip free. He turned onto his side, back to the alpha, and pulled the furs high over his shoulder without a word. The fresh bite on his neck throbbed in time with his pulse, hot, claiming, impossible to ignore. Robb’s spend still leaked slowly from his stretched cunt, marking the sheets, but Jaime pretended it wasn’t there. He slept in silence, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

...

The heavy oak door to the Lord’s chambers slammed shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the stone corridors of Winterfell. Robb Stark stood in the threshold for a moment, shoulders heaving, snow still clinging to the shoulders of his thick cloak and melting into dark patches on the wool. His red curls were damp and wild from the wind, plastered to his forehead and temples. Mud and blood flecked his boots and the hem of his tunic, another long day of duties, another council that had dragged into the night, another set of bickering lords and sharp, edged messages from the south.

Jaime was already in the room, standing near the hearth in only a loose linen tunic that barely reached mid-thigh, golden hair unbound and gleaming in the firelight. He’d been waiting, pacing earlier, but now he simply turned, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowing at the sight of his husband.

“You’re late,” Jaime said, voice clipped, the Lannister drawl sharpened to a blade’s edge. “Again. The maesters sent another bloody raven asking about the bond. I told them to shove their questions up their—”

“Not now, Jaime.” Robb’s voice was low, rough, exhaustion and frustration bleeding through every syllable. He yanked off his cloak and tossed it over the back of a chair with more force than needed. The pine-and-smoke scent that usually wrapped around him like comfort was edged tonight—bitter, stormy, like wind whipping through pine forests before a blizzard. “I’ve spent the last six hours listening to Glover and Karstark snarl at each other over grazing rights while your father’s latest letter threatens to burn half the Riverlands if we don’t bend the knee faster. And then Theon's name came up. Again.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Oh, wonderful. So the great Young Wolf comes crawling back to his lion wife with his tail between his legs because an Ironborn bitch is still haunting him? How touching.”

Robb’s head snapped up, bright Tully-blue eyes flashing with something raw and wounded. “He's not— Seven hells, Jaime, can you not be snappy for one gods-damned night?” He dragged a hand through his wet curls, leaving them more disheveled. “I’m trying. I’m trying to hold this cursed alliance together, to be the king they all want me to be, and every time I walk through that door you look at me like I’m the enemy still. Like this bond means nothing.”

Jaime’s lips curled into a bitter smile, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it, hurt, maybe, or the same restless need that had been gnawing at both of them since that first awkward claiming. “Perhaps because you still treat me like a hostage in silks. Polite words, separate sides of the bed, and a knot only when the maesters start whispering too loudly. Forgive me if I’m not swooning over my devoted alpha.”

Robb crossed the room in three strides, towering over Jaime, the heat of his body cutting through the chill he’d brought in from outside. Up close, the exhaustion was carved deep into his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the tight set of his stubbled jaw, the way his broad shoulders sagged just slightly under the weight of it all. His scent surged, heavy and primal, wrapping around Jaime like a storm front.

“I’m not your enemy anymore,” Robb growled, voice dropping into that low, rumbling register that made Jaime’s omega instincts sit up and take notice despite everything. “You’re mine. My husband. My omega. And tonight I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I just… I need…”

He didn’t finish the sentence with words. Instead, large calloused hands gripped Jaime’s waist, spinning him around and walking him backwards until the backs of Jaime’s thighs hit the edge of the massive bed. Jaime’s golden eyes widened slightly, a sharp retort dying on his tongue as Robb dropped to his knees in front of him, right there on the cold stone floor, the mighty Young Wolf kneeling like a supplicant.

“Robb—what are you—”

“Quiet,” Robb muttered, but there was no real heat in it, only desperate hunger. His hands shoved the hem of Jaime’s tunic up roughly, bunching the fabric at his hips and exposing the smooth, pale skin of his thighs and the flushed, already-slick folds of his cunt. The golden-amber scent bloomed instantly in the warm room, sweet and heady, undercut with the faint metallic edge of lingering resentment.

Robb leaned in without hesitation, burying his face between Jaime’s legs. A low, broken groan tore from his throat the moment his tongue dragged through the slick heat, broad and flat, tasting the sweetness that had been driving him half-mad for days. Jaime’s hands flew to Robb’s red curls, fingers tangling tight, not pushing away, but not quite pulling him closer either.

“Gods— Stark—” Jaime’s voice cracked, the snappish tone fracturing as Robb’s stubbled jaw scraped deliciously against his inner thighs. The alpha’s tongue was relentless, licking long stripes from entrance to clit, circling the sensitive nub before dipping inside again, fucking into him with wet, obscene sounds. Robb’s big hands gripped Jaime’s ass, spreading him wider, holding him open as he devoured him like a starving man at a feast.

Jaime’s knees buckled. He would have fallen if not for the iron grip on his hips and the bed behind him. A broken moan slipped free despite his best efforts, hips jerking forward into the wet heat of Robb’s mouth. The alpha’s scent was everywhere now, pine, smoke, snow, and that deep primal musk that made Jaime’s cunt clench and leak more slick onto Robb’s eager tongue.

Robb pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, voice wrecked and raw. “You taste incredible,” he rasped, blue eyes dark and glassy as they flicked up to meet Jaime’s. “Even when you’re spitting venom at me. Especially then.” Then he dove back in, sucking Jaime’s clit into his mouth with just the right pressure, two thick fingers sliding into his cunt without warning, curling hard against that spot inside that made stars burst behind Jaime’s eyelids.

Jaime’s head fell back, golden hair spilling over his shoulders as a sharp cry tore from his throat. His thighs trembled, the omega inside him purring and keening at the sudden, overwhelming attention after days of cold distance. “Fuck—Robb—don’t you dare stop, you bastard—”

Robb didn’t. He ate him out with single-minded focus, tongue and fingers working in tandem, growling and humming against sensitive flesh until Jaime was shaking apart. The tension that had been coiled tight in Jaime’s chest all evening unraveled in a rush of heat and slick and broken moans. He came hard, cunt clenching rhythmically around Robb’s fingers, flooding the alpha’s mouth with fresh slick as his vision whited out.

Robb kept licking him through it, gentler now, lapping up every drop like it was the only thing keeping him sane. When Jaime finally sagged, panting and boneless against the bed, Robb rose to his feet, towering again, lips swollen and shiny, red curls a mess from Jaime’s fingers.

Jaime stared at him, chest still heaving, golden eyes half-lidded and wary. The bite on his neck throbbed faintly, warm and claiming. For once, a sharp retort didn’t come. Robb’s blue eyes darkened with renewed hunger. He pushed Jaime back onto the furs, following him down, the weight of his powerful body pressing him into the bed as the night stretched on, filled with the sounds of wind, fire, and two reluctant mates finally giving in to what the bond demanded.

Chapter Text

The days blurred into a strange rhythm in Winterfell.

Jaime woke each morning to the howl of northern wind rattling the thick glass panes and the distant clang of the forge. No matter how many furs he piled on the great bed, the cold still seeped in, making his joints ache in ways the Southron sun had never allowed. His body, however, was adjusting faster than his mind. The mating bite on his neck had healed into a silvery scar that throbbed faintly whenever Robb came near, a constant reminder of the bond neither of them had truly chosen.

He spent his mornings in the solar or the godswood, wrapped in thick wool and fur-trimmed cloaks that made him look more like a northern lord’s pampered pet than the Kingslayer. The servants were polite but wary. The northern lords watched him with open suspicion, as if expecting him to sprout Lannister claws and rip out their throats at any moment. Brienne of Tarth, ever the loyal shadow, trailed him at a distance, a silent comfort in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Robb was... complicated.

After that desperate night when he’d dropped to his knees and devoured Jaime until he saw stars, the Young Wolf had become gentler. He no longer slept in the chair by the fire every night. Sometimes he climbed into the great bed, keeping a careful distance unless Jaime’s scent pulled him closer in the dark. There were quiet moments, Robb’s big hand resting on Jaime’s lower back as they walked the halls, a shared trencher at meals where Robb cut choice pieces of meat for him without thinking, the way he’d press his nose to the mating mark in the mornings and inhale like it steadied him.

But the awkwardness lingered like frost on the battlements.

They still snapped at each other.

“You smell like horse,” Jaime had muttered two mornings ago when Robb returned from a dawn patrol, stripping off his snow-damp tunic.

“And you smell like you want to be bent over the table but are too proud to ask,” Robb had shot back, blue eyes flashing with heat and exhaustion before he’d stalked off to bathe.

That night they’d fucked, hard, wordless, and angry, Robb’s knot locking them together while Jaime bit his own wrist to keep from moaning too loudly. Afterwards, Robb had tried to pull him close, but Jaime had rolled away, curling into himself. The alpha had sighed, heavy and tired, and let him be.

This particular afternoon found Jaime in the solar, seated near the hearth with a book on northern histories he was pretending to read. His golden hair was braided in a simple northern style one of the servant girls had insisted on, threaded with tiny silver wolf charms that felt like mockery.

The door opened. Catelyn Stark entered, her Tully-blue eyes sharp and assessing as always. She carried herself like a queen despite the recent losses, her auburn hair pinned neatly beneath a modest veil.

“Jaime,” she greeted, voice cool but not unkind. She took the seat across from him without invitation. “You look well. The northern air agrees with you more than I expected.”

Jaime offered her a thin, sardonic smile. “High praise from the woman who once wanted my head on a spike. To what do I owe this visit, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn folded her hands in her lap. “I wished to speak with you privately. About your... duties.”

Jaime’s stomach tightened. He knew exactly where this was going.

“It has been nearly three weeks since the wedding,” she continued, her tone measured but insistent. “The bond is sealed. The maesters confirm your heats have stabilized and your scent has sweetened. Yet there is still no sign of a child. An heir would do much to silence the whispers among the bannermen. It would bind lion and wolf more firmly than any treaty.”

Jaime’s golden eyes narrowed. “I am not a broodmare, my lady. Nor is your son particularly eager to mount me every time the wind changes. We are... managing.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Managing is not enough. Robb carries the weight of the North on his shoulders. He needs stability. He needs a family. And you, as his omega, have a role to play in securing that. I have seen the way you look at him when you think no one notices. The bond is there. Let it do its work.”

Heat rose in Jaime’s cheeks, anger and something shamefully close to embarrassment. His hand drifted unconsciously to the mating mark on his neck. “Your son comes to our bed smelling of duty and battlefield mud. He fucks me like it’s another obligation to check off his endless list of kingly burdens, then leaves before dawn for more councils and ravens. Forgive me if I’m not dripping with fertility.”

Catelyn studied him for a long moment. Her expression softened, just fractionally. “He cares more than he shows. The boy was never one for masks. But this war has aged him. Give him a reason to come home to something other than maps and bad news, Jaime. A babe... a son or daughter with your golden hair and his blue eyes... it might heal more than just alliances.”

She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirts. “Think on it. The North is not kind to uncertainty.”

That evening, the awkwardness between them reached a new peak.
Robb returned earlier than usual, shoulders tight, red curls windswept. He found Jaime already undressed for bed, standing by the hearth in nothing but a thin robe. The moment the door closed, Robb’s scent surged—pine, smoke, and that deep alpha musk laced with frustration.

“Mother spoke to you,” Robb said. It wasn’t a question.

Jaime laughed bitterly. “She wants a pup. Preferably yesterday. Apparently my cunt is failing its primary diplomatic function.”

Robb crossed the room slowly, stopping just short of touching him. Up close, the exhaustion was etched deep into his face. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of golden hair behind Jaime’s ear.

“I don’t want you feeling like a prize mare,” Robb said quietly. “Not for her. Not for the alliance. Not even for me.” His thumb traced Jaime’s jaw. “But gods, Jaime... the thought of you round with my child does something to me I can’t explain.”

Jaime’s breath hitched. His omega purred at the words even as his pride bristled. “Careful, Stark. You almost sound like you want this. Like you want me.”

Robb’s blue eyes darkened. He stepped closer, backing Jaime against the warm stone of the hearth. “I do want you. Even when you’re impossible. Even when you snap at me like a cornered lion.” His hand slid down, resting possessively over Jaime’s flat belly. “And maybe one day... when this war doesn’t feel like it’s crushing my spine... I’d like to see you swollen with our babe. Watching you nurse. Knowing something good came out of all this blood.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with possibility.

Jaime swallowed, throat tight. He reached up and fisted his hand in Robb’s tunic, pulling him down into a fierce, biting kiss.

“Don’t make me wait forever, then,” he whispered against Robb’s mouth, voice rough. “But don’t you dare do it out of duty alone.”

Robb carried him to the bed as if he weighed nothing, strong arms cradling Jaime’s back and thighs. The moment his back hit the thick furs, Jaime’s golden eyes flashed with that familiar mix of defiance and hunger. He grabbed Robb by the front of his tunic and yanked him down into another bruising kiss, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. But Robb was bigger, heavier, and the alpha’s scent, crisp pine, hearth-smoke, and that deep, stormy musk of a king who’d been wound too tight for too long, flooded the room and wrapped around Jaime like chains made of velvet.

No, his mind snarled even as his body arched up. You will not melt for him like some simpering omega bitch.

Yet his legs parted anyway, knees falling open as Robb settled between them, the heavy weight of the alpha pressing him down into the mattress. Robb’s hands were everywhere, calloused palms shoving the thin robe open, mapping every inch of pale, scarred skin with something close to reverence.

“Gods, you smell good,” Robb growled against his throat, lips brushing the mating mark. He dragged his tongue over the silvery scar, and Jaime’s whole body jolted as pleasure shot straight down to his cunt. “Sweeter every day. Like warm honey and sunlight. Makes me want to bury my face between your legs for hours.”

“Shut up and fuck me if you’re going to,” Jaime hissed, but his voice cracked halfway through. His hands fisted in those fiery red curls, tugging hard enough to sting. Don’t give in. Don’t purr. Don’t whine for him.

Robb chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through Jaime’s chest. He kissed lower, sucking a mark onto the pale skin just above Jaime’s collarbone, then lower still. When his mouth closed over one pink nipple, tongue flicking and teeth grazing, Jaime bit back a moan so hard his jaw ached. Slick was already flooding from him, soaking the furs beneath his ass, the sweet golden-amber scent thickening until it drowned out everything else.

Robb noticed, of course he did. The alpha’s nostrils flared, blue eyes going dark and glassy with lust. He slid down Jaime’s body like a man possessed, broad shoulders forcing Jaime’s thighs even wider apart. Those big hands gripped the backs of his knees and pushed them up toward his chest, folding him open, exposing his dripping cunt completely.

“Robb—don’t you dare—” Jaime started, but the protest died in a strangled gasp as Robb licked a long, filthy stripe from his hole all the way up to his swollen clit. The alpha groaned like he was tasting the finest wine in the Seven Kingdoms, then dove in properly.

Jaime’s head slammed back against the pillows. His omega was screaming inside him—yes, alpha, more, please, breed me, submit, take it—while his Lannister pride thrashed and clawed. He tried to close his legs, tried to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure of Robb’s broad tongue fucking into his slick hole, but Robb simply growled and held him open, devouring him with wet, obscene sounds that filled the chamber.

“F-fuck—Stark—you greedy bastard—” Jaime panted, hips jerking despite himself. Every lap of Robb’s tongue sent sparks racing up his spine. When two thick fingers pushed inside alongside that relentless tongue, curling hard against that sensitive spot, Jaime’s back arched so sharply he nearly bowed off the bed. A broken moan tore from his throat before he could choke it down.

His omega purred loudly in his chest, loud enough that Robb must have heard it. The alpha’s responding rumble of satisfaction vibrated straight into Jaime’s cunt, making him clench hard around the invading fingers.

Traitor, Jaime thought furiously, even as fresh slick gushed onto Robb’s tongue. I am a lion. I am not supposed to—oh gods—

Robb sucked his clit between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue while his fingers pumped faster, stretching him open. Jaime’s thighs began to tremble violently. He yanked harder at Robb’s hair, torn between shoving him away and grinding against that perfect mouth.

“I hate how good you are at this,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I hate—ahh—how much I want it—”

Robb pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with slick, chin dripping. “Then stop fighting it, Jaime. Let me take care of you.” His voice was pure gravel. “Your body already knows who it belongs to.”

He added a third finger, stretching Jaime wider, scissoring and curling until the omega was whimpering despite every effort to stay quiet. The pleasure built higher and higher, coiling tight in Jaime’s belly. His omega was winning—whining, keening, flooding him with desperate need to be filled, knotted, claimed, bred.

When Robb finally rose up and stripped off his remaining clothes, Jaime’s golden eyes locked onto the massive cock jutting between the alpha’s thighs. Thick, veined, flushed dark red, the knot already swollen and glistening at the base. It looked obscene. It looked perfect.

Robb gripped Jaime’s hips and flipped him onto his stomach without warning, then hauled his ass up. Jaime snarled, trying to push up onto his elbows, but Robb’s heavy hand between his shoulder blades pushed him back down, cheek pressed to the furs.

“Like this,” Robb growled. “Need to be deep.”

The blunt head of that huge cock nudged against Jaime’s soaked entrance, rubbing through the slick, teasing. Jaime’s fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Do it then,” he spat, voice shaking. “Stop teasing and—fuck—”

Robb thrust in with one long, powerful stroke, burying half his cock in a single motion. The stretch burned beautifully, forcing Jaime’s walls to open around the thick invasion. Jaime’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, eyes wide. Robb didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, heavy balls pressed against Jaime’s skin, the swollen knot kissing his rim.

“Seven hells,” Robb groaned, forehead dropping to Jaime’s shoulder. “So tight. So wet for me. Perfect little cunt.”

Jaime’s omega sang at the praise, flooding him with endorphins and the deep, instinctive urge to present, to submit, to take every drop of seed. He fought it viciously, snarling through clenched teeth even as his hips pushed back, fucking himself on Robb’s cock.

“Move, damn you,” he demanded.

Robb gave him exactly what he asked for.

The first few thrusts were deep and measured, letting Jaime feel every inch dragging against his sensitive walls. Then the pace turned brutal, hard, snapping strokes that punched the air out of Jaime’s lungs. The sound of skin slapping skin, wet and filthy, mixed with Jaime’s broken moans and Robb’s low growls. Every thrust ground the head of Robb’s cock against that spot inside him that made his vision spark white.

Jaime’s omega was winning the war. He started pushing back to meet every thrust, ass raised high, back arched like a whore in heat. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of his eyes.

“I—fuck—I hate you,” he gasped between moans, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue.
Robb leaned over him, chest to Jaime’s back, red curls spilling over golden hair. One big hand reached around to rub Jaime’s neglected clit while the other pinned his wrist to the bed.

“Liar,” Robb breathed against his ear, biting the lobe. “You’re dripping down my balls. Clenching so sweetly. Your omega wants this so badly. Wants my knot. Wants my pup.”

The words hit like a lance. Jaime’s pride shattered further as his body betrayed him completely, cunt spasming, more slick gushing with every punishing thrust. He came hard with a choked cry, vision blurring, walls milking Robb’s cock rhythmically.

Robb didn’t slow. He fucked Jaime through the orgasm and straight into another building peak, hips snapping relentlessly. The knot was swelling larger now, catching on every pull-out, stretching Jaime’s rim wider and wider.

When Robb finally slammed in deep and the knot popped inside, locking them together, Jaime screamed into the furs. The burn was exquisite. The pressure against every sensitive inch inside him was too much and not enough all at once. Robb ground in tight little circles, the knot tugging deliciously at his rim while hot pulses of come flooded Jaime’s belly.

Jaime’s second orgasm crashed over him even harder, drawn out endlessly by the thick knot pressing relentlessly against that bundle of nerves inside of him. His omega purred loud and shameless now, utterly content, while the last shreds of Jaime’s conscious pride whispered weak protests that dissolved into bliss.

Robb kept rocking into him, arms wrapped tight around Jaime’s chest, teeth grazing the mating mark as he whispered filthy, tender things against sweat-damp skin.

“That’s it… take my knot… good omega… so beautiful like this… going to fill you until you’re swollen with me…”

They stayed locked together for a long time, Robb’s weight comforting, his scent soothing, his knot pulsing steadily. Jaime lay boneless beneath him, panting, golden hair sticking to his flushed face. Every small shift of the knot sent aftershocks through him.

His omega was blissfully quiet for once.

Jaime, however, still had enough fire left to mutter hoarsely into the furs.

“…If you ever tell anyone I moaned like that… I’ll cut your knot off, Stark.”

Robb’s low, exhausted laugh vibrated through both of them. He pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the back of Jaime’s neck.

“Noted, husband.”

The fire had burned low by the time the knot went down enough for Robb to carefully pull out. Thick rivulets of come and slick leaked from Jaime’s puffy, well-fucked cunt onto the ruined sheets. Robb cleaned them both with a warm cloth, then pulled Jaime against his chest despite the weak protests.

For once, Jaime let himself be held. Just for tonight.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell felt unusually warm that evening, despite the ever-present northern chill pressing against the thick stone walls. Several days had passed since that intense night by the hearth, days filled with the same careful dance between Jaime and Robb. Mornings brought clipped conversations and shared breakfasts where Robb would push extra bread and honey toward him without comment. Evenings often ended with heated touches in the dark, Robb’s knot locking them together while Jaime fought every instinct to simply melt into the alpha’s chest afterward. The bond was strengthening, whether Jaime liked it or not. His scent had sweetened further, golden-amber now laced with something unmistakably Stark—pine and smoke woven through it like threads in a tapestry.

Yet the awkwardness remained. Robb still carried the weight of the North on his shoulders, disappearing for long hours into councils and patrols. Jaime still snapped when the silence grew too loud, masking the growing pull he felt every time Robb’s scent wrapped around him.

Today, a new tension had arrived with the banners of House Manderly.

Lord Wyman Manderly had come south from White Harbor with a sizable retinue, seeking stronger ties to the Young Wolf’s cause and bringing trade offers of fish, salt, and silver. The hall was lively with their presence, laughter a little louder, tables groaning under additional platters of pike, lamprey pie, and roasted boar. Banners of the merman fluttered beside the direwolf and the occasional lion.

Jaime sat at Robb’s left in the high seats, dressed in a fine tunic of deep crimson and grey that the seamstresses had insisted upon. His golden hair was braided neatly, the mating mark on his neck visible above the collar, deliberately so, he told himself. He picked at his food with calculated disinterest, golden eyes scanning the hall.

That was when he noticed her.

Lady Alysanne Manderly, the lord’s eldest omega daughter. Eighteen, curvaceous in the soft northern style, with rich brown curls pinned beneath a delicate veil and warm hazel eyes that kept drifting toward the head table. Her scent was pleasant and strong, sweet vanilla and fresh-baked bread, the kind that spoke of fertility and gentle breeding. She laughed at something Robb said during the welcoming speeches, a light, musical sound that carried across the hall. When the formalities ended and the feasting truly began, she was bold enough to approach the high table under the guise of offering a gift, a finely carved walrus-ivory drinking horn banded in silver.

“For the Young Wolf,” she said sweetly, curtsying low enough that the swell of her breasts was prominently displayed. “White Harbor stands with you, Your Grace. As do I.”

Robb, ever the courteous king, accepted the gift with a warm smile and a dip of his head. “The North thanks you, Lady Alysanne. Your father’s support means much in these times.” His voice was polite, kingly, but there was a natural charm to it, the same charm that had once made lords and smallfolk alike rally to his banners.

Jaime’s fingers tightened around his goblet until the silver creaked.

His omega stirred violently inside his chest, a low, possessive growl building in his throat that he barely swallowed down. Mine. That red-haired alpha is mine. That knot. That bite. That cock. The thoughts came unbidden, primal and ugly, clashing hard against his Lannister pride. He was no jealous little omega bitch pining after her mate. He was Jaime Lannister. He had killed kings and bathed in their blood. He should not care if some plump northern girl fluttered her lashes at Robb Stark.

Yet the jealousy burned like wildfire in his veins.

He watched as Alysanne lingered, asking Robb about the battles in the Riverlands, leaning just a fraction too close. Her vanilla scent drifted toward the high table, cloying and sweet, trying, whether consciously or not, to overlay itself against Robb’s crisp pine-smoke. Robb answered graciously, gesturing occasionally toward his advisors, but his bright Tully-blue eyes flicked once toward Jaime, as if checking for his reaction.

Jaime met that gaze with a cool, sardonic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful, husband,” he murmured under his breath when Alysanne finally returned to her father’s table. “The merman’s daughter looks ready to present herself on the table. Shall I fetch a pillow for her knees?”

Robb’s jaw tightened. He reached under the table and rested a large, calloused hand on Jaime’s thigh, squeezing once. “She’s being polite, Jaime. Her father commands one of the largest fleets we have left. I won’t insult them.”

“Polite,” Jaime repeated, voice dripping venom. “Is that what they call it when a woman all but rubs herself against another omega's mate in the middle of the hall?” His own scent had sharpened, golden-amber turning metallic at the edges, the sour note of jealousy cutting through the sweetness the bond had brought.

Robb’s hand slid higher on his thigh, hidden by the tablecloth, thumb stroking in slow, soothing circles. “You’re mine,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only Jaime could hear. The words should have infuriated him. Instead, they made his cunt clench traitorously, a fresh trickle of slick warming between his thighs. His omega preened at the claim even as Jaime’s pride rebelled.

“I know that,” Jaime snapped softly. “You know that. Apparently Lady Alysanne needs a reminder. Or perhaps you enjoy the attention. A soft, biddable northern omega who would never call you a savage or threaten to cut your knot off.”

Robb turned his head, blue eyes darkening with a mix of frustration and heat. “The only omega I want calling me names is the one currently dripping on my fingers because he’s too proud to admit he’s jealous.”

Jaime’s breath hitched. Robb’s hand had indeed slipped beneath his breeches, two thick fingers teasing through the slick already gathering at his entrance. Right there, in the middle of the damn hall. The alpha’s scent surged possessively, drowning out the vanilla entirely.

“Stop,” Jaime hissed, thighs pressing together instinctively even as his hips twitched forward. “Not here.”

“Then stop snarling like I’m about to run off and mount her in the godswood.” Robb withdrew his hand slowly, deliberately licking the slick from his fingers before picking up his goblet as if nothing had happened. “You’re the one wearing my bite. You’re the one I knot every night I can. Don’t insult us both by thinking some visiting girl changes that.”

Jaime looked away, cheeks burning. The jealousy still simmered, ugly and unfamiliar. His omega was pacing restlessly, demanding he drag Robb away, demand to be fucked and marked again right now so the entire hall could smell who the Young Wolf belonged to. The rational part of him, the lion, hated how much he wanted exactly that.

Later, when the music started and some of the younger guests rose to dance, Alysanne’s eyes found Robb again. She smiled hopefully in his direction.

Robb stood, but instead of offering his hand to her, he turned to Jaime. “Dance with me, Jaime.”

Jaime blinked, surprised. “I don’t dance for the amusement of northerners.”

“You’ll dance for me,” Robb said, voice firm but soft around the edges. He extended his large hand.

After a long, stubborn moment, Jaime took it. As Robb pulled him toward the cleared space, one arm settling possessively around his waist, Jaime allowed himself to lean into the alpha’s warmth just slightly. Over Robb’s shoulder, he caught Lady Alysanne’s disappointed expression.

His omega finally settled, purring with satisfaction.

But as they moved slowly to the music, Jaime pressed his lips close to Robb’s ear and whispered, “If she looks at you like that again, I will remind her exactly whose cunt you spend every night filling. And I won’t be gentle about it.”

Robb’s grip tightened on his waist, a low growl vibrating through his chest. “Good.”

The jealousy didn’t vanish entirely. It lingered like a spark in dry grass, ready to flare again, forcing Jaime to confront just how deeply the bond had already sunk its claws into him. Whether he admitted it aloud or not, Robb Stark was no longer just a political necessity.

He was his.

...

The morning after the Manderly feast dawned grey and cold, as most mornings in Winterfell did. Jaime slipped from the great bed while Robb still slept heavily, the Young Wolf’s broad chest rising and falling in exhausted slumber. His body ached in that familiar, satisfying way, thighs sore, cunt still tender and faintly leaking the remnants of Robb’s spend from the fervent way they’d come together after the dancing. The alpha had been particularly possessive last night, as if determined to ease every speck of doubt that Lady Alysanne’s forced into Jaime's head.

Jaime dressed quietly in layers of wool and fur, braiding his golden hair with quick, practiced fingers. He glanced once at Robb’s sleeping face, red curls splayed across the pillow, strong jaw relaxed in sleep, and felt an unwelcome twist in his chest. Mine, his omega whispered contentedly. Jaime ignored it, as he always did, and slipped out of the Lord’s chambers.

The corridor was dimly lit by torches, the stone floors cold even through his boots. He had barely taken ten steps toward the solar when he heard the crisp click of heels behind him.

Jaime closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled through his nose. Of course.

“Lord Jaime,” Catelyn’s voice called out, measured and courteous. She quickened her pace to fall into step beside him, her auburn hair neatly veiled, posture impeccable despite the early hour.

“Lady Catelyn,” he replied, inclining his head with the bare minimum of warmth expected of a good son-in-law. His voice remained smooth, almost pleasant, though he could not quite hide the faint weariness in it. “You're up early.”

“As are you. I hoped we might speak before the hall fills with guests.” She studied his face for a moment, her Tully-blue eyes sharp. “You look… rested. The bond appears to be agreeing with you more each day.”

Jaime offered a thin smile. “The North is growing on me. Like frostbite.” He kept walking, hands clasped behind his back. “What troubles you this morning, my lady?”

Catelyn did not waste time on pleasantries. “The same matter as always. Time is passing, Jaime. Nearly a moon since the wedding and the claiming. Your scent has sweetened considerably, yet your belly remains flat. The bannermen whisper. An heir would silence them far more effectively than any display of affection in the hall last night.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. The casual mention of last night’s dancing, and the jealousy that had driven him into Robb’s arms afterward, stung more than he cared to admit. His steps did not falter, but his golden eyes narrowed slightly.

“I assure you, we are doing our duty,” he said coolly, though the words tasted bitter. “Your son is… thorough when the mood takes him. Perhaps the old gods simply require more time. Or perhaps they enjoy watching a Lannister omega squirm under northern expectations.”

Catelyn’s expression softened by a fraction, but her voice remained firm. “I do not say this to torment you. A child would give you purpose here. It would give Robb something to fight for beyond endless wars and fragile alliances. You can carry the blood of lions and wolves now. Do not underestimate how powerful that combination could be.”

Jaime stopped walking and turned to face her fully, arms crossing over his chest. The mating mark on his neck itched faintly. “I am not a broodmare, Lady Catelyn. No matter how many times you repeat the words. I was a knight of the Kingsguard. I was the Kingslayer. Now I am… this.” He gestured at himself with a sharp flick of his wrist. “I spread my legs for your son when he wishes it. I wear his bite. Must I also swell and whelp on command to earn my place?”

A heavy silence stretched between them. Catelyn studied him, her gaze not entirely unsympathetic.

“There is more,” she said finally. “A raven arrived at first light. From Casterly Rock.”

Jaime’s stomach dropped. The air in the corridor suddenly felt colder.

“My father,” he stated flatly. It wasn’t a question.

Catelyn nodded and withdrew a sealed letter from the sleeve of her gown. The crimson wax bore the unmistakable lion sigil. “It is addressed to you. Lord Tywin writes that he expects regular reports on the stability of the alliance… and on your condition. He makes it clear that he considers this marriage an investment. One that should yield results.”

Jaime stared at the letter as though it were a live viper. His father’s handwriting was unmistakable even from the outside, precise, merciless. The man who had bartered him away like a prized mare to secure northern strength against the Lannisters’ remaining enemies. The man who had looked him in the eye and said it was the only useful thing left for a disgraced omega son to do.

He took the letter with stiff fingers, the parchment feeling heavier than it should.

"Thank you for delivering it personally,” Jaime said, voice carefully controlled. The Lannister mask slid back into place, cool, mocking, untouchable. “I shall read it at once. Perhaps my lord father has sent new instructions on how best to position my hips while your son breeds me. He always did excel at strategy.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Whatever your father’s intentions, this is your home now. Robb is your husband. Do not let old ghosts undermine what is growing between you.”

Jaime gave a short, bitter laugh. “Growing? How optimistic.” He tucked the letter into his own sleeve, already dreading the moment he would break the seal. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady. I suddenly find myself in need of fresh air before I read my father’s tender words.”

He turned on his heel and continued down the corridor, spine straight, golden head held high. Inside, however, his omega was restless, torn between the lingering warmth of Robb’s claim and the cold shadow of Tywin Lannister reaching all the way from the Rock to remind him exactly why he was here.

A babe. An alliance. A cage gilded with direwolf furs.

Jaime’s hand drifted unconsciously to rest over his still-flat stomach for a brief moment before he caught himself and dropped it.

“Damn you all,” he whispered under his breath as he pushed open the door to the upper battlements, letting the sharp northern wind whip across his face.

Chapter Text

The day dragged on like a dull blade across skin.

Jaime had carried the sealed letter in his sleeve since morning, its weight a constant, maddening presence against his wrist. Every time his fingers brushed the crisp parchment, something inside him recoiled. Tywin Lannister’s words. Tywin’s expectations. Tywin’s reminder that his golden son had been sold north like a broodmare to buy an army. He couldn’t open it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he walked.

He wandered the length of Winterfell’s walls, cloak pulled tight against the biting wind, golden hair whipping loose from its braid. He lingered in the godswood, staring at the heart tree’s carved face until the red sap eyes seemed to stare back in judgment. He visited the stables and ran a brush over his own horse with mechanical strokes, ignoring the curious glances of grooms. He even spent an hour in the armory watching the blacksmiths work, the clang of steel a poor substitute for the tourneys and battles of his old life.

By the time the sun had sunk behind the Wolfswood, painting the sky in bruised purples and greys, Jaime’s feet ached and his temper had sharpened to a razor’s edge. The letter still lay unopened in his chambers.

He returned to the Lord’s solar as the evening meal was being cleared away. Robb was already there, seated at the table with maps and letters spread before him, red curls pushed back messily, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He looked up when Jaime entered, blue eyes softening for a moment.

“You’ve been gone all day,” Robb said, voice rough from hours of speaking. “I sent a man to look for you after the council.”

“How thoughtful,” Jaime replied, voice light and cutting. He crossed to the hearth and poured himself a cup of mulled wine, keeping his back to the alpha. “Did you manage to tear yourself away from your precious bannermen long enough to notice I was missing? Or did one of your loyal dogs inform you?”

Robb exhaled slowly. “Jaime…”

“No, truly. I’m flattered.” Jaime took a long sip, staring into the flames. His scent had turned sharp again, that bitter metallic edge creeping back beneath the golden-amber. “A king has duties, after all. Far more important ones than checking whether his lion wife has thrown himself from the battlements out of sheer boredom.”

Robb pushed his chair back and stood. The heavy wooden legs scraped loudly against the stone. “I was in council until well past midday. The Manderlys want guarantees, the Glovers are still complaining about grazing rights near the Neck, and there are reports of Ironborn reavers near Sea Dragon Point. I can’t simply abandon everything because you decided to sulk around the castle all day.”

“Sulk?” Jaime turned sharply, golden eyes flashing. “Is that what you call it when your husband disappears for an entire day and you don’t even bother to wonder why?”

“I did wonder,” Robb growled, stepping closer. “I sent someone looking for you. Twice. But I cannot drop every responsibility the moment you feel neglected, Jaime. This is what being king means. This is what holding the North together means.”

Jaime laughed, bitter and hollow. “Of course. The great Young Wolf and his endless burdens. How silly of me to expect even an hour of your time. Tell me, did Lady Alysanne flutter her lashes at you again during council? Perhaps she’d make a more understanding wife. One who doesn’t mind playing second to maps and ravens.”

Robb’s jaw clenched. “There it is. Still jealous over nothing. I danced with you. I came back to you last night. I knot you. What more do you want from me?”

The words struck harder than Jaime expected. He set the wine cup down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. For a moment the fight drained out of him, leaving only raw exhaustion and something dangerously close to hurt.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, then hated himself for it. His voice dropped, edged with mockery to cover the crack. “Perhaps I want the man who married me to be present more than once every few days. Or perhaps I want to stop feeling like a decorative whore who only exists when your cock needs warming.”

Robb stared at him, chest heaving. The argument hung thick between them for several heartbeats. Then the alpha dragged a hand roughly through his red curls and let out a long, tired sigh. The fight visibly left his shoulders.

“Jaime… I’m sorry.” His voice was quieter now, rough with sincerity. “You’re right. I’ve been gone too much. This war, the councils, the letters from every corner of the realm—it never ends. But that’s no excuse for leaving you alone in a place that still feels like enemy territory to you.” He crossed the remaining distance and reached out, hesitating before resting one large hand on Jaime’s arm. “I’m trying. I swear it. But I’m not… I’m not very good at this yet.”

Jaime looked away, throat tight. The apology should have soothed him. Instead it only made the ache worse. His omega whimpered inside, wanting nothing more than to lean into that broad chest and let Robb’s scent drown out everything else. His pride, however, was crumbling.

“I want to go home,” he whispered before he could stop himself. The words slipped out broken and small.

Robb’s hand tightened on his arm. “Jaime…”

“I know I can’t,” Jaime continued, voice cracking despite his best efforts. “I know this is my cage now. But some days… gods, some days I miss the South so badly it hurts. The warmth. The Lannister banners. Even my father’s cold fucking expectations feel like something familiar.” His breath hitched. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, furious at the sting of unshed tears. “I wasn’t made for this. For snow and silence and waiting every night to see if my husband will remember I exist. I was meant to be… more than this.”

The letter from Tywin suddenly felt like a brand against his skin.

Robb pulled him forward without another word, wrapping strong arms around him. Jaime resisted for half a heartbeat, stiff, proud, before his body betrayed him. He sagged against the alpha’s chest, face buried in the crook of Robb’s neck, inhaling that comforting pine-smoke scent like a dying man.

“I’m here now,” Robb murmured against his hair, one big hand rubbing slow circles over his back. “I’m right here. We’ll read the letter together if you want. Or burn it. Whatever you need tonight.”

Jaime didn’t answer. He simply clung tighter, the proud Kingslayer reduced to a trembling omega in his husband’s arms, the weight of the unopened letter, the North, and the life he’d lost pressing down on him all at once.

For several long breaths he let himself stay there, surrounded by Robb’s warmth and scent, his omega purring desperately at the comfort. Then pride, sharp, familiar, and cruel, reasserted itself. He pulled back abruptly, slipping from Robb’s arms as if the embrace had burned him. He turned away, dragging a hand down his face and composing himself with visible effort. The Lannister mask slid back into place, though it was cracked at the edges.

“I know what the letter says,” Jaime said, voice low and edged with bitterness. He paced a few steps toward the hearth, arms wrapping around his own chest. “I don’t need to open it to know. More demands. More instructions. More reminders that I was sold to you like a broodmare and that I’m failing at even that simple task.”

Robb watched him, blue eyes heavy with concern. “Jaime…”

“It’s not as if I’ve been drinking moon tea behind your back, Stark,” Jaime continued, the words coming faster, sharper, like he was trying to cut the vulnerability out of the air. “I haven’t been preventing it. I let you knot me. I let you fill me night after night. My cunt has been dripping with your seed more often than not, and still—” He laughed, short and ugly. “Still nothing. No swelling. No pup. Just my father’s disappointment reaching all the way from Casterly Rock to remind me what a waste I’ve become.”

He stopped pacing and stared into the fire, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His golden-amber scent had soured again, threaded through with frustration and shame. Inside, his omega whined pitifully—give him a pup, submit, make him happy, make the alpha stay—while Jaime’s mind recoiled from the very idea. He was no common breeding omega. He had been a legend. Now he was reduced to this, waiting for his womb to catch, terrified of what it would mean if it finally did.

Robb moved closer but didn’t try to touch him again. “You’re not a failure,” he said quietly. “It’s only been a moon, Jaime. These things take time. The maesters say—”

“I don’t give a damn what the maesters say,” Jaime snapped, whirling on him. His golden eyes were bright with unshed anger. “My father certainly won’t. He’ll see it as weakness. Another way his defective omega son has disappointed him. First the Kingsguard, then this. He’ll write again in another moon, and another, until I’m swollen like a prize sow or until he decides I’m useless and tries to barter for me back.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Robb’s broad shoulders sagged slightly, the exhaustion of the day still carved into his face. He ran a hand through his red curls, tugging at them in that familiar frustrated gesture.

“I won’t let him take you back,” Robb said, voice low and firm. “You’re my husband. Not his to trade anymore.” He hesitated, then added more gently, “And I don’t need a babe to want you here. I know it’s been… hard. For both of us.”

Jaime’s laugh was brittle. “How noble. The Young Wolf doesn’t need an heir. Tell that to your mother. Tell that to the lords who look at me like I’m a broken investment. Tell that to the part of me that feels like it’s failing every time I wake up still flat.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach unconsciously, then caught himself and dropped it with a scowl. The movement didn’t escape Robb’s notice. The alpha stepped forward again and this time Jaime didn’t pull away when Robb gently covered that same hand with his own much larger one, pressing their joined palms over Jaime’s flat belly.

“Then we’ll keep trying,” Robb murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against Jaime’s temple. “Not because your father demands it. Not because my mother pesters you. Because… maybe one day you’ll want it too. With me.”

Jaime closed his eyes, throat tight. His omega surged at the words, flooding him with warmth and needy images, round with Robb’s pup, safe in these arms, claimed so thoroughly no one could ever question it again. He hated how much the thought appealed to him now.

“Don’t be kind to me right now, Stark,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to handle it.”

Robb kissed him then, slow, deep, and patient. Not the frenzied claiming of jealous nights, but something steadier. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against Jaime’s.

“Open the letter or don’t,” Robb said. “Burn it if you want. But you’re not facing him alone anymore. And you’re not failing. Not to me.”

Jaime exhaled shakily, leaning into the solid warmth of his husband.  He didn’t pull away when Robb guided him toward their bed. Not tonight.

...

The next morning, Jaime woke to an empty bed.

The furs on Robb’s side were already cold, the indent of his large body the only evidence he had slept there at all. A single red hair lay on the pillow like a taunt. Jaime stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight, before rolling out of bed with a quiet curse. No note. No warm hand on his hip. No murmured apology about councils or patrols. Just the endless northern wind rattling the shutters and the hollow ache of another day stretching ahead.

He dressed slowly, methodically, layers of fine wool dyed in crimson and grey, a heavy cloak lined with wolf fur. The mating mark on his neck was visible, as it always was now. He touched it once, absently, then dropped his hand. The letter from Tywin still sat sealed on the table by the hearth. He ignored it.

By the time he stepped into the corridor, he had almost convinced himself the day might pass quietly.

He was wrong.

"Lord Jaime! My lord!”

The voice was bright, eager, and far too close. Jaime had barely made it halfway down the hall toward the solar when a stout, middle-aged woman in a simple grey dress and white apron hurried after him, skirts swishing. She carried a large basket over one arm and moved with surprising speed for her build.

Jaime lengthened his stride, golden eyes narrowing. “Not now.”

“But my lord, Lady Catelyn sent me!” the woman called, undeterred. She caught up with him at the top of the stairs, slightly breathless but beaming. “I’m Goodwife Marta, newly arrived from White Harbor. I’ve served as nursemaid and midwife to three generations of Manderly omegas and several Stark cousins. Lady Catelyn thought it best I begin your instruction at once.”

Jaime stopped so abruptly the woman nearly collided with his back. He turned slowly, expression carved from ice.

“My instruction,” he repeated, voice dangerously soft.

Goodwife Marta bobbed a curtsy, completely unfazed by his tone. “Aye, my lord. On the care of babes. Swaddling, feeding, recognizing the signs of colic, teething, all the rest. Of course, as the King’s omega you needn’t dirty your hands with any of it if you don’t wish. Wet nurses and servants will handle the day-to-day. But Lady Catelyn believed you might like to know the basics. Especially with the way young Lord Robb looks at you these days.”

Jaime’s face burned. His scent spiked sharply, golden-amber flashing into something metallic and furious. He wasn’t even pregnant. His belly was still flat, his heats carefully managed by the maesters, and yet here was this smiling, well-meaning woman chasing him through the corridors of Winterfell with a basket full of—what? Baby linens?

“I am not with child,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Not yet, my lord,” Marta replied cheerfully. “But the gods willing, soon enough. Best to be prepared! Come, I’ve brought soft cloths and a practice doll. We can start with proper swaddling technique. Many omegas find it soothing to learn these things. Helps the instincts settle.”

Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. His omega was traitorously curious, a warm flutter low in his belly at the mere mention of babes, while his Lannister pride wanted to throw the woman down the stairs.

“I do not need instruction on how to wrap a piece of cloth around an infant,” he bit out. “And I certainly do not need it today.”

Marta tilted her head, sympathetic but persistent. “Lady Catelyn was most insistent, my lord. She said the sooner you begin to think on these matters, the easier the transition will be when the time comes. You’ll want to know how to hold the babe against your chest for bonding, how to recognize when your milk comes in properly, when it’s safe to let the alpha help with night feedings—”

“Enough.” Jaime’s voice cracked like a whip. He took a step back, heart hammering. The mental image hit him hard, swollen belly, heavy with Robb’s pup. Milk leaking from his chest. A tiny red-haired infant at his breast while the entire North watched and judged whether the lion could mother properly.

His cunt clenched involuntarily. His omega purred.

Jaime wanted to scream.

“I am not breeding stock,” he hissed, more to himself than to the nursemaid. “I have killed men in single combat. I have worn the white cloak. I will not be chased through my own halls and lectured on swaddling when my husband cannot even be bothered to stay in our bed until I wake.”

Goodwife Marta’s expression softened into something almost pitying. “Many alphas are busy in wartime, my lord. But they always come home to their omegas and babes. It’s the way of things.”

Jaime turned on his heel and continued walking, the nursemaid following doggedly behind him like a particularly stubborn sheep.

“I’ll be off now,” he said coldly over his shoulder. “Alone. If you follow me, I will throw your practice doll into the hot springs and watch it sink.”

Marta stopped at the doorway to the inner courtyard, wisely deciding not to push further for now. “As you wish, my lord. But I’ll be available whenever you’re ready. Lady Catelyn asked me to check on you daily until the babe takes.”

Jaime didn’t dignify that with a response. He strode out into the cold, the wind whipping at his cloak, and made straight for the godswood. Only when he was deep among the ancient trees, far from prying eyes and overly helpful nursemaids, did he lean against the heart tree and press both hands over his still-flat stomach.

His breath came shaky.

“Seven hells… give me strength before I murder someone,” he whispered bitterly to the carved face above him.

...

Later that afternoon, Jaime had barely found a moment of peace.

He was sitting on a weathered stone bench in a quiet corner of the godswood, cloak wrapped tightly around him, pretending to read the same page of a northern history book for the third time. The heart tree loomed behind him like a silent witness to his suffering.

For once, even the wind had quieted.

Then the peace shattered.

“Lord Jaime! Lord Jaime, there you are!”

The unmistakable voice of Goodwife Marta rang through the sacred grove like an overly cheerful warhorn. Jaime’s head snapped up. The woman was marching toward him with the determination of a charging boar, basket swinging on her arm, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Seven hells,” Jaime muttered under his breath. “Does this woman never tire?”

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, my lord!” Marta called brightly, completely ignoring the sacred atmosphere of the godswood. “Lady Catelyn asked me to make sure you weren’t avoiding your lessons. You can’t spend all day brooding under the weirwood, you know. It’s not good for the womb.”

Jaime closed the book with a sharp snap. “My womb is currently unoccupied and intends to stay that way for the foreseeable future. Go away.”

Marta planted her hands on her wide hips and gave him the same look she probably gave stubborn toddlers. “Now, my lord, I won’t be chased off again. We’ll only do a short lesson today. Just the basics of holding and swaddling. Then I’ll leave you be for the rest of the day. You have my word.”

Jaime stared at her. She stared back, utterly undeterred. He could practically hear Catelyn’s voice behind every cheerful syllable.

He exhaled through his nose, long and suffering. “If I let you do this ridiculous little performance, you will disappear until tomorrow. No more chasing. No more shouting my name across Winterfell like a fishwife. Agreed?”

Marta beamed. “Agreed, my lord!”

“Fine.” Jaime stood with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution. “Let’s get this over with.”

They moved to a more sheltered spot beneath the branches. Marta spread a thick wool blanket over the stone and pulled out her cursed practice doll, a lumpy, linen-stuffed thing with a painted face and a mop of wool hair that was supposed to resemble a babe. Jaime looked at it with open disgust.

“You expect me to practice on that?”

“Well, I can’t exactly borrow a real babe from one of the servants, now can I?” Marta said cheerfully, thrusting the doll into his arms. “Hold him properly— support the head, my lord. Yes, like that. See? Not so difficult.”

Jaime held the doll at arm’s length like it might bite him. “This is absurd. It doesn’t even weigh anything. A real child would squirm and piss on me, I imagine.”

“Most do,” Marta agreed happily. “That’s why we swaddle them snug. Here— let me show you.”

She demonstrated the technique with practiced hands, wrapping the doll tightly in soft cloth until it resembled a sausage. Then she unwrapped it and passed it back to Jaime.

“Your turn, my lord.”

Jaime’s golden eyes narrowed at the linen abomination. “This thing is hideous. It looks like an unfortunate turnip.”

Marta snorted a laugh despite herself. “It’s not meant to be pretty, my lord. It’s meant to teach you. Now wrap it before it catches a chill.”

With exaggerated reluctance and a theatrical sigh that could have earned applause in King’s Landing, Jaime attempted to swaddle the doll. The cloth immediately bunched awkwardly. One arm stuck out at a strange angle.

“It’s mocking me,” he muttered. “Look at its stupid painted face. It’s judging me.”

“You’re thinking too hard,” Marta said, stepping in to adjust his hands. “Gentler. Like you’re holding something precious. There. Much better.”

Jaime stared down at the now-properly swaddled turnip-babe. His omega gave a traitorous little flutter of warmth at the sight, which only made him more irritated.

“I feel ridiculous,” he announced. “The Kingslayer, reduced to playing nursemaid with a stuffed doll in the godswood. If anyone ever hears of this, I will have you exiled to the Wall.”

Marta grinned, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Your secret is safe with me, my lord. Though between you and me, most new omegas are terrible at this the first few times. You’re doing better than Lady Manderly was.”

Jaime handed the doll back as if it had personally offended him. “There. Lesson complete. You may now vanish as promised.”

Marta packed everything away with a satisfied nod. “Very good, my lord. Tomorrow we can talk about recognizing the signs of a healthy pregnancy and how to ease the aches when your belly gets heavy.”

Jaime’s eye twitched. “Tomorrow is tomorrow’s problem. Begone, woman.”

As Marta curtsied and finally retreated down the path, humming cheerfully to herself, Jaime slumped back onto the bench and dragged both hands down his face.

“Do the ancient gods truly enjoy my suffering so much?” He asked the heart tree conversationally. The carved face offered no opinion, but Jaime could have sworn the wind sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Chapter Text

The next day dawned brighter than usual, a weak northern sun filtering through the clouds. Jaime had risen early, hoping to slip away before the castle fully woke. He dressed quickly and made it as far as the inner courtyard before fate, or rather, Catelyn’s relentless machinations, caught up with him again.

“Lord Jaime! Perfect timing!”

Goodwife Marta’s voice carried across the yard like a battle cry. She was walking briskly toward him, but this time she wasn’t alone. Cradled securely in her arms was a small, blanketed bundle. A real one. With a tiny, chubby fist waving lazily in the air.

Jaime stopped dead in his tracks, golden eyes widening. “What in the seven hells is that?”

Marta beamed, adjusting the bundle with practiced ease. “This is little William, Will, for short. Son of one of the kitchen maids. Born just three moons ago. Healthy as a little bull, this one.”

Jaime stared at the baby, then at Marta, then back at the baby. His brows drew together in open suspicion.

“And you just… have him? You walked out of the nursery with someone else’s infant like it’s a loaf of bread?” He took a cautious step back. “Did you steal him? Is this some bizarre northern custom I wasn’t warned about?”

Marta huffed, her round face flushing with indignation. “I am a proper woman, my lord! I asked permission, of course. His mother is more than happy for the King’s omega to get some practice. She’s nursing twins and could use the help.” She clicked her tongue. “Really, Lord Jaime. Not everything is a conspiracy.”

Jaime still looked deeply skeptical, but his gaze kept drifting back to the baby. Little Will had a shock of dark hair, round cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and wide, curious brown eyes. He was… disgustingly adorable.

Marta didn’t wait for permission. She closed the distance and, with surprising boldness, deposited the warm bundle straight into Jaime’s arms.

“Here. Support his head — yes, just like that. See? You remembered from the doll.”

Jaime froze, arms suddenly full of soft, squirming warmth. The baby’s scent hit him like a wave, sweet milk, innocence, and that unmistakable new-babe smell that made his omega sit up and whine with immediate, overwhelming interest.

“Gods,” Jaime muttered, instinctively adjusting his hold so the infant was nestled securely against his chest. “He’s… bigger than the doll.”

Marta chuckled. “Babes usually are. Now, he’s starting to fuss. Would you like to try feeding him, my lord? I brought a bottle of goat’s milk.”

Jaime opened his mouth to protest, something sharp and Lannister, but the baby let out a tiny, pitiful whimper and nuzzled against his chest, mouth seeking. His omega responded instantly, a deep, instinctive purr rumbling in his throat before he could stop it. Heat flooded his cheeks.

“I — this is ridiculous,” he hissed, even as he let Marta guide him toward a nearby stone bench. “I am not some nursemaid.”

“No one said you had to be,” Marta replied calmly, handing him the small bottle. “But you’re doing beautifully. Look how calm he is already.”

Jaime sat, cradling little Will with far more gentleness than he wanted to show. The baby latched onto the bottle with greedy little sucks, one tiny hand curling around Jaime’s finger. The golden-amber of his scent sweetened dramatically, rich and warm, curling around the infant protectively.

His omega was ecstatic. Images flashed through his mind unbidden, his own belly round and heavy, a red-haired babe with bright blue eyes nursing at his chest, Robb’s large hand resting proudly over the swell. The urge to purr grew stronger. He fought it viciously, but a soft, involuntary rumble still escaped.

“Traitor,” Jaime whispered down at the baby, though there was no real heat in it. “You’re conspiring with them, aren’t you?”

Marta watched with a knowing, satisfied smile. “He likes you, my lord. Babes can sense a good omega. You’ve got the touch, and a good teacher, I suppose.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Or me.” Jaime’s voice was still sharp, but his eyes had gone soft as he watched the infant feed. “This doesn’t mean anything. I’m only doing this so you’ll stop hounding me through the castle like a lost hound.”

“Of course, my lord,” Marta said, far too innocently. “Though I notice you haven’t handed him back yet.”

Jaime didn’t reply. He simply adjusted the baby’s blanket, tucking it more securely around the tiny shoulders against the chill. Little Will finished the bottle with a satisfied gurgle, then turned his face into Jaime’s chest and let out a soft sigh.

Jaime’s omega melted completely. The purr returned, louder this time, vibrating through his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his cheek lightly against the baby’s soft head, breathing in that innocent scent.

“…He smells nice,” he admitted grudgingly, barely above a whisper.

Marta’s smile widened, but she wisely said nothing more. She simply sat beside him, letting the proud, reluctant lion hold the babe while the godswood watched in quiet approval.

For the first time in many days, the knot of tension in Jaime’s chest loosened, if only a little. Even if he would rather die than admit it.

“Tell no one about this,” Jaime warned Marta later, as he finally, reluctantly, handed the sleeping infant back. “Especially not Lady Catelyn, or my husband.”

Marta just winked. “Your secret is safe with me, my lord.”

...

That night, the Lord’s chambers were warm and quiet, the fire crackling steadily against the ever-present howl of the northern wind. Jaime was already in bed when Robb finally returned, stripping off his tunic and breeches with tired movements. The alpha’s scent filled the room, pine, smoke, and that deep, comforting musk that always made Jaime’s omega stir despite his best efforts.

Robb climbed into the great bed and immediately pulled Jaime against his chest, one thick arm wrapping around his waist. For a moment there was only silence and the steady beat of Robb’s heart against Jaime’s back.

Then Robb spoke, voice low and laced with amusement.

“I heard you had quite the little lesson today.”

Jaime stiffened instantly. “I will murder her.”

Robb chuckled, the sound rumbling through his broad chest. “Marta, I assume?”

“That meddlesome, cheerful, relentless woman,” Jaime hissed, trying to pull away. Robb simply tightened his hold, nosing at the mating mark on his neck. “I hope she trips and falls into the hot springs. I hope the Old Gods drag her down and turn her into a weirwood. I will personally pay the iron price for her tongue.”

Robb’s laughter grew warmer. He pressed a slow kiss just below Jaime’s ear. “Mother mentioned you were seen in the courtyard holding a babe. Said you looked… natural.”

Jaime made a disgusted noise and elbowed Robb half-heartedly in the ribs. “I looked trapped. That woman cornered me like a deserter. Next thing I knew, I had a real, living, drooling infant in my arms and she was shoving a bottle at me like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

He could still feel the ghost of that warm little weight against his chest. The way the baby had sighed and nuzzled into him. The way his own omega had purred like a contented housecat.

Robb shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at Jaime. His bright Tully-blue eyes were soft in the firelight. “And how did that feel?”

Jaime turned his face away, cheeks heating. “It was… fine. The creature was surprisingly quiet. Didn’t shit on me, at least. Small mercies.”

“You’re blushing,” Robb observed, far too pleased.

“I am not,” Jaime snapped, even as the flush deepened. “It’s the firelight. And stop looking at me like that. I only did it so the woman would leave me alone. Not because I enjoyed holding some kitchen maid’s squalling spawn.”

Robb hummed, unconvinced. His large hand slid down to rest over Jaime’s flat stomach, thumb stroking gently. “Marta told my mother you purred.”

Jaime cursed viciously under his breath, golden eyes flashing with betrayal. “That wretched gossip. I’m going to feed her that ugly practice doll. Head first.”

Robb leaned down and kissed him, slow, deep, and thorough. When he pulled back, his voice had dropped into that low, rough register that always weakened Jaime’s resolve.

“I like the idea of it,” Robb admitted quietly. “You, holding our babe. Feeding him. Looking soft and fierce at the same time. Your scent all sweet and motherly…”

Jaime’s breath hitched. His omega surged forward eagerly at the image, flooding him with warmth and need. He hated how quickly his body responded.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Stark,” he muttered, even as he tilted his head to give Robb better access to his neck. “I’m still not even carrying. And if that woman keeps ambushing me with other people’s children, I might just throw myself from the battlements before your seed ever takes.”

Robb smiled against his skin. “You liked it.”

“I tolerated it,” Jaime corrected haughtily. “There’s a difference.”

“Mhm.” Robb’s hand slipped lower, teasing at the hem of Jaime’s nightshirt. “Tell me more about how you tolerated it while I’m inside you.”

Jaime groaned, half in exasperation and half in reluctant arousal. He grabbed a fistful of Robb’s red curls and yanked him down into another kiss, sharp and demanding.

Their mouths clashed, messy and hungry. Robb tasted like spiced wine and the faint salt of a long day. Jaime bit at his lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue, trying to reclaim some control. Robb let him for a moment before growling low in his chest and flipping them, pinning Jaime beneath his much larger frame.

“Tell me,” Robb murmured against his mouth, voice already rough. One big hand shoved Jaime’s nightshirt up to his chest, exposing pale skin and the faint trail of golden hair leading down from his navel. “Tell me how you held that babe today. How it felt against your chest.”

Jaime’s breath caught as Robb’s calloused palm smoothed over his flat stomach, pressing down possessively.

“It was just a baby, Stark. Warm. Squirmy. Smelled like milk.” His voice wavered as Robb’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking hard over the mating mark. “I tolerated it. That’s all.”

Robb hummed, unconvinced. He dragged his tongue down Jaime’s throat, over his collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing one pink nipple until it pebbled. “I think you liked it more than you’re saying. I think your omega purred for it.” Robb pushed Jaime's smallclothes off before shoving his own down. His hand dipped between Jaime’s thighs, finding him already wet, slick coating his fingers. “Just like you’re dripping for me now.”

“Fuck,” Jaime hissed, hips jerking involuntarily as two thick fingers pushed inside him without warning. The stretch was familiar now, but it still made his toes curl. “You’re obsessed with the idea.”

Robb crooked his fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside him with devastating accuracy. “Can you blame me?” He pumped slowly, deliberately, scissoring to open Jaime up. “The thought of you round with my pup… your belly swollen, tits heavy with milk, cunt even wetter than it is now because you’re carrying my heir.” He added a third finger, stretching him wider. “Everyone would know you’re mine. Thoroughly bred. Claimed.”

Jaime moaned despite himself, head falling back against the pillows. His omega was keening inside him, thrilled by the filthy words and the promise of breeding. He tried to fight it, clenching his jaw as Robb moved lower, kissing his stomach.

“I’m not some fertile broodmare for you to—” His words cut off in a sharp cry as Robb suddenly withdrew his fingers and moved down the bed, shoving Jaime’s thighs apart and burying his face between them.

Robb ate him out like a man starved. Broad, flat strokes of his tongue, then focused flicks against his clit, then pushing inside, fucking him with it. The wet, obscene sounds filled the chamber alongside Jaime’s broken gasps. Robb groaned against his cunt, the vibration shooting pleasure up Jaime’s spine.

“Gods, you taste even sweeter when you’re worked up,” Robb rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, chin glistening with slick. “Imagine how sweet you’ll be when you’re carrying. I’ll eat you out every morning just to taste how my seed took.”

“Robb—” Jaime’s hands flew to those red curls, half pushing him away, half holding him closer. His thighs trembled around Robb’s head. The alpha’s stubble scraped deliciously against his sensitive skin, adding a sharp edge to the overwhelming pleasure.

Robb sucked his clit into his mouth and hummed, working three fingers back inside and curling them relentlessly. Jaime came with a choked shout, back arching, cunt clenching hard around Robb’s fingers as slick gushed over the alpha’s tongue. His omega purred loudly, shameless and content.

But Robb didn’t stop. He worked him through it, licking him clean, then rose up between his spread thighs, cock heavy and leaking against his stomach. The knot was already partially swollen at the base, thick and intimidating.

Robb gripped Jaime’s hips, lifting them slightly as he lined himself up. The blunt head nudged against Jaime’s soaked entrance, teasing.

“Look at me,” Robb ordered softly.

Jaime did, green eyes hazy with pleasure and lingering defiance. Robb pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching him open around his cock until he bottomed out, heavy balls pressed against Jaime’s ass and the knot kissing his rim.

“Fuck… so tight,” Robb groaned, forehead dropping to Jaime’s shoulder. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, letting Jaime adjust. “Every time I’m inside you, I think about filling you properly. Pumping you so full my seed takes root.”

He began to move, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside Jaime. The pace was steady but powerful, the wet slap of skin on skin rhythmic and filthy.

Jaime wrapped his legs around Robb’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “You talk too much,” he panted, even as his hips rolled up to meet every thrust.

Robb chuckled breathlessly and shifted the angle, hitting that perfect spot on every stroke. “You love it. Your cunt squeezes me every time I mention breeding you.” He reached between them, rubbing Jaime’s clit in quick circles. “I want to see you grow heavy with my child. Want to feel him kick under my hand while I’m fucking you slow and deep like this.”

Jaime whimpered, a raw, broken sound he couldn’t hold back. His omega was in full control now, flooding him with desperate need. He clung to Robb’s shoulders, nails digging into muscle as the alpha’s pace quickened.

Robb’s thrusts grew harder, more primal. “Gonna knot you tonight. Gonna flood this pretty cunt until it’s overflowing. Keep you plugged up so nothing spills out.” His voice was wrecked, breath hot against Jaime’s ear. “Tell me you want it.”

Jaime’s pride was crumbling fast. “I— fuck— Robb—”

“Tell me,” Robb growled, snapping his hips harder.

“I want it,” Jaime gasped, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at his eyes. “Want your knot. Want… want you to breed me.”

That was all it took. Robb snarled and drove in deep. The thick knot caught on Jaime’s rim once, twice, then pushed inside on the third thrust with a burning stretch that made Jaime cry out. The knot swelled fully, locking them together as Robb came with a deep, guttural groan. Hot pulses of seed flooded Jaime’s insides, spurt after spurt, filling him until his belly felt slightly swollen with it.

Jaime came again on the pressure alone, vision whiting out as his cunt milked the knot rhythmically, greedy for every drop.

They stayed locked like that for a long time. Robb collapsed half on top of him, careful not to crush him, arms wrapped possessively around Jaime’s body. He pressed soft kisses to Jaime’s sweat-damp temple, his neck, the mating mark.

“Good omega,” he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction. “Taking me so well. Going to look so fucking beautiful when it takes.”

Jaime didn’t have the energy to snap back. He simply turned his face into Robb’s neck, breathing in his scent, letting the aftershocks tremble through him while the knot continued to pulse steadily inside.

His hand drifted down to rest over his own belly, right where Robb’s had been earlier. For once, the thought didn’t terrify him as much as it should.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Jaime woke to cold sheets and an empty bed once again.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the canopy above him, listening to the familiar howl of the wind beyond the thick glass. The place where Robb should have been was cold. No lingering pine-smoke scent on the pillow. No broad, warm body pressed against his back. No quiet murmur of “good morning” before the alpha slipped away to his endless duties.

It was becoming routine. Too routine.

Jaime sat up slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between his thighs from last night’s thorough breeding. His hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach, still flat, still unchanged. A bitter snort escaped him.

“Fucking northern fool,” he whispered, shoving the furs aside.

He dressed with sharp, angry movements, thick breeches, a tunic in Lannister crimson beneath a grey doublet, boots polished to a gleam. He left his hair loose today, a small act of defiance. The mating mark on his neck stood out proudly against his pale skin. Let them all see it.

He needed to move. Needed steel in his hands and sweat on his skin. Something to remind himself he was still Jaime Lannister, not just Robb Stark’s pampered omega wife.

The training yard was busy when he arrived, snow crunching underfoot. Northern men swung swords and axes, their breaths puffing white in the cold air. The moment Jaime stepped into the yard, the energy shifted. Conversations quieted. Eyes slid away from him. A few men suddenly found their practice weapons extremely interesting.

Jaime’s golden eyes narrowed.

“Well?” he called out, voice carrying across the yard with mocking sweetness. “Surely one of you brave northern warriors is willing to spar with the Kingslayer? Or have you all suddenly grown shy?”

No one moved. A couple of younger men shifted uncomfortably, but made no move to step forward.

Jaime laughed, sharp and dangerous. “Come now. I’m not asking for a fight to the death. Just a bit of sport. You there —” He pointed at a broad-shouldered man with a scar on his cheek. “You look like you can swing a sword without dropping it. Afraid a southern omega might bruise your precious pride?”

The man flushed but shook his head and turned away.

Frustration boiled hotter in Jaime’s chest. He stalked forward, voice rising. “I killed the Mad King with this hand. I’ve fought in more battles than most of you have years on this earth. And now none of you will even cross blades with me? Pathetic.”

Still nothing.

His temper snapped. “For fuck’s sake, someone give me a bloody sword!”

A stable boy, no older than fifteen, with dirt on his cheeks and wide, nervous eyes, finally shuffled forward, twisting his cap in his hands.

“M’lord… Lady Catelyn gave orders,” the boy mumbled, barely meeting Jaime’s gaze. “No one’s to spar with you. Not until… well. Not while there’s a chance you might be carrying the Young Wolf’s heir. She said it’s too dangerous.”

The words landed like a slap.

Jaime stood frozen for a long second, then let out a disbelieving laugh that bordered on hysterical. “She what?”

The boy flinched. “I’m sorry, m’lord. She was very clear. Said it wasn’t worth the risk.”

Jaime’s vision tunneled with rage. His scent flared violently, golden-amber turning sharp and metallic, cutting through the cold air like a blade. Around him, men found sudden reasons to be elsewhere.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the yard, cloak billowing behind him like a war banner. His heart pounded with humiliation and fury. Catelyn. Always Catelyn. Treating him like a fragile vessel instead of a man who once rode into battle with a lion on his chest.

He found Robb in the solar, deep in conversation with two of his bannermen over a map. The moment Jaime slammed the heavy door open, the room fell silent.

“Out,” Jaime snarled at the lords. They took one look at his face and wisely bowed before hurrying from the room.

Robb straightened, concern etching his features. “Jaime? What’s wrong?”

“Your mother,” Jaime bit out, stalking forward until he was nose-to-chest with his husband, “has forbidden anyone in this gods-forsaken castle from sparring with me. Because apparently I’m too delicate now. Too valuable as a potential breeding bitch to risk a wooden sword.”

Robb exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jaime…”

“No. Don’t you dare defend her.” Jaime jabbed a finger into Robb’s broad chest. “I woke up alone again. Every morning it’s the same. And now I can’t even swing a sword to feel like myself? What am I supposed to be, Robb? A pampered little omega locked away in silk and furs, waiting for you to come breed me when you have five spare minutes?”

His voice cracked on the last words. The anger was real, but underneath it lay raw hurt and the growing fear that this was what his life would be— empty beds, overprotective mothers-in-law, and a husband who was king first and mate second.

Robb reached for him, but Jaime stepped back.

“Tell me,” he demanded, golden eyes blazing. “If I do end up carrying your child… will I even see you before the babe is born? Or will I just be another duty you visit when the councils allow it?

The silence that followed was heavy.

Robb’s blue eyes were troubled, jaw tight. He looked exhausted, but for once he didn’t immediately offer excuses.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Robb’s blue eyes flickered between Jaime’s, searching the left, then the right, as if looking for some softness he could appeal to. He dragged a hand through his red curls, tugging hard, before finally speaking.

“I don’t know, Jaime.”

The words landed like a blow.

Jaime’s brows shot up. “You don’t know?”

Robb exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping under the weight of everything. “I’m trying to be honest with you. This war isn’t ending anytime soon. The Ironborn are still raiding the west coast, the forces in the Riverlands are regrouping under my aunt, and half my bannermen are one bad harvest away from turning on each other. I’m gone from dawn until well after dark most days because if I’m not holding this alliance together with my bare hands, it falls apart. So no, I can’t promise I’ll be here every morning, or that I’ll magically have time to play doting husband while you’re carrying.”

Jaime’s face twisted. “So I’m just supposed to sit here like a good little broodmare? Swelling up with your pup while you play king?”

“You think I want this?” Robb’s voice rose to match Jaime’s, frustration finally cracking through. “You think I enjoy waking up before the sun and leaving my husband in a cold bed? I hate it. But I don’t have a choice, Jaime. I’m the King in the North. Thousands of men are looking to me to keep them alive.”

“And I’m your husband!” Jaime shouted, stepping forward and shoving at Robb’s broad chest. It barely moved him, which only made Jaime angrier. “Or have you forgotten that? I used to be in the fucking Kingsguard! I was the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Men trembled when they heard my name. Now I’m reduced to this— your pretty omega toy who isn’t even allowed to pick up a sword because your mother’s afraid I might bruise the royal vessel!”

Robb’s eyes flashed. “My mother is trying to protect you—”

“Protect me?” Jaime laughed, sharp and ugly. “She’s protecting your heir, Robb. Not me. I’m just the expensive southern cunt that happened to come with the alliance. Gods, listen to me. I sound pathetic.”

He turned away, pacing angrily across the solar, golden hair whipping with the movement. His scent was wild now, golden-amber laced with thunder and pain.

“I gave up everything for this war,” Jaime snarled over his shoulder. “My name, my honor, my freedom. They paraded me through Winterfell in chains once, and now I’m paraded in silks and forced to spread my legs so the great Stark dynasty can continue. And for what? So you can pat me on the head when you have five minutes to spare between councils?”

Robb’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped. “You act like you’re the only one who lost something. I didn’t ask for any of this either. I didn’t ask to be king. I didn’t ask to marry my enemy’s son. But here we are. And despite all of it, I care about you, Jaime. More than I should. More than is smart.”

Jaime whirled back around, eyes blazing with unshed tears of pure rage. “Then act like it! Stop leaving me in that empty fucking bed every morning like I’m something you can visit when it’s convenient! Stop letting your mother treat me like a fragile vase! I am not just an omega. I am Jaime Lannister. I killed a king. I won tourneys. I—”

His voice broke.

“I was someone,” he finished hoarsely.

Robb stepped forward, eyes flickering again, left, right, searching. The alpha looked torn between reaching for him and punching the nearest wall.

“I know who you are,” Robb said, voice rough and low. “I see you, Jaime. Every day. The lion. The fighter. The man who still looks at me like he wants to stab me half the time.” He swallowed. “But you’re also my mate now. And if you carry my child… I will worry. I can’t help that. The thought of you getting hurt— of losing you and a babe— terrifies me more than any battle I’ve fought.”

Jaime shook his head, bitter laughter bubbling up. “How noble. The great Robb Stark is scared. Meanwhile I’m expected to just… shrink. To become smaller so everyone else can feel safer.”

Robb stood there, chest heaving, looking every bit the exhausted young king carrying too much on his shoulders. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out again, but he held back this time.

“Jaime…” he started, voice quieter.

But for once, the Young Wolf seemed to have no easy answer. No comforting words. No promises he couldn’t keep.

And Jaime wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any of them anyway.

"Lord Jaime!"

"Not now, Marta."

The nursemaid didn’t slow down. Her footsteps only quickened across the snowy courtyard as she hurried after him, basket once again swinging from her arm.

Jaime kept walking, boots crunching hard into the packed snow, jaw locked so tightly it ached. The argument with Robb still burned in his chest like sour wine. He could still see the conflicted look in those Tully-blue eyes, the way Robb had reached for him and then stopped himself. The heavy silence that had followed. He had stormed out of the solar before either of them could say something they couldn’t take back.

And now this.

“My lord, please, just a moment of your time,” Marta called, slightly out of breath but relentlessly cheerful. “I heard what happened in the training yard. Lady Catelyn only means well, you know. Sparring really isn’t safe in your—”

Jaime stopped so suddenly that Marta nearly walked into his back. He turned quickly, golden eyes blazing with barely-contained fury.

“I am not pregnant,” he snarled, each word clipped and venomous. “I am not carrying. I am not some delicate glass ornament that will shatter if I lift a sword. I am a knight. Or at least I was, before this damned war turned me into a political womb.”

Marta had the decency to look momentarily chastened, but only momentarily. She adjusted her basket and gave him the same patient, motherly look that made Jaime want to scream.

“With respect, my lord, you’re the King’s omega. These things must be considered. Even if you aren’t carrying yet, the chances grow every time Lord Robb knots you. And he does knot you often, from what I’ve heard.”

Jaime’s face burned. “Seven hells, is there anyone in this frozen castle who doesn’t discuss what happens in our bed?”

Marta wisely ignored the question. “I only wanted to offer some gentler exercises. Sword forms without an opponent. Or perhaps some light staff work? We must keep your body strong for when the babe does come. Your hips will need to—”

“Stop.” Jaime’s voice cracked like a whip. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the rising wave of humiliation and rage. “Just… stop. I cannot do this today, Marta. Not after everything.”

The nursemaid’s expression finally softened into something closer to genuine sympathy. She shifted the basket to her other arm and spoke more quietly.

“You were the Kingslayer once. I know that. Everyone does. But you’re also Lord Robb’s mate now. And in the North, we protect our omegas when they carry the future. It’s not meant to shame you, my lord.

Jaime let out a hollow, bitter laugh.

“Protect,” he repeated. “That’s what they call it when they take away the last thing that still made me feel like me.” His hand drifted unconsciously to rest over his lower belly for a brief second before he caught himself and dropped it. “I woke up alone again this morning. And I’ll probably do the same tomorrow. If I do end up carrying his child, I’ll be raising it alone while he plays king. And all of you will smile and tell me how honored I should be.”

Marta opened her mouth, then closed it again. For once, she seemed at a loss for her usual cheerful advice.

Jaime turned away, shoulders tight under his cloak. “Go tell Lady Catelyn that her son's prized lion is still refusing to behave like a proper broodmare. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

He walked off without waiting for a reply, heading toward the godswood again, the only place in this entire castle that felt even slightly removed from everyone’s expectations.

Nearly an hour later, Jaime sat on the same stone bench beneath the heart tree, elbows on his knees, staring at the red leaves scattered across the snow. The cold had seeped into his bones, but he welcomed it. It matched the hollow ache in his chest.

The crunch of careful footsteps made him tense.

“Lord Jaime?”

Marta’s voice was softer than usual. Almost hesitant. She approached slowly, as if walking toward a wounded animal that might bolt or bite. Cradled gently in her arms was a small, familiar bundle wrapped in thick wool, little Will, the same kitchen maid’s babe he had fed the other day.

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Marta. I thought I made myself clear.”

“You did, my lord,” she said quietly, stopping a respectful distance away. “I’m not here to lecture or teach. I just… thought you might not want to be alone right now.” She glanced down at the sleeping infant. “William’s mother was happy for him to have some fresh air. And he seemed to take quite a liking to you last time.”

Jaime let out a tired, bitter breath and looked away, staring at the carved face of the weirwood. “Using a babe as a peace offering. How very northern of you.”

Marta didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, she stepped closer and spoke even more gently. “He’s been fussy today. His mother’s milk is running low with the twins. I thought… maybe holding him again might ease your mind a little. No lessons. No talk of swaddling or hips or any of that. Just him.”

Jaime wanted to tell her to leave. To take the child and go. But his omega had already perked up at the sweet, milky scent drifting on the cold air. The instinctive pull was embarrassingly strong.

After a long, stubborn silence, he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“…Fine.”

Marta moved forward carefully and transferred the warm bundle into his arms. Little William stirred, making a small, grumpy noise before settling against Jaime’s chest with a contented sigh. One tiny fist curled into the fabric of his cloak.

Jaime’s body reacted before his mind could stop it. His arms curved protectively around the infant. A low, involuntary purr rumbled deep in his chest, quiet but unmistakable in the stillness of the godswood. Golden-amber bloomed warmly in his scent, wrapping around the babe like a soft blanket.

“Traitor,” he whispered down at the child, though there was almost no heat left in the word.

Marta sat on the far end of the bench, quiet for once. She simply watched with soft eyes as Jaime instinctively rocked the baby in a slow, gentle rhythm.

“He calms so quickly with you,” she murmured after a while, keeping her voice low. “Babes know a good omega when they feel one. You’ve got steady hands and a warm heart, my lord. Even if you’d rather stab someone than admit it.”

Jaime didn’t reply. He simply lowered his head, resting his cheek lightly against the baby’s soft dark hair, breathing in that innocent, milky scent. For a few precious minutes, the knot of anger and humiliation in his chest loosened. The endless councils, the cold empty bed every morning, Catelyn’s restrictions, even the shouting match with Robb, all of it felt slightly further away while this tiny, trusting life rested against him.

His omega purred louder, content and aching at the same time. Aching for something real. Something that was his.

William made a small cooing sound in his sleep and nuzzled closer. Jaime’s throat tightened.

“I hate how much I want this,” he admitted in a barely audible whisper, more to himself than to Marta. “I hate that part of me already imagines a red-haired little beast doing this against my chest while his useless father is off being king somewhere.”

Marta stayed wisely silent, letting him have the moment.

Jaime closed his eyes, holding the borrowed babe a little tighter against the steady, lonely beat of his heart.

Just for a little while, he let himself feel it.

The godswood had offered temporary peace, but it couldn’t last. By the time the weak northern sun began to set, Jaime returned to his chambers with little William’s milky scent still clinging faintly to his cloak and a storm raging inside his chest.

The room was quiet, the fire low. Robb was still elsewhere, of course he was. Another council. Another meeting. Another reason not to be here.

Jaime stood in the center of the room for a long moment, hands clenched at his sides. He felt raw. Exposed. Like the Kingslayer had been stripped away layer by layer until only this soft, frustrated, needy omega remained.

He needed to remember who he was.

With sharp, purposeful movements, he crossed to the large oak wardrobe that held both their clothes. He shoved aside Robb’s heavy tunics, thick cloaks, and winter furs, digging deeper for the trunk he’d brought with him from the South. The one containing the few remnants of his old life, a white Kingsguard cloak (now stained and tucked away), a crimson doublet with golden lions, an old pair of riding boots worn from tourneys.

“I used to be someone,” he muttered under his breath as he rummaged. “I used to make men piss themselves with a look.”

His fingers brushed against something that didn’t belong, a small, smooth glass vial tucked carefully behind a stack of Robb’s folded tunics. It was half-hidden, almost deliberately so. Dark liquid swirled inside. A faint, bitter herbal scent rose when he pulled it free.

Jaime froze.

He held the vial up to the firelight. The liquid was deep amber, almost brown. A small label written in a maester’s neat hand was tied around the neck with twine.

Moon tea concentrate, strong. One draught daily to prevent conception.

Jaime stared at it for a long, disbelieving second.

Then his hand started to shake.

He pulled out more of the tunics, searching frantically now. There were two more vials hidden behind them. All full. All fresh.

A harsh, broken laugh tore from his throat.

“You bastard,” he whispered.

All this time, all the nights Robb had fucked him deep and growled about breeding him, about filling him up, about how beautiful he’d look swollen with his pup, the alpha had been taking precautions behind his back. Preventing the very thing everyone else was pressuring Jaime to deliver.

The humiliation burned like wildfire.

He thought of waking up alone every morning. Of Catelyn’s constant pestering. Of Marta chasing him with babies and lessons. Of being forbidden from sparring “just in case.” Of the way Robb had looked at him in the solar today and said he didn’t know if he’d have time for a pregnant mate.

And all along, Robb had made damn sure there wouldn’t be one.

Jaime’s omega recoiled in confusion and hurt, while the lion in him roared with pure fury. His scent flared violently, golden-amber turning sharp and acrid, like scorched honey and steel.

He clutched the vial so tightly the glass creaked in his palm. Part of him wanted to smash it against the stone wall. Another part wanted to wait for Robb and shove it down his throat.

Instead, Jaime sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the evidence in his trembling hand. His golden hair fell forward, curtaining his face as he stared at the floor.

The betrayal cut deeper than he expected. Because beneath the rage was something even worse, relief.

A small, treacherous part of him was relieved that Robb wasn’t actually trying to trap him in permanent motherhood while barely being present. And that relief made him hate himself almost as much as he hated Robb right now.

Jaime closed his eyes, pressing the cool glass vial against his forehead.

When Robb returned to their chambers, the door had barely latched behind him before the storm broke.

Jaime was waiting.

He stood near the hearth in nothing but his breeches and a loose crimson shirt, golden hair unbound and gleaming like a lion’s mane in the firelight. In his right hand, he casually held one of the small glass vials, rolling it slowly between his fingers as though it were a curious trinket.

Robb paused just inside the door, nostrils flaring as he caught the sharp, metallic edge in Jaime’s scent. “Jaime?”

Jaime’s smile was all teeth, cold, beautiful, and utterly lethal. The same smile he’d once worn before putting a sword through Aerys Targaryen’s back.

“Evening, husband,” he drawled, voice silk over steel. “I was just going through your clothing. Looking for something that still smelled like the man I was before we married. Instead, I found these charming little bottles hidden behind your tunics like a guilty secret. Moon tea. Concentrate, no less.” He held the vial up, letting the firelight catch the dark liquid. “How thoughtful of you.”

Robb’s face went very still.

Jaime took one slow step forward, then another, every movement deliberate.

“Tell me, Stark,” he continued, voice deceptively light, “do you drink it before you fuck me, or do you have a maester sneak it into your wine during dinner? Because I distinctly remember you growling about breeding me. About how lovely I’d look swollen with your pup. Was that all just dirty talk to make the reluctant lion whore wetter for you?”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “It’s not what you think—”

“No?” Jaime’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Then enlighten me, Your Grace. Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been playing both sides quite masterfully. You knot me deep and fill me like you mean it, then make damn sure nothing takes root. Meanwhile, your mother chases me around the castle with nursemaids and lectures about my duty to provide an heir, and I’m forbidden from even picking up a sword in case I damage the royal vessel.”

He stopped a few feet away from Robb, eyes blazing gold and ice.

“I wonder,” Jaime said softly, dangerously, “does it make you hard? Knowing you get to fuck the great Kingslayer into the mattress every night while keeping him safely barren? A lion on a leash with an empty womb. How convenient for the Young Wolf.”

Robb took a step closer, voice low and rough. “I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me,” Jaime repeated with mocking sweetness. “How very noble. Tell me, was it my feelings you were protecting when you lied with every thrust? Or was it the inconvenience of a pregnant omega while you’re busy playing king?”

He tossed the vial lightly in the air and caught it again with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“I should thank you, really,” Jaime continued, voice dripping venom. “All this time I’ve been tormenting myself, wondering why my body refuses to catch, thinking I was failing at the one thing everyone demands of me. And here you are— the heroic alpha, secretly making sure his trophy wife stays nice and fuckable without any messy consequences.”

Robb’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I want this? You think I enjoy hiding it? I see how unhappy you are here. I see how much you hate what they’re trying to turn you into. I won’t trap you in motherhood while I’m gone from dawn to midnight and half the North still eyes you like a hostage in silk.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it grew colder.

“How magnanimous of you,” he sneered. “The great Robb Stark, so considerate of his unwilling omega’s feelings. Tell me— when you bury your face between my legs and tell me how sweet I’ll taste when I’m carrying, is that consideration too? Or just another way to get me to spread faster?”

He took the final step forward until they were nearly chest to chest, tilting his head up to meet Robb’s gaze without flinching.

“I am not some delicate thing you get to protect by lying to me, Stark. I am Jaime fucking Lannister. And if you ever hide something like this from me again, I will shove every last one of these vials down your throat and make you choke on them.”

The air between them crackled with tension.

Robb stared down at him, breathing hard, eyes dark with a storm of emotions. Jaime stared right back, proud, furious, and every inch the Kingslayer once more.

"I will strangle you in your sleep if you try getting in this bed tonight."

Robb slept in the guest chambers.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the solar was tense before the council meeting even began.

Robb had clearly been waiting for him. The moment Jaime stepped into the room, dressed in a sharp crimson-and-gold tunic that screamed Lannister more than Stark, Robb dismissed the two guards with a curt nod and closed the heavy door behind them.

“Jaime,” Robb started, voice low and urgent. “We need to talk about last night.”

Jaime arched a golden eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. His expression was one of pure, aristocratic boredom.

“Oh? Does His Grace require another performance? Should I bend over the table and spread my legs so you can fill me while pretending you actually want a child this time? Or are we doing the part where you secretly drink your little herbal tea beforehand?”

Robb’s jaw flexed. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Jaime asked innocently, eyes wide with mocking sweetness. “Stop being difficult? Stop having opinions? Stop remembering that my husband has been lying to me for weeks while growling breeding nonsense into my ear like some cheap whorehouse fantasy?”

Robb stepped closer, frustration rolling off him in waves. His scent was sharp with pine and irritation. “I explained myself last night. I was trying to protect you—”

“You were protecting yourself,” Jaime cut in coldly. “Don’t dress it up as chivalry, Stark. You wanted a warm, willing hole without any of the complications. And you got one. Congratulations.”

Robb’s temper finally snapped. “Seven hells, Jaime! I’m trying to do right by you! You’ve made it perfectly clear how much you hate being here, how much you resent this marriage, how you still see yourself as a prisoner. Was I supposed to trap you with a babe while I’m gone half the day and the North is still one bad decision away from fracturing?”

Jaime’s eyes flashed dangerously. He took a step forward, voice rising.

“So instead you decided to fuck me and lie about it? To let your mother harass me daily about producing an heir while you made sure it would never happen? How very considerate of you.”

“I didn’t lie to hurt you—”

“You lied because it was convenient!” Jaime shouted, his control finally shattering. “You liked having the Kingslayer on his back, wet and desperate for your knot, without any risk of actually tying yourself to me permanently. Admit it!”

Robb’s voice rose to match his. “That’s not true! I care about you, Jaime!”

“Care?” Jaime laughed, loud and vicious. “You don’t even sleep in our bed most nights. You leave before I wake up like I’m some shameful secret. But sure— tell me again how much you care while hiding moon tea like a guilty boy who fucked the wrong servant.”

Robb slammed his fist on the table, maps rattling. “I am doing everything I can to hold this kingdom together! I cannot afford to be distracted—”

“Distracted?” Jaime’s voice dropped into something deadly calm, which was far more terrifying than shouting. “That’s what I am to you? A distraction?”

He stalked forward until he was right in Robb’s face, golden eyes blazing with pure Lannister fury.

“Well then. Perhaps I should remove that distraction. Maybe I’ll go have a nice, long conversation with your dear mother. I’m sure Lady Catelyn would love to hear all about how her precious son has been secretly preventing the very heir she’s been hounding me for. How the great Young Wolf has been spilling his seed into a barren womb while letting everyone believe I’m the one failing.”

Robb’s face went pale with anger. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” Jaime hissed, lips curling into a cruel smile. “I am still a Lannister, Stark. And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be honorable when it suits me. Tell your mother everything, or I will. And I won’t be gentle about it.”

The silence that followed was explosive.

Robb stared at him, chest heaving, eyes dark with fury and something that looked dangerously like hurt. Jaime stared right back, unflinching, cold, and every inch the Kingslayer who once ended a dynasty with a single thrust of his sword.

A sharp knock sounded on the door.

“My king,” came a hesitant voice from the corridor. “The council is waiting.”

Robb didn’t move for a long second. His gaze remained locked on Jaime’s face, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

“We’re not finished,” he growled quietly.

Jaime’s smile was razor-sharp.

“Oh, I think we are. For now.”

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, every step radiating lethal grace.

“Enjoy your council, husband. Try not to think about me too much while you’re deciding the fate of the North. Wouldn’t want to get distracted.”

Later that afternoon, Jaime stalked through the outer courtyard like a caged lion, crimson cloak snapping in the wind. The argument with Robb still burned hot in his blood. He’d changed into one of his old Kingsguard tunics, the white and gold one he’d managed to keep, though it no longer bore the seven-pointed star. It was snug across his shoulders, but it felt more like him than anything else in this frozen hell.

A group of young northern squires and a few seasoned men had gathered near the armory, watching him openly. Their stares followed his every movement.

Jaime stopped sharply and turned on them, golden eyes flashing with pure disdain.

“What are you staring at?” he snarled, voice carrying across the yard. “Have you never seen a real knight before?”

One of the bolder squires, a lanky boy of maybe seventeen, shifted uncomfortably but didn’t look away. “We’ve just… never seen you dressed like that, m’lord. You look… different.”

“Dressed like what, exactly?” Jaime stalked closer, every step deliberate and dangerous. “Like a man who once wore the white cloak? Like someone who spilled royal blood instead of spreading his legs for it?” His lips curled into a mocking smile. “Or does it disturb you that the King’s prized omega still remembers how to wear steel and pride?”

A few of the older men looked away, but the squire held his ground, though his cheeks had gone red.

“Lady Catelyn said—”

“Ah, yes,” Jaime cut in with a vicious laugh. “Lady Catelyn. The ever-watchful guardian of my delicate womb. Tell me, boy, does she also instruct you lot to piss in formation so none of you strain yourselves?”

A couple of the men chuckled despite themselves. Jaime’s gaze sharpened on them.

“I was the youngest knight to ever join the Kingsguard. I killed the Mad King and earned a name that still makes grown men flinch.” His voice dropped, cold and cutting. “So stare all you like. But if any of you still have balls between your legs, you’ll remember who you’re looking at.”

The yard had gone deathly quiet.

One of the older warriors finally cleared his throat. “No disrespect meant, Lord Jaime. Just… you look ready for war in that.”

Jaime’s smile was all teeth. “Maybe I am. Someone in this castle ought to be.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then tilted his head.

“Well?” he challenged, voice ringing with command. “I’ve been rotting in silk and furs for weeks. Someone fetch me a practice sword before I start thinking the men of the North have all gone soft.”

A ripple went through the gathered soldiers. The older warrior, a grizzled man with a thick grey beard, hesitated only a moment before he barked a laugh.

“Fuck it,” he said. “If the Kingslayer wants a dance, who am I to deny him?” He tossed Jaime a blunted training sword, then picked up his own. “Just don’t go crying to the king when I bruise that pretty southern hide.”

Jaime caught the sword with effortless grace, testing its balance with a few quick flicks of his wrist. The familiar weight in his hand felt like coming home.

“Oh, ser,” he purred, “I’m counting on you trying.”

They took positions in the center of the yard. A circle quickly formed around them. Word was spreading fast, more men drifted over from the armory and stables, curious to see the lion finally unleashed.

The first exchange was lightning fast.

The northerner came in hard and heavy, a powerful overhead strike meant to overwhelm. Jaime sidestepped smoothly, parried, and riposted with a vicious slash that would have opened the man’s throat if the blade had been sharp. The older warrior grunted in surprise.

They traded blows rapidly, steel ringing against steel. Jaime moved like water and fire at once, elegant, precise, and utterly ruthless. Every movement reminded him of who he truly was. Not Robb Stark’s frustrated omega. Not Catelyn’s political breeding project.

He was this.

“Too slow,” Jaime taunted as he ducked under a wide swing and slammed the flat of his blade against the man’s ribs. “You fight like you’re chopping wood.”

The northerner roared and came at him again. Jaime laughed, bright, wild, and genuine, as he spun away and countered with a flurry of strikes that drove the bigger man back. Sweat was already beading on his forehead, his golden hair sticking to his temples, but for the first time in months he felt alive.

Another man stepped in when the first began to tire. Then another. Jaime took them on one after another, sometimes two at once, his breath coming hard but his eyes shining with fierce joy.

He disarmed one squire with a elegant twist of his wrist, sent another sprawling into the snow with a well-placed boot to the chest, and left the grizzled veteran panting on one knee, tapping out with his sword.

Jaime planted the tip of his practice blade in the snow and leaned on it, chest heaving, a savage grin splitting his face.

“Is that all the North has to offer?” he called out, voice loud and mocking. “I’ve fucked harder than some of you fight.”

Laughter erupted across the yard, shocked, delighted, and impressed. Even the men who had been wary of him earlier were watching with new respect.

For the first time since arriving in Winterfell, Jaime felt like himself again. Not a political pawn. Not a vessel for an heir. Not even an omega.

Just Jaime Lannister.

He was still breathing hard, sweat cooling on his skin, when a familiar voice cut through the noise from the edge of the yard.

“Jaime.”

Robb stood there, flanked by two of his guards, blue eyes locked on him. His expression was a complicated storm of anger, concern, and something almost like awe.

Jaime straightened, still holding the practice sword loosely in one hand. His smile turned sharp and dangerous once more.

“Ah, husband,” he said sweetly, loud enough for half the yard to hear. “Come to watch your omega make a fool of your finest men? Or have you finally decided to stop hiding behind your mother’s skirts and spar with me yourself?”

The yard went quiet again, the tension thick enough to cut.

Robb’s jaw clenched.

Jaime simply raised an eyebrow, waiting, flushed, sweating, and more alive than he’d felt in weeks.

Robb grabbed a sword without a word.

He strode forward into the yard, shrugging off his heavy outer cloak and letting it fall into the snow. One of the men quickly tossed him a blunted practice blade. Robb caught it cleanly, testing the weight once before rolling his shoulders. His expression was unreadable, tight jaw, stormy blue eyes fixed on Jaime with burning intensity.

The yard fell into a hushed, anticipatory silence.

Jaime’s grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Finally. I was starting to think the Young Wolf had forgotten how to swing anything except his cock.”

Robb didn’t rise to the bait. He simply stepped into the circle, raising his sword in a ready stance. No formalities. No warnings.

They clashed.

The first ring of steel was loud and decisive. Robb came in hard and fast, using his superior size and strength to drive Jaime back with powerful overhead strikes. Jaime laughed, bright, vicious, exhilarated, as he parried and danced away, lighter on his feet, using precision and speed where Robb used raw power.

“Is this how you solve all your problems, Stark?” Jaime taunted between exchanges, breathing hard but grinning. “With violence and silence? How very northern.”

Robb answered with a low growl and a sweeping strike aimed at Jaime’s ribs. Jaime twisted at the last second, the blade whistling past him, and countered with a lightning-fast thrust that forced Robb to leap back.

They moved across the snow-covered yard like a deadly dance. Robb was strong, brutally so, but Jaime was faster, more technical, and far more creative. Every time Robb tried to overpower him, Jaime slipped away like water, landing stinging blows to the alpha’s shoulders, thighs, and sides.

“You’ve been holding back in our bed too, haven’t you?” Jaime panted, ducking under a swing and slamming the flat of his blade against Robb’s ass with a loud crack. “Afraid you might actually break your delicate omega?”

Robb snarled and spun, catching Jaime’s sword on his own with a bone-rattling clash. They locked blades, faces inches apart, both of them sweating despite the cold.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Robb growled through clenched teeth.

“Fuck you,” Jaime hissed back, eyes blazing. He shoved hard, breaking the lock and spinning away. “I’m not some fragile thing you get to wrap in wool and hide away. This— this— is who I am.”

He pressed the attack now, a furious flurry of strikes that had Robb on the defensive for the first time. The men watching had gone completely silent, eyes wide as they witnessed the Kingslayer in his element, graceful, deadly, and utterly magnificent.

Robb was breathing heavily, red curls sticking to his forehead, but there was a wild, almost hungry light in his eyes now. He caught one of Jaime’s strikes, twisted, and suddenly slammed their bodies together, using his greater mass to shove Jaime back against the stone wall of the armory.

The swords clattered to the ground between them.

For a moment they just stood there, chests heaving, faces inches apart. Robb’s big hands gripped Jaime’s arms, pinning him to the cold stone. Jaime stared up at him defiantly, lips parted, golden hair wild.

The air between them crackled. Robb’s scent was overwhelming this close, pine, smoke, sweat, and raw alpha arousal. Jaime’s own scent flared in response, sharp and golden and furious.

Then Robb made a low, frustrated grunt and shoved himself back, releasing Jaime as if he’d been burned. He stepped away sharply, chest still rising and falling hard, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle stood out.

Jaime stayed leaning against the wall for a second longer, breathing just as heavily, lips curled in a mocking smile even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

“Running away again, Stark?” he called out, voice rough but dripping with venom. “How predictable.”

Robb didn’t answer. His eyes flicked past Jaime, toward the edge of the yard, and his entire expression changed. The hunger vanished, replaced by tight irritation.

Jaime turned his head and saw her.

Catelyn Stark stood near the entrance to the great keep, watching them with a rigid posture and carefully blank face. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, auburn hair whipping slightly in the wind

Robb exhaled sharply through his nose. Without another word to Jaime, he turned on his heel and strode across the yard toward his mother, scooping up his discarded cloak on the way. His shoulders were stiff with tension.

Jaime pushed off the wall, still catching his breath. He watched Robb walk away with a bitter twist in his mouth.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “Run to Mother. Wouldn’t want her to see you actually enjoying yourself with your inconvenient lion whore.”

He bent down and picked up the practice sword he’d dropped, twirling it once in his hand with practiced ease. Several of the watching men were still staring, some impressed, some uneasy.

Jaime flashed them a cold, dangerous smile.

“Show’s over,” he announced, voice carrying. “Unless any of you still have the balls to face me?”

A few chuckled nervously. No one stepped forward.

Jaime let the sword fall point-down into the snow with a soft thud. The adrenaline was still singing in his veins, but the brief taste of his old self was already souring.

He glanced once more toward where Robb and Catelyn were now speaking in low, tense voices. Robb kept gesturing back toward the yard, toward him, while Catelyn’s expression remained cool and controlled.

Jaime merely turned away, green eyes narrowed. He walked out of the training yard with his head high, white-and-gold tunic damp with sweat, feeling more like the Kingslayer than he had in weeks.

Even if the victory tasted hollow.

Chapter Text

The next day dawned cold and grey, but Jaime rose with purpose.

He woke alone, again, the other side of the bed untouched and cold. No note. No lingering scent of pine and smoke. He didn’t allow himself to linger on it.

Instead, he dressed in the white-and-gold Kingsguard tunic once more, paired with dark breeches and boots. He left his hair loose, a deliberate statement. Let them see him. Let them remember.

He’d barely stepped into the corridor when the inevitable happened.

“Lord Jaime! There you are—”

“Not today, Marta,” Jaime said without breaking stride, voice flat and cold. “I have no interest in dolls, babes, swaddling, or whatever fresh lecture you’ve prepared about my hips and womb. Go find someone else to torment.”

“But my lord, Lady Catelyn—”

Jaime stopped and turned on her with such a sharp, cutting look that the woman actually faltered mid-sentence.

“Tell Lady Catelyn that if she wants an heir so badly, she should climb into her son’s bed herself and see how far that gets her. I’m done playing nice.”

Marta let out a choked gasp at Jaime's words, stunned. Jaime didn’t wait for her to recover. He simply turned and continued walking, leaving the nursemaid standing in the hallway with her mouth slightly open.

He spent the entire day in the training yard.

The men had clearly been talking. When he arrived, a larger crowd than yesterday had already gathered. Some looked wary. Others looked eager. A few even offered respectful nods.

Jaime didn’t care about their approval. He only cared about the weight of steel in his hand and the burn in his muscles.

He sparred for hours.

First against the grizzled veteran from yesterday, then against two younger soldiers at once. He disarmed one, sent the other tumbling into the snow, and laughed, loud and mocking, when they came at him again. Sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering it to his chest and back, but he had never felt more alive in Winterfell.

“Again!” he barked after every bout, breathing hard but eyes bright. “Come on, you northern curs. Is this truly the best the North’s army can offer?”

By midday, more men had joined. Some of the bolder ones even started trading jabs with him between rounds. Jaime gave as good as he got, sharp-tongued, arrogant, and unrelenting.

He didn’t see Robb once.

Not in the morning. Not during the midday meal he'd skipped in favor of another bout after realizing he would eat alone. Not in the afternoon when the weak sun began to sink and the cold grew sharper. The Young Wolf was either locked away in endless councils or deliberately avoiding him.

The realization only made Jaime fight harder.

As the light began to fade and torches were lit around the yard, Jaime finally lowered his sword, chest heaving, golden hair damp with sweat. His arms burned pleasantly. His body ached in ways that felt honest.

One of the older warriors tossed him a waterskin. Jaime caught it and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You fight like a demon, m’lord,” the man admitted gruffly. “Didn’t think an omega could move like that.”

Jaime’s smile was thin and dangerous. “That’s because most omegas aren’t me.”

He handed the waterskin back and rolled his shoulders, ignoring the way several men were still watching him with a mixture of awe and unease.

As he finally left the yard, cloak thrown over one shoulder, he felt eyes on him the entire way back to the keep. Good. Let them stare. Let them whisper about the Kingslayer who refused to be tamed.

When he returned to their chambers that night, the room was dark and empty. Robb still hadn’t come back. Jaime stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the cold hearth and the untouched bed. The victory of the training yard suddenly felt brittle.

He walked over to the table, poured himself a cup of strong northern wine, and sat down in front of the dying fire.

“Fine,” he murmured into the quiet room, voice low and bitter. “Stay away then, Stark. See how well that works for you.”

The next morning, Jaime woke up alone again.

The furs on Robb’s side of the bed were untouched and cold, as if no one had slept there at all. He lay on his back for a long moment, staring at the heavy wooden beams of the canopy, listening to the wind howling outside. Another night. Another empty morning. The ache between his thighs from days of hard sparring was the only proof that time was still moving forward.

With a quiet curse, he threw the furs back and rose from the bed. The chamber was chill, the hearth reduced to glowing embers. He padded barefoot across the stone floor to the tall, polished silver mirror that stood in the corner near the wardrobe.

Jaime stopped in front of it and stared at his reflection.

He was young, barely into his twenties, and the mirror didn’t lie. Golden hair fell in messy waves past his shoulders, bright even in the weak morning light. His face was almost obscenely beautiful for a man who had once been called the Kingslayer, sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, full lips currently pressed into a thin line. Emerald-green eyes stared back at him, bright and hard, but with something haunted flickering behind them now.

He turned slightly, studying himself.

The white-and-gold tunic from yesterday lay discarded over a chair, sweat-stained and rumpled. Without it, he could see the lean, powerful lines of his body, the muscle earned from years of training and tourneys still prominent, though slightly softer around the hips and thighs than it had been in King’s Landing. The mating bite on the side of his neck stood out clearly against his pale skin, silvery-pink and unmistakable. Robb’s mark.

Jaime reached up and traced it with two fingers, jaw tightening.

“Never trust a feral dog,” he whispered to his reflection.

He looked like a prince from some southern song. Not a warrior. Not the man who had ended a dynasty with one swing of his sword. He looked like exactly what they all wanted him to be, a fertile, golden omega meant to warm a king’s bed and swell with heirs.

His hand drifted lower, resting over his flat stomach. For a moment he imagined it rounded, heavy with Robb’s child. The image sent a confusing spike of heat through him, part horror, part longing, before he snatched his hand away as if burned.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

He leaned closer to the mirror, eyes narrowing. There were faint shadows under his eyes from restless sleep. A new bruise bloomed across his ribs from yesterday’s sparring, dark purple against pale skin. He pressed on it deliberately, welcoming the dull throb.

This was real. This pain was honest.

He was still Jaime Lannister. Still the youngest knight to ever join the Kingsguard. Still the man who had killed a king and walked away smiling. No matter how many times Robb left him in an empty bed. No matter how sweetly the nursemaids cooed about babes. No matter how many northern lords looked at him like a prize mare in heat.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, and met his own gaze in the mirror with cold defiance.

A sharp, insistent knock sounded on the chamber door. Jaime’s jaw tightened. He already knew who it was.

“Lord Jaime,” came Catelyn’s clear, measured voice from the corridor. “May I speak with you?”

Jaime closed his eyes for a brief second, exhaling through his nose. “Seven fucking hells,” he muttered under his breath.

He considered ignoring her entirely, but he knew better. Catelyn Stark was nothing if not persistent. She would simply stand there knocking until he answered or have a servant fetch the key.

Jaime pulled on a loose crimson robe over his bare chest and didn’t bother tying it properly. Let her see the bruises from sparring. Let her see the man she was trying so hard to domesticate. He opened the door.

Catelyn stood there in a modest grey gown, posture impeccable, auburn hair pinned neatly beneath a veil. Her Tully-blue eyes flicked over him, taking in the messy golden hair, the open robe, the fresh bruises on his ribs and collarbone, and her mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

“Lord Jaime,” she began, voice carefully polite. “I wished to speak with you about yesterday’s… display in the training yard.”

Jaime leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving her his most sardonic smile.

“Display?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “How dramatic. I simply had a bit of exercise. Surely even northern omegas are allowed to move without risking immediate spontaneous miscarriage?”

Catelyn’s expression didn’t waver. “You were fighting. Multiple men. In the snow. Sweat-soaked and breathing heavily for hours. Several witnesses said you looked ready to drop from exhaustion by the end.”

“I looked magnificent,” Jaime corrected coldly. “And I outlasted most of your husband’s finest warriors. You should be proud. Your son’s wife can still make grown men tap out.”

Catelyn stepped slightly closer, lowering her voice as though they were sharing some grave secret. “You are the King’s omega. His mate. If you are carrying—”

Jaime’s mind flashed instantly to the small glass vials hidden beneath Robb’s tunics. The dark liquid. The bitter herbal scent. The quiet betrayal every single time Robb had buried himself deep and whispered filthy promises of breeding him while secretly ensuring it would never happen.

The hypocrisy burned like acid in his throat.

“I’m not,” Jaime snapped, voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “And even if I were, I would not spend the next nine months lying on my back like a dying fish simply because it makes you feel more secure.”

Catelyn’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Your stubbornness helps no one. Least of all my son. He already carries the weight of the entire North. Must you add to his burdens by behaving like a reckless child?”

Jaime’s smile vanished. His green eyes went icy.

“Reckless child,” he repeated softly, dangerously. “How interesting. Tell me, Lady Catelyn— does your son know you speak to his husband this way? Or do you save the scolding for when he’s conveniently absent from our bed every single morning?”

Catelyn stiffened. “I am only trying to protect the future of this alliance.”

“No,” Jaime said, stepping forward so she was forced to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. “You are trying to control me. You, your son, that relentlessly cheerful nursemaid— all of you. You want the lion tamed, declawed, and swelling nicely with Stark pups while the great King in the North continues playing his war games.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“Well I am not tamed. And the next person who tries to take steel out of my hands or tell me how to exist in this frozen prison will regret it. That includes you, my lady.”

Catelyn studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“You are making this harder than it needs to be,” she said finally.

Jaime gave her a cold, beautiful smile.

“Good.”

He stepped back and closed the door in her face with a firm, deliberate click, not quite slamming it, but close enough to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Then he leaned his forehead against the wood and let out a slow, shaky breath.

“Fucking Starks,” he whispered.

Hours later, the sun had long since disappeared behind the Wolfswood when Jaime finally returned to their chambers.

His body ached in the best way, muscles burning from another long, brutal afternoon in the training yard. Sweat had dried on his skin, his white-and-gold tunic was stained with dirt and snow, and there was a fresh bruise forming on his left forearm. He felt good. Alive. More like himself than he had since the wedding.

Until he stepped inside and saw them.

Robb’s boots. Large, well-worn, still damp with melted snow, placed neatly just outside the door to the private bathing chamber attached to their rooms.

Jaime stopped dead.

His first reaction was pure, searing anger. Now he comes back? After another full day of avoiding him? After leaving him to wake up alone again?

But his omega… that traitorous, needy thing inside his chest purred. Loudly. Warmth bloomed low in his belly at the familiar scent of pine, smoke, and alpha that now threaded through the room. Robb was here. Close. Naked in the bath, probably. Home.

Jaime hated how much he liked it.

He didn’t bother announcing his presence. Instead, he poured himself a generous cup of wine and dropped into the chair by the hearth, legs stretched out. He waited.

It didn’t take long.

The door to the bathing chamber opened some time later, releasing a cloud of warm, steam-scented air. Robb stepped out wearing only a pair of loose dark breeches, water still dripping from his wet red curls onto his broad, bare shoulders and chest.

He stopped when he saw Jaime sitting there.

“Jaime,” Robb said carefully. His voice was low, guarded.

Jaime took a slow sip of wine, eyes dragging over his husband’s half-naked form with deliberate disdain.

“How kind of you to finally grace our chambers with your presence,” he drawled. “I was beginning to think you’d moved into one of the guest towers to avoid your inconvenient husband.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp curls. “I’ve been in meetings since before dawn. I came back early to bathe and hoped we could speak.”

“Speak?” Jaime laughed, sharp and humorless. “That’s new. Usually you just fuck me, fill me, and disappear before I wake up. Or were you planning on hiding more moon tea in your clothes while I wasn’t looking?”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Oh, we absolutely are,” Jaime said, rising from the chair with predatory grace. “Because I’m tired of waking up to cold sheets every single morning. I’m tired of your mother treating me like a broodmare while you secretly make sure I never actually become one. I’m tired of pretending this—” he gestured between them, “—is anything but a political fuck with extra steps.”

Robb stepped closer, eyes flashing. “You think I enjoy this distance? You’ve been throwing yourself into the training yard like you’re trying to get yourself killed, picking fights, antagonizing my mother—”

"Antagonizing your mother?” Jaime’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and incredulous.

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that echoed off the stone walls.

“Oh, that’s rich. That’s fucking priceless, Stark.” Jaime took a aggressive step forward, closing the distance until they were nearly nose to nose. “Your mother has been hounding me for weeks. Chasing me through the castle with her smiling little nursemaid, shoving babies into my arms, lecturing me about my ‘duty’ to swell up like a good broodmare. She had me banned from sparring like I’m some fragile southern flower that might wilt if I lift a sword. And when I finally do something— anything— to feel like a man again, I’m the one ‘antagonizing’ her?”

Jaime’s green eyes were blazing with pure fury.

“You defend her?” His voice dropped into something low and venomous. “After everything? While she treats me like a glorified breeding bitch and you’ve been secretly drinking moon tea so I never actually fulfill that precious fucking role?”

Robb’s face tightened. “That’s not—”

“No. Shut up.” Jaime jabbed a finger hard into Robb’s bare chest. “You don’t get to stand there and lecture me about antagonizing your mother. She’s been treating me like property since the day I arrived, and you’ve done nothing to stop it. You just disappear every morning like a coward and leave me to deal with her alone.”

Jaime’s breathing was ragged now, years of humiliation, loneliness, and betrayal pouring out of him.

“I wake up alone every single day. Every. Single. Day. And when I finally snap and try to remind myself who the fuck I am, suddenly I’m the problem?” His laugh was bitter. “Gods, you Starks really are something else. You force me into this sham of a marriage, knot me every few nights like it’s your right, whisper pretty lies about breeding me, and then have the audacity to act shocked when I refuse to play the meek little omega wife.”

Robb’s hands flexed at his sides, clearly fighting the urge to grab him. “I told you why I was taking the moon tea. I was trying to give you a choice—”

“A choice?” Jaime snarled. “You took away my choice the moment you hid those vials! At least be honest about it. You liked having the Kingslayer as your personal fucktoy. You liked me desperate and wet and open for you without any consequences. Just admit it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Robb’s blue eyes were dark, stormy with frustration, guilt, and lingering desire. Steam still rose faintly from his skin. Water droplets traced paths down the hard planes of his chest.

Jaime stared at him, chest heaving, golden hair wild.

Robb exhaled slowly, keeping his voice low and calm. “You don’t want to get pregnant, Jaime.”

The simple, matter-of-fact statement hit like a slap.

Jaime blinked, then let out a disbelieving scoff. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” Robb continued in that same infuriatingly steady tone. “Every time my mother mentions it, every time Marta brings a babe near you, every time I even hint at it— you look like you want to set the entire castle on fire. You fight me at every turn. You spit venom the second anyone talks about heirs. So yes… I took the moon tea. Because forcing a child on you when you’re this miserable felt cruel.”

Jaime’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“How fucking noble of you,” he hissed. “You make decisions about my body in secret and then pat yourself on the back for being so considerate. Did it ever occur to you to speak to me like an equal instead of making that choice for me?”

Robb didn’t raise his voice. “Would you have listened? Really listened? Or would you have thrown it back in my face and called it another trap?”

“Don’t you dare turn this around on me!” Jaime snapped, stepping forward and shoving at Robb’s chest. The alpha didn’t budge. “You lied to me. You fucked me night after night and whispered about breeding me while making sure it would never happen. That’s not protection, Stark. That’s cowardice.”

Robb’s gaze remained steady, though his jaw tightened slightly.

“I wanted you to have a choice,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you trapped here any more than you already feel trapped. You hate it here. You hate what this marriage has turned you into. I see it every day. So I removed the risk.”

Jaime laughed bitterly, eyes shining with rage.

“You removed the risk because it was easier. Because a pregnant omega would have been another complication in your precious war. Another thing to worry about while you’re off playing king.” His voice cracked with fury. “At least have the balls to admit it.”

Robb reached up slowly and brushed a strand of damp golden hair out of Jaime’s face. The gesture was almost gentle, which only made Jaime angrier.

“I admit I was scared,” Robb said, still calm. “Scared of what it would do to you. Scared of bringing a child into this when I can barely be here for you as it is. You think I don’t know how lonely you are? I know. And I hate it.”

Jaime slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me with that fake tenderness,” he growled. “You don’t get to play the understanding husband now. Not after weeks of lying.”

Robb didn’t retreat. He simply stood there, solid and calm in the face of Jaime’s storm, which only fed the fire higher.

“Tell me then,” Robb said evenly. “If I stopped taking the moon tea tomorrow… would you actually want my child? Or would you resent it as much as you resent me right now?”

The question hung heavy in the air between them.

Chapter Text

Jaime woke to the same cold, empty chambers.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The argument with Robb had been vicious. They hadn’t fucked. They hadn’t even touched. Robb had eventually stormed out, and Jaime had refused to sleep in their bed out of pure spite. He’d passed out in the large chair by the dying fire instead, still wearing his sparring tunic.

His neck hurt. His back hurt. His pride hurt worse.

A firm knock sounded on the door.

Jaime didn’t even have time to tell whoever it was to fuck off before the door opened.

Catelyn Stark stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She was dressed plainly, no veil today, her auburn hair braided simply. Her expression was uncharacteristically hesitant.

Jaime sat up slowly in the chair, instantly on guard. “I don’t recall inviting you in.”

“I know,” Catelyn said quietly. She didn’t move further into the room. “I would not have come if I didn’t think it necessary.”

Jaime let out a tired, bitter laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “What fresh lecture do you have for me today, Lady Catelyn? More concerns about my delicate womb? Or perhaps you’ve come to ban me from breathing too hard?”

Catelyn studied him for a long moment. Then, to his complete shock, she spoke softly:

“Robb told me about the moon tea.”

Jaime froze.

The silence that followed was excruciating. He felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his half-dressed state. Heat crawled up his neck.

“He… what?” Jaime’s voice came out flat.

“Last night,” Catelyn continued, still standing near the door. “He told me everything. That he has been preventing conception in secret. That he did it without your knowledge.” She took a small step forward. “I came to apologize, Jaime.”

Jaime stared at her, completely thrown. This was the last thing he had expected. He stood up slowly, arms wrapping around himself in a rare show of discomfort.

“You’re apologizing,” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief and mockery to cover the unease. “The great Lady Catelyn Stark is apologizing to the Lannister whore her son was forced to marry. How touching.”

Catelyn didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, her expression softened in a way that made Jaime’s skin crawl with vulnerability.

“I have been hard on you,” she admitted. “I pushed you relentlessly about producing an heir. I had Marta follow you. I restricted your activities in the yard. I saw you only as a political necessity… and as an omega who should be grateful for the role.” She paused. “I did not know my son was undermining that at every turn. Had I known, I would not have been so cruel to you.”

Jaime looked away, jaw working. His omega instincts were a mess, part of him wanted to lean into the rare gentleness from another omega, while the rest of him wanted to snarl and drive her out of the room.

“I don’t need your pity,” he said tightly.

“It’s not pity.” Catelyn’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “I know what it is to be an omega in a world that wants you for your womb and little else. I know what it is to feel trapped by expectation. I was younger than you when I was married off to the North for alliance. I was terrified.”

Jaime’s throat tightened. He hated how much her words landed.

“I spent years trying to prove I was more than just a vessel for Stark heirs,” Catelyn continued. “And yet here I was… doing the same thing to you that was done to me. For that, I am truly sorry.”

The silence stretched again.

Jaime turned slightly, staring into the cold hearth instead of at her. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

“…I thought something was wrong with me,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “That my body was refusing to do the one thing everyone demanded. That I was failing as an omega. As a husband. As a Lannister.” He let out a hollow laugh. “All while he was making sure it never happened.”

Catelyn took another careful step closer.

“You are not failing,” she said softly. “You are surviving. And you are still very much a lion, even if we have all tried to clip your claws.”

Jaime swallowed hard. He refused to look at her, but his shoulders trembled once with the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” he whispered, so quietly he almost hoped she wouldn’t hear. “I hate him for lying. I hate all of you for reducing me to this. And yet some disgusting part of me still wants…” He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply.

Catelyn stood quietly for a long moment, giving him the dignity of not commenting on the crack in his armor.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was gentle but steady.

“Whatever you decide… you will not be forced into motherhood while my son plays games with your body. That, I can promise you.”

Jaime didn’t reply.

He simply stood there, arms still wrapped around himself, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he had since the day he was dragged north in chains.

And for once, Catelyn Stark did not push. She simply nodded once, understanding, and quietly left the room.

Jaime remained standing long after the door clicked shut, staring at nothing.

The silence pressed in on him like heavy snow. For once, Catelyn’s departure left him more unsettled than relieved. Her unexpected gentleness had cracked something in him he preferred to keep sealed shut. He hated it.

He dressed quickly in a simple dark tunic and cloak, forgoing the white-and-gold today. He needed air. Space. Somewhere no one would look for him.

The godswood called to him again.

The ancient tree stood sentinel under a pale grey sky, branches heavy with snow. Jaime found his usual bench near the heart tree, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he paced slowly before the carved weirwood face, boots crunching softly in the fresh powder.

He heard the footsteps long before the man appeared.

“Lord Jaime.”

Maester Luwin emerged from the path, his grey robes brushing the snow, chain of many metals clinking softly against his chest. The old man’s face was calm, lined with wisdom and the quiet weight of years serving House Stark.

Jaime’s expression hardened instantly into something cold and cutting.

“Maester,” he greeted with a mocking tilt of his head. “Come to lecture me on the proper care of a womb as well? Or perhaps you’ve brought more of your special little tonics for my husband to hide behind my back?”

Maester Luwin stopped a respectful distance away, lightly hunched forward. His pale eyes studied Jaime with the careful observation of a man who had spent decades watching proud men break and rebuild.

“I did give Lord Robb the moon tea,” he said plainly. No excuses. No preamble.

Jaime’s laugh was sharp enough to cut. “How refreshing. Honesty. Did he send you to smooth things over, or do you simply enjoy cleaning up after your young lord’s messes?”

Maester Luwin’s expression remained gentle but unflinching. “He did not send me. I came because I felt it right that you hear the truth from the man who prepared the draughts.”

Jaime crossed his arms, golden hair catching what little light filtered through the branches. “Then speak, Maester. Enlighten me. Was it your idea to turn the great Kingslayer into a sterile whore for the Young Wolf’s amusement?”

Maester Luwin sighed softly, the sound carrying the weariness of an old man who had seen too many wars and broken alliances.

“It was not done lightly,” he said. “Lord Robb came to me days after the wedding. He was… conflicted. He told me you were unhappy. That you still saw yourself as a prisoner. That forcing a child upon you while the North remained unstable and he was rarely present felt cruel.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “How noble of him.”

"He did not want you to feel trapped by an unwanted pregnancy while he could offer you so little of himself," Maester Luwin continued quietly.

Jaime turned away sharply, staring at the weeping red face of the heart tree. His voice when it came was low and dangerous.

“And yet he still fucked me like he wanted to breed me every time. Whispered filth in my ear about how I’d look round with his pup. Made me want things I never asked for.” He let out a bitter breath. “All while making damn sure it would never happen.”

Maester Luwin was quiet for a moment, respecting the weight of Jaime’s words.

“Men— even good men— can be cowards when it comes to the ones they are beginning to care for,” He said eventually. “Especially young kings who never asked for their crowns so soon. He feared binding you to him more permanently when you might still despise him. He feared watching you grow to resent both him and the child.”

Jaime spun back around, green eyes flashing with Lannister fire.

“So instead he made a fool of me,” he hissed. “Let his mother harass me daily. Let me believe my body was failing at the one thing this entire cursed alliance demanded of me. Do you have any idea what that feels like, Maester? To think yourself broken while everyone around you waits for you to perform like a prized mare?”

Maester Luwin met his gaze steadily.

“I do not,” he admitted. “I have never been an omega, nor a husband. But I have watched many proud souls be ground down by expectation. You are not the first, Lord Jaime. Nor will you be the last.”

Jaime’s lips curled into a sneer, but there was real pain beneath the venom.

“Spare me the philosophical drivel. You’re a maester. You deal in facts and chains of knowledge. So tell me this, was it truly mercy? Or was it simply convenient for your king to keep his lion fuckable and unburdened?”

Luwin was silent for a long moment, studying the younger man before him.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” he said finally, honestly. “But I believe Lord Robb’s fear was genuine. He cares for you more than he knows how to say. That does not excuse what he did.”

Jaime turned back toward the heart tree, shoulders rigid. His voice dropped, cold and venomous.

“I should tell your Lady Catelyn everything,” he said. “Not just that he was taking the moon tea… but how he would fuck me while whispering about breeding me, about how much he wanted me carrying his child. All while making sure it never happened.”

He let out a low, bitter laugh.

“That would shatter her perfect image of her precious, honorable son rather spectacularly, wouldn’t you agree, Maester?”

“You could,” Luwin agreed calmly. “But you haven’t. Not yet.”

Jaime didn’t reply.

The maester bowed his head slightly. “If you wish me to prepare something for you, moon tea of your own, or otherwise, you need only ask. Quietly. No one else need know.”

With that, Luwin turned and began to walk slowly back down the path, leaving Jaime alone once more beneath the ancient weirwood.

Jaime stood there for a long time, fists clenched at his sides, the cold wind biting at his face.

The heart tree watched him silently, its red sap eyes unblinking. He felt raw — exposed in a way that made his skin crawl. The conversation with Maester Luwin had done nothing to settle the storm inside him. If anything, it had made it worse.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

Did he want freedom? Did he want revenge? Did he want the child everyone kept pushing on him… or was he simply terrified that he might?

After nearly half an hour of standing in the biting cold, Jaime turned sharply on his heel and left the godswood. His steps were purposeful, though his mind was anything but.

He found Marta near the kitchens, speaking with one of the cooks. The moment she saw him approaching, her face brightened with that relentless cheerfulness.

“Lord Jaime! I was just—”

“Fetch that little William babe,” Jaime cut her off, voice flat and commanding.

“You heard me,” he said, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “The kitchen maid’s boy. The one you’ve been parading around like a training prop. Bring him to me.”

Marta studied his face carefully, clearly sensing something different in his tone. For once, she didn’t push or tease.

“As you wish, my lord,” she said quietly. “I’ll fetch him right away.”

She didn’t ask why. Jaime was grateful for that small mercy.

He waited in one of the smaller, private solar rooms off the main hall, one rarely used this time of day. The fire was already lit, casting warm light across the stone floors. He paced slowly, arms still wrapped around himself, jaw tight.

What the fuck are you doing, Lannister? he thought bitterly.

A short while later, Marta returned with the bundled infant in her arms. Little Will was awake this time, blinking wide blue eyes at the world, a tiny fist stuffed in his mouth.

“Here he is, my lord,” Marta said gently, offering the babe.

Jaime took him without a word.

The moment the warm weight settled against his chest, his omega surged forward with a deep, instinctive purr that vibrated through his ribs. He hated how automatic it was. How right it felt.

Marta hovered for a moment, then wisely bowed her head. “I’ll leave you be, my lord. Call if you need anything.”

Jaime didn’t respond. He simply moved to the chair by the window, lowering himself carefully while adjusting the baby in his arms.

Little Will cooed softly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, drawn to the warmth and the sweet babe scent that had grown softer over the past weeks. Jaime’s hand came up automatically, supporting the babe’s head with surprising gentleness.

He stared down at the small face, chubby cheeks, dark tufts of hair, innocent eyes that hadn’t yet learned how cruel the world could be.

“I don’t even know if I want this,” Jaime whispered to the baby, voice barely audible. “Part of me wants to burn every expectation they have for me. Another part…” He swallowed hard. “Another part wonders what it would feel like if you were mine. If you had red curls and blue eyes and looked up at me like I was your whole world.”

His thumb brushed gently over the baby’s soft cheek.

“I’m so bloody confused,” he admitted, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “I was never supposed to be this. I was supposed to die gloriously in battle or live as the greatest knight in the realm. Not… this.”

Little Will made a small, contented sound and grabbed a fistful of Jaime’s golden hair, tugging weakly.

Jaime let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, but there was no real bite to it.

He sat there for a long time, holding the borrowed babe, trying to make sense of the storm in his heart, the anger, the longing, the fear, and the quiet, terrifying desire that refused to be silenced.

For the first time, he didn’t push the feeling away.

He simply let it sit with him.

Jaime shifted the baby slightly in his arms, tilting his head as he studied the small face with a critical eye, as if appraising a new horse at a tourney.

“You know,” he murmured, voice dry and laced with that familiar Lannister mockery, “my green eyes would probably look better paired with auburn curls. Stark red. Less common. More striking.” He brushed a finger over the baby’s dark hair. “Though I suppose blonde hair with blue eyes wouldn’t be entirely tragic either. Can’t have the poor thing looking too much like a Lannister though. The North would riot.”

Little Will gurgled happily, completely oblivious, still gripping a fistful of golden hair.

Jaime’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

“Gods help us if we actually made one,” he continued, tone deliberately light, almost dismissive, as though he were merely commenting on the weather. “A brat with my face and Robb's ridiculous hair. Or my hair and those ridiculous Tully eyes. The realm wouldn’t know whether to worship it or burn it at the stake.”

He leaned back in the chair, letting the baby rest more comfortably against his chest. His voice dropped slightly, still casual, still trying to sound as if none of it mattered.

“Either way… it wouldn’t be boring.”

The words hung in the quiet room, far more revealing than Jaime intended. He stared down at little Will for a long moment, thumb absently stroking the babe’s back in slow circles.

His omega was purring again, low, steady, and content.

Jaime simply sat there, holding the small, warm weight, letting himself imagine, just for a little while, what a child that was truly theirs might look like. A boy with wild red curls and sharp green eyes. A girl with golden hair and Robb’s bright Tully blue.

"Gods help any daughter born to Robb Stark." Jaime mumbled under his breath.

A while later, the door to the small solar creaked open.

Jaime looked up sharply, instinctively tightening his hold on little Will. A young woman stepped inside, no older than twenty, with tired eyes, flushed cheeks, and her dark hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Her apron was stained with kitchen work, and she smelled faintly of bread and milk.

She stopped short when she saw Jaime holding her son.

“Oh— my lord,” she said, clearly surprised. She dropped into a deep, awkward curtsy. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just looking for Will. He’s been gone a while and I thought…”

Her voice trailed off as she noticed how comfortably the baby was nestled against Jaime’s chest, one tiny hand fisted in golden hair.

Jaime regarded her coolly for a moment, then gave a small, sardonic tilt of his head.

“You must be the mother, then.”

“Aye, m’lord. Ellyn,” she said softly, still standing near the door as if unsure whether she was allowed closer. “I’m very sorry if he’s been any trouble. He’s usually a sweet one, but he can be fussy when he’s hungry.”

Jaime glanced down at the content, sleepy baby in his arms.

“He’s been quiet enough,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “Though I’m told he has a twin?”

Ellyn’s face softened with a mix of exhaustion and fondness. “Aye. Little Lyra. She’s… much more of a handful, I’m afraid. Screams the rafters down if she doesn’t get what she wants. Takes after her father, that one.” She gave a small, tired laugh. “I don’t know how I’d manage both without Goodwife Marta’s help these days.”

Jaime nodded slightly, still stroking the baby’s back in slow, absent circles.

Ellyn hesitated, then spoke again, her voice warm with genuine gratitude.

“I wanted to thank you, my lord. Properly. It’s… it’s a great honor, having the King’s omega hold my boy. Most highborns wouldn’t give a kitchen maid’s babe a second glance, let alone sit with him for so long.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring out the window instead of at her.

“Don’t make it into something it isn’t,” he said, tone sharp but not cruel. “I was simply… bored.”

Ellyn smiled gently, clearly not believing him.

“Still. It means a great deal, m’lord.”

Jaime didn’t reply, instead he rose carefully and crossed the room, offering the baby back to his mother with surprising gentleness.

“Here,” he said. “Take your son.”

Ellyn accepted little Will with a grateful nod, cradling him close. The baby made a small, protesting sound at being moved before cuddling to his mother.

“Thank you again, Lord Jaime,” she said quietly. “Truly.”

Jaime gave a short, dismissive nod, already turning away.

As Ellyn left the solar with her son, Jaime stood alone once more, staring at the empty space where they had been.

Chapter Text

The training yard was alive with the familiar sounds of steel on steel and the grunts of men exerting themselves. Jaime had thrown himself into the bouts with even more ferocity than usual, his white-and-gold tunic already damp with sweat despite the biting cold. His golden hair was pushed back messily, a few strands sticking to his forehead as he disarmed a young soldier with a sharp twist of his wrist.

The man stumbled back, laughing breathlessly as he yielded. “Gods, you’re fast, m’lord.”

Jaime offered him a cold, satisfied smirk. “Try keeping up next time.”

He was just turning to accept another challenger when movement near the stables caught his eye.

Robb.

The Young Wolf was mounting his horse, a large grey destrier already saddled and impatient. He wore his riding cloak and boiled leather armor, red curls wild and free. Several of his bannermen and guards were mounted nearby, clearly preparing to ride out.

Jaime’s grip tightened on his practice sword until the wood creaked.

Of course. Another day. Another departure. No word. No explanation. Just Robb vanishing again like a ghost.

For a moment, Jaime considered ignoring it. Maintaining the cold dignity he’d been clinging to in public. But the anger that had been simmering since their last fight, since the discovery of the moon tea, since every empty morning, boiled over.

He strode across the yard with long, purposeful steps, practice sword still in hand. The men around him fell quiet, sensing the shift in the air.

“Off somewhere important, Lord Stark?” Jaime called out, voice carrying clearly across the yard, sharp, mocking, and loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Robb paused, one foot already in the stirrup. He turned, blue eyes meeting Jaime’s. His expression tightened.

“Jaime,” he said, voice low. A warning.

But Jaime wasn’t in the mood to be warned.

He stopped a few paces away, tilting his head with that signature Lannister arrogance, even as fury burned in his chest.

“Another council? Another patrol? Or are you simply riding off again so you don’t have to look your husband in the eye after everything?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but the edge underneath it was razor-sharp. “How very responsible of you. The North must be so grateful to have such a dedicated king.”

Robb’s jaw clenched. He swung his leg fully over the saddle but didn’t spur the horse forward yet. “This is necessary. There are reports of Ironborn ships near the coast. I can’t ignore it.”

“How convenient,” Jaime replied, lips curling into a cold smile. “Always something necessary. Always something more important than the man you married and then quietly ensured would never burden you with a child.”

A few of the watching men shifted uncomfortably. Robb’s bannermen glanced away, pretending sudden interest in their horses’ tack.

Robb’s voice dropped, tight with frustration. “Not here, Jaime.”

“No? You’d rather discuss it in private after you’ve disappeared for another twelve hours?” Jaime took one more step forward, maintaining perfect posture even as his green eyes blazed. “Or perhaps you’d prefer never to discuss it at all. That seems to be your preference lately.”

Robb stared down at him from the saddle, red curls catching the weak sunlight. For a moment, something like guilt flickered across his face, quickly buried beneath kingly resolve.

“I’ll return tonight,” he said firmly. “We can speak then.”

Jaime let out a soft, mocking laugh.

“Of course you will.” He gave a shallow, sarcastic bow. “Ride safely, husband. Wouldn’t want the great Young Wolf to miss another opportunity to avoid his problems.”

Robb held his gaze for a long second, clearly wanting to say more, but aware of the many eyes on them. Finally, he gave a curt nod and turned his horse.

“Move out,” he ordered his men.

Jaime stood motionless as the party rode out through the gates, Robb at the front. He didn’t wave. He didn’t call after him. He simply watched, practice sword still gripped tightly in his hand, every line of his body radiating controlled fury and wounded pride.

Only when the last rider had disappeared did he turn back toward the yard.

“Again,” he barked at the nearest soldier, voice cold and commanding. “And don’t hold back this time.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed.

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the gates of Winterfell opened again.

Shouts went up across the courtyard as riders poured in. Jaime was still in the training yard, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, when he heard the commotion. He turned just in time to see Robb’s grey destrier stumbling through the gates, foam flecking its mouth.

Robb was slumped in the saddle.

Two of his men were on either side of him, half-holding him upright as the horse was brought to a halt. Blood stained the left side of Robb’s boiled leather armor, dark and wet. His red curls were matted with sweat and grime, his face pale beneath the dirt.

“Seven hells,” someone muttered.

Catelyn came running from the keep, skirts gathered in her fists. “Robb!”

Jaime stood motionless for half a second, then started forward with measured steps, practice sword still in hand. He kept his expression cold and composed, though his stomach had tightened sharply.

The men lowered Robb carefully from the saddle. He grimaced, teeth clenched, one hand pressed to his left side. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Robb rasped, trying to stand on his own. His voice was hoarse. “Arrow. Grazed me. Bastards were waiting near the shore.”

Catelyn reached him, face white with fear. “Maester Luwin! Now!” She turned on the men. “What happened? Why was he not better protected?”

Jaime stopped a few paces away, eyes narrowed as he assessed the wound. It looked deep. Too much blood.

“Get him to the maester’s tower,” Jaime said sharply, voice carrying clear authority. “Now. Before he loses any more blood standing here like a fool.”

Catelyn’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing with fury. “Do not give orders in my son’s keep, Lannister. You’ve done enough damage already with your recklessness and your constant need to undermine him.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change, though his green eyes went ice-cold. He tilted his head slightly, the very picture of aristocratic disdain.

“I’m trying to keep Lord Stark from bleeding out in the dirt, my lady,” he said, voice smooth and cutting. “But by all means, continue scolding me while your son’s life drains away. Very productive.”

“Enough,” Robb growled, but his voice wavered with pain. He swayed slightly, and the men tightened their grips.

“You see what you’ve done?” Catelyn hissed at Jaime, voice low and venomous. “With your fighting and your defiance and your refusal to accept your place. He rides out distracted, worried about you and your tantrums—”

“Mother,” Robb cut in sharply, breathing hard. “Not now.”

But Catelyn was beyond stopping. “He should be focused on his duties, not on a spoiled southern omega who—”

“Lady Catelyn,” Jaime interrupted, voice dangerously polite, “if you wish to scream at me, I suggest we do it after your son is no longer leaking like a poorly patched wineskin. Unless you’d prefer to explain to the North how their king died because you were too busy berating his husband.”

Several of the men shifted uncomfortably. A few looked away.

Robb’s face was tight with pain and frustration. “Mother,” he said again, more firmly this time, even as blood continued to seep through his fingers. “Jaime is right. I need the maester. Now.”

Catelyn’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked between them, her injured son and the golden-haired omega she clearly still despised, before nodding stiffly.

“Take him,” she ordered the men. “Gently.”

As they began moving Robb toward the maester’s tower, Robb’s eyes met Jaime’s for a brief moment. There was pain there, exhaustion, and something complicated that looked almost like an apology.

Jaime simply stared back, expression unreadable, jaw locked tight.

Only after they disappeared inside did he exhale slowly through his nose and follow.

By the time Jaime reached their chambers, Maester Luwin was already at work. Robb sat on the edge of the large bed, shirt removed, torso bared to the firelight. A deep gash ran along his left side, ugly and still seeping. Maester Luwin was cleaning it with focused efficiency, his chain clinking softly with each movement.

Catelyn hovered close, pale-faced and tight-lipped, one hand resting on Robb’s shoulder as if afraid he might vanish.

“You should have had more men with you,” she was saying, voice strained. “This was reckless. You are the King in the North, not some common soldier charging ahead—”

“Mother,” Robb muttered, wincing as Maester Luwin pressed a cloth to the wound.

Jaime leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching silently. His expression was cool, almost bored, though his green eyes missed nothing.

Maester Luwin glanced up. “The arrow grazed the ribs. Deep, but no vital organs struck. He’ll need stitching and rest.”

Catelyn’s gaze flicked to Jaime, her expression hardening instantly.

“And you,” she said sharply. “No doubt pleased with yourself. While you were playing at swords in the yard all day, my son was nearly killed because his mind was elsewhere.”

Jaime’s lips curved into a thin, dangerous smile.

“How fascinating,” he drawled. “I was under the impression that the king rode out to deal with Ironborn raiders. Not that he was mooning over his wayward husband like some lovestruck squire. But please, do continue blaming me for his incompetence. It’s clearly helping.”

“Enough,” Robb growled, but his voice lacked its usual strength.

Catelyn’s eyes flashed. “You have done nothing but cause chaos since you arrived. Fighting in the yard like a common brute, undermining his authority, filling his head with—”

“Lady Catelyn,” Jaime interrupted smoothly, voice ice-cold and cutting, “if you cannot stop flapping your tongue long enough for the maester to do his work, then I suggest you remove yourself from this chamber. Your son is bleeding. Try to remember that.”

Catelyn drew herself up, furious. “You dare speak to me like that in my own home? You insolent—”

“Mother,” Robb cut in, sharper this time. He winced again as Maester Luwin threaded the needle. “Jaime is right. This is not helping.”

For a moment, Catelyn looked betrayed. “I am only trying to protect you.”

“I know,” Robb said, breathing through the pain. “But I need quiet. And I need to speak with my husband. Alone.”

Catelyn stared at him, then at Jaime, her mouth pressed into a hard line. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

Finally, she gave a stiff nod.

“As you wish,” she said coldly. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Robb’s forehead, then swept toward the door. She paused beside Jaime on her way out, voice low enough that only he could hear.

“Try not to make things worse.”

Jaime didn’t even look at her.

When the door finally closed behind her, the chamber fell into heavy silence, broken only by the soft sounds of Maester Luwin stitching the wound.

Robb let out a long, tired breath, leaning back slightly against the pillows Maester Luwin had arranged.

“She means well,” he muttered.

Jaime remained leaning against the wall, arms still crossed, watching Maester Luwin work with detached interest.

“Does she?” he asked mildly. “Or is she simply terrified of losing control over her precious son to the evil Lannister whore?”

Robb’s blue eyes flicked up to meet his, exhausted but steady.

"Don't talk of my mother like that, Jaime."

The words hung in the air, quiet but firm.

Jaime’s expression didn’t change. He remained leaning against the wall with perfect, effortless poise, though his green eyes sharpened like Valyrian steel.

“Ah,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Of course. Even half-bleeding on our bed, you still leap to her defense. How touching.” His voice was smooth, almost conversational, but there was a dangerous undercurrent beneath it. “Never mind that she’s spent weeks treating me like a broodmare who wandered into the wrong stable. Never mind the constant lectures, the restrictions, the nursemaid she sicced on me like a hound. But gods forbid I speak of her with anything less than reverence.”

Maester Luwin kept his eyes on his work, needle moving steadily through Robb’s flesh, pretending he was deaf to the exchange.

Robb winced as the thread pulled tight, but his gaze remained locked on Jaime. “She’s frightened,” he said, voice rough with pain. “She lost my father. My siblings. She’s terrified of losing me too. You don't know what that’s like.”

Jaime gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Yes, how tragic. The poor woman who helped chain me to this marriage is scared. Forgive me if I don’t weep for her.” He pushed off the wall and took a few slow steps closer, arms still crossed. “Meanwhile, I’m the villain for daring to exist. For daring to refuse to sit quietly and swell up like a proper Stark bitch while you ride off every morning and come back bleeding like an idiot.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Jaime—”

“No,” Jaime cut in, voice still controlled but colder now. “You don’t get to scold me for disrespecting your mother when you’ve disrespected me at every turn.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Maester Luwin tied off the last stitch and began wrapping the wound in clean linen, working quickly and efficiently.

Robb exhaled through his nose, clearly in pain, but his eyes never left Jaime’s face.

"It's as if you forget that we are married, Jaime. My mother is no more just my own than she is yours as well—"

Jaime’s laugh was low, sharp, and utterly humorless.

“Oh, please,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Spare me the pretty little lecture on familial duty. She has never once treated me as anything but an unwelcome intruder in her son’s bed. A necessary inconvenience to be managed and bred. And you—” he took a step closer, green eyes flashing, “—have done nothing to correct her. You defend her even now, while you’re leaking blood onto our sheets like a fool.”

Maester Luwin worked in silence, head bowed, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

Robb’s jaw clenched as another stitch pulled through. “She is trying to protect this family. Our family.”

“Our family?” Jaime’s tone turned dangerously sweet. “How charming. Tell me, husband, when exactly did I become part of this glorious Stark family? Was it when your mother had me banned from the training yard like a pregnant bitch, or when you were secretly drinking moon tea so I could never actually bear the heirs everyone keeps demanding from me?”

“You want the truth, Jaime?” he snarled, voice rough and bitter. “I never wanted this marriage. I never wanted you. Omega or not, you’re still a Lannister. Your family murdered my father. You crippled my brother. Your sister sat on the Iron Throne while the North burned. Every time I look at you, I remember that. I fuck you because the bond demands it, because you smell like sin and sunlight and everything I shouldn’t want… but don’t fool yourself. I didn’t choose you. I was given you.”

The chamber went deathly quiet.

Even Maester Luwin froze for half a second.

Jaime stood very still. His face went blank, perfectly composed, almost eerily calm. The only sign of the blow was the slight tightening at the corner of his jaw and the way his fingers curled slowly into fists at his sides.

For a long second, the only sound was the crackle of the hearth and Robb’s heavy breathing.

Then Jaime spoke, his voice soft, cold, and terrifyingly polite.

“Well,” he said. “At least now we’re being honest.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with deliberate care, as though the conversation bored him.

“I’ll leave you to your mother’s comfort then, Lord Stark, it seems that’s where you’d rather be. Clearly, you’ve had enough of your inconvenient Lannister whore for one night.”

Without another word, Jaime turned and walked out of the chamber. His steps were measured, his back straight, his head held high. The door closed behind him with a quiet, controlled click.

Only once he was halfway down the corridor, far from any watching eyes, did the mask slip for just a moment, his jaw tightening, green eyes flashing with something raw and ugly.

But no one saw it.

He kept walking.

Back in the chamber, Robb stared at the closed door, regret already cutting through the pain like a second blade. Maester Luwin continued stitching in heavy silence, saying nothing.

The Young Wolf had spilled blood in more ways than one tonight.

Chapter Text

Later that night, long after the castle had quieted, Jaime returned to their chambers.

He moved silently, the door opening with barely a sound. The room was dimly lit by a single candle and the low fire. Robb was still in their bed, propped up against pillows, freshly bandaged and pale. His blue eyes opened the moment Jaime stepped inside.

Jaime didn’t look at him. He walked straight to the wardrobe, pulling out a clean tunic and a spare cloak with sharp, economical movements.

“What are you doing?” Robb asked, voice rough with pain and exhaustion.

“Grabbing a few things,” Jaime replied coolly, not turning around. “I’ll be sleeping in one of the guest chambers tonight.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“No,” Robb said.

Jaime paused, one hand still inside the wardrobe. He turned slowly, golden brows raised in mocking disbelief.

“No?” he repeated, voice soft and dangerous.

Robb shifted against the pillows, wincing. “You’re sleeping here. In our bed.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment, then let out a low, incredulous laugh.

“How fascinating,” he said, tilting his head. “All this time you’ve had no problem leaving me in this bed alone every single morning. You’ve made it quite clear you never wanted me here in the first place. And now, after telling me to my face that I was an unwanted hostage you were given, you suddenly insist I sleep beside you?”

He took a step closer, green eyes glittering with fury.

“Gods forbid I don’t warm your bed tonight, even after you’ve been stabbed. How dare I deny the great Robb Stark his nightly convenience?”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Jaime—”

“No,” Jaime cut him off sharply, voice still controlled but edged with ice. “You don’t get to say what you said earlier and then demand I lie beside you like some obedient wife. You don’t get to wound me with one breath and expect comfort with the next.”

He grabbed the tunic and cloak, slinging them over his arm.

“I’ll sleep elsewhere tonight. Perhaps that will give you time to remember whether you actually want me here at all… or if I’m simply another Lannister burden you’re forced to tolerate.”

Robb pushed himself up slightly, grimacing in pain. “Jaime, just stay. Please.”

Jaime paused at the door, then turned back with a cold, cutting smile.

“Please?” he echoed mockingly. “How novel. You ignore me for days, leave our bed cold every morning, tell me I was an unwanted hostage you never chose, and now you plead with me to stay? Spare me the performance, Stark.”

Robb’s expression darkened. Pain and exhaustion had worn his patience thin.

“I’m not performing,” he growled. “You’re my husband. You sleep in my chambers.”

“Your husband,” Jaime repeated, voice dripping with venom. “How convenient that title becomes when it suits you. When it doesn’t, I’m just the Lannister whore you fuck and hide moon tea from.”

Robb sat up further, ignoring the fresh bloom of blood seeping through the bandages. His blue eyes were hard.

“You will sleep here, Jaime.”

Jaime laughed softly, dangerously. “Or what?”

Robb’s voice dropped into a low, rough register, the alpha bleeding through the king.

“Or I’ll have the guards carry you back in here and bolt the door from the outside.”

The threat landed heavily in the quiet room.

Jaime went very still. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the hearth.

He tilted his head, studying Robb with icy contempt.

“There he is,” Jaime said softly. “The real Robb Stark. Not the noble Young Wolf. Just another entitled alpha who thinks he can command me like a dog because he has a crown and a cock.”

Robb didn’t flinch. “You are mine. Bonded. Mated. You can hate me all you want, but you will sleep in this bed.”

Jaime’s green eyes narrowed to slits. His voice became dangerously quiet.

“You can threaten me. You can bleed all over our sheets. You can even have your guards drag me back here like a prisoner.” He stepped closer, radiating cold fury. “But do not mistake my silence for submission, Stark. I have killed kings for less than what you just said to me.”

He held Robb’s gaze for a long, charged moment, then turned sharply and walked out without another word, cloak and tunic still slung over his arm.

The door shut behind him with a heavy, final sound.

Robb stared at the closed door, chest heaving, pain throbbing sharply in his side. His hand clenched into a fist against the furs.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty room.

The silence that answered him felt heavier than any wound.

The great hall of Winterfell was bustling with the usual morning activity. Lords and captains broke their fast at long tables, voices low with discussion of the previous day’s skirmish and Robb’s injury. Maester Luwin had declared the king would need at least a few days of rest, so several of his closest advisors had gathered near the high table to speak in hushed but urgent tones.

Jaime sat at the far end of the high table, picking at a plate of bread, cheese, and smoked fish with calculated disinterest. He looked every inch the composed Lannister, golden hair neatly styled, dressed in crimson and grey, expression cool and remote.

Catelyn approached him directly, her steps sharp against the stone floor. She stopped beside his seat, voice low but carrying just enough for the nearby councilors to hear.

“Lord Jaime,” she began, her tone clipped with disapproval. “I was informed you chose to sleep in the guest chambers last night. While my son lay wounded in his own bed.”

Several heads turned. Lord Glover and two Karstark men nearby pretended to focus on their food, but their ears were clearly tuned to the exchange.

Jaime set his knife down slowly and looked up at her with a thin, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

How in seven hells did the bitch even find out?

“Indeed,” he replied smoothly. “I thought it best not to disturb Lord Stark's rest. He was in considerable pain.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed into a hard line. “You are his husband. Your place is at his side, especially when he is injured. Instead, you abandon him on the very night he returns bleeding from battle. Do you have any idea how that looks?"

Jaime’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his goblet, but his voice remained perfectly even, almost pleasant.

“I was under the impression that my presence was not entirely welcome,” he said lightly. “But please, Lady Catelyn, do enlighten me. What exactly does it look like when the King of the North’s omega chooses to sleep elsewhere after his husband has made his feelings on their union abundantly clear?”

A few of the nearby lords shifted uncomfortably. Catelyn’s voice grew sharper, though she kept it low.

“It looks like disloyalty. It looks like you care more about your pride than your duty to Robb and this alliance. After everything this family has done to accept you—”

Jaime’s green eyes flashed, but he kept his tone impeccably controlled, the very image of very-restrained civility.

“Accept me?” he echoed softly, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. “How generous of you all. I shall endeavor to be more grateful while I’m being reminded daily of what an unwelcome burden I am.”

Catelyn leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper that only he and the closest lords could hear.

“You embarrass him. You embarrass this entire house with your childish behavior. Grow up and do your duty, Lannister.”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, the mask of cool arrogance firmly in place. Inside, his blood was boiling. But with half a dozen of Robb’s most powerful bannermen watching, he would not give her the satisfaction of a public outburst.

He rose gracefully from his seat, inclining his head with mocking courtesy.

“I thank you for your counsel, my lady,” he said, loud enough for the table to hear. “I shall take it under careful consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have exhausted my appetite for both food and conversation this morning.”

He stepped away from the table with perfect poise, every movement measured and regal, refusing to let even a flicker of the rage he felt show on his face.

As he walked out of the great hall, spine straight and head high, he could feel the eyes of Robb’s council following him. Behind him, Catelyn remained standing, lips pressed thin with displeasure.

Jaime didn’t look back. He made it all the way to the corridor before he allowed himself to exhale sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“Fucking Tully bitch,” he whispered under his breath.

He walked the stone halls of Winterfell with long, measured strides, cloak billowing slightly behind him. Every servant and guard he passed quickly averted their eyes. Good. Let them fear the lion today.

He had just turned the corner toward the smaller council chamber when he heard it, Robb’s voice, rough with pain but still issuing commands.

“—double the patrols along the coast. I don’t care if the men are tired. The Ironborn tasted blood yesterday. They’ll come back.”

Jaime stopped dead.

His expression darkened. Of course. The idiot couldn’t even stay in bed for one full day.

He pushed open the door without knocking.

The small council chamber fell silent. Robb was seated at the head of the table, pale and clearly in pain, one hand pressed against his bandaged side. Several lords, including the Greatjon and two others, sat with him, maps and letters spread before them.

Robb looked up. “Jaime.”

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Jaime said, voice deceptively calm. “Resting. Maester Luwin’s orders, if I recall.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “This couldn’t wait.”

“Couldn’t wait,” Jaime repeated, stepping further into the room. His green eyes swept over the gathered men before returning to Robb. “Of course. The realm might collapse if you spend one single day recovering from nearly bleeding to death.”

The Greatjon cleared his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps we should—”

“Stay,” Robb ordered, eyes locked on Jaime. “This won’t take long.”

Jaime’s smile was thin and sharp. “No, it won’t. Because you’re going back to bed. Now.”

A few of the lords exchanged uneasy glances. Challenging the King in front of his bannermen was bold, even for Jaime.

Robb’s voice dropped. “I said this couldn’t wait.”

“And I said you're supposed to be resting,” Jaime replied coolly. “You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re one stubborn decision away from reopening that wound. But by all means, continue playing the indestructible Young Wolf. I’m sure your mother will be thrilled when you collapse again.”

Robb pushed himself to his feet, wincing. “I don’t need you telling me how to rule, Lannister.”

“No, you clearly don’t,” Jaime said, voice laced with ice. “You only need me when it suits you, preferably on my back and silent. But when I try to keep you from being an idiot, suddenly I’m overstepping.”

The tension in the room thickened. The lords looked anywhere but at the two of them.

Robb took a shaky step forward. “Jaime—”

“Bed,” Jaime cut in, stepping closer, voice low enough that only Robb could hear. “Now. Or I will have the Greatjon carry you there myself while your bannermen watch. Don’t test me, Stark. Not today.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, two proud, stubborn men, both bleeding in different ways.

Finally, Robb exhaled through his nose, clearly furious but too exhausted to keep fighting.

“Council is dismissed,” he said curtly. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

The lords stood quickly, bowing before filing out. The Greatjon gave Jaime a respectful, almost amused, nod on his way past.

Once the door closed, Robb swayed slightly. Jaime moved without thinking, gripping his arm to steady him.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Jaime muttered.

Robb let out a weak, pained chuckle. “So you’ve said.”

Jaime didn’t smile. He simply guided, half-dragged, Robb back toward their chambers, jaw tight, refusing to acknowledge how carefully he was supporting the injured alpha.

“Try not to die on the way,” he said dryly. “I’d hate to have to explain that to your mother too.”

“Must you always bring my mother up?” he growled, voice thick with pain and irritation. “Every single argument, every slight— it always comes back to her with you.”

Jaime’s laugh was sharp and humorless.

“Because she is always there,” he snapped, adjusting his grip on Robb’s arm as the larger man stumbled slightly. “Hovering. Judging. Reminding me exactly where I stand in this glorious union. You defend her like a child even when she’s spitting venom at me in front of half your council. So yes, Stark, I will bring her up. Especially when she’s half the reason we’re like this.”

Robb’s breathing was labored, but he still managed to shoot Jaime a hard look.

“She’s protecting her family.”

“And I’m what?” Jaime shot back, voice low and cutting. “The invading threat that needs to be managed? The pretty lion you fuck but don’t actually want near your precious Stark legacy?”

They reached the door to their chambers. Jaime kicked it open and practically shoved Robb inside, guiding him toward the bed with more force than necessary.

Robb sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, grimacing as he clutched his side.

“You twist everything,” Robb muttered. “I never said I didn’t want you.”

Jaime stood over him, arms crossed, looking down with cold green eyes.

“You said you never chose me,” he replied, voice dangerously soft. “That I was forced on you. That I’m still just a Lannister. Forgive me if I don’t fall to my knees in gratitude.”

Robb looked up at him, exhausted, pained, and visibly frustrated. For a moment it seemed like he might argue further, but instead he simply lay back against the pillows with a tired groan.

“Just… stay,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. “I don’t want to fight anymore today.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight.

Then, without a word, he walked over to the other side of the bed, removed his boots, and lay down fully clothed on top of the furs, as far from Robb as the large bed would allow.

"Jaime."

Robb’s voice was low, rough, and unmistakably hungry despite the pain.

Jaime didn’t turn his head. He kept his gaze fixed on the canopy above, jaw clenched.

“Not tonight,” he said coldly.

Robb shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. “Come here.”

Jaime let out a sharp, disbelieving breath.

“You really are something else,” he muttered. “You insult me, threaten me, tell me I was an unwanted hostage you never chose and now you want to fuck me? While you’re bleeding through your bandages like an idiot?”

Robb’s blue eyes were dark, fixed on Jaime’s profile with blatant want.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said, voice gravelly. “I’m telling you to come here.”

Jaime finally turned his head, green eyes blazing with fury and disbelief.

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not.” Robb’s hand moved under the furs, resting on the empty space between them. “I want you. Even now.”

Jaime sat up slowly, staring down at him with pure contempt.

“Gods, you really are just like every other alpha with a pulse and a cock. One minute I’m a Lannister burden, the next you want me on my back with my legs spread.” His voice was cutting, sharp as a blade. “Does bleeding make you stupid, or were you always this entitled?”

Robb’s expression tightened, but the hunger in his eyes didn’t fade.

“I’m injured, not dead,” he growled. “And you’re still my husband. My mate. Come here, Jaime.”

Jaime’s laugh was low and venomous. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, looking down at Robb with icy disdain.

“No.”

Robb moved faster than he should have been able. His hand shot out, catching Jaime’s wrist in an iron grip and yanking him back toward the bed. The sudden movement made Robb hiss in pain, but he didn’t let go.

Jaime twisted violently, trying to wrench his arm free. “Let go of me.”

“Come here,” Robb repeated, pulling harder, using his greater weight and strength to drag Jaime half onto the bed.

“Fuck you,” Jaime snarled, planting a knee on the mattress and shoving at Robb’s chest with his free hand, right over the bandaged wound. Robb grunted in pain but didn’t release him. Instead, he used the momentum to roll them, pinning Jaime beneath his heavier body.

For a few fierce seconds they struggled, Jaime bucking and twisting like a wildcat, Robb growling through the pain as he tried to hold him down. Jaime managed to get an elbow into Robb’s ribs, making the alpha curse loudly.

“Get off me, you stubborn bastard,” Jaime hissed, breathing hard. “I’m not some whore you can just take when you feel like it.”

“You’re my wife,” Robb growled against his neck, voice thick with pain, anger, and raw want. He pinned Jaime’s wrists above his head with one large hand, the other sliding roughly down his side, gripping his hip hard enough to bruise.

Jaime’s breath hitched despite himself. His omega surged forward at the dominance, at the heavy alpha scent and the press of Robb’s body, but his pride roared back even louder.

“I am not your wife,” he snarled, bucking up hard enough to nearly throw Robb off. “I’m the man you were forced to marry. The one you secretly made sure would never carry your child. The one you don’t even want.”

Robb’s grip tightened. He leaned down, forehead pressed against Jaime’s, breathing ragged.

“I want you right now,” he said hoarsely. “That’s enough.”

Jaime turned his face away, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His body was betraying him, heat pooling low in his belly, slick already starting to gather. He hated it.

For a long moment they stayed locked like that, Robb heavy on top of him, breathing hard through the pain, Jaime rigid beneath him, fighting every instinct screaming at him to submit.

Then Robb shifted, pressing his thigh between Jaime’s legs, grinding slowly against him.

Jaime’s breath stuttered.

“Stop,” he said, but his voice had lost some of its edge.

Robb didn’t stop. He nosed along Jaime’s neck, lips brushing the mating mark, then bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make Jaime’s hips jerk involuntarily.

“Fuck,” Jaime whispered, eyes squeezing shut.

Robb’s free hand slid under Jaime’s tunic, calloused palm dragging over bare skin, mapping every ridge of muscle and old scar with possessive hunger.

Jaime fought it for another minute, twisting, cursing under his breath, trying to deny how his body was responding. But the bond, the scent, the weeks of tension, it was too much.

Finally, with a low, defeated sound that was half-snarl, half-surrender, Jaime stopped fighting.

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth, turning his face back to glare at Robb. “If we’re doing this, then do it properly. Don’t you dare be gentle. I don’t want your pity fuck.”

Robb’s eyes darkened with something primal.

He released Jaime’s wrists only to grab the front of his tunic and rip it open with one rough pull, buttons scattering across the furs. His mouth descended on Jaime’s neck, sucking hard at the mating mark while his hand shoved between them, rubbing Jaime's cunt roughly through his breeches.

Jaime’s head fell back against the pillows, a broken sound escaping him despite his best efforts.

“Fuck,” he gasped, even as his hips rolled up into Robb’s touch.

Robb growled against his throat, voice wrecked. “That’s the plan.”

There was no tenderness.

Robb yanked Jaime’s breeches down with sharp, impatient tugs, barely waiting for them to clear his thighs before shoving two thick fingers inside him without warning. Jaime hissed at the sudden stretch, but his cunt was already wet, slick coating Robb’s fingers almost immediately.

“You’re soaked,” Robb muttered, voice mean and satisfied. He curled his fingers hard, pumping them roughly. “Always so fucking ready for me, even when you're upset with me.”

“Shut up,” Jaime snarled, but his voice cracked as Robb added a third finger, fucking him open with brutal efficiency.

Robb didn’t listen. He bit down on Jaime’s shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then pulled his fingers out abruptly. Jaime barely had time to register the loss before Robb shoved his own breeches down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, and already leaking.

He gripped Jaime’s thigh, spreading him open, and pushed inside in one harsh thrust.

Jaime’s back arched sharply, a choked groan tearing from his throat at the burning stretch. Robb was already big, and he wasn’t being careful. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, knot already starting to swell at the base.

“Fuck— Robb—” Jaime gasped, nails digging into Robb’s shoulders.

Robb didn’t give him time to adjust. He started fucking him hard, deep, punishing strokes that made the bed creak and Jaime’s body jolt with every thrust. Each snap of his hips dragged against that spot inside Jaime that made his vision spark white, but there was no care in it, only raw, frustrated need.

“You wanted it rough,” Robb growled against his ear, voice strained with pain and pleasure. “So take it.”

Jaime’s legs wrapped around Robb’s waist almost against his will, heels digging into the small of his back. He could feel the wound on Robb’s side reopening, warm blood smearing against his own skin with every thrust, but Robb didn’t stop. If anything, it seemed to make him fuck harder.

It was mean.

There were no soft words, no praise, no gentle touches. Just the wet slap of skin, Robb’s harsh grunts, and Jaime’s bitten-off moans. Every thrust felt like punishment and claim at the same time.

Jaime turned his face away, teeth clenched, trying to hold onto some shred of pride even as his cunt clenched greedily around Robb’s cock, slick dripping down his thighs.

Robb grabbed his jaw roughly and forced him to look back.

“Don’t look away,” he snarled. “You’re going to feel every inch of this.”

Jaime’s eyes flashed with defiance, but his body was betraying him completely. Pleasure was building fast and vicious, coiling tight in his belly. He hated how good it felt. Hated how much he needed it.

Robb’s pace grew erratic, hips snapping harder, the thick knot catching on every pull-out and stretching him wider. The pain and pleasure blurred together until Jaime couldn’t tell which was which.

When Robb finally shoved the swelling knot inside him with a brutal thrust, Jaime came with a strangled cry, back arching violently, cunt spasming hard around the thick intrusion. His vision whited out as wave after wave of sharp, overwhelming pleasure crashed through him.

Robb followed moments later with a low, guttural groan, grinding deep as he spilled inside him, hot and endless. The knot locked them together, pulsing with every spurt.

For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire.

Jaime lay beneath him, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. His body felt used and satisfied and strangely hollow all at once. Robb’s blood was smeared across his skin. The alpha’s weight pressed him into the mattress, heavy and possessive.

Neither of them spoke.

Robb’s face was buried against Jaime’s neck, breathing hard. Jaime’s hand twitched once like he might push him away… but he didn’t.

He simply lay there, letting the uncomfortable mix of shame, pleasure, and lingering anger settle over him like a second skin.

Chapter Text

Jaime woke to the feeling of blunt pressure between his legs.

For a disoriented second, he thought it was a dream. Then reality hit as Robb’s thick cock pushed slowly, inexorably inside him. He was already wet, his treacherous body had responded in sleep, but the stretch still burned.

Jaime’s eyes snapped open.

Robb was above him, braced on one elbow, red curls falling messily over his forehead. His face was tight with pain from the wound, but his hips kept moving in shallow, insistent thrusts, working himself deeper.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jaime hissed, voice still rough with sleep.

Robb didn’t stop. He sank another inch deeper, jaw clenched.

“Taking what’s mine,” he said lowly. “You’re still wet from last night. Greedy little cunt.”

Jaime tried to twist away, but Robb’s weight pinned him down. The alpha’s injured side was pressed against him, bandages rough against Jaime’s skin.

“Get off me,” Jaime snarled, shoving at Robb’s chest. “I’m not some hole you can just use whenever you feel like it.”

Robb grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the bed, thrusting deeper with a grunt. The movement pulled at his stitches, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You’re my omega,” he said, voice rough and edged with that superior Stark righteousness. “You can spit venom at me all you like, Lannister, but your body knows who it belongs to. Even if your pride never will.”

Jaime’s breath hitched as Robb bottomed out, the thick head of his cock pressing right against that sensitive spot inside him. He hated how good it felt. Hated the low throb of pleasure that shot through him despite everything.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” Jaime spat, eyes flashing with fury. “You think your precious northern blood makes you better than me? You’re the one who was secretly drinking moon tea like a frightened boy so you wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of fucking me.”

Robb’s hips snapped forward harder, driving a broken sound from Jaime’s throat.

“At least I’m honest about what I am,” Robb growled, leaning down so their faces were inches apart. “You Lannisters wrap your sins in gold and pretty words. Your father sold you to me like a broodmare and you still act like you’re above it all. But look at you…” He rolled his hips in a slow, filthy grind. “Already dripping for a Stark cock. Even after everything I said.”

Jaime’s free hand clawed at Robb’s shoulder, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck you,” he gasped, trying to fight the rising heat in his belly. “I don’t want this. Not while you’re being a self-righteous prick.”

Robb’s laugh was low and mean. He shifted his angle and thrust again, harder, making Jaime’s back arch despite himself.

“Your cunt says otherwise,” Robb murmured against his ear. “So wet. So tight. You can hate me all you want, Jaime, but you were made for this. Made to take me.”

Jaime turned his face away, teeth gritted, breathing ragged. His body was betraying him completely, slick flooding around Robb’s cock with every thrust, his omega purring desperately even as his mind recoiled from the cruelty in Robb’s voice.

“Stop talking,” he hissed.

But Robb didn’t stop.

He kept moving in deep, punishing strokes, each one dragging against every sensitive spot inside Jaime. The pain from his wound only seemed to make him more vicious, more determined to prove something.

“You Lannisters think you’re lions,” Robb panted, voice strained with pain and lust. “But you fold so easily when an alpha pins you down. Your sister on her knees for a stag… and now you, spreading your legs for a wolf.”

Jaime’s eyes flashed with pure rage. He bucked up violently, trying to throw Robb off, but the alpha was heavier and used the momentum to drive in even deeper.

“Get the fuck off me,” Jaime snarled, voice cracking. “I don’t want your cock if this is how you’re going to be.”

Robb just growled and pinned him harder, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm.

“You’ll take it,” he said darkly. “And you’ll come on it. Like you always do.”

Jaime’s head fell back against the pillows, a broken moan slipping free despite his best efforts. His body was burning, pleasure and humiliation twisting together into something unbearable.

He hated how close he already was.

Robb’s rhythm faltered for a moment as another wave of pain clearly hit him. He hissed through his teeth, forehead dropping to Jaime’s shoulder. Then, mercifully, he stopped talking.

No more cruel words about Lannisters. No more superiority. Just heavy breathing and the wet sound of his cock driving into Jaime’s cunt.

He fucked him harder.

Deep, punishing strokes that knocked the breath out of Jaime’s lungs. The thick head of Robb’s cock dragged perfectly against that sensitive spot inside him with every thrust, forcing broken, unwilling moans from Jaime’s throat despite how hard he tried to stay silent.

“Fuck— Robb—” Jaime gasped, fingers clawing at the alpha’s back.

Robb didn’t answer with words. He simply growled low in his chest and shifted his hips, finding an even better angle. The wet, filthy slap of skin against skin filled the chamber as he drove in harder, faster, chasing pleasure through the haze of pain.

Jaime’s head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry as another brutal thrust made stars burst behind his eyelids. His legs wrapped tighter around Robb’s waist, heels digging into the small of the alpha’s back.

Robb was practically delirious now, eyes glassy, breathing ragged, sweat mixing with the blood that had seeped through his bandages and smeared across both their skin. Every thrust pulled at his wound, but he didn’t stop. If anything, the pain seemed to drive him deeper into that primal headspace.

He fucked like a man who needed this more than air.

Jaime tried to hold onto his anger, tried to keep his pride intact, but it was slipping. Each deep, relentless stroke dragged him closer to the edge. Slick poured out around Robb’s cock, soaking the sheets beneath them. His omega was purring shamelessly now, flooding him with heat and desperate need.

Robb’s knot was swelling fast, catching on every pull-out and stretching Jaime wider. The burn was exquisite.

“Gods—” Jaime choked out, back arching sharply as Robb ground in deep, circling his hips to press the thick knot right against his rim.

Robb made a wrecked, animal sound and slammed in harder, forcing the knot past Jaime’s tight rim in one brutal push. The stretch was overwhelming. Jaime cried out, nails raking down Robb’s back hard enough to draw blood as the knot locked them together.

Robb came with a low, guttural groan, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside him, hot, endless pulses of seed flooding Jaime’s cunt. The pressure of the knot against that perfect spot inside him finally pushed Jaime over the edge.

He came hard, vision whiting out, cunt clenching violently around the thick knot as sharp, overwhelming pleasure tore through him. His thighs trembled, a broken moan tearing from his throat before he could stop it.

For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the occasional wet shift of the knot inside him.

Robb collapsed half on top of him, heavy and fever-warm, face buried against Jaime’s neck. His breathing was unsteady, pained, but satisfied.

Jaime lay beneath him, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling with a hollow feeling settling in his gut. The pleasure was still echoing through his body, but it felt tainted now. Dirty. He felt used.

The moment the knot began to go down enough for movement, Jaime shoved at Robb’s shoulders.

“Get off me.”

Robb made a tired sound but didn’t move immediately.

Jaime shoved harder, voice cold and sharp. “I said get off.”

This time Robb rolled aside with a pained grunt, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. The loss of the knot and the sudden gush of seed leaking from Jaime’s cunt made him feel even more exposed.

Jaime didn’t wait. He pushed himself up, legs shaky, and stood. Thick rivulets of Robb’s spend ran down his thighs as he grabbed his discarded breeches and tunic from the floor.

He dressed quickly, hands trembling with barely-contained rage.

Robb watched him from the bed, still breathing hard, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and pain.

“Jaime…” he started, voice rough.

“Don’t,” Jaime cut him off, voice ice-cold. He didn’t even look at him as he yanked on his boots. “Not a fucking word.”

He stormed out of the chambers without another glance, slamming the heavy oak door behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.

The corridor was empty.

Jaime walked away with quick, furious steps, jaw locked so tightly it ached, trying to ignore the way his body still throbbed and leaked with every movement.

He made it halfway down the corridor before the sticky, humiliating sensation between his thighs became unbearable. Robb’s spend was still dripping down his legs, warm and obscene, a constant reminder of what had just happened.

Swearing viciously under his breath, he veered sharply toward the small private bathing chamber attached to their rooms, the one with the copper tub and the heavy door. He slammed it shut behind him, not caring who heard, and stripped off his breeches with sharp, angry movements.

The water in the basin was cold, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a clean cloth, soaked it, and began scrubbing roughly between his legs, trying to wipe away every trace of Robb’s seed. The rough fabric dragged against his sensitive, abused cunt, making him hiss through his teeth. More cum leaked out with every press, thick and pearly, running down his thighs.

“Fucking bastard,” he muttered, scrubbing harder, as if he could erase the feeling of being used.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

“Lord Jaime?” came Marta’s bright, cheerful voice from the other side. “Are you in there, my lord?”

Jaime froze, cloth still pressed between his legs.

“Go away, Marta,” he snapped.

There was a brief pause, then her voice continued, completely unbothered.

“I heard there was quite the commotion over these few days. The whole castle is buzzing about the king’s injury and how you helped bring him back to his chambers. I thought you might need some assistance. Warm water? Clean linens? Perhaps something for soreness?”

Jaime’s face burned with humiliation. He scrubbed harder, jaw clenched.

“I said go away,” he growled through the door.

Marta’s tone remained warm and motherly, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“You know, it’s perfectly normal to feel a bit overwhelmed after such events. Especially for an omega whose alpha has been injured. The bond can make things very intense. If you’re feeling tender or emotional, I can prepare a nice soothing bath with lavender and—”

“I don’t need your fucking lavender, woman,” Jaime snarled, voice cracking with frustration as another thick glob of Robb’s cum dripped down his thigh. He wiped at it viciously. “Leave me alone.”

Marta hummed thoughtfully on the other side of the door.

“Very well, my lord. But I’ll just leave some clean towels and a pot of healing salve right here by the door. The king’s wound will need tending later, and you’ll want to be comfortable too. No shame in it, truly. I’ve helped many omegas after difficult nights with their alphas.”

Jaime pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door, eyes squeezed shut, still frantically trying to clean himself.

“You insufferable, meddling—”

“I’ll check on you in a little while,” Marta said sweetly, completely ignoring his insults. “Try to rest, my lord. And remember, it’s alright to need comfort sometimes. Even lions need a soft place to land.”

Her footsteps finally retreated down the corridor.

Jaime stood there for a long moment, half-naked, thighs wet, breathing hard. The cloth in his hand was soaked with a mix of slick, cum, and cold water. He looked down at the mess between his legs and felt a fresh wave of humiliated anger wash over him.

He threw the cloth into the basin with a wet slap.

“Fucking everyone in this cursed castle,” he whispered bitterly.

But he still reached for the towels Marta had left outside the door, frowning at the small pot of salve. He dried himself roughly, wincing at the tenderness between his legs, then dressed in a clean tunic and breeches. The salve he left untouched on the floor.

He was just leaving the bathing chamber when a servant appeared at the end of the corridor, holding a sealed letter.

“My lord,” the boy said, bowing nervously. “A raven arrived this morning. From Casterly Rock. Marked urgent for you.”

Jaime stared at the crimson wax seal, the roaring lion of Lannister, for a long moment. The first letter from his father still sat unopened in their chambers. He had ignored it for weeks.

A bitter, self-destructive impulse rose in his chest.

Why not? he thought. Why not make this day even more complete?

“Give it here,” he said, voice flat.

The boy handed it over and scurried away.

Jaime broke the seal right there in the corridor, unfolding the crisp parchment with sharp, impatient movements. His father’s handwriting was as precise and merciless as ever.

Jaime,

It has been more than two moons since your wedding. I have received no word of a pregnancy. Not even a rumor. This silence is unacceptable.

The Lannister name is now tied to the Starks through you. Your failure to produce an heir is already causing whispers. Some say the Kingslayer has been rendered incapable, that the lion’s womb is as barren as his honor. Others suggest you are simply too proud, too willful, too defective to fulfill even this most basic duty.

I expected better from you. Do not make me regret allowing you this one final use. If you cannot secure a child, then you are of even less value than I feared. A lion that cannot breed is no better than a gilded mule.

Do not disappoint me again.

Tywin Lannister

Jaime read the letter twice, his face completely blank.

Then he let out a soft, hollow laugh that echoed down the empty corridor. The sound was ugly, devoid of any real humor.

He folded the parchment neatly and tucked it into his sleeve, right beside the still-unopened first letter.

“Defective,” he murmured to himself, tasting the word like poison. “How charming.”

For a moment he simply stood there, staring at the stone wall, green eyes distant. The sting of his father’s words mixed with the still-present ache between his thighs and the memory of Robb’s cruel voice earlier that morning.

He felt raw. Exposed. Like the entire world had decided today was the perfect day to remind him exactly how low he had fallen.

Jaime straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and began walking again, straight toward the godswood.

The ancient trees welcomed him with their usual silence. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the heart tree, its carved face weeping red sap like old blood. He stopped in front of it, staring up at those hollow eyes for a long moment.

For a long time, he simply stood there.

Then, slowly, his shoulders began to slump. The mask he’d worn since leaving the bathing chamber cracked and fell away. He sank down onto the cold stone bench, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

A broken, bitter sound escaped him, not quite a sob, but close enough to shame him.

He had been the Kingslayer. The golden lion of Casterly Rock. The youngest knight to ever join the Kingsguard. Men had feared him. Women had wanted him. He had lived his life on his own terms, reckless, proud, untouchable.

And now?

Now he was here.

Married to a man who didn’t truly want him. Waking up alone every morning. Getting fucked like a whore and then discarded. Chased around by nursemaids and lectured by his mother-in-law. Reading letters from his own father calling him defective. Leaking another man’s seed down his thighs while the entire castle whispered about what a failure he was as an omega.

Jaime dragged his hands down his face, eyes stinging.

“I was supposed to be something,” he said hoarsely to the heart tree. “I was supposed to die gloriously, or live as a legend. Not… this. Not spreading my legs for a Stark pup who resents me. Not sitting here wondering if I even want a child or if I’m just so fucking lonely I’d take anything that feels like belonging.”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t let them fall, but they hovered there, hot and humiliating. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, trying to stop it, trying to be a man, trying to be Jaime Lannister instead of this pathetic, broken thing he’d become.

It didn’t work.

The tears came anyway.

Silent at first, then sharper, hotter. They slipped down his cheeks as he hunched forward, shoulders shaking. He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from making any sound, but a low, wounded noise still escaped him.

A lion should not cry.

But gods, he did not feel like a lion any longer.

He stayed there for a long time, bent over on the stone bench beneath the weeping red eyes of the heart tree, golden hair hiding his face as silent tears tracked down his cheeks.

No one came.

No one saw.

And for once, Jaime Lannister let himself break, just a little, in the only place in Winterfell that felt like it might not judge him for it.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Winterfell seemed narrower than usual as the afternoon light faded into a dull grey haze. Servants moved quietly along the walls, carrying trays and baskets, their eyes carefully lowered. Word of the king’s injury had spread, as had the tension that now clung to the castle like frost on stone.

Jaime walked with his usual measured stride, cloak draped over one shoulder, expression carved from ice. He had spent most of the day avoiding everyone, particularly the maester’s tower and the Lord’s chambers. The ache between his legs had dulled to a persistent throb, but the memory of the morning still burned.

He turned a corner toward the eastern gallery and nearly collided with Robb.

The Young Wolf stood blocking the passage, one hand braced against the stone wall. He looked pale and drawn, the fresh bandages visible beneath his tunic, but he was on his feet. His blue eyes locked onto Jaime immediately.

“Jaime,” Robb said, voice low. “Wait.”

Jaime didn’t slow. He tried to step around him.

Robb moved to block him again. “I said wait.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. He could already see two servant girls further down the hall pausing with their baskets, pretending to adjust their loads while watching the exchange. Rumors spread faster than ravens in Winterfell. The last thing he needed was whispers reaching Casterly Rock that the Kingslayer couldn’t even obey his own alpha.

With visible reluctance, Jaime stopped. His voice was cool and sharp when he finally spoke.

“Make it quick, Stark. Some of us have better things to do than hover in corridors like lovesick fools.”

Robb’s expression flickered, irritation, guilt, and something heavier. He glanced once at the watching servants, then stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did this morning,” he said gruffly. “The things about your family and our marriage. I was angry. In pain. I spoke like an ass.”

Jaime’s green eyes remained cold.

“How gracious of you to notice,” he replied, tone dripping with mockery. “And yet you still dragged me into bed and fucked me like one anyway. How very northern of you.”

Robb’s jaw flexed. He kept his voice low, but there was an edge to it.

“My mother has been at me for weeks about an heir. Every look, every meeting, every gods-damned conversation ends with the same question. She thinks I’m being weak. That I’m letting you manipulate me. That I’m failing the North by not putting a pup in you yet.” He exhaled sharply. “I took it out on you. That was wrong.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“So your apology is that your mother is a bitch, and therefore you treated me like a whore?” he said softly, dangerously polite. “How charming. I feel so much better now.”

Robb’s hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it.

“I’m trying, Jaime,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’m trying to be a king and a husband at the same time, and everything keeps pulling me in different directions. You think I enjoy waking up knowing you hate me? Knowing I’ve made you feel like this?”

Jaime’s lips curved into a thin, humorless smile.

“I think you enjoy the power far more than you’re willing to admit,” he said quietly. “And right now, I have no interest in being your emotional piss-pot simply because your mother has been nagging you. If that’s all, I’ll be on my way.”

He made to move past Robb again.

Robb caught his arm, not roughly, but firmly enough to stop him.

“Jaime,” he said, almost pleading now. “Don’t walk away again.”

Jaime looked down at the hand on his arm, then slowly back up at Robb’s face. His voice was very quiet, very controlled, and very cold.

“Remove your hand, Stark. Before I remove it for you.”

The two servants had stopped pretending to work entirely. Robb released him slowly, eyes shadowed with regret and lingering pain.

Jaime adjusted his cloak with deliberate care, as if the entire exchange had been beneath him, and continued down the corridor without another word. He didn’t look back, but the weight of Robb’s gaze followed him long after he turned the corner, heavy as chains.

Jaime adjusted his cloak with deliberate care, as if the entire exchange had been beneath him, and continued down the corridor without another word. He didn’t look back, but the weight of Robb’s gaze followed him long after he turned the corner, heavy as chains.

He had barely taken thirty paces when he heard it.

“Find Lord Umber,” Robb’s voice echoed from behind him, rough but commanding. “Tell the council I will not be attending today.”

Jaime’s steps faltered for half a second.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps, uneven and pained, but determined, hurrying after him.

“Jaime,” Robb called, voice carrying down the stone hallway. “Wait. Please.”

Jaime kept walking for another few moments, jaw tight, before finally stopping. He did not turn around immediately. When he did, his expression was cold, composed, and utterly unimpressed.

Robb was limping toward him, one hand pressed against his bandaged side, face pale with the effort. He looked like he should still be in bed, yet here he was, chasing his angry omega through the corridors like a fool.

“You’re going to reopen that wound if you keep this up,” Jaime said flatly. “Though perhaps that would finally teach you some sense.”

Robb stopped a few feet away, breathing hard. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low. “I know I’ve been… shit. Since the wedding. Before it, even. I’ve been a poor husband.”

Jaime raised one golden eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

“An impressive admission. Did your blood finally reach your brain?”

Robb ignored the barb. He took another step closer, eyes earnest despite the pain etched into his features.

“I meant what I said earlier. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that this morning, or the days before it. The things I've said about not choosing you… about you being forced on me.” He swallowed. “They were cruel. And they weren’t entirely true.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t soften.

“Not entirely,” he repeated, voice silky with disdain. “How comforting.”

Robb ran a hand through his messy red curls, clearly struggling.

“I’m angry at a lot of things, Jaime. At this war. At your family. At the fact that I was handed a crown I never asked for and a husband I didn’t know how to want.” He met Jaime’s eyes steadily. “But I do want you. Even when you hate me. Even when you fight me at every turn. I just… I don’t know how to do this right. Not with my mother breathing down my neck about heirs every hour of every day.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment, green eyes unreadable.

“And yet the first thing you do after insulting me is drag me into bed and fuck me like I’m your property,” he said quietly. “Forgive me if I find your sudden change of heart difficult to trust.”

Robb looked genuinely pained, and not just from the wound.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was angry and I took it out on you. That was unworthy of both of us.”

The corridor was quiet around them. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed. A servant’s footsteps faded away.

Jaime exhaled slowly through his nose, studying his husband with cool detachment.

“You’re still bleeding through your bandages,” he said eventually, changing the subject. “Go back to bed before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

Robb took another careful step forward.

“Will you come with me?” he asked, quieter now. Almost hesitant. “Not for… that. Just to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you wish.”

Jaime was silent for several heartbeats.

Then he gave a small, tired shrug, as if none of it truly mattered.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you say one more stupid thing, I’m leaving. And this time I won’t come back just because you limp after me like a wounded dog.”

Robb’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite.

“Understood.”

They began walking back toward their chambers together, the silence between them heavy but no longer quite so hostile.

The Lord’s chambers were quiet except for the soft crackle of the hearth and the occasional rustle of parchment.

Jaime sat at the heavy oak table near the window, an old ledger from the Winterfell stores open before him. He wasn’t truly reading it. The numbers and tallies blurred together on the page, but it gave him something to pretend to focus on. Anything to avoid acknowledging the large, injured alpha watching him from the bed.

Robb had been staring for a long time.

Jaime could feel the weight of those Tully-blue eyes on the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the fall of his golden hair. It was unnerving. Not hostile. Just… heavy. Persistent.

Finally, Jaime snapped the ledger shut with more force than necessary and looked up.

“Seven hells, Stark,” he said, voice sharp with irritation. “If you’re going to stare at me like I’m a particularly interesting tapestry, at least have the decency to be subtle about it.”

Robb didn’t flinch. He lay propped against the pillows, freshly bandaged again, looking pale but stubbornly awake. His red curls were tousled against the linen.

“I was thinking,” Robb said quietly.

“How novel.”

Robb ignored him. “Are you hungry? I could have them bring something up. We could share a meal. Together.” He paused, then added, almost carefully, “Or… if you’d rather, we could go to the godswood. I’ve heard you spend a lot of time there.”

Jaime stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then he let out a short, humorless laugh.

“You should be in bed,” he said flatly. “Resting. Not playing at being a thoughtful husband because you feel guilty about this morning.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained low. “I am in bed. And I’m trying to do better.”

“Trying,” Jaime echoed, leaning back in his chair. His green eyes were cool, assessing. “How convenient that your attempts at being a better husband only seem to appear after you’ve insulted me, bled on me, and fucked me like a punishment.”

Robb looked away for a moment, shame flickering across his face. When he looked back, his expression was raw.

“I know I’ve been cruel,” he said. “I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. I’m just… asking if you’ll let me try. A meal. Conversation. Or even silence in the godswood, if that’s what you want. I just don’t want this silence between us to keep rotting.”

Jaime studied him in silence. The offer was simple. Almost painfully so. Yet it felt like a trap, another way for Robb to ease his own guilt while Jaime was expected to soften and play along.

He should say no.

He should tell Robb to go fuck himself and his half-hearted attempts at reconciliation. He should walk out and find somewhere quiet where he didn’t have to deal with any of this.

Instead, something quieter inside him, something warm and traitorous, stirred.

The godswood.

He did like it there. The ancient silence. The heart tree watching over everything. The way the cold air felt cleaner than anywhere else in this frozen pile of stone. It was the only place in Winterfell that didn’t make him feel like a prisoner.

Jaime exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…Fine,” he said at last, the word dragged out like it pained him. “The godswood. But only because I was going to go there anyway today. Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is for you.”

Robb’s shoulders eased, the tension bleeding out of them like a man granted a reprieve.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Jaime stood without another word, grabbing his cloak. He didn’t offer to help Robb up, but he also didn’t walk too fast when the alpha limped after him.

The godswood was quiet under a heavy grey sky, snow dusting the branches like powdered sugar. The heart tree stood sentinel as always, its red leaves stark against the white.

They walked in silence for a while. Robb moved carefully, one hand occasionally pressing against his bandaged side. Jaime kept half a step ahead, arms crossed beneath his cloak, refusing to make this easy.

Eventually, they reached the stone bench near the weirwood. Jaime sat. Robb lowered himself more gingerly beside him, exhaling sharply at the pull on his wound.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

But then, just as Robb opened his mouth, Marta appeared on the path, cheerful as ever, little William bundled warmly in her arms.

“Lord Jaime!” she called brightly, as though she hadn’t just walked in on what was clearly a private moment. “And Lord Robb! How wonderful to see you both together. I was just coming to find you, my lord. Young Will has been fussy today, and I thought we might practice burping technique again. It’s very important for—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she noticed the tension between them and the way Robb was sitting stiffly, clearly in pain.

“Oh,” she said, softening. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time. I can take him back to his mother.”

Robb lifted his hand before Jaime could speak.

“No,” he said, voice rough but surprisingly gentle. “Bring him here.”

Marta beamed, clearly delighted. She approached and carefully transferred little Will into Robb’s arms. The baby looked tiny against the alpha’s broad chest.

Robb adjusted his hold with surprising care, one large hand supporting the babe’s head. Little Will blinked up at him sleepily, then let out a small, contented gurgle.

Jaime watched the scene in silence, something complicated twisting in his chest. His omega purred at the sight, the powerful alpha holding an infant so gently, but his pride hissed in protest.

Marta clasped her hands together, positively glowing.

“Look at that,” she cooed. “He already knows his king. Such a good, strong alpha you are, my lord. The little ones can always sense it.”

Jaime rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of his head.

“Seven save me from this,” he muttered under his breath.

Marta, thankfully, caught the look on his face and gave a knowing little smile.

“I’ll leave you both to it, then,” she said cheerfully, already backing away. “Just call if you need me.” She gave a little curtsy and retreated down the snowy path, humming to herself as she went.

The moment she was out of earshot, Jaime turned his attention back to Robb and little Will. He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re holding him wrong,” he said flatly.

Robb blinked. “I’m supporting his head.”

“Barely. You’re too stiff. He’s not a sword, Stark. Stop gripping him like you’re about to swing him at someone.”

Before Robb could protest, Jaime leaned over and carefully took little Will from his arms. The baby made a small, confused sound at the transfer, but settled quickly against Jaime’s chest with a contented sigh. Jaime adjusted the infant with practiced ease, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other supporting his bottom.

“Like this,” he said, voice gruff. “You’re supposed to make him feel secure, not like he’s in a battle formation.”

Robb watched him silently for a moment, blue eyes soft in a way that made Jaime’s skin prickle.

“You’re good with him,” Robb said quietly. “Natural.”

Jaime’s omega sang at the words, a deep, warm purr rumbling through his chest before he could stop it. The praise hit something soft and vulnerable inside him, making his arms tighten instinctively around the baby. For a brief, treacherous second, he imagined this was their child. A little red-haired pup with Robb’s eyes, safe and content in his arms while his alpha watched with that same gentle pride.

His brain recoiled violently from the image.

Stop it, he thought furiously. You are not some simpering omega bitch who melts at the first compliment.

He cleared his throat and quickly handed little Will back to Robb.

“Here. Try again. And don’t hold him like a sack of grain this time.”

Robb accepted the baby carefully, adjusting his grip under Jaime’s watchful eye. The alpha’s large hands looked almost comically gentle as he cradled the infant the way Jaime had shown him. Little Will cooed happily, nuzzling into Robb’s chest.

Jaime’s omega was ecstatic. It purred louder than it had in weeks, flooding him with warmth and a deep, instinctive satisfaction at seeing the powerful alpha holding a babe so tenderly. The image was doing dangerous things to him, making his stomach flutter, his scent sweeten, his thoughts drift toward dangerous possibilities.

He hated how much he liked it.

“Better,” Jaime said curtly, looking away toward the heart tree. “Don’t bounce him. Just rock him slightly if he fusses. And keep his head supported. He’s not a soldier, he’s an infant.”

Robb’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, but he didn’t comment on how closely Jaime was watching them, or how his scent had shifted.

Instead, he simply held the baby, glancing occasionally at Jaime with that same quiet, complicated look.

And Jaime, despite every arrogant, prideful part of himself screaming in protest, couldn’t quite make himself look away.

The heart tree watched over them in silence, red leaves fluttering gently in the cold wind, as if even the old gods were curious to see what would become of the lion and the wolf.

The godswood had grown quieter as the weak northern light began to fade. Little Will had dozed off in Robb’s arms, tiny fist curled against the alpha’s tunic. Jaime sat beside them on the stone bench, arms crossed, pretending to study the heart tree while his mind churned.

He refused to admit how peaceful the scene felt.

Footsteps crunched on the snow behind them.

Catelyn Stark appeared on the path, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes swept over the three of them, Robb holding the baby, Jaime sitting beside him with empty arms, and her expression tightened.

“Robb,” she said, voice clipped as she approached. “You should not be out of bed. Maester Luwin said rest.”

Robb opened his mouth, but Catelyn’s gaze had already shifted to Jaime. Her lips thinned with clear disapproval.

“And you,” she said, tone sharp enough to cut. “Sitting there like a guest while your husband— injured, no less— holds someone else’s child. Is this how you intend to behave when you finally give him an heir? Lounging about while he does the work of fatherhood?”

Jaime’s jaw locked. He didn’t rise to the bait immediately, but his green eyes went cold.

Catelyn didn’t stop. “You’ve spent weeks complaining about your duties, yet here you are, refusing even the simplest responsibility. Robb is wounded and still doing what you will not. Typical Lannister selfishness.”

The words landed hard.

Robb remained silent for several long seconds, staring down at the sleeping baby in his arms. His face was unreadable.

Jaime’s fingers dug into his own arms, but he kept his voice steady, almost bored.

“My apologies,” he drawled. “I was under the impression this was a borrowed infant, not a political test. But do continue scolding me, Lady Catelyn. I’m sure it helps your son heal faster.”

Catelyn’s eyes flashed. “You mock me while my son bleeds because of the burdens you’ve placed on him. You refuse to carry his child. You refuse to support him. You—”

“Mother.”

Robb’s voice cut through the air, low but firm.

Catelyn turned to him, surprised. “Robb, I am only—”

“Enough.”

Robb shifted little Will carefully in his arms and looked up at his mother. His expression was tired, pained, but resolute.

“Jaime has done nothing wrong today,” he said. “He didn’t ask for this child. He didn’t force me out here. I chose to come. And he chose to sit with me. That should be enough.”

Catelyn looked genuinely taken aback. “You defend him? After everything—”

“Yes,” Robb said, voice hardening. “I defend him. He is my husband. My mate. And I have treated him poorly enough without you adding to it.”

He met his mother’s eyes steadily, though it clearly cost him.

“I know you want what’s best for me. For the North. But Jaime is part of this family now, whether you like it or not. And I will not have you speaking to him like he’s beneath us. Not anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Catelyn stared at her son for a long moment, mouth pressed into a thin line. Then she gave a short, stiff nod.

“As you wish,” she said coldly. Her gaze flicked to Jaime once more, still full of disapproval, before she turned and walked back down the path without another word.

Robb let out a long, tired breath once she was gone. He glanced sideways at Jaime.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “She shouldn’t speak to you like that.”

Jaime didn’t reply right away. He simply stared at the heart tree, jaw tight, the complicated warmth in his chest warring with his pride.

But gods… the sight of Robb right now was doing dangerous things to him.

The Young Wolf, injured, pale, still clearly in pain, sitting there holding little Will so carefully against his broad chest. Defending Jaime in front of his mother. Claiming him publicly as his husband. His mate. The powerful alpha protecting what was his, even while bleeding.

Jaime’s omega was howling.

Heat flooded low in his belly, sudden and fierce. His cunt clenched involuntarily, a fresh trickle of slick warming between his thighs. The mating mark on his neck throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He wanted nothing more than to climb into Robb’s lap right here beneath the weirwood and ride his husband until they were both raw and breathless.

He wanted to be claimed. Taken. Wanted.

Robb must have scented it. The alpha’s nostrils flared, his blue eyes darkening as he looked at Jaime. For a moment, something hot and hungry flashed across his face, the same primal want that had taken him that morning.

But then Robb closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Jaime’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “No?”

Robb shook his head, adjusting little Will gently in his arms. The baby stirred but didn’t wake.

“I’m trying to be better,” Robb said quietly. “I’ve used you when I was angry. Used you when I was hurting. I won’t do it again just because you smell…” He swallowed hard. “Because you smell like you want me.”

Jaime’s hands curled into fists on his thighs. His body was screaming at him. His cunt ached, wet and empty, throbbing with the need to be filled by the alpha who had just stood up for him.

“You of all people are going to lecture me about restraint?” Jaime asked, voice low and edged with frustration.

Robb gave a weak, pained smile.

“I meant what I said earlier. I want to try. Not just fucking when we’re angry. Not using each other to feel better. I want…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “I want this to be real. Even if we’re both shit at it right now.”

Jaime stared at him, chest tight, cock half-hard in his breeches and slick steadily soaking through his smallclothes. His omega was furious at the denial, whining and clawing at him to climb into Robb’s lap anyway.

But some small, exhausted part of him, the part that was so very tired of being used and discarded, recognized what Robb was trying to do.

He looked away toward the heart tree, jaw clenched.

“You’re still an idiot,” he muttered.

“Probably,” Robb agreed softly.

The silence that settled between them was different now, charged, heavy with want, but no longer purely hostile. Little Will made a small sleepy sound in Robb’s arms. Robb instinctively rocked him, large hand rubbing slow circles on the baby’s back. Jaime watched the movement, throat tight.