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.