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.