Chapter Text
By all the gods, the North was awful. Grey skies. Grey stone. Grey water. Even the people were grey, drab as dormice the lot of them.
Winterfell was as grey and unappealing as its surroundings. As they approached the castle, Jaime traded looks with Cersei through the windows of the wheelhouse. This entire visit was a mummer’s farce from start to finish. Robert wasn’t about to take ‘no’ for an answer; it would have been quicker and cheaper for all concerned if he’d simply sent a raven with a royal command, summoning Eddard to the capital.
But Robert did love his pageantry and he wanted to gnash his teeth and tear his beard over poor, dead Lyanna Stark somewhere the performance might be appreciated.
And then he wanted to drink and eat and fuck until he’d stripped Winterfell’s larders and the local whorehouses bare.
Ahead of him, Joffrey kept casting glances back over his shoulder, checking Jaime was still watching what an impressive figure he cut in his dyed leathers and sable fur. He’d been smug ever since Robert had announced his intention to marry the boy to Eddard’s eldest daughter. She was rumoured to be quite pretty but Joffrey cared less about that than he did the promise of finally being treated like a man. No doubt he’d be rather less eager for the elevation when Jaime stopped going easy on him in the ring and started thrashing him like he would any other opponent.
He’d been disappointed to see how average Joffrey was with a sword. He’d never had much to do with his or Tommen’s training but now they were on the road with no other masters available, Cersei had permitted his interference. What Jaime had found was one son so concerned with looking good he failed to actually be good, and another who could barely lift a blade and would rather have been playing with poppets. At least Myrcella was everything she was supposed to be: sweet and ladylike, a pretty dancer and a skilled painter. If Sansa Stark had any sense in her head she’d make herself Myrcella’s mirror image; Jaime doubted very much whether anyone in Winterfell had been fit to teach the girl how to be a queen.
His suspicions were only confirmed when they rode through the gates. The bailey was as plain and bleak as everything else in the North - a far cry from the sumptuary of the Red Keep. Though the servants had clearly done their best, there was a lingering earthiness to the air that suggested the yard was frequently used to keep livestock and horses. He barely recognised Catelyn where she stood beside Ned. She’d once been very pretty but now she was aged beyond her years: wind-chapped, cheeks bleached of colour. As drab as a sparrow next to Cersei’s brilliant plumage.
At least her daughter was pretty. He caught Joffrey smirking at her, appreciating the open admiration. Someone would need to warn the boy not to take any liberties. Unlike Robert, Eddard hadn’t let himself run to fat.
And his son looked to be a credit to him. Not quite of a height with his father, though he might get there yet, but strong and self-assured: handsome, if not quite as coiffed and elegant as other men his age. Behind his shoulder, Jaime could easily spot the bastard. Never did a man more have the look of the North about him. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, grim as an executioner.
The Greyjoy pissant, Jaime ignored entirely.
He was prepared to ignore all the Stark children, except he made the mistake of meeting Robb Stark’s eye. The boy could barely hide his contempt, though he tried. Fuck you, Jaime thought. And fuck your self-righteous prig of a father, too. He was forced to look away as Cersei swept towards him, muttering imprecations about Tyrion. There’d be time enough to teach House Stark its lesson. If Jaime couldn’t coax Eddard into the ring with him, he’d content himself with thrashing his heir, publicly, maybe the bastard too, for good measure.
Of course, then it all went to shit.
Robert was in fine form, getting his hands on any woman who’d let him - and a few who’d rather he didn’t. Eddard was barely able to hide his revulsion, watching his king eat and drink and fart and belch with great gusto and no shame. After his first cup of wine, Jaime set the rest aside. Cersei would be in a towering rage come morning and Jaime didn’t want to deal with an aching head on top of her venom. He already knew how he’d sweeten her temper - there was a half-ruined tower that would do for a quick rendezvous - but until then he’d have to endure her clawing at everyone in reach (including him). Especially if Robert decided he wanted to exercise his marriage rights.
Tyrion seemed to be the only one of them enjoying the party. He moved from table to table, pouring their hosts drinks and letting them pour gossip into his ear in turn. He returned to Jaime’s side very self-satisfied, not quite drunk himself, and stole the poached pear off Jaime’s plate.
“Fascinating men these Northerners,” Tyrion said, in between mouthfuls. “Honest to a fault; utterly incapable of guile.”
Snorting, Jaime toyed with the rim of his tankard. “And I suppose you took full advantage of that honesty?”
“Me?” Tyrion pressed a delicate hand to his breastbone. “Why, I was only making conversation with our new friends.” He smirked when Jaime raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. In the meantime, I think I’ll procure myself some company for the evening. It’s too fucking cold to sleep alone.”
“And to think, this is summer.”
Tyrion shuddered. “You’ll never catch me here in Winter, I promise you.” He ambled away to where Greyjoy was lingering by the door with a handful of compatriots. Whatever Tyrion said to them had them grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. No doubt he’d promised to pay for their whores for the evening. The group slipped from the hall, the feast rowdy enough by that point that they likely wouldn’t be missed. Up on the dais, Cersei was still conversing politely with Catelyn; she could spare him for the moment and he needed some fresh air.
Outside, it was refreshingly cool. The castle at least had enough coin to avoid burning tallow, but no one had thought to hang perfumed braisers from the wall. Eddard’s hall had grown fetid with candlesmoke and sweating bodies as the evening wore on. And he’d been so desperate to return to this, after the rebellion? Jaime couldn’t understand it. It was the arse end of civilization. Catelyn Tully had once been a lively sort of creature. What the fuck was Eddard thinking keeping her here? She would have been happier in King’s Landing with her sister.
He rounded the corner to find one of the serving maids huddled against the wall, hands pressed to her face to muffle her crying. Fuck. Jaime recognised the blue ribbon plaited into her hair. She’d been the one Robert had told to come to his chambers, once the feast had ended. She’d not seemed overly keen in the moment, but Jaime had told himself she was just struck dumb by the honour of it. Certainly half a dozen of the other maids seemed to be vying for the position.
“You don’t have to go,” Jaime said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace when the girl’s head snapped up. “When the feast is over, go to your own bed; you don’t need to go to his.”
“He’s the king,” the girl whispered. “If I disobey -”
“He’ll be so drunk by the time he gets to his rooms tonight he won’t remember who he sent for. I doubt he’ll even remember your face, let alone your name.” The girl twisted her hands together, unhappily. Jaime sighed. “If he asks, I’ll tell him you came by and I sent you away again.” He’d have to take over guard duty tonight to make it work but it wasn’t as though he’d be doing much else with his evening. As Gerold Hightower had liked to say: there’s time enough to sleep when you’re dead.
The girl eyed him, clearly debating whether or not she could trust him, before bobbing a hasty curtsy and mumbling “thank you, m’lord.”
“Back to the feast with you,” Jaime said, “keep to the lower tables if you can.”
The girl scurried off. Jaime figured that would be the end of it but then a voice said “That was stupid.”
He turned to see Tyrion lounging in the shadows. “I thought you were off seeking whores?”
“Minor delay whilst Endrew vomits into the bushes,” Tyrion shrugged. “You really ought not to have done that. You know Robert doesn’t like it when you interfere with his sport.”
“Then he should stick to hunting boar, not helpless girls,” Jaime snarled.
Tyrion eyed him appraisingly. “Cersei won’t thank you either, you know; if he can’t fuck a serving girl, he’ll try fucking her instead.”
“He’ll be too drunk to get it up.”
“Perhaps. He’ll likely make the attempt anyway. If not tonight then in the morning, at least.”
He was right, of course. And Cersei would be furious if she knew Jaime was the reason she had to endure Robert’s attentions. “What do you want me to do, Tyrion?”
Tyrion shrugged. “Be less stupid? Or less stupidly noble at least. No one cares what happens to a serving girl. Even Eddard won’t do much to protect her if the alternative is making Robert unhappy. Let Robert have his fun; it’ll keep our sister in a much sweeter temper and I, for one, prefer it when she’s not clawing at everybody.”
“She hates it when he whores around in front of her.”
“She hates it when he fucks her even more.” Tyrion drained the cup he carried and set it on a low wall. “I’m just saying: if I have to sit through a breakfast full of insults about my looks and my character, I’m holding you fully responsible.”
“Fuck off.”
Tyrion made a rude gesture in response and walked off towards the gates. Jaime could hear a cheer go up when he reached the other men. Gold and whores always did buy enthusiastic friends, at least for a moment.
Returning to the hall, Jaime endured two more hours of feasting before Robert staggered to his feet and lurched towards the door. Two squires hurried forward to help him. Jaime stopped by his own chambers long enough to shuck his coat and don his armour before making his way to Robert’s door. Blount was already on duty, doughy face sweating despite the chill.
“I’ll take the night duty,” Jaime said. “You can cover me in the morning.”
Morning duty after a feast could go one of two ways. Either they’d stand outside the door listening to Robert snore loud enough to shake the rafters, or they’d stand in a corner whilst he insulted them and tried to drink his headache away. Blount hesitated and then nodded. Jaime had been prepared to insist but Blount had always been a little overawed by the Lannister name. It was a simple enough thing to get him to give way.
Behind the door, it was silent enough that Jaime felt compelled to enter the room after five minutes of nothingness. Thankfully, Robert hadn’t choked on his own vomit. He was face-down in the pillows, naked and fat, an empty tankard spilled across the covers beside him. Against his better judgement, Jaime checked to make sure he was breathing, then heaved him so his head was hanging off the side of the bed. He didn’t much fancy being the only guard on duty when a second king died, if he could help it. He was rewarded by the most appalling flatulence. Jaime beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the door. If only Cersei hadn’t wanted to be queen so badly, they both could have been in Essos - far away from Robert and all his disgusting displays.
It was an old wound by now, scabbed over and scarred. He couldn’t really blame her. What woman, faced with the prospect of being queen, would have chosen to be the wife of a sellsword instead? The wealth of Casterly Rock would have been lost to them. They would have had whatever gold and trinkets they could carry, whatever money Jaime could have earned as a guard or a prize fighter or a mercenary. It would have been enough for him. More than enough, if it meant having Cersei. But she’d wanted more than simply Jaime. Even as she swore she wanted nobody but him. Hiking his sleeve up his right arm, Jaime traced the spiderweb of scars that lingered there. They were most of them old now, a latticework of fine white lines where a soulmark should have been. As a boy, he’d drawn one there (before he knew what soulmarks generally looked like). A roaring lion, mane waving in an imaginary breeze. He’d drawn one on Cersei’s arm too, and then on Tyrion’s - too young to know that a soulmark meant more than that you loved someone. Cersei had slapped him when she saw it; sworn she’d cut Tyrion's arm off herself if she ever saw Jaime’s mark there again. She’d made him re-paint her arm, night after night, until their septa caught them and told on them to Father. Even with the harshest soap the maids had dared to use on him, it had taken weeks to wash his skin clean.
He’d been sent to Crakehall after that.
By the time he returned to the Rock, he’d known what a soulmark meant. He’d known it was wrong the first time Cersei had pressed her palm to his skin and whispered that one day he’d wear her mark there, just as she’d wear his. He hadn't cared. Every time they fucked, she’d check to see if the mark had come in yet. And she’d drag her nails across his skin, hard enough to draw blood, every time she found the space empty.
She knew the lore as well as he did. If the mark was going to form it would have done so the first time their skin touched. Maybe even in the womb. There was no way it would form now, not after all these years. But so what? Cersei was his other half. He didn’t need a mark to tell him what he already knew. But he couldn’t begrudge her wanting the reassurance, even as he felt it wasn’t truly fair to punish him for what he couldn’t control. The gods could be cruel and they liked their games. For as rare as soulmarks were, they too often appeared where they weren’t wanted. Politically inconvenient. And dangerous, on occasion. What did Cersei imagine would happen if matching marks ever bloomed on their wrists? Did she think the world would accept them? That she’d be permitted to keep both Jaime and her crown? If a mark ever did appear they’d need to grab the children and run for Essos. Dye their hair. Change their names. Pray that Robert didn’t send someone to kill them; that he was too grateful to be rid of them to bother being insulted by the gods’ designs. Their father, on the other hand -
Jaime cut that thought off with a sigh. There was no sense borrowing trouble against a future that was never going to happen. Tywin would never know what his children got up to in empty rooms and darkened corridors. No one could ever know. It would mean Cersei and the children’s heads. Jaime would die first.
Dawn found him running old tourney matches over in his head. Loras Tyrell had unseated him the last time they jousted and the sting of the loss still lingered. He wouldn’t have minded so much if it had been Selmy. He nodded to Robert’s valet as the man made his grim way down the corridor.
“Even odds on whether he soiled himself in the night,” Jaime told him, jerking his head towards the door. “He must have finished an entire cask of ale all by himself.”
Heston was too good a servant to let his expression so much as waver. You had to admire a mask that fine.
“Very good, Ser.” Heston resettled the towel he held draped over one elbow and then let himself into Robert’s chambers. He’d served Robert since his first day as king. Personally Jaime thought whatever they were paying him it couldn’t be nearly enough.
By the time Trant arrived to relieve him, a dozen or so pages, scullery maids, and two strong footmen had been and gone again. So, Robert had pissed the bed after all.
On returning to his own chambers, Jaime was grateful to see someone had seen fit to leave a kettle of water heating over the fire, along with a plate of bread and cold meats to break his fast. He’d been the only one of the Guard to merit a private chamber, for all he’d expected to be asked to share with Tyrion. Certainly Tyrion had expected it - he’d made appreciative noises over the hospitality of their hosts and the size of the castle when they’d been shown to a pair of adjacent rooms, each neatly furnished and equipped with large fireplaces. Jaime couldn’t care less about the decor but he was grateful for the privacy. His last go round with Cersei had left furrows carved between his shoulder blades and along the back of his ribs. They weren’t the sort of marks he wanted anyone else to see. It had been murder enough trying to clean them without aid.
Shrugging on a clean shirt, Jaime picked up his coat and sword. He needed exercise. In a perfect world he would have gone riding, as hard and far as he could possibly manage, but he was expected to keep within the walls and make nice with the Starks, so he’d have to content himself with simple drill instead.
He found two of the Lion Guard who’d come as Cersei’s personal escort up and about. He felt a swell of pride at this show of discipline; there was a reason their enemies so disliked meeting Lannister men in the field. They were happy enough to give Jaime a workout, and he passed a pleasant hour running them round the makeshift ring whilst they did their best to disarm him. By the end, they’d drawn an audience: Ser Rodrik - Stark’s old Master at Arms - watching with his arms folded, brows pinched together.
Grinning, Jaime gestured him forward. “Come, Ser, join us. I’d not say no to another challenger.”
“I doubt a man my age would present much of a challenge at all,” Rodrik said, barely managing a smile of his own. “But perhaps you’d permit my students to learn a thing or two.” Empty compliments but Jaime’d heard worse in his time. If Rodrik thought Stark’s son - or his bastard - would prove a worthy opponent, Jaime was happy to disabuse him of the notion. Except it wasn’t Stark or Snow who stepped forward, it was Greyjoy: swaggering his way into the ring, casting a look back over his shoulder to where a group of castle women were huddled in an open doorway, whispering behind their hands. They tittered and blushed when Jaime’s gaze swept over them. You’d think he’d winked for how they swooned. Greyjoy’s face grew sour and he whipped his sword into position, clearly determined to prove himself.
His father was a weaselly little cunt; his son didn’t seem much different.
It would be a pleasure to put him in his place again.
Greyjoy lunged - raw and overeager. Jaime batted him away, tempted to yawn in the boy’s face just to drive the point home. As it was he needn’t have bothered. With every deflection, Greyjoy grew ever more angry - at his own incompetence, at Jaime’s very evident lack of effort. His thrusts grew wild, to the point where Jaime did have to concentrate just to avoid doing real injury when Greyjoy nearly skewered himself overcorrecting from a feint. Irritated, Jaime let him have two more goes then, with a flick of the wrist, disarmed him and swept his legs out from under him for good measure. Greyjoy scowled up at him, red-faced and panting.
“You need better endurance,” Jaime said, “you can’t put all that sweating down to your drinking last night. And don’t be so sloppy; any squire in King’s Landing could have had you in the first five minutes.” He didn’t offer a hand to help Greyjoy to his feet. Turning to Rodrik, he didn’t bother lowering his voice when he said, “I certainly hope he wasn’t your finest student. Lord Stark might need a new Armsmaster, if so.”
Rodrik bristled but not as much as the bastard, newly arrived and apparently sensitive to criticism. He shucked his cloak and stepped forward and Jaime knew at once he’d be a stronger opponent than Greyjoy - if still nothing approaching a challenge. He moved well. Good balance. Light enough on his feet. When he swung, there was a certain elegance to the motion Jaime was familiar with. If he’d ever had a decent master he might have been dangerous. As it was, he’d been rotting at Winterfell with only Rodrik as a teacher. And Jaime remembered Rodrik from Pyke. Adequate was the very greatest praise he merited.
Snow was a natural swordsman though. He had a quick eye and twice caught Jaime’s movements faster than some seasoned knights. Still, no amount of innate skill could take the place of real training. Jaime let him grow confident that he might actually win this and then let him have it. He flew forward, full speed, full force, and delighted in the way the boy’s eyes went wide as he stumbled backwards. He rallied, but it wasn’t enough. The bout ended with Jaime’s sword at his throat and the bastard flushed with shame and frustration.
“Not bad,” Jaime said, putting his sword up. “Shame you’re headed to the Wall. A decent teacher might yet have made a swordsman out of you.”
“I am a swordsman.”
“You’re a man with a sword. Not the same thing.”
The bastard scowled at him.
“Tell you what,” Jaime said, “get into the ring with me every morning that I’m here and we’ll see if you can’t learn a trick or two to impress all those cutthroats and rapers you’re going to serve with. They wouldn’t know the difference between a swordsman and a soldier if it bit them, so you’ll be free to play pretend.”
He watched, delighted, as indignation crawled over the boy’s cheeks, but whatever Snow meant to say was cut off when Robb Stark stepped forward. He shared a look with his brother, clearly some sort of silent command, because the bastard grit his teeth and sank back to stand next to Greyjoy who was still nursing his wounded pride.
“I can’t promise to be as skilled an opponent as Jon,” Robb said, “but perhaps you’ll favour me with a bout all the same. No doubt you’ll welcome the reassurance you can still beat a man half your age.”
There was some whispering at that, the type that always got Jaime’s hackles up. Robb was smirking at him, still towing the edge of civility that prevented any real offence being taken. The boy was irritated Jaime had embarrassed his friends. No doubt he thought it unsporting or something similarly asinine. With a jerk of his head, Jaime beckoned him forward, watching the way he moved. Well-balanced, but he was right to say he wouldn’t be as skilled as the bastard. Jaime couldn’t say how he knew, only that there was something in the way Robb walked that said he’d be good but would never be exceptional.
As they circled, one of the monstrous pets the Starks liked to keep around padded forward. Jaime spared it half a glance, adrenaline pricking his spine when it blinked at him: a predator settling in to wait. Robb cast a look at the wolf, frowning, before he pulled his attention back to the sword in his hand.
“I trust your pet won’t interfere?” Jaime asked, keeping the wolf at the corner of his eye. The thing yawned, tongue licking against its teeth.
“He knows to stay out of things.”
“Glad to hear it.” He probed Robb’s guard. Not bad. A good eye, like his brother. Better than Greyjoy’s certainly.
Robb tried to catch Jaime on the left. A child’s trick. His brow tightened when Jaime smacked the blow away. Really, what had Rodrik been teaching them?
“You’ll want to try that with a little more speed, next time,” Jaime said. “Don’t give your opponent a chance to brace for the blow.” He’d meant for it to be needling but Robb took it as a lesson, pausing for a moment before trying the trust again, this time with more strength and speed behind it. He seemed disappointed when Jaime blocked him, easily. “You’re still telegraphing your movements; try to work on that.”
Robb nodded, for all the world as if he was prepared to take Jaime’s instruction, rather than take insult at the criticism. Jaime had a sudden urge to see how deeply he could burrow under the boy’s skin. He wasn’t trying to be friends. He wanted Robb to understand just where the wolf sat in relation to the lion: the lesson his father had always been too stupid to learn.
“Don’t let your weight drift to one leg. Loosen your wrist. Stop glancing the way you want to go before you go there. If you’re going to try that type of sweep, be better at pulling the backswing or you leave your side wide open. And for gods’ sake stop trying to win the exchange and start trying to control it.”
Robb nodded, then smirked at him. “Like this?” He rushed forward, cutting in low. The type of move that might have worked on an inexperienced fighter. Jaime kicked him in the wrist.
“No,” he said, “like this.”
It really wasn’t fair to go so hard on an unmatched opponent but the boy needed to take the lesson somehow. Jaime drove him back, barely giving him time to get his sword up between strikes. He hammered the blows, steel ringing as Robb swore and ducked and desperately tried to keep Jaime off. Jaime saw the moment the boy realised he’d lost - not just lost but that Jaime truly could kill him if he wanted to. His face went hard; he tried one last time to establish some control. Jaime drove the hilt of his sword into the cluster of nerves at Robb’s elbow, making him swear and drop the blade. He swung for Robb’s neck, fully intending to pull the blow, and a battering ram took him clean off his feet.
“Greywind, no!”
Jaime barely managed to jam the hilt of his sword between the wolf’s teeth. He sliced his hand open on the blade to do it, but it at least kept his throat in one piece. Robb hauled the beast off. Around them women were screaming, men yelling. Jaime pushed to his feet, coat smeared with blood, to see Robb with both arms wrapped around the wolf’s chest speaking urgently in low tones.
“Jaime.” Cersei came flying towards him. He hadn’t even realised she was one of the spectators.
“I’m fine. A simple cut, that’s all.” Two parallel lines ran the width of his palm. They stung the more he looked at them.
“I want that thing taken out and shot.”
“Belay that,” Jaime said, as Lannister men moved towards Robb and his pet. The men hesitated; Cersei pulled herself up in rage. “It was an accident,” Jaime told her. “No need to overreact.”
“That monster almost killed you.”
Jaime scoffed. “A fine knight I’d be if I couldn't keep an overgrown dog at bay. I’m fine, Cersei. Leave it be.”
He could tell Cersei was out for blood but killing the beast seemed a bit extreme. Robb came forward and bent the knee, head lowered. Snow was holding the wolf by the scruff of the neck.
“Your Grace, you have my apologies. I’d thought Greywind would understand the bout was not in earnest. I never dreamed he would attack Ser Jaime.”
“If you thought an animal capable of such reasoning, you’re a fool.”
“Direwolves are more intelligent than most. I miscalculated. I beg Your Grace’s forgiveness.”
When Cersei simply stared down at Robb where he was still kneeling at her feet, Jaime realised she meant to punish him. She’d see the wolf butchered and Robb made to watch.
“It’s fine,” Jaime said, before Cersei could say anything. “Take your pet back to your rooms. And maybe don’t let it watch any more bouts in future. Though if you ever decide to take it into battle you’d be dangerous.” No doubt he’d be black and blue all down the left side when he took his coat off. Cersei glared at him in outrage. “We’re not killing a boy’s pet because it acted on instinct,” Jaime hissed. “Do you know what men would say about me?” Coward would be the least of it. He held Cersei’s gaze until she snarled and gave way.
“I don’t want to see that thing again for the rest of our stay.”
“Of course, Your Grace. We’ll keep the wolves confined to the kennels.”
With a final glare, Cersei turned and stormed away. Jaime would be paying for that bit of insubordination in the coming days, no doubt. Robb was still kneeling.
“Get up,” Jaime told him. “And tell your brother he can stop holding the wolf back provided it’s not going to come for me again.”
“He won’t.” Robb promised. “You have my apologies, as well. I truly didn’t expect him to react like that.”
“My own fault. I shouldn’t have swung for your neck.” He flexed his hand. He needed to clean the cuts. “Which way to your Maester’s workroom?”
“I’ll show you,” Robb said, “Jon, can you take Greywind to the kennels and fetch the others? We should make sure they’re all confined before we give Her Grace any further reason to be upset.”
Good luck to him. Cersei would be at his throat until she rode back south again. Looking about for his sword, Jaime found it lying on the ground two feet away. On instinct, he reached for it with his right hand, swearing when the hilt made contact with the cuts on his palm.
“Is it bad?” Jaime looked up to see Robb watching him in concern.
“Stings, that’s all.” He hoped to god he wouldn’t need stitches. They were always such a pain to deal with.
“Let me see.”
Before Jaime could protest that he wasn’t a child with a skinned knee, Robb was reaching for his hand.
The barest moment of skin to skin, Robb’s thumb pressed against his, and Jaime felt as though his arm had been set alight.
He may have screamed. Robb was driven to his knees. Jaime kept his feet through sheer bloody will, though it made his vision grey with pain. Gods, this must be what wildfire felt like. Nothing had ever hurt so badly - not even when he’d taken a slash to the ribs at the Tumbleton melee.
Desperate, Jaime ripped himself out of his coat, tore at his sleeve. He couldn’t bear to have anything touching his skin even as he knew open air would do nothing for the pain. The courtyard was clamouring again. The wolf was howling, doubled over like its master, as though someone had driven a knife into its flesh. Distantly, Jaime was aware of the clank of a maester’s chain but all he could focus on was the pain. He felt hands on his face, became aware of Cersei clutching at him, begging him to say something. All Jaime could do was spit blood and bile onto the ground at her feet. At some point he must have bitten his tongue to keep from screaming.
Eddard was on his knees, arms wrapped around his son, Catelyn beside him. The maester was saying something very earnestly, gesturing between them. Jaime couldn’t make out what he was saying, barely had the presence of mind to say “don’t” when the maester reached for him and then his bleeding palm was being slapped against Robb’s and the pain was more than blinding. It was everything.
He didn’t feel it when his knees gave out, or when he hit the floor. All he felt was pain. That endless, awful burning.