He can't say anything. He can't even look up. His bannermen don't speak either, and the silence is filled with the most horrible sounds, sounds of Winterfell, sounds of home, sounds of Bran and Rickon playing in the courtyard like the boys they were. Sounds of them laughing. Sounds of them screaming and crying, and then their little voices cut short. And Theon. Theon was always laughing. Did you laugh as you murdered my brothers, Theon?
The silence is too much, too cruel, and eventually a word comes. "Your Grace," that must be Bolton, cold and smooth and terrifying, Theon was always japing at him, "I know this is hard, but we must talk–"
"Leave."
Robb can't talk. He can't say anything, if he tries he will only sob like a child, sob like Bran and Rickon must have before Theon – and he is a king, kings do not cry, if he lets them see him cry he will be truly lost.
The silence is too horrible to bear and so the men turn and start to flee, and Robb wants to let them, truly he does, but some part of him calls them back.
"Bring me the Kingslayer."
More silence. The sound of Theon laughing. "Your Grace," Bolton again, of course it is, "is that wise?"
They think I will kill him. The man who killed his brother, the man who tried to kill his brother, close enough. Lannister is always smirking, always japing. They think Robb will kill him and then they will have lost their strongest card in the game with Lord Tywin, and his sisters, and his sisters.
"I am not used to having my orders questioned." Although I should be. Mother, Mother knew, Mother warned him and now her sons are dead, how will he ever face her again? She is all he has left.
His bannermen leave and he finally looks up, standing to peer out the tent. It is a warm day. It's always warm in the Riverlands, the blue sky and birdsong mocking him, laughing like Theon used to. The Iron Islands are not far from here. Is it so warm there? Did Theon murder his brothers for the sunlight?
Truly he does not expect anyone to follow his mad command. But before long the Kingslayer is shoved before him, and the guard flees, little more than a boy – older than Robb – and scared of whatever crazed violence is coming.
Grey Wind snaps at Ser Jaime's heels, but the fear doesn't show on Lannister's face. "Your Grace," he drawls, low and sure and with a smirk, like he knows a secret, like he knows all Robb's secrets. You don't have to call me Your Grace when no-one is around. "I heard the news. My condolences."
"Don't," he spits, coming closer. "Don't you dare."
Ser Jaime hesitates a moment, and then keeps going. "Trust me, I am no happier to learn of it than you are. It is hardly flattering that Theon Greyjoy accomplished what I could not."
Robb raises his fist on instinct, going to punch Lannister in the face. He stops. And your sisters. If he hits the man, he will not stop, he will punch him and kick him and scratch him and bite him until there is nothing left but red blood and a few stray gold hairs. Lannister colours, but he doubts Lord Tywin would accept it. "I should kill you, Kingslayer," he growls. "I should kill you right here and now."
"No you should not," says Ser Jaime. "It would make you feel better, certainly, but it would not bring back your brothers. It would doom your sisters. What would your Lady Mother say?"
Robb curses and yanks himself away, out of the reach of temptation. He reaches for wine, wanting to drink it straight out of the skin, but he stops. That was Theon's habit. Did you have to get drunk first, Theon? He reaches for a glass, but his hands shake so badly it falls and shatters on the ground.
"I'd offer to pour, but," Lannister rattles his chains and Robb looks at him, snarling like a wolf, like Grey Wind does. He feels like an animal ready to tear out the man's throat, but the Kingslayer does not seem threatened.
"You aren't going to hurt me, little wolf," Ser Jaime says, breezy as the Riverlands air, "you won't punish me for my crimes, for his crimes, for anyone's crimes. You wouldn't dare." A pause. "So why did you bring me here?"
Robb can't answer him. He doesn't know the answer, but when he looks up, it looks like the Kingslayer does. It looks like he knows all Robb's secrets.
"Perhaps it's not me you believe deserves to be punished."
Ser Jaime is moving, and Robb can't stop him, can't force the words from his throat, and suddenly the Kingslayer is in his seat, looking at him expectantly. "You let him go. You trusted him. You let him kill your brothers."
Robb looks away, but he cannot hide the sob that is wrenched from his throat. Then comes another, and then another. Soon he is blubbering like a child, and Ser Jaime is watching.
"You want someone to hurt you for it. None of these men will dare say it's your fault. You're their king, such a thing would be treason." Robb can't stop himself, the tears run like the Trident. "Your mother may, perhaps, but you can't bear the thought of her hating you for it. She's all you have. And you can't bear the thought of her seeing you so weak. You're all she has, and she's going to need you."
A pause. Lannister's words are horrible, but they're better than the laughter, full of Theon's laughter.
"You can't bear the thought of your men seeing you so weak either. Then the war would be lost, and it all would have been for nothing."
The Kingslayer relaxes in his chair, and even in his filth and chains, he looks like he belongs there. The Kingslayer looks like a King, Robb thinks, and I look like a child.
Ser Jaime looks up at him, curious. "That leaves me," he says. "The one man whose respect you can afford to lose."
Robb looks away, sobbing finally starting to slow, even if he knows it shouldn't.
"So what do you want from me, Your Grace? To take you over my knee and spank you like a naughty child? Like your Lord Father must have disciplined your little brothers?"
Robb should say no, he should throw the Kingslayer out, he should kill the man and damn the consequences, but instead he finds himself nodding desperately. "Please, Ser Jaime."
A pause. "Very well then." When he looks Lannister has spread his legs, patting one knee invitingly.
Robb hesitates, and Ser Jaime raises an eyebrow at him. "Come now, you're not going to be difficult are you? Once you've begged me to do it? Your little brothers seemed such good boys, I'm sure they were never any trouble when it was time for a spanking."
You know nothing about them. Rickon was always a little hellion when he was in trouble, and Bran – well, it happened so rarely it's hard to remember. Robb suddenly hates himself for not remembering. Hates himself enough to pull down his breeches, and he doesn't even know if he should pull down his breeches but it feels like he should, it feels like he should humiliate himself. Then he crawls across Jaime Lannister's knees.
He is not such a child that it's not awkward; he doesn't really fit, and has to grasp the table to keep himself balanced. Eventually, he finds a position where he thinks he will not fall, although he's not sure if it'll hold once the spanking proper begins. Ser Jaime lays a hand across his cheeks, teasing, testing, and Robb stiffens. If the men saw–
The first smack is hard, vicious, and it drives all thought from Robb's mind with a cry. "Such a naïve boy," Lannister says, sounding amused. "No other man in Westeros would have made such a mistake. Never trust a Greyjoy, it's as simple as not pissing on fire, not sticking your cock into frozen water. But you let him fool you. Let him make you think he was your brother, let him make you forget who his real family were."
A second hit comes, and Robb is already sobbing. "Do you think your brothers were fooled too? Do you think they were surprised? Or did they just sigh, resigned, because young as they were they were smart enough to know that big brother Theon was always going to betray them?"
It's starting to burn, but Robb can barely even feel it through the force of his tears. "Mayhaps they thought it was a game," Lannister says, speculating idly. "Mayhaps that's what he told them. They say he burnt the bodies, but perhaps it wasn't the bodies he burnt. Perhaps he told them it was hide and go seek, followed them to where they hid, and set the place ablaze. He burnt them alive, little wolf."
No, no, seven hells no. Robb squirms, terrified. He can hear them screaming, begging, crying as the flesh melted from their bodies, as the soot turned their little lungs black. You have to be in water to reach the Drowned God's watery halls, he remembers Theon telling him long ago when Theon seemed to remember a lot more of his homeland. He remembered it well enough. He could imagine Theon taking a knife to his brother's throats, barely, but nothing so – so cruel. Could he do it? Truly?
Another thwack drives the thought away, and Robb cries out, the burn seeping into him. His blood is pumping through him, he's short on breath and it's good, that's what he deserves, it hurts and he's scared and – and something feels so hot, and–
Jaime Lannister is laughing.
"Oh," he comments, and Robb doesn't understand until he feels it, he's, he's hard, he's hard against a Lannister's leg, a Lannister telling him how his brothers died and he can't be, he's sick, what's wrong with him– "Well that certainly explains a lot."
Robb cries, expecting Ser Jaime to throw him aside in disgust but he doesn't, he just keeps going, the spanks punctuated with teasing pats now, and even a finger pressing oh so gently at his hole, so gently he might have imagined it. "Is that why, little wolf? Am I not the smirking man whose lap you always imagined yourself lain in?" Robb wants to shake his head, wants to deny it, but he can't do anything but sob as the Kingslayer punishes him.
"Is that how he convinced you? The same way he talked serving wenches into his bed? Sweet nothings in your ear as he spread your legs, telling you he loved you and only you? Dear boy, they call them sweet nothings for a reason."
Robb sobs, and Lannister pauses, leaning in to whisper in his ear: "Did you sign your brothers' death warrants with a cock hard between your legs?"
"No!" Robb cries out, shuddering. Because he didn't, he and Theon, they never, but I wanted to, he did, he touched himself at night to Theon's stories about his whores, fooling himself it was the whores he cared about. Did I sign my brothers' death warrants with my cock hard between my legs?
"Perhaps not," Ser Jaime says, "but perhaps he knew you wanted it. Perhaps he knew he could just give you that smile and you'd do whatever he said."
Did Theon know? Robb always thought he couldn't, because if he knew he'd despise him. But perhaps he did, perhaps he hated Robb for it but was willing to play the part, knowing he'd have his revenge once he was free. Is that why Theon? Did you murder my brothers to get your own back for me wanting to fuck you?
Another harsh blow and Robb knows, somewhere at the back of his mind, that there'll be bruising tomorrow but it doesn't seem to matter. "Imagine if your brothers saw you like this," the Kingslayer says, "do you think they'd understand? They weren't really old enough, were they. When little Bran caught me and Cersei, he didn't seem to know what we were doing. Perhaps trying to kill him was pointless then."
Lannister laughs to himself, and Robb sobs, full of grief and shame. "Bran," he moans, despairing.
Lannister laughs louder. "You know, if I thought one of us was going to moan a sibling's name while hard." Robb can only cry, weak and pathetic and Ser Jaime is laughing, laughing so loudly, so loudly Robb doesn't think he'll ever hear another thing again, stop laughing, Theon please stop laughing, I loved you please don't laugh at me–
Another frantic cry and Robb finds himself spilling, heat splashing against the Kingslayer's thigh. Perhaps I will burn him. It doesn't seem so; Lannister makes no noise of pain, just a long sigh. The laughter's stopped. Robb hears nothing but the wind and the birdsong, and his own sobbing.
His wits start to return and Robb sits up in a panic. Seven hells, what has he done? He's just let a Lannister, let Jaime Lannister, and by nightfall the whole camp will know, by tomorrow all of the Riverlands, by next week it will reach King's Landing and Lord Tywin will hear, his sisters will hear–
He wants to run, wants to kill Jaime, wants to kill himself, but the man stops him with a hand on his back, rubbing in small circles like its a comfort, like a father, and how dare he– "Hush, hush little wolf," he says, and Robb should kill him, really he should, "I won't tell anyone."
No. Theon could fool him, because he was willing to play the brother for years but he won't let Jaime Lannister do it. "I don't believe you," he spits.
Lannister sighs. "No, I didn't think you would," he says. "Nonetheless: I give you my word."
"The word of the Kingslayer?"
"Indeed. Worth as much as Ironborn's."
Robb looks away in shame. The hand hasn't stopped with its comforting circles, even if Robb hasn't softened at all. "I don't blame you, you know," Ser Jaime says. "You trusted the wrong man. All kings do it eventually. This might not be the best thing for you to hear, but I'm sure my sister would like me to say King Robert did it. Aerys Targaryen certainly did."
He can't say anything to that, and Lannister sighs. "You're so young," he says. "Boys make mistakes."
Robb looks back at him, eyes accusing. "...Why wouldn't you tell everyone? Why not humiliate me? Why not let the whole world know the King in the North begged you to put him over his knee and came like a green boy when you did so?"
"I have a little brother myself, you know," Ser Jaime says. Of course, the Imp. It is strange to think of him as anyone's little brother. "One I love very much. If anything happened to him, I don't know what mad thing I'd do."
Robb shouldn't believe him, but even if he doesn't, it's not like there's anything he can do about it. He can't kill the Kingslayer without dooming his sisters. Slowly, he starts to relax under the gentle touch, even as his bruises blossom.
"Now: will I have to summon the guards to bring me back to my cell myself?"
He's shaken back to reality. "No, I, uh – let me pull my breeches up first." He stands and does so, then notices the stain on Ser Jaime's pants. "I should clean that as well."
Robb grabs an old shirt and wets it with drinking water. Lannister doesn't complain, and Robb blushes as he wipes his own come away.
He pulls Ser Jaime from his chair. The men would get suspicious if they found the Kingslayer sitting in it. Robb's mostly recovered, and yet one final sob makes its way free of his throat. "I shouldn't have let him go."
"No, you shouldn't have." Lannister smiles at him, soft and slightly sad. "The things we do for love."
The guards take him away, seeming surprised to see him again, and if they notice the wet patch on his breeches, they don't say anything. Robb sits in his chair, soreness in his arse matching the soreness all through him, and pours himself a glass of wine. Then he pours another. He keeps pouring himself wine, until eventually he falls into a drunken, dreamless sleep.
He wakes the next morning and finds the Kingslayer has escaped. That his mother freed him. He can't even bring himself to be angry. The things we do for love.