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This was not the bedchamber Caree had occupied during her betrothal to Robb Stark. It was no less nice, but it was in the Guest House, because she was just a guest at Winterfell now, and not a soon-to-be member of the Stark family.
And being back as just a guest was . . . odd.
Before leaving King's Landing, she could hardly recall a thing about Winterfell. Now that she was here, she couldn't believe she had ever forgotten the castle, the courtyard, the stables. The people. Lord and Lady Stark looked the same. But their children certainly did not. Robb certainly did not.
Nor did she.
There was a mirror in this bedchamber, but it only showed her from the shoulders up. She backed up a bit and rotated, inspecting what she could see of her gown. It was a lovely piece, dipping down in the back, probably farther than most ladies would approve of. But the more skin she showed, the less vulnerable Caree felt. The gown's fabric was thick and dyed crimson, its gold lacing glimmering in the candlelight as she moved. She might have preferred to wear green, but it was her first night in Winterfell, and she must remind these people who she was – a lioness, Lord Tywin's child, his favorite child, against all odds. A Lannister.
Not a Stark. Never a Stark.
But she wished she had wine. Wine always made her stronger. And judging by the way her hands shook as she put on a ruby necklace, she could do with being a bit stronger. Gods – she had not been nervous leaving King's Landing. Why should she have been? She had been a girl during her time at Winterfell, and now she was a woman, and she had not given Robb Stark any more than the fleeting nostalgic thought since she was fifteen.
Yet her hands shook.
She wanted wine. Better yet, she wanted to fuck someone.
There was a knock on the door. "M'lady," came the guard's muffled voice, "It's Ser Jaime Lannister."
Caree banished all anxiety. She would not let Jaime catch a hint of it. "Send him in."
The bolt on the door shifted angrily and Jaime appeared, handsome and dressed as casually as he could get away with. Caree knew he did not think highly of the Starks. "You look lovely," he said, tiredly, as the door closed behind him.
Caree pulled her hair back and began to braid it, a skill she had long ago mastered. She had not had a handmaiden since she was sixteen; she found them to be quite the untrustworthy breed. "Do I?" she said airily. "A shame. I'm thinking of being ill."
"Cersei wouldn't have it."
"Why? Would she miss me so dearly?"
A smile flickered across Jaime's face as he began to take slow steps around the room. "We have to keep up our appearances, don't we?"
"A loving family, bound by blood, loyalty, and affection. Hear us roar. Did she send you? To make sure I show up for the feast and smile and laugh and charm my way back into the hearts of all the Starks?"
"Don't pretend it's such a burden. They loved you once. Make them love you again. Or don't. It hardly matters."
"Then why must I go tonight?"
"Because it's expected." He sighed. "And we live in a world where we must do what is expected of us."
"Or pretend to?" she asked sweetly.
He smirked but didn't answer.
Caree snatched up a golden clasp and closed it over the end of the braid. "I should never have come here in the first place."
"What's this? Is my baby sister showing a stroke of apprehension? Shall I call the maester?"
She forced a laugh. "I'm more bored than apprehensive, I can assure you. I should have gone with Tyrion to the whorehouse."
"I was unaware you took pleasure in such activities," Jaime said, dryly, probably because he would not have been surprised to learn that his youngest sibling enjoyed such recreation.
"I have no interest in being fucked by a whore, sweet brother," Caree said. "They lack certain parts I happen to be very fond of. It's just that I find them to be interesting people. Certainly more interesting than we are. More interesting than we pretend to be, at least . . . Yes, I think I'll be ill." She studied herself in the mirror, mostly to look busy, and brushed back a stray strand of hair. Dark brown. She could almost pass for a full sibling of Jaime and Cersei and Tyrion, were it not for her hair. As a child, she had cried about it on occasion, until Tyrion one day rolled his eyes and told her things could be far worse. From then on, Caree had made a point never to worry about her hair.
Jaime came up behind her. Caree met his eyes in the mirror. They, at least, matched hers.
"You will not be ill," Jaime said, in a gentle voice Caree knew could turn stern in the blink of an eye, "If I can't miss it, you can't miss it. I'll personally flay the skin off of you."
"Oh, I'm so frightened." In spite of herself, she leaned back against him. He wrapped his arm around her obligingly, and for just a moment, and not completely intentionally, she allowed the trepidation within her to steal into her voice. "I fear I really should have stayed at King's Landing."
"Your betrothal to Robb Stark ended four years ago, by no fault of yours." He kissed her forehead. "You're much too pretty for him, anyway."
That made her smile. "You're a good brother," she told him, honestly. "Could I have children, I would name a son after you."
Jaime removed his arm from her shoulders, only to hook his hand onto her elbow. "Come. Time to face the wolves."
Caree dug her fingernails into her palm but lifted her chin. She had come close to being a Stark once but could not be further from one now. It was not a truth she was about to hide from.
In fact, just like the skin on her back, she would flaunt it.