Chapter notes

I do not write fluff well. Regrettably in this chapter, it was necessary.

307AL

Jaime fucking hated the North. The North, the cold, all of it. It made his bones ache; it made his stump ache; and his bones aching and his stump aching turned him from a very good-looking man in the prime of his life to a bad-tempered old one that Jaime himself would not bother talking to if he had the choice.

But Stark had been asking to go to the bloody North ever since their marriage (well…when he said 'asking'), and every year, Jaime had been more than happy to throw his lot in with the maesters: my lady is too weak for a journey after the circumstances of my little lady's birth; my lady should not travel until the child can walk; my lady should not travel until the child can talk; blah blah blah.

But then a year had passed since he had married Stark, then two, then three; and the effects of living in heated rooms, eating more than once a week and paying for her happiness in the coin of something other than misery had added greatly to her beauty; her strength; her stubbornness; her Arya-ness. She ruled the Westerlands with an iron fist that Jaime's lord father would have approved of (and with a flippant knowledge of her own talent of which he would not). She sparred and rode every day. She spent hours playing with Joanna, and reading to Joanna, and talking to Joanna, and chasing after Joanna. She laughed. She hooted. She allowed Jaime to teach her to dance; swearing at him when he mocked her, and treading deliberately on his toes.

She was beautiful. She was fire. She was everything. And by the time she had turned eight-and-ten, the excuses not to go North to see Sansa and their idiot bastard brother Snow on the grounds of Arya's ill health had begun to sound feeble even in Jaime's own ears.

So he had given in.

Well…when he said 'given in'…

'If you hate the North so much, then why did you insist on coming along?' Arya demanded; making a large, sweeping gesture at the surrounding forest in which they were lost, alone.

'I don't know, Stark,' Jaime testily replied; stuffing his freezing hands into his pockets and wondering how long it would take the others to realise that they were gone; 'maybe it was to make sure that you don't let Jo go for a walk again.'

Arya's face turned red.

'You bastard –'

'Oh no, wait,' Jaime continued; delighted by her reaction; 'it was in case you had a fainting fit and needed to be taken home to rest.'

'Are you trying to irritate me?'

'Of course I am. It's my mission in life.'

'Well, I refuse to be irritated.'

'Go on. See if I care.'

Arya stubbornly folded her arms in a manner more reminiscent of the child she had been than the woman she had become; her cheeks flushed hot with blood and cold against her alabaster skin; her grey eyes alert and smouldering as she glared at him.

She stayed in that position for a good thirty seconds, looking very disapproving and deeply hilarious. Then she began to bite on her bottom lip to keep herself from laughing; Jaime tried (and failed) to look superior and unaffected –

'What are you staring at, Lannister?' Arya coyly asked.

'I'm staring at you, little wolf,' Jaime replied –

And when he crossed the space between them, and touched her, and kissed her; she moulded into his arms like she belonged there. Arya's long fingers were cold on his cheeks; making his spine tingle as they crept into his hair; and her mouth, searing, imprisoned his bottom lip between both of hers; nipping at it gently, before the small tip of her tongue nudged playfully at his, and he kissed her and held her so close and so hard that she gasped into his mouth, and the cold didn't matter, and their lost-ness didn't matter, and the slow disappearance of the sun didn't matter either. She was here. She was here. She was with him.

Arya looked up at him; her eyes sparkling with mischief.

'Crotchety old man,' she accused.

'Proper little lady,' he accused back.

Jaime's arm, then his hand, folded into both her hands; she rested her head briefly on his shoulder, then brought it up again, and they walked in silence through the wood; as though there were no great hurry.

They had left Winterfell for the Wall two days ago, and in all that time, they had not had one moment alone. There had only been time to listen to Arya's silence; watch the darkness in her looks as she said goodbye to her sister, and then thought about her sister, and then worried about her sister, and didn't stop.

In this place, that silence was deafening; as though all the wood were filling up with her disquiet.

'Stark.'

'What?'

'I can hear you –'

'Breathing?'

'Worrying.'

Jaime felt her grip on his hand tighten.

He looked down at her. She looked young.

'I'm worried about Sansa,' Arya mumbled.

'Yes, I can see that,' Jaime replied; grinning impertinently; 'I just can't say that I understand why.'

Arya looked at him like he was mad.

'I don't like her being at Winterfell alone,' she stubbornly declared, 'not while the bloody Boltons still rule the North.'

'Sansa is more than capable of taking care of herself,' Jaime objected.

'No, she isn't!' Arya insisted; her voice rising with her anger.

Jaime bent over and kissed the top of her head.

'She did push Littlefinger out of a hole in the floor, Stark.'

'Guts. And luck.'

'Luck, often enough, will save a man, if his courage holds.'

'Are you calling my sister a man, Lannister?'

'Be serious.'

'You be serious.'

Jaime rolled his eyes. Arya rolled hers.

'She's vulnerable at Winterfell,' Arya continued; as though the interlude had not taken place; 'and being alone makes her even more so.'

'What do you want her to do?' Jaime flippantly enquired, 'take a lover? Buy a dog?'

'I want Tyrion to resign and move up here permanently instead of pretending that Uncle Kevan wouldn't do a perfectly good job as Lord Regent and as Hand of the King,' Arya declared.

'You do remember what happened the last time Tyrion tried to 'move up here'?' Jaime winced.

'He could take lessons in keeping his mouth shut,' Arya sulked.

'Good luck with that,' Jaime laughed.

'Sansa talked of nothing but Tyrion for the whole time she and I were alone together,' Arya plunged on; her expression softening; 'she looks strong, and indestructible, but she's living on the other side of the country from the man she's married to, and it's making her miserable. She's also worried about the security of her position, and I must say that I am too. She will never be secure as Tyrion's wife until she has a son. How is she meant to do that when she sees her husband once a year?'

Jaime stopped, and looked at her; and he felt his heart ache with affection at the disconnectedness in her eyes; at her talking about sons and inheritances as though they meant nothing to her.

'You don't need to pretend for me, my love,' Jaime said; drawing her gently forwards to stand before him.

'I'm not pretending,' Arya replied; allowing him to; 'I am talking like a citizen of the real world.'

Jaime continued to stare at her as memories that he hadn't shared with her filled his head; memories of his own bloody bannermen and their similar fucking concerns. He wondered what the imbeciles would say were he to tell them that Stark's failure to produce an heir was not her fault, but Jaime's; for it was he who brought her moon tea each time they made love, and he who watched her drink it and pull a face at the taste; her large grey eyes still bright from release.

'I'll need to stop drinking this sooner or later,' his little wolf had said, once, pulling the covers up to her chest as she took the cup from him.

Jaime had watched her silently without replying; observing her tiny, exquisite face; her small, birdlike shoulders; her white, white arms; her long fingers with their bitten-off nails, all of her heat and life and love.

Over my dead body, he thought.

'Yes, but later,' he said out loud.

He had already petitioned King Tommen once to change the law of inheritance. Tommen had refused his request before it had even reached the small council chamber.

It is too soon, Uncle, Tommen had written, it is far too soon.

Jaime had had similar thoughts when the maesters had come to him shortly after Jo's third birthday and had tried to tell him that the child was simple because she couldn't talk yet – at least not beyond the occasional exclamation of 'shit.'

Jaime had told the maesters that they were simple, and had tried to think no more of it. The child would talk when she was bloody ready to talk. That didn't mean that he had not had reservations about taking her along on this trip to the North. He feared that a long journey would provide an ideal opportunity for Jo to go missing in another inexplicable puff of smoke. He feared that this time they would not find her, or perhaps, as he suspected deep down, that this time, she would not wish to be found, and then they'd be genuinely fucked.

'Your bannermen want you to divorce me, don't they?' Arya said suddenly; staring at him hard, as though the truth lay in his eyes.

Jaime stared at her standing in front of him; folding her arms; protecting herself; doing what he had sworn she would never have to do again, and found himself stammering like a child.

'How…how do you know?'

Arya smiled ironically in reply.

'I didn't, until now.'

Jaime felt his eyes narrow in anger.

'You know you don't need to trick me to get an answer out of me,' he growled, 'you could just ask.'

She looked alarmed.

'I've offended you – '

'Yes, my lady, you have offended me.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean –'

'I'm trying to think of what ulterior motive you imagine I have in hand in keeping this from you,' Jaime proposed; putting his hands on his hips; 'wait, I know! I give you moon tea to deliberately bring on infertility, so that when I want to divorce you in favour of some buxom Westerlander with huge breasts and no brain, I'll have suitable grounds for it! And if you protest that your infertility is my fault as opposed to yours, it'll be your word against mine, and who will they believe? Me! Seven hells! What a brilliant scheme! I should ask Lord Varys what he thinks of it!'

'Why did you keep it from me?' Arya asked; ignoring him.

Jaime scoffed at her coolness.

'Shall I tell you what happened that day?' he sweepingly proposed.

'Please!' Arya sweepingly agreed.

Jaime stepped back from her and began to pace.

'It was Lord Marbrand who started it. Him and a group of others; all high-ranking; all sworn to Casterly Rock for ten generations; the usual bullshit. They began by talking about their loyalty to me, and to my father: how it was their duty to speak; how it was the duty of every bannermen to play his part in ensuring that the Lion banner was carried into future battles. I told them to shut up and get on with whatever it was they wanted. They talked about Jo, then – how obedient she was, how tranquil (clearly none of them had ever seen her before) – and what a pity it was that such a talented child could never rule Casterly Rock. I agreed with them, and told them of my intention to petition the King. They asked me what I intended to do if the King refused, and when I didn't reply, they began shuffling feet and making respectful noises. Then Lord Marbrand himself told me that the King would almost certainly refuse, and that it was time to 'face the evil'.'

"Face the evil'?' Arya repeated; her brow wrinkling.

'Yes, at least he had the decency to call it evil,' Jaime plunged on, 'then he said I should divorce you in the name of keeping the Lannister line alive, and handed over a list of suitable candidates that he had 'taken the liberty of drawing up."

Arya was chalk-white and trembling with rage.

'I don't understand,' she stuttered, 'he is your friend's father; you would think that he – that – what did you do?'

'I punched him in the face –'

'Jaime!'

'– kicked him when he fell to the floor, and –'

'– what?'

'– tried to strangle him.'

'Jaime!'

Arya was doing an excellent job of looking appalled and disapproving; her hands on her hips; her eyes wide. Jaime ran his hand through his hair, and continued to pace agitatedly; the mere memory of it making his blood boil.

'In the end, it took three men to pull me off him, the proud old bastard. Maester tells me he'll be – '

Arya's hands seizing his shoulders made his words fall away, and her lips on his, his breath. She kissed him softly and deeply; her arms winding around his waist to pull him hard against her, and when his mouth opened beneath hers, he could feel the shape of her smile.

'Can I take it you approve, Stark?' Jaime smiled against her lips.

'I love you,' Arya murmured; her hands framing his face.

Jaime's remaining hand slowly caressed her cheek, then disappeared into the secret warmth of her hair as he whispered to her.

'I love you more.'