Ross had been visiting King's Landing when Jon Arryn died. For a woman who hated the place, she seemed to spend rather a lot of time there. The stay in the city had almost been bearable at first; she had got to see her eldest son for the first time in two years, since he last visited the North aged thirteen. And also, Jaime seemed to have gone off Cersei for good. She had had her doubts when he first told her at Riverrun, which had faded the last time she came south for Joffrey's named tourney, but now... she was almost certain.
The king was somewhat fatter than before. Apart from that, Robert was the same as ever - loud, brash and as a rule, drunk - and it was always pleasant to see crowned stag sigils in the places where three-headed dragons had once been. But then the Hand of the King, her brother's foster-father, had died suddenly, apparently of an illness, and the whole court was plunged into mourning. Supposedly. Ross was sure none of them gave a shit, really, except those who had known the hand well; they just kept up appearances. Even Arryn's wife didn't seem to care much. But Lysa had always been rather irritating. Ross was glad when she left in the middle of the night to return to the Eyrie.
Robert - one of the few to genuinely grieve for the man - had ranted and raged at Jon Arryn's death, before someone reminded him that he needed a new Hand. Ross had said nothing, she would swear to anyone. Robert had had the idea of upending half the court and dragging them all up to Winterfell completely on his own. The disgruntled members of the group muttered where they thought she couldn't hear about how Lord Stark's sister had whispered in the king's ear and persuaded him to make her brother his Hand. She had caught several saying that instead of whispers, she must have slept with Robert instead. One man had even dared to voice his suspicions on how Arryn happened to die at the same time Ross was in the south, how convenient it was that her brother was to become Hand straight after. She hadn't been able to let that one go, and had taken the man aside and told him in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of that theory of his.
Of course, as the entire royal family was heading north, that meant Jaime was too.
The clang of steel echoed through the forest, disturbing the peaceful morning. Two people were sparring, a grim faced woman armed with a long, lethal looking dagger and a golden haired man bearing a sword, faces dappled with the dawn sunlight where it streamed down between the leaves. They were far enough away from everyone else that their scuffle wouldn't be heard, and though it was evident that the man was far more skilled than the woman - his natural, effortless grace with a sword was impossible to beat, especially with the reach the weapon gave him over the dagger - her ferocious, calculated defence and dodges were a worthy challenge. That was the point; defence. The dagger would never hold out against any sword for long, shown as he knocked the dagger out of her hand. His sword was at her throat in one smooth move, stopping her halfway from dropping to the floor to retrieve it.
"Dead," Jaime's tone was bored, which they both knew was false. The smugness was real though. Ross raised an eyebrow.
"I'm getting better," He lowered his sword as Ross went to retrieve the dagger, eyeing her critically.
"You'd be better off learning to use a sword," He nodded at the knife which she now held in her hands. "That'll only work if they don't see it coming. You'd need to surprise them,"
"And what would be the use in me using a sword?" She gave him a flat look. "I can't exactly carry one around. And I'm thin as a twig, all I've got on my side is surprise," He snorted.
"Whilst I can safely say that you'd slash the throat of anyone who grabbed you," Her lips curled into a small smirk as she inspected the knife for any damage to the blade. "Whoever else he brought with him would then slit yours with their sword, Lady Bolton, dagger or no dagger,"
"Call me Lady Stark," She said pointedly.
"When you call me Ser," Ross snorted derisively at that, and he grinned. "What situations are you imagining getting into that made you feel like you needed to learn to fight?"
"You never know," She shrugged, then chuckled darkly. "If my husband ever finds out about us, I'll have to use it on myself before I get dragged off to the flaying chamber,"
"Do they actually have one?" He asked in interest.
"Under the castle," She grimaced. "I wasn't meant to find it, I don't think. The skin of my however-many-greats-grandfather still hangs on the wall. There's more recent ones, too. Ned would be furious if he knew, but it's not like I could tell him," Of all the ways her husband could utilise the blackmail he had on her - that she tried to stab him through the heart the night before their wedding - that wasn't the worst he could've asked of her, in all truth. It wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, though. Some of those skins had looked far too fresh for comfort.
"Charming," Jaime pulled a face. "Seriously though, you've got guards around wherever you go, unless you're with me. If you ever have to defend yourself that means we're all dead, meaning you're as good as,"
"Wouldn't you want to take some of them down with you, at least?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Forgive me, I forgot who I was talking to," He laughed. "I dread to think what would've happened if you'd been born a man, if you're this bloodthirsty as a woman,"
"You'd have been considerably more bored during the rebellion,"
"Quite possibly," He grinned. "Who says I wouldn't have found some other girl?" He was joking, and she rolled her eyes.
"If you paid her, perhaps," Ross said dryly. "You're even more arrogant now than when you were fifteen,"
"And you're twice as cruel," Jaime moved closer and wrapped his arms around her waist, breathing in the smell of her dark hair - currently tied back in a practical knot, although the exertion had caused several strands to come loose - as he buried his face in her neck. She was sweating, but he didn't seem to care. "Lady Stark," Ross relaxed instinctively at his touch, relaxed like she seldom did at all, leaning into him. She never could have believed she would be this at ease around a man, especially one like him. She never could've believed a man like him would act like this around a woman like her.
Neither of them said anything for a moment, just stood there, content with each other in a comfortable silence. She felt the morning breeze against her face, cool and crisp, contrasting with the warmth of the man behind her. The air felt like home. The refreshing chill that never reached beyond the Neck in summer. The smell of the trees and the earth. The quiet sense of isolation and wilderness that was never there in the south. She loved it, all. But even after all this time, after all the journeys she'd undertaken from north to south and north again, she still couldn't quite accept that the family she was returning to wasn't going to be as whole as it once was. That Winterfell was not even where she lived anymore.
The moment ended when Ross stepped forward, out of his arms, sheathing her dagger and turning to face him. Even sweaty and wearing a plain tunic and breeches, Jaime was still as handsome as ever. She preferred him like this, without all the Lannister finery, white cloaks and lies. It was easier to pretend it was just them, and no one else came into it. After seventeen years he was still as good looking, few signs of age in his face. Of course, thirty two was hardly an age to be concerned about, but the fact was that both of them were getting older. Gods, Morganna was eleven already. Her little girl wasn't so little anymore, neither was her sister Aileen. Edrick was half a man, and her eldest...
"What?" He asked at her thoughtful expression.
"Doesn't matter," She said, then gave a small smile. "Come here,"
"As if my lady needs to ask," He was only too happy to oblige as she pulled him towards her by the front of his tunic, one hand threading in her hair, the other gripping her waist, pulling her against him as their lips met in a fierce kiss. It started off far from innocent, and quickly became less and less so, until she pulled away, slightly breathless, ignoring his groan of protest. "Ross,"
"How long have we got?" She gasped slightly as she felt his hands shift beneath her borrowed breeches.
"Who gives a fuck," He murmured thickly, going in for another kiss. She let him for a while, a long while, until she regretfully pulled away again.
"Ren will be up for you soon,"
"You always know how to ruin things, Stark," Jaime pulled a face, but she knew he felt the same.
"Talking about my son doesn't ruin things," Ross said absently, picking her skirt from where it lay on the ground.
"It ruins my chances of - well," He broke off suggestively, giving her a laden smirk designed to get a response. She ignored it.
"Regardless, I am not letting you fuck me against a tree," She pulled the skirt over the breeches she wore to practice in. "I'm not a whore, no matter what half of King's Landing and my goodmother say,"
"That ruins things as well," Jaime gestured distastefully to the skirt as they walked back to the camp together, her lacing it up as they went.
"Like what?"
"My view," She elbowed him in the side - for both his lechery and the bad jape - but without any real malice, and he laughed shamelessly, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close. As they neared the large camp of soldiers and nobles alike, they wordlessly broke away from each other before anyone could see them, heading in opposite directions. Ross made sure to tuck the dagger into the folds of her skirt.
She got several nods and greetings of 'Lady Bolton' as she returned to her modest tent. There were two Bolton guards waiting outside, who she nodded to - her husband insisted on her being guarded whenever she went away, even to Winterfell, and didn't even pretend it was for her own safety - but she was good at arranging the more... easygoing men to travel with her, who would turn a blind eye if she went on an early morning walk (as was her custom anyway) or was late returning to her chambers, so long as she turned a blind eye to their gambling, drinking and whoring.
She caught a glimpse of Jaime's golden hair near the King's pavilion further ahead, as well as the familiar dark head of Ren shadowing as ever behind him. At fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, her son was as tall as Jaime had been at that age, towering over his mother even though she was hardly short. Ross wondered how much her other children had grown in the four months they'd been apart. Morganna should be in Winterfell with her cousins by now, hopefully not trapped in the Dreadfort with the man everyone believed to be her father. Ross hoped Edrick and Aileen were there too. Ren had only seen his brother and sisters once since he had left, when he'd come back to visit two years ago.
There were servants to pack away the few belongings she had brought with her, however Ross could see the King's party was already setting off ahead of the rest, as usual, so quickly packed her own things with the help of a passing handmaid (camp follower) for efficiency's sake. Her horse - a young, spirited but fine dark bay palfrey, carefully chosen as a yearling by Ross to break herself - was saddled and ready, giving the boy who was holding her a hard time as she skittered and leapt around. The mare had supposedly just been broken. In reality it was a work in progress. Ross knew the mare well enough to ride it, but most others would... struggle. She quickly hurried to relieve the poor lad, taking the reins and brushing aside his apologies as she checked the girth.
"This one needs a firm hand," She said, easily springing up into the saddle without assistance. "Takes advantage otherwise," The horse resisted her for a few moments, giving a few small rears and dancing around as was her custom, but under Ross' steady hands she soon came good. Still energetic, but calmer, more controlled and less likely to injure herself by spooking or getting ahead of herself. Giving the boy a curt nod of thanks, Ross trotted away, then once she was away from the growing bustle of the camp broke into a canter to catch up with the King's party.
She made it easily - the speed of that horse truly was incredible, and she was very surefooted when she wasn't messing around - and slowed to the pace of the group. A few heads turned at her arrival, her son's amongst them, as well as Loreon Storm's - the King's bastard son by Giana Lannister, and Ren's closest friend - who rode with his father, instead of beside the wheelhouse like his trueborn brother Joffrey. The younger boy, Tommen, rode with his father too. Or rather with Loreon; Robert paid him scant enough attention, he was lucky to get a grunt of approval for decent swordswork. Ross herself much preferred riding up here as opposed to with the main group. Cersei's huge wheelhouse was as slow as an ox, and the many caravans and supply wagons trundling along were worse. Ordinarily she could make the journey to Winterfell in three weeks if she pushed herself - it was far quicker to travel with a party of a dozen guards as opposed to four hundred - so this slow pace was agonising. The king shared her impatience, and she could hear him loudly complaining from up ahead.
"We'll be lucky to make it by next week if we keep up this pitiful speed," He grumbled. "I keep forgetting how bloody huge Ned's part of my kingdom is. I've half a mind to leave them all behind and gallop there myself... but I don't think I could stand Cersei with a face like a smacked arse afterwards," Loreon grinned at that; his aunt loathed him and made no pretences otherwise. "Hope you don't mind the expression in regard to your dear sister, Lannister," Robert always loved to antagonise Jaime, but after the argument he and his sister had had shortly after she arrived in the city, Ross couldn't help but feel that Jaime would agree. "Ha!" Robert laughed, the only one with a voice loud enough to be heard this far back. "Even her own brother can't deny it. Speaking of brothers... Ross, is that you just arrived? Get up here, would you, and tell us if we're nearly at your Ned's blasted castle yet," Ross trotted up to the king's side, the Kingsguard parting to make way for her.
"Your Grace," She nodded to him.
"How many times have I told you to call me Robert?" He frowned.
"As you wish, Robert," She nodded. She didn't mind the king's company. He had a good humour, when he wasn't drunk or angry or proposing marriage, and didn't suffer fools gladly. He was blunt and to the point - though he was undoubtedly unsuited to sitting on a throne, he at least admitted it - which she appreciated in the viper's nest that was King's Landing. And he had always been fond of her. It might be down to his friendship with her brother, or his love of her sister, but he had warmly welcomed her and Ren into his court even as others had not, and for that she was grateful.
"There you go, wasn't so hard," Robert's grin was back. "So tell me, you're the local girl, how long until we reach Winterfell?"
"My son could have answered that question," Ross said, and he laughed.
"So he could," He said. "But sadly, as good a squire as your boy makes, he could never look as pretty as yourself when doing so," Ross raised an eyebrow as many of the knights laughed - even though she was married, her bastard seemed to give them permission to leer, even if there wasn't much to leer at - but didn't let herself be irritated by the man's words; they were what they were, meant in a light hearted jest despite Robert's history with women.
"You flatter me," Her reply was dry, but Robert didn't seem to notice. She wasn't one for compliments, not from most people; sincere or otherwise, they made her suspicious. "Winterfell is but a short distance away. We should make it within the day. But if it's pretty you want, then I'm sure Ser Jaime would be well fit for the role," Everyone laughed at that, Robert louder than anyone. Ross dared a smile back at Jaime on her right, who quirked an eyebrow challengingly.
"Ah, your wit is as sharp as ever, my lady," Robert said as the laughter died down. "You, boy," He looked to Ren. "If you have half the guts of your mother, you'll go far in life. My Loreon has a good friend in you," Ren nodded his thanks as Loreon grinned in amusement from behind his father. "How goes his training, Kingslayer?" It was unusual for a king to ask after a squire, and a bastard at that, but Robert had never had much patience with social graces, and, irritating as it was for many, Ross often found herself respecting him more for it. His favourite child was his eldest bastard son, of course, over his trueborn heir.
"As to the boy's brains, I'm not sure," Jaime smirked. "However, his skill with the sword is considerable. He equals my own ability at that age. Almost," He added, making Ren snort quietly.
"Ah ha!" Robert called in mock triumph. "There we have it! Your great secret is uncovered, my lady. The boy is the son of none other than Ser Arthur Dayne," The others laughed but Ross didn't crack a smile. Just because Robert didn't see it didn't mean that one misplaced word wouldn't be enough to hint at the truth to others.
Watching the two of them ride together was bad enough. To Ross it stood out a mile, although that's because she was expecting to see it. But it was just so obvious, she didn't know how anyone could miss it. Ren had her dark hair, it was true, her pointed chin and thin lips, but the shape of his face, his lean build, his green eyes, his high cheekbones, his smile when he wanted to be charming, that was all from his father. Ren didn't look especially like Jaime, yet they were alike enough to make her worry. He was only a squire, and a bastard at that, so didn't get much attention, but people were bound to notice once he became a knight. Which he would, and soon. He was more than good enough. Her family, who knew them both better, were bound to notice in a few hours as they saw the two together for the first time. The knot in her stomach that had been forming the whole journey was now so heavy it almost hurt. The children were old enough to understand now; Robb, the eldest, had been nine years old when they left for King's Landing the first time, but he was fourteen now, a year younger than Ren. Sansa was eleven, Arya nine, Bran seven and Rickon three. And Catelyn would certainly notice, she was a sharp woman regardless of her other faults. And Ned... Gods, Ned. She knew he'd suspected for years, but never had anything confirmed.
And then there was Morganna, who looked more and more like Jaime by the day. She had Ross' dark hair and tall, skinny frame, that was true, the Stark grey eyes and long face, but the rest of her was almost all Lannister; Ross couldn't quite believe that no one else had noticed she did not look at all like a Bolton, and not that much like a Stark either. She was less likely to get noticed as a girl, but her daughter was hardly one to blend meekly into the background. It was worrying to say the least. She supposed it could've been worse - they could've both been born blonde haired and green eyed - but she worried nonetheless. There was more to lose if people found out the truth behind her daughter's parentage. Ren would be a scandal; Morganna would be a death sentence. Roose Bolton would hardly be one to tolerate infidelity in his wife, not a crime that shamed him as well as her. It might even be worth it to see the look on Lady Margaret's face - how that old crone was still alive, Ross had no idea - as though she made no secret she disliked Ross, Ren and Edrick, she had a queer sort of soft spot for her granddaughters Aileen and (in theory) Morganna, no matter how badly the girl behaved. But the thought of what would actually happen to Morganna in that situation was unthinkable.
That brought her mind back to the last conversation she'd shared with her husband, the conversation that had pushed her to ride south then, when she had been planning on going months later for Ren's sixteenth birthday.
"You filthy hypocrite," It was rare that Ross argued with Lord Bolton, let alone insulted him. She didn't raise her voice, but she never did that. He didn't either; he still spoke in that quiet, unnerving way of his, but she could tell the anger was there.
"Watch your tongue," His pale eyes narrowed. "It is one thing for me, and quite another for you,"
"How is that not the definition of hypocrisy?" She had snapped back. "You have scorned me for years for having a bastard son. Now, after thirteen years of marriage, I find out that you have one yourself, and have had one for twenty two years,"
"I did not insist on bringing my baseborn son to live in a castle," He said dangerously. "You, my lady, insisted very strongly,"
"I do remember," She said, unimpressed. "But who are you to judge me for a sin committed before marriage, when you did the same behind the back of your first wife?"
"I'm a lord," His face was blank. "You are a lady," She stared at him.
"Very well," She allowed, swallowing the cutting retort rising in her throat. "In all honesty, I couldn't care less if I never hear about this bastard again after this. But I don't think that will be the case. Not when a dozen complaints have come in together about the boy, and you send him off with a slap on the wrist,"
"His actions hardly warranted a beheading,"
"I'm not so sure," She looked him hard in the eyes. "Torturing the animals was concerning, but that child?"
"The boy survived," Was her husband's reply.
"And the five brutally raped girls? The one he imprisoned and tormented for a moon's turn? The one with the flayed fingers? Badly flayed, might I add," Her husband merely smiled faintly at that.
"I raped Ramsay's mother," She actually laughed, mockingly.
"Of course you did," She shook her head, hardly surprised. "It's one thing trying to keep your people quiet by sending them off with a pittance of gold. It's another letting that monster roam freely to do it again, knowing that his lord father will do absolutely nothing to stop him. Hells, his lord father most likely taught him to flay,"
"No," Her husband said mildly. "If I had taught him, the flaying would hardly be bad,"
Ross' mouth was pressed in a line as the King rode on, letting herself fall behind, behind Ren, who rode with Loreon on his other side; the two boys had always got on well, which she supposed she should be glad for. But her boy was a boy no longer, almost a man grown. She wondered exactly how much he suspected and felt guilty. He'd never asked, gods bless him, even as a young child. All the rumours and mutterings in Winterfell, then later the insults and sneers in King's Landing, and he'd never even asked why it was he didn't have a father, why he and his mother were scorned and mocked. But it was going to happen some day. Some day he was going to ask, and she didn't know what she was going to tell him.
Sometimes though, the way he looked at her... She couldn't help but think that he knew more than he let on. But she got that impression from him in general, not just in this, and not just in the way that all boys his age think they know everything. He was one of those people who constantly seemed to be thinking about something, whether alone or in the middle of a conversation. There was something in his eyes that reminded her rather strangely of Tywin Lannister. Though looking at him now - jesting with Loreon and a rather bemused Tommen about various girls he'd been with in King's Landing - she doubted Tywin Lannister had ever been like that.
Ross looked up at a shout from someone at the front, and her heart leapt as in the distance, far away but visible, she saw the grim grey walls of Winterfell rising out of wild northern landscape. Home. Nearly home. After all these years, she had yet to see a sight that warmed her more.
