Chapter Text
Before the End of the Heat
He wanted to do it for revenge at first, for his family. His father dead, his sisters in the grasp of that monster of a boy king.
At first, he lied to himself that this was only to keep the peace in the camp. His men already fighting each other to touch the Kingslayer—it needed to stop or there would have been bloodshed.
But when he approached, it was like he was bewitched, so strong was his need to go to him, to soothe his pain, to get as deep inside him as he could.
The Kingslayer welcomed him into his embrace with a whine and a whimper. No clothes to speak of, recently bathed in hopes of lowering his fever.
His mother was enraged but pacified as well. Her dreams of humiliating and hurting the lion had nearly pushed him into it. But Robb wasn’t humiliating anyone—let alone the golden warrior below him.
Instead, he was on his knees himself before the Kingslayer, dancing to the tune of his moans, the urge to please him winning over his personal vendetta, over the urge to make him bleed.
What was supposed to be desperate and violent turned loving and sweet. He was unable to do anything but follow the rhythm of sculpted hips and the grip of lovely thighs.
--*--
Week 1, Day 1 after the Heat
Jaime wakes up to a tent. He must have been moved after.
How long did he remain chained to that post…? Robb Stark took him while he was chained to it like one of his dogs.
So much for Northern honor. So much for their precious Stark name. First Eddard and his bastard, preaching about honor like he bled it. Now his son, rutting into a captive like a feral mutt.
Jaime never thought anyone would ever find out he was an omega, but he thought if it ever happened, he would have more protection than this. He’d always been told omegas were sacred.
Not sacred enough to stop a Stark, apparently.
That Jaime remembers well: the pup descended on him like he was enjoying the thought of ruining him before he even touched him.
He wondered what Cersei would say. Would she not want him anymore? Jaime had never been with anyone else but her, and she wasn’t a man or an alpha. So by all rights, he had remained untouched all this time.
Would the boy even notice what he took?
Jaime stayed in bed and didn’t move, just closed his eyes and breathed. No way to know how long he has been in heat, or how long after he has slept. His body ached in unfamiliar places. Cersei never touched him there, she always wanted to ignore his second gender.
He felt sticky and sore and was pulsing in a way that was familiar. Like the boy was still moving inside him.
He was horrified at first. Did that mean it had been more recent than he thought? Could the pup be outside the tent right now, just taking a break, and Jaime had only just gotten his wits about him?
The flap of the tent moved suddenly, and Jaime could only gasp.
Catelyn Stark entered the tent, followed by a huge woman. Jaime would have been more curious about that if he didn’t feel like his heart was in his throat.
Jaime was naked in a bed with only a thin blanket to cover him, still in chains. He moved his arms, and the chains rattled a bit. They both looked his way and saw him awake.
Catelyn Stark didn’t waste a moment, walked up to him and glared like all of it was Jaime’s fault.
Jaime sat up a bit and winced. That tiny flicker of pain seemed to pacify her. The woman was vicious. Crueler than she thinks she is.
“You will remain inside this tent for now, Kingslayer.”
She made a signal to the other woman, and the blonde stepped forward. She had a bucket of water with her Jaime hadn’t noticed before.
“Clean yourself up.”
Jaime didn’t say anything. Didn’t move again either. Just looked at her in silence.
“I won’t say you deserved this, because nobody does. But you knew what war could bring. And it’s done.”
She gestured at the blonde.
“Now bathe. Brienne will remain here with you until you are finished.”
She looked like she was expecting a response. But again, he said nothing. Not like he could have. His throat felt like he didn’t have vocal cords anymore.
She looked conflicted, and then she left.
Left the woman with him. And now it was her turn to be stared at. He just concentrated on breathing. Maybe she would leave him alone if he kept looking at her.
“Do you need help?”
It was strange to hear her voice. She sounded concerned but looked cold. A contradiction in armor.
He looked at the water. Then at the wall.
He heard her sigh. Then footsteps. The bucket was placed closer. He didn’t turn until he felt the cloth touch his shoulder.
He looked at her again. She did it again, just kept cleaning him. His skin was sensitive. He let her do it until she reached his chest, and his body screamed at him.
He grabbed her hand with the cloth and just breathed. Shallow gasps, panicked and sharp.
She let go of the cloth. Stepped back. Then away.
The flap of the tent moved again.
And Jaime was alone.
He went back to staring at the wall.
--*--
Before the End of the Heat
Ser Brynden Tully had fought in many wars now. All of them brutal, all of them senseless.
Especially this one. What was it really about? A couple of children? A father executed for honor? For a throne?
Wars never made sense until they were over and people wrote what they wanted about them.
Mostly, people just wanted power and then didn’t really know what to do with it once they had it.
His nephew wasn’t one of those.
Eddard Stark had been executed, his daughters taken hostages, and Robb could only retaliate with war.
But what were they doing now? Days ago, Brynden had witnessed something he never thought a Stark would ever do.
Even he had almost done it himself.
Half the camp had nearly torn itself apart. Growling, brawling, snapping at each other like dogs in heat until Robb and he broke them apart. Such was their respect that they actually listened and went away. But when he and Robb realized what the issue was, it became a battle of its own to control themselves and not end up like the soldiers they’d just scolded.
Jaime Lannister.
Slumped, half-conscious, shackled now to the post they’d resorted to after too many escape attempts since the Whispering Wood.He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t fought.
His pale white throat calling for anyone that could claim it.
And for a heartbeat, Brynden had wanted to sink to his knees.
And his scent, Gods help them.
It was like drowning in honey and ash. Thick, cloying, feral. Brynden had nearly gagged on it the moment he stepped close. The heat clung to him like a second skin, burned into his lungs.
He couldn’t smell the horses. Couldn’t smell the pines. Couldn’t smell himself.
Just Jaime.
Jaime might be chained and limp against his bonds, no sword in hand—and still the boy was no less dangerous. No less lethal.
Not because of what he did, but because of what he was.
Then Robb stepped into his line of sight, and only then did Brynden realize he’d lost track of everything but the omega on the post.
His nephew didn’t look like a king that day. He looked like the Young Wolf they all called him, allies and enemies alike. His eyes were glassy and focused, his scent dark with want, and there was a subtle trembling to him that should have told Brynden everything.
--*--
Week 6, Day 42 after Heat
A few days after the Battle of the Blackwater
What Varys does not know in this realm could fit into a thimble, if even that. And yet, on rare days, he almost wishes he knew less.
He had broken his fast without drama, sifted through whispers and scraps brought by his little birds—most irrelevant, some amusing, a few potentially explosive. Margaery Tyrell’s carriage had passed through Bitterbridge, making good time on the King’s Road toward the capital. Tommen, bless him, had taken to the sept again, praying for his brother’s soul. The king had been killed in the Battle of the Blackwater. Every god knows he needed the prayers. Joffrey had been a little monster.
Varys has served monsters before of course. But he never enjoys it.
Then a whisper came that made him put his tea back on the tray. That alone was rare. Rarer still, he asked the child to repeat it. That, Varys had never expected to hear: a Stark losing control like that-with a chained captive, no less.
But he wasn’t being fair, he was measuring the boy by his father. Eddark wasn’t the norm for a Stark.
The wolf blood, it was called if he remembers correctly.
Brandon Stark, Lyanna Stark… even their father Rickard had a certain wildness to them. He’d never known Benjen Stark well enough to say whether it lived in him too.
Perhaps the young wolf was more Stark than dear departed Ned ever was.
But the boy was also his father’s son, that, he is sure. The young wolf would most likely try to bind the wound with vows. The question here is, will the golden cub accept it?
His day started so normal, but Varys knew normal days were just so until they weren’t.
The detail about the bloodied bedding was... unexpected. Not the act itself, men in power often confuse want with right.
But Jaime Lannister, untouched?
It seemed absurd, almost laughable, given the infamous intimacy between him and his sister. But the queen was no man, and certainly not an alpha.
The greater shock was what followed: silence. Utter, unbroken silence. Jaime had once seemed untouchable, invincible, unbent by scorn or scandal.
And then, something had touched him.
Varys leaves the room in a whisper of cloth, hands inside the long sleeves of his tunic. With back straight and smooth steps, he walks the long halls of the palace to the tower of the hand.
All the while thinking how best to break the news to the old lion. Tywin Lannister was a smart man yes, but will he see this as the kindle in the fire of war or as the opportunity it could be. If anyone knew how to spot weakness and use it better than him, it was the hand.
He was also embarrassingly curious about how he would take the news of his son’s dishonor and misuse. All these years, Varys had been certain that even while Tywin maneuvered his children’s lives like pieces on a board, he also had a certain weakness for his eldest son. A certain softness, while the other two got curt words and sometimes were even talked to like the old lion wasn’t even listening to them, Jaime was allowed to say no on a multitude of occasions. And sometimes, Jaime knew exactly where to press and how much pressure to apply to frustrate his father’s plans on his person.
Jaime Lannister would have been a very impressive player if he cared to and wasn’t chained to his sister’s back all the time. The poor boy.
All too soon Varys arrives at Tywin’s rooms and knocks at the door.
He finds the Hand, buried in paper and ink, as always. There is a war to manage, alliances to make and maintain of course.
The old lion doesn’t make him wait long, just finishes the sentence and looks up waiting. Varys recognizes a sign of respect from him when he sees it and appreciates it. He will take that into consideration this time.
“My lord, I have some very unnerving news to relay. I just want to clarify that it’s not rumors, I made sure before coming to you.” Varys says gravely, tone as serious as he can make it. “Ser Jaime was in heat after months of captivity, it is said that it was so strong fights broke up between the soldiers and if it wasn’t for ser Brynden Tully and Robb Stark stopping the chaos, your son would have probably been brutalized by the camp.
Tywin for his part was either waiting for him to say more… or too stunned to speak. So he continued. “The young wolf might have stopped them, but it seems he was too young to stop himself.” Varys gave a small pause, still waiting for the old lion to react, but again nothing. “There was talk from the soldiers of blood on the bedding, of your son being untouched before it.”
That, apparently, merited a reaction. A flicker. Whether it was the stain on the honor or the mention of blood, Varys couldn’t say.
“Your son was not merely compromised, my lord. The boy did not only bite, he left a mark.” Varys arches a brow and takes a breath “It seems the young Stark has confused conquest with courtship.”
Tywin Lannister’s jaw tightens, just slightly and his brow furrows in anger and fatherly worry or he could just be plotting, Varys could never tell with him, knowing him could be all the above.
Silence stretched. The old lion's fingers curled against the armrest of his chair.
Then, with the harsh scrape of wood on stone, he stood.
He said nothing at first. Walked to the windows. Stared down at the courtyard as if seeking answers in its patterns.
“That boy may have doomed himself,” he said at last—low, even, cold. “Or...”
He glanced back at Varys, pale green eyes sharp. “...he may have handed us the North on a silver plate.”
Another pause. His voice was softer this time, but not gentler.
“Is there more?”
“No, my Lord” Varys takes that for what it is and moves to go.
Tywin’s voice stops him before he walks out the door “Do keep me informed”
And that tone, that was the father Varys had been waiting for.
“Of course, my lord”
--*--
Week 1, Day 4 after the Heat
She had sworn herself to Lady Catelyn, certain she was doing the right thing. The Starks were honorable, she thought. Their cause was just. They would never ask her to stain her own honor.
But now Brienne wasn’t so sure. It seemed every time she trusted someone, the world showed her how naïve she still was.
Only Renly had ever been true.
She had believed in Lady Stark’s courage, believed that theirs was the better side of the war. But the things she had seen in this camp, and the way Lady Catelyn lied to herself about them, felt less like justice and more like righteousness.
The Kingslayer, bleeding like a maiden on her wedding night. A highborn captive omega, dishonored in chains. And there was no sign the boy king meant to make it right.
Brienne had always believed she was safe from that kind of treatment, not because men wanted her any less, but because they didn't want her at all. And if one ever tried, it would be out of malice, not lust. That, she could fight with steel.
But Jaime Lannister was a knight and a beautiful omega, one who moved half the camp that night, if she understood it right. And he hadn’t stood a chance, chained as he was.
Ser Jaime hadn’t been safe.
And she had never imagined such a thing could happen here, in this camp, under the banners of House Stark.
The man she saw now was quiet. Too quiet. Hollow-eyed and slow to move, like the pain went deeper than bruises.
She forced herself not to dwell. But the sickness lingered, and each day Lady Catelyn said nothing, it grew. Robb Stark was her son, raised on tales of honor, fed on duty yet now she lets him forget both.
It had been days since that night. The Kingslayer barely ate or drank, barely moved at all. The only time he rose was to use the chamber pot. That was all that remained of his pride.
She still tried to make him bathe, but short of dragging him to a tub, he wouldn’t even take the washcloth. Jaime didn’t yet smell foul, but the heat still clung to him. He smelled like Robb Stark more than anything, rutting alpha. Either he didn’t notice or didn’t care.
By the third day, it was too much. Brienne might be a beta, but the musk had thickened until it was the only scent in the tent.
On the fourth, she snapped.
She yanked the blanket off him and doused him with a bucket of water.
He jerked as if stabbed. “What…?”
His mouth opened and closed, no other words forming.
“You must clean yourself, Ser. It’s too much.” She held out the cloth, just as she had every day.
This time, he took it. Trembling.
The water hadn’t been cold. But it woke him up all the same.
He washed slowly but thoroughly, his scent lightening with each pass. The soap Lady Stark had given Brienne for her own use was soft on the skin. By the time he’d finished his torso, he looked a little better, less tense, more aware.. He might not have been fully there, but his body had been knotted with quiet anxiety, and even that seemed to ease.
“You can’t let yourself go like this, ser,” she said, fully expecting no answer. But he surprised her.
“I’m sorry you have to smell the likes of me all the time. Has it occurred to you that you could leave?” It sounded like he was trying to offend her but his tone lacked the necessary emotions to do so properly.
He sat up slowly and moved his legs to hang from the cot, dunked the cloth in the water and rinsed it, now starting to clean his legs. When he got to the inside of his thighs he paused, looked at the cloth, then back at her. She turned around and gave him space. He didn’t last long, apparently, because she soon heard the washcloth drop in the water and the rustle of the sheet when he pulled it over himself again.
Brienne turned around. She would need to speak to Lady Catelyn about getting him some clothes. He had been naked under the sheets all this time, and the air had grown colder with each passing day. Soon, Jaime would start to feel it.
She nodded at him and left the tent with the bucket. She felt a little guilty about snapping at him and throwing water on him like that, but at least he was clean now.
She fished the cloth from the water along with the soap, and it smelled of old blood. Not too much, but still rotten—it had been days since the heat ended. The proof of what Robb Stark took that day lay innocently in her hands, and it made her stomach turn.
She scrubbed the rag until the blood was gone. But even then, it left a stain.
Brienne closed her eyes, breathed slowly, and threw the dirty water out.
--*--
Week 1, Day 1 after the Heat
There was blood on him. Not a lot. Not his. He’d been surprised at first, and then horrified, when he realized what it was.
He hadn’t just taken a captive—he had dishonored a highborn omega. Jaime Lannister, against everything Robb had assumed about him, had been untouched before that night. Before Robb.
He grabbed another bucket and threw it over his head, trying to scrub away the scent. It clung as tightly as the guilt now choking him.
Robb felt as young as his five and ten, but he wanted to be small enough to go back to his mother and just have her fix it for him. Hide in her arms until everything went away. But this wasn’t going to go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how badly his mother might’ve wanted it to. Because he knew her: if she could kill Jaime Lannister right at this second, no consequences, she would.
Robb needed to keep it together. They were at war. He had behaved dishonorably, and he must face the consequences. If his father had taught him anything, it was to take responsibility for his actions. And this wasn’t something he could swing his sword at and be done with.
He would have to face everyone now. Even if they didn’t know the act itself, they would know the dishonor, on Jaime and on him—Because once he expressed his intent to wed Jaime, there’d be no hiding it.
He would need to ask Tywin Lannister for Jaime’s hand. And because Jaime had been untouched, a bride price would be owed as reparations. But Jaime would also need to agree to the match. The North and the Seven had that in common, at least, consent was paramount.
He ought to see it done at once—that would be the proper, honorable way. Yet the war was not finished, and even a marriage to Jaime Lannister could not be treated lightly, not while swords were still being drawn in his name. After the next march, he told himself. Once I have secured victory, once the North is truly mine… then I will make it right.
He gave up on scrubbing. Jaime’s scent wouldn’t wash off so easily, not so soon. Either way, most in the camp already knew. Robb dried himself and dressed. His men needed him to be a king. And he would try. Gods help him, he would try to be a good one, even after this.
Jaime would be difficult. He always had been. But Robb would grant him as much honor as he could.
In the eyes of the realm, the Kingslayer might not have much claim to it. But Robb had taken what little he did have.
And he intended to give it back, what he could.
For Jaime.
For himself.
For his father.
Eddard Stark would have marched him to the heart tree himself. As furious as he’d be to see his son wed Jaime Lannister, his father would have been even more enraged to see Robb leave it undone. He’d have said that if Robb took pleasure in the act, then he must pay the price.
And oh, had Robb taken pleasure in it. Jaime had been so welcoming. So ready for him. Even now, just thinking on it heated Robb in a way that made it hard to breathe. Jaime’s moans, his whimpers, the way he’d wrapped himself around Robb and buried his face in his neck—everything wet and soft and helpless—had driven Robb harder, deeper.
Jaime, legs tight about him, was all heat and breath against his throat—and Robb felt, wildly, as though his neck were connected directly to his cock. Jaime’s core had pulsed with every sound that came out of his mouth.
That pulsing tightness that clung to him like a vice. Like it was the first time. Gods, it had been. Jaime had looked so lost when Robb first pushed into him—wide eyes, parted lips, no practiced smirk, no clever words—just his, in that moment.
But it had been so overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.
Robb stumbled to a halt and gripped the edge of the barrel, forcing himself to breathe, eyes shut tight. Gods, what was wrong with him? He wanted, Gods! how he wanted.
Was it still the scent? The ghost of instinct? Or something worse, something in him?