Jon Arryn's death plunged the court into a less-than-organised chaos.

Ross was on one of her twice-yearly visits to King's Landing to visit Ren - and, unofficially, see Jaime - when the Hand of the King passed. It was not exactly a tragedy; despite being particularly healthy for his age, Arryn had been in his seventh decade, after all. Nonetheless, Robert had been next to inconsolable at the death of his foster-father, and Ross' heart went out to Ned, who loved the man just as dearly.

That was set to one side, however, because Ross had a bad feeling brewing. In the past month that she had been in the city, she had noticed Lord Arryn spending rather a lot of time wtih Stannis Baratheon, Robert's disagreeable younger brother. That alone would be unremarkable, had Ross not discovered one day that the two of them had summoned Loreon Storm and her own son for an audience. She only found out after the fact, and questioned Ren extensively; he told her that the men were asking questions about his father. Of course, he had nothing to tell them. They hadn't asked Loreon anything at all, which did not make her feel any more at ease.

Why did they care who her son's father was? He was born before she was wed, her husband could hardly complain given he had married her anyway. Unless they wanted to bring down Jaime for whatever reason - he was a sworn Knight of the Kingsguard, after all - but why now, and why bother asking all those questions, if they already knew?

A week later, Jon Arryn was dead. Had anyone known of Ross' inner turmoil, she would have been a prime suspect, for that was far too convinient. Stannis had returned to Dragonstone that day, only heightening the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not to mention that Lysa Arryn - Lord Jon's widow, and Catelyn's younger sister - had left court for the Eyrie, taking her whole household and her mewling little son with her.

"How odd it all is," Cersei remarked to Ross, both of them sat on her balcony in the summer morning sun. "Lysa left in the middle of the night, you know. No warning, no polite farewells - just ran off without a word to anyone,"

"Perhaps she has something to hide," Ross said. She was joking, and Cersei scoffed, amused.

"As if that simple-minded sow has the wits to murder anyone. I tell you, I won't be sorry to see the back of her,"

Ross smiled into her tea. "Will anyone?"

The Queen laughed. "Oh, you absolutely despised her. I remember, years ago now, when she said some unfunny little insult - what was it again?"

As opposed to Cersei's little insults, which were, of course, hilarious.

"It will have either been about my lack of a bust, my illegitimate son or 'Lady Rosennis, how can you stand having such a distinctive face?',"

"It was something about your face," Cersei said, gleeful. "And I told her I would much rather have your bone structure than a face that looks like it was made of dough. Ha! I believe she cried, did she not?"

Ross did remember. Lysa Arryn was such an easy target that she had deemed long ago that insulting her in return was not worth the inevitable tears, nor worth dealing with the letter Lysa would inevitably send to Catelyn complaining how cruel she had been. The woman took that as she was able to say what she liked to Ross, but Ross had heard much worse and could not care less. However, when she said such things in front of Cersei, it was a chance for the Queen to be spiteful whilst feeling more justified than usual in doing so. She knew Cersei did not do it out of concern for Ross, more dislike of Lysa, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Yes," Cersei said impatiently.

The Red Keep's steward stepped inside. "Pardon me, your Grace. I have a message from the King,"

"Let's hear it," She waved a hand, narrowing her eyes at the mention of her hated husband.

"In a week's time, the royal household will be travelling north, to Winterfell," The man said, and Ross raised an eyebrow. "So that His Grace can name Lord Stark as his new Hand. Preparations will be made immediately, my Queen,"

Cersei was all sweetness as she dismissed him, but her eyes were furious, and she rounded on Ross the moment the door shut.

"Winterfell? Do you hear what I must deal with? Robert upending the entire court and dragging us thousands of miles to the godsforsaken North, at a moment's notice. I suppose you were a Stark, though, weren't you. If I didn't know how much Robert adores your brother, I'd have wondered if you had a hand in this. My husband would rather be married to his beloved Lord Stark than me, so I know he'd need no persuaded. Either way, you're probably delighted,"

"Yes," Ross lied through her teeth. "Delighted,"

*

"Have you heard the rumours, Mother?" Her son grinned at her, wiping sweat from his brow.

Ross had come down to the yard to watch the end of his training session. Well, partly; he was sparring with Jaime, and if her eyes drifted somewhat then who was to blame her? She had met Jaime when he was sixteen, and he had been beautiful then; now, at two-and-thirty, he had only improved with age.

He and Ren were resting for now, stood on the sidelines with Ross, where Loreon now fought Ser Barristan. Even at sixteen, that boy would be terrifying to face in battle. He was over six feet tall, built like Robert had been in his youth, and wielded that huge greatsword like it weighed nothing.

"About how I've been whispering in Robert's ear this whole time, so that he would make Ned the new Hand?" She raised an eyebrow. "Unfortunately,"

"Oh, it's worse than that," Ren said. "What I heard was that you poisoned Lord Arryn, knowing that Lord Stark would be the obvious choice,"

"For gods' sake, of all the absurd things..."

Jaime, stood on Ren's other side, smirked. "Would your delicate sensibilities get in the way of a nice bit of poisoning, my lady?"

It was strange, hearing him address her (almost) properly. They did it for Ren's benefit, and anyone else who was listening. Her son knew they were friendly. It had been impossible to conceal, after five years of visits to King's Landing. But there was a line between friendly and something more that Ross had no desire to let Ren witness.

"No, ser, but my common sense would. Ned hates the south - why would I want to drag him here?"

"True enough. That wasn't the rumour I heard, besides,"

She eyed him, wary. "What was the rumour you heard, ser?"

Ren groaned. "Oh, I know what you're going to say,"

Jaime ignored him. "That you persuaded the King with more... creative methods than whispering in his ear,"

The clatter of Ser Barristan knocking Loreon's sword out of his hand covered the muttered curse that left Ross' lips.

"Do people around here not have anything more interest to gossip about? I have been married over thirteen years. It's more likely Robert accepted such favours from Ned than me, seeing as he loves him so much,"

Both of them burst out laughing, as a rueful Loreon Storm crossed over to join them, breathing heavily and sweating enough to soak his shirt.

"Morning, Lady Bolton," He greeted her politely, then glanced at the other two with a grin. "Was my loss so hilarious to you?"

...

"You defend your thirteen years of marriage with such righteous indignation," Jaime murmured in her ear, once the boys were out of earshot. "I can count on one hand the number of years you have kept those vows for,"

Her sudden laugh had Loreon and Ren turning back in bemusement.

*

Jaime had first taught Ross the basics of fighting with a knife with a few stolen moments in Aerys' court. Each time she returned to King's Landing, they practiced a little more; not just with knives, but also how to get out of different holds. Whilst she could not be considered good, it was enough to keep the element of surprise and defend herself if ever the need came.

Those early mornings on the road to Winterfell, before the camp awoke, provided a good opportunity to practice. Far enough away that no one would hear, dawn sunlight filtering through the forest leaves, Ross cursed as Jaime once again knocked the blunted dagger out of her hand and twisted her arm behind her back, his own practice blade at her throat.

"Dead," He said into her ear, somehow still smug after beating her every time. His favoured weapon was the sword, of course, but a lifetime of arms training gave him an extreme advantage.

"I'm getting better," She wriggled, but he did not let her go. "Get off!"

A sharp elbow to the ribs had him laughing and releasing her. It was a courtesy; if he really wanted to keep her trapped, she knew that he could, easily. If this was a real fight, she would've been dead in under a minute.

"Still haven't beaten me, though, have you?"

"Why on earth could that be?" She said in mock-confusion, retrieving her dagger. "Perhaps it's because you train every day, I'm half your size, wearing a skirt, and my arms might as well be twigs for all the strength they have,"

"Don't play the helpless little woman now," Jaime snorted. "You're vicious - I'd bet money you would win against most men. They wouldn't expect you to have a knife, let alone know how to use it, let alone with such calculated ferocity. Throat slashed before they can blink,"

He smiled charmingly, like it made up for his previous words. The worst thing was, it did.

"You hold back with me," She said. "I've seen you fight with men,"

"Forgive me, my lady, would you rather I pummeled you into the ground?"

"I'm not so delicate,"

"I know you're not. I might hold back, but you don't, and I'm covered in bruises after these little practice sessions. I'm still not doing it,"

"What's the point in training at all if it's not realistic?"

"It would be like teaching someone to ride on that wretched half-wild horse of yours, instead of a well-behaved pony. You wouldn't learn a thing, as you'd spend most of the time on your arse in the dirt,"

Ross wanted to scoff and call him an arrogant prick, but he wasn't wrong.

"Just once, then," She said.

He considered that. "Fine. Once, as it'll last all of five seconds,"

"Those words sound familiar,"

Jaime just laughed at that, both of them getting into a defensive position. His knife span in his hand a few times, purely to show off. And then he was upon her, and though she got a lucky strike into his ribs, he was quick and, after a woefully short scuffle, her back collided with the nearest tree with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, her arms pinned above her head, bark catching in her hair, the knife useless in her clawing fingers.

It was a mark of the trust she had for Jaime that this did not fill her with a sick terror, nor force flashbacks of wildfire and purple eyes. Ross tried to knee him in the groin, but his own leg stopped her, and no matter how she struggled, she could not move. It really had been a matter of seconds.

"In all fairness," He considered, not moving. "That hit you got to my ribs would have caused some damage. Not enough to win, mind, but better than nothing,"

"High praise," She looked up at him, still breathless from being shoved against a tree.

Her lips met his, and neither cared that the other was sweating from exertion. Even in 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 in the world, and no one else came into it.

He released her hands and she twisted her fingers in his hair, whilst his hands moved to cup her face. The kiss had started off far from innocent, and quickly became less and less so. Ross wondered idly how long they had, then realised she didn't care, gasping into his mouth as his hand moved down her leg.

"No," She murmured.

He stopped at once, drawing back slightly with a grin. "It was worth a try. Are you sure..?"

"I'm not letting you hike up my skirts against a tree in the middle of the forest," Ross said, tone flat.

"What a lady you are," He stepped back, watching her smooth her rumpled clothes and hair. It had been pulled into a knot at the back of her neck to train in, unlike the loose styles she normally wore.

She paused and looked up to glare at him, but couldn't stop herself finding that funny.

"We should go back. Ren will be up for you soon, and Wylla and Alys will wonder where I am,"

"The amount I saw him and Loreon drink last night, I doubt it," Jaime said, though set off back towards the camp with her. "And those two maids all but know everything already. Short of walking in on me kneeling between your legs - "

"Oh, shush!" She elbowed him in the side for both his lechery, but without any real annoyance.

Jaime laughed shamelessly, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close as they walked. "You blushed less when you were sixteen,"

"I was dead inside when I was sixteen,"

His smile faded somewhat. "There was a time you looked almost dead on the outside, too,"

Ross remembered all too well the gaunt, pale, bruised face staring back at her out of the mirror. Even now, the memories were too raw to examine in great detail. Yet the morning breeze was cool and crisp against her face, contrasting with the warmth of the man beside her, enough to snap her out of darker thoughts. The air here felt like home, carrying that chill that never reached beyond the Neck in summer, as well as the smell of sentinel pines. It reminded her of that quiet sense of isolation and wilderness that was never quite there in the south.

"You've never been to Winterfell before, have you?" She changed the subject.

"I've never been to the North before. Gods know why," His tone was sarcastic.

She rolled her eyes. "You'll think the castle is grim and bleak when you see it. A good thing we aren't going to the Dreadfort - that's ten times worse,"

*

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. Over near the King's pavilion, she caught a glimpse of Jaime's golden hair, as well as the familiar dark head of Ren shadowing him. At fifteen years old, 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, Edrick and Aileen should be in Winterfell with their cousins by now. Ren had only seen his siblings once since he had left the North, when he'd come back to visit two years ago.

"You're up early again, milady," Alys grinned at her, as she and Wylla packed away the small amount of belongings in the tent.

"I took a morning walk," She replied.

Wylla snorted. "If you say so,"

Once everything was packed, her horse - a young, spirited but fine dark-bay palfrey, carefully chosen as a yearling by Ross to break in herself - was saddled and ready, giving the boy who was holding her a hard time as she skittered and leapt around. Jaime calling the animal a 'wretched, wild thing' was not inaccurate. The mare was supposedly trained, but in reality, it was a work in progress. Ross knew the mare well enough to ride her, but most others would... struggle.

She hurried to relieve the poor lad, taking the reins and brushing aside his apologies as she checked the girth, before springing up into the saddle without assistance. The horse resisted her for a few moments, giving a few small rears and dancing around as usual, but under Ross' steady hands she calmed slightly. 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 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, who rode with his father instead of beside the wheelhouse like his trueborn brother Joffrey. The younger boy, Tommen, rode with Loreon; Robert paid Tommen scant enough attention, he was lucky to get a grunt of approval for doing anything well.

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 - or two weeks by sea, so this slow pace was agonising.

Robert 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," The King 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 having a face like a smacked arse afterwards,"

The King was somewhat fatter than he had been at twenty, though apart from that, was the same as ever; loud, brash and as a rule, drunk. Loreon grinned at his words; his aunt loathed him and made no pretences otherwise.

Robert continued. "Hope you don't mind the expression in regard to your dear sister, Lannister,"

He always loved to antagonise Jaime, but on this occasion, Jaime would likely agree. Evidently he made some sort of reply, for the King's booming laugh carried back.

"Ha! 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 Ned's blasted castle yet,"

With a sigh, Ross trotted up to the front, 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,"

The King wasn't terrible company. He had a good sense of humour - when he wasn't drunk, angry or proposing marriage - and didn't suffer fools gladly. He was blunt and to the point. which she appreciated in the viper's nest that was King's Landing. Though he was undoubtedly unsuited to sitting on a throne, he could at least admit it. And he had always been fond of Ross. Unlike many others, he had never shown a hint of judgement for her illegitimate son (though he would be the biggest hypocrite if he had), and welcomed her warmly to court despite her odd friendship with his hated wife, for which she was grateful.

He was... a lot to deal with, however.

"There you go, wasn't so hard! So tell me, you're the local girl, how long until we reach Winterfell?"

"My son could have answered that question," Ross said.

Robert laughed. "So he could. But as good a squire as your boy makes, he could never look as pretty as yourself while 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 - but didn't let herself be too irritated by the man's words. Despite Robert's history with women, he meant it as a lighthearted jest.

"You flatter me," Her reply was dry, but Robert didn't seem to notice. She wasn't one for compliments, sincere or otherwise. They made her suspicious. "Winterfell is but a short distance away. We should make it within the day, and see it in a few hours. 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 back in challenge.

"Ah, your wit is as sharp as ever, my lady," Robert said. "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 could often be, Ross found herself respecting him more for it. His favourite child was his eldest bastard son, 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. Ren had her dark hair, it was true, her pointed chin and leaner build, and his cheekbones could have been from either of them, but the shape of his face, his green eyes, 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, being 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. He most likely knew already, though it had always gone unspoken, never 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, as well as the Stark grey eyes and long face. Her cheekbones were Jaime's, but could be passed off as being from Ross; the rest of her was alarmingly Lannister. She was less likely to get noticed as a girl, but her daughter was hardly one to blend meekly into the background. It could've been worse - she could've been 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 his wife's infidelity, which shamed him as well as her.

That brought her mind back to the last conversation she'd shared with her husband, the conversation that had pushed her to ride south early, despite 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, knowing he wouldn'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,"

"Is that not the definition of hypocrisy?" She 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, for over two decades,"

"I did not insist on bringing my baseborn son to live in a castle," He said dangerously. "You, my lady, insisted very strongly,"

"That is irrelevant. Who are you to judge me for a sin committed before marriage, when you did just the same?"

"I'm a lord," His face was blank. "You are a lady,"

She stared at him. "Very well," She swallowed the cutting retort rising in her throat. "In all honesty, I couldn't care less, if I never hear about this bastard again. But I doubt that will be the case. Not when we've received over a dozen complaints about the boy, and all you do is send him off with a slap on the wrist,"

"Ramsay's actions hardly warranted a beheading,"

"If it was up to me, his head would be on a pike on the gates already," She looked him hard in the eyes. "Torturing the animals was concerning, but that child?"

"The boy survived,"

"Barely. What about 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. "As I said before - a peaceful land, a quiet people. I compensated the smallfolk, and they will not speak of the matter again,"

"It's one thing trying to keep your people quiet by sending them off with a pittance of gold. Your lands will not stay peaceful, letting that monster roam freely, knowing that his lord father will do absolutely nothing to stop him. Hells, his lord father most likely taught him to flay,"

"If I had taught him," Her husband said mildly. "The flaying would hardly be bad,"

Ross' mouth was pressed in a line as the King rode on, watching Ren's back. 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 some day he was going to ask, and she didn't know what to tell him.

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, nor one that evoked such bittersweet memories.

*

Edited November 2024