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So, Robert was married to Cersei Lannister. Eddard knew that sooner or later he would have to stop being surprised by that fact. He was married himself, after all, though the events of the past months had made it easy to forget at times. Catelyn Tully should have been his elder brother's wife, but fate had handed her to him instead - a gift he had accepted without quite knowing what he was meant to do with it. Now that the war was over, he would work at being a better husband to her. She, and the child she carried, would join him at Winterfell - he would make her understand somehow about poor little Jon - and they would build their lives together there, together, far from the complications and in-fighting of the South. The everyday stench of King's Landing was still compounded by the lingering smell of burnt buildings and hastily-buried corpses. Ned could barely look at the city without seeing it as it had been during the Sack, torn open and ravished. He longed to return to the North and leave everything here behind him. Nearly everything, he amended his thought.
He laid one hand on the oak at the centre of the godswood. It was faceless, and the bark felt strange - it should have been a weirwood, he thought. He'd come to the grove seeking a bit of peace before the inevitable ribaldry of the bedding ceremony. The wedding and subsequent revels had been comparatively subdued by royal standards - and, indeed, by Robert's personal standards - for it had not felt right to celebrate too heartily when so many good knights and loved ones lay freshly cold in the ground. Nevertheless, there had been a tourney, drinking and dancing, tumblers, minstrels, and even a performing bear. The bear had emptied its capacious bladder on the floor of the Great Hall, making Robert laugh so hard he sprayed more than a few droplets of wine on his new bride. Ned smiled at the memory - Cersei had not looked pleased with the stains on her gown, but it had been good to see Robert happy, even for a moment. Since Lyanna's death, he had smiled so rarely… Ned rested his cheek against the rough bark of the oak and, even though it wasn't quite right, it still gave him some small comfort.
The storm had come up so quickly, they'd been caught off their guard. Ned had wanted to make for the shelter of the Gates of the Moon, at the very least, but Robert had laughed and told him that they could build a better shelter themselves, and then had proceeded to prove his point. The lean-to had been cramped, and the smoke of the meagre fire made their eyes smart, but Ned had told him in all honesty that it was far better than walking the long, wet miles back to the fortress. In his heart, he knew it was only better because they were there, alone, together, but he couldn't say as much to Robert. The forest floor where they lay their cloaks was carpeted with soft pine needles which, when crushed beneath the weight of a boy - or two - gave off a sharp, earthy scent.
"Ned, come in! They're just about to be bedded!" called Howland Reed from the doorway. With a sigh, Ned turned to the bright lights of the hall and followed as he was bidden. The crannogman passed him a cup of wine as they returned to the hall, and Ned tossed it back without thinking. He'd lost count of how many identical drinks he'd consumed that night, and yet he didn't feel drunk so much as melancholy. The whole day had felt wrong. It should have been his sister there at Robert's side, not the Lannister girl. Every time he looked around the joyous crowd, he saw only the missing faces.
Howland glanced sideways at him just as they entered the hall, reading his thoughts on his face, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It will be all right, in time."
"It will never be the same, though."
"No, it won't. Everything changes for a reason, though. Come on," he said, pointing to the crowd of men who had gathered about the bride, just as the assembled female guests were clustering around Robert. He towered over all of them despite leaning drunkenly to one side, one arm around the shoulders of pretty Malynda Royce, who was toying playfully with his breeches. When he saw Ned, he grinned and waved. Ned mustered a smile in return, though it felt false, and joined the circle around Cersei. Two of the Lannister bannermen were carrying her on their linked arms, and she shone over all of them like the sun, her golden hair falling loose from its ribbons. Ned heard the joking comments around him about how lucky Robert was on this night, how they all wished they might take his place, but couldn't bring himself to join in the general revelry.
The clutch of maids and wives who surrounded Robert were dragging him off in the direction of the bed chamber, having already half-removed his clothing. "Ooh, she'll be sure to feel that when it goes in!" shrilled one of them, and they left under a cloud of laughter that was half-drowned out by the cacophony of the minstrels, who seemed now to be playing two different songs at once.
In the low shelter, with the rain dripping through the heavy spruce boughs and the fire burnt down to smoking embers, they had tried to sleep. Robert's stomach lay against his back, his breath warm on his neck. One strong hand had crept over Ned's side, almost as if by accident, and drew him closer, until he felt an unexpected heat and hardness pressing against the back of his thigh. Ned had wanted so badly to please Robert, would have given him the moon on a silver platter if he'd asked for it. "I won't tell anyone," he'd said, "if you won't," and pushed back against him, cloth against cloth, and soon, skin against skin, warm and yielding.
The men, meanwhile, had begun to strip Cersei of her finery, laughing and teasing all the while. The heavy bridal cloak had gone first, and then the overskirts. Addam Marbrand started a chant of "Bed her, bed her!" and the others soon joined in as they carried her about, passing her from one set of arms to the next. Ned hung back at the edges of the crowd, watching more than participating in the bawdy ceremony. He found himself next to the bride's twin brother, Jaime. The Kingslayer, he was already called by many, notorious even at such a young age. He'd been champion of the tourney to celebrate the marriage, defeating every challenger, including Ned himself, and yet seemed to have attracted comparatively few admirers. No doubt most women were dissuaded by the White Cloak, and any who weren't were put off by his reputation. Ned suddenly remembered seeing the Great Hall bathed in Targaryen blood, and Jaime sitting, naked sword in hand, on the dead king's throne. The lad had laughed and promptly risen, but the image had haunted Ned. Once Robert had issued his pardon for the Sworn Brother's betrayal of his previous liege lord, however, Ned hadn't had the heart to tell him of what he'd seen that day.
Jaime too seemed inclined to keep the raucous festivities at arm's length, though he was nevertheless taking regular deep swigs from his golden goblet. Someone jostled him and he bumped roughly against Ned, slurring out an apology without actually meeting his gaze. Indeed, he was diligently keeping his eyes on the flagstone floor as the guests disrobed his sister. So, he doesn't want to see her half-naked, thought Ned, that's normal enough. The assembled mob was beginning to move, slowly but surely, to the stairs that led up to the royal bedchamber. A hand - Ned didn't see whose - grabbed a handful of Cersei's silk undershift and the fine fabric tore, exposing her right breast with its pert, pink nipple to the hoots and admiration of the men. For a brief moment, a look of scorn flickered across her beautiful face, but it was gone so quickly that Ned almost doubted he'd seen it at all.
The storm passed in the grey hour before dawn. Robert had risen then and stretched, skin bare and gleaming in the half-light, and at that moment Ned had worshipped him. He'd wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, but he was anxious not to appear unmanly before the older boy. Instead, he'd simply said "Shall we go back now?" And Robert had laughed the way he always did, and pointed instead to the rocky pool where the stream broadened and deepened, now filled to overflowing from the torrential rain. So they'd bathed as best as they could manage in the frigid water littered with fallen needles, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Awestruck into silence by what they'd done.
After that night, they'd sometimes sought out other moments alone together, away from prying eyes. Jon Arryn had commented once, with the barest hint of a smirk, that it was heartening to see how very close the two lads had become, but no one else seemed to pay much attention to what they got up to outside of their daily hours of training. There were many other hunting trips, or rainy afternoons spent in one or the other's chambers, or stolen mornings hidden away in the stone-carved stables of Sky where no one would look for them. Ned suspected that for Robert it was little more than a game, some mild diversion to pass the time, and he certainly knew far more than he wanted to about the various girls his friend favoured with his attentions, but it made little difference to his heart, which he could no more stop from tumbling along its dangerous course than he could keep the rain from falling.
It seemed to take much longer than it should have for them to escort Cersei to the room where Robert already awaited her. The female guests were still in the bedchamber when the men finally arrived and swung open the heavy door, almost tossing the Lannister maiden inside. A pair of noblewomen squeezed by Ned as he lingered just outside the doorway, giggling about how handsome Robert was, and how fortunate Cersei should think herself this night. The bride was being bundled into the bed where Robert was already reclining, propped up on one strong arm, grinning like a fool and obviously more than ready to make her his own. As they kissed and the crowd cheered, Ned had to slip away, the sounds of merriment dying in his ears.
In the much quieter hallway that led to his own bedchamber, to his surprise, he came across Jaime Lannister once more. The young man was huddled in an alcove by a narrow window-slit, his back turned away and heaving, and for a moment Ned thought he was throwing up. It wouldn't have been unexpected, with the amount of wine he'd drunk that evening, but it was still undignified to do it in a corridor. Then Ned realized that he wasn't puking - he was crying, great sobs that shuddered silently through him. He started to turn, trying to walk away before the other man noticed he was there, but one boot's sole scraped against the stones and Jaime whipped around, startled and angry. The look on his tear-stained face was terrible to behold.
Robert's face when Ned had told him of Lyanna's death had been much the same - the look of a man whose entire world had fallen out from under him. He'd raged and stormed and finally, almost grudgingly, wept in his friend's arms. It had been more than enough to smooth over their disagreement about the deaths of the Targaryen children. Ned had raged at Robert before he'd left, but now he could weep for his sister, seeing his own grief mirrored on that beloved face. "I'm here," he'd whispered, "we still have each other." Like old times, then, Robert had rested against him, close and warm and still. But when Ned had moved to lay a hand on him, to try and stroke away some of his pain, his friend had jerked away from his touch.
"We're not boys any longer," he'd told Ned angrily, "we're men grown. You're married, and…"
"And what?"
"And it's wrong, that's what. Unnatural."
Natural is comforting your friend however you can, Ned had wanted to say, but the words hadn't come to him until later. Instead, he'd fetched them both bottle after bottle of strongwine, which seemed to serve their intended purpose just as well.
"Should have been your sister," Robert had muttered into his ear before he finally passed out. Ned didn't know if he meant that it should have been Lyanna lying there with him that night, or that Ned, who loved him, should have been born a girl to take the place of the sister who, if they were being completely honest, could take or leave Robert Baratheon. Or maybe he'd meant something else entirely - after all, he'd been too drunk to stand. Ned had kept watch over him the whole night. In the small hours of the morning, it dawned on him that perhaps Robert had been drawn to Lyanna from the start because she was so very much like Ned himself, except that his feelings for her were acceptable. Natural. If true, it was a cold consolation.
In the morning they both pretended, as usual, as if nothing had happened. "Your wife," Robert had said casually over breakfast, "she's with child, isn't she?" When Ned had agreed that it was so, he'd simply nodded and said "If it's a boy, call him after me." Then Ned had known, silently despairing, that it had been the last time. He had lost him.
"Leave me," Jaime rasped out, turning away. Ned would have been perfectly willing to oblige the knight, but for the sound of a half-dozen boisterous voices approaching and a brightening light flickering along the stone walls.
"Come on," Ned said, grabbing the blond lad by the arm and steering him away from the curious gaze of whoever might be coming. Whatever the source of his obvious misery, it wouldn't do to have it exposed to the entire world. Ned, always so private, wouldn't wish that particular humiliation on his worst enemy, and Lannister wasn't that - far from it. He was an arrogant, ambitious, reckless young man with one horrible deed hanging over his head, but then, he'd been faced with a horrible choice. Ned honestly didn't know how he would have decided, had he been the one sworn to protect the Mad King. More than likely he'd have broken on the horns of his own tortured honour. Jaime hadn't broken, though - or at least hadn't seemed to, until tonight. Ned met with no resistance as he led him stumbling down the hallway and into his room, behind the mercifully thick door that blocked out the last traces of the ongoing festivities.
Jaime slumped down onto the bed and sat there motionless. He had stopped his weeping and his eyes were blank, leaving Ned with little idea what to do or say. "Let me get you a drink," he offered.
"No more wine," Jaime managed to croak out. His complexion was pale and clammy, a dangerous look all too familiar to anyone who'd spent much time around unpracticed drunkards.
"Just water," Ned agreed hastily, pouring it from the freshly-filled pitcher that sat on the window's ledge. He held the mug out to the young man, who managed not to spill any as he took a sip, even though his hand was trembling. Gradually, however, his skin stopped looking quite so alarming. "Better?" asked Ned.
"Not really," Jaime replied grimly, lying down, "but at least I don't feel like I'm going to die in the immediate future."
"That's for the best," said Ned, feeling awkward and out-of-place in his own room. Part of him wanted to ask what was so very wrong, but he doubted Jaime would tell him. Maybe the lad was in love with a girl he couldn't have - that is to say, any girl at all, since he wore the white cloak - a cloak that was now lying crumpled on the floor. Maybe he was jealous of all the attention being paid to his sister. It could have been any number of petty, insignificant things magnified into earth-shattering problems by the power of summerwine. It was hard to say. Ned kept his silence and waited to see if his unexpected guest would talk.
He could almost see them - Robert and Cersei - tumbling over and over in the great bed, limbs tangled together. Robert could be rough when the mood took him, but Ned suspected he would at least try to be gentle tonight. He would kiss and fondle her first, easing his thick fingers down that smooth stomach to work at the cleft of her legs until she opened to him eagerly before he would mount her, pressing her down with his sweet weight. Later, perhaps she would straddle him, her blonde hair falling around their faces like a veil. Catelyn had done so with him on their wedding night - she'd known better than he had what to do, to be honest, and eventually had simply taken charge. He'd gotten through the clumsy business by struggling to remember everything Robert had ever told him about pleasing women, and, in the end, by half-pretending he was Robert there inside her, and somehow that had made it feel right enough that he'd been able to do what had to be done.
"It's nothing," said Jaime eventually, gaze locked on the broad beams of the ceiling. "I'm fine."
"If you say so," said Ned, not believing him in the slightest. "Are you well enough to walk?"
Jaime tried to roll over, but immediately stopped. "Not while the room is spinning so quickly."
"I could probably carry you back to your quarters, it's not that far."
"Yes, that would look wonderful, I'm sure. No one who saw us would make any jokes at all." Jaime screwed his eyes shut, as if to block out any hint of his surroundings.
"I'm only trying to help," Ned said.
"Help by shutting your mouth and buggering off."
Ned frowned. "It's my room, I'll remind you, and I'm the one who saved you from being seen bawling your eyes out in the middle of a corridor."
"And I'll be eternally grateful. Especially if you stop talking now."
Ned opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. There was no point. Instead, he circled around to the other side of the bed and drew back the covers, then sat down to remove his boots.
"What are you doing?" Jaime asked, his annoyance obvious.
"I'm going to bed. You're welcome to stay or go as you choose, but it's my room and I intend to get some sleep." He extinguished the candles, leaving the fire's embers as the only light in the room, and climbed into bed in his shirt and smallclothes.
They lay there in the near-darkness for some time. Ned dozed for a little while at least, but deep, oblivious sleep was a faint hope. He was startled into full consciousness when Jaime spoke, almost as if to himself. "Have you ever loved someone you shouldn't?"
"Yes," said Ned softly, after a moment's pause.
"I guessed as much. It's rather a relief to know I'm not the only one who wished I was in that bedroom tonight."
He loves him too? Ned was mildly surprised. Well, it's forgivable at his age. Normal. Hero worship, mayhap - we all have a little case of it. Or more than a little, he admitted to himself. If he's lucky, he'll grow out of it. Aloud, he said "I won't tell anyone, if you won't."
"You're right, you won't tell anyone." The threat in Jaime's voice was light but unmistakable.
"If you won't," Ned repeated, letting his own voice harden just enough to show he was serious.
"But of course."
Ned propped himself up on one elbow, the better to see the young man in his bed. In the faint light, the spill of blond hair across the pillow could easily have been mistaken for Cersei's, but the body that went with it was unmistakably male, youthful and strong and beautiful. "You're sounding better."
"I'm feeling better. Slightly." Jaime still didn't move to leave, however.
Ned hesitated, but was still just drunk enough that it seemed like a good idea for him to reach out and lay a hand on Jaime's thigh. "You don't have to go."
Jaime arched an eyebrow in the near-darkness. "You do realize what that white cloak signifies, don't you? I don't wear it because it looks good with gold - well, not only because it…"
"Forget I said anything," Ned interrupted him, turning away. What had he been thinking? He berated himself silently for his presumption, and wondered just how this moment's weakness would come back to haunt him.
A few moments later, he felt Jaime's hand on his hip, light as a feather. "I've never been very good at keeping oaths," the Kingslayer said, sliding close to him.
There were no kisses or gentle caresses, but then, there rarely had been with Robert either. Instead, Jaime fumbled his boots off quickly and knelt on the mattress to remove his breeches, then tossed his shirt aside. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, and there was a faint shimmer of pale hair on his chest, which was bruised an angry purple in several places from blows given in the tourney. When he turned his head modestly and his hair fell across one side of his face, Ned was once again struck by the many ways in which he resembled his sister - splendid and golden and almost too perfect to be real. "What do you want me to do?" the younger man asked, sounding businesslike but perhaps a little nervous.
"Use your mouth," Ned said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He wondered if Robert would have Cersei do the same for him - it was what he'd always seemed to enjoy most. It pleased him to think that he would have one of the Lannister twins while Robert was taking the other. His cock, already half-hard, stiffened further at the prospect.
Jaime knelt between his legs and willingly bowed his head to the task he'd been set. He rested one hand against Ned's stomach, the other on his thigh, and dove into the job with enthusiasm. He wasn't skillful, but it didn't much matter. His lips were hot and slick, his tongue generous. With each stroke of his mouth, his hair brushed lightly, teasingly, against Ned's hipbones. Growing over-eager, Ned pushed back, making the young man gag and pull away. "Sorry," Ned began, but Jaime shook his head.
"My fault. Too much at once."
"Here," said Ned, taking Jaime's sword hand and bringing it to encircle the base of his shaft. "Should keep you from trying to swallow me whole," he said, smiling faintly. Jaime just nodded and brought his mouth back to the tip of his cock, sucking him more slowly and carefully now.
It was different than with Robert. Jaime had no beard to scratch against his thighs, and though he was strong, he had only a fraction of Robert's heavy bulk. Besides, over the years, Robert had grown practiced at these games, able to bring his friend off in mere minutes if he so chose, but, if they had the time, preferring to prolong the act until finally Ned was squirming and begging him for release. He had mustered the courage only once during their short time together to ask Catelyn if she would use him so, but she had frowned and said "That way gets no children, my lord," and so he had done what she wanted instead, because he knew that, as always, his duty was more important than his pleasure. Perhaps once she'd birthed the babe that was now in her belly - was it still there? The months had passed away so quickly, it could well have been born by now, though he'd had no word - she would be more receptive to his requests, if she wasn't keen to bear another too soon.
Ned distracted himself with mundane thoughts to keep from peaking too early, but it was growing ever harder to hold himself back. Jaime's arm was moving more or less in unison with his mouth now, and if he was unfamiliar with the more subtle nuances of this act, the smooth flick of the tongue or the slight pause at the end of each upward stroke that Robert used to use to drive Ned wild, he at least knew what to do with his hand, having no doubt used it on himself on countless occasions. Each stroke along his spit-slick cock teased him a little closer to the edge, until he knew he would have to stop or fall. He squeezed Jaime's shoulder, and the lad glanced up at him, puzzled. "Nothing's wrong," he reassured him, "I just want to trade places."
It was but the work of a moment to shift positions so that Ned could take Jaime in his mouth instead. Unlike his bedpartner, Ned had considerable experience in such matters. He licked his head smoothly with long, slow strokes until it glistened, and then swallowed Jaime so deeply his lips brushed against the soft tangle of golden hair at his root, making the young man gasp and twist his hips against the mattress. Ned breathed in the scent of him, sweat and wine and manhood, savouring it. Soon Jaime grew sluttish in his excitement, spreading his legs wider. For a moment, Ned contemplated fucking him, but a quick survey revealed nothing in the room he could use to slick his entrance, and he doubted the poor boy would appreciate him bulling his way in regardless, the way Robert might have been inclined to do if he were drunk past the point of caring. Instead, he paused long enough to suck one finger until it was sopping wet. Jaime watched him through cat-slitted eyes, but didn't speak or move, except perhaps to open his legs a fraction of an inch more. Ned brought his mouth back to Jaime's cock at the same time as he began to push that dripping finger, gently but firmly, into the young man's tender arse.
"Let me fuck you," Robert had said one afternoon, and Ned, though he was uncertain, had, as always, wanted to please him. He'd nodded his assent. The logistics of the act took a few minutes to work out - who had to move where, and how - but the slippery oil for the lamp made it go more smoothly. "Gods, you're tight," Robert had grunted as he began to enter him.
"It's too much," Ned had protested when he was fully filled, "take it out." But instead Robert had held him there, pinned beneath him, stroking his hair and kissing the back of his neck until he stopped struggling and let himself go limp, and soon enough the pain rolled away like a wave. And when Robert had reached around his waist to stroke his cock, he'd cried out again, but this time in pleasure. It was all too much, marvelously, gloriously too much, and he'd never wanted it to end.
"I love you," he'd said as Robert rested atop him afterwards, still half-hard inside him. It was the first time he'd ever said those words to him, and he'd half-dreaded what the response might be, but he still couldn't stop himself from uttering them.
Robert had rolled off him, heavy and languorous, and simply said "Me too," before falling asleep, the sun through the window casting a broad shaft of light across his arm and chest. Ned rested his head in that beam of light, never happier than in that moment. He held that memory close to him at all times, guarded and even more precious now that it would never happen again.
Jaime grunted at being penetrated even so slightly, tensing involuntarily. "I haven't ever… Gods," he moaned, grimacing. Ned knew how he felt, and so waited patiently until the shock of that first opening had subsided before giving him more, slowly easing the rest of the way inside his quivering passage. Suddenly, Jaime clenched so tightly around him that he could barely move to deliver more than a slight twitch of his finger, but even that small movement was apparently enough. Cursing under his breath, which was now coming in quick, shallow gasps, Jaime managed to choke out an "I'm close!" a few brief seconds before his seed gushed into Ned's waiting mouth. Ned swallowed every drop - it wouldn't do to leave too many traces of this night's business for the servants to gossip over. When Jaime had finally pulsed his last, Ned drew back, wiping his lips on the back of his hand, and waited for the young man to recover.
A little while later, Jaime propped himself up on his elbows. "For someone who's in love with his best friend's wife, you did that awfully well."
Ned eyed him levelly. "For someone who's never done it before, you spread your legs awfully fast."
There was a lengthy silence. "Let's not talk anymore," Jaime said at last, reaching out to haul Ned down beside him. He slid one hand up under his linen shirt, pinching Ned's nipple until it puckered, and took his cock in the other, jerking him swiftly and roughly, making Ned's eyes flutter back under half-shut lids. His short-trimmed nails scratched across Ned's chest, hard enough to leave a set of parallel welts half-hidden beneath the dark hair. "Come on," Jaime urged him in a whisper, lips soft and teeth hard against his ear, "do it. Spend for me. I want to see the look on your face." He lowered his mouth to the hollow space between Ned's neck and collarbone and licked away the drops of sweat that had pooled there. And then Ned could wait no longer for his release, hips bucking and legs shuddering as he spurted over Jaime's knuckles. As soon as he could, Jaime withdrew his hand and wiped it clean on the tail of Ned's shirt before Ned could muster a protest, then stood - admittedly, a bit shakily - and began to dress himself. Drained, Ned could do little more than lie there, sadly watching the shape of that perfect body disappearing beneath shirt and breeches.
Jaime picked his white cloak up off the floor where it had lain abandoned and stood, putting it on and fastening it at his neck. Whatever misery had possessed him earlier, there was no trace of it visible now, with the possible exception of a hint of a slump in his broad shoulders. The cloak weighed heavily on him, Ned could tell, and, if it wasn't the immediate source of his suffering, neither did it do anything to alleviate it. To live in the Kingsguard must be a constant struggle against one's nature. It was inevitable that a man might falter from time to time. He tried to think of some way to tell Jaime that it was all right, that, whatever it was, he understood, but nothing came to him.
Jaime sat on the edge of the bed to tug his boots on. "I meant to say, earlier," he began, "that I hope you bear no ill-will against m... against my family. I know the king was meant to marry your sister. Believe me, I wish he'd been able to." Ned said nothing, so he continued. "I remember meeting her at the tourney at Harrenhal, two years since. She looked a great deal like you. I can see now what Robert saw in her." He turned his head slightly to meet Ned's eyes, as if trying to judge his reaction to those words.
"No grudges," said Ned, looking away, not giving him the satisfaction of an honest response. Some things would always be beyond sharing. "Please, just go."
No further words passed between them. Jaime left without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Ned alone and wide awake. Having nothing better to do, he rose and began to pack his trunk, stuffing the soiled shirt to the very bottom. The red marks on his chest smarted, but they would soon fade. Somehow, he wasn't worried that Jaime would talk about anything that had passed between them this night - the knight stood to lose far more than he did. On the morrow, he decided, he would leave King's Landing and begin the long trip back to his family, and to Winterfell. He wanted no risk of facing the Kingslayer in the harsh light of day to exchange awkward pleasantries. A quick, public farewell to Robert would suffice for propriety's sake, provided that he could hold himself together long enough. Push everything down inside himself and never let it out again. Or at least stop the tears from falling until he was safely alone. He knew that, in all likelihood, they would not meet again for years. Perhaps by then he would have learned, somehow, to love his wife, and would be able to face his ruler without seeing him only as the friend he'd loved first, now lost to him forever.