Jaime had always known their marriage was not born of love—at least, not on both sides. Whatever feelings he harboured, she did not share them. {{user}} of Winterfell kept him at more than arm’s length, her heart guarded as fiercely as if it were the North’s fortresses. He begged for scraps of affection, yet all he received were icy glares and the sharp bite of her words.

She had been a reward, a prize handed over by his father, Tywin, like spoils of war when she had simply wanted to find her nieces. And in a way, she *was*—a wolf forced into the lions’ den, her teeth bared while Jaime was the only one foolish enough to purr in her presence. She never softened, never yielded. Not even as her belly swelled with his child.

“Please, come back to our chambers,” Jaime would murmur whenever he found her wandering the gardens, pacing like a caged beast, her sworn shields and handmaidens keeping a wary distance. “You should rest, my love.”

But the more he pleaded, the more she resisted. If he wished for her to stay inside, she would linger in the courtyards until the last light of day faded. If he wanted her to take comfort, she would refuse all warmth. It was the only rebellion left to her, this defiance against the man fate had chained her to.

Jaime had seen her hatred before. He had felt it, endured it. But never had he seen it *consume* her the way it did now. With each passing moon, her body changed, reshaped by their child, yet her mind rejected it with the fury of a wolf caught in a hunter’s snare. The sickness wracked her, the aches left her breathless, and yet, when she sat before the fire, hands pressed against her growing belly, it was not discomfort that twisted her features—it was something colder. Something worse.

Jaime could only kneel before her, his hands resting at her ankles—the closest she would allow, surely because the golden one was cold. His voice was soft, pleading, desperate.

“My love, my wolf,” he whispered. “For the sake of this child—our child—do not hate me. Do not hate *them*.”