The gates of Winterfell loomed before them, ancient and imposing. As the royal procession passed beneath the granite archway, Ser Jaime Lannister observed the sea of faces in the courtyard beyond. Despite the North''s reputation for coldness towards southrons, the people of Winterfell stood respectfully, their curiosity and excitement barely contained beneath a veneer of Northern stoicism.


    At the head of the welcoming party stood Lord Eddard Stark, as solemn and unyielding as Jaime remembered. Beside him, his lady wife Catelyn, auburn hair blazing like fire against the drab backdrop of Winterfell''s grey stones. Their children were arrayed behind them – the eldest boy, Robb, standing tall and proud; the girls, Sansa and Arya, as different as summer and winter; young Bran, eyes wide with excitement; and little Rickon, clutching at his mother''s skirts.


    As King Robert dismounted, his considerable bulk straining against his fine clothes, a hush fell over the courtyard. For a moment, the King and the Warden of the North simply looked at each other, years of shared history hanging in the air between them.


    Then Robert spoke, his voice gruff with emotion. "You''ve got fat."


    A heartbeat of silence, and then Ned raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at Robert''s own substantial girth. The two men burst into laughter, embracing like brothers long separated.


    "Nine years, Ned!" Robert boomed, clapping his old friend on the back. "Why haven''t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"


    "Guarding the North for you, Your Grace," Ned replied, a rare smile softening his features. "Winterfell is yours."


    As the formal greetings commenced, Jaime helped Cersei from the wheelhouse, noting the carefully neutral expression on his sister''s face as she surveyed her surroundings. "So this is the great Winterfell," she murmured, for his ears alone. "It''s... impressive, in its own way."


    Jaime suppressed a smirk. "High praise indeed. Do try to remember that these ''savages'' are now our hosts."


    The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity – unpacking, settling into guest chambers, and preparing for the great feast to be held that night. Throughout it all, Jaime kept a watchful eye on the interactions between the two families, noting the genuine warmth between Robert and Ned, the polite but reserved exchanges between Cersei and Catelyn Stark.


    As night fell, the great hall of Winterfell came alive with light, music, and the tantalizing aroma of a feast fit for a king. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and the sweet scent of summer wines.


    Jaime stood at his post, watching the revelry unfold before him. Robert sat at the high table, already deep in his cups, regaling Ned with tales of their youth. Cersei sat beside him, her smile fixed and brittle as she endured her husband''s increasing inebriation.


    At the high table, King Robert Baratheon sat in all his inebriated glory, his booming laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls. Beside him, Queen Cersei maintained a facade of regal composure, though Jaime could see the tightness around her eyes, the subtle clench of her jaw as she endured her husband''s increasing drunkenness.


    Jaime''s gaze swept across the hall, taking in the tableau before him. Ned Stark sat to the king''s right, his face a mask of polite attention as Robert regaled him with tales of their youth. The Stark children were scattered throughout the hall: Robb, the heir, was engaged in animated conversation with Theon Greyjoy and some of the younger knights; Sansa, the eldest girl, sat wide-eyed and enchanted by Prince Joffrey''s every word; Arya, the younger one, was flicking peas at her sister when the septa wasn''t looking.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    In a corner, Jaime spotted his brother Tyrion, deep in conversation with Jon Snow, Ned Stark''s bastard. The two outcasts seemed to have found common ground, their animated discussion a stark contrast to the bastard''s usual brooding demeanor.


    As the night wore on, the wine flowed freely, and inhibitions began to loosen. Robert''s laughter grew louder, his hands wandering to the serving girls with increasing boldness. Jaime watched as Cersei''s mask slipped for just a moment, a flash of disgust crossing her beautiful features before she schooled them back into neutrality.


    It was well past midnight when the feast finally began to wind down. Lords and ladies, knights and servants alike stumbled off to their beds, full of food and drink. Jaime, released from his duties for the night, found himself wandering the quiet corridors of Winterfell, his mind churning with thoughts of Cersei, of the precarious game they played.


    The following morning dawned bright and clear, a rarity in the often gloomy North. Jaime rose early, his body accustomed to the rigorous schedule of the Kingsguard. He broke his fast alone, savoring the quiet before the castle fully awoke.


    It was during a late morning patrol of the castle grounds that he encountered Cersei. She was walking in one of Winterfell''s many courtyards, ostensibly admiring the ancient architecture. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them.


    Later, when the castle was busy with the day''s activities – Robert and Ned had gone hunting, taking many of the household with them – Jaime made his way to the abandoned tower they had discovered days earlier. Cersei was already there, her golden hair catching the sunlight that streamed through the high windows.


    "I was beginning to think you wouldn''t come," she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.


    Jaime crossed the room in three quick strides, pulling her into his arms. "As if I could stay away," he murmured against her hair.


    For a time, the world fell away. There was only Cersei – her touch, her scent, the soft sounds she made as they came together. In these moments, Jaime could almost forget the complexities of their lives, the constant danger they faced.


    But reality had a way of intruding, even in their most private moments.


    A scuffling sound from the window broke through their passion-induced haze. Jaime turned, his warrior''s instincts on high alert, to see a small figure clinging to the windowsill. Young Bran Stark stared at them with wide, shocked eyes, his mouth opening in a silent gasp of surprise.


    Time seemed to slow. Jaime felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the potential consequences of discovery unfolding in his mind like a terrible tapestry. He heard Cersei''s panicked whisper behind him, felt the familiar surge of protective instinct that had always driven him when it came to his sister.


    He studied the boy''s face, seeing the confusion and dawning horror in those young eyes. Bran Stark, the second son, the climber. Jaime had heard tales of the boy''s penchant for scaling Winterfell''s towers. It seemed those tales had not been exaggerated.


    In that moment, Jaime saw their carefully constructed world teetering on the edge of ruin. If the boy spoke of what he had seen, it would mean death – not just for Jaime and Cersei, but for their children as well. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen... innocent of everything except the circumstances of their birth.


    Jaime moved towards the window, his mind racing. He could try to swear the boy to secrecy, but could a child of that age truly be trusted with such a monumental secret? He could threaten him, but that might only serve to ensure the boy spoke out of fear or defiance.


    No, there was only one way to ensure their safety. One terrible, necessary act.


    "The things I do for love," Jaime murmured, almost to himself. The words felt heavy on his tongue, a justification and a condemnation all at once.


    And then he pushed.


    He watched as Bran Stark fell, his small body twisting in the air, a cry of surprise and fear torn from his lips. The sound seemed to echo in the stillness of the tower, a haunting note that Jaime knew would stay with him for years to come.


    As the boy disappeared from view, Jaime turned back to Cersei. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and relief. "It''s done," he said simply. "We''re safe."


    Cersei nodded, her composure returning with each passing moment. "No one will ever know," she said, her voice steady and cold.


    As they held each other in the silence of the tower, Jaime pushed away any flicker of doubt or remorse. He had made his choice, as he always had, putting Cersei above all else. Whatever came next, he would face it without regret.


    The day continued on, the inhabitants of Winterfell oblivious to the tragedy that had just occurred.