[She has given him a cup of tea. Before their false marriage, he had never tasted the stuff. Tea at Winterfell had been sweet herbs, usually mint, not the bitter stuff she brews. But he had grown to like it well enough, and he knows how to make it taste better, just so much sugar or honey, just so much milk or cream. He does that now, and drinks it, and... oh, he recalls the flavor well enough.
He watches her as she speaks, but sometimes, what she says to him has him looking down at the table. He is looking at her, though, when he affirms,]
We were. It was for me. No one has ever known me better than you did then. But it wouldn't be right to assume that's how you feel about it now. I needed to know.
[The rest bewilders him. A second husband? Not really married to this Jamie at all, but she had loved him, missed him, mourned him? He listens -- he will be thinking about little else for days -- but he doesn't yet respond to it. Part of him wants to kiss her to stop her talking, leaping ahead as she is, and the better part of him knows it would solve nothing. Hearing what she's saying might be like little knives, but it is the truth, better than a comforting lie.
He sets his teacup down and puts his face in his hands, rubbing over his eyes, before looking up again.]
Of course we're friends. None better. I didn't tell you that there are things you don't know about me to make you feel like you don't know me, or you can't.
[A deep breath.]
My father was Lord Stark. Winterfell was his castle, you know that much. He was good through and through -- the best man I ever met. But I am not Jon Stark; I never have been. He fathered me on some woman -- I've never known who -- when he was at war, even though he had been newly married. And when the war ended, he brought me home to his castle.
I don't know what they treat bastard children like where you come from, but where I come from, they say that bastards are born sinners because they come from sin. Born full of lust because they are born of lust. Born oathbreakers because they come from the breaking of an oath. If my father had been a different man, I might have been raised as the servant of his trueborn children, or raised far away from them, instead of beside them. There are worse places to be a bastard child than the North, but --
[An expansive little gesture. It had been bad enough.]
When I was a boy, I wanted to prove them all wrong. Prove that a bastard might have honor; prove that I was not a stain on my father's name. And still, I've done many things as a man that I swore, as a boy, that I would never do. You think things are simple when you're a child. You don't understand how hard some choices can be -- that sometimes there is more honor in breaking an oath than keeping one, and that one man's honor does not matter against the lives of a thousand people.
I'm telling you this so you understand why it troubles me to lie with another man's wife. But then, I weigh that against another measure. We were happy for hundreds of years.
I've hardly ever looked to be happy; I've hardly had the chance.
[He hears the uncertainty in his own voice. What he means is: how much should his own happiness matter? Or, if not his, hers?]
no subject
He watches her as she speaks, but sometimes, what she says to him has him looking down at the table. He is looking at her, though, when he affirms,]
We were. It was for me. No one has ever known me better than you did then. But it wouldn't be right to assume that's how you feel about it now. I needed to know.
[The rest bewilders him. A second husband? Not really married to this Jamie at all, but she had loved him, missed him, mourned him? He listens -- he will be thinking about little else for days -- but he doesn't yet respond to it. Part of him wants to kiss her to stop her talking, leaping ahead as she is, and the better part of him knows it would solve nothing. Hearing what she's saying might be like little knives, but it is the truth, better than a comforting lie.
He sets his teacup down and puts his face in his hands, rubbing over his eyes, before looking up again.]
Of course we're friends. None better. I didn't tell you that there are things you don't know about me to make you feel like you don't know me, or you can't.
[A deep breath.]
My father was Lord Stark. Winterfell was his castle, you know that much. He was good through and through -- the best man I ever met. But I am not Jon Stark; I never have been. He fathered me on some woman -- I've never known who -- when he was at war, even though he had been newly married. And when the war ended, he brought me home to his castle.
I don't know what they treat bastard children like where you come from, but where I come from, they say that bastards are born sinners because they come from sin. Born full of lust because they are born of lust. Born oathbreakers because they come from the breaking of an oath. If my father had been a different man, I might have been raised as the servant of his trueborn children, or raised far away from them, instead of beside them. There are worse places to be a bastard child than the North, but --
[An expansive little gesture. It had been bad enough.]
When I was a boy, I wanted to prove them all wrong. Prove that a bastard might have honor; prove that I was not a stain on my father's name. And still, I've done many things as a man that I swore, as a boy, that I would never do. You think things are simple when you're a child. You don't understand how hard some choices can be -- that sometimes there is more honor in breaking an oath than keeping one, and that one man's honor does not matter against the lives of a thousand people.
I'm telling you this so you understand why it troubles me to lie with another man's wife. But then, I weigh that against another measure. We were happy for hundreds of years.
I've hardly ever looked to be happy; I've hardly had the chance.
[He hears the uncertainty in his own voice. What he means is: how much should his own happiness matter? Or, if not his, hers?]