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Hello, you've reached--[sounds of fumbling and muttering before Robb's voice comes in:] Robb Stark--leave a message after the beep.

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[ He'd be lying a bit to claim he hadn't chosen text for a reason. Best understand an outsider's amusement while he might. If that butts against his honest intentions, Jaime doesn't pay heed.

This has gone on long enough. ]

We need to speak.

[Robb has been doing his level best to avoid Jaime Lannister, since--well. That day. Really, he's tried his best to avoid people in general, but Lannister in particular, and though the former hasn't been too successful, the latter has been.

At least until now.

He considers not answering for a moment, but--he might as well.

The answer is slow in coming. Someone's not used to typing with his left, apparently.]

Say what you will now, Lannister. [It's not like he can do much else.]

Of course. What's a bit of blood between friends?

Your brother intends to wrestle you a new limb from the grave. A thrilling quest, to be sure, but I fear he's mistook nobility for mobility.

I propose you and I make a deal. Call it a wedding present.

If you're speaking of what Jon put up on the network, I saw that already. [And all the hand puns and the condolences. And Loki.

A wedding present. He's almost tempted to tell Lannister to save his present for someone else--he knows the tune of the Rains of Castamere all too well by now.]

Is it now? You'll forgive me if I don't trust it so much--I remember the last wedding too well. [Jaime Lannister sends his regards.]

Aye, unless dear old Ned was concealing yet another bastard. This Snape looks enough a dour Northerner.

What it is in this life that causes men to put their faith in trust, I cannot say I know. Look to your own judgment and you'll have little need of others'.

Managed to lace your own breeches, yet? Or leave your cell?

Snape? I've heard of him, but only here.

[He's been stalking the network a little. There isn't much else to do, a fact that keeps frustrating him.]

And why would it matter to you, if I've done either? [Give him some credit, he's left his room a few times. All right, most of the time it was whenever he was sure no one would look his way, but still.]

A joke, Stark. I know the man is not of your blood -- he's far too articulate.

I spent months knocking about glasses. It's one way to quit wine. There's nothing for it save practice, unless you'd dice with the gods, as your brother speaks bold to.

But some of it is better-known from the beginning. And as hands go, I am an old one.

I'll take knocking over glasses over trying to kill a god. As much as Jon thinks it's possible, I've my doubts on such a thing.

[And isn't that true? Robb's seen Lannister fight, and even with one hand he's still dangerous. Less so than he used to, but still a threat, and Robb had wondered how long had the Kingslayer had, to get used to having just one hand to fight with, and not even his sword hand, at that.

He doesn't have to wonder anymore, he thinks.]

So I've noticed. [A pause. He's still stubbornly holding on to his pride, as tattered as it is now--it's one of the few things he has left--but he swallows that pride now.] Fine. What are your terms?

Your brother is an idiot. Gods die but by earth-shattering means, if what was said of the Ginnungagap was spoken true.

A favour owed, to be repaid upon the calling.

As much as I don't trust them, I doubt they lied about that. If Jon means to hurt them somehow, he'll need something considerably more powerful than a sword.

[A favour owed. He mislikes it, and barely even trusts the Kingslayer, if he does at all. He likes to think he doesn't, but once you've fought alongside a man, it's impossible not to, at the very least, give him the benefit of the doubt.

He grits his teeth.]

What else is there? [Because somehow, he doubts that's all there is to it. And he's made deals before, broken some and seen others go wrong. If Lannister wants him to make a deal, then he will, but he won't do it without looking.

He remembers the results of the last one too well.]

Presumably, your eventual repayment of it. Whether you do so is between you and your gods. I don't speak with trees often enough to tell.

I will not ask you to harm your friends or your blood, nor to stand aside should I do so. Are those fair enough terms?

[Every instinct of his is yelling at him to turn Lannister down, right away. Every single instinct of his is screaming at him not to do it, remember the Reynes, the Mad King, your uncle's wedding. He clenches his teeth, glances down at his right hand (a stump, but it doesn't stop him from feeling a phantom pain shoot through ghostly fingers every so often), and makes his decision.

Forgive me.]

Fine. But we'll not speak of this deal to anyone. [Is this how his mother felt, when she gave the Kingslayer freedom in exchange for Sansa and Arya's lives?]

That would be wise.

[ Two silent arrangements now, with Starks. If only Eddard were about, he might collect the set. ]

When you're free, come to Hel. We'll start without weapons.

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