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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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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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