Looking up from the papers and maps his father had asked him to collect, Robb stretched out in his seat, hands reaching high above his head, the fur of his collar tickling his cheeks and ears. Thinking he would not be long, he hadn't even bothered to remove the dark, heavy coat, and suddenly he realised he felt warm – too warm. He glanced at the window. The shutters were pulled entirely open and he noticed the sunbeam ending on the wooden floor, a slight mist of dust dancing around in the shaft of light after the abrupt movements in his chair. He pushed away from the table, scrolls rolling in on themselves, his hand nearly missing a pot of ink as he rushed to the window, looking out over the courtyard.

There it was. All the way down, the sound of steel meeting steel. He stood watching the scene, transfixed, leaning slightly against the shutter that creaked loudly in its hinges. The sound brought him back to the present; he should be down there, really, practising side by side with Jon.

The thing was, sometimes he preferred to watch first. Especially on warmer days like today, when the sun stood high in a crisp, blue sky. When the snow was miles off to the north, and the usually cold gusts of wind lay low in the vales around Winterfell, not daring to breach its magnificent walls for once. On warm days, Jon's black leather jerkin would soon become too warm for him (he was a child of the North, all right), and Robb was all too aware of what his half-brother would then do.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, to nobody but himself. Robb forced his hands up, gripping the sill to keep them from wandering along his body, that as always responded far too much to the mere anticipation of Jon removing a garment. "You're a fool," he muttered again, this time meant for no one but himself. Still, his knuckles whitened as they gripped the rough wood of the windowsill in the deserted audience room where his father had left him about half an hour before.

"Come on, Jon," he said again, too loud, and he blushed, involuntarily glancing over his shoulder to check whether he was still the only person present in the large room. When he saw everything was still empty behind him, and when he realised no one could see him from the only door without having to walk at least four to five paces inside, he decided that enough was enough, and he allowed his right hand to pull his cloak closer first and then rest it on his thigh. Enough for now.

Down in the courtyard, Jon Snow slashed away at his opponent for the day, giving Jory as good as he got himself. "Is this all you can manage?" the powerful captain of the Stark guard asked him, panting, in between blows. "And you call yourself a northerner?" He slashed at Jon once more, watching the young man spin around as he parried the blow. Jory smiled; practising with Jon meant real business these days, and he never refused an invitation for a session. The boy with the pale skin and thick mass of black curls was a boy no longer, growing into a force to be reckoned with. "Hang on, hang on," Jon breathed, lowering his sword as he stepped back, raising a hand to signal he needed a moment. "Let me get out of this." He reached for the top button of his jerkin; Jory's laughter ringing in his ears.

"You think the enemy will allow you a breather?" Jory asked good-naturedly, trying to catch his breath himself, kneeling down with both hands on the pommel of his blade, which he'd pushed into the thick layer of dirt. He took another look at the boy who wasn't a boy. The tunic that remained after he'd shed the leather was too wide, which he claimed he liked, and he clawed at the top buttons again, opening them brusquely, pulling the garment down, allowing some air in. "Gods, it's a hot day," he complained, and, laughing, Jory stretched upright. "Don't be a girl," he grinned and attacked, giving Jon just enough time to take his eyes off the window way up over their heads.

Robb flinched when, in a heartbeat, Jon's eyes met his own. "Caught," he muttered, turning around, sweeping the cloak off his shoulders as he moved in long strides across the hall, relishing the last of the sweet tingle that he had nursed by keeping the flat of his hand pressed against the smoothly growing rise in his breeches. The image of Jon pulling impatiently at buttons and laces was enough to do that to him, and although he knew he'd be Lord of Winterfell one day, obliged to marry a noble lady, to father sons to succeed him and daughters to strengthen his claims on the North; nothing could arouse him more than the sight of his brother below in the courtyard, shirt half undone, steel blade in hand, a sweaty gloss on neck and forehead.

He was doomed, he knew. In fact, the whole fantasy he had spent for years building around Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, his father's illegitimate son that his mother hated so much, meant his doom if ever he acted upon it. He thundered down the spiral staircase, trying to make enough noise to chase the thoughts from his mind, thoughts of an infuriated mother, a disappointed father, but most importantly, thoughts of Jon in his ill-fitting white tunic, stark against the black of his hair and the fiery coals in his eyes and what Robb really wanted to do when he caught him alone.

As Robb burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly bathing in the sunlight on the courtyard, slightly out of breath, Jon was down in the dirt, busy trying to dodge Jory's blows from his awkward position, white tunic gone already, his upper body coated in a film of dust, streaks of dirt across his face. "You're late!" he called out, still trying to get his bearings, managing to outsmart Jory and get to his feet. "What's so important for you to be late?!"

You probably damn well know, Robb thought, remembering the way their eyes had locked for the briefest of moments just now – so brief in fact that maybe he was just imagining things and he decided to say nothing. He pulled off his leather coat, unsheathed his sword, threw the coat at Arya who could have been there all along but whom he noticed only now. Damn, was his next thought. Arya sees everything. Sometimes his little sister scared him. Sometimes he felt like she was more of a warrior than he and Jon put together. Lucky for him she carried no sword...

"I'm here now," he called out and stepped between Jory and Jon, the former retreating immediately now that his Lord's heir had joined them, the latter smirking defiantly at him, circling him, challenging him. "So you are," was all Jon said in reply, smirk firmly in place, and Robb could swear he saw Jon's eyes flicker upwards, a hint at his previous hiding place, apparently not so secret anymore after all.

That evening dinner was a grander affair than usual. Some of Eddard Stark's liege lords had arrived in the course of the afternoon with their respective guards and trains, and it had caused Robb and Jon to cut short their rounds of practice as they rapidly ran out of space in the courtyard. Robb's eyes trailed the crowds below him, seated as he was up on the dais, a place he both loved and hated. He looked for Jon, like he always did, just needing to know where his half-brother had settled, fixing on that specific point in the hall, never to miss his eyes whenever he looked up from his plate of food. Yet this evening he was worried. Grander affairs like tonight's usually led to Jon grabbing dinner from the kitchens and eating it wherever he felt safe from Lady Stark's cold eyes and cold remarks. Which was exactly why Robb equally liked and disliked being seated where he was with his parents and the liege lords that one day were his to command. He searched the crowds once more, hating the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as it was clearly going to be one of those evenings again. A meal without Jon to look at, unable to watch him eat and drink; a meal without the secret pleasure of watching Jon lick his lips after downing his cup. With the things he noticed, Robb thought, it became clear to him once more: he was doomed.

He wished he could at least have taken Grey Wind inside the hall, but his mother had flat out refused to have the animals anywhere near them on an important evening like this. To have his direwolf by his side would have made him feel less restless; more like… more like himself.

And where, by the Gods, does all this come from? He took a deep breath.

"What is it?" he heard a voice to his right. Damn. Mother. "You're distracted, and you've barely touched your food." She gave him a questioning frown. "Nothing," he said, but it sounded insufficient even to his own ears. Her eyebrows travelled higher up her brow, and she lightly touched his forearm. "Robb," she said, softer this time. "You need to be here, stay focused, listen and learn." She was right, of course, Robb knew. But he hated the fact she was right. He wanted to rise, leave and look for Jon. Jon, who wasn't there because his own mother, Lady Stark, refused to seat Jon where he belonged, right there with Sansa, Arya and Bran. Right there even with Theon. Right there where Robb normally sat as well, were it not for the blasted lords that forced him up here with his father and mother.

"I-" he started, desperately searching for words. "I feel sick, excuse me," and he pushed away from the richly laid table, chair almost-but-not-quite toppling over, and stormed off. It wasn't even a blatant lie either, he realised as he forced his way outside, pushing through servants and soldiers. He did feel sick, all of a sudden, and the thick, smoky air within the hall wasn't doing him any favours. Pushing open the nearest door he could find, he heaved in large gulps of fresh air, hanging on to the door handle, doing everything in his power not to throw up in full view of all the strangers that were within the castle walls tonight, milling around the courtyard.

Again, where does this come from? He stumbled away from the great hall, ducked the gate and made for the woods.

Feeling slightly better with the fresh air in his lungs, away from the stifling atmosphere in the hall and his mother's probing looks, he finally managed to relax a little. When he reached the weirwood, he sat with his back against the huge white tree and tried to quiet his mind, to stop his racing heart and his racing thoughts. He needed to wrap his head around everything he had thought and felt for the past few days, wrap his head around the fact that those thoughts had grown almost too big for him to handle, and the fact that he knew he didn't really have a choice but to act on them if wanted to keep his sanity. But what in the name of the Gods could he possibly do that wouldn't mean his downright ruin?

Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ruining part of his sleeve. One of the perks of not eating in the hall but opting for the kitchens was, of course, that he didn't have to stick to etiquette. It was never his thing anyway, so maybe it was just for the best that Lady Stark preferred him to be out of her sight. When he was younger, it had been an issue between him and his father. Yet now that he was older, he understood that some things just couldn't be remedied, that all he could do to remain at Winterfell was to accept Lady Stark's venomous looks and cold words – if ever she spoke to him at all, that was; apart from telling him off or sending him away.

In the end, he'd asked for a room away from the other children, refused the help of any of the servants and built a small world for himself within the family he did and did not belong to. He felt a Stark, but only in blood. Never in name.

Yet if it weren't for Lady Stark, life would probably be more than tolerable at Winterfell for him. His half-brothers and sisters had never treated him in any other way than they treated themselves. Sansa had always been distant but more or less kind to him, although lately, he wondered if it wasn't just her practising the noble skills she might need in King's Landing to treat a person she didn't really like.

Arya was his true sister. Of course she knew he was their father's bastard, but maybe apart from Rickon who was simply too young to understand any of it, she was the only one who always truly treated him as her blood. She was closest to their father, too, in everything – from looks to a love for steel. Arya was born the wrong gender, like Jon was born from the wrong mother, which bound them by so many unspoken ties. Unspoken, as they were already understood, and it was always his rooms Arya came to when thunderstorms seemed to rip the ancient walls of Winterfell apart. It was always his bed she would crawl into, frightened, looking for someone to protect her from the Gods' wrath. Not Robb's, who slept two doors down from her own room – always his.

Then there was Bran, who looked up to him, like he looked up to his oldest brother. Clever Bran, whose mind always worked quicker than the rest of them, if only he could get his bow-arm to be just as swift. Bran listened to Jon and usually took his advice – he did look up to him and Jon's descent did not mean a thing to him. Yet.

It did mean a thing to Robb, of course. Ever since, not so long ago, the true essence of the knowledge that Robb was the heir and Jon was not the spare, but the bastard without any claim whatsoever, had fully set in, Robb had – or so it seemed to Jon – kept more of a distance. Jon knew it for a fact. It had started about half a year ago, when Robb had returned from a tour of the North with his father. That tour had changed Robb; had made more of a man of him. He'd left a boy who sometimes liked to abuse his line of descent to get what he wanted (most often used in the kitchens when a fresh batch of lemon cakes came in), yet he'd returned almost an adult, who had suddenly come to understand the true weight of his position. And it felt as if it had caused a rift between him and his half-brother. Robb could be cool towards him now, sometimes outright cold. He literally kept his distance, and when he spoke to him using the name Snow it sometimes sounded patronising and aloof.

But amidst all that, Jon also knew Robb would sometimes watch him, steal glances at him, almost as if he was trying to apologise, make excuses for a conduct both knew Jon did not really deserve. Like today's sword practice. It was possibly the only activity these days they could engage in without Robb sending him mixed signals, without the sense that something had changed – was wrong, even. He was convinced he'd seen Robb standing in the window of one of the upstairs rooms, watching the banter and fighting, watching him. The longer he thought about it, the more incomprehensible it became to Jon, because why in the name of the Gods would Robb want to watch him like that? He could simply come down and join in. It just didn't make any sense. And the thing that made even less sense was the way in which Robb had been staring at him. Or, when he had finally joined them, the way Robb had allowed himself to be decimated off the courtyard, before the place became too crowded. Jon always had a hard time defeating his half-brother, and this afternoon it had been just about the easiest thing in the world.

Jon knew one thing for certain: there was something wrong with Robb for he was clearly not himself.

Grey Wind was sprawled across the furs on the bed when he entered his bedroom. He kicked the door shut and also kicked his heavy boot against the nearest chair for good measure. On his return to the great hall earlier he had managed to eat, what was it – five bites? He'd been dazed and worried and annoyed by Jon's absence, why couldn't he just take his seat even if it meant sitting a few rows back? Ignoring the total injustice in his thoughts, he yanked open the top drawer and pulled out something to wear for the night. Grey Wind had jumped off the bed and pushed his muzzle against Robb's flank, sensing the tension that was thrumming through his body. He acknowledged the wolf by scratching the fur in the back of his neck – patting him softly, calming down just a little bit himself. "I'm a complete idiot," he muttered at the wolf. He started taking off his boots and breeches, throwing them haphazardly around the bed. "I think I want something I can never have, and now I've gone and botched the whole thing up by showing myself to him. He must surely take me for the complete idiot that I obviously am." He clawed angrily at the laces of his jerkin – mimicking Jon that sunny afternoon in the castle's courtyard, when their swordplay had distracted Robb just enough to not grab Jon then and there. He had been able to restrain himself – but barely – to not ram Jon up against him and run his hands over Jon's naked upper body, dragging his nails up Jon's back just to end up with a fistful of soft black curls that he only wanted to bury his face into.

The realisation had come to him during those aggravating minutes on the dais when he realised Jon wasn't there, this time most likely not because his mother had seated him too far to the back, but because Jon must have picked up on every single thought Robb had tried so hard to hide, and now wanted to have nothing more to do with him. He was certain Jon knew how Robb felt about him, how he could no longer keep the fire from his eyes whenever he looked at him, how those same eyes had watched Jon, and how his eyes had almost taken off every last stitch left on Jon's body. He wanted Jon so badly and today he had run out of ways to hide that very fact.

He had effectively chased Jon off, and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

tbc