Jaime looked back at Robb with rage blazing through him and said, low and utterly flat, “The next time I see you, Stark, I’ll kill you.” “The next time I see you, Ser Jaime,” Robb said, “if you ask nicely, I’ll do it again.”

Jaime didn’t like the Starks at all. He didn’t like their earnestness and honesty and prudishness, he didn’t like their cold heavy-walled castle, he didn’t like their frozen block of a realm, and he especially didn’t like Robb Stark, who had saved his son’s life and been kind to him and got him to sleep, and what business of his was it to have done any of those things?

If the gods were going to take him away from Cersei and everything he’d known, bind him to a boy half his age, Jaime almost would have preferred it if Robb Stark had been a fool, had been as dull and self-righteous as his father. Seven hells, he could at least have been ugly.

“When the Night’s King rides,” the giant said, each word slow as cold honey pouring, “the King in the North must answer. The King in the North…whose name is Stark.”

“Yes, Lord Stark has come to town to help his mother bring out his eldest sister,” Tyrion said, pouring Jaime a glass of wine. “I understand he also plans to take his seat in the House of the Law. His uncle Edmure has been gathering time for him to give his maiden speech.” “Yes, yes,” Jaime said irritably. “That’s not what matters and you know it. Well?” Tyrion sighed. “He's nineteen, well-favored, and as far as I know, neither demented nor stupid. And not a hint of a betrothal. Sorry.”

It had never occurred to Jaime once, in the three solid months he’d spent in the pen, that Robb Stark could make his imprisonment worse by giving him a bath, a warm bed, and some decent food to eat.

Two days after they received word of a Frey girl joining Robb Stark at Moat Cailin and riding off north with him, a ship from the Stormlands arrived, and Tyrion went down personally to meet it. Or rather, to meet the man coming off of it: one Selwyn of Tarth.