Fangs and Claws [Closed]

[Lucyfer]

There was a tension in Robb Stark’s camp that the man felt to his bones. He stood outside his tent in the brisk, cold air, and let it push his curled, dark auburn locks about his face. He kept his dark blue eyes hardened on the horizon before him, waiting.


There was a change in the wind.


There was a potential for huge change here, too.


A week back he had received an interesting letter, signed by a name that was supposed to be long dead. ‘Reyne.’ Vikary, Farman, Westerling, and Hetherspoon also signed their names to it. The Young Wolf had presented this letter to Catelyn and Roose Bolton, wondering how he even responded to a ghost.


Your Grace, Robb Stark,


It had begun.


Lady Lenore Reyne of Castamere, Tarbeck Hall, and the Fern Valley writes, seeking an audience with you.


The seal had been silver wax and a lion, as opposed to the red wax the Lannisters so often used. He remembered showing it to Roose and Catelyn, and remembered how intrigued Roose had been. An off-handed comment, that something had always seemed amiss with the Hetherspoon lady – hardly a lady, according to Roose. He had known she had secrets.


So, Robb agreed, prepared for this to be a trap.


Soon enough, one of his men came rushing up to him, “The traveling party of the Reynes has been spotted,” he told Robb hastily.


“Send an escort. Let none enter the camp with weapons. If they resist, take them prisoner,” Robb said, making his voice as firm and decisive as he could.


From what he heard of rumors in the Westerlands, this might not be a trap. He understood that the Farman fleet was not taking part in the war, and the notoriously vicious Vikary were also not contributing. He knew little of the Hetherspoon activities, or the Westerlings, but he had a feeling the story was the same there, too. If he understood his history, he also knew that the Vikary were Reyne bastards, and the Farmans were the very reason the “Rains of Castamere” existed.


So Robb got no report of resistance.


Instead, as he waited outside of his war tent, he received the gift of five individuals walking towards him, pictures of dignity and strength in their house colors. He could pick them all out with a glance, and the Reyne in particular.


She reminded him of Sansa, in some ways, with the fall of bright red hair, and though she could only have been 5’5”, she seemed to stand almost as tall as the men around her. Her eyes, though, nearly caught him by surprise. They looked like Lannister eyes – wildfire green. Her fair skin looked like it belonged in the North, especially compared to the bulky man he took for the Vikary and the slimmer man in silks that he knew to be the Farman.


She wasn’t in a dress, though, but riding leathers, and she bowed neatly, “Your Grace,” she spoke to him.


He kept himself hard, “Lady Reyne, I presume?”


“You presume correct,” she answered him, rising and meeting his gaze. Steady, patient. She was much older than Sansa, that was clear. A woman who should have had a family by now, but had clearly chosen another path – not a Lady, as Roose said. “This is Tybalt Hetherspoon,” she motioned to the oldest among them, “Lymond Vikary,” to the bulky man, “Sebaston Farman,” to the man in silks, “and Gawan Westerling,” to the man in the pale yellow.


“Come inside,” Robb gestured towards the tent, “Our conversation is not for all ears,” he informed, and walked to the tent to move through it. Roose was there, waiting, of course. Catelyn would be there soon, Robb hoped.


Lymond Vikary was the first to the tent flap, but he held it open for the others and followed in last. “Roose Bolton, of the Dreadfort,” Robb introduced.


Roose gave a polite nod, smiled, “Lady Reyne.”



“Lord Bolton,” the two had met before in passing, but never as a Reyne. Yet, the glint in his silver eyes spoke of how unsurprised he was.


“Let me cut to the point: why should I trust a host of traitors?” Robb asked immediately.


The Vikary puffed, “Could ask the same about you, boy. Betraying the crown as you are, betraying Stannis by calling yourself King of the North and looking to segregate.”


“You are not in a position to be wondering that, if you want my alliance. You are the ones coming to me.”


“So we are,” the lady said, cutting off other words from her party, “And I have come with word of a camp of Lannisters not far from here, as a gift to help establish the trust I hope to build with you. The only thing I can say, to have you trust us, is to know that you can trust in our hatred of Tywin Lannister. To that end, we are making the ultimate sacrifice by turning on him.”


Her eyes hooded slightly. “We all know what happened to House Reyne and House Tarbeck.”


“We all knew,” Robb corrected. “How can I be certain you are what you say you are? Why do all of you believe it?”


“I raised her, took her in,” Tybalt croaked his answer. “Came to me in burnt clothes and tears.”


The comment seemed to cause a shift in the woman, something like embarrassment, for her eyes moved to the ground and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Should it matter if it is true or not?” Roose’s words, quiet, deadly, “When word gets out that a Reyne lives, truth or lie will not matter. Some of Tywin’s influence will be lost,” the way Joffrey’s influence was waning under the rumor that he was a child of incest.


Truth didn’t matter. Only what was believed. “She looks like a Reyne. If she wishes to bear the colors and the name, we can use that.” Others in the West might even follow.


It was a gamble, but a worthy one, Roose Bolton thought.


Robb decided that point was good enough, and conceded it with a nod, “You mentioned a camp,” he went back to that. “to prove yourselves trustworthy.”

 

[peritwinkle]

Cersei's steps were reverberating in the glass windows, like the roars of a raging lion , ready to attack his pray. Alongside the Queen herself were four guards, with their silver armours glistening in the dim light. The great golden lion, sigil of house Lannister, shone on their chests and capes as they marched mechanically though the hallway that lead to the main garden.


As they stepped outside Queen Cersei looked unfazed. She quickly took a glance at the conflating group of companions and knights Jaime himself had chosen, then analysed him from head to toes, like a protective mother.


Jaime was as well-prepared and as handsome as he had always been. He seemed rested, and his eyes were bright and awake, as they returned the same glance to Cersei. He was wearing a long, red cape, with golden embroidered thread on the very edges and small gemstones at the top. He stepped ahead, bowing before the Queen with a joyful smirk spreading across his lips.


"We are ready to leave, your Highness," he said in a subtly caustic tone. "The carriage for the young Lady is ready, although, as well as I know her, she will wish to ride by my side."


Cersei broke the contact, her eyes shooting at Caireann sharply. Her expression was bitter, as intimidating as it had ever been. She forced one corner of her mouth to lift in the slightest smile and, lifting her arm slowly up to Caireann's head, she ran her fingers through her cinnamon toned hair, letting her curls slowly fall back on her chest. She could feel the Queen analysing her every movements, counting her breaths, the jolts of her chest at her pounding heart, the shivers down her spine. There was a certain tension in the air, a reciprocated feeling of jealousy, of pain and of unspoken hatred.



"I wish you both to have a good road ahead of you," he muttered, turning her eyes back to her beloved brother, although she sensed a certain hesitation in her words. "And may the Gods guide you through your fight."



But Caireann knew she never meant it; or at least not in her case. Cersei despised her from the moment she was born, she hated her like she were her own bastard. She had killed her mother- that, Caireann knew for sure, and she had no doubt as her first love fell in her arms, skewered through the heart by a guard's sword under her commands. Her father, Tyrion, had tried to explain that to her before; he understood her better than anyone. He told her the truth in subtle riddles, and always let her think through, use her mind and soul to solve the most difficult of questions for her own self. And, most important of all, she learned to swallow everything that was given to her, from words to actions. She learned to engulf Cersei's demands and obey by her rules, with hopes of once being able to step up, to breathe without the fear of it being the last time.


And then, there was Jaime, her uncle, who only done so much- minimally teaching her the art of swordfighting, listening to her complains, and sometimes even softening Cersei into allowing her to do what she wished. She acknowledged the dangers of leaving for the North with Jaime, but she didn't care; all she wanted was to take a break from her duty, from the castle, from Cersei and from King's Landing.


Jaime helped her climb up on her horse, adorned in a fine golden saddle and cured leather harness. He gave her a reassuring smile and patted her stallion's back as he, himself, mounted on his. The sun was hiding behind the clouds, but it was too warm to rain, at least until they reached northern areas. As they left King's Landing, he felt a certain concern pressing his chest, and he looked back, maybe even for the last time. Of course, he trusted himself more than anyone, even more than Cersei herself, but he loved her- it was all that he knew. Leaving her behind, alone and defenseless, terrified him. He thought of Lannisport, defenseless, as an open invitation for rebels to attack, and who was there to defend? A dwarf, an old man and a drunkard of a king?

It took him more than a few hours to set aside his thoughts, and quite a few days to know that there was no going back. The constant riding exhausted him, and made him wonder if they would arrive in time, given all the breaks the warriors needed before they would set off again.


Caireann had lost the glow of her skin, and her incarnadine, freckled cheeks were now replaced by pallor. In spite of that, she seemed happy, or at least glad enough that she had escaped King's Landing. Jaime wasn't ignorant. He knew how much the poor girl hated the place.


The North was colder than Caireann even imagined: there was no snow, but the pale grass was covered in hoar, and the tall, pine trees were shadowing the road up to their camp. In one hour, they had managed to set up half of the tents, which was more than enough for her to rest for a while- of only she could. Every time a bird took flight out of a tree with loud croaks, she jolted up from her fur-lined bed, shooting her eyes towards the forest.


Eventually, she gave up, and decided to sit with Jaime next to the crackling fire. She lifted her hands above it, trembling from head to toes, as the chilly wind stung her cheeks.


"When will the battle start?" she whispered to him, following the contour of the fire. Jaime sighed and shook his head, digging in the soil with the tip of his sword.


"Not soon, and certainly not here. You will not attend the fight, by your father's, and by my own orders. We arrived one day earlier than we expected. The men might still have honor hidden in their chests."


With her head resting against Jaime's shoulder, she finally managed to fall asleep, despite the cold and the constant shouts from the guards still organising and setting up the camp.

 

[Lucyfer]

The revelation of the camp was important news, and the Westerland party spoke of it, each contributing what they knew. House Hetherspoon and House Vikary were both supposed to be there, contributing soldiers, but they had not done so. They wrote they would, and it had made passage to the North easier.


Yet their soldiers had gone on boats the Farman provided, and were moving on shore now to assist – but not Jaime.


That was the news the Westerlings had. Jaime Lannister himself was acting as leader. The prize of this camp was huge. The Queen’s brother and possibly lover, but most of all, Tywin’s golden son, the one he cared about, even if Jaime would never give him heirs or take over Casterly Rock.


Auburn Robb and silver-eyed Roose took in this news and understood somewhat the depth of the betrayal that the Westerland party was committing. There was no going back from this.


Their own scouts revealed the truth of it. The camp was here, setting up.


The time was ripe to strike.


‘It could be a trap.’ Robb thought.


This could be a way for the Westerlands to get him, too, if Jaime was aware of this meeting and this treachery. The troops that these five houses were contributing could just as easily turn on them.


Yet, as Roose had said of the Reyne – the possibility it was a lie – it was a gamble worth taking.


“You will go first,” Robb told the traitors, “You will strike first, and we will follow,” that should throw Jaime’s camp into chaos, seeing friendly banners striking out when they were expected as reinforcements.


“Very well,” there was absolutely no hesitation from the Reyne, who seemed the image of patience and calm.


‘What were their words?’


It was what Robb wondered all through setting up and organizing his own men, after dismissing the five of the West to prepare.


The five from the West met their own soldiers further from the coast, riding hard to meet them before nightfall. The soldiers already knew they were committing themselves to treachery. Whether or not they agreed with it hardly mattered – death waited for any loose lips, and if they tried to join Jaime in the last moments, they’d be cut down.


Most, however, were in agreement. Much ill, small or little, often fell upon the shoulders of the Great House Lannister. High taxes were because of the Lannisters. Bandits were the Lannister’s problems. If the Lannisters were seen as the enemy not protecting their people, hindering the nobles from protecting their people, then that was enough reason to strike out.


Not to mention, the name ‘Reyne’ had a power of its own – a way of weakening the power Tywin appeared to have. Roose was right on that. That whisper stole influence, and soon, it would be a shout.


The Westerland traitors journeyed towards the location of the camp, “Do you really think he’ll support us?” It was Sebaston Farman who asked, changing silks for armor, and riding alongside the woman in the silvered leathers, red lion emblazoned on the chest.


“Yes,” she answered, quite confident, “The Starks aren’t known for their ability to deceive. They’re honest.” So long as they were honest with them, it would be returned.


When they reached the camp, there was a shout from a guard wearing Serrett colors, “Where the fuck have you been, Vikary!” It was a half-laugh, false anger, “Have to stop in every brothel on the way here?” Lymond had a bit of a reputation.


Lymond smiled, “No, just had to go pay a visit to a new friend.”


“Eh? What friends do you have up here?”


“Robb Stark.” And before the guard could ask more, Lymond cut the head off from his horse, then raised the bloody sword up high. Hetherspoon and Vikary were both knightly houses, and Tybalt followed suit, as did the Westerlings.


The forces moved swiftly. They would not be a match for the number Jaime had, but the surprise was going to help keep them alive until Robb joined the fray.


Sebaston’s troops lined up behind and around, archers for the most part. They were, after all, sailors. Ground combat was not the norm. “Draw.” Arrows were taken from quivers, dripping in gas. “Light.” Fire. “Knock.”


Arrows were pulled taut.


“Fire!” And into the camp they went, setting tents alight.


Sebaston would stay near Lady Reyne, who was also utilizing a bow, though her arrows were poisoned, and she intended to seek out her targets – the high lords. Jaime.


The poison had an antidote, after all.


She had a short dagger, and a few throwing ones, if any soldiers managed to escape and get up to the small hill where she and Sebaston were.


“Again! Ready, draw!”


And that was when there was a rush of darker colors, as the men of the North came to flank, overcoming the camp from below the hill, escaping from the trees. They did not have the same cavalry that the Vikary and Hetherspoon did – they were mostly afoot.


Well, afoot, and with a vicious wolf. The screams from around that wolf drew eyes as he pounced a Westerland man and ripped his throat out.


Robb was near Grey Wind as the wolf tore into men, and he did similar with his own greatsword. He heard the flight of arrows and glanced up, then followed their path to see where Lady Reyne and Lord Farman were.


He remembered then, the calm of that position striking the words into him: ‘Beneath still waters.’


And Robb believed, then, that the woman was a Reyne.


A wry smile crossed his lips, before he let the rhythm of the battle move him to press forward to take out the army that had tried to set up too far North to be able to call on help easily.

 

[peritwinkle]

The first shout woke Jaime up from his sleep abruptly, right when he had managed to close his eyes for a brief moment. The desperate cries from outside his tent were accompanied by the whistles of ignited arrows breaking through the air and landing in the ground or through the hearts of unarmed soldiers.


It took him a moment to comprehend the situation and another to grab his sword and slide through the opening of the tent and into the living Inferno. Hundreds of arrows flew past him and hit his men, as he made his way through the trees, away from the fire and smoke. He couldn't think straight; not anymore. Robb Stark's army attacked in the middle of the night, when the commander was well aware that they hadn't managed to set up their camp completely for a fair fight. Nor did Jaime believe that they would truly lower themselves enough only to gain such an unfair advantage.


As the flames rose up into the sky and more men died, Jaime could only managed to skewer a small number of enemy soldiers- or so he hoped. The amalgam of red and gold capes burning alike were an overwhelming sight. He could only hope that the victims who had fallen to his blade belonged to the opposite camp.


And he fought; he fought until he became weak in the knees, until his hands were trembling from the effort, until his eyes were stinging with the dirty blood dripping from his temples. He fought until he didn't know if he was alive or dead anymore, and that terrified him; the thought of unconsciousness, of victims that did not deserve a stare in the eye as they fell to the ground for their last time.


As another men's chest bled to Jaime's blade, he turned around, desperately searching for his niece with all that was left of his energy. He could almost hear her breathing and her pounding heart as she tried to hide from the terror that awaited outside her tent. In the thick smoke, he could barely decipher shapes and sizes, colours and movements.


"Caireann!" he shouted loudly, as his chest burnt up to his throat. "Caireann!"


Another hit put him down to the ground, and he struggled to get up again, slicing with his sword in the air until he felt some sort of resistance and the smell of boiling blood. Another nameless enemy had fallen, and he was back up on his feet, aiming for the seemingly calmer forest ahead of him.


Caireann's eyes were lit with fire as the tent she was hiding in went ablaze. She felt her lungs drowning in the stinging smell of smoke and burning flesh, as the battle continued in front of her eyes, with Jaime nowhere to be seen.


With her legs almost numb, she rose up on her feet and ran her way through the battle and the raging fire. The arrows were hissing by her ears, and the soil was burning her toes. She tried to scream and shout, but all she heard were the cries of those skewered and severed, of those burnt and cut to bone; but she was still breathing.


The girl closed her eyes as she ran blindly through the tents, quick on her feet, enough for the swords to miss her and the arrows to wander past her.


"Caireann!"


Jaime's voice was clear and fearful, just as it had always been, but it scared her, only the thought that her uncle, the King-Slayer, had his ethereal confidence replaced by utter terror. With her heart almost breaking her chest, she sprinted through the grass and bushes and into the deep darkness of the forest.


"Caireann!"


"Jaime!"


Then, her breath froze and her muscles tensed as, in the matter of a moment, her uncle's full, tall figure bent unnaturally, and a thin, long arrow pierced his body, and he fell to the ground, screaming in pain.


She couldn't think anymore; her mind was clouded, her eyes were bloodshot and her arms would not obey her will. Caireann tried to move towards him, her words refusing to leave her lips, as Jaime's breathing was quicker and quicker. Her fingers cupped his cheeks and caressed his skin, as he stared into her eyes, but she couldn't cry, not anymore. Jaime's lips parted into the shape of a word that, in the darkness, she couldn't decipher. He coughed tiredly, desperately searching to pull the arrow out.


In the split of a second, she heard the well-known hiss in the silenced night, and her body twisted in pain, as her breath cut under the acumen of an arrow through her shoulder.


Then, with a glance away from the dying soul in her arms, she caught a glimpse of another silhouette descending from the white hill, flanked by two others, with her armor glistening in the light of the moon, faded beneath clouds of smoke. She held her bow in her left hand, and in her right, she held up the infamous banner of house Reyne.

 

[Lucyfer]

War was hell, even for the victors. It was probably the 7the level of hell, though some septons might argue that. Lady Reyne never really cared for religion. Where was the Father’s judgment for Tywin? Where was the Mother’s mercy for her family?


There was only ever the Stranger.


Except for today.


When the arrow pierced Jaime, she gave a quick look to Sebaston and he nodded in understanding, readjusting himself in the saddle. They had to make quick work, to make sure Jaime was their hostage and not Robb’s.


Just before Lenore Reyne rode down that hill with her gray mare, though, she noticed another blonde. ‘Caireann.’ Seen a few times, but never truly met, she still knew her as a Lannister. Lenore took another arrow, notched it, and let it fly towards the young woman. It was the only way to make sure she was taken hostage, too, and not left to be killed or raped as, unfortunately, some of the loser’s camp women would be.


The horses then quickly moved, Sebaston, and a Ser Hill at her side to get across the field to where Jaime had been, fortunately a bit away from the screaming and burning chaos. Perhaps he’d been looking to make an escape. Up on the hill, she hadn’t been able to hear what he’d been shouting through the crackle of fire and death wails.


Here, though, she knew her job.


The red-haired woman dismounted from Torrent and took two vials from the saddle pack while, as well as manacles. That was when Ser Hill dismounted, as golden and fair as a Lannister himself – he claimed to be a Lannister bastard, after all. He took the manacles in his own hands, as Lenore approached the Lannister couple.


She crouched besides Caireann and spoke over the din, “Take one for yourself, and give one to him, or you both will die of poison.” It was enough to cripple Jaime, fortunately. Ser Hill moved around and he would reach out to Jaime, planning to take his hands and slap the manacles upon those wrists of his before Jaime could get his bearings again.


Just then, of course, another couple broke through to them – Lord Stark himself, and a woman Lenore knew could only be Lady Mormont, the She-Bear of House Mormont.


Robb looked a bit surprised, his youth betraying his emotions, “What are you doing?”


“The Kingslayer is my hostage, Robb. Unless you’d rather he die of poison, of course,” she could snatch back those vials just as quick as she’d given them. She wouldn’t want to.


But she also knew Robb wouldn’t let her. She saw the scowl, and before he could speak again, indicated to the woman, “This is Caireann Lannister. Take her as hostage. Tywin will fight to the end for any Lannisters,” this had all started when Tyrion, of all people, was taken prisoner by Catelyn Stark, after all.


Robb certainly wanted to protest this. The Kingslayer was the greatest boon of all in this war, besides Tywin or Joffrey themselves, but he did not.


This group from the West had reached the point of no return.


They would be joining their camp with his, no doubt. Jaime would be close enough. “Fine,” Robb said, as Grey Wind joined them, maw dripping blood as he came closer to the Lannisters, a continuous growl escaping him, “but I will get to question him while he is at my camp.”


Lenore didn’t answer that, only smiled, as Robb turned to Lady Mormont to say, “Get ropes. Chains,” something for Caireann, too.


Lady Mormont nodded and moved swiftly, clearly not hindered much by her age, as Robb stood guard over the important hostages here

 

[peritwinkle]

Caireann was stunned. All she could feel was the throbbing pain in her shoulder and the sensation of her blood gushing and dripping down on her cold skin. Her hand was raised up to the arrow and her fingers were wrapped around the slim wood, trembling in terror as she tried to pull it out.


Jaime was no longer himself- an unmoving dummy, left to bleed on the grass covered in fresh hoar and ashes. His long, golden hair was disheveled and burnt by the fires; his eyes had lost their glimmer of life, and his skin was no longer one of a living being.


In front of her moved unclear silhouettes and spoke inaudible voices. A tall man, tucking his sword in his scabbard; a red haired woman, descending from her stallion, in a silver armor, as she stepped towards Caireann with her hand stretched out. She seemed old, but her posture and appearance gave away a subtle elegance and power. Her red lips moved into the shape of a word that she could understand- "take", and she didn't think twice before obeying.


The earth moved beneath her, and her balance was completely gone. She held two cold, glossy objects in her palms, unable to think or process her actions.


What was she supposed to do?


Take the vials.


And her blooded fingertips hurried to remove the viscous cork, before gulping it whole. Then, with whatever consciousness she was left with, her hands moved with a mild cooperation from her mind, and poured the other vial between the indistinct outlines of Jaime's pale lips.


But nothing happened. Her palms were stuck to the body in front of her, as an unctuous liquid dripped from a deep wound and burnt her skin. Her heart's beat was getting slower and slower as the light dimmed out, and another pair appeared from the mist of the forest- a tall man, that could only have been the leader of one of the armies, and a woman dark of hair that emanated a fearsome vigor.


Her thoughts slowly started to come back, as the extremities warmed up from the liquid in the vial. Before her eyes, the strangers were discussing a deal of possession; as far as she could tell, her own's. Moving frantically around her, they asked for explanations and reasons, for ropes and chains.


Then, for a brief moment, in her mind appeared the scene of her and her uncle, Jaime, leaving King's Landing with Cersei's wrathful eyes upon them. It was the moment she had last seen her home, or what was thought to be her home, until things changed. Until the fires started, until the Alliance attacked. It was then when she realised how her demands to join Jaime in his battle had been crucial.


"Who are you?"


She found herself asking in a shaky, uneven voice. No, she never meant to ask that; she knew very well who the men and women were: house Reyne, house Stark, house Mormont. The Alliance in flesh and bones, her death and Jaime's alike.


And as she stood there, helpless, covered in blood, ashes and mud, she could only think of her unconvincing tone, of her hesitance, of the fear that left her lips the moment she asked the question.


In that moment, standing at the feet of the grands of history, Caireann was no longer a Lannister. She was nothing.

 

[Lucyfer]

Jaime Lannister was all but a doll, the manacles were easy to slip upon his wrists. Ser Hill would move him from Caireann slowly as the world came to life around her again, would pull him up to get him upon the gray mare Torrent, to be taken back to camp. He gave the wolf a sidelong look as it seemed to stalk his every move, but he tried not to be terrified of it. Torrent stamped its hooves, but to no avail. The wolf was not easily spooked, and it had eyes only for Jaime Lannister.


Through the smoke and trees, Lady Mormont returned while Ser Hill was dealing with Jaime. A few younger men who had ropes were with her, and she gestured them forward, towards the girl.


There was no intention of helping the Westerland traitors with their hostage – she still wasn’t pleased it seemed like they were keeping Jaime Lannister, but now wasn’t the time or place to actually discuss it. Jaime had to get off the field alive, to be of any use.


She’d trust the traitors that far.


There was a question in the air, and Mormont answered, “Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island.”


Robb also answered the quiet question of Caireann as he moved forward with the young men, “King Robb Stark,” he introduced himself, for he was King. King of the North, anyway. His only interest in King’s Landing was in removing the head of Joffrey, who had taken his father’s head.


He didn’t want it. Didn’t want the Iron Throne.


He motioned for one of the boys to pass the rope to him, while Grey Wind kept staring down the ones handling Jaime. “I understand this is an uncomfortable position for you,” a woman who clearly wasn’t meant for war, unlike the Lady Reyne and Lady Mormont, “if you don’t fight me, then you can walk to the camp on your own, but I will need to bind your hands.” She was a Lannister, which meant she was a high-value hostage, of course.


It also meant she should be treated with some dignity, as was expected with noble hostages in war, particularly those that couldn’t fight. Wrong place, wrong time.


The offer was there, as Jaime was set on the horse.


“Ride with him, I’ll take your horse,” Reyne said to Ser Hill, who quickly moved up into the saddle behind Jaime. Grey Wind retreated then, moving back around to Robb Stark and Caireann Lannister. He seemed about as happy with it as Lady Mormont,


“Lord Farman?” Lenore inquired after the other Lord, for his plans. She couldn't very well order him along, and wouldn't want to. He wouldn't be terribly useful against Jaime.


“I’ll stay here until all is said and done,” there was still fighting, the battle wasn’t over yet, they were just in the calm area.


Lady Reyne herself moved into the saddle, having never answered Caireann’s query. She and Ser Hill would leave the area with their captive, if nothing stood in the way, to return to Robb’s camp. There, Lenore made a mental note to get Jaime tied up before looking him over for serious wounds besides her own arrow.


He wasn’t considered one of the best fighters for no reason. That was why she had Hill ride with him, rather than herself. Even in manacles, she wouldn’t trust Jaime as far as the Mountain could throw him.

 

[peritwinkle]

Caireann's eyes shot at the man in front of her, as he spoke to her quietly but firmly. His hair was of a dark auburn shade, and framed his face down to his strong jaw. His bright blue eyes were shadowed by a pair of thick brows, frowning deeply as he wrapped the rope around her wrists.


As gentle as he was, she couldn't help but feel the pain of the rough material on her freezing skin and the fear of the unknown.


The names of the surrounding members of Robb Stark's army sent another shiver down her spine. They were all there: all of those that she had been warned about by Jaime, but people of honor, as her father had once told her. Debatable, she thought. No man of honor would assault a defenseless camp in the middle of the night.


But all she wanted to know was if she was going to die by the hands of the men in front of her or rotten at the bottom of a cold and wet dungeon, chained to the teeth. No, she was not dumb. A hostage Lannister was as valuable to the Alliance as an army of ten thousand men. They could be tortured and beaten into providing information, to the point where they would be drained of their own consciousness and free thoughts. If their way were the same as Cersei's, that's how Jaime and her would lose their minds and would give their final breaths.


Caireann managed to get up, with the help of Lord Stark, and although she was still weak in the knees, she didn't complain. She didn't want to ride beside Ser Hill or anyone from that place. With her heart visibly pounding in her chest, she could only hope that the way to the enemy camp was short enough for her not to collapse to the ground.


So, gathering all the strength she had left, they set off.


The road to their camp was silent and dire. She could hear all the creaks of the dried out branches the old trees of the forest; she could feel the smell of winter and smoke; she could sense the presence of death and the pressure of the full moon on her shoulders. It was all so vivid, that she thought it couldn't be real, considering the state she found herself in only a few minutes before.


Behind her crept Robb Stark's legendary direwolf, following every single movement that she made with glooming, fearsome eyes. The grey, soft fur shone in the light of the moon so that the creature seemed almost phantasmal. His quiet growls alarmed her, making her quicken her steps to get in line with the horses.


And there was Jaime's almost lifeless body, hanging from the Ser Hill's horse as they rode alongside with her towards the camp. She had always looked up to her uncle and respected him for his intimidating and strong figure, for his quick and swift moves, for his lack of fear for anything that lived in the world. And yet, now, she could not see his soul anymore, as if it we almost vanished.


In the darkness of the forest, she saw the light of a crackling fire, that almost made her think they were back in their camp. Tall, slate grey tents rose up around the logs, and a few men stood around them, of those who didn't participate in the fight and guarded the valuables.


"What are you going to do with me?" she spoke quietly to Lord Robb Stark- whom she refused to call a king, but still respected nonetheless. "And ser Jaime?"


For a moment, she thought she was never going to receive an answer. The expression etched on Lord Stark's face seemed stern and harsh, but his eyes were wandering, as he might have been thinking of the men lost in the fight with the pathetic army of house Lannister.

 

[Lucyfer]

Robb did not try to hurt the woman. She was cooperating, after all, so there was no reason to harm her. As such, he made sure to assist her in rising, and to watch each step with her, helping her to stay up while the Alliance rode forward on their horses.


Robb almost wished for a horse then, but he was not in as great a rush, and Grey Wind was ever at his side, protecting him and those who went with him, move from this burning wreck of a camp, back to the more favorable one.


They were quiet – no louder than whispers. At least while walking, Robb could be careful with his footing to not disturb anything lying in wait. They followed the trail of the horses for the most part, broken branches and unsettled soil.


Yet, Robb was surprised when they came upon Ser Hill and Lady Reyne waiting for them near the camp. He didn’t question it, however, not there. There, they fell in pace with each other, Jaime still out of it. Robb was curious as to the poison used, but did not raise his voice yet to ask. He would need to be wary with this woman.


He knew little, and that was not a good thing.



She knew plenty. He understood that now – enough to call herself a Reyne (lie or not, it was power). Enough to know poison and antidotes, dosages. She knew of a Lannister camp he had not been aware of.


Betrayed it.


He needed her watched. Not Lord Farman, not even Lord Vikary – her. Wildfire green eyes were untrustworthy monsters, and she had those eyes, like Jaime, like Cersei, like Joffrey.


The crackle of the fire of the camp alerted him to how close they were, and when the horses stopped, he understood why they had waited. They wanted to make sure to get entrance into the camp without hassle. He strode forward with the woman under an arm, “Have a tent set up for a single prisoner,” he said, and as one of the men moved for Ser Hill, he saw a dagger drawn by Lady Reyne. Robb bristled immediately, "Put that away," he snapped to her, and away it went. He spoke then to the guard, “Lead Lady Reyne to a medic’s tent, she will be seeing to Jaime. Won’t you?”


“Yes,” and, “I’ll need rope. I have supplies to treat him.”


Robb didn’t argue, not yet. He needed the Kingslayer to live.


Arguing would come later, when he was certain the man was going to make it. “Do as she says,” Robb said, and immediately the guard stepped back from Ser Hill’s horse.


They urged their horses on as they were taken to a tent.


Ser Hill dismounted, as did Lady Reyne, and Robb watched as he moved Caireann towards a fire while a tent was being prepared for her. He watched until they vanished under the tent flap, and then, at last, answered her, “You and Ser Jaime will live. You may go home earlier, if I can see you safely traded for my sisters, Sansa and Arya,” Tywin might see to it. One Lannister for two girls? He’d have to consent.


Jaime would not be a part of that bargain. Jaime was worth more.


And Jaime was soon laid across a bed in the tent, and stripped of all but his small clothes so his wounds could be seen. Rope tied his wrists above his head and to the post. Rope tied his legs down. When he woke, Lenore Reyne was not going to deal with him struggling or trying to kill her. He’d have to deal with bindings first.


“I can’t believe it,” Ser Hill murmured.


Lenore shot him a sidelong glance as she went out, getting the pack off her horse, and then returned. She began to sort it all out, all the vials, bandages, stitches. “Take the horses to rest and then guard the tent, please,” she said to Ser Hill, her work unfolding before her as she took in the wounds Jaime had, assessing what would be necessary.


“Yes, my lady,” he departed quick, and once he was out, Lenore would sit a chair besides the bound Lannister, and begin to treat him, applying balm where necessary to stop infections, stitching the wounds that looked deep, and bandaging them all.


The noise of the camp would grow through the process, of course, as the men of the North and the Alliance returned, victorious.  

 

[peritwinkle]

Catelyn watched as her son came back from the enemy camp, alongside with the trophies they had previously planned to win. By his side stood Lady Reyne, Ser Hill and Maege Mormont, all three with solemn expressions etched in their eyes. In the darkness and cold of the night, the woman could have only hoped of her son returning to the base camp alive and glorious, but as the view became clearer, she felt her heart pounding faster in her chest with utter concern.


Under Robb's arm was a fair girl, with dirty, freckled skin and honey brown hair, barely moving a leg after the other, as she held her arms down, tied with a thick piece of rope. Her long dressed was stained with blood, and around her shoulders hung a scrap of riband from the cape that she had lost in battle.


On the horse, leaning against Ser Hill, a body was hanging lifelessly, jolting in the rythm of the galloping horse. Ser Jaime Lannister, by no doubt, she thought, but in a such condition that the figure did not resemble the name.


They all stopped by the fire, but Catelyn chose to remain in her place, watching from a distance. Then Ser Jaime was carried into a tent, alongside with Lenore, and the other girl, which she understood was the daughter of Tyrion Lannister, was lead into another.


Stepping cautiously, she placed her hand on Robb's arm, as soon as the group spread out. As he turned around, his eyes seemed tired and sullen, and his lips were dry from the cold. In the light of the moon and fire, his skin seemed deadly pale- no doubts of what the boy had on his mind, with the arrival of the hostages and the stress of the constantly shifting winds.


"I am glad you made it safely back into the camp," Catelyn said to Robb, and hid her arm back into the folds of her fur cape. "I suggest you rest for a while and let Lenore do her job with Jaime. No need to stress about the child, for she will be guarded until morning."


In the past week, she barely held a non-political conversation with anyone, let alone with Robb. Caught up in his endless planning and war matters, he never seemed to notice her anymore, or care to open up to his mother.


Catelyn felt afraid, and rarely had she ever felt that way before.


As the shouts and victorious cries rose into the night, Caireann felt the utter terror of loneliness and danger. She was no longer in the hands of those she trusted, and Jaime, her only reassurance, was lying lifeless in a tent, fighting between life and death in the hands of a woman that was supposed to have died years before. She stood hidden in the corner of the tent, on the small bed made of straw and fur, as she watched the conviviality outside through a crack in the flaps of her tent.


Treated with dignity, she thought, her eyes analysing the burnt piece of meat on the table and the cup of melted snow. But, truth to be told, she was thankful that Lord Stark did not allow the men to rape or abuse her in any way as she stood in the middle of the forest, with an arrow through her shoulder and barely breathing. She knew very well, and she had been told by Lord Stark himself, that she was of a considerable smaller value in comparison to her uncle. And indeed, she was. She was never worth anything more than a lady of the court.


Jaime was a kingslayer. She was a child.

As the soldiers went to bed one by one, she could hear small whispers in the silence of the night, and the sound of crackling fire somewhere behind her. She couldn't sleep, only think. As she rubbed her wrists and ankles under the rough material of the rope, she could only imagine what would happen if she woke up in the morning to the sight of Ser Jaime's lifeless figure.

 

[Lucyfer]

Robb had barely noticed his mother with her spark of red hair, until her hand reached out to touch him, the warmth seeming to shock him after he’d delivered the warm body of Caireann into the tent. He turned his eyes, still wild from the battle, to take in his mother’s. They lost some of it almost immediately.


There was safety around his mother that only a son knew, and a vulnerability he allowed in letting the tiredness be felt to his bones at her words.


She offered comfort and pragmatism.


There was nothing Robb Stark himself could do about Jaime Lannister. He’d likely only get in the way of Lenore Reyne right then.


He could stand guard over Caireann, but there were men more well-rested. Those who had stayed here and not been a part of the battle would be able to do the job just as well. Sleep called to him, even though the victorious shouts did as well. They called him to celebrate and revel with the men, but even he knew he wouldn’t do much of that. There was much to plan.


There was a letter to write to Tywin Lannister, to let him know he’d just lost two more relatives to him. Lost allies. ‘And a Reyne….’ He half-wished he’d be there to see Tywin’s face. Would he show shock? No, likely, he wouldn’t believe it. Not at first.


He’d wave it off as just another scandal, like the thought Joffrey could be a child of incest. “You’re right,” Robb consented this time, turning to face his mother, “Tell the men I’ve gone to prepare our next moves, though,” if they asked after him, “and I’m not to be disturbed.”


He cast a glance back at the revelers, and decided he needed to get a good guard for Caireann, just in case. He moved swiftly towards his own tent, and found some of his own guards. Men of Winterfell, cold hands but warm hearts. He directed them to stand guard at Caireann’s tent to make sure that no man would attempt to trespass and abuse her in their drunken and reveling state.  


Robb went to his bed then, and lied down in the furs, mentally composing his letters until sleep took him.


And his dreams were of the wolf again, a wolf that stalked the camp and watched with fire-catching eyes how the others chose to behave. A wolf that sniffed around the tent Lenore was in and made Ser Hill more paranoid as he caught the scent of several different medicines.


Lenore was blissfully unaware of the wolf, and Ser Hill did a fine job of knocking men on their asses when they approached her tent and thought to have a look.


Her work did not let her sleep. Stitching to make sure the skin wouldn’t scar badly took time and precision. Small incisions. Thin thread. Patience and a still hand.


She sipped at tea to keep her energy up. It had been a long day of no sleep, but sleep was a luxury she could not afford. She did not even know where she would be put up. ‘They will strike our tents near.’


Sebaston Farman or Lymond Vikary would tell her, when it was prepared.


But they must have gotten caught in the revelry, too. She could not blame them. This was a victory even she wanted to celebrate, but could not. This was her duty – her prayer, in a way.


Let the Mother have mercy on Jaime.


Let the Father give justice to Tywin.


Let the Stranger allow her this much.


Or perhaps she should turn her thoughts to the Drowned God – the one that took the Reynes in the first place. Let her keep this one. ‘What is dead may never die.’ And she was dead in so many ways, wasn’t she? ‘But rises again, harder and stronger.’ So let that be her.


And let her have the ability to hold Jaime to life.


As dawn started to brighten the interior of the tent, she had finished with her task as best she could. Poison expelled. Wounds stitched, wrapped, disinfected.


She stepped back from the figure bound, and went to wash her hands in a bowl of water, removing the blood and medicine that had gotten under her nails, long and sharp. It took some time, but when at last they were cleaned and the water ruined with soap, she took a step to the flap to find Ser Hill still there, looking disgruntled as the dire wolf ran off, “Hey,” she touched his shoulder.


He jumped, tense, but relaxed as he turned his head to see her, “Any word on our camp?”


“They’re just starting to get it set up,” Ser Hill sighed. “They all had too much fun. Lymond’s passed out there,” he gestured to the brutish knight, among Northerners, and Lenore let a smile crack her face, followed immediately by a laugh as Lymond seemed to kick out at something in his sleep and turn onto his back, muttering something incomprehensible.

 

[peritwinkle]

       Caireann was woken up from her light slumber by the sound of heavy steps on the rocks in front of her tent, and a dark, fur cape covered the few rays of light that came through the crack in the tent.        
       
       Afterall, Lord Stark indeed kept his promise. The man guarding her, or at least the only one she could see, was as tall as a small pine tree, and wore dark silver armor that glimmered in the light of the fire. 


       Every now and then, he would dare to look behind, through the cracks, to watch over her or check if, somehow, she had vanished through the opaque material or dug a hole underneath it.


       Impossible, she thought. Her hands and legs were tied so tightly, she couldn't even stretch to reach for the cup of water next to her bed. Then, her eyes lit up and she shot her eyes to the man, clearing her throat:


       "Excuse me sir. I'm very thirsty from the exhausting battle and my throat is dry from sobbing... Could I, please, have some water?"


       At first, she thought he hadn't heard her, but it only took him a moment to process her voice and turn his bulky head around, the hairs of his beard flowing in the wind and covering his crooked nose. 


       "Ye' have some water on yer' bedside, m'lady," he spoke, and tunred back around towards the fire. 


       Caireann sighed deeply and shook her head. "But," she whispered, "I cannot reach it from here, with my arms and legs tied up so tightly!"


       She had no intention to run, only to have the painful straps around her joints removed. The Northman scoffed, scratching his invisible chin through his thick, red beard, and with a glance at someone to his left, he stepped into the tent and picked up the wooden cup of water. Then, without a hint of instinctive delicacy, he stuck the cup to her lips so she could drink. 


       She sipped obediently, then moved her head back, as the guard returned to his position. The only thing she could think of at that moment was how unrealistic her expectations were, and how much the man smelled of barm and rusty metal.


       As soon as her son left, Catelyn felt a sting in her chest. As much as she loved him, she could barely let go once he finally spoke a word to her.


       The flaps to his tent opened and Robb disappeared behind them, and his direwolf, Grey Wind, remained to guard outside, next to a wooden chair, watching the men pass out one by one around the fire. 


        Catelyn remained outside for a little more. She looked up at the sky, and thought it couldn't have been much past midnight, but the wind seemed cold and unforgiving. She pulled her fur cape over her shoulders closer to her neck and stepped into her tent. 


       Her sleep had been so light, she could barely close her eyes for more than a few moments. With her mind drowning in fearsome thoughts, she decided to pay a visit to the possessors of the voices outside.


       She looked up and saw Lenore Reyne, talking to ser Hill outside the tent where the captured would be lying. She did a small courtsy and smiled softly at the visibly tired woman, then turned her head subtly towards the tent.


        With a quick glance, she could barely distinguish his features anymore: his once glowing golden skin was now pale and lifeless; his blond hair was stuck to the sweat on his forehead, and his arms were still tied up, no sword to reach for at his belt.


       Then, she turned back around to the two standing behind her with the same steadfast look etched on her face.


        "If the man lives, I suppose you will inform Ser Tywin Lannister, although I do not consider that to be a wise plan. I could see that decision in Robb's eyes before he left to plan ahead. We could always forget to mention the name of house Reyne, in exchange from a possible immediate answer."


       Her voice was firm and strong, one that belonged to a queen, a ruler that is both confident in her words and sharp of mind; but she never thought that. Catelyn had always been a modest woman, and so she liked to be called- no luxury, no expenses. Just trust and love for her family, it was all that mattered. 


       And in the moment that she lost her husband, she knew how big of a piece was broken from her puzzle. It was a piece that would never be brought back. With Jon away at the wall and her two daughters stolen away from her, she only had Robb to hold when she felt weak in the knees, and not even him, given his occupations and his planning indebtedness.


       Her silence demanded an answer from Lady Lenore, which she strongly admired and respected, as a sister and as a partner. 

 

[Lucyfer]

Grey Wind always went to reunite with Robb when the dreaming ended, and the King of the North woke, bleary eyed and confused. The wolf was there to look him in the face, and Robb was there to reach over and stroke his fur, two beings once again. “There, there,” he spoke softly to the beast that sat calmly, accepting the affection. When the hand was at last removed from him, the wolf took a step to press his muzzle against Robb’s neck in a nuzzle, as Robb raised himself from his bed.



He rose with the sun.


His thoughts were still a whirl, actions needed after the battle of last night, but he had to meet with his war council first.


Likely, had to invite the Alliance, or at least a representative, to that council to figure out Jaime.


He pulled himself together, stripped and changed, washed himself with clothe but didn’t go to try and properly bathe. It would take too long to get the water warmed, and there was too much to do that day. His hair was dampened, the blood and sweat and dirt removed, but that was the extent of it as the man changed into new, black clothing, and dark furs.


He exited his tent and considered his priorities.


He needed to make sure he still had both prisoners.


He walked out towards the main campfire, seeing some men, West and North, in various states of sleep and intoxication, out in the elements. He scowled at it, and was pleased to see his armored man still before the tent of Caireann Lannister, “Go find your relief,” Robb instructed him.



He had watched all night, after all.


“Thank you, m’lord,” the man said, and with that walked off, allowing Robb entrance into the tent to see the state that Lady Lannister was in.


~***~


Before the medic tent, Lenore Reyne noticed Caitlyn Stark’s approach and stepped completely out of the opening. Ser Hill also stepped a bit aside, giving the women space. Two redheads was not something he had any desire to get between.


Lenore gave an inclination of her head to Catelyn, but her knees would not bend to curtsy, no matter how much esteem she held Catelyn in. It had been hard enough to bow before Robb Stark.


It was always a bow, too. Never a curtsy from her, no matter how improper.


Lenore was silent as she allowed Catelyn to peer into the tent and see the resting Lannister through the slit of the tent flap. She did not speak until spoken to, and then she let her eyebrows raise in question, in interest.


“What would you have me do, Lady Stark?” Lenore inquired, not presuming to guess at what Catelyn had in mind, if she did not want a letter sent to Lord Lannister.


There was no mockery in the question. It was earnest and interested. She did hold Catelyn in high esteem, and she did not presume to know much of war diplomacy. Trade, yes. Medicine, yes. War was still quite new to her. She had served as a medic during Robert’s Rebellion, and that was it.



Now she was among the leaders of the Alliance of traitors from the Westerlands.



She had much to learn, and she’d hear what a woman of the Great House Tully, and the Great House Stark, knew of high politics and diplomacy.  

 

[peritwinkle]

       As much as Caireann didn't want to sleep that night, considering the new enviroment and situation she was in, her eyes had started to close right after she spoke to the man who guarded her outside the tent. 


       But she didn't have any dreams. The whole time her eyes remained closed, she could hear the endless sounds of steps through the dry grass, the growls of the wolf of Lord Robb Stark, and the soft female voices in the close distance. 


       She had only managed to doze off for less than half an hour, when the flaps of the tent opened, and her eyes alike, and she caught herself in an uncomfortable position, against a metal bar that held the structure up, with her body curled up from the cold. 


        As her vision cleared, she saw a tall figure in the bright light of the sunrise, stepping inside, with a dark fur coat draped over his shoulders, down to his feet. He was not wearing armor, only leather garments, adorned with multiple sigils of his house of provenance. 


       In the daylight, she could finally distinguish the features of Lord Stark's complexion- his long, auburn hair, dampened and curled around his cheeks, subtly trimmed beard and deep blue eyes that seemed powerful and intimidating.


       Her words remained on the tip of her tongue and refused to leave her lips. She was well aware of the proper behaviour that required her to at least greet the Lord, but she was still cautious and afraid. As forgiving and benign he had been the night before, Caireann could only imagine what was being prepared for her in the first day as a hostage. 


       Finally, she managed to move from her position and part her lips into a a small sentence, her eyes locked onto his.


       "Good morning, Lord Stark," she muttered, bringing her arms defensively to her chest.


~***~


       As the sun rose, Catelyn could feel her mind sharpening, as she analysed the possibly rethorical question of Lady Lenore. Afterall, she was well aware of the woman's intelligence and wise words, and the inquiry seemed uncommon to her.


       But the woman didn't move a finger, and kept her eyes fixated to Lady Catelyn's, as she quietly demanded an answer. 


       Lady Reyne was years younger than herself, but she could tell, in the tight moment between the question and answer, how her battles had left invisible scars on the woman's complexion- around her eyes as green as greek fire, around her firm, full lips that only spoke words of wisdom, on her still full cheeks, reddened from the frigid wind. 


       "Lady Reyne," she spoke, her words becoming piercing and potent. "I hope you understand the gravity of the situation House Lannister will find itself in the very moment they realise their son will not return to King's Landing. By sending a formal, proper letter, we will only do something that the Lannisters never dared to do, and risk our story being considered as mendacious."


      She could feel the eyes of Lady Reyne and Ser Hill upon her, as she spoke with a subtle smile spread across her lips. She waited for a moment, leaving their minds at work, then continued quietly.


       "I suggest you keep your words of power to another time" she spoke. "Tonight, we shall rip a piece of Ser Jaime's garment, and deliver it with the swiftest of ravens, under the seals of houses Reyne and Stark."


       And, with that, she lowered her eyes, the sun warming her skin in the chilly breeze, awaiting the reply of the two nobles ahead of her.

 

[Lucyfer]

The woman had been gentle and cooperative at night. Robb had somehow expected it to change. He anticipated venom on her lips, hatred in her heart, fire in her eyes. He expected her to act more Lannister, and yet, he was relieved when she did not.


“Good morning, Lady Lannister,” he did not correct her as to his title. It would be impossible to get either her or Jaime Lannister to address him properly and he did not care to fight a losing battle over semantics.


He noted the water, how it had been drunk.


There was no point in asking her how she was. He could see the redness around her wrists and knew she likely was uncomfortable, physically and mentally.


So instead he asked, “Are you hungry?” The prisoners would need to eat to live, and this one deserved as much for her cooperation. No point in starving her, just as there would be little point to questioning her. She was never meant to get caught up in battle. She was just with the camp, like so many maids and kitchen workers, so many maesters and pages.


Many innocents died in war, or worse. She was not fortunate to be a prisoner, but more fortunate than some.


~***~


Lenore certainly did understand the situation that House Lannister was in. It would make her bold, arrogant, as her father before her if she did not keep wise council. It was something that Lenore knew all too well.


Pride was the downfall of the Reynes. It would not be hers.


So, she heeded what Catelyn had to say, even if she was not a warrior. She was of a Great House, like the Lannisters. She would have insight into that world that Lenore could only crave.


A smile cut her lips like ice, “And here I thought you were a woman of duty,” though the comment was a touch mocking, there was also appreciation for the cunning. Starks were known for their honor, and Tully’s for duty. It was in the latter’s words. It seemed the duty of Stark and Reyne to send a formal letter to Lord Lannister.


In a fair war, such a letter would be sent.


But war wasn’t ever fair, or else Reynard Reyne’s parley with Tywin Lannister would have been heeded, too. “I have plenty of ripped and bloody clothe as it is. I have no issues parting with some of it to send to Lord Lannister under my own seal.”


A seal she had only just started to use again. How would Tywin react to seeing the silver wax and the press of a lion? He’d know it, as well as anyone knew the crimson wax and his seal, or the golden wax.


Tempting as it was to consider using red wax as he did, Lenore would use silver. That was the color difference – the red lion, upon the silver, as his was the gold upon the red. “I shall heed your request, Lady Stark. I may send a formal letter after, but I will allow myself time to think on it, and to hear what your son has planned, as well.”


@ravenclawsome

 

[peritwinkle]

       Caireann was taken aback by Robb Stark's words, as he approached her slowly and carefully. Truthfully, she had never expected the man to treat her nicely in any way, nevertheless feed her and care for her enough to assure her protection. Given her surname, she expected the outsiders to hold a permanent hatred in their hearts for her, which always happened, without them truly meeting her in person.


       But, partly raised by Jaime Lannister, she had always had a certain pride hidden in her heart, that she very rarely let go of, only around people she loved and respected enough, or those who respected her. 


       And, in that moment, she didn't care for the last name of the man in front of her, nor did she care for his banner or his attitude towards her house; she despised her relatives almost as much as he did, or perhaps more. 


       Sitting up a bit more properly and moving her eyes down to the ground, she nodded at the Lord's inquiry before she could give it a second thought. 


       "I'm famished," she whispered, as she glanced at the piece of cold steak on the plate in front of her, and as unappealing as it had seemed the night before, it now smelled like the most delicious dish.


       She tried to lean in to take the plate, only to have the band of rope rub against her sensitive wrists again. Caireann flinched quickly and moved back with a sigh, then, with a pleading look etched in her eyes, she gazed back at the man in thick furs.


~***~


       Catelyn was pleased with the woman's response, and nodded in agreement. 


       Indeed, sending such a revolting letter to the most powerful house in the Westerlands was as dangerous as it seemed. Putting the seals of their houses on it was another hazardous move that both scared and excited her. 


       On a note of fulfillment, she turned her eyes to both Lady Reyne and Ser Hill, clearing her throat and bringing the fur coat closer to her body.


       "Robb will organise a meeting tonight, before dinner, to discuss the fate of Ser Jaime and the girl that is in our possession," the lady spoke, as she moved her gaze from one to another. "I suggest you choose a few representative voices from all the houses involved in the Alliance to attend it. I am sure my son will not not fail to advise you on the suggestion I gave earlier, as long as you put the problem into perspective and present it well."


       After the discussion, Catelyn decided to check of her son was awake. Afterall, given the battle that was held the night before, he must have been too stressed out to sleep. 


       As she opened the flaps to his tent and realise that he was not in his quarters anymore, she knew for a fact that he must be checking upon Lady Lannister. But, truth to be told, she was not the most eager to see the girl. One Lannister had been enough for her and, with swift movements, she decided to wait putside the tent, ton the chair that had been previously assigned to one of the child's guards. 


       Catelyn could feel something catching ablaze in her chest each moment that passed. It was not fear, no; it was a certain concern, that she could not disguise under her usual, motherly smile. 


       Having caught two important personalities of the Westerlands, they were now even more vulnerable, and the eyes of their enemies would soon be upon them. And, as she knew him, Robb would never have the courage to harm a lady, nevertheless leave her to the fate of time. From the moment he came back to the base camp, she noticed a slight worry and gentleness in his eyes, as he held the wounded girl under his arm. 


       That night, she knew what she had to do.

 

[Lucyfer]

For someone famished, Robb noticed there was quite a bit of food left. Though he knew it was from last night. Cold now. Possibly no longer good for her either. In spite of her sigh, he could not have her eating such food. Not that breakfast would be exceptional-likely today it would be easy, comfort food. Grits and cured meats.


"Hold," he advised as he stepped to the plate. He took it and walked to the tent flap, hailing a guard. "Let our dogs have a treat," he said. That's all the meat was good for now. "And tell the kitchen staff to bring two breakfast meals to the prisoner tent of Lady Lannister." The ordering mannerism was not difficult for Lord Stark. He had been raised to rule, so it came easily off his tongue.


Easily it was obeyed, "Yes, your grace," and the man left them, allowing the King of the North to slip back into the tent.


Robb strode over to the bound woman with the fair appearance and knelt to be at her level, "I have requested breakfast for you but I cannot leave you unbound and unwatched," strength was not the only way people escaped. Caireann might be frail, but she might also be as conniving as the rest of her kin, and he knew better than to underestimate any of them. "I can untie your wrists to eat, but I will have to retie them after. Do you understand?"


He would await her answer and decision. He could leave her bound just as easily if she'd prefer not to have that relief.


~***~


The representatives of the Alliance were already known. Lenore Reyne, Tybalt Hetherspoon, Gawan Westerling, Lymond Vikary, and Sebaston Farman. They were the heads of their households so they would speak for themselves at the meeting. "Thank you, Lady Stark. I will be sure this message is taken to the others."


Catelyn left then and once she did, Lenore let a long sigh escape her, breath freezing in the air, "Ser Hill...."


It was his turn to mimic the long-suffering sigh. Then, to guess what followed his name: "Check the status of our camp set up, deliver the message, send Ser Clifton with breakfast to stand guard, take my leave until the evening, then be prepared to move Ser Jaime to our camp," before Robb's meeting.


Her smile was amused, "I am becoming painfully obvious, aren't I?" Lady Stark knew her intentions, now Ser Hill. He knew she wouldn't rest while Jaime was in Stark's camp.


"A little," he said. He turned and offered an embrace, momentary warmth, which she accepted, before he left to tend his duties as a good knight of the Alliance, and a rebellious bastard. 


Lenore simply returned to the warmer interior and softer light of the tent, to begin packing her materials up for easy transport later.

 

[peritwinkle]

      Caireann's eyes opened widely as Lord Stark took the plate with her only meal from the bedside and called the guard. All she was hoping for was that he would call for another one, or bring it back warm, the least.


       But she wasn't of a demanding kind. She knew she couldn't ask for too much from the man that held her hostage. Her presence was of use only for information and blackmailing, although she doubted anyone back at King's Landing would care for her presence there, apart from, if course, her father.


       She missed him.
       
       Tyrion had always been good to her; he had always been honest and encouraged her to do the same. Every morning, right after the sun rose, she would wake up to at least one new book on her table, with markings and notes in it, which she knew that she had to read for the day. After studying as well as she could during her spare time- which she did have much of, as Cersei would never allow her to leave the gardens of the castle, with the exception of special occasions-, Tyrion would come into her room in the evening and ask of answer her questions.


       That was his way of educating her- through books, through inquiries, through riddles and manuscripts from the strange world outside the stone walls. 


       As a child, she found it uninteresting and she considered it a waste of her time, but as she grew up, she learnt to respect and love the short sessions and hours spent with her father each week. It made her feel safe and secure, away from the coarse glare of Cersei and the wrathful words of her cousin, Joffrey.


       The growls of the beasts that guarded the camp rose in the silence morning, and the thought of it made her jolt. Then, as Lord Robb spoke to the man outside her tent, she let a small sigh of relief leave her lips. 


       He was, indeed, not cruel enough to let her starve.


       The man slowly came back into her quarters and kneeled down next to her low, dishevelled bed. His expression carried the same worry, but his eyes seemed more awake, more alive and focused. She had almost forgotten what a good night's sleep could do to a soul. She had missed out on it ever since Jaime and her left King's Landing and began their trip that would lead to their ambarassant defeat.


       Then, as he offered to untie her wrists to eat properly, she could feel her heart skip a beat. 


       By no means did she ever think of escaping, as the man subtly insinuated. She might have been scared and hesitant, but she was not dumb. A girl like her would not stand a chance at leaving the camp unseen, nevertheless fight out of it. And, taking in consideration the vague and unrealistic possibility that she would make it out alive, she had nowhere to go.


       So, all she could do was to cooperate with the man that offered her peace.


       "I understand, Lord Stark," she murmured, lowering her eyes to the rash around her wrists and ankles. She knew she would stand no chance to have her ankles untied as well, but she decided to give his kindness a try. "May I also have a bath, or clean myself with dampened cloth? My gown is blooded and I feel very uncomfortable."


       As she asked, she kept her tone low and pragmatic, moving her gaze to meet his. She was only asking to be treated with the slightest decency, or one you would give to a dead soul before burial. Afterall, she was a living being, and she couldn't help herself tied up and smeared with blood.

 

[Lucyfer]

Robb listened to her words of agreement as she looked down to the wrists, painfully red. He reached then for a small hunting knife, kept on his belt. His sword was not with him, but the dagger always was. Rope was cheap – he could get new rope. Untying the knot would take a while, and Robb was not that patient in the morning.


Her request was a sane one, though Robb did not answer until he had reached for her hands, “Be still,” he advised in a low voice, as he slid the cold metal under the ropes.


Then, with a quick move, he would pull the knife through the ropes and cut through them to let her hands be free. The dagger was quickly restored to its sheathe, “I will see about having you cleaned, and some clean clothing found for you,” he would have to ask his mother or Lady Mormont. He wouldn’t let his men put a hand on Lady Lannister.


Even if some were trustworthy, it just was not prudent.


It was still astounding she was the child of the Imp. One would think a child born of him, would be…well, a dwarf, too. She seemed no smaller than any other woman. In fact, she seemed quite like most, and Robb wondered again what she was even doing here.


“Lord Stark,” a call from outside the tent.


He rose from his knelt position and walked to the tent flap. He saw a page with a tray – two bowls of grits, a side of sausages, and cups of tea. “Breakfast, m’lord?”


“Thank you,” Robb said as he put one hand under the wooden tray, “That will be all,” his way of dismissing the other. The page bowed quick, and then scurried off.


With his free hand, Robb lifted the tent flap enough so that the food wouldn’t be disturbed from the tray, and walked back to where Caireann was. He set the tray down between them, and gestured for her to select what she would like first. He could easily get more for himself, but not for her. She was still a prisoner. His men still took precedent.


“What was a lady like yourself doing in a war camp?” Robb had to ask, his curiosity on that matter getting the best of him, as he let her select what she wanted first.  

 

[peritwinkle]

    As the man ahead of her untied her wrists, she couldn't help but feel thankful. Afterall, you don't see many acting even close to the way he did to a hostage. 


     His touch was gentle enough for her sensitive skin, almost too cautious, as if he were afraid she would shatter into small pieces of porcelain. Caireann did not want the King in the North to think of her as frail, nevertheless weak. She was a Lannister woman, and she was grown between the tight wall of a cold palace, but she knew how well she could cold up to harsh situations. 


       Her request hadn't been much, but she could read a tone of an intentional annoyance and poshness in the man's voice. It was his way of saying she was close to crossing the boundaries of respect.


       "Thank you, Lord Stark," she spoke softly, as her fingers rubbed gently against her sore joints and her eyes cleared.


      Then, as man left for a brief moment and the food appeared in his hands, she felt her eyes widen wildly, as if something in her was no longer part of a human rationality- pure instinct. She was hungry, and she could barely resist the warm smell of grits and the smoking sausages on the plate. 


       He held them down for her to pick, and that was all she needed. With slow and phlegmatic moves, she firstly put the bowl of grits on her lap and began sipping at the steaming meal with a wooden spoon that was considerably bigger than her mouth. 


       After her thoughts settled and her initial priorities filed ahead of her hunger, she could turn to Robb Stark with an answer to his inquiry. 


       But what was she going to say? A woman, in the middle of a battle, and one that isn't the most trained an agile of them all, was truthfully never a good sign. Whatever she said, as honest and frank as it would be, could never be looked upon nicely by a man like him. 


       With her voice soft but firm, she let out a small sigh in preparation for her speech and looked up.


       "I had never been so far away from King's Landing, and it was my gate towards some time spent with my uncle, away from the scolding eyes of his... Sister." Caireann hesitated for a moment, her cheeks reddening as a strange feeling rose in her chest and put a lump in her throat. "Jaime only agreed because he knew I would never leave the safety of the camp, and because I would be with some of his best men. His confidence was shadowing his thoughts. He never thought of an alternative to the story, and hardly has he, in the unhealthy confidence that took a hold of his mind."


       With that, she chose to stop. Something in the eyes of that man made her thoughts and words alike catch ablaze on her lips like Greek fire, and she couldn't give away the smallest details- the only reason Jaime ever let her ride with him to battle in the first place. It had been a scheme of politics, which she sensed from the very beginning, but chose to speak nothing about, risking being left back at King's Landing, with Cersei, Tywin and Joffrey eating her minds away in the absence of her only two beloved relatives.

 

[Lucyfer]

Robb pulled his own bowl towards him. He took some of the sausage, and began to piece it up with his fingers to put into the grits. They were too bland for his tastes, and sometimes, too dry, but adding the sausage to it assisted at times. He ate slower than her, not as starved despite all the energy expended in the fight.


He watched her, barely looking to his bowl, as she ate and then started to compose herself from ravenous animal to young lady. It was an interesting transition – she must have been starved. Did she not get to eat at the camp before the attack? ‘Is Jaime in the same state?’ That might slow his healing.


Unfortunately, so far as Robb knew, Jaime was still not awake. He was certain he would know if Ser Jaime was awake – someone would have heard him, and someone would tell Robb, no matter how Lady Reyne tried to keep him out of the loop there.


Robb raised a single eyebrow when she explained, but hesitated to say ‘sister’. “You mean his lover,” Robb stated it bluntly, wondering if that was what Caireann had wanted to say. Wondering if she would say it, confirm it. Denial would mean nothing, of course.


Robb was certain, as Stannis was certain, because Eddard Stark said it – and Eddard Stark did not lie. He would not make such claims lightly. He knew what it would cost. ‘And it cost him dear.’ His life, and the peace of the realm.


The Kingslayer was known for his confidence. Usually, he could back it up. Good at the jousts, good at swordplay, he had a lot to boast of and plenty of acts to back it up, “Seems that for as good a fighter as Ser Jaime is, he is not the best at strategy,” not like his father, Lord Tywin. “I assure you, you will not come to any harm, and if Lord Tywin will be reasonable, neither will Jaime Lannister.”


Robb could not speak for Lady Reyne, but he was certain of that much. The problem was Tywin Lannister and his own overconfidence when it came to battles and warfare. Tywin had never lost a war yet. There was always a time to start losing, though, and Robb was making good headway.


Robb Stark had not lost a battle, yet, in this war. He was moving progressively closer to King’s Landing, cutting his way through the occupied Riverlands and making a path to King’s Landing. Tywin was the one in pursuit, last Robb knew, but he had plans to route him. He knew the rivers here well, from his Riverland allies. He knew where the footing and weather would favor him.


He could sink the Lannister armies who knew the stable ground of the Westerlands better than the wet ones here, the swamps and the cold.


Winter was coming – and Robb knew that better than Tywin, too.

 

[peritwinkle]

       Caireann's mind was too clouded to allow her to say any other words to the Lord in front of her. Afterall, she was starving, and in spite of the proper mannerism that she had been taught as a child, she felt a knot form in her neck each time she wanted to mutter to the man. It was hunger, she supposed, and, without a doubt, the stress and the fear that did not allow her to rest well that night.


       Soon, her instinct was replaced with shame, and she slowly put the unfinished bowl on the table, peeking at it subtly, with her stomach still asking for more. She then, realised, that the words that she spoke to Lord Stark might have been inappropriate and too direct, until he assumed the truthful meaning behind her words.


       But deeply, she knew that he knew. Everyone in the Westerlands did, whether were they peasants or nobles. And yet, Cersei and Jaime no longer saw shame in the act; they no longer believed in the act of spiritual redemption. 


       From the very moment that she could understand the way Joffrey's mind worked, and the monstruous thoughts that lay within, she understood how much such a genetical concoction could affect a child.


       Yet she no longer wanted to dig out her past. As her father always said, she was to live in the future, and never look back to her shadow, for the pain was a mere illusion of the mind and soul.


       Robb Stark's eyes were following hers, as she stood curled up on her bed, with her knees brought to her chest tightly and her glance empty and deepened in thought. Sometimes, she would fall into a void of reflection, which she could hardky escape, and in those moments, the girl was unreachable. Much like her father, as she had been told.


       Then, the deep voice spoke again, and she turned to the man, her eyes fixating on him. 


       "I am not afraid of you," she said simply, as her fists clenched on the fur blanket. "You are my enemy by name, and I do not intend in fearing a fight that is not mine to bring an end to." Her voice remained calm and resolute, in spite of the eyes piercing her. "I am a Lannister, but I do not carry an unconditional love for my kind. I have known their sins, their minds, their ways, and they are not men of honor, much like your father, Lord Stark. I have lived my life in an incomprehensible nightmare thanks to Queen Cersei and her kin, and I do not intend to defend her glory and distinction, neither Lord Tywin's or my cousin's, Joffrey, and they do not care for me. So, my Lord, I do not have a price on my forehead, nor am I of value to anyone but my father, and possibly my uncle, who will fight to bring me back home safely, as he promised. Your plans to exchange me for your sisters will be in vain."


       With that, she looked away, lowering her legs back on the bed and placing her warm palm over her irritated wrist. 


       No; she was not afraid. As her father once said, some enemies are less dangerous than your own allies, and the example was sitting in front of her, with his hands deepened in the fur of his cloak.

 

[Lucyfer]

No confirmation to the idea of Cersei being Jaime’s lover was given. She instead decided to be finished with eating, and curled up on her bed. Robb found the gesture odd, vulnerable, but decided that was the end of that. She was not here for interrogation, she was going to be bartered back home.


He placed her food on the tray, and rose, moving to the tent flap and quickly whispering to the guard that he needed rope again. He could not let her wander free.


He stayed near the tent flap, and looked to the woman as she began to speak again, telling him that she wasn’t afraid of him. It was a queer mix of annoyance and joy that came to him then, as he considered that. She should be afraid, but he did not want her to be afraid, because he meant the words he spoke.


She spoke ill of her family, or at least, Tywin, Cersei, and Joffrey. She lauded his own father, and it took some of the edge off of him, thinking of his father.


At least he would always be known for his honor. “You underestimate the lion’s pride,” Robb said as rope was pushed through the tent flap. He took it, walked to her again, “Tywin began to fight when Tyrion was captured by my mother. He will fight for you, as well. The lion’s have pride.” The kind like a pack, and the kind of sin, too. So long as she was a Lannister of the main branch, she was deeply important to Tywin.


If he could not trade her, though, that would complicate matters.


He could have her married off to someone as insult, the way Sansa was still engaged to Joffrey. ‘Or to make sure the North gets those lands.’ But that would require a genocide of unprecedented levels and Robb wasn’t prepared to commit a sin so similar to the one that Tywin had committed. He wasn’t going to kill them all just to marry a noble to Caireann, and claim the Warden of the West title through her, as no doubt, Sansa was going to be used for that.


So Joffrey would have the North.


He knelt before Caireann again, “I do have to tie you back up, Lady Caireann, regardless of your lack of worth,” because he didn’t believe it in the least.


If she was important to Jaime and Tyrion, there would be ways. Jaime was the Young Lion, after all.  

 

[peritwinkle]

      The reply that came with hers made the blood in her veins rise up to her cheeks and her heart shudder. The man standing in front of her seemed as cold as the ice at Winterfell, and the wall he had built around himself made her statements useless. 


       So, she decided there was no point in contradicting him in that matter. 


       Caireann knew her value better than anyone else, and she was well aware that nobody of Lannister blood would be willing to trade two of the Stark ladies for her. And Tyrion had never been looked upon kindly by the rest of the family. His advice was worth nothing in Cersei's eyes, nevertheless Tywin's. 
       
       When the man outside her tent handed Robb a new piece of rope, Caireann's wrists suddenly felt like boiling meat. In the previous night, she could feel the rough material dig into her skin with every movement that she made, her eyes tearing in pain.


       As Lord Stark tied the rope tightly around her arms, she looked away, the sensation of relief that she had felt just a few moments before draining from her body. Yet, she couldn't say a word to him that would convince him to leave her untied. He didn't know her, and, as a prisoner, she knew he would never need to. She was to be brought back to King's Landing within a few weeks, or married to a man of house Vikary, Mormont or Hetherspoon, used as a bait and a living contract.


       She chose not to watch him leave. She wanted him to think of her silence as an answer to his unspoken inquiry.


~***~


       Outside the tent, around the firelogs, Lady Mormont was having a conversation with Catelyn Stark, wrapped in furs ans enjoying a warm cup of ale. 


       In spite of her tireness, Catelyn's eyes were as luminous and sharp as they had been the night before. Her hair was baided up tightly and held in place with a beaded stick that she always wore. 


       Maege, on the other hand, seemed to barely hear what the woman in front of her had to say. She looked preoccupied with the uneven rim of her cup, as she quietly hummed to herself. Her dark brows were furrowed above her long nose, and a strand of bristly hair fell over her her forehead. 


       She had spent her night thinking about the prisoners, and wondering what was to be discussed at the imminent council that would be held the other day. The battle, the nobles taken hostage, the worry that visibly flooded Catelyn Stark's mind had rendendered her sleepeless. 


       And, as soon as Robb Stark stepped outside the tent of Lady Lannister, she couldn't help but notice the affected expression the boy had on his face. 


       Maege rose up, placing the cup on the ground next to her chair, and walked up to Robb quickly, followed by Catelyn.


       "Did the girl tell you anything of use?" she spoke, her voice low enough to not be heard by outsiders. "Anything that should be discussed in the meeting?"

 

[Lucyfer]

No more words parted the lips of the Lannister girl. It seemed that what he had to say about her worth silenced her. Did she truly think she was so useless? It seemed odd. Lannisters were haughty sorts, prided themselves on their worth. How could this one feel so worthless.


It was an odd trick, if it was meant that way.


He bound her wrists together again in the silence, tight, although he knew it was going to make the rash worse. He would see her cleansed, though. Treated. Perhaps get some salve on the rashes before they became too bad. Make sure they didn’t get infected.


As soon as the bonds were secure, he moved. He went to the tent flap and did look back, then, left. ‘Jaime.’ He had to see how that man was holding up. He had been truly injured, and not seen by a maester. Just a woman, who seemed to have skill with poison, and might have it with medicine if rumors were true. He had to hope, for all their sakes. He didn’t think Lady Reyne would risk Jaime dying, though.


He was too important.


Yet, before he could go to Lady Reyne’s tent, he was immediately confronted by his mother and Lady Mormont of his council. He paused his steps before them and met the eyes of Maege, “No,” he answered her, “Save that she feels little love for her family, nothing of significance. I would like to see her cleansed, though, and have the rashes from the ropes treated. If we have clean clothing for her, I would also like her changed into that.”


Dignity was still something the Lannister would have here, to some degree. “Would either of you be able to assist? I do not want to ask it of any of the men,” for obvious reasons.



He’d rather not ask it of Lady Reyne, either.



She already had Jaime. He didn’t want to even risk her finding a way to get Caireann Lannister into her hands as well.