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Fangs and Claws [Closed]

Robb looked regal in the time of his silence. Cold, as well. His blue gaze allowed no questions and Lenore Reyne quietly admired the strength the Young Wolf displayed. Masks were just as important as reality. Masks shaped truth. 


So when the silence was broken by Maege, some of the mask broke. Robb looked tired. "Good night everyone. Lady Reyne," the lion paused, "Tomorrow I will see Jaime."


Not a question.


Still, Lenore consented with naught more than a nod of her head. Then she slipped out.


Robb waited until everyone had left. Then he looked down to his map and all the figures upon it. His eyes followed the pieces of Tywin's army. He knew where some camps were. Last heard that Tywin himself was in King's Landing. The golden lion was placed upon the castle. Most of the fleets he had would be there to defend against Stannis, but Robb couldn't bet on having no naval battles once he sailed.


It was not his forte. Men from Seagard ought to be of assistance but Robb himself was still uncomfortable. He hadn't sailed. The idea was sound and the fact he wasn't known for naval prowess might help but his inexperience did make him worry.


As he moved pieces into hypothetical locations to ease his thoughts, a soft padding of feet crossed the ground to him. He looked down as he heard the breath escape from the gray direwolf as he sat upon his haunches. 


The auburn haired king reached down to scratch behind the left ear of the wolf. "All right," he spoke to the animal.


Fussing about plans now wouldn't help. He needed sleep. 


Grey Wind seemed to take the lead out, bringing Robb to his personal tent and his bed of furs under which he promptly buried himself, after stripping himself of his heavy attire.


Grey Wind laid on the floor near to join him but it didn't last for longer than an hour. 


When Grey Wind's eyes opened, Robb saw through them.


~***~


Lenore Reyne did not get far from Robb's tent before she was halted by a touch. Again she paused and turned, and again she was looking into blue eyes. Catelyn's eyes.


The woman maintained her poise as she asked rather than demanded to see Jaime. Lenore was tempted to tell her no, if only because Jaime had just woken and Catelyn likely intended to interrogate him over something.


But then, what did she owe to Jaime to consider kindness?


So she answered, "Of course, Lady Stark, so long as you understand your meeting with Jaime will not be private," meaning that Lady Lenore would maintain her presence, lest anything untoward be considered.


If Catelyn agreed, the red head would lead her into the Alliance camp and to her tent.
 
       Catelyn nodded, forcing a soft smile on her thin lips. She understood the situation, that the Kingslayer was now Lady Reyne's hostage, and how inappropriate it would be to leave her out of a conversation that, afterall, could possibly interest her as well.


       "I would prefer to know you and Ser Hill by my side as I address Ser Jaime, if you don't mind, Lady Reyne. We know what the man is capable of, and I would like to keep my head on my shoulders for as long as possible."


       With that, Lenore lead her through the structures of Robb's camp and into the near vicinity, where the medical tent was set. 


       As they walked silently along the dampened road, Catelyn could feel the soft touch of snowflakes melting on her cheeks, wetting her hair and the fur of her cloak. It was something that reminded her of home, of the days where she would watch the skies rain thousands of snow crystals cover the ground in a thick, white blanket of ice, as she leaned her head against the steaming walls of Winterfell. 


       Having reached the medical tent in which Jaime Lannister was resting, Catelyn moved the tent flap away, to find the man on a bed of thick furs, and next to him, Ser Hill, polishing his long, glimmering sword. She nodded at him shortly, before turning her eyes to the victim, and suddenly, the warmth in her chest disappeared, replaced by a sense of anger, of pain and an unreasonable guilt.


       "Lady Catelyn Stark," Jaime spoke breathlessly, his eyes bloodshot and his lips dry. He made a gesture of respect with his head, and coughed lightly- theatrical, she thought, and yet she was not surprised, nor impressed. "How is your son, the King, doing?"


       "I am not here to discuss familial matters, Ser Jaime," she addressed, her tone sour. "I am intending to ask you a simple question, to which I want a concrete answer to- none of your word games anymore, for you are in no position to play."


       Jaime chuckled and shook his head, the greased blonde locks sticking to his forehead. He was sweating, and in an undeniable pain, and yet, his infamous smile never left his lips. 


       "And I bet my life, Lady Stark, that the question regards your two girls, oh, the very pretty Sansa and the other that does not resemble your beauty," he smirked again. "Are you sure she is not another one of Ned's bastards? Like the Snow..."


       Catelyn barely abstained from leaving a mark over Jaime's sunken cheeks. "As I mentioned before, you are in no position to play your games, Ser Jaime. Have you forgotten that you are tied up to a bed, and I am the one standing? I am not afraid to hurt you, before I deliver you back to Lord Tywin." She walked closer to the bed. "Where are my daughters being kept?"


~***~


       Thousands of trees were left behind as she swiftly stepped through the tall shrubs and thick roots, breathing scarcely as she held her arm around her wounded stomach.


       Caireann wanted to scream, but she couldn't anymore- her voice was gone, and as she advanced through the woods, her steps got slower and slower, the light of an opening fading into the distance again. The beast was still behind her, his growls following her closely, his shadow touching her heels, burning her skin. Her soles were being torn by the rocks on the ground, and her chest was stinging in the effort of keeping her breathing balanced.


       Then, as she fell into an endless darnkess, her fearful shout awakened her from the horrible nightmare. 


       Breathing quickly, she sat up on her bed, warm tears rolling down her cheeks, her lips stained with a salty taste. The dream felt as vivid ice water, and yet, she found herself within the safe walls of her tent, two golden eyes staring into hers.
       
 
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“I will not let you come to any harm, Lady Stark,” Lenore promised as she walked alongside the woman, wondering what it was she wanted from Jaime so soon. Yet, Lenore did not ask. The answer to that question would reveal itself soon, for Catelyn would have to ask it in front of her. Lenore did guess a family matter, but let her mind stray no further as she led the red-haired woman through the camp and glanced out at the soldiers on watch and those just awake.


It was always the ones ‘just awake’ that Lenore seemed to find some camaraderie with. The wandering. The lost.


She did not speak to any of them then, but likely would before she eventually tired herself out enough to sleep. She was tired. She hadn’t slept for a while, after all, she had to monitor Ser Jaime. Now they were in the clear.


When they entered the tent, Ser Hill looked up, looked to Catelyn, then to Lenore. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she made a gesture to signify he should stay. So, he straightened up, put the blade away to give Catelyn room.


Catelyn immediately asked of the Stark girls. ‘King’s Landing is where Sansa is,’ that was relatively well known. Arya, though? Little more than rumor. No one spoke of seeing or hearing of her in King’s Landing. There was no talk of a search for her, though, either. “Lady Stark, if you lay a hand on Ser Jaime, I will have you escorted out,” Lenore spoke, though did not look to either Jaime or Catelyn.


It was the only way she could offer privacy, by pretending to organize her vials of medicines, components, and poisons. She offered nothing else, no other threat or promise. She would see Jaime answer, but she wouldn’t have Robb Stark nor his mother thinking they could do as they liked with the prisoner that was hers.


~***~


Grey Wind had padded his way through the encampment, doing the rounds he was accustomed to. Meat was offered and meat was accepted, before a new smell caught the attention of the King of Winter, as he thought of himself. It was floral, but light. Not a flower itself, nor a grouping of them.



It was a warm smell.


The King of Winter inched towards a tent that had been empty for so long and crept inside, low to the ground as the scent of sweat also entered his nostrils, and salt. A tang that disturbed the jasmine.


There was a woman there, a woman that had fallen on the battlefield and was now captive. Not food. Grey Wind inched closer, but with the shout, his ears fell flat over his head and he bent lower to the ground, uncertain about approaching now as the woman upon the furs started to wake up.


He watched her with cautious eyes, noticing the wrists unbound and wondering if she might try to harm him. He understood enough to know they were enemies. Why were her wrists unbound? That didn’t seem right to the King of Winter as he assessed her quietly, never growling at her.


She looked frightened enough. There was no need for that.
 
        Catelyn turned her head to Lady Reyne, her cheeks catching the colour of the burning sunset . "I do not hit men or women in Ser Jaime's position, Lady Lenore. I thought you knew better of me." Then, as her eyes shot back at Jaime Lannister, she regained her posture, awaiting an answer.


       "Do not worry, Lady Catelyn," he spoke, a smirk spreading across his lips, "rest easy that your Sansa is being taken care of, with a gentleness worthy of a Queen.       There was a certain fire dancing in his eyes, that made Catelyn uneasy. He looked up at her, blowing a strand of hair off of his nose, and coughed lightly. "As for the little one, Arya- I do not know. There are rumours that the girl fled King's Landing with a man of the Night's Watch, after Lord Eddard's execution."


        Catelyn felt her temper slipping away through her fingers. "Arya is a girl. She would never leave with a man in black, for the Night's Watch has no place for a woman."


       "Then, you might have been too busy taking hostages instead of paying attention to your girl in the past months. Running on the streets, catching cats and fighting with wooden sticks..." Jaime shook his head. 


       "What good does lying do to your situation, Ser Jaime?" the woman inquired. 


       "What good does filling your head with false hopes and assumptions does to yours, my Lady?"


       Catelyn moved her eyes away, her fingers clenching around the hem of the cape fur. She wanted him to lie; she wanted to believe that the man in front of her was playing mind games, and yet, the sense of doubt and hesitation sung her throat. She turned to the red-headed lady behind her with a sour expression etched on her face.


       "Ser Jaime needs to rest for tonight. Hopefully, he will come to his senses in the morning. I will make my way back alone, if you don't mind, Lady Reyne."


       She awaited her answer out of respect, but she couldn't stand to see the eyes of Jaime Lannister for another moment. Catelyn felt caged, hurt, as if a dagger were put through her heart. 


~***~


       Caireann's hands were trembling, her hair stuck to her wet forehead. At the entrance of her tent, a pair of eyes watched her cautiously, its glance sending shivers down her spine.


       "Grey Wind," she whispered in the silence of the night, her voice shattered. She dug her nails into the material of the duvet and breathed out, her heart threatening to escape her chest.


       The wolf must have been lost, she thought, and yet, Direwolves knew their ways through forests better than the greatest travelers.  She had read about them in so many books and stories, and yet, she had never seen one in meat and bones. 


        A voice in her head told her to be afraid. It will shatter you. It will break your bones and tear your heart. It can smell fear. But then, her rationality spoke- she was valuable. Direwolves were intelligent enough not to attack unless they sensed danger, and she was far from dangerous. Lord Stark would never stain his hands with the blood of a sleeping maiden.


        Caireann slid one hand from under the blanket, the wintry wind biting her irritated wrists. She kept her moves slow, gentle, careful not to scare the tall beast. "Come to me," she murmured, biting her lip nervously. He would never harm her, she thought. Not unless she represented danger. And she didn't.


        He would never harm her.


        Her hand inched towards him, the scent of jasmine staining the air  around her. 
 
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‘No, Catelyn, I don’t. And you are a fool if you think you know me well, too.’ Lenore did not say that, but the look she gave the mother of the king was one that implied it. Both eyebrows raised. Not impressed with Catelyn’s irked behavior.


Fortunately, Jaime answered without needing that sort of persuasion. Sansa was protected. Arya was lost. Lenore allowed the conversation to continue without interruption, waiting until Catelyn either snapped, Jaime told something else, or Catelyn accepted it. It seemed the latter happened – somewhat. Catelyn wanted to leave, anyway, did not press Jaime for more.


Lenore gave a nod, “As you wish, Lady Stark,” she gave a gesture back towards the exit, past the desk and the proper arrangements, the map with her own figures not yet outlined.


When Lady Stark left, Lenore set down the vial she was holding to assess Jaime once more. He really wasn’t in any condition to be a threat, but people still did stupid things in terrible conditions, “Tomorrow, I’ll see you cleaned up properly and I will re-dress your wounds,” she informed him, “Tonight, however, you have a choice,” ah, that illusion of power, “Either I can tie your hands, I can tie your chest down, or I can give you Sweetsleep,” moving his arms would hurt him, she knew, but he might prefer that to the lack of mobility having his torso died down to the bed would afford him. He might also prefer to be drugged, perhaps hope it wouldn’t be effective enough.


Either way, he’d make the decision to damage his arms more, to be drugged, or to be less mobile. “I cannot trust you as you are while I rest.” Not even with Ser Hill guarding.


Perhaps, especially, with a guard. Jaime might find a way to steal a sword.


~***~


 Grey Wind heard the name – the name that seemed strange to the one in his head. These wolf dreams, Robb thought he was Grey Wind, but only knew himself as a wolf. He thought little of the identity of the wolf, because it was him. King of Winter.


Apparently in this dream, the wolf was Grey Wind, King of Winter.


And Grey Wind perked at the name. Brief thought that ‘King’ should be added to it, as his brother Summer was Prince of the Green, so he was the King.


Caireann, Robb knew her, dreaming of her, moved her hand out towards the wolf. He eyed it, curious, cautious, before he was called forward.


He crept forward then, still low to the ground most of the way. He only lifted himself when he needed to, in order to sniff the offered hand. He could confirm then that it was jasmine he was smelling from her. Not some tea she had been brought, but her.



It was a pleasant smell. Not meat, not warmth, but something not-winter. Not cold. Spring. He decided it was like spring, the always hoped-for spring, and he quite liked it, started to sniff further down her arm as if he'd found a delightful treasure in the scent. Which, he had. He might be King of Winter, but winter was cold. Spring was warm, wet, and beautiful. Winter had to end for Spring to arrive, that break of beauty before Summer scalded everything mercilessly.
 
        As Lady Stark left the tent, Jaime breathed out a sigh of relief, grunting at the pain spreading throughout his body. His pride wouldn't allow him to accept the sedative concoction, and yet, his struggle was clouding his mind and thought. 


       "I can't believe you don't trust me, Lady Reyne," he muttered, wiping a droplet of sweat from his forehead, "and such a hatred you carry for me, that you would let me live my night in this pain..."


       He kept his tone playful, in spite of the shivers. He acknowledged the fact that the woman had no intention to free him for the night. Jaime couldn't help but wonder if Caireann was in the same state, tied up to a bed, struggling to breathe, or left in a deep sleep, awaken only to be given more medicine. The Reyne could have lied with ease, when asked about the girl's state. A way to keep him calm. 


       "Give me the damn liquid," he groaned, his eyes tiredly glancing down to his pale body, slightly ashamed of his request, but glad to know he wouldn't have to push through the night. 


~***~


       Caireann never realised how cold she was, until the warm nuzzle of the tall Direwolf touched the skin of her arm. She shuddered, although she didn't know whether the cause was the chilly current or the small distance between her skin and the teeth of a mythical beast.


       She ran her fingers gently through his fur, scratching the back of his ear, a small smile appearing on her lips. The wolf smelled of winter, of ice and smoke- a smell that brought a sense of safety into her mind. It only took her a moment to relax at the long touch, to forget her nightmare that had been haunting her thoughts.


       "You heard me shifting in bed, didn't you?" she muttered to the wolf, staring into the golden orbs of his eyes. "They say Direwolves can understand speech, or so I read... They can sense fear, sadness..." She let out a quiet sigh and moved back in her bed, draping the blanket over her shoulders with a slight tremble, her hand still caressing its head. 


       Caireann felt her eyes getting heavier. Afterall, she only had merely two hours of sleep, before the nightmare woke her up. Part of her wanted to fall asleep again, under the warmth of the blanket, and another did not want the wolf to leave. She felt alone, more than she had ever felt before, all those years spent between the walls of the Red Keep, back at King's Landing, with Cersei's eyes and ears scattered around the halls of the castle.


       The only entertainment she had was a library, which, in fact, was enough for her, but only because she had never tasted freedom.


       Now, she was wondering if she would ever go back, to Cersei, to Tywin. To Joffrey. 


       Joffrey- the only child of two siblings, the bastard that had no right to rule from the Iron Throne. The being that changed her life for the worse, if that was ever possible. 


       "You'll never know hatred," she spoke to Grey Wind, her glance low to the ground. "You are loved; free. I never thought I would envy a wolf."


        She placed her hand under her cheek, her eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. 
 
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“I don’t hate you, Ser,” Lenore answered Jaime’s statement, then looked to Ser Hill, “Please, get me some warm milk,” to Jaime, “Despite the name, sweetsleep is a terribly chalky medicine. Warm milk will help to get rid of the chalkiness.” And she had honey here to add, further aiding in the removal of the chalkiness.


Ser Hill nodded and walked off, letting Lenore find the vial of the sweetsleep among her many things, “You will only be able to have this once more, in a two month period,” she continued, as if Jaime would ever actually need to know any of this, as if it mattered if she explained anything to him. “Sweetsleep is a poison that takes a while to leave the body. You won’t feel its effects…but it lingers. So, do consider carefully the next time you think to request it, here, or elsewhere.” If he was elsewhere after two months. Doubtful, but things happened. Escapes. Trades.



He should be mindful of the poison in his veins.  


She found a small, empty glass. She tipped just a small amount of the sweetsleep into it, and then pulled out another vial, this one amber in hue – honey. The almost sickeningly sweet smell was subdued when the honey was added and swirled together.


~***~


The touch was appreciated, the scratching behind the ear, that sensitive place that always needed attention. He tried to tilt his head up, to get the fingers just where he wanted them, the sensation seeming dual, felt by two.


The King of Winter did understand what was being spoken, or perhaps only Robb did. Or perhaps it understood, because of its ties to Robb. Regardless, it listened to her words through the pleasurable attention.


Most animals could sense emotions, to some degree. And that did nag at Robb, a bit. The fear had been obvious, but now that seemed to fade.



Now there was sorrow. Loneliness. A new sort of fear – not the primal terror of being eaten.


As she moved further into her bed, Grey Wind followed, still listening.


Never know hatred?


He felt like he knew hatred.


Loved? Free? No, no, he had duties. Loved, yes, but a King had duties. A King was not free, and he was King of Winter.


He couldn’t relay that to her, of course. And perhaps he was more free. This human had binds at her feet. She was not free, Grey Wind knew. He was more free than her.


He could empathize though, and he felt that heavy loneliness still.


So he put his paws on the bed and canted his head, his quiet way of asking if it was all right to move up onto the bed with her.
 
Jaime listened to the Reyne's words without a hint of reaction on his face. Or, perhaps, did not even hear her through the throbbing pain. He licked his cracked lips and coughed lightly, awaiting the medicine that was to be given to him.


A part of him was terrified of Sweetsleep. He had seen Robert; the thought of breathing out the last fragments of air from his lungs during the effect of the poisonous substance made him wonder, for a brief moment, if that was not, in fact, Lady Reyne's way to get rid of him with ease.


Poison was a woman's weapon.


No. The Reyne was more than just a woman. She was a kind of fighter that Jaime only saw within Cersei. And, above all, his counciousness told him that he was still valuable. That they needed him alive and at least able to speak, so they could negotiate him or threaten Tywin in return for land or whatever Robb Stark wanted.


"I don't believe I will soon be able to move around, my lady," he groaned quietly, not watching her anymore. "I have enough time to sleep, while you discuss my fate and whether to trade me or not."


With that, Jaime felt like slipping into a deep sleep by himself, without the help of a dangerous elixir. He forced himself to stay awake and strong, so he could swallow the milk of the poppy without choking like a child. Beneath his struggle, his dignity was still peeking through.


~***~


As the wolf placed its paws on the bed, Caireann flinched, but quickly regained her composure. The animal was only quietly asking to climb up next to her, and she did not mind at all.


She slowly took the book out from underneath the blanket and placed it on the bedside, reminding herself to tuck it back in before Lord Stark came back for a visit. Then, she patted the place next to her, and the wolf jumped up, the bed lowering under its weight.


Quickly, the cold was replaced with the pleasurable warmth of the fur, and she felt a shiver leave her body, as she curled next to Grey Wind with a small sigh.


He was free, and yet, he chose to waste his freedom on her.


A Direwolf knew his enemies. Caireann was aware she was one of them, and yet, the wolf never growled at her. Instead, he lay on the bed next to her gently, its body pressed against hers, and as its head rested against it, she placed a hand over and around its back.


"I wonder what Lord Stark would think about this," she whispered, with a small smirk appearing on her lips and her cheeks reddening slightly. "Don't tell him, will you?"


Caireann's other hand cupped one of Grey Wind's paws, as she let the tireness take its toll on her, and her eyes closed slowly.


As the wolf puffed quietly in her ear, she pressed her cheek to its fur, carelessly allowing herself to fall into a sweet, dreamless sleep.
 

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Lenore clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth at Jaime’s words, “Men and pain,” as if Jaime were no different than anyone else. Men dealt so poorly with illness and pain, sometimes, it was a wonder they were viewed as so strong.


Trading Jaime was out of the question, truly.



Tywin could not – would not – give her what she wanted. It was their shared flaw, pride. Lenore would not have what she wanted until Tywin was dead, because he’d never kneel. Never return what was lost. Never legitimize her name. She had to fight for that, and she would fight.


Tear Casterly Rock to pieces, brick by brick.


In many ways, she empathized with Lord Karstark. It was her own love of family that kept her from slitting Jaime’s throat. This was her way to make Tywin suffer, to make him worry, to drive some dread into his own heart. He still had one, still had something to make it beat, and she knew too well it was his son, Jaime. A constant disappointment, but also his only source of hope.


That, and she still refused to sink as low as Tywin.


Never. No matter what, the children did not deserve to die for the sins of the father.


When Ser Hill returned, she calmly mixed the poison and honey into the milk, and passed it to Jaime, holding it out for him. “Drink, and rest.”


~***~


Grey Wind did indeed move up to join her. He moved with her patted gesture, quickly making himself comfortable upon the mattress as she moved her way around him, getting comfortable as well.


He didn’t sleep on beds. This was a rare treat. He always slept on the floor.


‘No, we sleep on beds.’ Intruding thought, the knowledge of mattress and the warmth of so many furs. He knew this, but Grey Wind hadn’t personally felt it. The feeling was different, much as it was different in this form to share a bed with a woman, than if Robb himself were laying with her.


All he wanted was for that lonely feeling to go away. It bothered him.


Lord Stark would not like this, Grey Wind thought.


Lord Stark was just fine with this, the King of Winter thought.


And so, The King of Winter did not move, but did not sleep, either. It couldn’t really sleep like this. It could shut its eyes, but when it drifted to sleep, it immediately woke. The bond threatened to snap when he drifted towards sleep, and that feeling always woke him abruptly, rudely, so he stayed awake to watch her through the night.
 
       The morning struck Jaime with a horrible ache in his head, muscles and eyes. He felt as if he had fought the hardest of battles, and won against the will of death. The dim light assured him that he was still alive and breathing, and the cold breeze against his skin relieved him only slightly. 


       Slowly, memories from the previous night began to pour back into his mind, and he remembered a considerable amount of details. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself, for staying strong. A way to prove the Reyne wrong.


       Catelyn. He had spoken to Lady Stark, something regarding her two girls. Sansa and Arya. Where they were.


       And in that moment, he had spoken the truth. No intention or need to lie, whatsoever. He knew he had his way with words, but Sansa's safety and Arya's absence was common knowledge, at least throughout the south. They were still in the northern area of The Neck, and the rumors might not have spread so quickly.


       Either way, Lady Catelyn was not pleased with the answer. That, he could tell. Whether it had been disbelief, or anger, he could not tell. But he was not intending to lie to get under her skin- something he could not and did not want either way.


       As a cough stung his chest, he realised how thirsty he was. His voice still low and cracked, he lifted his eyes up in search for a solution.


       "Ser Hill..." he muttered, hoping that the man was there, somewhere, hiding in the blur. "Water..."


~***~


       The bright ray of light that broke through the fissure in the tent fell on her cheeks and eyes, slowly awakening her from a deep sleep. 


       Caireann found herself gripping onto the furs on the bed, as if it were Grey Wind, and she couldn't help but wonder if it all had been a dream.


       She opened her eyes slowly and shifted her glance around the room, helplessly searching for proof that loneliness was not driving her insane. Where Grey Wind had slept the previous night, the fur was flattened against the bed, the place still slightly warm.


       Caireann sat up slowly, shuddering at the cold morning breeze, as she pulled Maege's dress out from beneath the bed. It was simple, and yet enough to keep her warm, if only she had a fur coat around her shoulders! She was happy that Maege hadn't chosen a dark grey dress, like those made in the northern fashion; hers was of a dusty rose, a colour that matched her cheeks when she smiled, she thought, flattering herself for a moment. 


      It seemed that a good night's sleep had done its magic.


       After being captured, Caireann never imagined she could smile again; she was fearful, and in pain. Her mind was clouded, and all she wished for was to see Jaime, to make sure that he was safe and healthy, that the arrow hadn't gotten the best of him.


       Now, in addition to that, she wished for another bowl of grits and sausage.
 
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Ser Hill wasn’t sure if he hated his job, or if he was just that annoyed with Ser Jaime, when the parched Lannister woke. Fortunately, there was water nearby, so he did not have to leave the tent. He moved as it was requested and poured it into a cup, which he then offered to Jaime.


Not tied up.


Ser Hill really didn’t like that, but it seemed to have worked. Whatever Lady Reyne gave him, it worked. Ser Hill knew little about poisons and medicines, only enough to know he did not want to piss off the woman wielding them. He’d seen her wield them in a manner that would make Boltons squirm.


“Here, Ser,” he indicated, seeing the glazed look of Jaime’s eyes. He suspected he couldn’t see too well just yet.


Lady Reyne had left a while ago, to retrieve what she left in Robb’s camp. He was sure she would be back soon, once she had everything she needed. Already, a guard had returned with clothing for Ser Jaime to be dressed in, once he was cleansed. Soap was left folded atop a towel, as well, one unscented by oils. They just wanted Jaime clean, did not want to agitate his wounds lest they open.


Care was being taken to make sure he recovered his strength, even if his full strength would be a threat to the lot of them. Lady Reyne shared her family’s confidence that it wouldn’t be enough. Thought she could keep the lion well-caged, as her father had once kept Stafford Lannister well-caged.


~***~


Lady Lenore Reyne moved back to Robb’s camp with little difficulty, dressed down, crimson slacks and a silvery tunic. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung low over her back, more to keep it out of her face. This would be another busy day, not one that required her to look a Lady just yet.



Robb was going to annoy her soon to see Jaime, she knew. Catelyn might, again.


She’d have to make sure to keep them at bay until Jaime was finally a little more himself. Fed, cleansed, in clean clothing. She would try to treat the wounds that caused him pain, locally. He wouldn’t be sleeping again soon. ‘Have to get him to move.’ Now there was the concerning thing.


If Jaime was just left on a bed, his strength would rot away.


At least the Clifton was there for the morning shift. He was gruffer than Ser Hill. Wouldn’t tolerate too many of Jaime’s games.


She was packing up the last of her supplies when the tent flap opened. She nearly took a dagger into sight, but saw the auburn curls of Robb and instead, released the open bag and turned to face him, hands moving behind her back. “Your Grace.”


“I would like to see Ser Jaime, now,” as if to punctuate the point, Grey Wind entered into the tent on the word ‘now’.


Perhaps it would scare most.



It didn’t scare the lion. “He is not ready.”


“My mother – ”


“Saw him last night,” she interrupted, watching how his face soured, watching how Grey Wind seemed to glare at her for making Robb upset. “He was drugged afterwards to sleep, and now he needs to wake up from that and recover. He is in no state to give you any answers. Give me two turns, then you may see him.”


Robb grit his teeth. “You drugged him?”


“His choice,” she stated, “You should check on the other Lannister. I would like to know how her wounds are, and if she needs anything.” She was not sure if Mormont would continue to see her and offer updates or not.


“Also, I was going to look for you, for this,” she took a piece of clothe that had been folded up on the vanity, and offered it to Robb then. It was from Jaime’s attire, of course, but more importantly, it had a bit of the roaring Lion of house Lannister upon it, with dried blood. A perfect piece, in Lenore’s opinion. It was just the lion’s head, but there’d be no mistaking it.


Robb took it, looked down to it, then looked back to her. “Two turns.”


She gave a nod of consent, and then took her bag, her things, and strolled out after Robb had left.


She passed by him again on the way to get food for herself, Ser Hill, and Jaime, though.


~***~


Robb Stark did not speak to Lenore Reyne as they got food. He had gone first to retrieve his letters he’d written the night before, and find the one regarding Jaime. He rolled the clothe into it, then, and went to the maester to have both that letter, and the one about Caireann, flown to King’s Landing.


Then, he went to get food. Robb did not only get food for himself. He was curious to see Caireann, though duty had called him to see Jaime. It seemed that was not to be the case. Not immediately.


But he was curious about Caireann, recalling the strange dream last night. He had not expected to dream of her, was not sure why he did. She had been on his mind, of course. He had been chastised over her treatment too much to not be dwelling on it.


He got a similar meal for himself and for her, the grits and the sausage, the toast, and warmed tea. He thought to grab a dollop of jelly as well, a small treat, before he went to the tent where Caireann was guarding.


It was no longer Thom at the tent, but he didn’t know of what had transpired between her and any of the guards. With a nod, the guard stepped aside and held open the flap.


He found her awake when he entered, dressed well in a pink gown, warm. No doubt, something Maege had left for her, after cleaning her and getting an idea of her size. “Lady Lannister,” Robb greeted.


The dream was still in his head, and he noticed her wrists were untied. As they had been before.


Yet, she hadn’t untied her legs. Didn’t seem to try to run away. He didn’t comment immediately on it, for that reason. “Are you hungry?” He inquired, stepping further in.


Grey Wind went right to her, clearly remembering and expecting the same sort of affection from last night. Besides, she seemed a little happier. Hungry, of course, but so was he. It was morning, it was the time to eat, and Robb didn’t let him dig into the Reyne woman who was defying him. Pity.
 
       Jaime quickly gulped the water, quenched from the night before. He held the cup with both of his hands tightly, sipping the last drop, before giving it back to Ser Hill. 


       "Thank you," he murmured weakly, sitting up on his elbows. As his vision finally cleared, he could decipher new shapes, details that his pain had not allowed him to see. He felt better, stronger, and yet he couldn't tell if he would be able to get up and walk on his pwn feet, nevertheless run away. Not a second thought.


       From the bright light outside, Jaime decided it must have been sunrise. Outside, deep murmurs disturbed the silence, sign that Robb Stark's camp was awake and moving, probably enjoying breakfast, in the sweet morning breeze. 


       As he turned his eyes to his left, he noticed a pile of clothes atop a small wooden table, next to a towel and a bar of soap. He suddenly felt dirty, the smell of dried blood and death flooding his nostrils. He needed a bath, or at least a private place to have himself cleaned and dressed into something warmer. The Neck was not far from the North, and he could taste the winter on his lips.


       "I suppose Lady Reyne would want me cleaned, before she fiddles with me anymore," Ser Jaime spoke, letting out a short cough. "I wish to speak to her afterwards, the least you can do. Or maybe even the King himself, if you may."


       He let a demanding tone slip into his voice, looking up at the man in front of him. Afterall, he was still nobility, and as much of a hostage that he was, he still had to be treated with the slightest dignity. He wouldn't ask for much either, he thought. Only to see his niece, to hold her in his arms again. He wanted to know for himself that she was safe, and in a better state than him. 


~***~


       The crowd waiting in line for food was immense, and yet, Maege had no patience in the early hours of the morning, especially after waking up. The lady made her way through the awaiting soliders, which only quietly protested, and stood next to the red headed Reyne.


       "Good morning, Lady Lenore," she greeted, rays of sun catching ablaze on her pale cheeks. She enjoyed it, and yet, a part of her missed the cold nights in the North, Bear Island, her family. And, as deeper as they got into the territory of the lions, she felt nervous, agitated, feelings that ate her from the inside and did not allow for a sweet night's sleep. "I understand that you have already sent the threatening letter to Lord Tywin, or you are about to. The sooner, the better, yet, I am afraid that the answer will not arrive by the time we reach Seagard."


       It was something that deeply concerned her, not because of Jaime, but because of the girl. She seemed frail, scared, and as innocent as she was, there was no such thing as safety in war, nevertheless around Lord Karstark. He had honor, but, afterall, the child was a Lannister. A threat by name and blood, and that was enough for Rickard.


~***~


       Caireann was just pinning her hair up and humming quietly as Lord Stark entered her tent, holding a platter of food in his hands, fresh snow on his boots as he stepped in. Her eyes shot around the room nervously, trying to hide her untied wrists with clumsy movements. She quickly bowed before him, an act of respect, in spite of her position. "Lord Stark," the girl murmured softly, only daring to look up after his inquiry.


       The aroma of warm grits, meat and tea tickled her nose, as she let out a sigh of relief. The man also carried a bowl with something sweet, glimmering, that seemed to be a desert, although possibly not for her. She was hungry, and yet, she never expected to be brought such a big meal; she was a prisoner afterall. The binds did not allow for her to stand up, but she quietly thanked him from her seat. 


       Behind the lord sprinted his tall Direwolf, its fur trembling with each step it took. Caireann couldn't help a smile from brightening her face, as Grey Wind playfully bit on her fingers, and she scratched the back of his ear. It had not been a dream, afterall, and she was content.


       "He is such a good wolf, Lord Robb," she spoke hesitantly, her hazel eyes meeting his dark blue orbs. "He comforted me after my nightmare, the night before. You are very fortunate to have him."


     Then, her heart stopped for a moment, afraid of what he would say. Was she allowed to touch the dog, she thought. Maybe the Lord would not be pleased. He would tie her wrists again, scold her. The thought made her hide her eyes, cheeks catching the colour of sparkling fire.
 
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‘Keep up with that tone, Kingslayer, and I’ll start removing your teeth.’


Ser Hill didn’t say it. He grit his teeth and resisted the urge to knock Jaime’s up into his mouth, not sure what it was about the man that pissed him off so much. He placed the cup aside to remove the temptation. “Yes, you are to be cleaned, and you will see her at her leisure,” it would be soon, he knew.


Wouldn’t tell Jaime that.


He might have said more, but his relief came in the form of the tent flap moving and Ser Clifton walking in, brother to Lord Clifton and so tied to the Farman family through marriage.


Ser Hill pointed back to Jaime with his thumb, “Lady Reyne wants him washed and returned,” then he gestured to the chair, “The clothes should fit him,” loose, if anything, but they’d fit.


Maro Clifton nodded, “Mind going to see a tub prepared?”


Hill sighed, but gave his consent, before he took his exit, before he assessed the situation, then approached Jaime, “Hands. I’m keeping those tied up before I untie your legs so you can walk to the tub, Jaime,” informal. He wasn’t trusting Jaime completely untied.


~***~


Northern people seemed to like to state things, seeking answers in implications. Catelyn had done it, not getting to the point. Now Maege was doing it. ‘Always in the mornings.’ Perhaps it was just a sign of lacking sleep all around.


Still, Lenore put a smile to her face, “I have not sent any letter,” Robb may have. Her own would follow. “Should it concern me if we have no response by Seagard?” She didn’t care, really. She wasn’t trying to get anything from Tywin, Robb was the one concerned with that. For her, this was a blow to morale.


Robb would write his words about Jaime become a hostage, a ward, like Theon. They’d be pretty words.


But she understood one thing about Tywin. About lions.


Pride was everything. The pride as the family. The pride as the sin.


Tywin would fall victim to his sin every time. He would have seen Stafford Lannister dead, by sending Ellyn Tarbeck the pieces of her own family – Tytos Lannister did not heed Tywin in that.


Still, she’d humor what Maege wanted to say. See if this was going somewhere of interest to herself. After all, it was too early in the morning to play guessing games, and she’d hardly had enough coffee.


~***~


The gratitude came from her lips, and Robb began to move forward, to set up the tray as he had before and let her pick what she would like again. However, Grey Wind rushed forward, and Robb gave the wolf an exasperated look.


‘Anything for affection.’ Most were too afraid of Grey Wind to pet him.


It seemed the two newest women in his camp, weren’t. Lenore hadn’t flinched. Now Caireann was offering him attention.


He was about to continue forward, or scold Grey Wind, but Caireann spoke before he could, stopping his thoughts cold. ‘What?’


Robb still remembered the dream. Being here, as Grey Wind, but, ‘Impossible.’


Was it? Old Nan spoke of wargs and things like. ‘Not real.’ He shook it off, trying to compose himself. “Grey Wind,” he said the name harshly, and the wolf retreated from Caireann, giving Robb a confused look, clearly unable to understand why he was being called away.


This was okay last night. “He is a good wolf,” Robb said as he kept his eyes down, trying to mask his own confusion as he lowered himself to set the tray between himself and Caireann, “But he’s also a man-eater. You shouldn’t let him in here,” just in case.


He knew Grey Wind ate humans. Saw him. Allowed it. They were enemies. He seemed able to discern that, intelligent, but it was still not something he wanted to encourage. His wolf could very well eat her, and there’d not be much he could do. “You should shout if he enters next time,” he sighed, truly concerned for her safety even if he knew, somehow, that Grey Wind wouldn’t hurt her.


He tossed the wolf a bit of sausage as an apology for his scolding tone, and the wolf caught it in the air, “Please, select what you would like, my lady,” he offered then, finally looking up, thinking he had composed himself enough.
 
       Jaime frowned at the man; he seemed to have venom on his lips and fury in his blood- typical. He was a Lannister. He had that effect on most people, especially those that feared him.


       The tall man that entered the tent suggested something that Ser Hill already knew, judging by his irritated expression. Never answering Jaime's inquiry, he asked for his hands, to tie them up, and he obediently pressed his wrists together, awaiting the rope. He did not protest as to the way Ser Hill chose to address.


       "I might be Jaime Lannister," he spoke, "but I'm not irrational. Only an idiot would dare to attack or escape, surrounded by an army of thousands of soliders." He watched attentively as the man tied the rope tightly around his hands. "You can rest easy, Ser Hill, for I do not bite unless provoked. I feel rather calm now."


       He acknowledged that his words were setting his anger ablaze, and it gave him a certain pleasure doing so. It was, maybe, in his blood, and yet he knew Caireann was never like this. The girl was intelligent, sometimes too witty for her own good. As a child, she would scold him for being arrogant, raising his tone. 


       A smirk flashed on his lips, but then, he regained his composure. Didn't wish to have Ser Hill think he was falling in love with him. Poor maiden.


~***~


       There was something about Lady Lenore that made Maege uneasy. Her tone. Her expression. The manner the words left her lips as she spoke; it all made her wonder if the woman was hiding behind a false mask of irrational confidence. She chose to ignore it; considered it as something typical for a lion, whether it was golden or red. 


      "Because you are allied with the Stark boy, and the answer that he receives for his letter might concern you as well. Don't take it personally, my lady, but sometimes,  we ought to see past our conceitedness."


       As soon as her tray was full, she nodded at the Reyne and walked past her, heading to lady Catelyn's tent. She sensed that, with both prisoners awake and aware, it was to be a long day.


~***~


       Lady Stark did not get any rest the night before; whether it was because of the council or the stress caused by Ser Jaime's words, she did not know. Her two daughters were on her mind; the sensible Sansa, somewhere locked up in a tower in the Red Keep, crying herself to sleep in fear. Arya, running through the woods, hiding from hundreds of golden swords with the man of the Night's Watch. A Crow. Part of her still wanted to believe Arya was a lady, and yet, she could not.


       She had the assurance that she could fight, defend herself. Sansa could not.


     As the tent flap opened and Lady Mormont stepped in, she couldn't hide a sigh of relief. As fearful as she had been, now she had a sense of safety that surrounded her, warmed her up.


       "Breakfast, Lady Catelyn?" she murmured, the scent of food flooding her nostrils. She hadn't realised she was that hungry. 


       "Yes, place it on the table, Lady Mormont. Have a seat with me."


       The woman nodded and sat down with a metallic sound. She was dressed in manly garments, armoure to the teeth, covered in a fur cape, too thick for the South. Typical for northeners, she thought, her son had a similar mentality. In spite of the heat they would face the closer they got to Lannisport, he would keep his appearence intact- one that spoke his name for him.


       "I overheard a conversation between your son and Lady Lenore," Maege muttered as she cut a small sausage into small pieces. "He wants to see Jaime, for whatever reason, and the woman seems hesitant. I am telling you, as much respect as I have for the Reyne, I can tell when someone is up to no good. I suppose you share my concerns, Lady Stark."


       Catelyn sipped a spoonful of grits and chewed quietly. "Lenore would not dare to defy Robb, not here, in the presence of his army. His allies are more trustworthy than hers, and more numerous. She is her own commander, and yet, she would have no advantage in changing sides. Not now, that we assured her a valuable Lannister hostage. If she chooses to betray us, though, her fate will come accordingly."


       "Pity," Maege spoke. "I like the woman; ghost, as I heard some call her," she chuckled. "Like the name of Ned's bastard's dog."


       Catelyn did not respond, her teeth clenching around the spoon for a brief moment. She had enough on her mind; no need to cloud it with a feeling of regret and anger.


~***~


       Caireann sighed as the wolf returned to his position, behind his owner. She understood Lord Stark's concerns- the fear of losing an important hostage seemed to make him uneasy. But how important was she really, since her value was given by the fact that Jaime was in the possession of Lady Reyne's camp?


       "Yes, my lord, forgive me," she murmured softly to his demand, althought she was not sure if she would be able to keep her promise. She was lonely at night. Cold. Afraid. Haunted by nightmares that would not go away ever since she left King's Landing. Cersei once told her that dreams were thought to be prophetic. 


       She slowly cupped the bowl of grits in her palms and placed it on the sidetable, to break a small bit of sausage apart and put it in the meal. She felt hungry, but her composure remained the same. 


       Caireann leaned down over the bowl and sipped from the wooden spoon, taking in the warm smell, and she flinched as the hot liquid touched her skin. She bit her burnt lip with a small sigh, then began stirring into the meal to cool it down. 


       The book.


       Of course, Caireann had forgotten to tuck it under the bed that morning, before Lord Stark came back. She took a deep breath, hoping that he would not notice, and quickly turned her back to the sidetable, to subtly hide it from his eyes. 


       "Will I be able to see Ser Jaime soon, my lord?" she quickly inquired, glancing at him, her eyes wet from the vapors. "I haven't seen him since... Since the battle, if I'm not asking for too much. Whenever you can. You could even tie my hands up, if you're afraid I would run, but I promise you I have no intention to."


       She was entirely honest, and yet, she was aware that her demand could be too much. As young as he was, Lord Stark's patience could be sensitive, and she did not wish to put it to test. She awaited his answer, hope lighting up her face.
 
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“I am not Ser Hill,” the man told Jaime as he began to bind his wrists together, “Not all who follow Lady Reyne are bastards, Ser Jaime,” he informed him, once he was certain that the bindings were tight enough. “I am Ser Clifton,” he didn’t offer his first name.


It wasn’t important enough. He didn’t plan to get to know Jaime.


He moved to undo the bindings at Jaime’s legs, and then would reach to grab Jaime’s hands by the rope. He would pull Jaime up to his feet, commenting, “I hope you can still walk,” he didn’t really want to have to carry Jaime. He would move forward to pick up the items on the chair in his free arm, and then lead Jaime out to where the tub would be prepared.


Or hopefully prepared, anyway.


~***~


Lenore gave Maege a blank stare.


It was definitely too early for this, she determined. Needed coffee. Needed to wonder if all Northerners were this way, thinking Southerners didn’t understand simple things. She didn’t comment, though, let Maege leave in peace and then let out a sigh.


‘Obviously the answer concerns me.’ And Robb would let her know it, because he could do nothing about Jaime on his own. She wouldn’t let him.


She felt a headache coming on as she finished grabbing the last of her things, a meal for herself and for Jaime.


She needed to take something for the oncoming headache. That much was certain.


The comment of being conceited, oddly enough, didn’t even phase her. It was not something that was going to change, either. She was proud. And she was proud of being proud. A terrible vice, but one she wouldn’t change for the world. So she had not taken offense at all to Maege’s words, and walked back to the tent without sparing it much of a thought.


The vice of the truly proud was always that – something they considered a boon.


~***~


“Careful,” Robb said as he noticed Caireann burn herself on the meal, “It’s still hot,” obvious, now.


He took the toast and slid it towards her, motioned to the jam, “Try some of this, it isn’t too hot yet,” he said it as her posture was adjusting itself, looking down to move the food, and so he didn’t notice what she hid with her posture.


On the topic of Jaime, he frowned, “I have not even seen him yet,” well, he had, when he was still unconscious. That didn’t really count to Robb. “Ser Jaime is a hostage of Lady Reyne,” he said.


Arranging meetings would be between both of them, no doubt, “I will see him today. He woke, according to her,” he reached to take a bit of bread for himself, but did not add jam to it.


He didn’t want to deny her. The hope on her face would be hard to break, enemy or not. And yet, lying to her would be just as bad. “You may not see Ser Jaime for a while.” But ‘may’ was the key word. The situation could change. It was not set in stone. “But after I see him, I will give you an update.” There was no point in making her suffer needlessly over his fate.



He bit into the toast then, grits still looking too hot to enjoy.  
 
        "My mind must still be clouded," Jaime muttered and stared down at the man in confusion. Indeed, he was not in a favorable state; he still felt weak and, apparently, unable to tell the difference between two men that looked nothing alike. Still, he was convinced that he wanted to walk. No longer stay in bed, like a woman. He was the Kingslayer, aftefall, and Kingslayers don't waste their time sleeping.


       As he god up from the bed, he felt his blood rush through his veins, and into his feet. It was a dazing sensation, something that was not particularly pleasurable, but not painful, either. It was something that allowed for him to still stand straight and walk.


       The ghost, afterall, had done her job.


       The bath tub was something relatively small, but enough for him to be able to wash himself. Still, as he stepped or rose his arms, he felt as if the pain was not about to give up soon. He needed medicine, but he never commented about it. No need to worry this one as well.


      "Are you intending to strip me of my clothes, Ser Clifton?" he said with a smirk, and turned to him. His pretty face was still shattered by pain, something that would stay etched there for a long while.


~***~


       By the time they had finished eating, Catelyn was still not able to decipher her feelings. There was something in the air that made her confused, nervous, and she disliked being in such position. It did not allow for her to look and feel powerful, and yet, it was not something necessary; not in front of Maege, the least.


       "You are still a great mistery to me, lady Catelyn," Maege spoke nonchalantly as she placed hee unfinished toast back on the tray. "Your choices. Your ways. All, a mistery."


      Catelyn glanced at her, hiding doubt under the firm expression on her face. "And what do you mean by that, lady Mormont?"


       "The manner you would treat the girl. As a woman and a monther, you'd be thought to be loving with children, especially those younger ones."


       She frowned deeply, her fingers gripping on the material of the towel. "Do we have to have this conversation, Maege?" She did not address her properly; a way to express her irritation. "I thought you were aware that the girl was a Lannister. An enemy, by blood."


       "By blood," she agreed, "and yet what is her fault in all of this? Yes, I understand your concern. Robb. He is easily influenced, but this is not the case. She is innocent, no need to treat her like your enemy. Like Ser Jaime."


       Her words cut into her skin like shards of ice. Catelyn rose up from her chair and took the tray in her hands. "An enemy or not, she is not my guest. She is a prisoner, and if you still have a gram of rationality left, that was not eaten away by her sweet words, then you will accede."


       Maege watched her make her way out the door, her eyes shadowed by disappointment.


~***~


       Caireann looked back down. A few moments later, she would have been happy to have toast and jam; she loved anything sweet. And yet, she couldn't hide her disappointment. 


       "I understand, my lord," she murmured, her fingers drawing lines on the edge of the bread. "Sometime, in the future. I understand."


       She slowly added some jam to the slice of toast, tilting her head slightly, then took a small bite. It tasted nice, almost like the jam she would eat back home, but she was content. Truthfully, she had never expected such treatment, but her disappointment shadowed her happiness, her will to enjoy the treat. 


       It was war, afterall. War was never something pleasurable, enjoyable. It almost always ended in pain and sorrow. The Lannisters took pride in their battles, but they knew fear and struggle, much like others. Hatred- plenty of it. She even knew it herself.


       Once, she was told that the real war was about to come. The one that brought winter, fear, death. She had heard the peasantry mention horrible beings, creatures that threatened to destroy cities and lives alike.


       "Do you believe in the existence of White Walkers, my lord?" her question came without hesitation, as she glanced up at him. She had read about them so much, and yet not even her natural curiosity allowed her to believe they were. If otherwise, they would soon have to face the real war, between man and Winter. Life and Death. It scared her.
 
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Ser Clifton had wondered about this part. Couldn’t leave Jaime alone. Really didn’t want to see Jaime naked, even though he might finally understand what the fuss was about this effeminate man and why so many women swooned at the thought of him.


He didn’t see it.


“I suppose I haven’t a choice,” he made a mental note to make sure these duties were passed on to Ser Hill next time. Jaime was also going to need to wash himself, which meant he was going to need his hands.


Really didn’t think this one through. But he could undo Jaime’s binds and let him strip himself. Dress himself. “Hold still,” he grumbled the complaint as he moved to undo Jaime’s binds. When the rope was undone, he stepped back, keeping the rope in his hand. “Get yourself cleaned and dressed.”


Didn’t add a threat.


The threat should be obvious. If Jaime tried to leave, there would be consequences. Ser Clifton would move to leave Jaime to some peace, but he would circle the tent, always checking and listening.


~***~


The tent was empty when Lenore returned, which she considered a momentary blessing. She ate in peace, and then, she was able to write in piece.


The blank page stared up at her for a while, as the tea she had steamed upon the desk.


Where did she begin?


Besides the obvious.


To Lord Tywin Lannister, hand of the false king and Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West.


Lady Lenore Reyne, heir of the Fern Valley, and rightful heir of Castamere and Tarbeck Hall, writes to you.


Continuing after that was the difficult part, even as the signet ring rested near, and the silver was prepared to be heated.


Eventually, however, the words began to flow. She did not reminiscence. The words were written without accusation, blunted and cold, in regards to Ser Jaime’s capture and her defection from the West – and all the others who defected. She wrote of Caireann, and made it clear who held her, and who held Jaime.


Who Tywin had to deal with for either. Not that she gave him much of an option, just the threat that eventually, if he did not cooperate, she would send him Jaime.


Piece by piece.


She knew Tywin would not cooperate at first. Not cease assisting Joffrey. He might never and if that was the case, she would have to make good on her threat. Cripple his son. Kill his son.


Tywin would have no one to blame but himself. He could end it, if he acknowledged the error of Cersei and ceased his support of Joffrey as king. ‘But he won’t.’


This is no war the West needs to be involved in. Your children have made their mistakes.


Right now, this would remain solely about the War of the Five Kings. The personal issues with Tywin were not addressed, the only acknowledgment being her name. Reyne.


She would seal the letter once the ink had dried, the silver lion would imprint itself on the wax.


~***~


Robb felt her disappointment in her tone. He could not fault for her it, even if it was foolish to hope to see Jaime. She was young – he was young, too, but he’d grown up quite fast in these circumstances. She was not meant to be in this prison, though. She wasn’t meant to be in this war.


Still he could not lie to her. Could not lift her hopes.


That would be cruel.


He ate his meal as Grey Wind came to lay himself down at Robb’s side, closing his eyes, relaxing.


The question that came caused Robb to lift his eyebrows. He shook his head, “No,” he didn’t believe in them at all, “They’re just stories that my old Nan used to tell. They aren’t real,” the Wall didn’t protect the Kingdoms from them. It protected the Kingdoms from the Wildlings. “Do you believe in them?”


He found it curious a Southerner was even thinking to ask of them, as if they could be real. He was certain all Southerners barely even acknowledged the existence of the Northern legends, and wouldn’t have ever humored the possibility of things like White Walkers existing.


Then again, most didn’t believe dire wolves existed, and here was one, right beside him.


Perhaps that made everything else possible, too.
 
       As Jaime's clothes fell down to the floor, piece by piece, his dignity disappeared with them. The man felt a certain nervousness heat up his guts. Little did he care of the man standing next to him, cautiously following his every move. 


       He was a Lannister.


       The Kingslayer himself was now stripped of his golden armour and wounded to the bone. He was no longer what he liked to think of himself as- strong, independent, intimmidating. The looks Ser Clifton was giving him were not helping the situation either. Instead of brooding again, he chose to let himself slip into the warm water.


      "Ah..." he let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. He did not mind his wounds burning, his hair sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping from his temples. The smell of wet wood and jasmine made him wonder how long it had been since he last took a bath. Days? Weeks? Maybe close to a month. He couldn't remember his trip to the forest battlegrounds, and nor did he wish to. He had to focus on the present, enjoy the moment. There was something inside, that told him he wouldn't have this pleasure in a long, long time from then on. 


       The soap on his skin felt like a soft breath, warming him up, revealing the golden skin beneath the dried blood and dirt. As the water turned grey, he felt himself lighter, stronger. Almost able to carry himself out, to face Ser Clifton. It was a type of ecstasy that he could not explain to himself, a caprice that made him content. 


        After what seemed like an eternity, Jaime stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around himself, water dripping from his fingers and melting into the rug. He ruffled his hair, torso bent slightly, as he felt his muscles tense up from the cold. Yet, he did not mind. Man or woman, Jaime loved to show off his body, and took almost as much pride in his appearence as he took in his skill.


       "There. Tell Lady Hill that I'm all prepped up for her majesty." He chuckled at his own joke, blood flowing into the wounds as he spoke. 


       Pain. He chose to ignore it once again. No more sweetsleep, no more doctors, no more submission under the dominance of a woman. 


~***~


       As she finished her bread and jam, Caireann's cheeks flushed with blood. Indeed, her question must have been either inappropriate, or foolish. She was a woman, afterall, and not all men saw them as powerful and intelligent. 


       But she was powerful, she told herself. Her weapon was her wit. Her power stood in her words, her knowledge that she relied on. And, from all the stories that she had read, from all the books she had studied from, she believed that they were not alone. All legends had a foundation of truth, but whether they were entirely true, that, she could not know.


       "I do," she spoke, a sparkle lighting up her eyes. "I do believe that there is something beyond the wall, something that aroused those legends." Caireann began picking the minuscule bread crumbs from her dress nonchalantly. "The intellectuals wrote about them, about dragonglass, about the power of the obsidian. If such things exist, and are known to be the key to defeating those creatures, then, I believe."


       She did not want to, though. It was enough for her, the pain that she felt, that the Westerlands endured. War, carnage, massacre. She had no reason to be there; nobody deserved to burn in that hell, only to die afterwards, alone, trembling in the winds of winter.


       As the last crumb fell to the floor, she looked up at the young man sitting next to her. Beneath his strength, his courage, there was a certain innocence that assured her of his warm heart. Something that made her trust him, and at the same time, pity him. For, in the game of thrones, only the strongest lived. 


       "Your knowledge might be above mine, my lord, for you have seen and felt war on your own skin. You know the politics of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond more than I do. And yet, in all these books that might mean nothing to you, within all those empty words that your Nan used to tell you as a child, there is a fragment of truth. And I am telling you, the real war will not be between the noble houses of the Westerlands. It will be something of an incredible breadth, between man and winter." With that, she looked away again. Strong, she reminded herself. She wanted to believe in the power of her words. And yet, most times, she sounded pathetic. Not today. 


       Her eyes found Grey Wind's and her pale hands peeked from underneath long sleeves, touching the wolf on its head, caressing the warm fur. She was a prisoner; she meant nothing for the Stark king- her value was in her name. With a sigh, she shook her head, anticipating his response.


       And who would listen to the words of a bound woman?
 
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Ser Clifton glanced into the room, regretted it, and looked back out, “Throw the clothes on, Jaime, unless you wanted to be paraded back to your tent like that,” with just a towel on. Clifton folded his arms over his chest, stared straight ahead.


‘Lady Hill’ was definitely getting this task next time, he could deal with all Jaime’s taunting.


Though, it did clear up some reasons as to why the women loved him so damn much. Ser Clifton felt the pangs of self-consciousness seep into his thoughts, for he knew he did not look that good in the nude. ‘He only seems that good because he looks like his sister.’ Ser Clifton told himself. Long blonde hair, a leaner build – hardly manly.


Not what any real woman would want, or so he tried to tell himself.


Still, perhaps someone should make sure it didn’t get to Lady Reyne’s head. ‘Her?’ and then he chuckled at the thought.


Once she’d come out to all of them, there had never been any doubts about her intentions. It wouldn’t matter how pretty Jaime was – he was now just a pawn on the board of a much larger game between the Westerland Alliance and his own father.


And Clifton had to smirk a bit when he noticed the ‘ghost’, as some called her, walking by to their own maester, to send her own letter. He saw the glint of silver in the wax. She looked more like any one of them that day, discarding her fine dresses for tunics and slacks. Mobility. They’d be taking down the camp soon to move, he’d heard. On up to Seagard and them from there, to launch an attack in the Westerlands.


Hopefully, luck would favor them.


~***~


It seemed the Southern really did believe in the legends, but all Robb could do was smile as if he was humoring a child and not a grown woman. He could think only of Sansa and Arya when they believed in such foolish things – Sansa for longer than Arya.


He did not doubt the idea that there was truth in fiction, but he also knew how it could be created. People spoke of him as if he was a wolf, could shapeshift into them, and things of that nature. All because he had a dire wolf, and his dire wolf heeded his commands. He saw how the truth twisted itself into lies easily. He knew how to play that game with his enemies.


He had finished his own meal a bit after hers, but remained to listen to her convicted words. Still, he couldn’t help but shake the way Bran had spoken of such things with conviction.


Still saw her as a child when she thought these creatures existed.


“Well, if the War ever comes, I’m sure the Night’s Watch will take care of it,” he decided not to say she was wrong, but he still dismissed the idea all the same as not his concern. He had an actual war with real people to deal with, not some mythological war beyond the wall.


He began to take the plates then, added: “Besides, I’m sure it won’t happen in your life time,” it had been how many years since the Others were supposedly last seen? Thousands. “So you do not need to worry about the monsters beyond the wall.”  
 
       Jaime rolled his eyes at the words of Ser Clifton, and couldn't hold back his infamous smirk. Was he so easily intimmidated? He knew of himself to be quite attractive, yet never imagined his public would contain ladies with beards.


       He reached to the wooden counter next to the tub and pulled his new clothes- simple but warm, nordic style, in cold and dark colours, like their hearts. He slowly threw them over himself with casual grunting at the pain, but did not voice out his complains. There was no need to have Ser Clifton struggle with that as well.


       "Finished," he declared, sheepishly walking up to the entrance of the tent and waited. More bindings were to come. More pain. And he didn't even want to think what would happen once the Stark boy decided to pay him a visit. 


       He wondered if he was still the young boy that he met years before, at Winterfell- the child with the wooden sword, taller than the others, but with a certain innocence in his eyes. Then, again, as childish as one could be, the boy had managed to capture him and smash his pride under his feet, along with an army of six thousand brave men and knights. The King in the North would put an end to the Slayer.


~***~
       
       Caireann felt her cheeks catching fire. Had she really sounded that pathetic? Or was the pride of the man in front of her higher than one would have thought?


       Impossible.


       She was wrong, once again, to believe that she could speak higher than her captor, convince a northener of their own legends. 


       She was feeble. Only her father would give importance to her words, and not even him, at certain times. The smile on Lord Stark's lips made her nervous, ashamed. 


       Monsters. He spoke as if she was a young child, afraid to go to sleep at night, in the darkness; he was there to assure her of her safety. Pity. That was what she made out of his words, and couldn't help but look away, to compose herself before she spoke another word.


       'Nobody believed in Direwolves, yet you have one at your feet at this very moment."


         Yet, she didn't say it. Not because she could not, but because she did not want to. Blaming herself for her own words was something that had been etched in her mind long before. Never allowed to speak without not being taken seriously. Caireann did not know him aside from what she saw at the surface, and she preferred not to provoke him by responding. Not polite; ethical. If she wanted to be mature, she had to start by keeping her mouth shut.


       She did not look him in the eye until he left the tent. Then, she took a small glance, fingers gripping onto the warm furs.
 
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‘Thank all the gods.’


Ser Clifton didn’t confess his surprise at how cooperative Jaime was being. He suspected it had to be a ruse, a game. Even if Jaime wasn’t known as the smart one, the Lannisters claimed descent from ‘Lann the Clever’. Jaime could still be clever, still be plotting a way to take them all by surprise so he could escape with Caireann.


Clifton wrapped the bindings around Jaime’s wrists again, and then would pull him along.


Lady Reyne had returned to the tent then, letter sent already. She turned when the flap of the tent moved, smiled to them both, “Thank you, Ser Clifton.”


“Next time get Hill to do this,” he grumbled his complaint, shoving Jaime back towards his bed.


Lenore just chuckled. “Perhaps,” she consented, then gestured him away, “Let Robb Stark know that Jaime will soon be ready enough to see him,” she said, and Ser Clifton gave a stiff nod, then walked off to do just that.


Lenore turned to Jaime, and reached out, palm up, asking for his hands so she could untie them, let him eat. She’d tie his ankles together, rather than to the bed. Just so he wouldn’t have to lay down when Robb came to see him, “How are you feeling this morning?” She asked, keeping the demeanor of a medic simply checking on a patient.


~***~


Caireann was Tyrion’s daughter, Robb knew. It was not surprise that she reacted as she did whenever Robb chose not to believe her. No doubt she was an intelligent woman – she was clearly well read and well spoken, but it seemed she did not take criticism or doubt well. She did not like it when he doubted her about Tywin. Now she did not like it when he doubted her about the Others.


But, he wouldn’t take it back.


He couldn’t lie. He didn’t believe in the Others, and she wasn’t going to convince them. Seeing the Others would probably be the only things that would convince him.


She didn’t dare to speak again. That was what seemed odd, even before. He knew Lannisters to be defiant and question everything, get their way. She was not doing that.


So, he picked up the tray with all the food. “Come on, Grey Wind,” he addressed the wolf who had too much of a liking to Caireann.

Who went to see her….


Grey Wind dragged himself up, but with clear distaste for the idea. He followed after Robb, dutiful, but cast a look back to the woman before he left the tent.  
 
        As Ser Clifton tied his wrists, a voice inside of him poked him, blurred his thoughts. A voice that told him all the ways he could escape, make a run for it. 


       Hit Ser Clifton, twist his neck. Run out before they can see you.


        Instead, Jaime shook off the thought. He stood no chance to run past the guards in that state. And there was still the issue of Caireann. He had no trust in those who would take care of her. She was a priority, and a part of him, deep inside of his heart, hoped that she would make it out safely, with the price of his life.


        Before his internal fight was over, he heard a swift pair of footsteps through the thin layer of snow, and in front if him appeared Lady Reyne, dressed in a tuscan red dress, with a long, dark cape draped over her shoulders. She looked regal, nonetheless. Not a ghost, yet still surreal.


        The expression of relief of Ser Clifton's face assured him that he was pleased with not having to listen to Jaime's words anymore. It almost made him crack a smile. He knew he had that effect on most men, who subtly felt inferior to him; intimmidated. Didn't mind it.


       Then, came the problem with the Stark boy. He would see him soon, and he was not too enthusiastic about it. The boy could still be childish, too brave and too arrogant for his own good. If Jaime wanted to keep his head on his shoulders, he would have to kneel before him, thought that brought a sour taste on his lips. Still, he presumed that it would be a chance to check on Caireann. To possibly get what he wanted for such a long time.


       The Reyne woman stood straight as she slowly untied his binds- a relief, although he couldn't tell the reason behind it. He couldn't complain- the warm water had made his skin sensitive, and the rope was a rough as sandpaper, or armour on bare skin. He watched her silently, analysing her features, trying to decipher still if she was real or not. Red locks of hair falling over her shoulders, eyes of a wildfire green, under dark brows and lashes, pale skin of a Northener. Couldn't belive his eyes, that a Reyne breathed in front of him, alive and well, and in other circumstances, he would have found her exuberantly beautiful.


       Again, Jaime shook off the thought. He must have still been under the tormenting effect of the milk of the poppy.


       "I am better than last night," he replied to her inquiry, voice low and firm. He didn't want to seem weak. He was Jaime Lannister, afterall. "Can't say I am strong enough to run. Yet."


       A tease. He was not stupid; he was aware that trying to escape was a death sentence, at least as long as Caireann was still in the possession of Robb Stark. 


~***~


        Alone again. Partly pleased, partly pained, a fragment of her seemed to leave her body along with Lord Stark. As intimmidated and embarrassed as she was, she chose to ignore it, and adopt a stronger posture.


       The book was in the same place that she had put it, untouched, of course. At least one thing went right throughout their breakfast together. That, and the delicious jam with toast.


        Once the boy left the tent, a tall man took his place, standing guard over her tent. Dark hair, tied up; beard covering his lips and neck- Thom. Caireann couldn't help a smile from forming on her lips. It was dangerous to call for him, and yet, she assumed that Lord Stark would want to pay a visit to his other prisoner. Or Lady Reyne's, in fact. Politics she did not wish to understand.


       "Thom!" she murmured, leaning over her bed enough to get closer. "Thom come in!" She had a childish expression on her face, yet she didn't care. As long as she was not alone, as long as she had someone. And if anyone would comment on Thom being there, she would take the blame. 


        Thom turned around in confusion, hand on his blade, ready to attack in case the lady was in danger. Yet, she wasn't, and he bent in slightly, peeking through the flaps of the tent.


      "Can't, m'lady. Duty. If commander sees me..."


       "I shall take the blame," she answered, and patted the place next to her on the bed. "I'll say I was feeling sick, from the grits. Come here, now."


       She awaited eagerly, eyebrows raised as a sparkle glimmered in her eyes. 
 
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The Lady had enough time to change out of the informal attire before Jaime showed up. It was more for Robb than it was for Jaime, to remind Robb that he was not dealing with someone who would bend easily to his commands – if at all.


With the bindings off, she motioned Jaime to sit. “You’ll need your hands to eat, but I will need to tie your legs together. You can sit before the King of the North, however,” she told him, and she would wait for him to choose where he wanted to sit, and once he had chosen, she would kneel to tie his legs together, over the clothe, above the shoes. Shoes were still too easy to slip off.


“I am pleased to hear you are doing better, you are looking it,” idle compliment, easily followed by, “but I would advise against running even when you are better,” she said, as she finished tightening the rope, “It’s the lioness that hunts,” idle threat, placed as a natural fact. If Jaime did think to run, she would certainly follow. The last thing she’d allow was a reunion of him and Tywin.


She straightened up, then took up the bowl of brown she had gotten for him. Nothing too solid, not yet, that would come in the evening if he still seemed to be doing well. “What food do you usually prefer?” Had to get him food he would eat to make sure he did maintain his health. Kept the subject off anything significant.


~***~


Robb could not quite shake Caireann from his thoughts as he delivered the dishes to be taken care of by those in the camp who ran the kitchens. He had not needed to ask her why she believed in the Others – she had explained that. Truth in fiction.


Now it made him wonder – why didn’t she believe she would be taken back by the Lannisters? He couldn’t recall the explanation. This one had been so freely given, but not the other. It cycled in his head; he should ask. Would it be rude to? Would it hurt to tell him?


Before he could think to turn back and ask, though, he was called: “Lord Stark.”


Wanted to correct whoever spoke it, but his eyes fell upon the man. Westerland. “Lady Reyne has indicated Ser Jaime will be ready to see you soon.”


He let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Show me to her tent.” He was ready now. Needed to see the Kingslayer, needed to find out the battle plans, and how many others might be trying to move too far North.


~***~


“That’s not how it works, m’lady,” Thom said, but still he found himself moving in, aware that he would likely be taken off of guard duty if he was ever caught. If not worse.


He didn’t want to think of the ‘worse’, though.


He moved forward to her, took the seat that she indicated and offered a smile, “What is it, my lady?” He asked, wondering why his attention was so desired, not guessing she as merely lonely and didn’t want to be with her own thoughts. Then again, he’d never been a prisoner – didn’t want to be, either.
 
       Jaime sat down obediently, too famished to oppose anymore, awaiting his new binds. He hadn't eaten in days, and his hunger was taking its toll on him. He felt weaker, thinner, vulnerable. And, as soon as the delicious scent entered his nostrils, he felt his heart skip a beat.


        "I am not stupid enough to run, through all these men guarding my tent," he said, composing himself enough to speak fluently. "I know you might think of me as irrational, Lady Reyne, but I assure you that, regardless of the coat, the lion still has claws. And a mind just as sharp."


       It was an intentional stab to the heart, but he figured the woman would play it off naturally. They were enemies, afterall, no need to treat her too kindly. Part of him wanted to shake away the thought of her, the way he had seen her only a few moments before. 


       "I prefer meat. Boar, especially," Jaime replied nonchalantly. He held the bowl in his hands and ate quickly, eyes closed with pleasure. It wasn't the most distinguished meal, but as long as it was edible, then he would eat it. His state did not allow for him to do otherwise. He needed to be strong, and able to hold a conversation without quickly losing his breath.


~***~


       As the man took his seat next to her, Caireann turned to him, eyes glimmering with a subtle happiness. Thom gave her a feeling that she couldn't explain to herself- something that warmed up her heart, assured her of her safety. He made her feel like home, she decided, but not the Red Keep. Something else. Something Lord Robb would call home.


       She quickly grabbed the book from the bedside and placed it on her lap, a smile appearing on her lips. "Lord Stark did not notice it... I can still read to you, tonight, if you'd like." The girl sighed quietly. She would read to him now, but if she were seen, she risked not ever seeing Thom again. The thought scared her.


       With a deep breath, she found his eyes, and the smile on her lips faded as as swiftly as it came. 


       "Thom... You're a Northener, aren't you? I... Told Lord Stark about the Others, the Undead beyond the Wall... Please, oh, please tell me that I am not insane for believing in their existence. Is this place driving me mad?" Caireann allowed herself to speak freely to the man in front of her- for he was simple, not a noble, and she trusted him. 


       Her voice was trembling, but she didn't feel like crying. Fearful, maybe. Bashful. The amused smirk on Lord Stark's face angered her, made her wonder how childish he found her words to be. Wondered why she had even dared to ask him such a question.
       
 
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There was a fraction of a crack in the armor. The patience in her face seemed to vanish, the eyes flaring with actual hatred. ‘My words.’ Like red, her color. Not the official words of the Reynes, but her words all the same.


No, the official words made Tywin’s act all the crueler.


And then, the hatred calmed. Her eyes shifted to his hands, and she smirked, “No, they aren’t,” she told him. His nails weren’t long, and she flashed her own, to show him what long nails looked like. Long claws. They were a source of pride, of course. Useful, and simply beautiful, as well. “But, perhaps one day. You’ll have a long time to grow them,” she rose, hearing the heavy footsteps.


Clifton, and another. Robb.


She kept in mind that the lion preferred meat. He likely wouldn’t get his preference of boar for a while, but she would find a way to make sure he got plenty of meat, along with the other foods required to keep him healthy.  


She met Lord Stark at the tent’s entrance. He opened his mouth to protest, thinking he was being blocked from entry, but she only stepped aside to open the flap, adding, “The wolf stays outside.” Threats were not going to exist here. Not to harm.


Robb wrinkled his nose, but looked down to Grey Wind. “Sit,” he instructed, and then walked in, Lady Reyne behind, while Clifton remained at the door. Robb assessed the scene of Ser Jaime, eating and sitting up in a chair. He was surprised the Kingslayer was trusted with his hands, considering he was legendary for his skill with a sword.


He didn’t question the methods. It was her throat. “Ser Jaime,” he greeted, ice in his voice, as the woman went to sort the items she had. “You are going to answer me about what battle plans you know.”


~***~


Thom did nod to the inquiry about being a Northerner. “Last I checked,” he managed to say, before he heard the rest of her inquiry.


The Others.


The Undead. “Er, well, they’re not the same – the Others and the Undead. Least, not in the stories. The Others raise the dead for their army. Wights, we call’em,” he told her, smiled, “But they are just stories,” though unlike Robb, his voice held some doubt. “Just things mothers use to scare us. To say, ‘if you’re not good, the Night’s King is gonna take you for his army of the dead’, and things like that. I’m sure you have stories like that in the West, don’t you?”


Did wonder. He didn’t know much about Southern culture at all, but he figured it was the norm for women to have stories to tell their kids to scare them into behaving. It seemed so normal here, after all. “It’s not driving you mad…the cold gets to a lot of people. You get used to it.”


Anyone could believe in terrible things here. After all, what kind of god would allow a season where everything died and people struggled to eat? It was terrible. It seemed like it should be the creation of evil Others.
 
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