Fandom Of Wolves and Beasts in Golden Coats

[peritwinkle]

 

[peritwinkle]

Dark, stifling smoke emerged from the ground, floating in the air like a specter and silencing the voices of those struggling to take their last breath. The sun no longer warmed the earth, now hidden beneath blackened clouds, cold and unmoving like the lifeless bodies scattered around the field.

Jaime’s eyes had opened just enough to scour his surroundings in search for a living being. He sat flask against a tree, limp and weakened, yet at a good distance from the nearest fire that the smoke only irritated his eyes and scratched his throat. On his lips, he could taste earth and dried blood that had made their way into his mouth after biting the ground a few good times. He vividly remembered each time he had been taken down and flinched at the very memory of the painful embarrassment.

The Northern troops had taken over them upon a sudden. The density of the forest had stifled the noise of their weapons clinking against the steel of their bulky armour. He had only heart the whistling of arrows piercing through the sky, and as soon as they came crashing down upon them, a good amount of his men had caught on the heist and lifted their shields above their heads instinctively.

They had been ambushed from all sides. Mormont and Mallister banners had emerged from east of the valley, appearing from behind the trees like frenzied beasts, whilst the steel of Houses Karstark and Frey had glimmered in the moonlight from the North-West. It had not taken long until the tips of their blades had reached his own ranks; they had been given barely enough time to assume their stance, which was pathetically easily broken within a matter of seconds.

The screams of his men still rung in his ears, braided with the shouts of glory of the Young Wolf's soldiers. The sight of him was embedded in his memory, fierce as he came almost derisively striding towards him, his canine beast slicing and piercing its enemies with a ravenous force. Jaime himself had been cutting through Northmen like butter, blindly and mindlessly, his eyes ever following the grey fur of the Direwolf in his vicinity.

"Fight, you stupid fools!" a voice had echoed over the heads of the Lannister army. "Or are you afraid of a boy and his pet dog?!"

Jaime had recognized that voice to belong to Addam Marbrand, loud and calculated as he had ever been, and for a brief moment, he had found himself praying that the man had ceased speaking so he could fight. As he brought the memory of it back to the present, he wondered if the knight had managed to flee the battlefield before meeting an abrupt and saddening end to his glorious life.

The break of dawn had brought the chaos and carnage of the battle to light. In that moment, Jaime was finally allowed to feel pain, and it seemed to be washing over him in its amplitude from every cut and stab that had managed to reach beneath his steel plate. He was unsure whether the shrieking in his close distance was merely a fabrication of his mind ringing in his ears, or if Robb Stark's men had been merciful enough to allow for a breathing being to grace the site of their glorious victory.

Sickening. It was almost amusing how the son of Eddard Stark had decided upon such a dishonourable attack, a man so deepened in his beliefs that he was willing to die for their sake, mindless of the fates that waited his children. He briefly wondered if Catelyn had been content with what her son had proven to be. If she had agreed to it, knowing that in just combat, he might have been defeated just as easily as he had reduced the Lannister army to a pile of blood stained dust within less than a night.

From where he sat on the field, farther away from the carnage, he could slowly see the light of dawn raise its tendrils from behind the forest trees. He saw the tall silhouettes of his enemies pacing through the dead like Kings and could almost hear their vile laughs fill the air, despotic and overbearing, covering the shouts and groans of pain that resonated to that moment still. "Come to end me already!" Jaime found the strength to shout over to them, his voice derisive and pathetic. "Are you waiting to see if the gold will melt off of me by midday?"

He was not an idiot. He knew he was more valuable to them alive; the boy would likely try to trade him for his sisters if he was stupid enough to drop such a valuable asset for the sake of two siblings, to his knowledge. It would only come to their father's advantage; Lord Tywin would never let the Starks step on the integrity of his blood. His defeat was nothing more than a spit in the face of the Lion, and as soon as word of it reached the capital and Casterly Rock, the absence of their name would only give the commoners free reign to speak ill of them, as they had always been fearing to do behind their backs, but never truly ceased it.

As he looked down upon himself, Jaime let out a sigh of vexation. Blood was dripping from somewhere beneath his armour, staining his leg and the piece of embellished fabric from his cloak that draped over it. His own breathing seemed to kindle the flow, and he decided to simply lie back down against the old tree trunk and await his fate. With a bit of luck, he would pass out soon and would not have to deal with seeing the Starks and Mormonts spit on him whilst he could not walk, yet a part of him still fought to stay awake, if only for the sake of letting Robb Stark know that his role in that war had not yet been consumed.

'Not yet, not ever,' the bitter thought came to his mind. 'Not until I have something to return to back home.' For he did not care of the legacies that his father wished to see growing and spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but for one face and heart that kept him fighting despite the odds that worked against him.

 

[CriticalCaffeine]

There was a lot that got left out when the singers and storytellers spoke of battle. Like the taste of blood on every breath. Like raw, scratching throats from screaming and smoke in the air. Like the stench of burning bodies. Like picking over the battlefield to find those who were still living… Eyla took a shallow breath before she drove her sword through the heart of a dying soldier, telling herself it was a mercy, because he never would have survived his wounds.

Was it? She would have shrugged if someone else had asked, but it was some errant inner thought that she kept to herself. She took a deeper breath and promptly regretted it before she spit out another mouthful of blood. Her free hand reached up and carefully tested the tender side of her face where a glancing blow had caught her sometime in the night. It was bruising fiercely—she had fought enough stupid boys back home to know that—but it was nothing worse than that.

“Don’t worry,” said some young man she had seen a time or two jested from not far away, “you’re still pretty.” He had a bright, boyish grin and she supposed he was handsome. He was kind, though, and that was more important. She did not expect that he actually found her attractive. He was the sort that always wanted to lighten the mood, and he was simply trying to keep himself, and her, from thinking too much about the task at hand.

Another breath, another aching bloom in her chest and more of the taste of blood in her mouth. This battle had not been what she had expected. But then, what had she expected? Another thought for another time.

This life was new to her. She had never before been this far from home. Hell, she had never even been from home. She had spent her entire life in that little town, first trying desperately to mimic her mother’s every perfection, from her dainty embroidery stitches to her cooking to the way she could braid her hair up in lovely ways that a young Eyla imagined highborn ladies must have their maids do for them. Then, when her mother was gone, she turned into her father’s daughter, learning the forge, learning to put stupid boys on their ass in the dirt when they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

The latter was what had brought her to this point now. Even soldiers could be stupid boys sometimes, and when there was an entire army of soldiers passing by sleepy little towns, there was always the risk of trouble. So it had been when she’d caught a few young men harassing what few pretty young women were left in the town. She had thought she’d be punished for what she’d done to the young soldiers, but instead she’d been offered a place in the army instead.

And here she was.

And there was her name being called from somewhere behind. She turned, knowing she was being summoned back to the Young Wolf’s side. How had she been given a place there, rather than among the rank and file where she belonged? It was dizzying, truly, but she suspected it might have had something to do with Lady Mormont. She had seen the approving way the older woman had looked at her a time or two.

She felt so very out of place as she came to stand among them, as far back as was politely possible so as not to be in the way, as she felt she constantly was. Robb, Lord Stark, gave her a nod when he saw her, and somewhere under the blood and ash she might have blushed a bit. She didn’t fancy him or anything, though he was handsome. She just still wasn’t used to being noticed by anyone above her station.

“The Kingslayer is out there somewhere,” Robb announced as he looked over those gathered around him, including his mother. “Let us go collect him.” At times he wished she would go back to Winterfell. It was dangerous to have her here, and he would never forgive himself if she were hurt. But, as often as not, he was glad to have her close. He valued her advice above all others, even if that was foolish.

The small procession moved through the carnage easily. No one around him shied from it, and he was proud of that. Not that had expected any of them would. Rickard Karstark was the embodiment of the words “stubborn old bastard” and Lady Mormont’s reputation had always preceded her. Even the blacksmith’s daughter, Eyla, had proven herself, though she was rather quiet.

There was a pause as they all heard the shouting, the taunting from Jaime Lannister from somewhere ahead. Their steps quickened, but they did not run, simply moved with purpose. Grey Wind loped easily at his side, never far from Robb. He always felt a twinge of guilt when he had to pen the direwolf, but it was necessary to keep the animal from savaging fools who thought it wise to provoke the beast.

It did not take long for him to spot the Kingslayer propped up against a tree. He was injured, and for some reason that surprised Robb. There was no small degree of legend that swirled around Jaime Lannister, but the truth was… he was just a man. A swordsman of the highest degree, to be sure, but a man nonetheless. And all men were fallible.

Grey Wind let out a low, rumbling growl as the group of them came to a stop a handful of paces away from the tree. There was a silence as they all stared, daggers glared, and Jaime stared defiantly back. Then Robb caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

Seeing that smug look on Jaime’s face was too much. Catelyn could think of nothing but her daughters, of poor Sansa and Arya, prisoners in King’s Landing, and that golden bastard was smirking! She lunged almost without thinking, hearing the startled sounds from behind her. But they weren’t quick enough, and her foot lashed out as hard as she could.

“Lady Stark!” Eyla cried as she threw her arms around Catelyn and pulled her back. Every muscle screamed with the effort to hold on. Truthfully Eyla didn’t want to. She wanted to allow poor Catelyn let out all that she held in, but this was not the time. Fighting past the pain in her limbs, radiating both from exertion and small injuries, she pulled the older woman back and whispered what soothing words she could think of. Even she knew they rang hollow.

 

[peritwinkle]

By the break of dawn, there was not much left to be looked at on the field of battle. As Maege Mormont paced through bleeding bodies, fragments of armour and blood, her eyes scrutinized her surroundings for a sign of Northern life. Thankfully, the Warrior had been kind to them; for every man they had lost, another ten lions had fallen to the wrath of the Stranger. It would surely make for a good message for Lord Tywin Lannister, whose famously brave offspring had managed to lose to a young boy.

A smirk touched her cheek at the thought of it. For once, the victory had belonged to the bold instead of the prepared. Had it not been for the sudden ambush, perhaps the Lannisters would not have been as easily defeated. They were not close to their home and had fought on foreign grounds, but they made for good warriors in battle, far more strategic and calculated than Northmen who fought with their swords as opposed with their minds.

Not long passed until traces of bleeding Northmen lead them to what seemed to be the silhouette of that night’s true enemy. His voice echoed across the field, pained and wretched, yet never losing the bitterness that always accompanied the tongue of a Lannister. The sight of a wounded Kingslayer was strange to Maege’s eyes; tales and legends had been told of his skill, and she had witnessed it with her own eyes when he had slaughtered the sons of Rickard Karstark when charging for the Young Wolf. It both baffled and pleased her, to an extent, and she was sure that there was a touch of pride within Robb’s heart for reducing him to an crawling pile of gold and steel.

Despite the groans disturbing the silence of the morning, Maege could hear Lady Catelyn’s breathing intensify as they neared the man. She was not surprised to see her jump at him with her wolfish fangs exposed; the kick only earned a stifled grunt from the wounded before she was quickly pulled back by a frightened Eyla, whose hands gripped on her like a frightened mother holding on to her child.

“Is that a Northern way of greeting an old friend?” the man sighed, his eyes eventually lifting to look upon Catelyn Stark. “It is good to see you again,” he said bitterly, as his gaze moved over to those behind her. The green orbs lingered on the Young Wolf for far too long then, almost seeming to catch ablaze, still ardent as he fought a few choice words from slipping out of his mouth.

“I suggest you are a bit more careful, Ser Jaime,” Maege said patiently. Her voice was loud but steady, always there to mark her presence. “After all, you are speaking to your enemy,” and the victors of their battle, who could just as easily silence him with more than gentle words. “I am sure Lord Tywin will want you home regardless, mouth sewn shut or not.”

Jaime Lannister’s eyes narrowed as he listened to the woman speak, slowly lowering his head to check his wound. He had been holding his gloved hand pressed to it in an attempt to hinder the bleeding with the cold of the steel, yet it did not seem to be working. He was losing blood at quite the rate, and the Northmen did not seem nearly as bothered by the sight.

“I think I will take my chances,” he concluded and, with a strong push, attempted to get himself back on his feet to face the Young Wolf like he should, yet the wound denied his sudden movement and only gushed out more blood onto the glimmering silver of his armour, almost sending him back down on the ground. A heavy breath left his mouth as he made a last effort to lean against the tree behind him, his eyes once again coming to meet theirs.

“You will be taken care of,” Maege Mormont said, and looked behind for two of the male soldiers and sole healer behind Robb’s back. “At our mercy,” she added then, as the men quickly trotted over to the Kingslayer’s side. Their faces were hidden by their helmets, yet it did not take much wondering to guess what their expressions looked like as they were made to touch the lion. “Unless you would prefer to walk on your own instead of being carried.”

Healers had already begun to tend to the wounded on the field, and without an order spoken from either of their lips, the young woman accompanying them hurried to fetch one of the old stretchers from below an already dying soldier. The man was laid down gently, although it did not stop him from spitting a good amount of blood onto the fabric, before it was brought to be used by the Kingslayer.

Jaime almost flinched at the sight of it, and pursed his lips to stifle a groan as he was pulled by the two soldiers. His heel dug into the ground abruptly, as he almost pathetically directioned his gaze to the Young Wolf. “A win does not make you a victor,” he spoke, his eyes darkened with spite. He must have been a sorry sight, as he could see that most of those before him were struggling to keep their poise if only for the sake of being respectful, aside from the fierce Catelyn Stark, who seemed to be ready to push him off the stretcher as soon as he was laid down upon it.

Yet he could do naught but comply. In that moment, he did not have his sword to allow for one last attempt at his glory, and nor did he want to take his own life by pretending the odds were in his favour. The pain of the wound was too much to bear then, and he had already grown weakened to the point of barely being able to stand up on his own. ‘Not a defeat,’ he thought to himself then, ‘but merely tarrying the battle.’