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Even though he keeps his head low, you can still feel the prisoner’s gaze burning into you as he searches for weak spots, anything to help him gain an advantage and get out of here. He might be feigning disinterest, but you’re no fool. Despite the dirt and chains, you see him for what he truly is – a lion, waiting to strike.
The cage’s lock clicks shut behind you, and the mud squelches beneath your boots with every step you take towards him. Neither of you says a word as you kneel at his side, the hem of your dress soaking up the filth below.
Sodden strands part like curtains when he lifts his head and your gazes meet. His eyes still hold slivers of pride regardless of his current predicament and the promise of danger. However, your focus rests on the cuts on his face, especially the gash at his forehead. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve it, but they need cleaning.
The worn leather of your satchel runs smooth beneath your fingertips as you open its flap and take out some rags to dip into the bowl of water you have brought along.
Your hand pauses in the air between the both of you.
“Try to bite me and I’ll knock your teeth out.”
“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that,” he smirks, the arrogance in his voice as vivid as ever. “But I’d love to see you try.”
Disregarding his words, you close the gap and begin to wipe away the dirt and blood, perhaps a bit harsher than necessary. The torches’ distant flames are too dim, so you grab his chin and turn it towards the light in order to get a better look.
“Hold still.”
The tightness in your chest and the tension in your muscles are a testament to your distrust towards the man, but he obeys with no more protest than a single scoff. You can feel his eyes on you the entire time you work, yet you do not meet them. There’s no knowing what you would do to this man if you were to let the reality of his identity fully sink in.
When you’re done treating his wounds, you grab your things and leave, using the key on your belt to lock the gate behind you. Only when you settle down on the stool outside his enclosure does he speak up once more.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like?” you ask without turning around.
“Like you’re getting ready to take a nap.”
You sigh. “I’m here to stand guard.”
His laugh cuts through the night, vicious and mocking in equal measures. “You, standing guard?” Another harsh huff. “What is a little girl like you supposed to protect me from?”
You peer over your shoulder and through the bars. “Do you have any idea how many people in this camp want you dead, especially after that little stunt you pulled? How many fathers and lords want to avenge their sons and men, the ones you’ve killed?”
“Oh, I’m well aware. But what exactly are you going to do against an angry mob of armed men?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you respond wearily.
To your disappointment, the prisoner seems to have no interest in letting the matter rest. “I kill one of his men in order to escape, and Robb Stark sends you as a replacement. Should I be offended?”
“If it’s any consolation, I volunteered.”
“And he agreed?”
You stay silent, already regretting your offer to take over the post.
The prisoner doesn’t do you the same courtesy. “You know who I am, right?”
He’s not going to talk all night, is he? Gods, please have mercy on me, you think to yourself, and if you’re out of mercy, at least give me strength.
“Yes,” you say, exasperation seeping into your voice. “I know who you are, Kingslayer.”
†
“Why is he still alive?”
The words thunder through the night as a man emerges from the dark, his steps laced with unbridled fury. Your hand instinctively reaches for the blade at your side as you rise from your seat.
“Lord Karstark,” you say, forcing your voice to remain calm and respectful as he closes the distance. Normally, he wouldn’t dare to harm you, but grief and anger can do terrible things to a man and his impulses.
“He killed my boy,” the older man seethes. “I want his head.”
“We’re all sorry for what happened to your son, but you heard the King in the North. The prisoner is not to be harmed.”
“I want to see justice be done,” Karstark spits, his eyes leaving yours to stare at the man behind you.
You try to stand as tall as you can, but it is of no use. It takes the lord no effort at all to tower over you.
“And justice will be done,” you say. “But not like this, not tonight. Robb Stark’s orders were clear. The Kingslayer is of no use to us dead.”
“He will pay for what he’s done. You won’t stop me, you little-”
Something draws his gaze past you, past your prisoner, and causes the anger to freeze on his face. There’s no need to turn around in order for you to know what sight must be awaiting him in the darkness – you have seen the hints of fear slipping over his features too many times to wonder.
“Stand down, Lord Karstark, if you know what’s good for you.”
His gaze clashes with yours. A threat delivered with calmness is still a threat and you both know it. You can see it in Karstark’s eyes – the war raging within him. You hold your ground and your breath until the lord finally backs off, the flames in his eyes still burning brightly.
“I will have justice,” he says once more before storming off.
“Not tonight,” you sigh before slumping back onto your seat, heart still racing.
A few precious seconds of silence are the only reward you get.
“How did you do that?” the Kingslayer asks from behind you, seemingly oblivious to what truly just happened. “Who are you?”
“Who I am is none of your concern.”
For a moment, you hope he’ll let the matter rest, even though you know you should know better by now. But of course, he doesn’t.
“One of the healers? Some poor lord’s daughter, dragged along to war because daddy couldn’t bear to say goodbye?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Or are you Robb Stark’s whore, trying to pass the time while he’s with his wife?”
You bite your tongue and swallow the words of protest knocking against the back of your teeth. He’s trying to get a rise out of you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
†
It doesn’t take much longer until one of Robb’s men comes over and hands you a tray with two meals, one for you and one for the prisoner. You make a point of eating your dinner first, taking all the time you need, when an idea crosses your mind.
Why should he be the one having all the fun? After all, two can play this game.
When your plate is picked clean, you step into the cell, closing the door behind you. After he managed to throttle Karstark’s son with his chains and escape, Robb and you both thought it best to bind them behind his back this time. You don’t mind having to feed your prisoner by hand though, not with the idea currently brewing in your head.
“We’ve met before, you know,” you say while placing the tray in the mud beside him.
His brow furrows. “Really? Where? I can’t say you’ve left a lasting impression.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you answer sweetly before pushing a spoonful of mush into his mouth.
Judging by the contemplative look in his eyes as he chews, the Kingslayer actually seems to give it some thought. He swallows the bite before asking, “Were you one of the whores I got for my brother when we were at Winterfell?”
“Perhaps,” you say with a coy smile and shovel another spoonful into his mouth.
His jaw works while the cogs in his head seem to turn. “Why did you volunteer for this post?”
You avert your eyes in a show of demureness. “It’s not every day a girl like me gets to meet the Jaime Lannister, you know. I’ve heard so much about you… I wanted to see for myself if what they say is true.”
“And what is it they say about me?”
“That you’re a dangerous man and a very skilled fighter. That your family is the richest in all the seven kingdoms. That you’re incredibly handsome…”
The next time the spoon disappears between his lips, you make sure to let your gaze linger before meeting his eyes and quickly looking away. The smirk tucking at the corners of his mouth tells you everything you need to know. He thinks he’s found it – his next opportunity.
“You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Cleaning my wounds, feeding me, making sure I’m taken care of…” He leans in as close as his bindings allow. “I think you deserve a reward for being so kind to me.”
“Truly?” you ask, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
He’s wrong, of course. You don’t care about him, no more than a farmer would care about a pig raised for slaughter. Because that’s all he is to you – a means to an end, a bargaining chip. But he doesn’t need to know that, not yet.
“Of course,” he practically purrs. “Such a pretty girl like you deserves only the finest things in life. Rid me of these chains and I’ll make sure you’ll get everything you could ever wish for.”
You smile apologetically. “I don’t mean to offend, my lord, but you’re currently stuck in a cage, caught behind enemy lines. What could you possibly offer me?”
“You’ve said it yourself. My father is a wealthy man and will see to it that you’ll have more gold than you could ever know how to spend. I’ll even take you all the way to King’s Landing with me if you want to. The two of us could have a lot of fun on the road there.”
His eyes trail from yours to your lips and then down your body. It takes all of your strength not to give yourself away. Does he truly think anyone would bite so easily?
“You promise to take me with you?” you ask with wide, hopeful eyes.
“I swear it,” he responds with an easy smile.
You look over one shoulder, then the other, scanning your surroundings for anyone who could be listening even though you know you are alone. Not that it truly matters. You lean closer as if to reach for the chains behind his back, rattling them a little for dramatic effect.
“There’s one tiny problem, though,” you whisper, lips close to his ear. “I doubt you’ll truly want to fuck me. I’m not your sister, after all.”
The way the winning smile slips from his lips is worth more than any gold he could ever promise you. In exchange, your smile is all the brighter and entirely true.
“You little whore,” he hisses.
“Where are your manners, my lord?” you say as you rise, wiping your hands on your skirts. “Did you lose them somewhere in that puddle of your own shit and piss you’re sitting in?”
He doesn’t speak, not until your fingers have closed around the cold iron of the cage’s door.
“A Lannister always pays his debts. When I get out of here, I’ll make sure you’re among the first.”
“You know,” you say while turning to face him. “You still haven’t figured out who I am. I would have given you three guesses, but you wasted them all before I could even make the offer.”
“Does it matter?” he asks. “You’ll be dead soon enough.”
“Perhaps not. But where’s the fun in that? Here, I’ll give you a hint.”
The hinges squeal as you push open the door and let a low whistle slip from your lips. The Kingslayer’s brow furrows as you wait for no longer than a few seconds. Despite the dim light, you can pinpoint the exact moment he hears the creature approaching you through the deep, dark night. Something close to pride swells within your chest as you watch his head anxiously swivel from one side to the other as your silver-furred guardian circles the cage. You wish you could say such simple pleasures are beneath you, but the fear in his eyes fills you with a joy that borders on giddiness.
“Good girl,” you whisper as the massive direwolf joins your side by the cage’s entrance. Your fingers dance through her fur, finding the spot behind her ears she seems to favor. Judging by the prisoner’s expression, the growl of approval emanating from her chest is easily mistaken for a threat by a stranger to her gentleness. Good, you think. He should be scared.
“Give it another try, Kingslayer,” you say. “Or do you still believe me a whore?”
He swallows. “You’re a Stark.”
“Close,” you hum.
Finally, the pieces seem to click into place. “You’re Ned Stark’s bastard daughter.”
“I have a name, you know,” you say. “But yes. See, I knew you would figure it out eventually.”