The flames flickered uneasily atop the two greasy tallow candles afforded her. Their shadows seemed to dance menacingly on the dark walls on either side of her, but she was not afraid. I must be hard like the North, she reminded herself, hard and unyielding. She finished her supper in silence and poured out the last of the honeyed milk for the spirits of the earth, as she had done also at the start.
She was not going to die here, not tonight. That much, at least, she knew. It was what she did not know that set her stomach aflutter and kept her awake at night. The Blackfish was no fool, nor an ordinary man to be duped or deceived with ease. He and Lord Edmure and others she did not even know of had conspired and plotted together and seen to her escape. Days had passed and a Lannister army was yet to fall upon them. So far, so good, were it not for the bandits and outlaws into whose power they had passed instead. Such people were naturally indisposed towards the Lannisters and Freys, judging by all she had heard whispered and rumoured at Riverrun. What they made of Tully and Stark was less certain, however, and by whatever name and cloak she was still a Westerlander born...
The uncouth men ogled and leered at her from a distance. Some sighed, others frowned and looked away. A few even ventured to lick their lips and make such eyes and faces that a small shiver traced its way down her spine. Not one had ignored her altogether. She had no desire to spend the slightest amount of time whatsoever alone with any one of them. The gods had been good and none had attempted to steal into the alcove or trouble her at night. On the whole they had been kind, even gentle and solicitous in their way, as much as broken men and brigands could be said to boast such virtues. She had tried to listen for northmen in their midst, for men as hard as her Lord husband had been, with a growl like his...no, not like his, no one had a growl like his. No one living, at least. His brothers were all dead, her sisters too, all but the bastard Snow - a treacherous and untrustworthy creature, to hear the Blackfish tell it...and a world away from them whatever the truth of the matter. He was not here nor was any other man of Winterfell, judging by their endless bickering and prattling. These were Riverlanders, by and large, but if they were to feel beholden to anyone, it would be to the mighty Lord Brynden, not her.
She had been Queen once, a lifetime ago. As Queen she had been mistress to better men than these in their thousands and thousands. She had played her part well, she thought. The Young Wolf's bride had been sweet and gentle, all demure smiles and earnest entreaties for mercy whenever someone offended her royal husband. She knew well it was a royal consort's place to give her husband an escape - and so she had been cheery and trivial where his mother was solemn and sore, soft and compliant where the northmen were ever difficult and cantankerous. She had even contrived to make herself useful, in those moments were her husband's grave sovereignty demanded he mete out obdurate justice and good sense required the exact opposite. She had intervened on behalf of her enemies the Freys and others besides, the weakness of her sex allowing her husband to pardon the errors and perceived offences as a boon to her, without injury to his royal authority.
She did not do more than he wanted or needed her to do, but it was enough to taste power, real power, and long for more of it, much more.
Her crown and husband were gone now, and with it the power they had given her. Irreparably, perhaps. Gone too, she was slowly realising, were the dreams of happiness and comfort that had made her endeavour to take Robb Stark into her bed. She lived now to safely deliver a Stark heir and bring forth the avenging of a man poisoned, seduced and killed in the name of her ambition. A son of Robb Stark would wield a magic more powerful than any witch or wizard she had ever heard or read of. His name alone would conjure up armies, breed dissension and uproar, wage war and wreak havoc upon his father's enemies. She prayed Robb's ghost would consider the debt paid then, and allow her to go into the earth in peace when the time came.
Until then, her hope of success resided in the Blackfish. That he cared not a jot for her and thought only of the wolf-pup growing inside her mattered not. She had no great love for the crabby old lout either, but he was the only protector and shield left her and her child.
The babe could be born female, of course, but that was not a thought to be entertained. The Blackfish would be ill-pleased, she supposed. She would too. She must think as she wished. Believe as she desired. She would bare a son and name him Stark, to strike terror into all their will be his mother's milk, she pondered, hatred his helpmeet.
He had to be born first, however. A promise of armies and banners meant nothing if she was sold to the Lannisters, torn asunder by some outlaw's blade, or worse of all defiled by a strange man's touch. Yet more thoughts not to be considered.
Disconcertingly her gaolers refused her access to the Blackfish, or even so much as sight of him, though they assured her he was well kept and recovering nearby. Yet feigning sleep she fancied she heard one speak of his body drowned and lifeless pulled from the river. She had seen him struggle, in the water, but there had been so many of them, it had been heard to see, hard to understand. He was made of tougher stuff than most, that she knew, and it was not beneath her to grievously mishear the muffled talk of others. She was glad to harbour such uncertainties - better to remain ignorant for the nonce. She had also heard the men speak of him and a Dagon and an Aegon, but she had been almost asleep then, too tired to feign any longer, too weak to care. Perhaps he had fought such men, long ago - a Dagon Greyjoy had troubled the coasts of the West in times past, she remembered, and the name Aegon was favoured above all among the dragon princes not long removed from the Iron Throne. Aye, old weathered Brynden Tully was ancient enough to have known and fought such men, enough to be remembered for it in his native Riverlanders. Indeed, if at least one in their number was highborn enough to have had a maester, they would have stories aplenty of the Blackfish's valour and cunning to marvel at. Stories they might get to retelling and sharing if the man was dead...or alive and in their midst. She did not know, could not know, and must trust in her intuition. She was not going to die, not here, not tonight, and that meant the Blackfish was safe too.
She had heard some of those stories herself, back at Riverrun. Brynden Tully was one of the few men who seemed to truly command alike the respect of the Young Wolf and his formidable mother, the fierce Lady Cat with her disapproving face etched all in marble and set hard in flame. It would take more than these to bring him down, she wagered.
By morning, all talk of him had ceased and the whispers turned to the Hangwoman called Stoneheart and her merry band of followers. She had not known of House Stoneheart before, but if its Lady had gone outlaw she was like to be no friend of Lannister or Frey. Growing up at the Crag they had often been in lack of a Maester - "another mouth to feed, and to what use?", her mother used to say, but in the end Lady Sybell had always conceded that their family's dignity and breeding required a maester, not a wife, to send letters and brew potions. A mummery if ever there was one, her mother still wrote and received every letter and supervised every stir under the Crag's leaky roof. Her family's ancestral home was more ruin than stronghold, but it was a royal ruin all the same, the seat of kings and queens of old.
All that history meant little and less when one had no coin. The maesters that were sent to them were invariably too old or too young, incapable and unlearnt to a man, and in any case more devoted to the education of her brothers than Jeyne and her sister. Her mother was always prone to hurt or dismiss them, and she could not recall one who lasted more than a year. She was studied enough to know that the Stonehearts would likely descend from a bastard line of Vale nobility, scions of the Corbrays perhaps. They had been kings too once, not unlike her Westerling ancestors, and it would be no spectacular thing for a bastard line to take root here or there. What that would mean for the Lady Stoneheart's allegiances she could not guess, though Ser Brynden had been headed for the Vale and in hope of raising an army there. If the old trout was truly dead, a Valewoman however horrid might make for the very best next thing as keepers went.
The tired-looking serving girl returned and took away her cup and plate, eyeing her curiously for an instant before scuttling away into the night. The girl avoided talking to her at all costs, but what few words she had muttered here and there were always prefixed with a carefully placed m'lady or Grace. The brutes outside were no different with their grotesque courtesies and the fanciful imaginations they used when they thought her out of earshot. Her Loveliness, Her Wolfiness, the Wolf Queen, Lady Pureheart and the more staid Her Grace m'Lady Stark were only a handful of what seemed like a thousand titles the men toyed with. There was little added mocking in their tone, and what teasing and haranguing ensued seemed most directly at each other than against her. More than one had called her ugly, or uncomely, but by and large the men seemed more playful than hateful, a pleasing omen.
She did not think bandits who planned to rape or kill a woman would bother with such flatteries and deference. She could only pray that she heard them right and weighed their words correctly.
More like than not, overheard conversation counted for more than the guest right in these sorry times.
When the girl eventually returned she did not bring the bath and change of clothes Jeyne had ardently been hoping for. She brought instead old dried loaves and some rabbit stew, with nuts and honey to sweeten the mouth after. In so dire a community, such fare might even pass for a Queen's portion. Certainly her present custodians seemed resolved to keep her well fed and provisioned. Or else they did not wish to be bothered by a pregnant woman's wiles in the night.
She lamented silently as the girl traipsed away. I have married the North and carry forty thousand blades in my womb, but I cannot bring myself to ask this waif for bathwater or a change of clothes. She could feel heady traces of the Red Fork's mud and silt still on her, and wondered at the cleanliness of the cloths the girl had used to bathe her upon her arrival. The stuffy air of their cramped underground abode did not make her feel any purer or lighter either. I am a Stark of Winterfell, the Queen of Winter, the hope and dream of the slain...but my most urgent prayer is for a clean shift in a colour less drab than this grey. They had changed her out of her septa's disguise at once, though all memory of the event was lost to her - she hoped they had afforded her fitting privacy and discretion. Somehow she doubted it. Gods being good the serving girl had taken the robes to wash in some stream and put out to dry...but somehow she doubted that too. Those robes could be halfway across the Riverlands now. She wondered if, like her supper, the drab grey shift they had put her in might pass for royal pickings - that, she did not doubt.
She devoured the rabbit stew and lay to rest. She would nibble at the rest when she next awoke. She smashed a couple of nuts underfoot, another offering before her slumber. Such attentions would keep her safe and guarded, especially in a place like this under the earth. If her foot had bled a little, all the better. She thought of her mother, her sister, her father and said a silent prayer that their mummeries would serve them well. Her sister had taken her place and her mother had promised to blind the Lannisters as long as she could. The Lady Sybell could lie and scheme with the best of them, but she knew better than trust her mother with heart and soul. Her mother would throw her and the Blackfish to the flames if it meant the difference between survival and no.
She awoke to the sound of hurt men wailing in the night. The band had no maester, which was no surprise, but swore by the wisdom of some wizard of theirs, a murderous looking man with gold plated teeth and a wicked smile. He was ironborn, she had deduced, though perhaps the son of thralls or some unfortunate salt wife given the hue of him. He served them for priest and healer, and was wont to cleanse their wounds with salt water and burning steel. Whatever small success the man enjoyed her, she had yet to meet a match for her lady mother with either blade or poultice.
The screaming continued, and there was something of a clamour as more men arrived and bellowed. She felt fear well up in her innards but lay perfectly still, pushing it back down and closing her eyes once again.
I will not die here, not this night, that much I know.
A haggard-looking soldier entered her alcove abruptly, all dressed in pink rags and an odd motley of armour. She opened her eyes in thinly-concealed terror, and gulped down a scream. For a moment he stood towering over her, silent and smirking in the dark.
"Valar morghulis," he offered with a flourish, and when she failed to utter any meaningful return he knelt and took her available hand in his. "Your Grace."
No northern growl there, just the scents of sorcery and traces of the East, though where exactly she could not quite place.
"What is this?" She insisted, pulling back her hand and her lips into a girlish scowl. If the man took her for a Queen still it would do well to proceed carefully and test the waters.
He straightened himself back up and took in the full measure of her with hungry eyes. Beyond him other men made for the alcove, a scene that inspired little joy in her.
She sat up against the alcove wall and regarded him forlornly, as only an adolescent girl could. "Surely it is night already."
He nodded. "The night is dark and full of terrors, my Lady-"
"But the fire burns them all away," she countered, rising slowly to regard him and his approaching companions face to face.