By the time they stopped to make camp, the moon had climbed high in the sky and the stars shone bright. No matter how much Jaime's rescuers desired to keep pressing forward and further away from Riverrun and the hounds Robb Stark had no doubt set upon them, the horses needed rest. They needed rest. Inns were not an option, and so that left the only choice of finding a place to camp far off the kingsroad.
The camp that night was a small clearing surrounded by thick trees and brush. It appeared no different from anywhere else they'd passed through thus far, and might easily have been mistaken for numerous other places Jaime had made camp. An owl hooted in the distance, and bugs hummed noisily. Somewhere, far away, a wolf cried a mournful howl that sent a chill through his veins.
One man in the rescue party had caught a rabbit, and sat beside the cook fire at the center of camp cooking it. Jaime lowered himself to the ground across from the man and winced at how his muscles ached. I am not so old, am I? It wasn't so long ago that he spent nearly the entire day ahorse and felt none the worse for it. Now, his legs ached and his back was stiff. He preferred to blame the pain on the months spent in captivity, rather than age.
The fire roaring in front of him and the warmth it provided made him feel more weary than he already was. The smell of the cooking rabbit brought a gnawing pinch to his belly, and though he'd had nothing but bread and cheese since before his rescue two days prior he still contemplated skipping the meal in favor of more sleep. When was the last I slept? They stopped for an hour or two last night, where he'd drifted off for a time. The night before that had been his rescue.
The Freys, admittedly, had not been high on Jaime's list of potential rescuers. When two men slaughtered the guards at his door and bundled him out of the keep, he'd expected to find one of his father's loyal men. Not Black Walder. Perhaps I should have lent them more faith. His aunt Genna had married a Frey after all, and she had always been loyal to his father.
Black Walder had thrust a sword into his hand and all but lifted him onto a horse himself before leading the small rescue party in a mad sprint away from Riverrun. There were five men in total, counting Jaime, and he was under no illusions that they'd find themselves vastly outnumbered were they caught by one of the search parties Robb Stark had no doubt set out. But they could make a faster pace with their smaller party.
They'd ridden though that entire night and following day, and into the night again. All the while, Black Walder answered Jaime's probing questions as to what in the seven hells was going on, and how exactly he expected to double cross Robb Stark without the boy finding out.
"They think I left days ago to escort Roslin to Riverrun," was Black Walder's answer. "They have no reason to suspect me or any of the Freys."
But to what end? Jaime did not take Black Walder for a man bold enough to take such drastic action on his own accord, nor do so out of the goodness of his heart. A fool he may be in the eyes of the realm, but Jaime knew there had to be more behind the act.
When Jaime prodded for more, Black Walder simply said, "Lord Walder's orders. That's reason enough." His reluctance to offer any more by the way of explanation needled at Jaime. The Stark boy has yet to lose a battle, he had a good chance of winning the war. What reason was there for the Freys to betray Robb Stark?
Not that Old Walder Frey was a loyal man, by any definition of the word. Jaime doubted the old lecher was loyal to anyone but himself. Still… one of his get is to marry Edmure. "I thought old Walder got what he wanted. Why would he betray Robb Stark now?"
From where he'd sat riding to his left, Black Walder spit on the ground. "Edmure took too long to agree to the betrothal, and Lord Walder is tired of being scorned." Black bearded and stern faced, his sneer did him no favors. Even were he to smile, Jaime did not think he'd look friendly. Though he looked less a weasel than some other Freys Jaime had made the acquaintance of, he was no less homely. "Were it any other offer from any other lord, you'd best believe Edmure would have given a timely response."
"So Lord Walder betrays Robb Stark on account of a delayed response to a proposed betrothal?" Walder Frey had never been quiet about feeling slighted by everyone he set eyes upon. Genna had ceaseless complaints about the old lecher, and Walder Frey had made no efforts to conceal his displeasure at his father refusing one of his numerous sons for Cersei, or one of his countless daughters for Jaime. He should count himself lucky to have any Lannister in his family.
"That's not the sole reason. Your father promised us not only Riverrun for our cooperation and your safe return, but the Riverlands as well. House Frey will be the Lords Paramount of the Trident."
That had caught Jaime's attention, but raised more questions than it answered. His father was not a generous man unless it suited him. "That would require more than my safe return. The Tully's hold Riverrun."
"For now. With Roslin comes the forces Robb left behind at the Twins, and all the Starks will be in one place, save the girl in King's Landing and the pup in the North. All your father wants is Robb Stark; dead or alive, what better chance than now?" Black Walder smiled; a horrible thing filled with twisted teeth and malice.
"You'll be outnumbered."
"Not nearly so much as you think. Lord Karstark returned to Riverrun but most of his men still hold Harrenhal, and Mallister and Blackwood men hold Raventree. Not to mention the men your daughter left behind at Casterly Rock. Might be we're outnumbered, but they'll be drunk and unsuspecting. We'll hold Riverrun before they realize what hit them, and your father will march North to help us keep it." That had sent a shock through Jaime that he knew naught what to make of, and even now it left him with a queer uneasiness. "And there's the Boltons to add to our numbers! Your father won Lord Bolton to our side in exchange for Winterfell."
"You got Lord Bolton to go along with this?" For one of Robb's own bannermen to turn cloak would be a blow large enough to cripple his war efforts. And one of his most powerful bannermen at that.
Black Walder shrugged. "He didn't want to strike now, the craven. Don't think he thought the whelp would do so well. He wanted to wait and weaken Stark's men or back out altogether. Your father thought otherwise. Don't know what he said to him but it must've been convincing."
A cautious man by all accounts, though Jaime had never spent long enough with Lord Bolton to make his own judgment. He thought of a hundred things his father might have threatened him with, and none of them pleasant. Slaughter the young wolf and his trout of a mother. It would be a bloodbath, and under guest right at that. If he succeeds, the war will be over. Jaime understood that well enough. The thought of it all left a sour taste in the back of his throat that still lingered. "And this was Lord Walder's idea? My father's?"
"Hah! That old bastard can hardly tell his sons from his daughters. Your father made it clear he didn't care how we delivered him Robb Stark. It's mine and Lothar's plan, make no mistake." Black Walder spit again and puffed his chest out, as though he ought to be proud. Even two days later, an air of satisfaction wormed its way into every word the man spoke.
It had taken everything in him to ask his next question, and he almost wished he hadn't. It would have made the last two days easier, would have prevented the tightness in his chest from ever taking root. "What mention did my father make of the Stark boys' Queen?"
He had hoped to speak with Alysanne again, to learn just how she took Casterly Rock right out of his father's hands. Throughout all his lessons as a boy, it'd been drilled into his head time and time again that Casterly Rock was impregnable, never once having been taken by military force. Even the tale of Lann the Clever had been named merely a legend by Maesters; a fanciful tale to entertain children.
None of the guards or servants who delivered his food had any answers as to how his daughter did it, and he suspected even they didn't know. What Jaime wouldn't give, to have been in the room when his father heard the news. I wonder if he too, is at a loss for explanation.
It didn't escape him that he ought to feel more anger towards Alysanne for betraying their family in such a way. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring himself to feel so. Merely mild amusement and burning curiosity, and some amount of pride. A part of Jaime worried for his father's anger. Would he be cruel enough, angry enough to let himself be named kinslayer? The further their party rode, the more the worry festered.
The simple shrug that Black Walder gave in response to his question had done little to stem that worry. "Not much, 'cept he wants her alive. Still has some use for her I imagine. Once the Starks are done away with, you'll get your daughter back. A Lannister once more."
Jaime doubted that. Alysanne belonged to Robb, just as Robb belonged to her. He struggled to believe Alysanne would ever call herself as a Lannister again, even if she bore the name. Even the Stranger could not sever a love like the one his daughter shared with Robb Stark. His death will destroy her, because even if the Frey's did take the boy alive, his days would be numbered in the Red Keep.
And Alysanne was still a lion yet. She will not go down without a fight. Jaime envisioned Alysanne as he remembered her from Winterfell. Jaime couldn't recall a time he'd seen a bride truly happy to be wed. Cersei mayhap, but that hadn't been out of love for Robert and any joy had long vanished by the following morning. And Shaena, Shaena had been terrified, as had Jaime. But not Alysanne.
No, she will wage a war once they bring her back to King's Landing. And it'd be a war she'd swiftly lose, if Jaime knew anything at all about his father. It wouldn't be long that she herself would find herself in chains, and the thought made Jaime ill. He remembered the caged lions once kept below Casterly Rock. He'd seen them as a boy, and they had been far from the majestic beasts they should be. In captivity, they'd grown meek and pathetic, resigned to a life of captivity spent pacing back and forth, and forth and back. Chains were no life for a lion, especially not a lion of the Rock.
With a huff, Black Walder threw himself to the ground next to Jaime and startled him back to the present. The man who'd been cooking the rabbit handed them each a share of meat and Jaime nodded in thanks. Of the four other men in the rescue group, Jaime only recalled Black Walder's name. They'd been introduced so swiftly, and none of them had spoken much since.
Grease ran down Black Walder's chin and wrists as he tore into the rabbit. "I've been wondering, do you think your father will reward us if we deliver the dragons as well? They're not too large yet, shouldn't be much of a hassle." Bits of food flew from his mouth as he talked around his mouthful of meat, and it might have disgusted Jaime if he wasn't so focused on what he'd said.
"Dragons?" Jaime gaped at Black Walder, waiting for him to laugh and admit he'd been having a go. He's lost his mind.
"Yes, the dragons." He continued to eat and stare at Jaime, waiting for an answer. When Jaime only gawked at him in confusion, he lowered the rabbit's leg and stopped eating. "You hadn't heard? Your daughter hatched three dragons from stone. Ryman says she walked into a burning pyre to do it, don't know if I believe that though."
He blinked, then blinked again. He waited, still awaiting Black Walder to burst into laughter and reveal this to be some queer attempt at a jape. "A burning pyre?"
"Aye, a funeral pyre. Ser Addam's pyre. Walked out with three dragons, one for her, one for Rhaegar's son, and another for Ned Stark's bastard." Jaime knew Ser Addam had fallen, Lady Catelyn had been kind enough at least to inform him. But dragons? Rhaegar's son?
"Rhaegar's son is dead." Jaime searched the faces of the other men to see if any were as shocked as he, but they all carried on with their various tasks. No one batted an eye, and no one snickered at his expense. Black Walder shook his head and shrugged.
"Depends on who you believe. Lad showed up with a hundred dornishmen, maybe two. Got the Red Viper with him and he seems convinced. Another reason we're striking now, can't afford to wait until the rest of the Dornish show up. Even Roose Bolton realizes that."
Black Walder went back to his meal, but Jaime still regarded him with a half open mouth, his own meal long forgotten. "You're lying. Aegon Targaryen is dead and so are the dragons. They have been for centuries."
"Am not. Saw them for myself, flying above the yard. Ask any of the men here, they did too. They say Aegon Targaryen walked amongst them with a crown." The man who'd cooked their meal nodded sagely, but it did nothing to convince Jaime. He'd seen the bodies of both Rhaegar's children, bloodied and broken at Robert's feet. He'd heard Shaena's screams of horror once she understood just who those bloodied bundles were, and he'd held her as she cried for her niece and nephew.
It matters not if he lies. It changed nothing. Jaime would know for certain when he reached the Red Keep. He'd learn the truth of it then; no doubt the men were mistaken in what they saw. The Martell's must have seen an opportunity in the war, and found some pale-haired Lyseni to place on the throne. Varys or his father would know the true identity of the poor fool. And the dragons… Jaime's head swam. He shook his head and moved away from the fire and fools in search of a spot to sleep.
Though he was no stranger to the discomforts of a war campaign, Jaime had always at least had a sleeping roll of some sort to sleep on. None of his rescuers had brought one, however, and the ground did not make for a comfortable alternative. The spot he found was not so free of obstruction as he'd hoped; a stone dug into his spine and the ground was cold. Despite his exhaustion, he struggled to find sleep.
The rest of the men were not far behind him in their quest for sleep, save for two who would stay on watch. The fire burned lower as the night went on. His mind swam with sleep, dipping in and out of consciousness in a way which frustrated Jaime to no end. Sleep would beckon, only to be chased away by a sharp rock under his head, or a twig prodding his leg.
Rather than focus on the rocks beneath him or the claimed return of dragons both man and beast, Jaime tried to bring Cersei to mind. The glow of her golden hair in the firelight, the warmth of her pressed against him; how long had it been since he last saw her? He couldn't rightfully say. It was hard to tell just how many days had passed since his capture. It all blended together, when one was kept in one room with a limited word of anything beyond the walls of the keep.
Perhaps it'd been too long. The slight memory of Cersei he conjured in his mind was a cold echo of his twin and her face flickered before turning sour. The golden hair he pictured was the wrong shade; a paler gold than Cersei's, and before long it wasn't Cersei at all in his mind's eye. This specter was familiar, yet so distant to him, and always accompanied by the sweet laughter belonging to a girl of hardly six name days.
The sweet laughter was what Jaime clung to, rather than clawing the image of his sister back to the forefront. He thought of the girl left behind in Riverrun following his flight, and the laughter turned to sobs. Not a girl any longer. A woman grown, whom I abandoned once again. He shook the thought. What choice had he had?
He'd been a prisoner, not a guest. This was far different from when she'd been taken from him in King's Landing, different from when he rode away after her wedding in Winterfell. He knew that. He knew that. Yet his heart had ached all the same as he ran from Riverrun.
Under the pain of death, Jaime could not have answered whether he'd truly slept when next he was awoken. The fire burned lower than when he'd last taken note of it, and he thought perhaps the moon a little higher. It was voices that pulled him from the edge of sleep this time, no matter how hushed the speakers thought themselves.
"I heard 'em howling." Jaime pried his eyes open and squinted against the dying light of the fire.
The voice came from one of the two men assigned to the first watch that night, though it appeared to Jaime as though they watched the fire and each other more than anything. He closed his eyes but listened still. "She'll be a rough ride, that one. Half the Riverlands 'ave heard 'em."
"Not sure Lord Tywin would appreciate that." Despite what he'd said and his serious tone, the other man snickered regardless.
"Only instruction was she was to be brought alive. Said nothin' 'bout unharmed." She. Jaime's brow furrowed. "Said nothin' about her queenly virtue neither. Not right that the boy's the only one to taste her."
It took all of Jaime's focus to keep his breathing even and steady as he tensed. I'm mistaken. He must be, he'd missed part of the conversation in his sleep addled state. "Won't matter. We won't be there when they take her."
"I'll ride back and meet them, Black Walder said I could and Ryman already promised me a go at her. Always wanted to fuck a queen." The other man wheezed a laugh, and Jaime's teeth ground together. The slow, steady breath he drew did nothing to sate his temper. There was one queen alone that the men could be speaking of, and it set his temper aflame.
"There's nothing really special about it," Jaime said. Both men went silent as he spoke. Though his eyes were still closed, he imagined the pale terror of their faces and his lips twitched upward. "It's no different from fucking anyone else. Though I doubt either of you know enough to tell the difference."
"We- we didn't mean to wake you Ser Jaime," one man fumbled. Which one is that? He'd been introduced to both men, but he hadn't bothered to remember their names. Walder, most like. They're all named bloody Walder.
"My sleep was restless, I would have woken regardless." Jaime pushed himself up to sit. He considered the two men carefully. "Though I'm curious as to whom you speak of. It can't be Cersei, as she's in King's Landing. So it must be my daughter." Neither man rushed to confirm his assumption. "Am I wrong?"
"Twas only a jape, milord. Meant nothin' by it! I swear," the man on the left stammered. He was fat and balding, and his small, beady eyes were opened as wide as they could be. The man on the right, rail thin and greasy-haired, nodded rapidly and muttered his ascent.
"No, I'm sure you didn't." Jaime bared his teeth in a bitter mockery of a grin and rested his arms on his knees. "Tell me. Did you think I'd take kindly to your jape?"
The other men in their party had awoken by then, as Jaime made little effort to keep his voice down. Black Walder rose from where he'd been sleeping and crept closer, whilst the other two men stayed glued to their spots.
"You wasn't meant to hear it," the fat man said.
Jaime parroted the man's words back to him in contempt. I wasn't meant to hear it, he says. A fool could have told him as much. A pity, Jaime thought, as he had rather hoped this journey would be without incident. He blindly reached for his sword, which lay beside him.
The thin man sprung to his feet. "What do you care what fate befalls her? She betrayed your family." He sneered at Jaime, and his companion gaped at him in horror from where he remained seated.
The forest around them went silent as Jaime stood, sword in hand. The thin man was right, Jaime supposed. She marched at the head of a rebellion against her cousin Joffrey, had taken their family's ancestral seat right out from his father's nose. Jaime couldn't find it in himself to care. "You expect I should hand her over to you then? A gift of gratitude, for my rescue?"
"Walder and Geremy meant no harm, Ser Jaime. You know how bored men joke. Tis only empty whims," Black Walder said. It was a futile attempt to placate him, made far too late to squash tensions and fury which Jaime had no intention of relinquishing.
His sword sliced through the air as he raised it to point at Black Walder, who froze mid-step, still on the opposite side of the fire from Jaime. "What I know is how men act when they catch the scent of blood."
They act little better than beasts. He'd seen it riding through the streets of King's Landing following the sack; the wailing of women and the slick blood which painted the cobblestone. Elia Martell and poor little Rhaenys, both of whom he'd been too late to save, were testaments to the whims of men.
The thin man reached for the sword strapped to his side, but before he unsheathed it, Jaime lunged forward and sliced at his knee, sending him tumbling to the ground. The fat man squealed like a girl and scrambled backwards, or tried to at least. Jaime was upon him before he could get very far and a shower of gore splashed upwards as his blade cut clean across his chest.
The horses screamed, and the forest came alive. Whatever animals had been lurking in the brush fled deep into the woods with cracking branches and clattering leaves. Black Walder shouted at the two men to grab their swords, and Jaime advanced on him. He met Jaime swing for swing, but he was no true challenge. Even months out of practice his sword was still a part of him, shared his same thirst for blood.
Black Walder struck at his arm and Jaime side-stepped out of the way, but not quick enough. Black Walder's sword sliced his upper right arm and he grit his teeth, advancing on Black Walder with a renewed fury. His opponent stumbled, and with a heavy thrust Jaime drove his blade into his chest.
The two men who remained clumsily charged at Jaime. Even with the throbbing pain from his upper arm he killed one man with a single strike and the other in two. Jaime winced and braved a glance at his wounded arm. It was not so bad as he feared, though a maester might have recommended stitching it closed.
A pained groan from behind him caught his ear, and Jaime turned to find the thin man attempting to drag himself away. He could not stand, thanks to how Jaime cut his leg. The thin man ceased crawling as Jaime approached and instead rolled over to grimace up at him.
"You're a fucking traitor," the man spit. Jaime dug his boot into the gaping wound on his leg, and the man screamed.
"Maybe I am. A traitor, a kingslayer, a dangerous man to be sure. Perhaps you should have remembered that, before you japed about raping my daughter." Slowly, Jaime dug the tip of his sword into the man's neck. He watched as his mouth and lungs filled with the blood which hadn't poured out of the wound on his thigh. He sputtered and choked and gasped, and with one shuttering breath he went still.
Alone, Jaime could do little for the carnage he'd left behind. One by one he dragged the bodies some distance from the camp. Search parties sent out on their trail would recognize the Frey men, and though Jaime did his best to cover the bodies with branches, he hoped animals would find them first.
One body remained, and Jaime stopped and stared down at it. The glassy, empty eyes of Black Walder stared back at him. Jaime ripped the cloak from the corpses back, unsheathed his sword and raised it above his head, before swinging it down in a clean arc. Black Walder's head rolled free from what had once been his neck, and after Jaime wiped his sword clean on Black Walder's cloak he used it to wrap the head in. A wedding gift for Lord Edmure. He returned to his previous task and carried the headless corpse to where the rest were piled. Already, Jaime heard the snarling of beasts in the dark.
Jaime smothered the fire and cut all but his own horse loose, sending them away with a sharp slap to the flank. He did his best to bandage his arm with one hand, and by the time he mounted his horse and prepared to set off the stars had begun to fade and flicker at the threat of dawn. Jaime found the kingsroad and followed it long enough to gather his bearings, before steering his horse back into the cover of the forest and less-traveled paths.
A heavy ache settled deep into his bones and he stopped to look south, towards King's Landing. He could still continue as he had been, towards Cersei and freedom. Nothing stood in his way, really. Have I not already done my part? He'd done away with the men set on raping Alysanne, spent months as Robb Stark's prisoner. By all rights, he deserved to go free. What fool rides back into the wolf's den?
Once more, Jaime thought of the poor creatures chained deep in the bowls of Casterly Rock, beaten and broken and resigned to such a miserable fate. Clicking his tongue and tugging the reins, Jaime wheeled his horse about back towards Riverrun. He continued onwards, Black Walder's head wrapped and secured to his saddle and a curse on his tongue for his father's plans.
It'd been his father's plans that stole his daughter in the first place, who drove his daughter so firmly into the arms of wolves. It would be his father who drove her away again if he had his way, and Jaime would not let his father condemn Alysanne to the all-consuming grief that had become his companion following Shaena's death.
Alone with his thoughts in Riverrun, there'd been naught but grief and ghosts to keep him company. Jaime had so expertly evaded them until then, but with nowhere to run they'd crowded him and cornered him and cowed him, demanding penance for debts long overdue. How he regretted playing the coward when his father sent Alysanne away to the North to freeze alone. Cersei would forgive him eventually, for returning for Alysanne before making for King's Landing. She'd forgiven him for far worse.
Travel was faster alone, but having to steer around trees and bramble slowed him. For the rest of the night and the entire following day he rode hard. He pushed his poor horse near its limits, only stopping for minutes at a time to rest. He took his meals in his saddle, and spent his time traveling trying to figure out how to convince Robb and Alysanne to listen to him instead of taking his head the moment he showed himself at the gates of Riverrun.
They'd be well within their rights to order him struck down the moment they laid eyes on him. That was if he even made it to Riverrun encountering no outriders the Stark boy surely sent out in pursuit of him. No, he'd be lucky if they granted him an audience at all. It does not matter. If he failed, at least the gods could not say he turned his back on his daughter yet again. They could very well try to take his head, but he would not go down easily, Jaime resolved.
And if they do grant me an audience? He could demand a reward, for the warning he brought Robb Stark. He could bargain his way free, demand that Robb Stark or the boy pretending to be Aegon Targaryen set Cersei free upon taking King's Landing. Exile for Cersei and me, Tommen, and Myrcella across the narrow sea. A fair price, for saving the boy's arse. If the boy even believes me.
Screams of terror chased Jaime in the wind, and the possibility of Robb and Alysanne refusing to believe him tore at his stomach. He remembered finding Elia Martell in her chambers, beaten and bloodied and dead. He remembered the frightfully small bundles placed before Robert following the sack, the wails from beyond the walls of the Red Keep. What would Jaime do, if this time he wasn't too late only for his pleas to fall on deaf ears? That will not be Alysanne's fate. If Robb Stark refused to listen and took his head, Jaime would ride through the seven hells to seek vengeance for his daughter.
At the end of the day, Jaime found another small clearing, indistinguishable from the last, to make camp. He needed rest, even if just for a few hours. Shadows grew longer as the sun sunk below the treeline, and a small cookfire flickered in front of him. His injured arm ached, but the bleeding had all but ceased. He still had no bedroll, but it was no matter. Another day of hard travel and Jaime would be in Riverrun once more.
His horse snorted, its ears flickered, and Jaime furrowed his brow. Sticks snapped, leaves rustled, and muttering voices grew louder. Has my luck run out? He strained his eyes against the shadows and moved to grab his sword as one of the three figures stepped into the firelight.
"Jaime Lannister?"
Mayhap the gods were finally atoning for all the grief which they'd graciously gifted him. He declined to pick up his sword, not caring that Theon Greyjoy had unsheathed his own sword and now pointed it at him. He relaxed back next to the cookfire and picked up a stick, poking at the kindling.
"Do you make a habit of wandering into strange camps?" Theon shuffled a step closer and Jaime eyed him warily. His hair had grown longer and shaggier from when Jaime had last seen him, nearly brushing his shoulders, and he had the beginnings of a beard. What better way to ensure Robb Stark doesn't take my head, than be escorted into Riverrun by his childhood companion?
Greyjoy's two companions stepped closer to him and Jaime's eyes widened. Sansa Stark, nearly unrecognizable with her hair dyed brown, held a dagger defensively in front of her and wore ratty, boy's clothes much too big for her, a far cry from the poised lady he'd met in Winterfell. But it wasn't the Stark girl to the right of Theon that drew his attention. To the left of Theon, holding his own sword, was Tommen.
Tommen. What is Tommen doing here? He should have been safe in the Red Keep, far from the war-torn Riverlands. His hair was dyed dark, similar to Sansa's, and the childish pudginess which once clung to him stubbornly had faded. He looked more like a man now, more like Jaime had in his youth, with sharp cheekbones and the beginnings of a more muscular frame. Have the two of them taken him by force? He certainly didn't have the looks of a prisoner.
"You're Robb's prisoner." Theon marched forward and pressed the tip of his sword into Jaime's chest.
Jaime tossed the stick into the flames and sneered up at Theon. "Am I? An odd place to keep one's prisoner. If you see Stark, let him know it's time for my meal. I'm hungry."
In response, Theon kicked Jaime's sword away from where it rested on the ground. Heavy footsteps stomping through the brush alerted another's approach, but none of the three appeared surprised. A man with a white sunburst on his jerkin lumbered over, stopping short of the scene in front of him. A Karstark or some other, then.
"What's going on?" The man asked, unsheathing his own sword. Jaime rolled his eyes. He didn't see the need for all the bluster; if he meant to fight back, he would not have waited until now to do so.
"Sansa, go with Beron to bring the horses. And bring me the rope that's in my pack, if you would." The man, Beron, did just that. He came back with four horses in tow and handed them to Sansa, who hitched them next to Jaime's own before fishing out a bundle of rope and passing it to Beron.
With a sharp nod from Theon in Jaime's direction, Beron shuffled forward and secured Jaime's hands with the rope. No one could accuse him of being gentle. The rope cut into Jaime's wrists, and when Jaime pulled against them he found the knot disappointingly secure.
"You won't take my head?" Jaime grinned up at Theon, who glowered in return.
"That's for Robb to decide once we reach Riverrun." Jaime barked a laugh, and the more he thought of the absurdity of it all the harder he laughed. "What's so funny, Lannister?" Theon spat.
What's funny indeed. "It just so happens that Riverrun is precisely where I'm headed."
Theon scoffed and Tommen, who until then had remained just behind Theon, shook his head and stalked over to his horse with Beron following behind him. "Do you take me for a fool? You expect us to believe you escaped, only to turn back around?"
"It is absurd, isn't it? But you should believe me. I could have disarmed you the moment you walked up, cut your throat and been well on my way. I didn't. Don't you wish to know why?" Neither Theon, nor Sansa, who had returned to Theon's side, answered. Instead they glared, but Jaime paid it no mind. "The Frey's and the Bolton's intend to put an end to Robb's reign on behalf of my father. Robb, and the poor sod pretending to be Aegon Targaryen."
At the mention of a supposed Aegon Targaryen, the two before him only looked bewildered. Curious. He expected Sansa might not know, but Theon? It made him wonder just how long Greyjoy had been away from Robb's side. "And who told you that?" Sansa asked.
"The Frey men I was with. You'll find what remains of them about a day's ride from here."
"You could have kept on for King's Landing. You expect us to believe your story? That the Frey's freed you and you intend to betray Lord Tywin in favor of my brother?" Sansa stared down her nose at him, an expression she shared with his daughter. He remembered Alysanne glaring down at him in a similar manner following his capture.
"I never said it was in favor of Robb." The giggles of a child long lost to him echoed in the trees, and Jaime briefly wondered if Theon and Sansa heard it too.
"What's this?" Beron called over his shoulder. He poked the bundled cloak hanging from Jaime's saddle, and Jaime could hardly contain his glee.
"Black Walder's head." Beron flinched back at Jaime's answer and he snorted. "I told you, the Freys and Boltons mean to betray your king." And by extension, Alysanne. Robb Stark is no king of mine.
The only response Theon had was to harshly pull him to his feet and lead him to a tree opposite from where the horses were tied. No one spoke to Jaime for a while, after that. Instead, he observed. He'd learned to watch during his years as a member of the kingsguard, and perhaps even earlier during his time in the Mad King's court. He'd watched as Aerys burned men alive, watched as he savaged his wife and stayed silent all the while out of fear for what might become of Shaena. Jaime watched and stayed silent while his sister married Robert, while he shamed her with his whores. You stayed silent while your father sent your daughter away from you.
Now, Jaime observed silently as Tommen, his son, pestered Beron with countless questions about the North. Tommen always had been inquisitive, taking to his studies as Jaime never had in his youth. He was more like Tyrion than him or Cersei in that way. Once, Jaime had taken Tommen down to the training yard to determine whether his only son had inherited any of his talent with the blade. That was the only time Jaime tried such a thing.
In between his stories of the North and wildling raids and summer snows, Beron led Tommen through the steps of sharpening his blade. It was not a sword he recognized, as poorly as the dim fire light allowed him to see, and certainly not one from the Red Keep. It was basic and unadorned, with worn leather wrapped around the hilt. Filched from a common man, perhaps? No matter where Tommen got the sword; if he had one he was no prisoner of Greyjoy or the Stark girl. Jaime struggled to imagine the mild-mannered boy he knew choosing to escape with Sansa Stark and abandon his siblings. It seems I know him less than I thought.
Across from Tommen and Beron, Sansa Stark shyly watched Theon as he cleaned a wound on her wrist and bound it with a fresh strip of cloth. Greyjoy tied the cloth tight and raised her wrist to press a light kiss to it after he finished, to which Jaime chortled, earning himself a glare from the boy. The two of them carried on whispering to one another, and Sansa's hand remained in Theon's all the while.
Beron chuckled lightly at a jape from Tommen and Sansa stood from her spot next to Theon. She brushed her hands on her trousers and ruffled Tommen's hair as she passed him by to retrieve more spare cloth and other supplies, which Jaime soon saw to be more of the same that Theon had tended to her own wound with.
Coming to a stop beside him, Sansa crouched down and undid the messy, haphazard bandages he'd tied around his upper arm the night before. She set to cleaning it as best she could, and whatever it was that the Stark girl poured over his wound stung. Jaime clenched his teeth.
"What an honor it is to be tended to by Lady Stark," Jaime said, his words more of a hiss as he breathed through the pain.
"I am not Lady Stark." She spared him further thought and instead focused steadfast on his wound.
His attention flitted from her work on his arm to Greyjoy, who had joined Beron and Tommen. "Lady Sansa, then. Tell me, is Prince Tommen your prisoner as I am?"
"Tommen came with us willingly. He isn't our prisoner." He chanced a peek at his arm. It'd started to bleed again as she wiped away the grime, and was far deeper than Jaime initially determined.
"So his head will not find a new home atop the ramparts of Riverrun beside mine?" Sansa picked up a needle to sew the cut closed and Jaime swiftly looked away. It would hurt less, if he didn't watch.
"No. It will not." Her words were as firm as her hand as she pushed the needle into his skin. He clenched his teeth with a pained hiss. In and out and in and out, each push and pull of the needle through his skin caused his stomach to clench. He let his head fall back against the tree and tried not to think about the sharp, throbbing pain from his arm.
"That's reassuring," Jaime drolled. He felt the tug of his skin as Sansa tied off the thread. Only when he felt her hands move away did he brave a look at his arm. Her stitches were neat, but a nasty scar would remain once he healed. "And what of your dear Theon? Will Robb uphold his father's oath to the late King Robert and take his head?"
Her hands ceased their rummaging through her collection of supplies. Jaime took careful note of her perplexed frown. "Why would he do that?"
"King Balon, as he deems to call himself, has risen in rebellion and his men ravage the North." Across the camp, Theon froze before continuing his fiddling with a bow. So he didn't know. Or he knew, and didn't wish Lady Sansa to know. Either way, he is listening.
"Robb won't take Theon's head, not when he rescued me." She picked up a scrap of cloth and tore a strip from it and set it aside. Instead of bandaging his arm, she inspected her work and picked up the rag she'd previously used to clean his wound.
"Maybe so. But neither will he let Theon take you to wife."
Her hands fluttered, and her lips pursed in a way Jaime found eerily similar to her lady mother. If not for the hair, she would be the very image of Lady Catelyn. She focused intently on cleaning his arm once more and lowered the volume of her voice. "I know not what you speak of."
Jaime mimicked her lowered tone. "Oh, come now. You're quite obvious when you think no one is looking. You should learn discretion, lest you invite unwelcome gossip about your time on the road with him." Lady Sansa's only reply was to dig her cloth into his wound, pressing on the new stitches and tender skin. Jaime winced. A nerve struck, then. "Your brother will have important bannermen to reward, alliances to maintain. You wouldn't wish your virtue in question if you're to make a good marriage."
Lowering her hands, she glanced back to Theon who harshly tended the fire. "My brother will take into account my desires."
"Your brother would. The King will not. Allow me to impart some advice, Lady Sansa. Spare yourself the heartache of men like dear Theon. Do your duty." Doing his duty to his father, to Alysanne, all those years ago might have spared him the heartbreak of today, but that was not a thought he wished to pursue.
Her eyes were ablaze and teeth asnarl as she whipped around to meet him head-on. "Is that what you told Alysanne when you sent her away? Do your duty?"
"Oh, she does have teeth." A wolf yet. "Tell me, how did my nephew like your sharp tongue? He was never one for insolence, nor a gentle touch."
Sansa tossed the clean bandage onto his lap rather than tie it around his wound. She sprung to her feet. "You're a vile man, just like the son you call nephew."
A retort was on the tip of his tongue, an argument that Joffrey was no son of his. His nephew, never his son. But snapping twigs and leaves crunching under Theon's heavy footstep robbed him of any response. "What did he say to you, Sans?"
It appeared his words had wormed under her skin, even if a little, for when Theon curled a possessive hand around her waist she spared but a forlorn glimpse down at it before side stepping ever so slightly out of reach. The Greyjoy boy frowned at her, and Jaime smirked.
"Nothing worth repeating. Tie his bandage, would you?" She hurried away before Theon replied or argued otherwise, but he did as Sansa bid. He crouched down beside Jaime where Sansa previously sat and retrieved the strip of cloth from its spot on the ground.
"You would do well to mind your tongue around her." Theon was nowhere near as gentle as Sansa at her harshest. The knot he tied was far too snug and dug into the cut, but Jaime was not fool enough to ask him to retie it.
"And you would do well to heed my advice. Rise early and make a fast pace on the morrow, else you'll find yourself too late to be of any use to your King. He'll thank you for it, might even give you his sister's hand as a gratitude." Frustration bubbled deep in his chest at the skeptical glare Theon threw at Jaime.
"Why do you care so much? If what you say is true, your family will be the one that benefits."
Jaime leaned as close to the crouched boy as his bindings would allow. "I care, because it's my daughter who will suffer. Ask yourself, my lord, why I didn't so much as brandish my sword when you found me. What does it matter to you if I lie or not? At worst, you get to see Robb Stark take my head that much sooner." Theon still watched Jaime in askance as he sprung to his feet, yet the hostility and outright distrust had ebbed. A spark of relief eased the tightly wound fear in Jaime's chest.
Theon spat a final curse at him, yet as he turned his back on Jaime he announced to the camp they'd rise with the dawn. Jaime could not help his satisfied smile as Theon roused them before the sun touched the sky, and when they set a brutal pace towards Riverrun terrified screams failed to chase him.