Chapter 24: Captured

Nothing registered in Rhaenys' hearing except for the beating of her heart. She did not know why she deliberately missed Ygritte's neck - so angry was she, so committed to ending the life of this annoying, pretty wildling, but she couldn't. Just couldn't. And in the near slowed life she found the prisoner lunging for her, fist out… Her own hand too slow to draw the knife at her belt…

Only for Ygritte's arms shoving her to the side, a flash of cold steel stabbing the air only an inch from her side. Several more inches from where her heart would've been.

"You bitch!"

Rhaenys collapsed onto the rocky ground flat on her ass, the jolt sending a stab of pain through her buttock and hip. But the surveyed scene truly took her breath away.

Halfhand laid upon the ground, blood gurling out from a slit throat as he attempted to crawl towards all of them. To her horror Nysar was knocked to the side, struggling to rise above an overhang covered in slippery snow - it was clear her front paw was injured. "I'll kill you for that!" hissed Rast, longsword drawn while a dagger at his belt dripped with the Halfhand's blood.

Rast, you fucking piece of shit!

He advanced on Ygritte, hacking away with his sword only for the wildling to leap out of the way. Unlike the portly black brother, Ygritte's slender body was innately nimble and quickly lunged after the sword. Knocking Rast back… only for a punch to send her to the ground on her belly. Trying to get up but failing. She saved me.

The truth was one Rhaenys would have to come to terms with, but not now. She leapt to her feet, drawing her own knife. "You tried to kill me, you fucker," she growled out, almost wolfish. "You hurt my wolf."

Rast fumbled with his blade. "Had it not been for that bitch you'd have been dead… but no loss. Now I can have my fun with a warm body." Eyes widening, Rhaenys lunged. Slashing out with her blade.

It was… quite the miscalculation. Rast wasn't skilled but he was strong and Rhae was at a disadvantage, head still spinning from her fall. His cloak was slashed but he elbowed her, knocking Rhaenys' dagger out of her hand. Heart beating, she acted on instinct and lunged at her attacker - just as her muna and Lady Brienne taught her. Roaring like a dragon, she shoved him into a rock face, grabbing his arm and bashing it repeatedly onto the rock until the sword fell from his grip. Rast screaming in pain. "I'll fucking kill you and feed you to my wolf!"

A cornered rat was the most dangerous, and Rast made the most of it. His punch caught Rhaenys at the temple, sending her off him. A second punch while she was disoriented felled her like Ygritte, only this time on her ass again. Before she could rise, he covered her. Legs pinning her own and slamming her arms on the snowy rock with one hand. The other… free to do what he willed with her body. "Now I gotcha," he leered, licking his lips.

Rhaenys' eyes went wide as she tried to squirm, to kick him off - but his bulk had its advantage. "No! Stop!" Her entire body felt filthy as her breasts were groped, a pained cry leaving her lips. It was painful.

"Ah, so this is what a dragon feels like - I'm gonna enjoy this," he grinned like a madman, reaching down to unlace his trousers. "Its cold, but you dragons are warm."

"Cunt!" she spat in his mouth, only for Rast to headbut her, causing her head to spin. Only barely feeling his fingers rubbing the join of her legs. Unable to break free, Rhaenys whimpered in silent agony. Please, Tessarion. Save me…

"Fucker!"

Suddenly she was freed, but her head still spun, consciousness fading in and out as blurs clashed above her. One voice masculine, growing increasingly desperate. One voice feminine, growing increasingly enraged. Shouting turning into a shrill scream as thudding resonated. A shattering boom shaking Rhaenys' skull as black began to tinge her vision. Nysar's desperate squalls being the last thing she heard before the Targaryen princess faded away…

"Wake up… wake up, Princess!"

Shaken, Rhaenys' eyes shot open, only for her to gasp in pain as her head throbbed. "What the fuck… Uncle Benjen, Sandor?"

"I'm not your uncle, and definitely not that fuckin' scarred man." Vision returning, Rhaenys' eyes settled on the pretty redhead grinning at her. "Far too pretty for that, though the spearwives would eat him up if he's as strong as he looks."

Her eyes narrowed. "You…" Rhaenys' hand went for her sword… only for the belt to be gone. "The fuck?"

Ygritte's eyes glittered as she held the blade up. "Looking for this?" It was still in its scabbard, only for Ygritte to point another blade - Castle Black forged steel - at her. The one belonging to Rast. "Now it is you that is my prisoner."

"Bitch," Rhaenys snarled. "My uncles will rip you apart to find me."

"Which is why we better get moving, lest you want me to leave you and your wolf here."

Blinking, a whimper drew Rhaenys to her right. "Nysar!" The direwolf was curled on a rock, shaking in fear. Her paw was crudely bandaged. "You dare harm her?!" Oh, if only Nymerion were here…

"I did not harm him, you cunt. That rapist fucker did. I killed him and rescued your dog… same as I saved you."

"You… did, save me." Rhaenys stoked Nysar's fur, only to snort. "Why am I here then?"

Ygritte blew a strand of hair out of her face, drawing attention to her pale cheek and somehow white teeth. A truly beautiful woman, if put in some actually alluring clothes rather than badly fitting furs… even if the furs could be easy to remove. "You were knocked out, and if yer uncle had found us, easy to assume I killed that fingerless man and your rapist while knocking you out. Here, we all can live if you fucking do as I say." She grinned. "Or I could leave you here. Pick."

Rhaenys scowled, but realized she was correct. With Nysar injured, she had no way of getting out of here. "Aight, lead the way then."

Better prisoner to the gorgeous Ygritte than raped and murdered by Rast… though there were infinitely better choices. Wordlessly, she unsteadily got to her feet, chafing under the wildling's… quite inquisitive gaze.

Hands running down from her pert breasts to the supple flair of the waist just above such delectable hips, Lyanna moaned as Elia kissed and laved at her neck. "This was an absolutely wonderful surprise…" The northern Queen purred when a hot tongue traced the shell of her ear.

"It is the duty of all to ensure the happiness of her Grace," Elia husked with her Dornish accent quite thick. "Why else did you assign me to your household?"

"Mmmm…" Such games were constant, matters to make their marriage more adventurous after many years and many children - Elia as a servant, Elia as a whore, Lyanna as a guard or a wildling, Rhaegar as a gladiator in the fighting pits or a bandit determined to ravish two innocent maidens. That was a rather favorite one of theirs, especially when Rhaegar had them bound upon his dragon. "Get on your knees."

"Oooh, a lecherous Queen."

"I mean it, on your knees, servant, ahhh…" Elia nipped her shoulder.

The Dornish Queen pulled back with a smirk upon her lips. "I may require a favor."

Lyanna snorted. "So that's ended."

"I would rather consider it paused." Looping her hands around Lyanna's neck, Elia's expression could melt the Wall from how sultry it was. "But this is a serious matter."

"I assume that I cannot escape from it considering your sexy thighs have me pinned."

"There you go," Elia chirped, giggling. But the giggle shifted into a tight expression - it was serious. "Many whispers have emerged about the Blackfyres in Essos, of their movements about the inland regions of Essos between the Narrow Sea and Dothraki Sea."

Given all available history between House Blackfyre and the two Queens' adopted House Targaryen, that was quite the alarming matter. "You think they tried to poison Rhaegar and Lord Tywin?" And succeeded in poisoning Lord Blackwood, already his corpse having been interred at Raventree Hall by his son and heir.

Elia nodded. "Aye, I do… but Varys hasn't said a word about it."

"Oh? Isn't it his role to act as the spymaster of the Realm?"

"Yes he is, which is why I worry he was directly involved in the scheme."

Lyanna's eyes widened. "His personality is strange, as is his manner of speech, but to accuse him of actual treason when he was our mole in King's Landing during the rebellion…"

"What better way to act on behalf of hidden paymasters than to engage in conspiracies within the Red Keep on behalf of us against Aerys?" Lyanna had to concede the depth of Elia's knowledge. Having been in such southern circles while Lya trained to fight and ride and hunt north of the Neck, Elia earned Lya's deference in matters of politics and spycraft just as Lya earned Elia's deference in matters of war. "I need you to meet with him and pick his brain. See what he's up to and whether he is genuine or not."

Furrowing her brows, Lyanna stared into Elia's eyes for any hint of a jape. There was none in those pools of teak. "And why do you wish me to do it?"

"Since you are pretty much as open as the books you read, he will not be as suspicious." As cross a look as that created upon her face, Lyanna relented with a sigh and a nod. The smile that Elia rewarded her with was almost worth it… How the Dornish goddess slid down Lyanna's body till she positioned herself between her legs was truly worth it.

A knock on the door drew Lyanna's attention from the reports at her desk - some matters of how the commander of the Household Guard's archers was caught embezzling funds for new bowstrings. "Enter," Lyanna called out, about to sign an arrest warrant for the man. Demotion and a hundred lashes awaited him.

The door opened to reveal Lord Varys, escorted inside by Ser Oswell. "Your Grace," he bowed, Essosi robes loose about his girthful figure. He'd been quite svelte upon Lya's arrival in King's Landing, but a seeming security in office upon Rhaegar's ascension clearly had an effect. But he cannot be seen as anything but one adept at the game. "How may I be of service?"

"Please sit, Lord Varys," Lyanna gestured to the chair across from him. Eyes darted to the space below the desk, where Elia had been the previous night - head disappeared under the skirt of her dress. Oh, that had been so satisfying, as had when she practically shoved Lia on top the desk to ravish her.

And later when she did the same to Rhaegar on their bed.

Those memories would have to serve to keep her mood pleasant as she proceeded to interrogate Varys. "Tell me, Lord Varys, what are your thoughts as to the small council meeting today?"

"You mean the appointment of Lord Tyrion as Master of Coin as opposed to Lord Baelish?" Varys pursed his lips. "I believe it was the correct decision, even if the appointment of Lord Baelish would ingratiate yourself with Lord Hoster."

"He'll gain enough influence upon the marriage of Sansa to Baelon when the time comes." At this point it was such a commonly-held secret among the inner leadership as to be assumed. "As for Lord Tyrion, he has been loyally in service for years. We can trust him with the finances even if his father hates him."

Varys leaned forward. "I wouldn't worry about Lord Tywin, your Grace. However much he dislikes his son for the circumstances of his birth and his appearance, the fact that a son of his joins him on the Small Council is a welcome development in his eyes. Your alliance with the Westerlands will never sunder."

"That is good news… and I should hope the reward proclaimed upon Samwell Tarly will ensure House Tarly's loyalty alongside that of House Tyrell."

"Even the disdain of Lord Randyll cannot resist the honor that arrives with his heir earning the name 'Savior of the King,' but I would ensure that along with his scholarly learning he earns some physical strength as well. Perhaps Ser Gerion can achieve what Lord Randyll has failed upon."

"Do you figure?"

"Considering his efforts have been simply to toss Samwell into training in order for him to sink or swim, I should hope so." Lyanna clicked her tongue, nodding. As part of his reward, an apprenticeship with Qyburn and Aemon in their studies sounded perfect for him. Considering how the lad looked like a child left alone in a bakery, Lyanna was sure it succeeded. "But I feel you have requested my presence for more than just this, your Grace."

Lyanna nodded. "Aye, Lord Varys. Many sleepless nights have brought me to you - have you made any progress in locating the true culprit in the attempt on my husband's life?" She hoped she sounded sincere.

Varys only bobbed his head. "Your Grace, I hope that this doesn't distress you but my little birds have found indications that House Blackfyre didn't die out with the death of Maelys Blackfyre at Ser Barristan's hand."

The Queen gave great credit to herself for not reacting with shock at Varys' statement. "Blackfyres?" Perhaps any surprise she'd show would be felt as surprise at their existence - she had been when Elia told her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, your Grace. Daemon IV Blackfyre apparently bore a daughter he married to one Illyrio Mopatis. He was a senior magistrar of Pentos that was killed at Aerys' orders because of his possession of dragon eggs, those eggs being the ones that Prince Baelon and Princess Daenerys hatched… ironic, it seems, but those eggs weren't a mere collection."

"Are you sure of this?"

"As to their identity, yes. Both to this daughter of the pretender Daemon and their children, three sons and two daughters."

Lyanna leaned in, interested. "And do you know their location?"

"Sadly no, your Grace. They fritter around the Free Cities and elsewhere… I believe Jon Connington is with them as their unofficial Hand."

Had she been holding a goblet, Lyanna would've snapped it in two. "Are you saying he's the one who tried to poison my husband?"

Varys nodded. "There are indicators that he was seeking it. His… previous affection for the King has changed to a jealous loathing."

"Kill him." Lyanna's order was bloodless. "Poison, dagger, being tossed off a balcony, just have him killed."

"Wouldn't it be prudent to inform his and her Graces…"

"No, just see it done." Varys rose and bowed, departing. Leaving Lyanna to herself.

The scream shook the very walls of the Red Keep.

Horror stories of mine and farm slaves beign awoken hours before sunrise with the lash of the whip left Missandei early on quite sleepless at night. Trembling in her cot and praying to the gods of her people to protect her - not that they had protected her since the raid on Naath - hadn't helped because fatigue hit her quickly. She would need to sleep and thus risked running the gauntlet.

Thankfully though, patrons of a brothel were not morning persons. Late nights of debauchery meant mornings began as late as mere minutes before noon, so the sliver of the sun began to crest over the horizon when her eyes fluttered open. Swinging her legs around the cot and grabbing her dress. Speed mattered.

"You're early, Missandei," spoke her mistress as the young girl approached, standing with her back straight but with bowed head. She was a household slave after all, not a guard or gladiator. "Good, I will need your assistance."

"I live to serve you, mistress," she replied in flawless Valyrian.

A nod, glancing over Missandei's simple aquamarine dress that bared her midriff but covered her legs. "You look pretty today." An idle comment. "You'll be more beautiful than most of my girls in a few years, and smarter than all of them."

"Thank you." She didn't know what to think of that. A whore was a cunning person if they became successful - looks coupled with intelligence caused one to be on their back in this establishment, and she greatly prized her intact maidenhead. No other girl her age had one.

Thankfully, her mistress was not sentimental. "An eviction requires your translation services, Missandei."

"Oh?" Caellia Tayne was a woman whom operated several pleasure houses across Lys, catering to everyone from laborers forking over meager coin for a roll in the hay to matrons with more gold than the gods seeking an exotic flair to alleviate their boredom. As such, she dressed as befitting an Old Valyrian dragonlady but in gentle pinks and blues, and demanded the most impeccable of language.

Missandei picked them up quickly, both High and Bastard Valyrian with her Dothraki and Ghiscari proceeding well, which made her favored among all her slaves. Among Tayne's most valuable too, only topped by the highest earning of the whores. As such, this was clearly among her tasks. "He's a sellsword from Westeros, and you speak the Common Tongue, I forget?"

"Fluently," replied Missandei in that language."

A nod. "Good. His coin turned out to be forged. A gold dragon that bought three of my girls which turned out to be lead covered in gold." Her lips turned into a scowl. "It was a good forgery too. The one that took the payment will only get five lashes instead of twenty." Small favors, Missandei supposed. "Ensure he knows he must leave and never patronize this place again. If he hesitates one moment…" A gesture behind revealed Jollar, a hulking brute from the Summer Isles that could break a man in half. "And your task is done while Jollar's begins."

"A pleasure, Missy," he ground out. A brute, but a gentle giant. He liked Missandei and was protective of her.

There were few of those, so she knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She smiled at Jollar and bowed deep to Caellia. "Of course, Mistress."

As imagined, the patron had purchased with his counterfeit coin one of the finest chambers on the upper level across from the main lodging house - reserved for the most discreet or the highest paying of clients. Naath being idyllic and free-spirited it wasn't lost on Missandei the finer points of the female and male anatomy, and one day here even as a translator and odd servant eliminated whatever innocence her mind held. With a sigh, she opened the door to the chamber to find the patron quite nude. Groaning as a swarthy Ghiscari girl rode him slowly as a blonde Andal and dark-skinned Summer Islander locked in an embrace beside him.

It fell easier for the girls to seek affection from each other than any outside man. Missandei wasn't wont to judge, especially as the unorthodox morality of the Valyrian gods she had begun to pray to set in. "Excuse me," she called out firmly in the Common Tongue, knowing Caellia would not tolerate his false coin to earn him any further patronage.

The girls had seen it all and reacted with disinterest. For the patron however… "Fuck!" he shouted, mouth muffled by the wet cunt of the Ghiscari whore. To which he shoved her off. "Get out of here, bitch!"

"I am sorry, ser, you must leave."

"It's barely after fucking sunrise! Your mistress said I had till noon to leave, so get out slave!"

Missy sighed. Why was he making it difficult? "Your coin is counterfeit, you must leave."

"Fuck you, that's a lie!" He sat up in bed. "You're shitting me, right?"

"I do not." That was a… unique turn of phrase.

One of the whores disentangled from her lover. "I can understand this," she said, accent of the Vale in Westeros if she was to be believed. "You have the arrogance and small cock of a man that must cheat to couple…"

A backhanded slap silenced her. "Enough out of you, whore!"

If he had noticed Jollar and still did that, then he was a bigger fool than Missy had imagined. The hulking guard had lifted him up by the neck, punching his gut and causing him to wheeze. "You… no… hurt… lady."

"I'm… sorry…" he wheezed.

"Jollar, just throw him out. Ladies, best get dressed," Missy stated, though in no formal position to give orders to anyone. None of the whores wore collars, while she wore a similar one to Jollar.

They complied anyway, more out of desire to do so than listening to her. "Thank the Lord of Light that is over," mused one of the whores as Jollar dragged the still nude sellsword - kicking and screaming and pleading - out of the bedchamber. "His sword is quite decent. I suppose that can be a proper payment"

"Jollar will leave him bloody and naked. Mistress Caellia's amusement will be payment enough," the blonde Valewoman replied, laughing. "Good work, Missy."

"Thank you, my Lady," she bowed.

A snort. "'My Lady,' never thought a tanner's daughter from Gulltown would get called that."

"You're on your way to being Saera Targaryen," said the Ghiscari, to which the Valewoman shoved her. Missy made her exit, seeking out her regular duties about the brothel.

Already the place was rousing to life. Drunken or hungover patrons and whores emerging from the pleasure chambers for sustenance and the end of their liaisons. The frantic fucking of the night before changed into a more languid manner, moans coming from behind doors or half-dressed women or boys kissing their departing liasons. Missy wandered among them, thankfully unnoticed due to her youth.

Only the occasional pinch or slap upon her buttocks made her aware of what was to happen soon, once she flowered. Her skills likely drew her a favored position when Caellia decided to put her for sale and in a decade or so she'd likely have enough coin to buy her freedom like many whores.

Truthfully, Missandei would rather keep her maidenhead for the man she loved. There were few rules in Naath concerning sexuality, but willingness was one of them. Moons ago she'd have cried over the parents she'd lost, the friends gone, the aunt she'd never see again - now, there were no tears left.

Passing out of the brothel itself and into the adjoining tavern, a loud shouting registered. "Lady, I do not understand you…" The exasperated tone of Veehar, the bartender, drew Missandei's attention.

"Please… I want… mice in my… houseboat's rectum…" From the lack of response from Veehar, he was likely shocked dumb from the customer's butchery of Valyrian. Missandei giggled in part, resolved to be of assistance. Turning the corner, confident that this was what she had been bought to handle.

The woman… no, girl, was clearly Westerosi. Red hair wasn't common even in Braavos, distinctive of one with the blood of the First Men in them. "Excuse me, my Lady. But are you having trouble?"

Turning, she sighed deeply. "Thank the gods, someone who speaks the Common Tongue." She looked quite exasperated. "I'm trying to get some apple juice or cider for the morning. Enough for my family."

Missandei nodded. "Cider," she told Veehar. "A pitcher please."

"Right away, Missy," he said, heading to grab the flagon.

Turning back to the Westerosi, she watched as the girl - likely no older than her - cover her face in her hands. "Gods, I'm such an idiot." Her Common Tongue was of a different accent than those of Westeros in the brothel. A bit… rougher. "I learn Valyrian every day only for this."

"If I may…" Missandei's eyes widened and she looked down at the floor. Wishing she could melt into it. "Forgive me, my Lady. I meant not to…"

Almost flinching as the girl moved to face her, what followed was no slap but a gentle hand on her upper arm. "No, please speak." Missandei looked up only to notice the girl's blue eyes quite warm and inviting, her lips in a smile. "Tell me what you wanted to say."

Biting her lip, Missandei knew she must tread carefully. Some slaves were given more lattitude to speak and converse with their masters or mistresses, but never to ordinary guests and even that lattitude only went so far. "You're confusing High Valyrian with Bastard Valyrian. What is eloquent in one could be far different in the other." At the girl's confusion, Missandei added. "Tell me something in High Valyrian… if it so pleases you, my Lady," she hastily added.

Clearing her throat, the girl nodded. "My name is Alayne, what is yours?"

The accent was quite grating, but otherwise… "You speak the language beautifully, Lady Alayne… and if you insist, my name is Missandei."

"That is a beautiful name for a lovely young girl," Alayne smiled, her eyes darting to the collar on Missy's neck. "I can understand why you're so hesitant to speak to me." Missy could say nothing to that.

"Ally!" she heard someone call from behind. "Did you get the drinks or…"

Having turned, Missandei stood face to face with her savior from the other night. "My Lady," she bowed.

The Valyrian girl's lips curled into a beaming smile. "You again, we must stop meeting like this," she giggled.

"Missandei here was helping me with my Valyrian."

"Is this true?" asked the newcomer. Missandei nodded. "Well, Larra here is quite glad you did that, for Alayne needs the work." A groan from Alayne while Larra's smile put a tiny one on Missandei's lips. "Come, you should help her at our table."

"But… I must attend to the needs of the guests."

There was nothing stopping Larra as she tugged at Missy's arm. "We're guests and you're attending to our needs, come on." Truthfully, she could not refuse.

Tugged for the umpteenth time, Rhaenys growled. "You best untie me, you witch, for when my uncle finds us…"

"I've never been called a witch before - I am honored," Ygritte giggled, tugging on the rope that tied Rhaenys' wrists together. Making her stumble. "And as for your uncle, good luck. I know these cliffs and crags and muck like the back of my hand. No amount of Crow guides can change that for your pampered southern asses."

"I'm no southerner! I am of the North!"

Ygritte snorted. "Firstly, anyone south of the Wall is a southerner, and second… I know not much about Targaryens but I know the dragon King has two Queens. One from Winterfell, one from south of that… yer' mother is the latter, no?" Rhaenys said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes. You're a southerner."

She mumbled something unintelligible before a mewl from Nysar drew her attention. "She needs rest."

For once, Ygritte took pity. "Aye, she does." She gestured. "Sit here."

"In the muck?"

"Too good enough for you, Princess? I've taken a tumble in places far worse." The girl bit her lip. "Ya know, if ye' want to…" She bit her lip suggestively, wriggling her brows.

Rhaenys… perhaps, the girl was gorgeous in an even more fierce and wild manner than a classical northern beauty, but under the circumstances… "You're sick."

"Come now, prissy princess." Ygritte clicked her tongue, hands going over her body. "We do it all the time… men on hunts or fighting, don't want to risk lack of warmth or getting with child. Tents are shared quite often and stuff happens." She ran a tongue along her lips. "I won't tell if you won't.

"Go to hells," she shot back.

At a soft whistling, Ygritte shrugged. "Yer' loss… Come on out!" To Rhaenys' surprise, what had to be a half-dozen wildlings emerged from the crevices, surrounding them. She sighed in resignation. I'm sorry uncle… I'm sorry. "Should've taken me up on it while you had the chance." Fuck you…

"Took you long enough," one of the other wildlings said from under his mask - shrouding his face and keeping him warm. "Where are the rest of you."

"Dead," Ygritte spoke. "Crows took 'em out."

"Same… though not so much the Crows than the others. Crows drew us in out of our camp… lured a bunch of idiots down into the valley. Southern army appeared with horse."

Rhaenys was intrigued, especially as Ygritte grimaced. "How many?"

A shrug. "The whole lot. Bloody fools. Mance's ordered a retreat, and the scouting groups are assembling that way," the man pointed. "Who's the bitch?"

To that, Ygritte smiled as she glanced at Rhaenys. "The most interesting person I've yet met." Rhaenys only glared daggers at the wildling, which made her smile widen. "And the highest-profile of prisoners Mance could ever want - if we get her to him alive."

"Good luck, no one's in a merciful mood."

The rest of the march across the icy wilderness was in total silence. Rhaenys had nothing to say, while either Ygritte was the same or refrained from saying much else given they now had company. The redhead constantly gave sidelong gazes, while Rhaenys paid attention only to the still limping Nysar, direwolf yelping in pain constantly but persisting like a trooper… until they reached a large gathering of wildlings. All armed to the teeth. Their group halted, which caused Nysar to collapse into the snow, trembling. "Well then," Rhaenys sneered, holding up her tied hands. "Looks like you finally got me where you wanted me you bitch."

Ygritte chuckled. "You really need to learn how to appreciate…" The teasing lilt in her uncultured voice died along with her smile. "Ah, fuck," she murmured.

Rhaenys tensed. "Fuck what?"

"Shut up and say nothing." It came as a hiss.

"Huh…"

"I said shut it." Taking a deep breath, the redheaded wildling forced a large smile on her face and whistled. "Hey, Lord of Bones! I got a prisoner for you!"

Whomever this 'Lord of Bones' was… Rhaenys figured it out pretty quickly - he didn't need to have acknowledged Ygritte's call for her to discern that the title likely referenced the human skull used as a mask upon his face, covering all but his nose and the bottom of his chin. "Ygritte…" Oh, she also didn't need him to speak to figure he wasn't very friendly. "You dumb cunt, think Lord Ned Stark and his Southern fucks took prisoners of us when they lured us into an ambush?!" Truly? Uncle, good show. "I'll fuckin' handle this." He drew out a knife, aiming for Rhaenys.

She steeled herself, ready for a last stand. Get close… get close enough to kick you in the jaw…

"Stop!" Ygritte yelled, tugging Rhaenys back. "You can't."

The Lord of Bones snorted. "Aye, your prisoner. You do it." He tossed her the knife. "Slit her throat." Ygritte didn't move. "Knew it, more of a cunt than the one between your legs."

"You wish you were between my legs, Lord of Bones," Ygritte shot back, her own men chuckling. "Can't kill this one, she's too valuable."

"She ain't even a crow," one of the others spoke.

"Aye, she's Rhaenys Targaryen." From how all stilled and looked over to her, Rhaenys understood that even at the edge of the world the name Targaryen carried a lot of weight. "Daughter of the kneeler dragon king, niece of Ned Stark."

The Lord of Bones sidled up to her, staring Rhaenys in the eyes. "This true, girly?" His breath reeked of rotten meat. "You a dragon?"

Rhaenys couldn't deny it. "Aye, and my dragon'll kill you all when she finds me."

Silent for a moment, the Lord of Bones suddenly laughed. "Hear that lads, this wee girl's gonna bring a dragon on us!" Many did laugh. "What's next? Is she gonna call down the heavens, or raise walls of flame?" More laughs… only stopped as the Lord of Bones slammed his fist in her face. "You fucking bitch!" Another fist, making Rhae see stars as she tumbled to the ground.

Ygritte tried to shove him aside. "That's enough!"

But the Lord of Bones was too strong, tossing Ygritte away and hovering over Rhaenys. "You fucking cunt!" He started stomping on her, causing shooting pain in Rhaenys' ribcage and kidneys. "Your fuckin' uncle kill my fuckin' men with his horses! I'll send him your fuckin' head in a fuckin' basket you cunt piece of shit!" Kick and kick did he, Rhaenys having escaped Rast only to die as an act of petty vengeance from this worthless wildling chief.

Suddenly the Lord of Bones was shoved to the side, a large bear of a man with hair as orange as Nymerion's dragonfire bellowing something incomprehensible. "You fucking fuck!" With a punch, the new arrival sent Rhaenys' attacker sprawling. "Beatin' to death such an important prisoner? Did a mammoth knock you a couple times in the fuckin' head?!" He cursed like Sandor - looked like he could take Sandor on, in spite of being a quarter head shorter but just as beefy.

The Lord of Bones rose. "Interruptin' my fun, Tormund? Didn't think you liked the Crows."

"She's no crow," was the response, Rhaenys hearing it even as she hacked up blood on the icy ground. Ygritte's comforting hand placed itself on her back, one she could do without - she wished not the charity of a damned wildling. "And if you wish to tell Mance that you killed the daughter of the Targaryen King, then be my fucking guest." His accent was as uncultured and strange as Ygritte's, but far more garrolous. "Well? What are ye' waitin' for?"

Rubbing his chin - the only part of his face not covered by the skull worn over it, the Lord of Bones spat on the ground. "Fine. Keep the bitch…" He snorted. "Ygritte can watch over her. Seems to enjoy it." Suddenly, his eyes lit up, noticing Rhaenys' curved blade hanging from Ygritte's shoulder. "Ah, and that'll be mine."

"That's my trophy," Ygritte shot back, but she made no move to stop the Lord of Bones from taking it.

Hefting it, he drew out the scimitar, slashing at the air. "This could kill many Crows… thank you for your gift, Princess," he sneered, laughing.

Rhaenys glared, lips in a scowl. "I'm gonna kill you myself before I escape."

"Is that a fact?" The Lord of Bones grabbed her chin. "I'd like to see you fuckin' try, now that I have your sword." He shoved her back. "If she can't keep up, or mouths off to me, I'll carve out her womb and feed it to my dogs." With that, he stormed off.

Easing her to her feet, Ygritte grimaced as Rhaenys' breath weezed. "Think yer' just a bit sprained and bruised. Broken bones would hurt far worse." She turned to the new man. "Thank you, Tormund. For a bit I thought the fucker would…"

"I didn't do it for you, Ygritte," grunted the ginger wildling - Tormund his name seemed to be. "I pray that ye' don't go soft for a fuckin' dragon snake southerner, whatever a fuckin' snake is." He shook his head, eying her cautiously. "I thought your skin would drier, you coming from Fire and sand and all."

Swallowing what was either blood or snot - or both - Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him, or at least as well as she could given her swollen cheek and brow. "And I thought… you came from fire… given you're a ginger and all."

Tormund stared for the longest time until he nodded. "Ye' got the spirit of a Free Folk, lass. Just shut up most of the time, lest the others rape and kill ye'. Yer' uncle pissed off a lot of us." He stepped back. "Don't get attached to this one of all girls, Ygritte."

She only shrugged. "You know me, Tormund."

"Yeah, and it scares me." About then he noticed Nysar whimpering in the snow. "This yers?"

"Don't touch her," Rhaenys hissed, only to wince from the pain.

But Tormund merely picked her up as if the direwolf weighed nothing. "Poor dear, she hurt her paw. Come on, I'll get ye' some scraps." Nysar, who if not injured would likely be snapping at everyone, merely mewled and licked at the parts of pale skin not covered by Tormund's beard.

Rhaenys watched in a stunned silence. "Tormund… he has a way with animals," Ygritte chuckled. "Can you walk on your own?"

The Princess nodded. "He didn't get me in the head, like Rast did… gonna kill him like I should've killed that rapist fucker."

"Careful, Princess," Ygritte cautioned, only half-teasing it seemed. "No kneelers here. Us Free Folk hate southerners and hate you prissy lordlings. Bad combination if you try to act that way." She grabbed her pack and hitched it on her shoulder. "Oh, and it's two."

"Two what?" Truth be told, Rhaenys tried her best from screaming at how her lips throbbed, her jaw ached, and her ribs burned with each breath she took.

A smirk. "That's twice I saved your life… two times you have to repay." By the old gods and Tessarion both, Rhaenys shuddered to think what Ygritte could want in repayment.

There was one thing that came to mind, and far from making her wince it caused a heat to pool in the Targaryen Princess - and that reaction truly did scare her more than even the Lord of Bones did.