RUYAN
The hill offered a cruel vantage — height without safety. Catelyn Stark waited at the opposite ridge, watching the same field.
Ruyan and Lihua sat their horses in stillness, dark cloaks stirring in the wind. Their armor shimmered faintly beneath, lacquered and light, designed for agility — but to Northern eyes, likely ceremonial. Decorative. Harmless.
Below, the chaos of the Whispering Wood unfurled in bursts of steel and shouting. The Northern plan had splintered the Lannister lines, but not cleanly. Too many young lords had charged in pursuit of glory instead of waiting for the noose to tighten.
She saw it — clear as ink on silk.
"No formation." Lihua murmured, "They chase him as reward."
Ruyan said nothing. Ahead, Jaime Lannister tore through the trees, golden and reckless. His armor caught what little sun broke the canopy, a comet on horseback. Karstark's boy and two others rode hard after him — too hard.
One went down under Jaime's sword. Another took a blade to the shoulder before a Yitish arrow struck Jaime's companion square in the chest. He fell. Jaime didn't stop.
A third Northern rider caught Jaime's flank — and was cut down for it.
Then Jaime turned his horse, aiming directly for Robb Stark.
She looked at where Robb was. He was still locked in melee, Greatjon and Dacey flanking him, keeping the line. He didn't see the Kingslayer charging for him — not yet.
"A reckless charge, aiming to kill the head before he is captured." Lihua stated.
Until the Yitish archers on the ridge shifted. Arrows flew in fast succession. Jaime would be trapped — soldiers were closing in from the woods.
Then Jaime pulled back, stirring his horse.
Ruyan saw him rein in — sharp, controlled — but his head turned. Toward the hill. Toward them.
Even at this distance, she felt it. That predatory recognition. His gaze cut across the field like a drawn blade.
Then he charged — not at Robb. At her.
"Go," Lihua said quietly. She dismounted fast and smooth. "I'll deal with him."
"No," Ruyan replied. Her voice was calm, but her hand already had her bow. "We need him alive."
She notched the arrow. Drew. Exhaled.
The arrow flew.
It struck Jaime's horse clean at the foreleg.
The beast screamed, buckled, and Jaime went down in a thunder of armor and dust.
He rose fast, sword in hand. Lihua was already moving.
JAMIE
He'd seen her on the ridge, wolf's eastern princess. He'd turned his charge the moment their eyes met. Better than Robb. If he was going to kill something today, let it be the one who held the leash.
She came at him like a storm given form—no war cry, no wasted motion. Just the whisper of her blade slicing air. And all of it meant for him.
Her armor was a joke—some flimsy Eastern thing, leather and silk where steel should be—but it made her fast. Faster than him. Her sword (too light, too wrong, like a needle made for murder) flicked out, parting the straps of his pauldron with surgical precision.
Jaime bared his teeth. Strong, too. Not just quick. Every block shuddered up his arm.
But she wasn't trying to kill him. Not even maim. Just break him.
They want me alive. A weakness. He'd make her regret it.
"Does your princess pay extra for restraint?" Jaime pivoted, forcing her to adjust. "Or do you just enjoy dragging fights out?"
No reaction. Her eyes stayed flat, her breath steady as a metronome.
Then—there. A half-step overreach.
He feinted left, let her blade kiss his ribs, and kicked. His boot cracked into her flank. She flew backward, tumbling down the slope in a controlled roll.
He turned—
—and steel screamed as the princess's blade met his.
Gods, she's quick. But he knew this dance. Strike-and-retreat, darting like a sparrow. No commitment. Stalling.
Jaime pressed, muscle and weight behind every swing. Her sword shrieked against his. Then—a slip. His edge bit into her shoulder, parting silk and skin.
Blood welled. He grinned. "That's why we wear steel in war, Princess. Not party finery."
She didn't flinch. Just stepped into him—too close for swords—and twisted.
Cold fire scored his side. His eyes snapped to the gash in his armor. Impossible. Even Valyrian steel couldn't—
"Celestial steel," she muttered.
Not Valyrian. Not Westerosi. What the fuck kind of steel sliced through plate like that?
Then a weighted ball snapped around his wrist, jerking his sword into the air.
The fuck!A chain? In battle? His mind raced. No knight trained for this. No knight expected it.
The maid—the same one who moved like smoke—stood lower on the ridge now, the other end coiled around her arm like a serpent.
What fresh hell—
The metal ball struck him in the ribs—
CRACK.
Dense, blunt, and fast. It dented his armor, knocked the breath clean from his chest.
He reached for his dagger—too late.
The princess was already airborne.
She flew at him. One leg coiled around his neck, the other wedged under his arm, twisting his torso midair. Gods—she moved like a whip made flesh. He hit the ground choking, the pressure grinding into his throat.
Fuck—
His head snapped back. Air vanished. For half a heartbeat, he was weightless, choking on the realization that this slip of a girl had just unmade his balance with her godsdamned legs.
He fumbled again for his dagger, gritting his teeth—but froze.
Steel was already there. Not at his throat. Lower. Pressed hard where he'll bleed the most.
Jaime stilled, breath hitching. A flick—and he'd be unmade in a second, in a way no knight ever trains to face.
This wasn't swordplay. It wasn't even a fight—it was some foreign art meant to end it before it began.
Behind her, Robb Stark and the others crested the hill, just in time to see the Lion of Lannister yield to a princess who fought like a tavern dancer with a death wish.
Her legs released him, and he crumpled forward, gagging for air. The pressure at his throat was gone, but it still felt like her thighs were locked there, mocking him with every rasping breath.
They made him kneel. Not that he had much choice. Gasps. Murmurs. No cheers, just stunned silence as they watched him on his knees, held at the mercy of a silk-armored ghost.
His leg throbbed where he'd hit the earth, and his pride burned hotter than any wound. Choked beneath a woman—before the Young Wolf, before his men. Gods. They would tell this tale in whispers, in laughter.
But his spine stayed straight. If they wanted to parade him, he'd give them a show. Let them see the Kingslayer still unbroken.
For now.
Catelyn Stark just arrived and stood nearby, face cold, tired, and older than he remembered. Her eyes said she'd seen too much — and hated that he was still breathing.
Then came the rest.
Another YiTish guard and the maid — Lihua, he remembered now — descended on him like surgeons. No words. No wasted movement.
Straps were cut. Buckles slipped loose. His armor peeled away piece by piece, quick as a snake shedding its skin. They moved like they'd done it a thousand times. Maybe they had.
Within moments, Jaime was half-naked beneath the sky, stripped down to the sweat and bruises underneath the gold.
"You treat all your guests this kindly?" he said, flashing teeth.
No one answered.
They shoved him forward. Up the hill, toward the Young Wolf.
Robb Stark stood tall, still catching his breath. His sword was sheathed. His eyes weren't.
And beside him — her.
The eastern princess.
She looked as calm as ever. Blade sheathed, hair untouched. The blood on her shoulder had dried, but her posture didn't so much as shift. Jaime's own strike, and she wore it like a ribbon.
They stopped him at Robb's feet. He made a show of adjusting his posture — kneeling, but with spine straight.
"Well, that was fun," he said. "Tell me, Stark — do all your victories come courtesy of your wife, or was this a special arrangement?"
Robb's mouth tightened. Just enough to be worth it.
"No shame in it," Jaime went on. "If I had one like her, I'd let her do the hard work too. But if you're done hiding behind her skirts…"
He shifted, letting the chains rattle. "Care for a proper duel? One on one. You and me."
Robb didn't move.
But the princess did.
"You want a duel?" she said softly. "You already had one."
She didn't even look at him. Just turned to Robb—expression unreadable, but her hand briefly brushed her sword's hilt, like closing a book.
"He's yours now."
Jaime chuckled. "I yield to her and end up your trophy. How romantic."
Robb stepped forward. Not close enough to threaten — just enough to let their eyes meet.
"I don't need to prove anything to you, Kingslayer."
"Oh, but you do," Jaime murmured. "Maybe not to me. But to them." He tilted his chin toward the gathering lords behind them. "One day they'll wonder: did the boy win his war... or did his foreign wife fight it for him?"
Robb's jaw tightened. But he didn't bite.
"Take him," he said. "Double guard. No blades."
He glanced toward the treeline. "Tell Ser Brynden his timing was perfect. The trap only worked because he held the line."
Then, softer, to Ruyan: "We don't win if he flinched."
The guards seized Jamie's arms.
But before they dragged him away, Jaime caught it — a small movement, almost nothing.
Robb reached out. Touched the princess's shoulder. The one Jaime had struck. A check. A moment. Not spoken, not grand. Just a hand, gentle and instinctive.
And she let him.
Jaime smirked.
So that's how it is.
He let the guards drag him downhill — bruised, bound, unbowed — and already thinking of the next play.
NED
He woke to darkness. Not the kind that sleeps under blankets or behind closed lids—but the kind that clings. Cold stone, stale air, and the taste of old blood in his mouth. The Tower of Joy was gone. So were the screams.
Only the black cells remained.
Ned shifted and winced. His leg burned—infected, surely. He had lost count of the days. They all bled into one another: hunger, pain, silence. Sometimes the rats kept him company.
He had thought he could control the game. A few signatures, a quiet maneuver, time enough for his daughters to escape. He'd even softened Robert's will, replacing "Joffrey Baratheon," with "true heir" thinking it a small concession to keep the peace. A delay. A mercy.
But mercy had no place in this city.
Baelish had betrayed him. That snake's smirk at the moment of betrayal burned in his memory. And now, he wondered—how much of what Petyr told Catelyn had been a lie too? Had he sent her to war on falsehoods?
Renly had offered him a chance. Act first, Renly had said. Strike before the queen does. Ned had refused. He would not play the usurper. He had written to Stannis instead—one honest letter, one last truth sent before the walls closed in.
Had it even made it out?
His stomach growled. He ignored it. His wound pulsed, hot and wet.
Then he heard footsteps.
Torchlight spilled through the bars. A familiar shape stepped into view—soft robes, powdered face, that quiet, floating gait. Varys.
"Lord Stark," the eunuch said, almost gently.
He carried water and a small bundle. Food.
Ned drank first. Slowly, trying not to choke. The water felt like ice against his throat. He ate. Varys waited.
Finally, Ned rasped, "So. Come to taunt me?"
Varys shook his head. "No, my lord. Only to speak of what comes next."
Ned said nothing. He focused on chewing.
"Your son has raised the banners," Varys said quietly. "He marches south. Riverrun has been freed. He has captured Ser Jaime."
Ned froze. "He's just a boy."
"A boy who answered King Joffrey's summons with war. Who now faces Lord Tywin and the might of the Westerlands."
"That boy is no king," Ned growled. "Stannis is Robert's heir."
Varys inclined his head. "And yet it is Joffrey who sits the throne. Who commands the court. Who holds your daughters."
That made him sit straighter.
"My girls," Ned said. "What's become of them?"
"The elder—Sansa—remains with the queen. The younger..." Varys paused, eyes glinting. "Escaped. Vanished during your arrest. Some say she hides in the kitchens. Or the tunnels."
Relief and dread battled in Ned's chest.
"Name Joffrey as king," Varys said. "Confess to treason. The queen will let you take the black. You'll live. See your brother again. Your... son."
It was a bargain wrapped in silk and shackles.
Ned looked down at his hands, filthy and shaking. "You think I'd trade honor for life?"
"I think you'd trade your life for your children's."
He didn't answer. That was the answer.
Varys rose. "The realm bleeds, Lord Stark. It always bleeds when great men decide the game is worth the pieces."
He turned to leave.
"Who do you serve, Lord Varys?" Ned asked.
The eunuch paused at the door. "The realm," he said. "Someone has to."
Then the torchlight vanished, and the darkness returned.
But this time, it did not feel empty.
It felt like a noose.