JAMIE
Seven days.
That's how long it had been since the princess's legs knocked the breath out of him and the wolves wrapped steel around his wrists.
He counted by the torches. By the changing guards. By the way the rats got braver each night. A week, he was sure of it. Or close enough.
No interrogation. No trial. No screaming Catelyn. No brooding Stark boy with a sword and a speech.
Nothing.
It was starting to unnerve him.
Jaime had expected fury. Shackles, yes — but also shouting, demands, accusations. He'd killed enough men to know how vengeance sounded.
But instead?
Silence. Measured. Methodical.
Like they were waiting for something.
Or someone.
He leaned against the damp stone of the makeshift cell, one boot stretched out, one knee bent. The straw beneath him stank. His wrists ached where the shackles rubbed raw. But it wasn't the discomfort that gnawed at him.
It was the quiet.
A trickle of information came in scraps — from the guards, mostly, when they thought he slept.
The siege on Riverrun was broken. That much was clear.
A fast march. Stark's forces split in two — one to bait Tywin, the other to circle west. The boy had moved quicker than Jaime expected.
And then, the real insult: Lord Blackwood, from inside the castle, had turned the tide. Opened a gate, stirred the men. The Young Wolf hadn't just taken the field — he'd made sure the inside of Riverrun was ready to rise.
He should've known. The split lines, the decoy noise, the way Roose fell back just far enough—it was all a net tightening. And he'd ridden right into it.
Stupid.
Not because he lost. But because he saw it coming and charged anyway.
It wasn't just Blackfish's hand. The wolf pup had sharper teeth than expected. And behind him, the eastern blade who didn't miss.
Not bad, Jaime had to admit, though the thought taste⁷d sour.
He'd underestimated Robb Stark. Not in swordplay — the boy hadn't even drawn on him. No, it was the strategy. The coordination.
And all of it shadowed by her
The princess.
He hadn't seen her since the hill.
Not even during transfer to this prison — they'd knocked him out for that. When he came to, he was behind bars with a headache and no one to gloat to.
No interrogation. Not even a gander at his bruises.
And that's what made it worse.
He knew a tactic when he saw one. This wasn't mercy. It was method.
She wants me uncertain. Wants me waiting. Wondering. He almost respected it.
Almost.
Then, late on the seventh day — he heard them.
Boots. Not guard shift. Not feeding schedule.
Different.
Voices. Northern, but hushed. He leaned close to the bars.
"…move him tonight…"
"…Blackfish wants him under stone, not canvas…"
"…Riverrun cells, deep ones…"
He smirked.
So, the lion was being caged properly now. Tucked beneath the very walls he'd once tried to breach. The irony was thick enough to chew.
But even that wasn't the real twist.
They weren't moving him out of fear.
They were moving him because they still weren't ready to question him.
Which meant only one thing.
This was still part of the game.
And Ruyan — the silk blade of Yi Ti — was still the one playing it.
She didn't need to raise a voice. Or a knife. All she had to do was wait. Let silence drip like water onto stone. Let him stew in not knowing.
It was clever. He hated clever.
They came for him an hour before moonrise.
He stood when the keys clinked. Rolled his shoulders. Masked the soreness. Let them bind his hands without a word.
Still no Ruyan. Still no threats.
Just silence.
As they led him from the cell, Jaime turned his head toward the cold night air and muttered, "No questions yet? I'm starting to feel unloved."
One guard ignored him. The other grunted.
But Jaime smiled to himself anyway.
She's waiting for the perfect moment. When I'm off balance enough to fall without being pushed.
He didn't plan on giving it to her.
But something told him he wouldn't see her coming the second time either.
Once he was put in the deeper cells in Riverrun, they came for him at last. Robb Stark, his mother, and the princess.
The maid — Lihua, that was her name, the princess's guard who'd fought him. How could he forget. She tangled with him, and though he'd sent her rolling, that chain of hers had disarmed him like a knight at tourney. Now she stood at the edge of the cell, still and silent. Always watching.
Robb's voice struck first, no ceremony. "Stannis sent letters. He named Joffrey a bastard—your bastard. And my brother saw you. So you pushed him. And when he survived… you sent a knife to finish the job."
A twitch in Jaime's face. Barely a flicker. "Then what's left for me to say? You seem to have it all figured out."
"He's just a boy!" Catelyn snapped, her voice raw. "He did nothing to you! And you pushed him—and sent assassins to make sure he wouldn't wake!"
That one gave him pause. A flicker of confusion—quick as breath. What assassin?
But he buried it behind a grin. No cracks. No tells. The princess was watching, after all—too carefully. Like a snake ready to strike.
Jaime leaned back against the cold stone, arms crossed like he was holding court. "Lady Stark, your grief is impressive—almost as impressive as your talent for misplacing blame. First Tyrion, now me. Who's next? The milkmaid? A passing crow?"
Catelyn's face flushed with fury.
"And you, boy," he said, flashing teeth at Robb. "Wearing your father's title like it fits. If war were won by pouting and petulance, you'd already be king of Westeros."
Robb stiffened, jaw clenched.
"You call me Kingslayer, but let's not forget—your pretty bride did the work. I just had the poor taste to lose in front of an audience." He tilted his head. "Tell me—when she kisses you, does she let you pretend it was your victory?"
"Enough—" Robb started.
Jaime cut him off with a raised brow. "Oh no, let's be thorough. Lady Catelyn, shall we talk about all the lives your bad judgment cost? Or is that still a sore spot? You kidnapped a Lannister, started a war, and now you're shocked the lions bite back?"
Catelyn's lips trembled, but her silence said more than words.
Then Ruyan spoke, calm and precise. "You didn't deny pushing Bran. Truth wrapped in plausible deniability. But now you seem confused about the assassin."
Jaime shrugged, the smile lazy but strained at the edges. "You said it, not me."
"Let's go, Mother," Robb said, voice hard. "We've heard enough."
They turned and left, boots echoing against stone.
She didn't.
He was alone with the princess.
And gods, that was worse.
If that was deliberate, Jaime wasn't sure — but it felt like it.
She stepped closer. Not aggressive — deliberate. Composed. Calculating.
"Lord Jaime," she said. "Let us speak plainly. In Yi Ti, you would have been tortured by now. But my husband is an honorable man. Too much like his father."
Jaime gave a short laugh. "Like his father… no wonder, despite all that Tully colouring."
"You are valuable alive. For now. But this war is far from over. Lady Arryn named the queen as Jon Arryn's killer. Lady Catelyn named your brother as the one who sent the assassin."
She let that hang. No pressure. Just weight.
"I suspect the queen," she said next. "Because Bran saw something. Something she needed buried."
A pause.
"But what he saw... it wasn't just her." Her voice lowered. "Lord Stannis is rigid, yes. But his claim isn't baseless. Bran Stark saw you with the queen. So either the queen pushed him… or both of you did."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Quite the report, Princess."
"You're not as reckless as they say," she replied. "But that night was the opposite."
She stepped closer again.
No steel. No threats. Just presence — and the silence between her words.
"So tell me, Kingslayer," she said softly. "Was it your hand that sent the blade… or just your silence?"
His smile held. But his gut twisted.
Ruyan tilted her head — just slightly.
"If you say yes," she said, "you confirm what's already assumed. No real shift for this war."
She stepped closer, just within arm's length. The air between them pulled tight.
"But if you deny it…"
A longer pause now. One that felt deliberate.
"…then someone else sent a killer to finish the job. And blamed your brother for it."
She let that land. Then:
"And I don't believe it was your brother."
That was the moment.
No theatre. No accusation. Just certainty.
"Which means," she added, "if you or the queen didn't send the assassin, someone did — and they wanted Tyrion blamed. Tell me, Lord Jaime—does that sound like your ally?"
His breath stayed steady.
But inside?
He cursed.
Because no — no, it didn't.
And she wasn't bluffing. Not at the end. He was sure of it.
"Lihua," Ruyan said, without raising her voice.
Ruyan had turned without another word, her silks whispering like wind through steel. The door creaked, then shut.
But Lihua remained.
She stepped forward, silent as dusk.
Jaime straightened against the wall. His mouth was dry, his pride still raw.
Then—crack.
Her hand struck his face, sharp and fast. His head snapped to the side.
The second slap landed harder.
No wind-up. No flourish. Just execution.
"First," Lihua said, voice quiet but cold, "for insulting Robb Stark."
She didn't blink.
"Second—for insulting Lady Catelyn Stark. An insult to her is an insult to her son."
She paused, then stepped closer, enough for him to smell the faint hint of lacquer and steel on her robes.
"And an insult to her son is an insult to the Princess."
Another pause. Jaime waited for her to stop.
She didn't.
"Know this. My loyalty," she said, eyes locked on his, "is to Yi Ti. First to the Emperor. Then to the Princess."
Jaime didn't speak. His breath caught.
Not because of the slap.
Because now, he understood.
This wasn't personal. This wasn't fury.
This was protocol.
Ruyan hadn't needed to order her. Lihua was an extension of something far older and colder than fealty. Yi Ti's imperial hierarchy wasn't bound by love or friendship—it was order. The kind that didn't forgive slights. The kind that didn't forget them.
And the princess wasn't protected because she was loved.
She was protected because she was state.
Lihua turned without another word and left him there, alone.
But for the first time since his capture, Jaime Lannister felt not humiliation…
But fear.
RUYAN
Riverrun Chambers
They were alone in their chambers again. The stone walls of Riverrun were quieter than the war tents, but no less heavy. Even here, the air carried the weight of choices still being made.
Robb stood by the table, reading the letter one last time before setting it down.
"It's done," he said. "We've sent word to King's Landing. The offer's clear: Ser Jaime and the other Lannister boys in exchange for my father and sisters."
Ruyan nodded from where she stood, removing her outer robe. Beneath it, she wore a thinner one — plain cotton, the kind she reserved for sleep. Her daggers lay at the bedside, lined in deliberate reach.
"They'll accept," she said. "The queen knows better than to let her brother rot with his pride."
Robb didn't answer right away. His eyes followed her movements, lingering where they'd never lingered before.
She walked to the dresser and began to undo the pins in her hair, slow and deliberate. Her arm ached faintly — the wound was healing, but too slowly for her liking.
"Jaime or the queen pushed Bran," she said. "But neither of them sent the assassin. That came later. That was something... sloppier."
Robb turned, studying her. "Then who?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm curious about Baelish."
Robb raised a brow. "Then talk to my uncle. He'll know where to start."
She nodded. "Tomorrow."
She sat before the mirror and gently began combing the edges of her hair. She was careful — her left shoulder still pulled, tight and sore. The scab had hardened, but the flesh beneath was far from ready.
Behind her, Robb moved closer.
Without a word, he reached forward and began to undo the knot in her hair.
The gesture was unexpected. In Winterfell, there had been distance — polite, necessary, mutual. But here, with victory fresh and danger passed, something had shifted.
"How's your shoulder?" he asked, voice lower than before.
"Still sore. But healing well."
"May I see?"
She nodded, still brushing the lower lengths.
He stepped closer, drawing the loose robe from her shoulder. His fingers were careful — he didn't touch the wound itself, only the skin around it. His palm hovered, warm and close. She felt his breath against her neck.
"The healer said to keep it unwrapped at night," she said quietly.
Robb said nothing. He simply pulled the robe gently back over her, then reached for the comb in her hand.
She let him take it.
He began combing her hair in long, quiet strokes. Each pass of the comb sent a gentle shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with pain.
"You have a mind for strategy," She praised him—quiet, sincere.
"Uncle Brynden helps me."
Robb gave a small nod, gaze distant. "Roose's retreat went smoother than I dared hope. Almost no losses. He pulled Tywin in, then retreated before the jaws closed."
He looked at her then, more solemn. "We won't get many chances like that."
The room fell into silence again. His hands were slow, patient, reverent in their movement. Something unspoken traveled between them — not the careful courtesy of political alliance, but something warmer. Unexpected.
She watched him in the mirror for a moment, then spoke.
"Do you need me to perform my marital duties?"
Robb froze, just slightly.
Then he met her eyes in the mirror.
"No," he said. His voice had roughened. "Besides... you're injured. And this isn't the time."
His hand lingered at the nape of her neck, where no comb could reach. His fingers gentle against her skin.
She nodded once.
And for the first time in a long while, she wondered if she'd misjudged the field.