Fire and Blood - A Song Rewritten (VelvetWhispers & Risky)

[Risky]

Jon Snow

A soft laugh left him when she told him that she would have to steal him from the Night's Watch. He had decided not to make the trip to Castle Black, and they were traveling South... He had practically already been stolen.

She pulled away and denied him more brushes of her soft lips against his, earning a quiet groan before their eyes met again. He enjoyed wrapping her in his embrace, the feel of her hand on the back of his neck, and her fingers pushing through his hair. He wasn't sure when they would be able to do something like this again, and wanted to make every moment count.

"I think it's too late to consider stealing me," Jon breathed, one corner of his mouth stretching into a smile as she went on about how he would have to find a new occupation.

That look of mischief had returned to her eyes; it was the same one that she wore when she had kissed him for the first time. It was a look that made his body shiver with the possibilities, his mind racing to figure out what she had planned.

Another laugh left the bastard when she asked if he would be a bard, and he shook his head when she mentioned how he broods.

"I'm not a very good singer," he quietly retorted.

She took every opportunity to study him, her fingers brushing down his arm to his hand. With his cloak wrapped around them, she could feel down the length of his arm without the interference of fabric or chain.

She continued through her options before leaning into his ear, his eyes closing while her breath tickled the sensitive spot. A quiet breath left him, while his arms around her only kept her closer to him.

His fingers dragged up and down her back slowly as she spoke of him being her personal knight, his favorite option by far. He allowed that silence to hang over them while he mocked consideration, knowing that they were simply fantasies. Both of them had duties to their families, and not much would be able to change that.

"I would be your knight," Jon muttered to break the silence after a few moments.

"I'm a far better fighter than I am a herder or a singer," he laughed. At least with dueling and swordplay, he had been trained, but he had never experienced more lower-classed, domestic options. "And being a knight sounds more honorable than being a bodyguard," he added.

His forehead settled on her shoulder again, his neck twisting to bury his handsome features into her soft neck. His eyes closed as he enjoyed the embrace they maintained, knowing that it would not last forever.

Jon could have remained there for as long as she would let him, but knowing that their time was limited, he withdrew from her neck to press a quick but soft kiss to her lips.

"We should eat before we go back... They'll be wondering where we've gone," Jon's body didn't move as his words wanted it to, instead remaining with his arms wrapped around her beneath his cloak. It was as if his mind understood what was sensible, while his body wanted to hang on to each moment like he would never be able to experience it again.

And all things considered, perhaps his body was being more realistic.

"I... Want to visit you in King's Landing, whenever we are able," Jon offered.

It was perhaps the stupidest thing he could have asked, naively continuing this unlawful courting while in the bed of snakes and spies that was the Capital city of Westeros.

---

Jaime Lannister

The Kingslayer had done his best to maintain his arrogant pride even while bloodied and tied to a post. He had hardly been there an hour, but could already feel the ache of being restrained in such a way. He doubted they would free his hands when they knew what they were capable of, though he might be able to discuss more comfortable conditions.

"You could at least chain my hands in front of me," Jaime offered while setting the back of his bloodied hair against the post. He offered it as an alternative to the duel, knowing that his former opponent would not take it. It seemed Elric Frostmere was still immune to his goading.

His eyes closed for a moment, as if testing his capability to fall asleep like this. He had the same instincts as most warriors, the ability to fall asleep at a moment's notice and wake up just the same. Though it would be more difficult like this, he knew that he could do it with enough exhaustion.

Of course, the Northern Army hoped to keep him exhausted enough not to be able to escape, something that he would have to directly oppose if he had any desire to be free of his chains.

When his eyes opened again, they met Elric's armored form seated on a bucket outside of his cage. He eyed the steam that curled off the stew he had been given, feeling the growl of his stomach urging him to reach out and take it. Of course, his stomach had no knowledge of his hands being tied to a post, but it yearned for sustenance regardless.

"You moved against a siege camp while feigning a battle with my Father, and I'll hand it to the Stark boy, he takes after my advice." Jaime shook his head. "But don't pretend to be some honorable soul fighting for what's right while holding a bloodied dagger instead of a sword and shield."

"I have plenty of pieces on my board, and plenty of time to consider my next move," Jaime shifted as if to get comfortable.

"There is not a soul in this camp who has had the pleasure of knowing or even sharing the same air as Tywin Lannister," Jaime laughed. "You have no idea what Lannisters do for family, and you have no idea what my father is capable of."

Though if it hadn't been for his father, Jaime would have been halfway to the Vale by now, with a challenge for his brother's freedom on his lips.

Silence stretched between them, and he allowed it to remain while doing his best to relax and conserve his energy. He doubted that every guard outside of his cage would be as talkative as this one, though Elric was far more likely to allow him to rest than any simple Northern soldier who wished to see him tortured.

His eyebrows raised when Elric leaned forward, head cocking to the side while he brought up Eddard Stark and his imprisonment. "My nephew had no desire to see Lord Stark in chains either," Jaime shrugged.

"King Robert had no wish for the honorable Eddard Stark to attempt a coup while Robert's body was still warm in his bed," Jaime allowed a smile to grace his features. "The succession was made clear many years ago, and as a member of the Kingsguard, it was my sworn duty to put down the silly notion of a man unrelated by blood to the King sitting on the Iron Throne."

Jaime leaned forward now, his chains straining with shaking hands against the post.

"If I had known that his imprisonment would start a war, I would have lopped off his traitorous head instead."

A spoonful of stew was offered through the bars, and Jaime ravenously took it before it could be retracted. He had no qualms about taking any ounce of sustenance or energy that would help him down the line, unsure of when next he would be able to eat.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra Frostmere

Elyra laughed softly as Jon enjoyed her teasing. Her fingers danced along the inside of his arm beneath the safety of his cloak, exploring the definition of him like she was learning the shape of the night itself. She felt the way he held her—like he needed to, like she was some quiet answer to a question he hadn't dared to speak aloud. She leaned into him, letting his warmth soak into her bones, the soft sweep of his fingers up and down her spine lulling her into a kind of dream she wished she'd never wake from.

"Not a very good singer?" she echoed with a grin, tilting her face to his, mischief glowing in her green eyes. "I'll be the judge of that. But for that, you'd have to sing for me, Jon Snow." Her voice was low, coaxing. Teasing. "Even brooding has a rhythm to it, you know. Might make a fine ballad one day."

She turned her head, felt the tickle of his breath against her neck as he leaned into her again, as if he couldn't help himself. Her body responded to every brush of his lips, every stolen kiss like it had been doing this all her life—like this wasn't new or secret, but something long meant to be.

When his forehead settled against her shoulder, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek on the top of his curls, exhaling against the moonlit stillness.

Then, came the kiss. Quick. Soft. Gone too soon.

Her lips parted with a sigh, chasing after the lingering heat of it, dismayed at how fast it vanished. She would've bottled that moment if she could. Pressed it into her memory like dried petals in an old book.

"We should eat before we go back... They'll be wondering where we've gone," he murmured, but didn't move.

"Let them wonder," she replied, a wicked spark lighting her gaze. "What could they possibly do if I stole you away like the children of the forest, hmm?" she smirked, and with a mischievous shove, she toppled him gently onto his back, landing atop him with a grin as wide as the stars.

Their cloaks tangled, their limbs shifted until she lay half across his chest, her hair tumbling loose across his shoulder as they stared up at the open night sky. The stars shimmered above them like scattered embers, and the ghost lights danced over the bog just beyond the ridge—faint glimmers weaving over the water like spirits watching on.

"You're mine now," she declared with mock seriousness, reaching into the food pouch she'd pilfered earlier. "And I feed my captives well." She pulled free a handful of roasted root vegetables wrapped in cloth, a hunk of dense bread, and a twist of salted meat.

She broke off a piece of the bread and held it over him. "Your reward, ser knight."

He opened his mouth to take it and she promptly spilled a splash of Dornish red across them both.

"Gods—" she laughed, trying to blot it with her sleeve, entirely unbothered. "Well. Now we smell like tavern rats. That's fitting, isn't it?"

They laughed and talked as they ate, laid back on the cold earth, their bodies warm beneath cloaks and skin and everything unspoken. The wine dulled the edges of the world, and for the first time in her life, Elyra felt… full. Not of food. Not of wine. But of something rare and golden and fleeting. Contentment.

Later, when the stars had wheeled above them and the moon rode high in her silent vigil, they lay quiet, their fingers loosely entwined between them.

"I... Want to visit you in King's Landing, whenever we are able," Jon said.

Elyra turned her head slowly to look up at him. The firelight in her eyes had softened now, turned to something deeper, something dangerously tender. Mischief lingered, but affection had taken its hand.

"Then don't let anything stop you," she whispered, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

And then she kissed him—deeply, endlessly. Her hand lifted to his cheek, fingers memorizing the line of his jaw, the shape of his brow, the wild softness of his dark curls. She poured into that kiss all the things she couldn't say, the truth they'd never be allowed to speak. Her one night with Jon Snow, beneath the Northern stars. It lived in her like a secret flame.

---

She thought of it often.

The way the stars looked above them. The way the bog lights swayed like ancient gods giving their silent blessing. The way his arms had felt wrapped around her.

Now… she was back in the world. The real one.

And the Septa was shrieking.

"Mind the hem! You're not some tavern girl from the gutter—bend at the knees!"

Elyra clenched her jaw, fists balled around the Stark girls' satchels as she unpacked them in the royal apartments. Her fingers itched to hurl the whole trunk out the window.

King's Landing stank. Of heat. Of ambition. Of lies and sweat and the sour rot of men with power and no purpose. The air was thick with the humidity of the south, the sea brine clinging to her skin like grease. The Red Keep towered overhead, all red stone and judgment, watching like some smug tyrant.

She missed the North. Gods, she missed snow. Wind. The honesty of cold.

And him.

Since that night under the stars, she'd only glimpsed Jon in passing. One silent look across a courtyard. One shadowed nod in a hallway. Nothing more. The Septa had become a jailor, glued to her side like a leech with a prayerbook. Even at night, the old woman never truly slept. If Elyra so much as turned over, the crone was awake, murmuring some nonsense about virtue and maidenly silence.

Today, she'd had enough.

"I'm going to fetch… lemoncakes," Elyra announced dryly, grabbing a half-empty basket of laundry. "From the kitchens. For the Lady Sansa."

The Septa narrowed her eyes. "Be swift. And don't forget yourself, Lady Elyra. You may be from some frigid patch of snow, but you are in the capital now. Conduct yourself as a lady, even if your House is inconsequential."

Elyra offered a tight smile. "Of course, Septa. How foolish of me."

Then she turned on her heel and walked—straight out of the room, down the stone corridors, the weight of her southern dress swishing around her calves. The bodice itched. The fabric clung. She longed for her northern leathers, for the cold wind against her skin.

She didn't know where she was going.

She only knew she needed to find air. Any air. A garden. A parapet. A crack in this suffocating keep to breathe through.

And if the gods were kind, maybe… just maybe, she'd find a glimpse of the man she had once stolen a night with beneath the ghost lights.

---

Elric Frostmere

Elric sat on a low bucket opposite the Kingslayer, one ankle folded over the other, a half-empty bowl of stew balanced lazily in her gloved palm. The fire a few feet away cracked and snapped, casting long shadows against the wooden bars of the prisoner's cage. Outside, the northern wind bit and howled, but here the air was still—thick with smoke, salt, and the stale stench of a man who'd been chained too long to pretend he wasn't cracking.

She'd expected Ser Jaime Lannister to hold out longer. Truthfully, she'd wagered he'd stretch the performance into at least another week. The Kingslayer—proud, golden, and insufferably self-impressed—brought low to slurried stew and iron links. But now, here he was, pacing the width of his verbal cage like a lion that had just noticed the bars.

Elric listened with an amused kind of detachment as he prowled through his memories and half-justifications. Her expression betrayed none of her thoughts, save for the smallest quirk at the corner of her mouth and the occasional nod, the kind one might give a particularly chatty crow—more politeness than agreement.

When he spoke of his father, his tone turned smug, defensive, sharp-edged with pride that sounded more like a warning.

"There is not a soul in this camp who has had the pleasure of knowing or even sharing the same air as Tywin Lannister," Jaime laughed. "You have no idea what Lannisters do for family, and you have no idea what my father is capable of."

Elric smiled then, a soft exhale through her nose betraying her quiet amusement. Her green eyes, hidden beneath shadow and fringe, lifted to meet his with deliberate calm.

"No wish to find out what Lannisters do for family," she said, mock-serious in her usual cool tone. "The rumours are bad enough."

She spooned another bite of stew, chewing slowly, letting the silence settle like dust. She was not unnerved in his presence—never had been. The men were, many of them. They avoided his gaze like it might turn them to stone. Whispers followed him, and even the guards never let their blades wander too far. But Elric?

She'd seen something in him once—months ago, beneath a different sky and different days. Not decency. Not honour. Just a sliver of soul buried deep under all that lion's roar. A flicker of something real. She doubted even Jaime remembered it.

More likely, it was that she simply saw through him. All the cocksure arrogance, the posturing—none of it moved her. She knew she was the better fighter. That counted for more than his titles or lion's mane of golden hair.

"My nephew had no desire to see Lord Stark in chains either," Jaime said with that smile of his—the one he wore like a mask of gold leaf.

Elric snorted, stabbing her spoon back into the stew. "No, I expect he'd rather see Lord Stark's head on a spike. That little psycho."

She said it flatly, with the weariness of someone who'd seen the truth in the gleam of a boy-king-to-be's eye. All fury, no depth. Joffrey had the madness of a wildfire with none of its beauty. It always struck her as a dangerous thing, that sort of madness in a child. It didn't burn—it festered.

She caught Jaime watching her. Perhaps surprised by the frankness. Or perhaps amused. Or perhaps not. She didn't care.

"King Robert had no wish for the honourable Eddard Stark to attempt a coup while Robert's body was still warm in his bed," Jaime allowed a smile to grace his features. "The succession was made clear many years ago, and as a member of the Kingsguard, it was my sworn duty to put down the silly notion of a man unrelated by blood to the King sitting on the Iron Throne."

Elric tilted her head. The firelight caught the glint in her eye.

"Sworn duty," she repeated thoughtfully, as if testing the taste of the phrase. "Was that before or after you stuck your sword in the mad king's back?"

The words were casual. Icy. She watched him closely as she stirred the stew, slow and unbothered, her tone unfazed. Jaime's reasons smelled like ambition dressed up in sanctimony. The Lannisters had never been good at pretending their motives were noble.

She wasn't buying it. None of it. Everyone knew Robert's will named Lord Stark as regent. Everyone knew. It had been his dying command, ink still wet on the parchment when the lions moved in. And here was Ser Jaime, conveniently forgetting that little detail, as if the truth could be bludgeoned into fiction by repetition alone.

The Lannisters didn't defend power. They claimed it. As long as someone else did the bleeding.

Then Jaime leaned forward, his chains straining with a dull clatter as his hands trembled against the post. His voice took on a darker shade.

"If I had known that his imprisonment would start a war, I would have lopped off his traitorous head instead."

She said nothing.

No flinch. No reply. She simply looked down at her bowl, watched the stew swirl under her spoon. Steam rose in delicate curls, dancing in the firelight. She let the moment stretch. Let his words hang in the cold.

Then, softly—calm as snowfall—she said, "And here I thought the Kingslayer had already reached his quota for treachery."

She lifted her gaze again, steady and unshaken. "We all have regrets, Ser Jaime. Yours just speak louder than most. "Funny, most men regret the heads they've taken. You seem to mourn the ones you didn't. You Lannisters never seem to mind starting wars… so long as someone else bleeds for them."

Her spoon clinked gently against the bowl's rim as she lowered it, resting it across the edge. Her voice was quiet, almost conversational, but the words landed sharp.

"And yet you let him live. Was it mercy… or cowardice?"

She let him sit with that, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Just still. Measured. Unimpressed.

Some men hid behind armour. Others behind names. Jaime Lannister had always worn both like a second skin. But here, in this cage, in chains, fed by the hands of someone who wasn't fooled—he was just a man with too much history and not enough truth to cover it.

And Elric? Elric was no courtier. No knight. No man, though they all still believed she was.

She was a sword that hadn't yet been drawn. And right now, she had all the time in the world to listen to a lion roar from behind his cage.

 

[Risky]

Jon Snow

The journey to King's Landing had been long and much less scandalous than Jon could have predicted, with the Septa keeping Elyra occupied after their excursion to keep her around the camp. He was sure that she had no idea what he and Elyra had been doing, but she did know that the Lady who was meant to act as a handmaiden to his sisters had not been present where she was needed, and seemed hellbent on keeping her within eyesight.

Jon had been too nervous to attempt talking to her on the road, leaving him only with the memories of their night together and the ghost of her body curled against his beneath his cloak.

His cloak still smelled of her, as if her flowery perfume had been permanently embedded into the lining, a brief reminder of her touch whenever he removed it and caught her scent on his nose. The further South they had gone, the less his cloak had been needed... But Jon still kept it close until he could no longer stand to wear it in the heat.

The first thing that occurred to him when the procession reached the Capital was the sheer size of the city. It was strange to see an ocean so close to the city, the walls of King's Landing making way for its harbor that was its lifeblood. Rather than relying on land travel for their goods, the vast majority of provisions and goods came from the sea. It reminded him of conversations he had had with Theon about the Iron Islands, but on a far grander scale.

His job quickly moved from wallflower bastard of Winterfell to that of Eddard Stark's security detail. He was honored to be entrusted with the responsibility, and he could still feel the weight of it from when his father had told him of his role. It was not common for his father to trust anyone other than his personal guard to escort him, but now Jon could be part of that.

Ned Stark had begun his duties as Hand of the King by visiting various places around the city to familiarize himself with the new city they found themselves in. Though they would be unable to grasp the political complexities that came with the decisions of the Small Council, and the relationships both good and bad that churned behind the scenes, they could understand that the city was in dire need of immediate action. The filth that littered the streets of the lower districts approaching a harbor that flowed with riches beyond comprehension was nothing short of stunning.

People were starving, eating rotten food from the streets, and begging for gold wherever the small squad of Northern soldiers went. Jon kept a hand on the pommel of his sword until he realized that the people here had no qualms with the Starks.

It was the Lannisters they wanted.

Their patrols became more routine, Jon's brooding thoughts occupying his time while his father walked with Lord Petyr Baelish toward his brothel. Though Jon had not been keyed in on the reasons for these meetings, he knew that his father would not be intending them if they were not important. He had only briefly heard mention of Ser Aryyn and that he had been looking into something. Jon hardly paid the gossip any mind, instead focusing on his own dilemma.

"Then don't let anything stop you."

Those words still haunted him as he returned to the courtyard of the Red Keep, where the Stark presence in King's Landing now made its bed. He had promised her that he would see her again when they reached the Capital, that he would visit her, and that he would let nothing stand between them. Even if they had to meet in secret, his desire to see her again seized his chest and burned brighter inside him with each passing day.

Their patrol disbanded the moment they crossed the threshold into the gardens of the Red Keep, Jon walking by himself wearing a breastplate with a simple chain beneath. They did not have the luxury of heavy armor in the streets; if there was to be a fight, he would need to be as light as possible to win. He had tied his hair up to keep sweaty locks from obscuring his vision or dragging across his face while he walked the town. He almost had a mind to shave the locks, but wanted to try tying them before losing what would be a good benefit for when he hopefully returned North.

While the feeling of eyes on him had become the norm for this unfamiliar place, he felt a particular set of eyes settle on him that made him stop dead in his tracks. He turned his head to meet the gaze of Lady Elyra Frostmere, unattended by the Septa who had managed to keep them separated for the journey and the following days.

He quickly addressed his surroundings before making way across the garden to her, setting his hand on the back of her arm and swiftly guiding her to a hidden corner that he knew. He had known every nook and cranny of Winterfell so that he had somewhere to go when he felt the unbearable weight of Catelyn Stark's hatred, or when his brothers were being particularly cruel. He had done similar scouting around the Red Keep and wordlessly brought her to one of the spots he had discovered.

"I meant to find you sooner," Jon began, his face flushing with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. "My father asked me to join his Guard, and we've been getting our bearings," he explained while reaching a hand to rub the back of his neck. It was uncomfortably hot in the Capital, but the incessant beating of his heart was making his clamminess far worse.

He was far less easygoing and far stiffer than when they had last spoken, his confidence fleeting as he seemed to believe that his failure to find her in the Red Keep would change how she felt about him.

---

Jaime Lannister

He couldn't help the scoff that left him when Elric brought up the rumors about his family. It was almost enough of a blow to silence him, to make him end the charade that they could get along and have a civil conversation while he was tied to a post.

He didn't mind the silence between them, using it as an opportunity to close his eyes again and center himself. He doubted that lashing out would improve his situation, and with the way Elric was speaking, it would only serve to satisfy the warrior he had dueled in Winterfell. Jaime was meant to be the one drawing anger and frustration; he was meant to be the winner.

But now he was chained to a post in an enemy camp, mocked and looked upon with distrust by far less capable soldiers who seemed to believe they had a real chance of winning a war against his family.

"I swore an oath to defend the weak, and I swore an oath to protect the King. What happens when those two things are at odds?" Jaime finally opened his eyes after Elric's comment about sticking his sword in the Mad King's back. "How do you rank your oaths? Who do you swear loyalty to first? Your House? Or its people? Or maybe neither, perhaps you swore an oath to the Starks that you find much more important."

Jaime rolled his neck to alleviate some stiffness before meeting Elric's gaze again, "What would happen if your father decided one day that he doesn't enjoy living under the paws of wolves? Who would you side with then?" Jaime had heard some rumblings about dissent among the Northern ranks, and he hoped that it was a sore topic.

"I understood that killing Eddard Stark would have shattered the peace, something your Commander seemingly has no regard for." Jaime shook his head before sighing, "I wonder if Lord Stark bent the knee to Joffrey... Would your army still march South?"

Those were the last words he uttered to Elric before shifting to turn his back on him, sliding across the boot-beaten land beneath him as a wordless way of telling him that their conversation was over.

---

It had only taken a few days for Jaime Lannister to begin losing track of time.

Between the forced marches, the starvation, and the sleep deprivation, each day seemed to blend into the last. They moved often enough that he had no realistic way of keeping a count; no numerals drawn into the mud would remain through the summer rains that drenched the Kingslayer while he sought what rest he could take.

The rain was the only thing that told him that they grew closer to King's Landing, that the Young Wolf was successfully moving through the Riverlands, and that Tywin Lannister had not yet bested him. Each day was exactly the same as the last for the Kingslayer, though one of his guards had done the honorable thing by binding his hands in front of him rather than to the post. At least he could find some small comfort, even if the chains that sat on his waist still kept him still.

He was stirred by movement close to his cage; the guard posted outside had been loudly boasting about his victories over Tywin Lannister, how many soldiers he had killed in the Starks' name before he promptly passed out outside. Jaime knew he was secretly a weak man, a man who was abruptly awoken by an approaching guard with a new prisoner.

Jaime was hardly recognizable, with dirty, matted hair and his face covered in dirt that darkened his fair skin. His muscled, athletic form had begun to wither from the few bites of food that he had been spared, and he hardly looked like the proud Lion he had once been.

But a new Lion had entered his cage, with a swift push and the slam of the door, his cousin Alton Lannister was now imprisoned with him. He was nothing more than a boy, practically a scribe who had been tasked with delivering messages to the Northern camp. The guards exchanged a few words outside of their cage, discussing the need for Alton's imprisonment to keep the size of the Northern army a secret.

"Cousin," Jaime's vocal cords strained with the greeting. He could not remember the last time he had spoken, but it felt like it had been weeks.

"You look particularly terrible," Alton said, eyeing the dirty, broken man who was once the pride of the Lannister House. "I suppose you haven't had any luck escaping?"

The words were obviously a joke, but Jaime could feel the gears in his head turning.

"There has not been an opportunity... Until now," Jaime's words were hushed, urgent as he motioned for his cousin to come closer. He kept the two guards in the corner of his eye, the one who had escorted Alton beginning to walk away while the formerly sleeping guard walked to the woods to relieve himself, paying no attention to the two Lions he assumed were declawed.

Alton shifted closer to him, unbound, aside from his hands clasped in front of him. Jaime could feel hurt welling up inside of him, knowing that his cousin trusted him, and had no idea what the Kingslayer would do next.

As soon as he was within grasp, one of the heavy cuffs on Jaime's hand was bashed against the side of his head. Jaime's legs locked around his cousin and dragged him closer, pounding the metal against his cousin's temple over and over. What started as sickening crunches became far more sickening squelches as Jaime used some of the energy he had been saving to murder his cousin in cold blood.

The twitching body of his cousin stiffened with a final choking exhale, Jaime kicking the corpse away from himself before waiting. His front was covered in blood, and so he shifted to mask the presence of what he had used to crush Alton's skull. His eyes closed while he waited, keen ears perking to the sounds of mud sucking against the soles of boots.

A sharp gasp and the clattering of keys against a chain were followed by the creaking of the cell opening and the Karstark boy stepping inside to investigate what had happened to Alton and Jaime, noting first the dead boy before setting a hand on Jaime's shoulder.

He could not have seen the twisting strike coming; the same metal that caved in Alton's skull swung against the side of the boy's head. The first strike forced an ache through Jaime's muscles, but still he dragged the guard closer, wrapping his arm around the boy's throat and silencing any cries. His first strike had not been enough to knock him unconscious or kill him, and he was already feeling the effects of starvation and the loss of energy.

Jaime's arm clenched against the boy's throat until the Karstark stopped struggling, going limp in Jaime's deadly embrace. The Kingslayer urgently searched through the darkness, bloodied hands tapping the waist of the Karstark guard until he found the key to his manacles. He swiftly unlocked them and unchained himself from the post, taking the Karstark's sword and securing it around his waist. He painfully noted that he needed to tighten the belt more than he would have upon his capture before slipping from his cage.

It was perhaps the most daring, desperate thing he had ever attempted, and the knowledge that the Starks would have the dogs on him soon weighed heavily on him as he began crashing through the woods, the distant shouts of alarm and frustration echoing off trees and ferns that threatened to trip him and end his attempt at freedom.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Elyra Frostmere

The air clung to her skin like a jealous lover, thick with heat and heavy with the scent of salt and rot. Elyra pressed a hand to her chest, fingers curling against the light silks of her gown as if it would somehow cool the inferno simmering beneath. She had thought herself so clever once, as a girl—preening before a cracked mirror in her father's keep, adorning herself in makeshift finery and dreaming of the great halls of King's Landing. Of sweeping staircases and whispered scandals, of laughter like bells and ladies gliding like swans down golden corridors.

What a fool she had been.

King's Landing looked like gold from afar, but up close it smelled of sweat and sewage, of ambition turned sour and desperation bled dry in the gutters. The people were starving, the nobles were circling, and every corridor of the Red Keep felt more like a maze designed to trap her than a palace meant to inspire awe. And worst of all, she could not escape the damned Septa. Or the sisters Stark, for that matter—Sansa's ceaseless complaints and Arya's loud disdain for everything not forged of steel.

But now—blessedly, finally—she was alone.

She'd slipped away under the pretence of lemon cakes, no particular destination in mind. The Septa had blinked, and Elyra had seized the opportunity like a thief in the night. Her slippers barely made a sound as she padded through marble corridors, each turn taken more by instinct than direction, until suddenly—

Green.

The gardens stretched before her like an oasis, blooming defiantly amidst the city's filth. The scents here were sweeter—rose, lemon blossom, thyme—and she inhaled deeply, grateful for something other than heat and courtly rot. The shade, though scarce, was a balm. She wandered forward, her fingers trailing over the edges of a low hedge, a smile ghosting her lips.

And then she stopped.

Her breath caught, mid-step. He hadn't seen her, not yet. But he felt her.

Jon Snow turned like a man who had been struck, those dark eyes finding hers with such accuracy she might've believed he had dreamed her into being. Elyra's grin bloomed instantly—wider than it should've, unrepentant and unstoppable.

Gods, he was beautiful. Even here, in the sun's cruel light, sweat clinging to his brow and hair tied back in a hasty knot. He was dressed lighter than she was used to, the breastplate fitted to him like a second skin, chainmail whispering beneath. He moved like a shadow, all silent command and sharpened purpose, but it was the little things that ruined her—how his brow furrowed the moment he saw her, how the colour rushed up his neck when he quickened his pace, how he looked at her like she was everything.

He reached her in seconds, his hand curling gently around her arm—not roughly, but firmly, as if he needed to be sure she was real. She followed without question as he guided her, silent and swift, until they ducked beneath an overhang cloaked in ivy, out of sight and out of reach.

"I meant to find you sooner—"

His voice, low and a touch frayed, made something in her chest ache.

Elyra tilted her head, arms crossing deliberately under her chest as she leaned against the cool stone behind her, her silks brushing the leaves. Her dress was cut to the southern style: sleeveless and flowing, gold accents threading through the pale lavender fabric, a neckline a touch too daring by northern standards. But it wasn't her attire that gave her confidence—it was him. And how utterly undone he was, trying to explain himself.

"Oh clearly," she said sweetly, arching a brow and letting her mouth fall into a soft, mock pout. "Because obviously, you've just been far too busy guiding your father through every alley of the city and memorizing every hidden corner to whisk a girl into. Very noble of you. Tell me, Jon Snow… is this the same spot where you take all the eager little southern ladies who throw themselves at your feet?"

She let the tease linger, even as she saw the stiffness in his jaw, the faint line of discomfort he tried to mask. He was taking her seriously. Gods, he always did.

Elyra laughed—a sweet, airy sound that drifted between them like birdsong—and in the next heartbeat she pushed off the wall and launched herself gently into his chest. Her arm coiled around his neck, the other brushing his jaw with reverent fingers.

"Oh you poor, honourable thing," she whispered, her lips curving before she pulled him into a kiss.

It was not chaste. Not after the days apart, not after nights she had spent alone with his name in her thoughts and the memory of his mouth pressed to her skin. She kissed him like she'd wanted to since they left the bog lights—deep and slow, full of unspoken longing. His warmth enveloped her, the faint tang of steel and leather and the salt of his skin making her dizzy. She pressed close, rising onto her toes to match his height, her hand slipping to the nape of his neck as she coaxed more of him into the kiss.

When they finally parted, breathless, her lips still tingled.

"You don't have to explain," she murmured against his cheek, fingers gliding down over the hard line of his armour. "I understand. Truly."

She looked up into his eyes, her voice softening with sincerity. "I've thought about you every day. Every damned night. I don't sleep well in that place," she added with a scoff, her hand brushing his chest as if it might soothe the weight he wore. "And I hate it here, Jon. The people, the heat, the preening lords and their hollow smiles. But seeing you…"

Her fingers slipped into the tie that bound his hair, idly tugging as a smile spread once more on her face, warm and earnest.

"…makes it all a little more bearable."

She kissed his cheek, just once, before pulling back enough to look at him properly.

"How are you, truly?" she asked, voice rich with affection and curiosity. "Because I'm beginning to suspect you're faring no better than I am. Except with… slightly fewer dresses."

She winked, and waited, her hand still at the back of his neck—ready to hold him together if the world began to shake again.

---

Elric Frostmere

The hounds howled somewhere behind them, distant but persistent, their baying fractured by the wind and the trees. Torches flickered in the dark like fireflies disturbed from their nests, casting ruddy glows through the Riverlands woods, where summer rains had turned the earth to a sucking mire. Elric Frostmere moved with more care than speed, a slim figure cloaked in oil-dark wool, boots silent in the leaf mulch, eyes sharp.

Beside her stalked Harrion Karstark's youngest brother, a boy of maybe sixteen summers, though rage had etched lines in his face that made him look older. His hands trembled, not with cold but from fury barely leashed.

They had been the first to reach the holding pen after the alarm went up. The scent had hit her before the sight: blood, wet and metallic, thick in the air like rusting iron. The cage door hung ajar. A single guard's helm lay askew in the mud.

Elric had stepped inside first.

Alton Lannister had been barely recognizable. What remained of his face was a mass of pulp and bone, blood pooling around his broken skull. The other—young Karstark, one of Harrion's kin—was twisted in the corner, neck bent at an unnatural angle, eyes open but seeing nothing. Jaime Lannister was gone.

Gone.

"Elric," the Karstark boy hissed now, ducking beneath a low branch, his voice sharpened by grief, "when I find him, I'll rip him apart with my bare hands. I swear it on—"

"Quiet," Elric said, low and firm.

He fell silent, but not still. His fury made him jittery, unthinking, dangerous.

Elric didn't blame him. She understood it—intimately. But she had her orders.

The King in the North had made himself clear: Jaime Lannister was to be brought back alive.

It would be no small thing, trying to keep a Karstark from vengeance. But Robb Stark was playing a long game, and Elric, more than most, understood the weight of politics that rode on the golden lion's head. A dead Lannister was vengeance. A living one was leverage.

The boy muttered something else under his breath, barely audible above the rain pattering on the trees.

Elric didn't answer. She crouched, gloved hand brushing the dirt. It had taken them a half hour to find the trail—partially obscured, but fresh. Mud had been disturbed in a strange zigzag, not from boots fleeing at a sprint, but a slower, more measured retreat. Jaime Lannister was not running like a man with strength behind him.

She'd noted the pattern: the drag of a foot, an uneven stride, and more telling still—a smear of blood on a low branch, barely visible.

"Left," she said quietly, motioning with two fingers.

"Are you certain?" the Karstark asked, his voice taut.

"I'm not guessing."

They moved again, slower now, more careful. Elric's sword rested against her back, half drawn. Her eyes flicked to the ground, then to the surrounding forest, watching for broken ferns or trampled moss. The air was heavy with rain and tension.

The Karstarks had lost much in this war. They hungered for blood. But she wasn't here for that.

Jaime Lannister had charmed a thousand tongues, whispered through courts with that easy smile and lion's grace. He had made women blush, made men laugh. And now she had seen what lay beneath all that—seen what he had done to his own kin, to a boy who had looked up to him. No, she wouldn't forget the cage.

But neither would she waste a duel on a half-starved shadow of a man.

She raised a hand, halting the boy beside her. Elric crept forward, slipping through a break in the trees where moss grew thick beneath the oaks. Then—movement. A whisper of cloth. The hush of someone limping through the brush, careful but no longer quick.

She unsheathed her sword with barely a sound. It caught a glimmer of moonlight, only a sliver, before she lowered it at her side.

"Kingslayer."

Her voice was even, calm. A simple declaration of presence.

"No one is chasing you now," she said into the dark, not yet stepping into full view. "But you cannot outrun the forest, and you won't outrun the North. Best if you yield. If not for my sake, then for your own."

The Karstark boy snarled, stepping forward, voice thick with fury: "He doesn't deserve mercy!"

He moved, intent surging through him like a charge—

"Stop." Elric's voice cracked through the air like a whip, her sword raising between them. "Do you really think you stand a chance against Jaime Lannister?"

He faltered. Anger warred with sense on his young face.

"He's starving," Elric said. "But he's still twice the swordsman you'll ever be."

She met his eyes, unflinching. He looked away first.

The woods fell quiet again.

Elric took a breath and stepped forward, slowly now, into the dim clearing. Her blade lowered slightly, more gesture than threat.

"I don't want to fight you," she said to the man she could now see—bloodstained, filthy, gaunt and still standing somehow. "You've shed enough blood tonight. And it's not my name that you'll answer to, but the King in the North's."

Her voice was quieter now. "He has ordered your return. Alive."

She kept her sword steady, her tone level, gaze unwavering.

"I mean to see that done, Lannister. Whatever else you deserve—tonight, it's life."

And quietly, to herself:

It would be no great victory to bring down a starving lion.

But it would be a beginning.