The Lion's Den [Closed]

[Scriven]

Tywin dismissed her simple defense with nothing more than a soft ‘hmph’ of disagreement. What she considered necessity was clearly very different from what he considered necessity.


“I do not tolerate those who do not do as I say. You may not always understand why I give an order, but you must follow it anyway. You chose to disobey me. You’re no longer the asset to me that you were, so I've decided to have you taken to Casterly Rock in the morning. You’re a danger to those around you if you can’t follow simple instructions.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia shook her head, her own disagreement. “My lord, I’d request that you humor me a moment, and tell me what you know of manticore venom, and what happens when it is thickened.” It was not voiced argumentatively. She wanted his answer.


He had explained he had difficulties detecting poison. He had clearly acknowledged that she understood quite a bit about poison, and she could have sworn he was even starting to respect her for it. If any of that remained, she was going to try and pull on it, and convince him that in this, she knew better—as he likely knew better about war, and other topics.


If she could convince him of that, she might walk out of her without shackles.


If not, she’d have to consider if finding a way out of the shackles while en route to Casterly Rock was preferable to a cell. She was getting so tired of playing the dutiful daughter and sworn lady.

 

[Scriven]

What kind of ploy was this? If she thought she could so easily change his mind, clearly she knew little about him.


“I now know firsthand how it feels to have it traveling through my veins,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Beyond that, little. Still, it makes no difference.”

 

[Lucyfer]

“It does,” Aemilia said, keeping her voice calm rather than insistent. “Normally, you would not be in that much pain from manticore venom. It is a quick kill. Once it reaches your heart, you die.”


She would let that sink in for a moment, “Thickened makes it more difficult, but the same risk applies. You know, I am sure, that a sleeping person breathes slower, and their heart rate is slower,” she would pretend he knew these things, even if he didn’t. Most did, when they glanced at someone sleeping nearby. They would see the slow rise and fall of the chest.


So she continued, “Not only did I need you not to move, my lord, I needed your heart to beat slow. I needed your breaths to be slow. Even if you could monitor your breathing rate, you would not be able to have it be as slow as if you were asleep.”


She took a breath, said, “So to make sure that the poison wouldn’t reach your heart when the clots were broken up—that’s what happens when it is thickened, it begins to form blood clots—your heart had to be beating very slow.”


Would he understand now? If not, so be it, but she did not think Tywin was quite that prideful. If so, the song would be the Rains of Casterly.

 

[Scriven]

Tywin was silent for a moment, studying Amaia intently. She was a clever woman, he’d give her that. Perhaps more clever than a woman ought to be. He could feel the pain of the arrow and her knife high on his chest where she had worked, but he was no doubt alive because of her.


“You saved my life, and for that I’m sparing yours. But you disobeyed the Hand of the King and that is a serious offense. Lady Amaia, do you know why I ordered you not to administer Milk of the Poppy?”


He would turn the questions on her now. He wasn’t an unreasonable person, and Tywin wasn’t sure why but it was important to him that she understand that. He could not afford for those around him to disobey him, and he could not allow Amaia Hetherspoon to ignore a direct order and go unpunished. It would set a poor example. It was something his late father would have done. Tytos had always been too soft and it had almost cost him not only Casterly Rock, but his life. The Lannisters had only been able to regain their status because he had done what was necessary. He would continue doing what was necessary, even when it was hard. Even when, at times like these, he could recognize that he would have done the same thing as her if he had been in her position.

 

[Lucyfer]

‘For that I’m sparing yours.’


Aemilia let the words echo in her head, her surety that he wouldn’t kill her for this offense finding itself jarred by the reality that such had been his plan. The irons were heavier, but she didn’t so much as twist her wrist to try and see if she could escape them. Again, Tywin's tendency for violence caught her off guard, when she knew it shouldn't.


“Thank you.”


That was what one said when their life was spared, even when their life shouldn't have been in danger in the first place


“I could guess,” she answered him, “but I would rather not assume. A man can have any number of reasons. Why do you not want milk of the poppy administered?” Pride. Some didn't like to be knocked out by such methods--waking was difficult. Some didn't trust the administer. Hundreds of reasons existed.

 

[Scriven]

She was amazingly steady for one in her precarious position, Tywin thought. He found it hard to admire a woman for her courage, yet there it was; he held a wisp of admiration for her, despite her defiance.


“Milk of the poppy makes otherwise strong men weak. It makes a person entirely vulnerable. Our camp was infiltrated by spies. They hid among my own men, unbeknownst to anyone. It was a Marbrand man in our camp that shot me. What if more had been waiting till the moment I was entirely vulnerable? You left me with no way to defend myself.”


Tywin stepped closer. “You chose to take the matter into your own hands. What do you think would happen if I let other people do what they thought was best for me? A leader must maintain control. And though I may understand why you did what you did, I cannot allow you to go unpunished after disobeying my orders.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Ah yes, the spies of war. The constant fear and vigilance one had to have around the fires, as people moved about. Most did not worry about these things, but a leader such as Tywin had to be constantly concerned with it. After all, who in this world had more enemies? Perhaps Joffrey. Only Joffrey.


Nothing he said was wrong about Milk of the Poppy. It did have that effect, and though Aemilia had left kin to watch him, Tywin was the sort who preferred to protect himself. His trust for others non-existent.


At least now he understood, and so she let out a breath. There were still arguments in her head. ‘How many know I disobeyed you?’ Aemilia wasn’t the sort to try that level of cunning, though. At least, not that day. “Very well. I can see your point.”


‘Even if you should have other leaders who are capable of leading in your absence. Even if….’


“I shall go to Casterly in the morning without a fuss, my lord.” Going there without a fuss, yes. She wasn’t sure that would hold for the trip, though. "Be sure your maesters are informed of the poison. I doubt that will be the last time the Marbrands use it." Focus on doing good. Focus on making it appear she was still on his side, since actions on his behalf had led to this unfortunate position.

 

[Scriven]

The woman before him was advising him. Few men had such nerve, Tywin thought, teeth grinding together with irritation. “Your tent will be guarded from hereon out. When my troops depart in the morning a party will come to accompany you to Casterly Rock. While you are there, I would recommend that you reflect on what your place is in the world. I expect you to be wiser when next we meet.”


He’d leave her in her shackles. She was lucky she was allowed the comfort and privacy of her tent, but she could suffer through a long night of trying to sleep with heavy irons on her wrists.


“Sleep well, Lady Amaia,” he told her with an ironic lilt to his voice, and left her tent.


“See to it that she does not leave, nor have visitors,” Tywin ordered one of his men. The man nodded, and though he was perplexed by the orders he didn’t question them. Amaia could have learned a lot from the young man.

 

[Lucyfer]

Amaia’s bed had a few stains of blood from Tywin. Another day, another circumstance, she might have gone willingly onto such a thing, but she knew it was blood spilled that had saved him. Her knife had cut in to dig out an arrow. “Thank you, my lord,” she called back without looking, before she heard the fall of the tent flap and his muted words to those outside.


She waited until his steps took him away, and then she let out an irked sound. ‘I could get out of these.’ She thought with a twist of one wrist. There were metal shavings that could draw blood from her wrists. That would be lubrication enough to get her hands free of the shackles. It would hurt, though, and Tywin would be much more careful in seeing her bound tomorrow.


Best to wait. If that was necessary, she’d do so later.


Stripping the bed wasn’t that difficult anyway, she just let the bloodied sheets fall to the floor without care to fold them. That’d take too much effort right now. ‘As will changing out of this….’ Bloodied dress from tending to others. Oh, she’d do it tomorrow, but she wouldn’t enjoy it at all and she’d likely have to keep her curses to herself. ‘By wiser you just mean quiet and obedient.’


Which, as she sat on the bed, she knew she was supposed to be. Still, as she shut her eyes tight, she realized only then how difficult it was going to be that way, at all times, for a long enough period of time. ‘I hope you die while I’m away. I hope it’s another manticore-poisoned blade.’


But she would try to sleep, with her hopes behind her lips and the iron around her wrists.

 

[Scriven]

A small party had been selected to take Amaia to Casterly Rock. The men were mostly young squires, including his nephew Willem, but the gruff and grey Ser Elric would keep them all in check and would make sure Amaia wasn’t treated as a guest. She was being sent away for disobeying an order from the Hand of the King, a serious offense. The last thing Tywin wanted was a group of young squires flirting and joking with her the whole way back to his home.


It was quite early in the morning, the sky still dark above them with the sun just barely warming the horizon. “M’lady?” Osbert called from outside Lady Amaia’s tent. He’d been surprised and a little terrified that morning when Lord Tywin had singled him out for a job, but it was a simple task: take his intended wife to Casterly Rock and deliver a letter to the Chamberlain. Tywin had made it perfectly clear that this was not a trip in which he should socialize with the Lady Amaia.


Osbert, with his bright auburn hair and freckled face, was as far from a Lannister as a person could get. He was a squire, and a lowly one at that. His chances of ever becoming a knight were very low unless he managed to perform some great act of bravery in battle. He spent more time scrubbing pots and carrying water than he did attending Ser Elric, but he didn’t mind.


“M’lady, please excuse me, but I’m coming in.” Osbert pulled back the drape to her tent, glad he had been told in advance that the woman was in shackles, because the sight probably would have alarmed him. He had been informed that Lady Amaia was serving a sentence, though he hadn’t been given the details. Osbert bowed quickly, not looking at Amaia for longer than a second. “I’m Osbert Hogarth. Lord Tywin asked me to see you to a horse and bring you along with those of us going to Casterly Rock.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia soon found that shackles were more frustrating than she could have anticipated. Not only had they made it difficult more than an hour’s rest at a time, but she couldn’t for the life of her get into a new dress, nor out of the bloody one. The sleeves were the hindrances, and tempting as it was to just rip them off in a fit, she did no such thing, but instead paced and tried to rack her brain for a way out of the bloody dress.


‘Can’t even undo the laces!’ On her back. She’d done what she could to look better than when she slept, managed to brush out her hair, but the dress!


So, needless to say, she was hardly prepared for greeting outside her tent. ‘M’lady?’ Her nose wrinkled a bit, wondering who that could be with such an accented way of addressing her.


“I’m not—” not that it seemed to stop the man. She glared at the auburn-haired man when he entered, but he didn’t so much as meet her eyes. He couldn’t even look at her, it seemed. ‘What has Tywin been saying?’ She didn’t know the reason for his caution.


She bit the inside of her cheek. “I suppose I’m not going to be given the liberty of changing out of these bloody clothes, am I?” Fantastic. She already had to endure sleeping in them, now she was going to have to spend a trip riding to Casterly Rock in shackles and dirty clothes? It wasn’t painful, but it was definitely a strike to her dignity.


She’d wait for an answer, though. Perhaps she was lucky and the man had keys to the shackles and he could temporarily relieve her of them. If not, she’d find her shoes and exit, like a good woman, and plan out how to create a new poison on the way to Casterly. She’d have plenty of time to think, no doubt.


The gods weren’t going to answer her prayers and poison Tywin with manticore again, no matter how hard she prayed to the Stranger. She’d have to return to praying to the Crone aspect.

 

[Scriven]

She was glaring at him. He may not have been looking right at her, but Osbert had no problems seeing the look of indignity she bore from the corner of his eye.


“I suppose I’m not going to be given the liberty of changing out of these bloody clothes, am I?”


The question was biting. Osbert looked at her, but only with another quick flick of his eyes. He wondered what had happened between Lord Tywin and his future wife that he should have her shackled. The Warden of the West hadn’t volunteered the information and Osbert hadn’t asked.


“Er, no. I’m... I’m afraid not.”


He didn’t have the keys to her irons in any case, for which he was glad. Those were safely in Ser Elric’s hands, who would have no problems telling her no. If the key had been entrusted to Osbert, he’d have had to decide whether Lord Tywin would want to allow such an action or not, and the squire didn’t pride himself on his ability to make important decisions. It was better if he left that to others.


“This way, please.” Osbert lifted the flap at the front of the tent, still doing his best not to look at her too much.

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia was not at all pleased with the answer, but there was little she could do. She could refuse, and cause a fuss, but she had already told Tywin she wouldn’t. If nothing else, she was going to maintain the appearances of honesty with him. Yes, she’d disobeyed him, but she certainly wasn’t going to be caught in a lie when there was only one truth she had to protect.


All others were frivolous.


She let out the anger in a hot breath through her lips, “One moment, I have to put on shoes,” she told the man, and went to fetch the discarded shoes. It took a bit longer than normal, and she had to sit down on the bed, but she was able to pull the shoes on and lace them up.


Aemilia did not want to walk out in the shackles, and she realized the mercy Jaime had spared her in that moment. Despite her hopes that the questions would shake things up a bit, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. ‘Little pieces.’ But not enough.


“All right,” she said when the shoes were on and she rose, and walked to where the man was. She ducked under the flap he held up, and would allow him to lead. ‘Will I be allowed the use of my own horse?’ Probably not. No doubt the group taking her along had no idea which horse she’d brought along as her own.


Another twist of the wrist in the shackles. Her wrists itched. Sweat from the night clung to her beneath the clothing, and made the shackles all the more uncomfortable. ‘The last time I….’


The thought trailed off. The last time she’d been in such a state, she’d been a child and all her clothing had been burned. She didn’t want to think of that time, and those days she’d traveled to end up with Tybolt. A stray thought wished him dead, too, and it was recanted immediately, painfully, twisted with guilt and self-loathing.


‘Were it not for you, I’d not fear killing Tywin outright.’


But it was for him, and he was alive. He’d put her in the position to be close to Twyin. She just had to get better at playing the hand she’d been dealt.


She should have played it by looking properly humbled, but she held her head up on the walk to the horses, and even dared to smile when she saw Willem Lannister.

 

[Scriven]

Amaia Hetherspoon walking through camp made quite the spectacle. There were few women among the troops, making her a rarity in that right, but add to that the fact that she was clearly a noblewoman and walking in chains, she made for an odd sight. Osbert walked quickly, not trying to hurry her, but trying to lead her away from the curious looks being cast her way. She must have done something quite awful to be put in chains, he thought, then reconsidered. No, if she’d done something really awful she would be in one of the rough cages with the other prisoners. What a predicament, he thought. What could she have done that was bad enough to warrant the embarrassment of being paraded through camp in shackles, but which wasn’t bad enough to earn a more severe (but common) punishment?


As they walked they were joined by Lord Tywin’s nephew, Willem. He saw Lady Amaia smile at the boy and rolled his eyes up to the sky. Willem, privileged lad that he was, even got better treatment from Lord Tywin’s fiance. Osbert had gotten the anger, but Willem got a smile. Life always seemed to work out that way for those from rich and powerful families.


“Ser,” Osbert called, drawing the attention of Elric toward them. The wizened knight was tending to a horse before he turned. He looked at Lady Amaia with a cold glower.


“Help her get on this horse,” Elric ordered Willem. “It’s time to leave.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Willem had returned her smile, albeit fleetingly, with all the hesitance one would expect of such a young boy put on this sort of mission. One wasn’t meant to smile at prisoners, no matter what they'd done.


They eye roll did not go unnoticed, but it would go uncommented on, unacknowledged, by Willem. He might have pointed it out to Elric, but there were more pressing matters than getting the lowborn squire in trouble for his manners.


The knight she did not know, had not tended, but it was clear immediately why he was assigned to this task. His cold stare would set the mood, and it made it plain why Willem wouldn’t hold a smile on his own lips.


“Yes, Ser,” Willem said, and he moved to do just that. No words passed his lips to greet her as he approached her and the lowborn boy. He gave Osbert a look that would tell him to scurry away, before he walked Aemilia to the horse.


It wasn’t her horse. Aemilia eyed it warily. ‘Jaime, don’t let anything happen to my horse.’ Jaime knew her horse by now from the times they’d ridden besides each other. She was attached to the thing—too attached, she knew, but attached all the same.


Getting on the horse in shackles and a skirt was managed as gracefully as one could surmise considering it was a young man helping who wasn’t sure how to go about it. The horse was well trained so that it didn’t move prematurely, and eventually Aemilia was situated, and Willem went to his own steed—a pretty champagne thing with a white mane.


“Ready, Ser.” Willem spoke for them both. Aemilia didn’t address the knight. Her attention was a few seconds ahead, on how difficult riding like this was going to be.


‘This is going to be just impossible if I need to gallop.’


Galloping likely wasn’t on anyone’s agenda

 

[Scriven]

Osbert hadn’t realized he’d been watching the spectacle of Willem Lannister trying to help Lord Tywin’s fiance onto her horse in shackles with an amused smirk till Ser Elric gave him a sharp rap on the shoulder with his scabbard. Osbert winced, then looked at Elric apologetically.


“Get everyone’s things,” he was ordered and Osbert hurried to obey.


It was a little unfair, actually. Willem Lannister was a squire too (and only half his age!), yet there was a clear difference in their duties. Osbert bit back a sigh, plastering a smile onto his freckled face to hide his frustration with his lot in life. When everyone was ready and Osbert had finished securing their belongings, he climbed onto his pony (an old, tired thing that was about half the height of Willem’s steed) and they set off.


The Lord Hand’s army was already marching down the hill in loose formation. Tents were being taken down and loaded onto carts by those who weren’t soldiers. They reminded Osbert of a colony of ants, marching around and carrying their loads in neat little lines.


Ordinarily there might have been some conversation between them during their several-day ride to Casterly Rock, but the dynamic of the group was thrown off by the presence of Lady Amaia. Osbert rode at the back of the party, feeling rather stifled. As a rather talkative person (which sometimes got him in trouble), the expected silence was almost unbearable.

 

[Lucyfer]

In the silence as they set off, Aemilia was able to get her bearings and figure out just how to go about this trip in the shackles. A few minutes into the ride, her posture visibly relaxed and she looked over all of those with her. Willem, of course, then the knight (if he had a name it slipped her mind), Hogarth the smiling one—though she’d swear it fake, and a few others who had not been introduced to her.


Before they were out of sight, her eyes sought Tywin and Jaime both among the moving army, but found neither in the mess of red and gold.


The silence was not stifling to her, familiar with it, though not the tension that it was laced with. There seemed to be a threat in the air that kept even Willem quiet, and Aemilia let her eyes drift ahead while the horse she rode easily followed after the knight. It was steady.


‘I wonder if I could layer basilisk venom with ricin.’


Aemilia occupied her mind in that way, mentally balancing poisons and imagining what she might test it on to see if she could devise a poison that would drive Tywin mad before the end, to let him lose his precious control. Basilisk drove animals and men mad, but that never seemed to be the actual cause of death. In fact, that wore off after a time. Given, most died from the madness, but usually to a creature or another man’s sword.


Ricin would give him that lovely feeling of drowning, filling his lungs with fluids, while also causing a terrible fever. Both would do that, though—that uncomfortable fever, with all the sweating and dehydration. Some said the violent madness was driven by that boiling fever.


It would be wonderfully slow, and if she could layer it right, quite difficult for any maester to treat.


Willem noted the faraway look in Lady Amaia’s eyes as the time passed, and he grew more and more bored with his lot. The silence had held, for the most part, but Willem was growing restless. He could see that the majority of his companions weren’t as easily distracted or contented with the ride as Amaia or Ser Elric appeared to be.


A loud sigh announced his bored, followed by a steady stream of questions to the knight until he fell silent, unable to dent the tension.


The day and night were uneventful, fortunately, and Aemilia said little. She certainly didn’t explain her presence among them, since she’d never be able to do so without bitterness in her tone. Or sarcasm.


It was day three that brought about a change, beginning with the sound of a group of horses galloping up to meet them, the flayed man displayed proudly on the bold bunch. ‘Outnumbered.’ Aemilia realized shortly, not that it mattered. Those on the horses didn’t look like mere squires, but blooded men who’d seen their fair share of combat already.


Willem was already reaching for his sword when one spoke up, “Good morrow,” in a sickeningly friendly tone. "What brings you through these parts?"


"I ought to be asking you that!" The Lannister boy snarled and Aemilia didn't even bother to resist the urge to look skyward.


'The Lannisters can roar all they like.' Roger used to say, when he thought that was all the Lannisters were good at doing.

 

[Scriven]

The party was less than a day’s ride from Casterly Rock when they found themselves surrounded by men flying the Bolton flag. Their horses slowed, the men drawing their swords. These were Northmen, sworn to Robb Stark- the Young Wolf, they called him. That meant that, as sworn bannerman to Stark, they were allied with the Marbrands.


Two thing were for certain: these men were their enemies and they were sorely outnumbered. Osbert knew that he was about to live his last moments and said a prayer to the Warrior for strength. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his thighs gripping the sides of his pony more tightly than usual. She shifted, prancing in place.


“We have no words to waste on the likes of you,” Ser Elric told Bolton’s men, and with grim determination he rode into toward them, sword drawn and ready to take down whoever he could before he met his death. Osbert felt a rise of admiration for the knight he’d served for the past many years. Elric knew his fate was dire and he was choosing to die fighting. Osbert, his heart in his throat, urged his pony forward, following behind to do the same.

 

[Lucyfer]

If they had wanted to fight, Aemilia imagined they would not have come to speak. The bravado of the knight, and the squires that followed him, caused Aemilia to shake her head. She did not urge the creature beneath her forward, though she did consider reeling around and running. ‘Likely surrounded.’ Aemilia could not see them, but her luck wasn’t that good lately.


She knew what she was good at. Fighting wasn’t that. She didn’t have a sword, or a dagger, anyway.


‘Is my fate better with them, or…?’


Not that it would matter soon. She had little fate in one knight and a few squires. Elric’s call to arms was answered by the Bolton men drawing as one, and Willem riding forward along with the red-haired one.The speaker looked to the knight, and chose to engage him, swinging hard to disarm rather than kill.


No doubt, Willem had been taught well, and he came out of the fight that injured Tywin nearly unscathed, but the Bolton men were the better. Aemilia observed as he was disarmed, the creature beneath her becoming anxious with the sounds of metal on metal. Willem was knocked from his horse not with a sword’s edge, but with an armored elbow, and the man that did it followed him.


He did not move to kill, but he rolled Willem onto his stomach and pressed his foot down hard onto the small of Willem’s back, “Stay down or you’ll be drinking mud.”He cast a quick glance towards her, as if to note his words included her in the threat. She just reached for the reins of her horse to stop its anxious movements by gently pulling up.


The others seemed to intend to deal with the others in a similar fashion, killing apparently not on their mind. ‘They know who we are.’ Or they at least knew Willem—Lannisters had a look about them. That made them valuable. Aemilia kept her lips tightly shut. No shouting nor crying would pass her lips, and she'd not try to convince the men to back down, or remind them that dying here would be pointless, for a foolish cause.

 

[Scriven]

From the corner of his eye, Osbert saw Willem fall, a boot belonging to one of Bolton’s men on his back. Ser Elric grunted with pain from one man’s blow, but managed to get his sword into one of the men that were around him. The enemy fell, not dead, but mortally wounded. Elric was already fighting with another man, but someone from behind pressed a sword into his back and ordered him to drop his weapon. Defiantly, and clearly preferring death to being taken as one of Bolton’s prisoners, Elric turned. His sword flashed and blood poured. Two men fell, but one of them was the old, craggy knight. He made a strangled sound as blood began to pour from a deep gash in his throat. A moment later the gurgling stopped and Elric’s twitching ceased.


Osbert had tried to put up a fight, but he lacked Elric’s blind bravery. When Bolton’s men surrounded him, the squire dropped his sword and surrendered. The knight he served was dead and Osbert had no allegiance to the Lannisters. If the Boltons would allow him to live, he’d serve a new master. It was an easy decision to make.


His sword was at his feet, his hands up and palms open to show he was unarmed. Osbert looked at Lady Amaia, who was still on her horse. She was a noblewoman, which made the situation much more dire for her than it did for him. She looked calm and regal up there on her horse, he couldn’t help but think. What would they do with her? Would they kill her because her father supported King Joffrey? Would they ransom her to Tywin Lannister? Would they torture her for information, or flay her just to send a message? Osbert shuddered at the thought.


He tried not to look at Ser Elric, whose body was nearby. His head was in a pool of blood, his throat slit into a gruesome smiling gash. The squire had served Elric for years. Elric, who had admittedly been rough and stern and none-too-friendly, had been the closest thing to family Osbert had left. Now the old knight was dead. Osbert’s freckled face cast down, his expression moving from anger to sorrow to confusion. He tried to push back the onslaught of emotion, distancing himself from what had just happened.

 

[Lucyfer]

The fight in everyone seemed to die when the fight in the knight was vanquished. Osbert was not the only squire to give up. Even Willem, struggling in the mud, froze when the knight fell not too far from him. “Get the point, my lord?”


The way it was sneered made it impossible for Aemilia to hide her smile, so she bowed her head as she felt it grow on her lips. She had no qualms with Willem, after all.


Willem was pulled to his feet shortly after that, and the Bolton man pulled rope from the saddlebags of his horse, giving a disgusted look to the fallen knight.


The “new leader”, the other having been slain by Elric when the knight refused to drop his sword, addressed Aemilia, “You are Lady Hetherspoon?”


‘No, Lady Reyne.’


What would the reactions be? Best not to find out. “I am,” she said. “Prisoner of Tywin.” She added, solely for the confusion that graced the man’s expression. They had known who they were following, but they apparently missed the part where she was in shackles. She’d been relieved of them simply to make traveling life easier for everyone, with the promise they’d return once they reached Casterly Rock.


Apparently that wasn’t happening.


The man walked to where she was. He made a point to step on Elric on his way, “Well, now you’re a Bolton prisoner. Lord Bolton can decide what he wants to do with you, and the rest of you lot.” The bannerman wasn’t sure if he believed her, considering the rumors of Lady Hetherspoon that had spread, along with the rumors of Tywin. Last he’d been told, they were to be wed. That made her a decent hostage—and it looked like she had been on her way to Casterly Rock to be safe and sound from the war.


When he reached for her, Aemilia didn’t waste her energy fighting, but let herself leave the saddle of the horse, and she found her hands now tied in rope rather than chains. That seemed to be the fate of everyone. Names were demanded of them, too. Willem gave his easily, finding strength in it. He gave his father’s name, so they’d know who they were messing with, too. Kevan wasn’t as terrifying as Tywin, but Kevan was Tywin’s brother—that made him important.

 

[Scriven]

Prisoner of Tywin? Osbert was as confused by Lady Amaia’s statement as the Northmen looked to be. She wasn’t realy Lord Tywin’s prisoner, was she? She had been in shackles that first day, but he’d never realized she was a prisoner. That changed the scenario they were in quite a lot. Had things between the Lannisters and Heatherspoons gone awry? Was Lady Amaia a prisoner of war? If so, perhaps she was not being kidnapped. Perhaps she was being rescued.


“Well, now you’re a Bolton prisoner. Lord Bolton can decide what he wants to do with you, and the rest of you lot.”


Or perhaps not. Osbert kept his head down, but his face was a cloud of quiet fury. That man, whoever he was, had just stepped on Ser Elric’s lifeless body. It was such a blatant sign of disrespect it felt like a sharp slap to the face. He tasted blood in his mouth where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. Elric was dead, he reminded himself. The dead probably weren’t much concerned with respect. That was a concern of those still living. If he wanted to remain a part of that group, he needed to keep his mouth shut.


Osbert didn’t struggle as his wrists were bound together behind his back. He kept his lips clamped together, though his face was red with anger. “Name,” one man demanded of him.


“Hogarth. Osbert Hogarth, from Lordsport off Ironman’s Bay.”


He was no one of importance. Maybe they would be underwhelmed by how unremarkable he was and decide to put him to work. He’d muck the stables or toil in the fields, and he wouldn’t even think of himself as a traitor. This was a war of rich and important men. Men like Osbert were just part of the scenery.

 

[Lucyfer]

It was only with slight pity that Lady Aemilia looked to Elric as he moved to lay across his old horse. ‘Will they flay you?’ Respect for the dead wasn’t a part of war. She was used to this, and while she had no love for Elric, she had no malice towards him, either. He had been following orders, like so many of the Reyne bannermen who had been left to rot under the summer sun, and all of those still rotted beneath Castamere. 'May the Stranger accept you still.'


With her hands tied at the wrist, and another rope around her torso to pin her arms to her side, Aemilia was directed to a horse and assisted up once again. It wasn’t the same horse she’d ridden on, but that didn’t much matter. For once, she was glad her horse was left behind. She didn’t want it getting into Bolton hands—she liked the red and black creature too much for it to have that fate.


‘Now let’s hope Jaime doesn’t get my horse killed.’


Willem wore a look of suppressed rage the entire time. His sword was taken from him, as the weapons of them all were removed. Willem offered Lady Amaia a queer look once he was astride a horse again. ‘Prisoner?’ Willem didn’t voice it. He knew she had upset his uncle in some way, but to say prisoner? That seemed a touch extreme. He’d not heard that the wedding was called off, after all.


Briefly, he wondered if this was some game she intended to play for her freedom. It wasn’t going to work, or at least, he didn’t think it would.


“All right, let’s get moving,” the new leader said once the bodies were collected, and the prisoners astride horses and properly bound. He didn’t want to waste any time. He swung himself up into the saddle of his own black beast.

 

[Scriven]

It made for an uneasy day, riding toward an unknown fate. Osbert found himself staring at the colorless body of Ser Elric as he rode, placed in front of another man to balance there uneasily with his hands tied behind his back. The old knight had been thrown over a horse, his arms hanging down one side and his legs another. His limbs bounced until rigor mortis set in.


He didn’t want to watch the dead man, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the sight of his mentor lying there. He wished the Northmen had left the body where it lay. Even if it had become subject to vultures and wolves, that would have been better than this strangely humiliating spectacle.


There was talking among Bolton’s men; a lively camaraderie that Osbert wanted no part of. He sat there silently, trying his best to stay upright in the saddle and not fall off. A few times it seemed as if the man he rode double with tried to make the horse throw him, knowing he had no way to hold on other than to grasp with his legs. He almost did fall a few times, but the man would laugh and grab him by his hair at the last moment, yanking him back into place.


The sun was going down and the Northmen left the road to make camp in the trees where their number would be concealed. Were any of Lord Tywin’s men to travel nearby, they would likely be unaware that Bolton’s men were hiding there, Willem Lannister and Lady Amaia Hetherspoon being held captive. As for the rest of the squires, they were all of little to no importance. Tywin Lannister wouldn’t stop to consider, even for a heartbeat, negotiating for their safe return. Osbert knew this and hoped the Boltons would decide he would be of more use to them alive and in their service than as a dead message to those sworn to King Joffrey. Tortured bodies hanging from trees on the side of the roads were becoming a more and more common sight now that so many men in Westeros called themselves king.


The man Osbert was riding with jerked his horse to a sudden stop, making the auburn haired man tumble over the animal. He hit the ground hard and almost got assaulted by the hooves of the confused animal, but he rolled out of the way. Coughing, Osbert pulled himself partway up.


“Stay there,” the man said, kicking him in the chest. The blow hadn’t been hard, but it was enough to make Osbert lose balance. He fell back, long legs sprawled out, and didn’t try to get up again.


Around him their captors set up camp in the woods. It was a small camp, only a few bothering to put up tiny tents. There were a couple of fires made and a meal began to be prepared. Someone came for him and hauled him to his feet, then led him over to where the others were being guarded. They were all still bound, hands securely behind their backs.


Osbert scooted back toward the nearest tree, leaning against the trunk. It put him near to Lady Amaia, who was looking rather windswept and dirty from days of riding. “You alright, m’lady?”