I studied the castle walls from the riverbank, noting the guard rotations. The Tumblestone's current rushed past me, cold and unforgiving in the darkness. Torches along the battlements cast long shadows across the stonework, revealing the silhouettes of Stark men patrolling with methodical precision. Each guard seemed to pass the same spot every fifteen minutes—predictable (I mean who was expecting for someone to climb the castle walls), which was good for me.
"Well, no glory in waiting," I muttered to myself, tightening the sword belt around my waist.
I removed my boots, securing them alongside my sheathed sword. The water would be freezing, but I'd swum across worse. You could say I had a rather large experience with rivers.
Without hesitation, I slipped into the Tumblestone, the shock of cold water stealing my breath if only for a moment.
The current was stronger than I anticipated, threatening to sweep me downstream and into view of the main guard posts. I fought against it, my powerful arms cutting through the water quickly.
I reached the castle wall where it met the water, finding handholds in the rough stones. The wall rose thirty feet above me, slick with moss and river spray. For most men, it would be impossible to scale. But I was not most men.
With a grunt, I pulled myself from the water, fingers digging into nearly invisible cracks between stones. My muscles strained as I began to climb, water streaming from my clothes and hair. My white-blonde strands clung to my face, and I cursed silently. Thankfully, it was night, so even with my characteristic hair, I would be difficult to spot unless someone was specifically looking for me.
Halfway up, I paused as a guard passed overhead. Pressed against the wall, I counted my heartbeats until the footsteps faded. One... Two... Twenty... Fifty... I continued my ascent, finding purchase where others would see only smooth stone. The soles of my feet, toughened by years of barefoot training, gripped the wet stone as effectively as my fingers.
Finally, I pulled myself over the parapet, dropping silently onto the walkway. I was soaked to the bone, water pooling at my feet. The night air cut through my wet clothes, but I ignored the discomfort. A guard would be back this way soon.
I moved quickly along the wall until I found a doorway leading to a tower staircase. Below, the courtyard bustled with activity despite the late hour. Soldiers gathered around fires, servants hurried between buildings, and in the center stood what appeared to be an encampment of Northern lords.
"Seven hells," I whispered, though I had never followed the Faith., nor any other religion.
I waited in the shadows of the stairwell, watching the patterns of movement below. The dungeons would be beneath the main keep, but getting there meant crossing the open courtyard. Each dripping footstep would leave a trail, and my soaked appearance would immediately mark me as an intruder.
This was going to be more complicated than I thought. But then again, if it were easy, they wouldn't have paid me so handsomely.
I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, assessing my options. A frontal assault was out of the question—even if I did fight a castle's worth of men, first of all that wasn't what i was paid to do and second who knows what could happen to the Kingslayer before I got to him.
Looking around, I noticed servants carrying food across the courtyard toward the main keep. The kitchens would be busy even at this hour, preparing for tomorrow's meals. That gave me an idea—not the most original one, but effective nonetheless.
I silently made my way down the tower stairs, keeping to the darkest corners. At the bottom, I spotted a stack of empty sacks beside a storage room. I grabbed one and draped it over my shoulders, partially concealing my wet clothes and distinctive white-blonde hair. It wasn't perfect, but in the dim torchlight, it might just be enough.
Hunching my shoulders and adopting the weary gait of an overworked servant, I crossed the edge of the courtyard, sticking to the shadows. I moved toward the kitchens, where steam billowed from open windows and harried cooks shouted orders. The smell of baking bread and roasting meat filled the air as I slipped inside. The heat was a welcome change from my sodden clothes, which had begun to steam slightly in the warmth.
Kitchen staff rushed about, too busy to notice one more body in their midst. My eyes darted around, looking for something, anything I could use. I spotted what I was looking for—a young boy loading a tray with bread and a pitcher. Perfect.
"Boy," I called softly, mimicking the gruff accent I'd heard from Riverrun soldiers. "Lord Stark wants the kingslayer fed. I'm to take it down."
The boy looked up, confused. "But someone just took food down an hour ago, and Ser Edmure said—"
"Are you questioning Lord Stark's orders?" I growled, stepping closer. Water still dripped from my clothes, but in the dim, steamy kitchen, it didn't look out of place among the spills and splashes that dotted the floor.
"N-no," the boy stammered, handing over a tray, with bread and a bowl of soup. His hands shook slightly.
I nodded, taking the tray. Quickly I made my war across the castle, with a new cover in tow, thankfully I had memorized the layout of the castle already thanks to the information that Tywin had given me and Weasel had explained. The dungeons would be beneath the main keep, accessible via the kitchens if the Riverlords followed traditional castle design. And they did—Westerosi were nothing if not predictable in their architecture.
Tray in hand, I exited the kitchens and made my way through the castle's lower levels. I walked like any servant would have, quietly, and it wasn't long before I made it to my destination.
The dungeons were indeed where I expected them to be, at the bottom of a winding stone staircase that smelled of mold and human waste. Two guards stood at attention before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.
"Food for the Kingslayer," I announced, almost stammering over my words, like any servant would have if they were stanading in front of these two knights.
One guard frowned, his hand moving to rest on the pommel of his sword. "He was already fed. Lord Stark's orders are clear—one meal at dusk, nothing more."
I shrugged, trying to appear appropriately confused and apologetic. "I'm sorry. The steward told me Lord Stark ordered another meal for today. Something about keeping him healthy for bargaining." I looked down, playing the part of the dutiful servant who was just following orders. "I don't question my betters."
The guards exchanged glances. "At this hour?" The taller one looked skeptical.
I shifted uncomfortably, as if nervous about returning to my superiors with undelivered food. "Again, I don't question orders, I just follow them," I glanced down the corridor. "I can take it back if you want, but the steward won't be pleased."
"Fine," the shorter guard grunted, producing a ring of keys from his belt. "But I'm coming with you. Can't be too careful with the Kingslayer."
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral as the door swung open with a heavy creak. The guard took a torch from the wall and led the way down a narrow corridor lined with cells. Most were empty, but that was to be expected.
The corridor twisted deeper underground, the air growing thicker with each step. A grin forming on my face, as I heard the distinct rush of a river.
At the far end, in the dampest, darkest cell, sat Jaime Lannister—once the golden lion of Casterly Rock, now disheveled and chained to the wall. His golden hair was matted with dirt and what looked like dried blood. His fine clothes were torn and stained. But his eyes—his eyes still held that Lannister contempt I had grown used to after so much with Tywin, it was like he thought he was better than everyone.
He looked up as we approached, gaze wary but still proud.
"Another meal?" he called out, voice hoarse but carrying that unmistakable aristocratic drawl. "The North must be more prosperous than I thought, feeding prisoners twice in one night."
The guard unlocked the cell door, the iron hinges protesting loudly. "Shut your mouth, Kingslayer. Be grateful for the King's mercy."
I stepped inside, carefully setting down the tray at Jaime's feet. As I straightened, my eyes met his, and I gave out a smile.
The guard remained at the door, watching closely. "Hurry up. I haven't got all night," he barked, clearly uncomfortable being so close to the man who had slain his king.
"Of course," I replied, turning toward the guard. In one fluid motion, I stepped forward and drove my outstretched hand clamping the man's throat, crushing his windpipe before he could cry out. The guard collapsed, his eyes widened, it seemed he had had the time to react to his impromptu death.
Jaime's eyes widened. It looked like he hadn't expected a rescue, at least not one so direct. "Who sent you?" he whispered, his chains rattling as he shifted.
I knelt beside him, examining the manacles at his wrists. "Your father who else," I murmured, testing the keys in the locks. "I'm to bring you back to Harrenhal."
"Ambitious," Jaime commented, watching me work. "There are hundreds of Stark men between us and the front gate."
"Who said anything about a front gate," I smirked, freeing the man of his shackles and hearing the rushing of the river behind the wall along with the scent of fresh water.
"And what are you gonna do about the wolf?"
"Stark? Why would he be here?"
"No, not Stark, the-"
The Kingslayer's voice grew quiet and then I felt like something was wrong. The air no longer smelled like the fresh water at the other side of the wall, it smelled musty, wild—it smelled like an animal. Not like the horses in the stables or the hounds in the kennels, but something wilder, larger, something primal.
BAM