Game of Tomes - Casting Blame
May. 14th, 2012 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eveglassI realize I haven't actually posted the quotes from last session's Game of Thrones game yet, but this is mostly because the session involved a lot of logistics and not many clever quotes. Next "Game of Tomes" will be a double-header.
That said, a lot has been happening. Quite a lot, in fact. Among other things, Jeyne's been kidnapped. Several times. With several companions. This story is set after the last "Game of Tomes" and explains -- more or less coherently, I hope -- what's been happening to my character in the meantime.
Casting Blame
Iron bars were not meant to be used as machetes. They were cumbersome objects, better suited as makeshift spears than bladed weapons. But in the hands of her companions, they served well enough to displace errant tree branches from their path. It was noisy, true, but the sounds of their captors had faded over the hours and Jeyne hoped they were making good time.
Ser Torred and Ser Malik were in front; Ser Torred because he seemed to have some knowledge of their path, and Ser Malik because he was never far separated from his companion. When he wasn't watching out for stray foliage or keeping an eye on the late-afternoon sun, Ser Torred cast him reproving glances.
They had been traveling for hours away from the camp and the cages, with nothing to eat except some scavenged berries. The Fellini boys had managed to hunt down a rabbit and a badger they could cook for dinner if they could settle long enough to make a fire. Jeyne was ravenous, but knew better than to say anything. There was no reason to think the others were not as hungry as she was.
For hours, they had traveled without speaking. It wasn't hard: half her companions had taken vows of silence and the others were concentrating too much on marching without stumbling. But as the sun descended ever lower to the west and there was still no sign of a village or the sea, Torred broke the silence. Striking a tree branch with his iron club, he glared at Ser Malik. "This is all your fault, you know."
*****
Day 29
The hold was clean, at least, and large enough to hold many more prisoners than the eleven that currently occupied it. The Braavosi crew was fastidious about cleaning out the chamber pots and bringing them two meals a day: salt fish, hard tack, and small beer. It was meager fare, but it was food, and it kept them alive, which was more than she could say about her treatment at the hands of others recently.
They had been aboard ship for two days when Jeyne's head had finally cleared enough to think through their situation, enough to finally decide what could and should be done.
When the cabin boy arrived just after sunrise with the morning's platter, Jeyne stepped up to the bars. The boy's hand went to his sword, but Jeyne kept her arms carefully at her side.
"I want to speak to the captain," she said.
She didn't speak the dialect of Braavos, but her Free Cities Valyrian was good enough to be understood even by Braavosi sell-sails. The cabin boy eyed her warily. "Captain don't want to speak t'you," he said. He was young, barely older than Puck Fellini, and no doubt was enjoying his temporary authority over someone aboard ship.
"He will when he hears what I have to say," said Jeyne, putting on her most winning smile.
"Yeh?" asked the cabin boy. He stepped closer, hand still on his sword-hilt. "Whot's that?"
"What I have to say is for the captain," it was difficult keeping the smile on her face, but she managed it. It had been months since she'd had to humble herself before servants, and the habit came back slowly. She could feel Cersei's reproving stare behind her.
The cabin boy's green eyes locked with Jeyne's. "Y'could make it for me." He put his free hand on Jeyne's arm.
Had she been another woman, she might have slapped him, or threatened him. But that was not Jeyne's way. She leaned in and lowered her voice, not knowing what her companions would think and not caring. "What I have to say is very important. The captain will want to hear it, I promise you. Perhaps he'll want to hear it so much that he'll reward you." She lowered her voice even further. "Perhaps I will reward you."
The cabin boy stared at her a moment longer, the same way her mother's clients had stared at her mother all those years ago. He was truly a sailor, this one, or wanted to be. He gripped her arm tighter. "Now?" he asked, and to his credit, his voice barely cracked.
"After," said Jeyne. "Else how will I know that you've taken what you wanted and given me nothing in return?"
He nearly pouted, but he let go of her arm, spun on his heel, and strode up the stairs to the deck. Jeyne let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and went to sit against the wall next to Cersei, who was still staring at her. "What was that about?" she asked, disgust in her voice.
"Getting us out of here," said Jeyne, smoothing her skirt.
"Out?" asked Cersei, and her voice rippled in an unkind laugh. "And where shall we go? Into lifeboats like Ser Royce and his men, the ones who were still alive?"
"I don't know," said Jeyne. "But wherever it is, it'll be better than wherever they're planning to bring us now."
"And you have some grand plan to accomplish this, I assume?" asked Cersei. "Some way to convince the captain not to sell us all as slaves?"
"Yes," said Jeyne simply.
*****
Day 29, continued
It was nearly sundown when the captain deigned to visit the hold, the cabin boy trailing behind him. His uniform reminded Jeyne of the peacocks that she had seen once in a pleasure-garden in Pentos, brilliant greens slashed with dark blue, his black hair tied in a braid behind him. "Beqqo says one of you wanted to see me," he said without preamble, taking the stairs two at a time. He was tall enough that the not-yet-grown cabin boy barely came to his shoulder.
Jeyne stood. "I did," she said. "Thank you."
The captain waved a hand dismissively. "You will tell me what it is you wished to say. I am a busy man."
Jeyne had always struggled with the abruptness of Essosi speech patterns, at least among those who were of the common classes. She ignored it for the moment. "No doubt you're taking us to the slave markets somewhere? Volantis, perhaps?"
"Clever girl," said the captain. "Yes, the markets in Volantis. You and your sister will fetch high prices as pleasure-girls. The others, maybe less. Slavers like their wares broken in and submissive. But you at least will make up for it." He ran a hand down Jeyne's cheek, possessively.
It was not the first time Jeyne and Cersei had been mistaken for siblings, and Jeyne chose to let the comment pass for the moment as irrelevant. "What if I told you a way to make far more money from us, and at a shorter distance?"
There was a flash in the captain's eyes. "You have interested me."
Jeyne smiled. "Do you know who it is you have in your hold, Captain?"
The captain's eyes moved lazily across his prisoners. "A few pleasure-girls, a few Westerosi knights, a few green boys who will make excellent water-bearers... or perhaps eunuchs." Jeyne was grateful that none of her companions spoke Free Cities Valyrian, though Puck's eyes widened as the captain's eyes lingered over him just a moment longer than propriety dictated.
"You have more than that," Jeyne said. "You have the children of Tywin Lannister. He will pay well to get them back."
The captain cocked his head and looked longer at Cersei and Jaime. "A slave girl will say anything to avoid being sold on the market," he said.
"She might, but even a slave girl wouldn't risk invoking the wrath of Lord Lannister. I would not lie about this."
The captain's gaze turned back to Jeyne. He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Even if this were so, it would make little difference. Casterly Rock is far from here. To get a message to Tywin Lannister, through the wars, and wait for the payment to return..." He clicked his tongue. "Too long. Better the sure payment of the markets and a quick departure than the uncertain generosity of Lord Lannister. The tide does not wait. Perhaps one of the aristocrats of Volantis will have more time to make profit."
Jeyne felt the moment slipping away from her. "Are there no banks? Lord Lannister undoubtedly is known at the Iron Bank, perhaps at others as well."
The captain regarded her coolly. "The Iron Bank is north, and we head south."
Jeyne fixed the captain with her best 'innocent maiden' look and he drew air between his teeth. "There is a bank in Tyrosh, yes. But Lord Lannister is not here. To get a message to him from the bank is just as long as to get a message from the ship."
Jeyne nodded over to Jaime. "That man is Lord Tywin's eldest son. He can sign on behalf of his father."
The captain hesitated.
"In Westeros we say, 'As rich as a Lannister.' You will be able to name your price."
A moment passed in tense silence, before the captain came to a decision within himself. "Good. Yes. I have need to put in at Tyrosh for supplies. We will stay long enough for that one to visit the First Bank. He will make the payment or we will continue on to Volantis. We are agreed." He nodded and walked up the stairs before waiting for a reply. The cabin boy followed close behind, but not before casting a look back, half lust and half fear at his prisoners' newly-discovered identities. If she was particularly lucky, the cabin boy now thought that she was Cersei's sister, daughter to Lord Tywin, and would not pursue their previous conversation. She didn't count on it, but that would be another discussion for later.
For now, she sat back down against the wall and closed her eyes. "What just happened?" asked Cersei.
"We're putting in to Tyrosh," said Jeyne, eyes still closed. "Where Jaime will negotiate with the First Bank for a sizable ransom to the captain in exchange for him not selling us at the Volantine slave market."
Jaime looked up from the far side of the hold. "I'm to negotiate with the First Bank of Tyrosh when I don't even speak the language? The Lannisters deal with the Iron Bank of Braavos; we have no business in Tyrosh."
Cersei spoke up before Jeyne could come up with a diplomatic answer. "We're about to, my brother, or our continued imprisonment with these sell-sail scum will be your fault."
*****
Day 25
Cersei's hand traced along Jeyne's neck and over her breast. Jeyne swatted it away. "Not now," she muttered.
"Oh?" asked Cersei lightly. "You have something else important to do? Some important appointment?"
The hold in Royce’s bought ship was dark and stinking. Jeyne blinked several times. "I need to think," she said.
"Think?" echoed Cersei. "We're trapped with barely any room to walk. By the Crone, what could you possibly be thinking about?"
Jeyne shook her head. How to get out of here, she might have said. Back to the war and my hour of glory. Her head still spun from the strongwine Bobbi had managed to slip away from one of Royce's men with her undeniable charms. Cersei had insisted that she have some, and Jeyne had been foolish enough to agree. Again.
It galled her to be here, traveling ever further away from the fighting and the armies. For seven years, she had devoted herself to the arts of war and siege. And now, just when her knowledge would be most useful, just when she would be able to step up and prove her true worth, she was stuck in a festering hold in the middle of the Narrow Sea. And not only that, but even if she managed to escape, she no longer had her book. One of the sell-swords had tossed it into the pile with the rest of their possessions. Seven years of work, gone in an instant. Yes, it could be recreated, but it would take time, and time was a luxury she no longer had. If she could even get back. If the Estermonts chose not to hand her over to the Bolton bastard to send a message to her brother. She shuddered at the thought.
And, all the while, she had to worry that some maester had managed to get his greedy hands on her plans and was even now attempting to recreate the siege engines that should rightfully be hers. She hoped only that whoever it was tried to build them exactly as written, suffered a catastrophic failure, killed a regiment of knights, and was beheaded by his lord before he could try again.
She sighed. "What were we talking about?"
Cersei stroked her thigh. "We weren't," she said.
Cersei leaned in for a kiss but was interrupted by a shout from the deck. Within instants, the noise had grown deafening: shouts and screams and the clash of metal on metal. The captive knights were already on their feet, at the bars, their hands itching for swords.
The combat drew closer as men's screams were abruptly cut off. After minutes, it was directly over the hatch that led to the hold. It burst open to reveal three of Royce's men in combat with five brightly-dressed sailors with thin-blades. The men-at-arms were losing.
With a flourish, the Essosi in the lead skewered one and used the body to hurl another down the stairs, while his second kicked the last man-at-arms after him. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and took in the prisoners. Ser Jaime and Ser Torred glared back at him from the bars. The Essosi wiped his blade on a fallen man's tunic and sheathed it. "Take them," he said.
*****
Day 3
The wagon rocked along the uneven ground as the sun set westward. Jeyne wasn't sure which was worse: the chafing of her wrists against the manacles, the smell of vomit and old piss, or the knowledge that she shared her confinement with the flayed body of Lord Dondarrion.
There would be no quarter from Bronze Yohn. He feared Ramsey Snow more than he loved money, and fear was a more compelling motivator. And there would be no rescue from House Bracken. By the time anyone realized she was not at Casterly Rock, she would be far east, past hostile armies and beyond easy reach. Jeyne cursed herself for having told so few about their plans, but Cersei had seemed so convincing when she said that a small host was better than a large one; it would let them slip past the armies and avoid attention.
Bobbi was not even contrite. She didn't appear to realize that hailing the camp of soldiers had been a bad idea. "They might have food," she'd said, and Jeyne had been too slow and too drunk to stop her. Never again, she promised herself. I will not let Cersei get me drunk again. She would have thought it with more conviction had she not made exactly the same promise every day for the past month.
Ser Bruce Whent fidgeted. Jeyne had just enough of a vantage to see him moving his hands in his manacles, concentrating intently, when she heard a soft click and the metal around his right wrist fell open. Puck's eyes went wide, but true to his house, he kept his tongue. A moment longer, and the left wrist fell away as well.
He surveyed his fellow hostages. Without a sound, he turned to his left and began to work on Ser Malik's manacles. Jeyne was not entirely certain where he had found the sliver of metal he used as a lock pick; he used it knowledgeably even as it slipped in his hand, not made for the use he was putting it to. She held her breath.
With a chink, Ser Bruce released Ser Malik's right-hand manacle and set to the left. Malik opened and closed his fingers, and Jenye could tell it was as much a wish for a sword as an attempt to get the circulation back.
There was sweat on Ser Bruce's forehead. He strained against the lock's mechanism. Something was wrong, something stuck or rusted. Ser Malik watched, expectant, waiting.
With a grimace, Ser Bruce snapped the lock, and with the sudden release of pressure, the lock pick snapped and stabbed into Ser Malik's arm. His eyes went large and he shouted at the sudden pain before he could stop himself, despite his vows and despite the circumstances. As one, the knights' heads snapped up to stare out the back of the wagon, hoping that no one had heard.
Luck was not with them.
"Wossat?" asked a voice, and Jeyne heard the sounds of swords being pulled from scabbards. "Whot you doin' in there?"
Ser Malik pulled the shard of metal out of his arm and clutched it, still slick with blood. Ser Bruce picked up the discarded manacles, wielding them like a flail. But two barely-armed men were no match for a half-dozen with swords. They knocked out Ser Bruce before he could say a word, and Ser Malik was dazed by a pommel-strike and fell back on the bench.
They replaced the manacles and got rid of the lock pick. Ser Malik hung his head in shame and anger. Ser Torred, sitting next to him, leaned in as close as he was able, glaring. "Malik, this is all your fault."
That said, a lot has been happening. Quite a lot, in fact. Among other things, Jeyne's been kidnapped. Several times. With several companions. This story is set after the last "Game of Tomes" and explains -- more or less coherently, I hope -- what's been happening to my character in the meantime.
Iron bars were not meant to be used as machetes. They were cumbersome objects, better suited as makeshift spears than bladed weapons. But in the hands of her companions, they served well enough to displace errant tree branches from their path. It was noisy, true, but the sounds of their captors had faded over the hours and Jeyne hoped they were making good time.
Ser Torred and Ser Malik were in front; Ser Torred because he seemed to have some knowledge of their path, and Ser Malik because he was never far separated from his companion. When he wasn't watching out for stray foliage or keeping an eye on the late-afternoon sun, Ser Torred cast him reproving glances.
They had been traveling for hours away from the camp and the cages, with nothing to eat except some scavenged berries. The Fellini boys had managed to hunt down a rabbit and a badger they could cook for dinner if they could settle long enough to make a fire. Jeyne was ravenous, but knew better than to say anything. There was no reason to think the others were not as hungry as she was.
For hours, they had traveled without speaking. It wasn't hard: half her companions had taken vows of silence and the others were concentrating too much on marching without stumbling. But as the sun descended ever lower to the west and there was still no sign of a village or the sea, Torred broke the silence. Striking a tree branch with his iron club, he glared at Ser Malik. "This is all your fault, you know."
Day 29
The hold was clean, at least, and large enough to hold many more prisoners than the eleven that currently occupied it. The Braavosi crew was fastidious about cleaning out the chamber pots and bringing them two meals a day: salt fish, hard tack, and small beer. It was meager fare, but it was food, and it kept them alive, which was more than she could say about her treatment at the hands of others recently.
They had been aboard ship for two days when Jeyne's head had finally cleared enough to think through their situation, enough to finally decide what could and should be done.
When the cabin boy arrived just after sunrise with the morning's platter, Jeyne stepped up to the bars. The boy's hand went to his sword, but Jeyne kept her arms carefully at her side.
"I want to speak to the captain," she said.
She didn't speak the dialect of Braavos, but her Free Cities Valyrian was good enough to be understood even by Braavosi sell-sails. The cabin boy eyed her warily. "Captain don't want to speak t'you," he said. He was young, barely older than Puck Fellini, and no doubt was enjoying his temporary authority over someone aboard ship.
"He will when he hears what I have to say," said Jeyne, putting on her most winning smile.
"Yeh?" asked the cabin boy. He stepped closer, hand still on his sword-hilt. "Whot's that?"
"What I have to say is for the captain," it was difficult keeping the smile on her face, but she managed it. It had been months since she'd had to humble herself before servants, and the habit came back slowly. She could feel Cersei's reproving stare behind her.
The cabin boy's green eyes locked with Jeyne's. "Y'could make it for me." He put his free hand on Jeyne's arm.
Had she been another woman, she might have slapped him, or threatened him. But that was not Jeyne's way. She leaned in and lowered her voice, not knowing what her companions would think and not caring. "What I have to say is very important. The captain will want to hear it, I promise you. Perhaps he'll want to hear it so much that he'll reward you." She lowered her voice even further. "Perhaps I will reward you."
The cabin boy stared at her a moment longer, the same way her mother's clients had stared at her mother all those years ago. He was truly a sailor, this one, or wanted to be. He gripped her arm tighter. "Now?" he asked, and to his credit, his voice barely cracked.
"After," said Jeyne. "Else how will I know that you've taken what you wanted and given me nothing in return?"
He nearly pouted, but he let go of her arm, spun on his heel, and strode up the stairs to the deck. Jeyne let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and went to sit against the wall next to Cersei, who was still staring at her. "What was that about?" she asked, disgust in her voice.
"Getting us out of here," said Jeyne, smoothing her skirt.
"Out?" asked Cersei, and her voice rippled in an unkind laugh. "And where shall we go? Into lifeboats like Ser Royce and his men, the ones who were still alive?"
"I don't know," said Jeyne. "But wherever it is, it'll be better than wherever they're planning to bring us now."
"And you have some grand plan to accomplish this, I assume?" asked Cersei. "Some way to convince the captain not to sell us all as slaves?"
"Yes," said Jeyne simply.
Day 29, continued
It was nearly sundown when the captain deigned to visit the hold, the cabin boy trailing behind him. His uniform reminded Jeyne of the peacocks that she had seen once in a pleasure-garden in Pentos, brilliant greens slashed with dark blue, his black hair tied in a braid behind him. "Beqqo says one of you wanted to see me," he said without preamble, taking the stairs two at a time. He was tall enough that the not-yet-grown cabin boy barely came to his shoulder.
Jeyne stood. "I did," she said. "Thank you."
The captain waved a hand dismissively. "You will tell me what it is you wished to say. I am a busy man."
Jeyne had always struggled with the abruptness of Essosi speech patterns, at least among those who were of the common classes. She ignored it for the moment. "No doubt you're taking us to the slave markets somewhere? Volantis, perhaps?"
"Clever girl," said the captain. "Yes, the markets in Volantis. You and your sister will fetch high prices as pleasure-girls. The others, maybe less. Slavers like their wares broken in and submissive. But you at least will make up for it." He ran a hand down Jeyne's cheek, possessively.
It was not the first time Jeyne and Cersei had been mistaken for siblings, and Jeyne chose to let the comment pass for the moment as irrelevant. "What if I told you a way to make far more money from us, and at a shorter distance?"
There was a flash in the captain's eyes. "You have interested me."
Jeyne smiled. "Do you know who it is you have in your hold, Captain?"
The captain's eyes moved lazily across his prisoners. "A few pleasure-girls, a few Westerosi knights, a few green boys who will make excellent water-bearers... or perhaps eunuchs." Jeyne was grateful that none of her companions spoke Free Cities Valyrian, though Puck's eyes widened as the captain's eyes lingered over him just a moment longer than propriety dictated.
"You have more than that," Jeyne said. "You have the children of Tywin Lannister. He will pay well to get them back."
The captain cocked his head and looked longer at Cersei and Jaime. "A slave girl will say anything to avoid being sold on the market," he said.
"She might, but even a slave girl wouldn't risk invoking the wrath of Lord Lannister. I would not lie about this."
The captain's gaze turned back to Jeyne. He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Even if this were so, it would make little difference. Casterly Rock is far from here. To get a message to Tywin Lannister, through the wars, and wait for the payment to return..." He clicked his tongue. "Too long. Better the sure payment of the markets and a quick departure than the uncertain generosity of Lord Lannister. The tide does not wait. Perhaps one of the aristocrats of Volantis will have more time to make profit."
Jeyne felt the moment slipping away from her. "Are there no banks? Lord Lannister undoubtedly is known at the Iron Bank, perhaps at others as well."
The captain regarded her coolly. "The Iron Bank is north, and we head south."
Jeyne fixed the captain with her best 'innocent maiden' look and he drew air between his teeth. "There is a bank in Tyrosh, yes. But Lord Lannister is not here. To get a message to him from the bank is just as long as to get a message from the ship."
Jeyne nodded over to Jaime. "That man is Lord Tywin's eldest son. He can sign on behalf of his father."
The captain hesitated.
"In Westeros we say, 'As rich as a Lannister.' You will be able to name your price."
A moment passed in tense silence, before the captain came to a decision within himself. "Good. Yes. I have need to put in at Tyrosh for supplies. We will stay long enough for that one to visit the First Bank. He will make the payment or we will continue on to Volantis. We are agreed." He nodded and walked up the stairs before waiting for a reply. The cabin boy followed close behind, but not before casting a look back, half lust and half fear at his prisoners' newly-discovered identities. If she was particularly lucky, the cabin boy now thought that she was Cersei's sister, daughter to Lord Tywin, and would not pursue their previous conversation. She didn't count on it, but that would be another discussion for later.
For now, she sat back down against the wall and closed her eyes. "What just happened?" asked Cersei.
"We're putting in to Tyrosh," said Jeyne, eyes still closed. "Where Jaime will negotiate with the First Bank for a sizable ransom to the captain in exchange for him not selling us at the Volantine slave market."
Jaime looked up from the far side of the hold. "I'm to negotiate with the First Bank of Tyrosh when I don't even speak the language? The Lannisters deal with the Iron Bank of Braavos; we have no business in Tyrosh."
Cersei spoke up before Jeyne could come up with a diplomatic answer. "We're about to, my brother, or our continued imprisonment with these sell-sail scum will be your fault."
Day 25
Cersei's hand traced along Jeyne's neck and over her breast. Jeyne swatted it away. "Not now," she muttered.
"Oh?" asked Cersei lightly. "You have something else important to do? Some important appointment?"
The hold in Royce’s bought ship was dark and stinking. Jeyne blinked several times. "I need to think," she said.
"Think?" echoed Cersei. "We're trapped with barely any room to walk. By the Crone, what could you possibly be thinking about?"
Jeyne shook her head. How to get out of here, she might have said. Back to the war and my hour of glory. Her head still spun from the strongwine Bobbi had managed to slip away from one of Royce's men with her undeniable charms. Cersei had insisted that she have some, and Jeyne had been foolish enough to agree. Again.
It galled her to be here, traveling ever further away from the fighting and the armies. For seven years, she had devoted herself to the arts of war and siege. And now, just when her knowledge would be most useful, just when she would be able to step up and prove her true worth, she was stuck in a festering hold in the middle of the Narrow Sea. And not only that, but even if she managed to escape, she no longer had her book. One of the sell-swords had tossed it into the pile with the rest of their possessions. Seven years of work, gone in an instant. Yes, it could be recreated, but it would take time, and time was a luxury she no longer had. If she could even get back. If the Estermonts chose not to hand her over to the Bolton bastard to send a message to her brother. She shuddered at the thought.
And, all the while, she had to worry that some maester had managed to get his greedy hands on her plans and was even now attempting to recreate the siege engines that should rightfully be hers. She hoped only that whoever it was tried to build them exactly as written, suffered a catastrophic failure, killed a regiment of knights, and was beheaded by his lord before he could try again.
She sighed. "What were we talking about?"
Cersei stroked her thigh. "We weren't," she said.
Cersei leaned in for a kiss but was interrupted by a shout from the deck. Within instants, the noise had grown deafening: shouts and screams and the clash of metal on metal. The captive knights were already on their feet, at the bars, their hands itching for swords.
The combat drew closer as men's screams were abruptly cut off. After minutes, it was directly over the hatch that led to the hold. It burst open to reveal three of Royce's men in combat with five brightly-dressed sailors with thin-blades. The men-at-arms were losing.
With a flourish, the Essosi in the lead skewered one and used the body to hurl another down the stairs, while his second kicked the last man-at-arms after him. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and took in the prisoners. Ser Jaime and Ser Torred glared back at him from the bars. The Essosi wiped his blade on a fallen man's tunic and sheathed it. "Take them," he said.
Day 3
The wagon rocked along the uneven ground as the sun set westward. Jeyne wasn't sure which was worse: the chafing of her wrists against the manacles, the smell of vomit and old piss, or the knowledge that she shared her confinement with the flayed body of Lord Dondarrion.
There would be no quarter from Bronze Yohn. He feared Ramsey Snow more than he loved money, and fear was a more compelling motivator. And there would be no rescue from House Bracken. By the time anyone realized she was not at Casterly Rock, she would be far east, past hostile armies and beyond easy reach. Jeyne cursed herself for having told so few about their plans, but Cersei had seemed so convincing when she said that a small host was better than a large one; it would let them slip past the armies and avoid attention.
Bobbi was not even contrite. She didn't appear to realize that hailing the camp of soldiers had been a bad idea. "They might have food," she'd said, and Jeyne had been too slow and too drunk to stop her. Never again, she promised herself. I will not let Cersei get me drunk again. She would have thought it with more conviction had she not made exactly the same promise every day for the past month.
Ser Bruce Whent fidgeted. Jeyne had just enough of a vantage to see him moving his hands in his manacles, concentrating intently, when she heard a soft click and the metal around his right wrist fell open. Puck's eyes went wide, but true to his house, he kept his tongue. A moment longer, and the left wrist fell away as well.
He surveyed his fellow hostages. Without a sound, he turned to his left and began to work on Ser Malik's manacles. Jeyne was not entirely certain where he had found the sliver of metal he used as a lock pick; he used it knowledgeably even as it slipped in his hand, not made for the use he was putting it to. She held her breath.
With a chink, Ser Bruce released Ser Malik's right-hand manacle and set to the left. Malik opened and closed his fingers, and Jenye could tell it was as much a wish for a sword as an attempt to get the circulation back.
There was sweat on Ser Bruce's forehead. He strained against the lock's mechanism. Something was wrong, something stuck or rusted. Ser Malik watched, expectant, waiting.
With a grimace, Ser Bruce snapped the lock, and with the sudden release of pressure, the lock pick snapped and stabbed into Ser Malik's arm. His eyes went large and he shouted at the sudden pain before he could stop himself, despite his vows and despite the circumstances. As one, the knights' heads snapped up to stare out the back of the wagon, hoping that no one had heard.
Luck was not with them.
"Wossat?" asked a voice, and Jeyne heard the sounds of swords being pulled from scabbards. "Whot you doin' in there?"
Ser Malik pulled the shard of metal out of his arm and clutched it, still slick with blood. Ser Bruce picked up the discarded manacles, wielding them like a flail. But two barely-armed men were no match for a half-dozen with swords. They knocked out Ser Bruce before he could say a word, and Ser Malik was dazed by a pommel-strike and fell back on the bench.
They replaced the manacles and got rid of the lock pick. Ser Malik hung his head in shame and anger. Ser Torred, sitting next to him, leaned in as close as he was able, glaring. "Malik, this is all your fault."
