GOT: P Chapter 26

Open field north of the smoke. Wet grass. Cold sun trying its best.

She's there already, cloak tight, hair pinned back, eyes on the line where the fields start to brown. No men crowded close. Good call.

I drop slow so I don't kick dust. Heat banked. Wings fold. Ground comes up easy.

Rhaenys steps in and sets her palm on my head, careful, the way she always does. No flinch. I let the weight sit.

"You've done it again," she says. Voice soft. Not praise. Not anger. Just truth said quiet.

I tip my head. If there's an answer that fixes her sadness, I don't have it.

She breathes out. "I hate it," she adds, barely above a whisper. "The fire. The screaming." Thumb runs once along a feather ridge. "Sometimes we don't have choice. I know. But…"

Hundreds. Yeah. I know the count; I made the count. Do I say sorry? For what being good at the thing that keeps her breathing? Useless thought. I keep still.

"What choice do I have?" she says, more to herself than me. "What choice do we have."

None that end with us alive if we show mercy first. I nudge her wrist once. I'm here, not going anywhere. Small help.

Boots in grass behind her. Three men stand off- Robb, Theon, Roose followed by others. Far enough to pretend they aren't watching. Close enough to watch.

Theon breaks first. Of course he does.

"Complete freak," he mutters, then checks himself and bites it back to say. "Gods, that thing's a freak." He grins like he wants someone to argue. No one does.

Roose's tone is low and empty. "It's useful." He tilts his head, eyes on me. "Someone taught it discipline."

No one taught me. I learned. But sure, Roose, say what you want since it won't be long for you.

To know what meant to be my prey.

Wait till then insane.

Robb doesn't speak. He studies me, weights his own emotion. He's young, but the sums are good.

Rhaenys turns a fraction, clocking them, then keeps her hand on me. She doesn't move to hide me or show me off. Just… stands there with me. That helps more than she knows.

Robb's eyes meet mine for half a breath. Human instinct says: look away. He does. Embarrassment flashes across his face, quick and honest. First time the wolf met the fire and felt small. Happens.

Theon snorts. "If it turns on us?"

"It hasn't," Roose says, still calm. "And it won't while she stands there."

Right. Because if it did, Roose would be twenty paces farther back.

Rhaenys doesn't rise to any of it. "We're done here," she says to me, still soft. "Enough for one night."

I blink once. Agree. My chest feels heavy and hot in a way fire can't fix. Tally sits on the tongue. Worth it? Ask the men riding into Riverrun without looking back. Ask the children whom waiting for their father to return, starving, counting the days.

Robb steps forward two paces, careful but steady. "My thanks," he says after a beat to me. The words cost him pride. Good. Pride should cost.

Theon rolls his eyes so hard he might fall over. "You're thanking a bird."

Roose watches me watch Robb. "It understands more than that," he says. "See how it holds?"

Rhaenys's hand pauses at the back of my head. "We'll talk later," she murmurs, for me alone. "Breakfast first. Later talks."

Fine.

I step back, give the young wolf one level look- no heat, no threat, just a line drawn. He swallows. Nods once.

Enough. I open my wings and push off. Grass bows. Air clears the smoke from my view.

Up high, I circle once to be sure the last embers die where they should. Then I set north ahead, Rhaenys a small shape in an open field, hand lifted without thinking until I'm a speck.

Work done. For now.

-----------------------------

Camp quieting after the noise. Cook smoke, wet leather, men laughing too loud because they’re still alive.

I cut across the tents and find the pen they’ve built out of wooden frames and ropes. Many cages. Most of them full of common prisoners. The other holds him.

Jaime Lannister sits on a plank with his hands bound and his ankles chained to a wooden pole. Hair a mess, face tired, mouth still ready to rise if he had anyone worthy of it.

I drop to the top rail. Wood creaks. The two guards on duty jerk, then try the brave thing.

“Shoo!” one says, waving a spear like he’s brushing a fly. He takes half a step, thinks better of a whole step. Good survival sense.

“Fetch Lord Stark,” the other mutters, already backing up.

I ignore them. I study the person behind the cage. I could get in. I don’t want to. No need to start a panic tonight.

Jaime lifts his head. Surprise first, then a shorter, cooler look. He’s smart. He knows enough to act like this is normal.

“So it’s true,” he says, voice low. “There really is a bird.”

I blink once. Not playing.

I say nothing. Just blink once. Let him catch up.

He studies me. Smirks, but it's thin.

A breath. “No one’s going to believe me.”

I don’t care who believes what. I look him straight on so he reads me right: not friend, not enemy tonight. He sees it.

“Come to peck mine out?” he asks, and it’s dry, but he glances down at the chain like a man who knows how luck works.

I hop along the rail, just above his eye-line, and hold there. Let him feel the size, the heat. 

“Stark’s mutts say you shredded a whole camp.” He tilts his head. “Freak bird, they called you. Not to your face, I’d guess.”

I lean, take him in. Kingslayer. Murderer in some mouths, oathbreaker in others. Also the only Lannister in reach with sense enough to use. Four I might spare, if the road demands it; he’s one. Not because I like him. Because he’s just pathetic in a way. Hope you won't get killed in this world.

The nearer guard clears his throat. “My lord, my lord,’ll want word o’ this,” he says to no one, and jogs off like if he runs fast enough, the problem becomes someone else’s.

Jaime watches me watch him. 

He relaxes a hair. Looks older in the dim. “Fly along,” he murmurs. “At least you have long days ahead.”

I kept my gaze on him for a while.

Then I push off. One beat. Air takes me. The cage and the man and the two guards drop away to ant size.

I don’t look back. He should be glad.