"Seize the adulteress and put her in a black cell!"

Even before the guards of the city proclaimed why their presence was in this space of jovial tranquillity, Margaery Tyrell knew that it was an ill omen. The men themselves had an air of superiority, which had presented itself in their cruel, and malevolent smirks. They might as well have been ravens, with all the dark tidings that they seemed to be bringing.

The words reverberated in head, turning her body numb as the golden cloaks grabbed her.

"What is the meaning of this, you are about to assault the King's betrothed!" cried her cousin, the Elinor Tyrell. Margaery noticed, with a feeling of warmth that Elinor's feeling of outage were echoed amongst the other members of the entourage, seated throughout the tent.

"This arrest is ordered by the Queen regent, as she has reason to believe the lady Tyrell has been unfaithful towards King Joffrey" the gold cloak replied with a cruel smirk upon his face.

"I will go willingly" stated Margaery, with whom, inside was feeling anything but willing to go through with this fa├žade of Cersei's creation, "But inform my Grandmother at once". Save me grandmother, she thought desperately as the gold cloaks grabbed her and roughly and pulled her from the cool shade of the tent, and what felt like, out of her element as well.

As she was lead out of the tent into the bright sunlight, she could her friends shouting for her grandmother to be notified at once, which brought a savage joy to her. Let them take me, she thought, The castle, what once was bright and happy place, held no warmth for her now as the soldier led her through the garden, to the Red Keep. She was scared, that much anyone could see, her alabaster skin paler still, and what rosy colour there had once been, had been drained from her smooth, satin-like cheeks. The noble people, whom once might have been her allies and friends, when they walked by her, maintained their averted eyes and stoic silence.

The black cell's name was apt, she thought as she was led down the stairs, into the darkening labyrinthine passageways towards her new home. The floor was plastered with dirt, filth found only here and flea bottom, but more worrying, was the congealed matters on the floor, that looked like skin and blood, but which she refused to think about.

I have done nothing wrong. That was the only thing that stopped her from losing the last vestiges of calm that remained to her. If not for that, she would have screamed until the Keep itself crumbled in the march of time. But no, she thought, she was a Tyrell, and this one would make sure to show her thorns. But, even as she resolved her will, a small thought, in the recesses of her mind, was thinking that even flowers suffer in darkness.

"In there, whore!"

The gold cloaks jeered, pushing into the squalor that was the cell. She stumbled into the cell, falling with a cry, earning a chorus of cruel laughter from the soldiers. With a harsh metallic clang, the door of the cell slammed shut.

"Please, leave a candle for light for me, I beg?" she begged. She knew how she sounded, but she didn't care. She couldn't survive, trapped in the darkness with no reprieve. Thankfully, the gold cloak turned and after seeing his eyes drift downwards to the ruin of her dress, through which he could see the barest glimpse of her breasts, he allowed a torch to be placed in the rusting metal bracket attached to the wall. She looked down at herself, and scowled when she saw the state of her dress, which was in tatters and almost indecent.

Once the gold cloaks had disappeared up the flight of stairs, their echoing footsteps marking their journey, as down here there was the absence of sound, Margaery turned and begun to examine the cell itself, pulling her ruined silk dress about herself, to preserve what was left of her modesty.

The cell, due to the positioning of the torch, had one corner of the cell in darkness. The rest of the cell, which looked to be in a state of permanent damp. The slab of black stone that served as a bed was covered with moss, and chipped and scratched so much that Margaery had an inkling at least several people had been killed there. The cell itself, was a smallish room, with the gentle curve of one wall, so the farthest corner, was obscured from the front of the cell's view.

Margaery sighed, thinking and situation that she currently found herself in. Cersei was behind this, with her schemes, and her imagined slights that had been delivered from Margaery. She will pay for this, Margaery vowed, as the Lannister's weren't the only one who paid their debts.

She had been so absorbed in the feelings of anger and betrayal for Cersei, which were as if a candle had been replaced by an inferno, that she was blissfully unaware.

"So, today is the today, to be sure?" said a croaky, almost unused, voice from the corner, which was a black as pitch. Margaery shrieked, falling and scuttling backwards, to end up, chest heaving, against the wall furthest from the person. My dress is completely ruined now, she thought, but there were bigger concerns, as the person moved into the light, wearing a frayed blindfold. He weakened, she thought pityingly, as he crawled into the light, as was evidenced by the way that grey doublet he was wearing, hung off him. After a moment he took off the blindfold with trembling, dirty hands, and she stared, for he was handsome, she could see that now. The blindfold gave way to bright blue eyes, which seemed to have a confidence about them, as though the man behind them was resigned to his fate, here in the squalor and darkness. Even as she stared, she realised, as the rosy blush slowly crept back across her face, that beneath the layers of grime that accumulated on his face, he was young, very young, perhaps even her own age. After the shock abated, she set her face into a mask of indifference. She did not know how this boy was, nor what he had done to so deserve this fate.


The man stared at this girl, whilst familiar in her looks, not least her beauty. She was beautiful, he thought as he took off the blindfold, ripping it in the progress, as he squinted into the light. Her face was angelic, with large, soft brown eyes, luscious brown curling hair. From what he could see of her foetal position, her figure, slender whilst shapely, was complimented by skin as white and as perfect as snow. Snow, he thought, frowning at himself for the distant memory of snow.

"I apologise for startling you. If I might be so bold as to ask your name, my lady?" He asked, in a voice as rough as the room the question appeared in. the evidence for the title of lady was apparent in her beauty and what was left of her dress, stitched with what looked like the finest silks.

"Accepted, and my name is Margaery of the house Tyrell" she replied, and his eyebrows travelled as high as her stature. What was the Rose of Highgarden doing in the black cells?

He voiced these thoughts saying "forgive me, my lady, but I'm unaccustomed to seeing beautiful roses growing in these four walls. What befell you?" with a soft smile. Girl opposite him, looked like she might favour him with a smile in return, until her face betrayed her feelings, as it showed anger beyond measure.

"The majestic lioness, the Queen Regent Cersei is the reason that roses are growing here' she replied her voice her once soft eyes, alive with scorn for her. Cersei, the man thought, her and her lord father, Tywin, were the people who he blamed for his current predicament, but the person who he hated above else, the spoilt boy king.

"What happened, if I may? Did you upset her son, Joffrey Rivers?" he softly spoke, and smiled, showing bright white teeth, as her eyebrows joined his, atop their respective foreheads. She then, surprised him, by laughing, looking shocked, and strangely, impressed by the fact that he dared not only, say the whisper that had cost so many people their lives.

"My, you are courageous, ser,' she replied laughing, showing, in his humble opinion, a truly radiant smile, 'but nay, the blond child king had naught to do with this. The Queen Regent arranged for my change of accommodation due to rumours of my infidelity," she finished, the smile turning fierce.

It was as she had moved laughing, that her dress had slipped on her person, revealing her breasts, in all of their pale glory, as yet their owner in blissful ignorance, but this was far more woman he had seen in a long while. He blushed, a dark red, coexisting nicely with his dark red hair, shooting across his filthy complexion, as he said turning away slightly as he said "my lady, as much as I like the bare skin of a woman, especially as one so fair as yourself, my honour forces me to say that your dress has revealed more of your person than you would have liked", with a small playful smirk.

She started, looking down, then hurriedly covering herself to preserve what was left of her modesty.

"My, honourable and courageous, an infrequent sighting in the capital. You are a unique person, ser. Might I ask your name and the reason as to why I find you in this prison?" she queried, smiling a sweet smile. this was a man that, the seven be pardoning against his crimes, that she would very much like to get to know better, if he was of some standing in noble birth.

But this question was to go unanswered, as the memories of his family flooded the man, and his face fell to the coldest ice. Unbidden, unwanted, the thoughts of the events culminated to the reason for his incarceration flouted to the forefront of his mind.

"Trying to save my family, and my thrice-damned honour" he muttered bitterly, so low that Margaery had to lean in, to hear him. He continued talking in the voice so frost filled, that it must have been born north of the wall.

"But the Lannister's gold and influence will not dissuade me from exacting revenge on them all, even the bastard born Tommen and Myrcella. None shall be left in our wake because,' he moved back into the shadows slowly, lying down as he did 'winter is coming".

Greyjon POV

Jon Umber, the one they call the Greatjon, woke fitfully from his slumber, blinking fast into the darkness of the Twins. Turning over, he closed his eyes, trying to delve back into the sleep that so eluded him. But now that he was awake, his mind was drifting, as much as he did not want it, back to the events of the wedding. The wedding that was the downfall of the old and glorious house of Stark. He blamed himself to no end of degree. The Young Wolf had relied on him, as his most trusted champion, and on the night of the savageness and brutality of the betrayal, where was Robb's champion? Drinking himself out of his senses with the people who would harm him. He did manage to take some of them with him he thought grudgingly. As they tried to restrain him, he managed to take a few of the turncloaks with him, as they came at him with sword and spear, but there were too many of the bastards. They chained him, restraining his arms, But he was not some flowery southerner, He is an Umber, so when his arms where of no more use to him, he used his teeth to fight them off. But the results was still the same. The north lost the best of it, he thought sourly, including his own blood Jon, although not at all miniature, called the Smalljon, to the Bolton soldiers, people they once called brother in arms.

But now there were few people of the north left in the Twins. He knew, deep down that the Young Wolf, Robb stark, was dead, although he had not seen the final blow, he knew it as much as Lady Caitelyn Stark. And now he and the other North Lords were stuck underneath the Twins, waiting for their blood to bend the knee and give fealty to the gods damning Bolton.

He sighed, blowing the thoughts away as snowflakes in the wind, as he sat, then stood as his bladder began to sing to him. Moving his muscular, giant-like being across the cell that, for anyone else would have been far above their heads, but for him, he has to bend his giant-like proportions. Once his piss had ran its course, he slowly drudged back to the bundle of blankets that was his bed. Lying down, he longed for The Last Hearth, his home by right, and the time when wolves were the kings of the North.

He woke suddenly to the sound of a shout. Blinking, he sat up in his nest of furs. There was no shouting normally. Everyone here was resigned to their fate, unless the stinking shit pile of a lord, Walder Frey, needed "incentive for of one of the captives' blood, outside of the nightmarish place, The Twins had become.

Again, he heard a scream, this time accompanied by the all too familiar clang or swords, kissing each other. The Greatjon rose, quickly, and deceptively quietly for a man of his size. Something was queer about the situation. Besides the screams and the clangs of steel, which had arrived as quickly as they had left, the castle was in deathly quiet, although it too, was holding its breath.

"Guards?" he shouted, the foreign feeling of fear, prickling down his neck. The guard's came walking through the long corridor, to come to slow stop outside his own cell.

"You got something to say, Greatjon?" The guard said gruffly, by which showing evidence that they were completely at ease about the situation, or ignorant of the fact that there was one. The other guard, shorted and larger than the first yawned sycophantically, showing their inattentiveness for the guarding of warriors.

"I was wondering which whorehouse your mother was from" he replied with an arrogant smile. He would let the scene play itself out, and let those simpletons to their own dumb luck. The Frey's went back to their station outside their room, with no small amount of grumbling and cursing. The Greatjon should there, a pace away from the retched bars, waiting for something to happen.

He hadn't waited long when a shout of surprise, as well as a gurgle and splatter. There was then heavy and quick footsteps back up the corridor towards the cells. As the Greatjon took a step back from the cell bars, the shorter guard came into sight as he tripped and fell on the ground and shuffled quickly back, his own back against the bars.

They Greatjon slipped his arm through the bars, grabbed the ignorant guard by the neck, so quickly that the guard only knew what was happening when he was choking on his last few breaths, with his feet dangling above the cold stone floor. Grunting and grimacing, still holding the small fat man off the ground, he broke the man's neck, with a satisfying crack, then dropping the man's corpse to the ground, where he crumpled, like a puppet with its strings cut. That was for my son, you son of whore, he thought, exacting some small part of the revenge he had planned Breath heavy, he stepped back from the bars, as the hall once again descended into silence.

Wait, not silence. Footsteps, so quiet and so frequent, it seemed that there was a plague of mice racing down the stone floor towards him. The footsteps seemed to get more infrequent as some of the footsteps broke off, but there was no mistaking one mouse moving towards his cell. And as the footsteps became far too loud to ignore, a man in a mixture of boiled leather and grubby armour stopped in front of his cell. He briefly looked as the giant that stood before him, before turning his head and calling in a carrying whisper,

"He's here, my lord".

The moment after that, another figure in armour appeared at his cell door, holding a torch of burning pitch. This man was taller than the other, with a longsword that was bathed in blood. He exuded confidence, even in the castle of, as evidence by his bloodied sword, filled with his enemy. His armour had a sigil emblazoned on the front, but in the poorly maintained light, and due to the sun like brightness afforded to him by the torch, the Greatjon's eyes had not adjusted quickly enough to identify it. The man studied the man he saw in the cell before him jokingly before saying gravely, in a voice as gravelly as the stones at the bottom of a river,

"You have had bigger shits than this room. Come on, old friend, I would see you freed from this place of seven hells".

The Greatjon, suspicious that the knight before him knew his name.

"If you would reveal yourself Ser, I would respond in kind" he responded cautiously, as this mysterious man accepted keys from one of the other members of his party and began to unlock the cell door

"Acceptable, but we must not over stay our hospitality, especially with this family, who are more than content killing guests" he said before pulling his helmet off. Inside the Greatjon saw, to his happiness, a lined, weathered face, bushy storm cloud grey eyebrows, which are the clouds above his river blue eyes. All of this was framed with greying shoulder length that had once held the promise of auburn hair. The clasp under on the man's armour, now unneeded as he recognised the man, was that of a trout, made from the darkest obsidian.

"Blackfish! Good to see you too! It could only be you to attempt something as fucking brilliant as this!" Greatjon whispered, although not through lack of enthusiasm, as he moved forward and both men hugged each other quickly, before re-emerging in the dark situation that they found themselves in.

Right,' the Blackfish said, the ghost of the smile that had been present, slipping away, 'we came here to rescue you, because we need you to help rescue someone" he replied, with a savage grin upon his face.

The Greatjon looked disenchanted with that, and it presented itself as he spoke,

"We would need the North for that, and there is now way in all of seven hells, that I am following that man" he said, his hatred bubbling to the surface. The North remembers. He certainly did.

"What if I told you, that there was another we could follow, one who would bring you the north and howl for blood?" The Blackfish cryptically uttered, although the Greatjon sense that he was happy over news of something.

"One of the Starks? Which one? Bran? Rickon?"

"Not so young. The one we would follow, we would follow again. Robb stark, the Young Wolf and King in the North, lives".