The Lion and the Wolf ~ Game of Thrones

3

The Wolfswood.

Jonelle Snow.

She hadn't tasted fear in a long time—hadn't let herself taste fear—but as she stood in the grove beneath the gloomy gaze of the grotesquely enormous heart tree, the Bastard of Winterfell felt her heart beating against her chest, almost trying to burst out; her blood raced in her ears, and she felt her palms sweating profusely as she placed her right one on the wolf's-head pommel of her sword, tapping her fingers rapidly on the leather-wrapped hilt.

Was it fear, or excitement?

Twelve men surrounded the cabin in the old man's weirwood grove, armoured in the red and gold of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Four knights in full plate atop huge destriers, four leather-clad archers with longbows mounted atop a quartet of well-bread coursers, two hooded trackers with goldenheart recurve bows, a healer with tools dangling from his belt astride a palfrey, and an alchemist who kept a fair distance from the others for some reason.

And then there were the three who led them.

Giants in red cloaks edged in gold satin, and utterly alike. Easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and greatswords at their belts. They rode two of the most monstrous warhorses she had ever seen, beautiful white animals that snorted and stomped their hooves proudly. Between them stood Jaime Lannister, in golden armour decorated with the Lion of Lannister and a gilded sword resting lazily on his shoulder as he scrutinised her with cat-green eyes. Unlike the other twelve of Lady Joanna's guards, the three screamed "danger" when she observed them.

"I can't say I've met many swordswomen," said the Kingslayer. "Care for a spar?"

Unnaturally strong and fast as she was, Jaime Lannister was not called the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms for nothing. A glance at his relaxed stance (his impassive expression, his calm emerald eyes, how he tapped the tip of his sword against his boot) told Jonelle enough to know that she was nowhere near the level one would have to be to face a man of the Kingslayer's calibre. Fighting him for real would be the last thing she ever did...

But she could handle a spar; so, she drew her sword slowly, the sunlight breaking through the bloodstained leaves of the weirwood giving the cold steel a reddish gleam. "A spar or a fight?" A jolt of excitement fueled her, and though it'd probably end badly for her, she couldn't help but relish the thought of sparring with the Kingslayer.

A lazy smile split his lips as Lannister raised his brow, assessing her stance. Recognition shone, and a flash of disbelief filled his eyes that matched Lady Joanna's so well. "Well, who would have thought?" He laughed falsely before lifting his gilded sword and pointing it at her. "I should expect to lose an arm in a fight against you."

Though they kept it from their faces, Jonelle noticed the surprise in the guards. Jonelle felt a strange surge of pride at the compliment; indeed, being seen as someone who could pose a potential threat to the Young Lion was something anybody should be proud of being... Or, in equal parts, be terrified of being.

"Who trained you?"

The Bastard of Winterfell didn't hesitate to speak. "The master-at-arms at Winterfell," she admitted, knowing the man before her would piece together the truth about who she was from that alone. "Ser Rodrik taught me what he showed my half-brother."

"A lie." Lannister raised a brow. "Who trained you?"

The bastard frowned. Did the Kingslayer know the old knight or someone he'd trained? "That was the truth," she told him, swallowing her annoyance at being called a liar. "But you didn't let me finish. Ser Rodrik taught me what he had my half-brother, but I had another teacher." She glanced at the grave where she had buried him with that blackened cloak he'd never washed made Jaime's eyes follow hers, and he hummed when he noticed it.