Shiera moved fast as she can in the corridor. Her red mask catching the dim torchlight located with large gaps in between. She could already hear distant clash of steel echoing faintly behind her, but she did not falter in her work. Her King had given an order and she would obey it to the end.
Find Oberyn and rescue himand his kins.
Fourth cell on the left side. Just as the gaoler had stammered before she relieved him of his head. She finally reached it.
Inside sat four figures chained in iron cuffs three women and a man. The man in chains, lounging as if seated in a Dornish winehouse instead of a Lannister dungeon, though the split in his lip and the brutal swelling over one eye betrayed recent, unwanted hospitality.
"Martell," she said flatly as she slid the key into the cell lock.
The famed Red Viper of Dorne, arched a brow. "I know for certain that the gaoler was an oaf but this looks like an obvious improvement."
She ignored him, stepping into the close space to unbind his ankles. He leaned down slightly, studying her silver hair to the blue and green eyes behind her mask. "A red masked, silver-haired woman breaking into Lannister cells?" His tone was half-amused, half-suspicious. "I must ask—"
"You must not ask," Shiera snapped without so much as looking at him. "Save your breath for running, we've no time for pleasantries. I am freeing your family and that should be enough."
Obara grunted as her shackles came loose next, the heavy clanking sound of them falling, echoing in the empty corridor. "She has a spirit, I like her."
Nymeria rubbed her raw wrists once freed, her sharp obsidian eyes like her father, eyeing Shiera warily. "Or she's leading us to another, darker cage."
"Only fools linger in cages debating rescue," Shiera said sharply. She kicked a loose stone that skittered across the floor. "Now move out."
Ellaria Sand rose slowly, limping slightly as Oberyn supported her, his hand warm and steady on her arm. She looked between Shiera and the dark tunnel ahead. "Did you come here alone?"
"My dear is out there spilling Lannister men's blood," Shiera answered. "So do not make his effort wasted."
They filed out into the corridor, Oberyn stepping in front, his body coiled for immediate running to the gates, but Shiera's voice stopped him from going in wrong direction.
"Not that way," she warned, her voice low. "The gold cloaks should've started flooding in through the main gate now."
He stared at her, his dark eyes narrowed in the almost dark passage. "And you know this how?"
She turned her masked face toward him, her voice cold. "Because unlike you, I plan my own escape route in advance before freeing a random prisoner."
She led them deeper into the third level away from the gates and away from the increasing noise of approaching boots and distant shouts. Just when the corridor appeared to dead-end, she pressed one hand against a rough stone that jutted slightly uneven from the rest of the wall.
With a grinding groan that sounded too loudly in the empty corridor, a narrow passage from the damp stone wall shifted inward.
"Inside," she ordered.
Obara and Nymeria slipped in first, looking at their father, who nodded in approval. Ellaria followed with a quiet wince of pain, Oberyn steadying her before ducking in himself, his gaze lingering on Shiera before she too stepped in after them but then stopped.
She heard sound of boots and angry shouts nearing the corner that sounded to eager for a kill.
She stepped back out just enough to seal the stone behind her, leaving only a hairline crack, invisible to an unpractised eye.
"Stay silent until I return," she whispered curtly through the gap to the people inside.
Then she turned toward the darkness of the corridor ahead, drawing out her sword.
A shadow moved in her direction, skidding before she recognized the shape.
"This way, my King," she calls out softly. And Aemon emerges from the darkness alive, breathless and with no injury.
Oberyn had just squeezed Ellaria and her daughters far from the hidden passage door, the stone edges of it rough against his cheek, when he freeze hearing the words outside. When the door opens he sees the silver-haired woman stepping back into the passage with a young lean and tall boy with a sword covered with fresh blood. Dangerous, from the very way he held his weapon.
King.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed, his breath catching in his throat.
Ellaria whispers behind him, barely audible, in a thin sound heavy with exhaustion. "Did she just say—?"
"Yes," Oberyn murmured. "She did."
Nymeria leaned close, her voice a low and hard rasp. "Is he Viserys?"
"No," Oberyn said softly, staring harder his mind racing through the Targaryen bloodlines. "Not Viserys. He already died screaming in the Dothraki Sea."
Obara snorted quietly but impatiently seeing a white haired boy. "Then who?"
Oberyn watched the boy turning and closing the hidden door behind him, his sword still gleaming red. "I intend to find out."
Some ten leagues south of Riverrun, the clash of steel was long gone and the croaking of river frogs filled the region. The sun was just beginning to come up through the morning haze.
The Lannister war camp sprawled along the Tumblestone's bank, a sea of crimson tents broken only by the golden rose banner of Tyrells and other Reach houses fluttering in the breeze banners now together by the alliance by marriage. Cookfires smoked beneath the dawn and armored soldiers, heavy in their iron trudged through mud doing their patrolling.
Inside one of the larger command tents, a scout knelt before Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
"Ser Jaime, Lord Brynden Tully has left Riverrun," the man reported, his voice heaving from exhaustion. "Five hundred Riverland riders with him. Heading North-west of Riverrun, along the Tumblestone river road."
Jaime still in his title in his mail and surcoat, leaned over the map spread before him, the parchment smelling of oil and leather. "To harass our supply lines again, no doubt."
A few Westerland knights chuckled, deeming it an easy hunt. But across the table, Lord Randyll Tarly did not smile.
"Tell me, Ser Jaime," Tarly said, his voice hard. "Why would Robb Stark send his most seasoned commander, his uncle no less to lead raiders instead of a veteran men directly against us?"
Ser Andros Brax, Lord of Hornvale and the head of House Brax scoffed before Jaime could answer, his pride pricked by reachmen. "That lad is new to warfare himself, Lord Tarly. Likely trying to impress us with some—"
"Like he impressed you at the Battle of Green Fork?" Randyll cut in sharply, his contempt now clearly showing. The tent fell silent, remembering the weight of their last defeat. Lord Brax flushing a furious crimson but before he could get back.
Jaime cut in exhaling slowly, watching Tarly. "You believe it's not a raid."
"I believe," Randyll said, jabbing his gloved finger against the map, emphasizing the spot around the path taken by Lord Brynden, "that Brynden Tully is bait. The Blackfish does not lead petty raids."
Baelor Hightower stern-faced son of Lord Leyton, ever the cautious tactician leaned forward. "An ambush in the valley, then?"
Randyll nodded once, grimly.
"The Tumblestone river valley road is narrow with lush forest and high ridges on both sides. Perfect ground to bury enemy on road by falling trees, arrows and horse traps. He wants us to see the five hundred men and person leading them and forget about the siege we could hold at Riverrun."
Jaime studied the sketch of the terrain the tight, shadowed line of the valley then looked up with the same green predatory gleam as his father and sister. "Then we turn their trap back on them."
Randyll allowed himself the faintest, most fleeting smile.
"Take two thousand riders with you chasing the Blackfish. Let him think you've fallen for it. Let them draw you deeper into that valley."
"And the counter?" Jaime asked.
"Five thousand more," Randyll answered, his strategy as sharp and ruthless. "Moving parallel in the woods but out of sight. When he springs his trap, we spring ours. We flank them and cut their head off."
There was a moment of quiet as the lords exchanged glances appreciating the mind put up in the plan while Jaime Lannister with cocky and arrogant confidence of being the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms grinned.
"Very well. Let the wolf think us fools. We'll show him who bites harder."
Lords and knights present in the meeting nodded. The Lannister banners outside stirring in the wind like lions ready to pounce.