Jaime Lannister POV
The dungeon air reeked of piss and mold, the cell walls were damp like always. Yet today was different a second meal had arrived, it was gruel, disgusting gruel, but a second meal nevertheless and yet before I could eat it.
The servant withdrew his cloak and in one single moment, his hand clamped around the man's throat and crushed it with a sickening crunch. That was when I first had a good look at Achilles.
In the dim torchlight, you couldn't make out his features except for his hair the color of freshly fallen snow and his eyes were polished grey like steel.
I should have warned him then. The direwolf was most likely prowling in the dungeons like it always was. The Stark boy's pet—his weapon. It was a message, I knew. The wolf watches the lion. Never sleep soundly. Yet I hadn't been able to warn him fast enough.
The beast came without a sound, materializing from the shadows like some demon from the seven hells. Even I, who had been expecting it, was startled by its sudden appearance. It leapt at the stranger's back, jaws open wide, teeth glistening.
BAM
The sound of wolf meeting man echoed through the dungeon. Those massive jaws clamped around his collarbone, where neck meets shoulder—a killing bite. I'd seen a smaller wolf take down a stag with such a bite. The stranger should have fallen, screaming.
But he didn't.
He turned his head slowly, as though someone had merely tapped him on the shoulder at a feast, and looked at the beast with mild annoyance.
"What are you doing?" he asked the wolf, his voice as flat and emotionless as still water.
Then he moved. Gods be good, I had thought myself quick with a blade, had bested men thought unbeatable, but this...this was something else entirely. His hand shot up, grabbed the wolf's muzzle, and with strength that shouldn't exist in human arms, he pried the jaws apart and threw the massive beast across the cell.
It hit the wall with a sickening thud that shook dust from the ceiling. The stranger unsheathed his blade—I hadn't even noticed he was armed—and tossed it to me. Steel rattled against my the stone floor as I caught it.
"Start hitting the wall with the pommel of the sword," he commanded. "We don't have much time."
I should have helped him deal with the beast. I was Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, Kingslayer, member of the Kingsguard. But something in his voice—the absolute certainty that he would be obeyed—had me hammering at the damp stones before I could think otherwise.
Behind me, I heard the wolf's growl, low and threatening. I kept my eyes on the wall, kept hammering, though every instinct screamed at me to turn, to help him fight the beast. I was a knight, after all. I had sworn vows. But I kept hammering, and I told myself it was because escape was the priority.
In truth, I was afraid. Not of the wolf, though the gods know any sane man would fear such a creature. No, I was afraid of the stranger, of what I had seen in his eyes when he tossed me that sword. There was something ancient there, something that didn't belong in the eyes of a living man.
The sounds behind me were terrible—snarls, the scrape of claws on stone, a strange grunting that might have been the man or might have been the wolf. I hammered harder, focusing on a spot where water seeped through the mortar, where the Red Fork lay just beyond.
Then came a sound I'll never forget: the wet, splintering crack of bone giving way, followed by a whimper so pathetic it hardly seemed to belong to the same beast that had terrorized the dungeons for weeks. Then silence.
I turned, sword half-raised, though whether to defend myself from wolf or man, I couldn't say.
The stranger stood over the direwolf's body. The massive beast lay still, its jaw hanging at an impossible angle. He had broken it with his bare hands. Seven save me, he had killed a direwolf with nothing but his own strength.
He looked at me, at the wall I'd been hammering, and frowned.
"You haven't made much progress," he said, disappointment evident in his voice.
I felt a flash of anger. "I'm sorry my imprisonment has weakened me," I snapped, though in truth I couldn't look away from the dead wolf. What would the Stark boy do when he learned his pet was dead?
The stranger didn't seem to hear my sarcasm. He moved to the wall, examining the spot I'd been working on.
"Hit with me, Kingslayer," he said, digging his fingers into cracks I hadn't even noticed.
Together we worked at the stones. Each blow of the pommel loosened more mortar. His fingers, strong as steel hooks, pulled chunks away that I couldn't have budged with a prybar. Water began to seep through, then pour, then gush. The dungeon floor flooded around our ankles, then our knees.
"After you," the stranger said when the hole was barely large enough for a man to squeeze through. There was a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes as he grabbed his sword from my hand sheathed it.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The water rushed through the opening with enough force to sweep a man away, but what choice did I have? Stay and face the wrath of the Young Wolf when he discovered his pet dead and his prized hostage escaped? I'd take my chances with drowning.
I pushed myself through the gap, jagged stones tearing at my clothes, scraping skin from my shoulders. The current caught me immediately, pulling me out into the darkness. For a moment I thought I'd miscalculated, that I'd drown here in the Tumblestone. Then a powerful hand grabbed my collar, steadying me, and the stranger was beside me in the water.
Together we swam, or rather, he swam and dragged me along. The current was strong, but he was stronger. We broke the surface. I gasped for air, my lungs burning, muscles screaming from weeks of disuse.
"Keep moving," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rush of the river.
We made for the far bank, where the Whispering Wood ran alongside the Tumblestone. My father's men had been slaughtered in those trees not so long ago. Would we meet the same fate? But there were no Stark scouts waiting for us, no archers to fill us with arrows as we crawled onto the muddy shore.
I collapsed on the bank, chest heaving, limbs trembling from the exertion and the cold. The stranger stood over me, wringing water from his clothes and hair with the casual air of a man who'd just taken a refreshing dip on a summer's day, not escaped from an impregnable castle and killed a direwolf with his bare hands.
"Come on, Kingslayer," he said, impatiently. "The faster we are, the better."
I stared up at him, this impossible man who had appeared in my cell like some warrior from the songs, who killed beasts bare-handed and swam through rushing rivers without tiring. Who was he? What was he?
"Thank you," I said.
"No worries, I do what I've been paid to do, now get up."
I nodded at him, with effort, I pushed myself to my feet. My clothes clung to me, cold and heavy.
We then began to walk across the woods, they were well quiet except for the sound of the rustling wind, which sounded like a whisper, that was where the woods have got their name. In a moment, he came to a halt.
"Here we are."
I looked forward even though I was tired. There waiting for us were two sand steeds, one reed as blood one dark as night. The man mounted the black matted steed and I followed suit mounting the red one.
Then we rode.