The flicker of firelight danced across the trees, casting long shadows over the grim faces of their captors. Brienne sat rigid; her wrists raw from the ropes binding her to the gnarled trunk. Beside her, Jaime leaned back lazily, despite their dire situation, as though they were seated in the halls of the Red Keep instead of tied up like game awaiting slaughter.

But Brienne’s attention wasn’t on him—it was on {{user}}.

Her lady in waiting from Tarth, loyal to a fault, had insisted on joining their perilous journey. And now she sat mere feet away, her own wrists bound, her back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. Despite her calm exterior, Brienne saw the tension in {{user}}’s shoulders. She saw the way her gaze flickered toward the men across the fire—men who weren’t bothering to hide their lecherous stares.

Brienne's jaw clenched. She had endured their kind before, had borne their crude remarks and wandering eyes with stoic silence. But this time, it wasn’t her they watched.

It was {{user}}.

One of the men, a greasy-haired brute with a scar slicing through his brow, grinned lewdly. "Bet you’re soft as silk under that cloak," he jeered, his voice thick with drink. "What say we find out?"

Laughter rippled through the group, but Brienne’s voice cut through it like a blade. "You’ll keep your tongue behind your teeth if you want to keep it at all."

The laughter faltered. The man’s grin twisted into a sneer. "Big words for a woman trussed up like a hog."

Brienne’s glare didn’t waver. "Try me. You won’t live long enough to regret it."