The night was bitter cold and the mud only colder. Each time he thought he'd gotten used to the filth, he'd shift his weight and feel the rapidly familiarizing sqelch of it again. Then his stomach would growl. Or he would shiver. Or the pain in his shackled wrists or neck would spike. Not to mention the unattended cuts along his arms and face, no doubt festering in the mud.

"Hear me Roar..." Jaime mumbles softly to himself, chuckling at the pathetic nature of his condition. A far cry from a proud lion.