( lionessism )
The captured wolf still has PRIDE. Rotten stone walls would not take it away ; nor would lion’s pawns mocking him from beyond his cell. The King Who Lost the North, they would call him ; a pup with no bite. Yet they wouldn’t dare to come too close to the Young Wolf, perhaps for fear that at any moment he would turn into an animal and free himself, rip their throat out one by one. Words had power, he thought. The legends of the King in the North inflicted fear in the hearts of his enemies, even when he had fallen so low. It was the same with Jaime Lannister, he supposed. None of his men would get too near to the Kingslayer, even if the lion was chained. Thinking about Jaime comforted him somewhat. The North still having him as prisoner would guarantee for Robb’s survival. Or so was he inclined to believe.
Nearing steps pull him from his thoughts ; lighter than that of armoured feet. Before his head turns, somehow, Robb already knows who he is to face standing outside his cell. Tully blue eyes, dimmed by darkness as they were by weariness, look up at the figure of a woman. No, a lioness. ❝ ––––––– Your Grace. ❞ Greets the prisoner, the form of treatment leaving his tongue with no admiration of a subject, but with venom and disdain of an enemy.
