The king sat at the head of the table, a stack of cushions under
his arse, signing each document as it was presented to him.
“Only a few more, Your Grace,” Ser Kevan Lannister
assured him. “This is a bill of attainder against Lord Edmure
Tully, stripping him of Riverrun and all its lands and incomes, for
rebelling against his lawful king. This is a similar attainder,
against his uncle Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.” Tommen
signed them one after the other, dipping the quill carefully and
writing his name in a broad childish hand.
Jaime watched from the foot of the table, thinking of all those
lords who aspired to a seat on the king’s small council. They
can bloody well have mine. If this was power, why did it taste like
tedium? He did not feel especially powerful, watching Tommen dip
his quill in the inkpot again. He felt bored. And sore. Every muscle in his body ached, and his ribs and
shoulders were bruised from the battering they’d gotten,
courtesy of Ser Addam Marbrand. Just thinking of it made him wince.
He could only hope the man would keep his mouth shut. Jaime had
known Marbrand since he was a boy, serving as a page at Casterly
Rock; he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. Enough to ask
him to take up shields and tourney swords. He had wanted to know if
he could fight with his left hand. And now I do. The knowledge was more painful than the beating
that Ser Addam had given him, and the beating was so bad he could
hardly dress himself this morning. If they had been fighting in
earnest, Jaime would have died two dozen deaths. It seemed so
simple, changing hands. It wasn’t. Every instinct he had was
wrong. He had to think about everything, where once he’d just
moved. And while he was thinking, Marbrand was thumping him. His
left hand couldn’t even seem to hold a longsword properly;
Ser Addam had disarmed him thrice, sending his blade spinning.
“This grants said lands, incomes, and castle to Ser Emmon
Frey and his lady wife, Lady Genna.” Ser Kevan presented
another sheaf of parchments to the king. Tommen dipped and signed.
“This is a decree of legitimacy for a natural son of Lord
Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. And this names Lord Bolton your
Warden of the North.” Tommen dipped, signed, dipped, signed.
“This grants Ser Rolph Spicer title to the castle Castamere
and raises him to the rank of lord.” Tommen scrawled his
name. I should have gone to Ser Ilyn Payne, Jaime reflected. The
King’s Justice was not a friend as Marbrand was, and might
well have beat him bloody . . . but without a
tongue, he was not like to boast of it afterward. All it would take
would be one chance remark by Ser Addam in his cups, and the whole
world would soon know how useless he’d become. Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard. It was a cruel jape,
that . . . though not quite so cruel as the
gift his father had sent him.
“This is your royal pardon for Lord Gawen Westerling, his
lady wife, and his daughter Jeyne, welcoming them back into the
king’s peace,” Ser Kevan said. “This is a pardon
for Lord Jonos Bracken of Stone Hedge. This is a pardon for Lord
Vance. This for Lord Goodbrook. This for Lord Mooton of
Maidenpool.”
Jaime pushed himself to his feet. “You seem to have these
matters well in hand, Uncle. I shall leave His Grace to
you.”
“As you wish.” Ser Kevan rose as well. “Jaime,
you should go to your father. This breach between you—”
“—is his doing. Nor will he mend it by sending me
mocking gifts. Tell him that, if you can pry him away from the
Tyrells long enough.”
His uncle looked distressed. “The gift was heartfelt. We
thought that it might encourage you—”
“—to grow a new hand?” Jaime turned to
Tommen. Though he had Joffrey’s golden curls and green eyes,
the new king shared little else with his late brother. He inclined
to plumpness, his face was pink and round, and he even liked to
read. He is still shy of nine, this son of mine. The boy is not the
man. It would be seven years before Tommen was ruling in his own
right. Until then the realm would remain firmly in the hands of his
lord grandfather. “Sire,” he asked, “do I have
your leave to go?”
“As you like, Ser Uncle.” Tommen looked back to Ser
Kevan. “Can I seal them now, Great-Uncle?” Pressing his
royal seal into the hot wax was his favorite part of being king, so
far.
Jaime strode from the council chamber. Outside the door he found
Ser Meryn Trant standing stiff at guard in white scale armor and
snowy cloak. If this one should learn how feeble I am, or
Kettleblack or Blount should hear of
it . . . “Remain here until His Grace is
done,” he said, “then escort him back to
Maegor’s.”
Trant inclined his head. “As you say, my lord.”
The outer ward was crowded and noisy that morning. Jaime made
for the stables, where a large group of men were saddling their
horses. “Steelshanks!” he called. “Are you off,
then?”
“As soon as m’lady is mounted,” said
Steelshanks Walton. “My lord of Bolton expects us. Here she
is now.”
A groom led a fine grey mare out the stable door. On her back
was mounted a skinny hollow-eyed girl wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Grey, it was, like the dress beneath it, and trimmed with white
satin. The clasp that pinned it to her breast was wrought in the
shape of a wolf’s head with slitted opal eyes. The
girl’s long brown hair blew wild in the wind. She had a
pretty face, he thought, but her eyes were sad and wary.
When she saw him, she inclined her head. “Ser
Jaime,” she said in a thin anxious voice. “You are kind
to see me off.”
Jaime studied her closely. “You know me, then?”
She bit her lip. “You may not recall, my lord, as I was
littler then . . . but I had the honor to meet
you at Winterfell when King Robert came to visit my father Lord
Eddard.” She lowered her big brown eyes and mumbled,
“I’m Arya Stark.”
Jaime had never paid much attention to Arya Stark, but it seemed
to him that this girl was older. “I understand you’re
to be married.”
“I am to wed Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay. He used to
be a Snow, but His Grace has made him a Bolton. They say he’s
very brave. I am so happy.” Then why do you sound so frightened? “I wish you joy, my
lady.” Jaime turned back to Steelshanks. “You have the
coin you were promised?”
“Aye, and we’ve shared it out. You have my
thanks.” The northman grinned. “A Lannister always pays
his debts.”
“Always,” said Jaime, with a last glance at the
girl. He wondered if there was much resemblance. Not that it
mattered. The real Arya Stark was buried in some unmarked grave in
Flea Bottom in all likelihood. With her brothers dead, and both
parents, who would dare name this one a fraud? “Good
speed,” he told Steelshanks. Nage raised his peace banner,
and the northmen formed a column as ragged as their fur cloaks and
trotted out the castle gate. The thin girl on the grey mare looked
small and forlorn in their midst.
A few of the horses still shied away from the dark splotch on
the hard-packed ground where the earth had drunk the life’s
blood of the stableboy Gregor Clegane had killed so clumsily. The
sight of it made Jaime angry all over again. He had told his Kingsguard to keep
the crowd out of the way, but that oaf Ser Boros had let himself be
distracted by the duel. The fool boy himself shared some of the
blame, to be sure; the dead Dornishman as well. And Clegane most of
all. The blow that took the boy’s arm off had been mischance,
but that second cut . . . Well, Gregor is paying for it now. Grand Maester Pycelle was
tending to the man’s wounds, but the howls heard ringing from
the maester’s chambers suggested that the healing was not
going as well as it might. “The flesh mortifies and the
wounds ooze pus,” Pycelle told the council. “Even
maggots will not touch such foulness. His convulsions are so
violent that I have had to gag him to prevent him from biting off
his tongue. I have cut away as much tissue as I dare, and treated
the rot with boiling wine and bread mold, to no avail. The veins in
his arm are turning black. When I leeched him, all the leeches
died. My lords, I must know what malignant substance Prince Oberyn
used on his spear. Let us detain these other Dornishmen until they
are more forthcoming.”
Lord Tywin had refused him. “There will be trouble enough
with Sunspear over Prince Oberyn’s death. I do not mean to
make matters worse by holding his companions captive.”
“Then I fear Ser Gregor may die.”
“Undoubtedly. I swore as much in the letter I sent to
Prince Doran with his brother’s body. But it must be seen to
be the sword of the King’s Justice that slays him, not a
poisoned spear. Heal him.”
Grand Maester Pycelle blinked in dismay. “My lord—”
“Heal him,” Lord Tywin said again, vexed. “You
are aware that Lord Varys has sent fishermen into the waters around
Dragonstone. They report that only a token force remains to defend
the island. The Lyseni are gone from the bay, and the great part of
Lord Stannis’s strength with them.”
“Well and good,” announced Pycelle. “Let
Stannis rot in Lys, I say. We are well rid of the man and his
ambitions.”
“Did you turn into an utter fool when Tyrion shaved your
beard? This is Stannis Baratheon. The man will fight to the bitter
end and then some. If he is gone, it can only mean he intends to
resume the war. Most likely he will land at Storm’s End and
try and rouse the storm lords. If so, he’s finished. But a
bolder man might roll the dice for Dorne. If he should win Sunspear
to his cause, he might prolong this war for years. So we will not
offend the Martells any further, for any reason. The Dornishmen are
free to go, and you will heal Ser Gregor.”
And so the Mountain screamed, day and night. Lord Tywin
Lannister could cow even the Stranger, it would seem.
As Jaime climbed the winding steps of White Sword Tower, he
could hear Ser Boros snoring in his cell. Ser Balon’s door
was shut as well; he had the king tonight, and would sleep all day.
Aside from Blount’s snores, the tower was very quiet. That
suited Jaime well enough. I ought to rest myself. Last night, after
his dance with Ser Addam, he’d been too sore to sleep.
But when he stepped into his bedchamber, he found his sister
waiting for him.
She stood beside the open window, looking over the curtain walls
and out to sea. The bay wind swirled around her, flattening her
gown against her body in a way that quickened Jaime’s pulse.
It was white, that gown, like the hangings on the wall and the
draperies on his bed. Swirls of tiny emeralds brightened the ends
of her wide sleeves and spiraled down her bodice. Larger emeralds
were set in the golden spiderweb that bound her golden hair. The
gown was cut low, to bare her shoulders and the tops of her
breasts. She is so beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to take
her in his arms.
“Cersei.” He closed the door softly. “Why are
you here?”
“Where else could I go?” When she turned to him
there were tears in her eyes. “Father’s made it clear
that I am no longer wanted on the council. Jaime, won’t you
talk to him?”
Jaime took off his cloak and hung it from a peg on the wall.
“I talk to Lord Tywin every day.”
“Must you be so stubborn? All he
wants . . . ”
“ . . . is to force me from the
Kingsguard and send me back to Casterly Rock.”
“That need not be so terrible. He is sending me back to
Casterly Rock as well. He wants me far away, so he’ll have a
free hand with Tommen. Tommen is my son, not his!”
“Tommen is the king.”
“He is a boy! A frightened little boy who saw his brother
murdered at his own wedding. And now they are telling him that he
must marry. The girl is twice his age and twice a widow!”
He eased himself into a chair, trying to ignore the ache of
bruised muscles. “The Tyrells are insisting. I see no harm in
it. Tommen’s been lonely since Myrcella went to Dorne. He
likes having Margaery and her ladies about. Let them
wed.”
“He is your son . . . ”
“He is my seed. He’s never called me Father. No more
than Joffrey ever did. You warned me a thousand times never to show
any undue interest in them.”
“To keep them safe! You as well. How would it have looked
if my brother had played the father to the king’s children?
Even Robert might have grown suspicious.”
“Well, he’s beyond suspicion now.”
Robert’s death still left a bitter taste in Jaime’s
mouth. It should have been me who killed him, not Cersei. “I
only wished he’d died at my hands.” When I still had
two of them. “If I’d let kingslaying become a habit, as
he liked to say, I could have taken you as my wife for all the
world to see. I’m not ashamed of loving you, only of the
things I’ve done to hide it. That boy at
Winterfell . . . ”
“Did I tell you to throw him out the window? If
you’d gone hunting as I begged you, nothing would have
happened. But no, you had to have me, you could not wait until we
returned to the city.”
“I’d waited long enough. I hated watching Robert
stumble to your bed every night, always wondering if maybe this
night he’d decide to claim his rights as husband.”
Jaime suddenly remembered something else that troubled him about
Winterfell. “At Riverrun, Catelyn Stark seemed convinced
I’d sent some footpad to slit her son’s throat. That
I’d given him a dagger.”
“That,” she said scornfully. “Tyrion asked me
about that.”
“There was a dagger. The scars on Lady Catelyn’s
hands were real enough, she showed them to me. Did
you . . . ?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd.” Cersei closed the
window. “Yes, I hoped the boy would die. So did you. Even
Robert thought that would have been for the best. ‘We kill
our horses when they break a leg, and our dogs when they go blind,
but we are too weak to give the same mercy to crippled children,’ he
told me. He was blind himself at the time, from drink.” Robert? Jaime had guarded the king long enough to know that
Robert Baratheon said things in his cups that he would have denied
angrily the next day. “Were you alone when Robert said
this?”
“You don’t think he said it to Ned Stark, I hope? Of
course we were alone. Us and the children.” Cersei removed
her hairnet and draped it over a bedpost, then shook out her golden
curls. “Perhaps Myrcella sent this man with the dagger, do
you think so?”
It was meant as mockery, but she’d cut
right to the heart of it, Jaime saw at once. “Not Myrcella.
Joffrey.”
Cersei frowned. “Joffrey had no love for Robb Stark, but
the younger boy was nothing to him. He was only a child himself .
“
“A child hungry for a pat on the head from that sot you
let him believe was his father.” He had an uncomfortable
thought. “Tyrion almost died because of this bloody dagger.
If he knew the whole thing was Joffrey’s work, that might be
why . . . ”
“I don’t care why,” Cersei said. “He can
take his reasons down to hell with him. If you had seen how Joff
died . . . he fought, Jaime, he fought for
every breath, but it was as if some malign spirit had its hands
about his throat. He had such terror in his
eyes . . . When he was little, he’d run to me
when he was scared or hurt and I would protect him. But that night
there was nothing I could do. Tyrion murdered him in front of me,
and there was nothing I could do.” Cersei sank to her knees
before his chair and took Jaime’s good hand between both of
hers. “Joff is dead and Myrcella’s in Dorne.
Tommen’s all I have left. You mustn’t let Father take
him from me. Jaime, please.”
“Lord Tywin has not asked for my approval. I can talk to
him, but he will not listen . . . ”
“He will if you agree to leave the Kingsguard.”
“I’m not leaving the Kingsguard.”
His sister fought back tears. “Jaime, you’re my
shining knight. You cannot abandon me when I need you most! He is
stealing my son, sending me away . . . and
unless you stop him, Father is going to force me to wed
again!”
Jaime should not have been surprised, but he was. The words were
a blow to his gut harder than any that Ser Addam Marbrand had dealt
him. “Who?”
“Does it matter? Some lord or other. Someone Father thinks
he needs. I don’t care. I will not have another husband. You
are the only man I want in my bed, ever again.”
“Then tell him that!”
She pulled her hands away. “You are talking madness again.
Would you have us ripped apart, as Mother did that time she caught
us playing? Tommen would lose the throne, Myrcella her
marriage . . . I want to be your wife, we
belong to each other, but it can never be, Jaime. We are brother
and sister.”
“The Targaryens . . . ”
“We are not Targaryens!”
“Quiet,” he said, scornfully. “So loud,
you’ll wake my Sworn Brothers. We can’t have that, now,
can we? People might learn that you had come to see me.”
‘Jaime,” she sobbed, “don’t you think I
want it as much as you do? It makes no matter who they wed me to, I
want you at my side, I want you in my bed, I want you inside me.
Nothing has changed between us. Let me prove it to you.” She
pushed up his tunic and began to fumble with the laces of his
breeches.
Jaime felt himself responding. “No,” he said,
“not here.” They had never done it in White Sword
Tower, much less in the Lord Commander’s chambers.
“Cersei, this is not the place.”
“You took me in the sept. This is no different.” She
drew out his cock and bent her head over it.
Jaime pushed her away with the stump of his right hand.
“No. Not here, I said.” He forced himself to stand.
For an instant he could see confusion in her bright green eyes,
and fear as well. Then rage replaced it. Cersei gathered herself
together, got to her feet, straightened her skirts. “Was it
your hand they hacked off in Harrenhal, or your manhood?” As
she shook her head, her hair tumbled around her bare white
shoulders. “I was a fool to come. You lacked the courage to
avenge Joffrey, why would I think that you’d protect Tommen?
Tell me, if the Imp had killed all three of your children, would
that have made you wroth?”
“Tyrion is not going to harm Tommen or Myrcella. I am
still not certain he killed Joffrey.”
Her mouth twisted in anger. “How can you say that? After
all his threats—”
“Threats mean nothing. He swears he did not do
it.”
“Oh, he swears, is that it? And dwarfs don’t lie, is
that what you think?”
“Not to me. No more than you would.”
“You great golden fool. He’s lied to you a thousand
times, and so have I.” She bound up her hair again, and
scooped up the hairnet from the bedpost where she’d hung it.
“Think what you will. The little monster is in a black cell,
and soon Ser Ilyn will have his head off. Perhaps you’d like
it for a keepsake.” She glanced at the pillow. “He can
watch over you as you sleep alone in that cold white bed. Until his
eyes rot out, that is.”
“You had best go, Cersei. You’re making me
angry.”
“Oh, an angry cripple. How terrifying.” She laughed.
“A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have
been the heir he wanted, but I lacked the cock. And speaking of
such, best tuck yours away, brother. It looks rather sad and small,
hanging from your breeches like that.”
When she was gone Jaime took her advice, fumbling one-handed at
his laces. He felt a bone-deep ache in his phantom fingers.
I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and
soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me
House Lannister won this war.
Jaime donned his cloak and went downstairs, where he found Ser
Boros Blount having a cup of wine in the common room. “When
you’re done with your drink, tell Ser Loras I’m ready
to see her.”
Ser Boros was too much of a coward to do much more than glower.
“You are ready to see who?”
“Just tell Loras.”
“Aye.” Ser Boros drained his cup. “Aye, Lord
Commander.”
He took his own good time about it, though, or else the Knight
of Flowers proved hard to find. Several hours had passed by the
time they arrived, the slim handsome youth and the big ugly maid.
Jaime was sitting alone in the round room, leafing idly through the
White Book. “Lord Commander,” Ser Loras said, “you wished to see the
Maid of Tarth?”
“I did.” Jaime waved them closer with his left hand.
“You have talked with her, I take it?”
“As you commanded, my lord.”
“And?”
The lad tensed. “I . . . it may be it
happened as she says, ser. That it was Stannis. I cannot be
certain.”
“Varys tells me that the castellan of Storm’s End
perished strangely as well,” said Jaime.
“Ser Cortnay Penrose,” said Brienne sadly. “A
good man.”
“A stubborn man. One day he stood square in the way of the
King of Dragonstone. The next he leapt from a tower.” Jaime
stood. “Ser Loras, we will talk more of this later. You may
leave Brienne with me.”
The wench looked as ugly and awkward as ever, he decided when
Tyrell left them. Someone had dressed her in woman’s clothes
again, but this dress fit much better than that hideous pink rag
the goat had made her wear. “Blue is a good color on you, my
lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your
eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes.
Brienne glanced down at herself, flustered. “Septa Donyse
padded out the bodice, to give it that shape. She said you sent her
to me.” She lingered by the door, as if she meant to flee at
any second. “You look . . . ”
“Different?” He managed a half-smile. “More
meat on the ribs and fewer lice in my hair, that’s all. The
stump’s the same. Close the door and come here.”
She did as he bid her. “The white
cloak . . . ”
“ . . . is new, but I’m sure
I’ll soil it soon enough.”
“That wasn’t . . . I was about
to say that it becomes you.”
She came closer, hesitant. “Jaime, did you mean what you
told Ser Loras? About . . . about King Renly,
and the shadow?”
Jaime shrugged. “I would have killed Renly myself if
we’d met in battle, what do I care who cut his
throat?”
“You said I had
honor . . . ”
“I’m the bloody Kingslayer, remember? When I say you
have honor, that’s like a whore vouchsafing your
maidenhood.” He leaned back and looked up at her.
“Steelshanks is on his way back north, to deliver Arya Stark
to Roose Bolton.”
“You gave her to him?” she cried, dismayed.
“You swore an oath to Lady
Catelyn . . . ”
“With a sword at my throat, but never mind. Lady
Catelyn’s dead. I could not give her back her daughters even
if I had them. And the girl my father sent with Steelshanks was not
Arya Stark.”
“Not Arya Stark?”
“You heard me. My lord father found some skinny northern
girl more or less the same age with more or less the same coloring.
He dressed her up in white and grey, gave her a silver wolf to pin
her cloak, and sent her off to wed Bolton’s bastard.”
He lifted his stump to point at her. “I wanted to tell you
that before you went galloping off to rescue her and got yourself
killed for no good purpose. You’re not half bad with a sword,
but you’re not good enough to take on two hundred men by
yourself.”
Brienne shook her head. “When Lord Bolton learns that your
father paid him with false
coin . . . ”
“Oh, he knows. Lannisters lie, remember? It makes no
matter, this girl serves his purpose just as well. Who is going to
say that she isn’t Arya Stark? Everyone the girl was close to
is dead except for her sister, who has disappeared.”
“Why would you tell me all this, if it’s true? You
are betraying your father’s secrets.” The Hand’s secrets, he thought. I no longer have a father.
“I pay my debts like every good little lion. I did promise
Lady Stark her daughters . . . and one of them
is still alive. My brother may know where she is, but if so he
isn’t saying. Cersei is convinced that Sansa helped him
murder Joffrey.”
The wench’s mouth got stubborn. “I will not believe
that gentle girl a poisoner. Lady Catelyn said that she had a
loving heart. It was your brother. There was a trial, Ser Loras
said.”
“Two trials, actually. Words and swords both failed him. A
bloody mess. Did you watch from your window?”
“My cell faces the sea. I heard the shouting,
though.”
“Prince Oberyn of Dorne is dead, Ser Gregor Clegane lies
dying, and Tyrion stands condemned before the eyes of gods and men.
They’re keeping him in a black cell till they kill him.”
Brienne looked at him. “You do not believe he did
it.”
Jaime gave her a hard smile. “See, wench? We know each
other too well. Tyrion’s wanted to be me since he took his
first step, but he’d never follow me in kingslaying. Sansa
Stark killed Joffrey. My brother’s kept silent to protect
her. He gets these fits of gallantry from time to time. The last
one cost him a nose. This time it will mean his head.”
“No,” Brienne said. “It was not my
lady’s daughter. It could not have been her.”
“There’s the stubborn stupid wench that I
remember.”
She reddened. “My name
is . . . ”
“Brienne of Tarth.” Jaime sighed. “I have a
gift for you.” He reached down under the Lord
Commander’s chair and brought it out, wrapped in folds of
crimson velvet.
Brienne approached as if the bundle was like to bite her,
reached out a huge freckled hand, and flipped back a fold of cloth.
Rubies glimmered in the light. She picked the treasure up gingerly,
curled her fingers around the leather grip, and slowly slid the
sword free of its scabbard. Blood and black the ripples shone. A
finger of reflected light ran red along the edge. “Is this
Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.”
“Nor I. There was a time that I would have given my right
hand to wield a sword like that. Now it appears I have, so the
blade is wasted on me. Take it.” Before she could think to
refuse, he went on. “A sword so fine must bear a name. It
would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. One more
thing. The blade comes with a price.”
Her face darkened. “I told you, I will never
serve . . . ”
“ . . . such foul creatures as us.
Yes, I recall. Hear me out, Brienne. Both of us swore oaths
concerning Sansa Stark. Cersei means to see that the girl is found
and killed, wherever she has gone to
ground . . . ”
Brienne’s homely face twisted in fury. “If you
believe that I would harm my lady’s daughter for a sword, you—”
“Just listen,” he snapped, angered by her
assumption. “I want you to find Sansa first, and get her
somewhere safe. How else are the two of us going to make good our
stupid vows to your precious dead Lady Catelyn?
The wench blinked. “I . . . I
thought . . . ”
“I know what you
thought.” Suddenly Jaime was sick of the sight of her. She
bleats like a bloody sheep. “When Ned Stark died, his
greatsword was given to the King’s Justice,” he told
her. “But my father felt that such a fine blade was wasted on
a mere headsman. He gave Ser Ilyn a new sword, and had Ice melted
down and reforged. There was enough metal for two new blades.
You’re holding one. So you’ll be defending Ned
Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel, if that
makes any difference to you.”
“Ser, I . . . I owe you an
apolo . . . ”
He cut her off. “Take the bloody sword and go, before I
change my mind. There’s a bay mare in the stables, as homely
as you are but somewhat better trained. Chase after Steelshanks,
search for Sansa, or ride home to your isle of sapphires,
it’s naught to me. I don’t want to look at you
anymore.”
“Jaime . . . ”
“Kingslayer,” he reminded her. “Best use that
sword to clean the wax out of your ears, wench. We’re
done.”
Stubbornly, she persisted. “Joffrey was your . . . ”
“My king. Leave it at that.”
“You say Sansa killed him. Why protect her?” Because Joff was no more to me than a squirt of seed in
Cersei’s cunt. And because he deserved to die. “I have
made kings and unmade them. Sansa Stark is my last chance for
honor.” Jaime smiled thinly. “Besides, kingslayers
should band together. Are you ever going to go?”
Her big hand wrapped tight around Oathkeeper. “I will. And
I will find the girl and keep her safe. For her lady mother’s
sake. And for yours.” She bowed stiffly, whirled, and
went.
Jaime sat alone at the table while the shadows crept across the
room. As dusk began to settle, he lit a candle and opened the White
Book to his own page. Quill and ink he found in a drawer. Beneath
the last line Ser Barristan had entered, he wrote in an awkward
hand that might have done credit to a six-year-old being taught his
first letters by a maester: Defeated in the Whispering Wood by the Young Wolf Robb Stark
during the War of the Five Kings. Held captive at Riverrun and
ransomed for a promise unfuffilled. Captured again by the Brave
Companions, and maimed at the word of Vargo Hoat their captain,
losing his sword hand to the blade of Zollo the Fat. Returned
safely to King’s Landing by Brienne, the Maid of Tarth.
When he was done, more than three-quarters of his page still
remained to be filled between the gold lion on the crimson shield
on top and the blank white shield at the bottom. Ser Gerold
Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had
continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for
himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth.
Whatever he chose . . .
The king sat at the head of the table, a stack of cushions under
his arse, signing each document as it was presented to him.
“Only a few more, Your Grace,” Ser Kevan Lannister
assured him. “This is a bill of attainder against Lord Edmure
Tully, stripping him of Riverrun and all its lands and incomes, for
rebelling against his lawful king. This is a similar attainder,
against his uncle Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.” Tommen
signed them one after the other, dipping the quill carefully and
writing his name in a broad childish hand.
Jaime watched from the foot of the table, thinking of all those
lords who aspired to a seat on the king’s small council. They
can bloody well have mine. If this was power, why did it taste like
tedium? He did not feel especially powerful, watching Tommen dip
his quill in the inkpot again. He felt bored. And sore. Every muscle in his body ached, and his ribs and
shoulders were bruised from the battering they’d gotten,
courtesy of Ser Addam Marbrand. Just thinking of it made him wince.
He could only hope the man would keep his mouth shut. Jaime had
known Marbrand since he was a boy, serving as a page at Casterly
Rock; he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. Enough to ask
him to take up shields and tourney swords. He had wanted to know if
he could fight with his left hand. And now I do. The knowledge was more painful than the beating
that Ser Addam had given him, and the beating was so bad he could
hardly dress himself this morning. If they had been fighting in
earnest, Jaime would have died two dozen deaths. It seemed so
simple, changing hands. It wasn’t. Every instinct he had was
wrong. He had to think about everything, where once he’d just
moved. And while he was thinking, Marbrand was thumping him. His
left hand couldn’t even seem to hold a longsword properly;
Ser Addam had disarmed him thrice, sending his blade spinning.
“This grants said lands, incomes, and castle to Ser Emmon
Frey and his lady wife, Lady Genna.” Ser Kevan presented
another sheaf of parchments to the king. Tommen dipped and signed.
“This is a decree of legitimacy for a natural son of Lord
Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. And this names Lord Bolton your
Warden of the North.” Tommen dipped, signed, dipped, signed.
“This grants Ser Rolph Spicer title to the castle Castamere
and raises him to the rank of lord.” Tommen scrawled his
name. I should have gone to Ser Ilyn Payne, Jaime reflected. The
King’s Justice was not a friend as Marbrand was, and might
well have beat him bloody . . . but without a
tongue, he was not like to boast of it afterward. All it would take
would be one chance remark by Ser Addam in his cups, and the whole
world would soon know how useless he’d become. Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard. It was a cruel jape,
that . . . though not quite so cruel as the
gift his father had sent him.
“This is your royal pardon for Lord Gawen Westerling, his
lady wife, and his daughter Jeyne, welcoming them back into the
king’s peace,” Ser Kevan said. “This is a pardon
for Lord Jonos Bracken of Stone Hedge. This is a pardon for Lord
Vance. This for Lord Goodbrook. This for Lord Mooton of
Maidenpool.”
Jaime pushed himself to his feet. “You seem to have these
matters well in hand, Uncle. I shall leave His Grace to
you.”
“As you wish.” Ser Kevan rose as well. “Jaime,
you should go to your father. This breach between you—”
“—is his doing. Nor will he mend it by sending me
mocking gifts. Tell him that, if you can pry him away from the
Tyrells long enough.”
His uncle looked distressed. “The gift was heartfelt. We
thought that it might encourage you—”
“—to grow a new hand?” Jaime turned to
Tommen. Though he had Joffrey’s golden curls and green eyes,
the new king shared little else with his late brother. He inclined
to plumpness, his face was pink and round, and he even liked to
read. He is still shy of nine, this son of mine. The boy is not the
man. It would be seven years before Tommen was ruling in his own
right. Until then the realm would remain firmly in the hands of his
lord grandfather. “Sire,” he asked, “do I have
your leave to go?”
“As you like, Ser Uncle.” Tommen looked back to Ser
Kevan. “Can I seal them now, Great-Uncle?” Pressing his
royal seal into the hot wax was his favorite part of being king, so
far.
Jaime strode from the council chamber. Outside the door he found
Ser Meryn Trant standing stiff at guard in white scale armor and
snowy cloak. If this one should learn how feeble I am, or
Kettleblack or Blount should hear of
it . . . “Remain here until His Grace is
done,” he said, “then escort him back to
Maegor’s.”
Trant inclined his head. “As you say, my lord.”
The outer ward was crowded and noisy that morning. Jaime made
for the stables, where a large group of men were saddling their
horses. “Steelshanks!” he called. “Are you off,
then?”
“As soon as m’lady is mounted,” said
Steelshanks Walton. “My lord of Bolton expects us. Here she
is now.”
A groom led a fine grey mare out the stable door. On her back
was mounted a skinny hollow-eyed girl wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Grey, it was, like the dress beneath it, and trimmed with white
satin. The clasp that pinned it to her breast was wrought in the
shape of a wolf’s head with slitted opal eyes. The
girl’s long brown hair blew wild in the wind. She had a
pretty face, he thought, but her eyes were sad and wary.
When she saw him, she inclined her head. “Ser
Jaime,” she said in a thin anxious voice. “You are kind
to see me off.”
Jaime studied her closely. “You know me, then?”
She bit her lip. “You may not recall, my lord, as I was
littler then . . . but I had the honor to meet
you at Winterfell when King Robert came to visit my father Lord
Eddard.” She lowered her big brown eyes and mumbled,
“I’m Arya Stark.”
Jaime had never paid much attention to Arya Stark, but it seemed
to him that this girl was older. “I understand you’re
to be married.”
“I am to wed Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay. He used to
be a Snow, but His Grace has made him a Bolton. They say he’s
very brave. I am so happy.” Then why do you sound so frightened? “I wish you joy, my
lady.” Jaime turned back to Steelshanks. “You have the
coin you were promised?”
“Aye, and we’ve shared it out. You have my
thanks.” The northman grinned. “A Lannister always pays
his debts.”
“Always,” said Jaime, with a last glance at the
girl. He wondered if there was much resemblance. Not that it
mattered. The real Arya Stark was buried in some unmarked grave in
Flea Bottom in all likelihood. With her brothers dead, and both
parents, who would dare name this one a fraud? “Good
speed,” he told Steelshanks. Nage raised his peace banner,
and the northmen formed a column as ragged as their fur cloaks and
trotted out the castle gate. The thin girl on the grey mare looked
small and forlorn in their midst.
A few of the horses still shied away from the dark splotch on
the hard-packed ground where the earth had drunk the life’s
blood of the stableboy Gregor Clegane had killed so clumsily. The
sight of it made Jaime angry all over again. He had told his Kingsguard to keep
the crowd out of the way, but that oaf Ser Boros had let himself be
distracted by the duel. The fool boy himself shared some of the
blame, to be sure; the dead Dornishman as well. And Clegane most of
all. The blow that took the boy’s arm off had been mischance,
but that second cut . . . Well, Gregor is paying for it now. Grand Maester Pycelle was
tending to the man’s wounds, but the howls heard ringing from
the maester’s chambers suggested that the healing was not
going as well as it might. “The flesh mortifies and the
wounds ooze pus,” Pycelle told the council. “Even
maggots will not touch such foulness. His convulsions are so
violent that I have had to gag him to prevent him from biting off
his tongue. I have cut away as much tissue as I dare, and treated
the rot with boiling wine and bread mold, to no avail. The veins in
his arm are turning black. When I leeched him, all the leeches
died. My lords, I must know what malignant substance Prince Oberyn
used on his spear. Let us detain these other Dornishmen until they
are more forthcoming.”
Lord Tywin had refused him. “There will be trouble enough
with Sunspear over Prince Oberyn’s death. I do not mean to
make matters worse by holding his companions captive.”
“Then I fear Ser Gregor may die.”
“Undoubtedly. I swore as much in the letter I sent to
Prince Doran with his brother’s body. But it must be seen to
be the sword of the King’s Justice that slays him, not a
poisoned spear. Heal him.”
Grand Maester Pycelle blinked in dismay. “My lord—”
“Heal him,” Lord Tywin said again, vexed. “You
are aware that Lord Varys has sent fishermen into the waters around
Dragonstone. They report that only a token force remains to defend
the island. The Lyseni are gone from the bay, and the great part of
Lord Stannis’s strength with them.”
“Well and good,” announced Pycelle. “Let
Stannis rot in Lys, I say. We are well rid of the man and his
ambitions.”
“Did you turn into an utter fool when Tyrion shaved your
beard? This is Stannis Baratheon. The man will fight to the bitter
end and then some. If he is gone, it can only mean he intends to
resume the war. Most likely he will land at Storm’s End and
try and rouse the storm lords. If so, he’s finished. But a
bolder man might roll the dice for Dorne. If he should win Sunspear
to his cause, he might prolong this war for years. So we will not
offend the Martells any further, for any reason. The Dornishmen are
free to go, and you will heal Ser Gregor.”
And so the Mountain screamed, day and night. Lord Tywin
Lannister could cow even the Stranger, it would seem.
As Jaime climbed the winding steps of White Sword Tower, he
could hear Ser Boros snoring in his cell. Ser Balon’s door
was shut as well; he had the king tonight, and would sleep all day.
Aside from Blount’s snores, the tower was very quiet. That
suited Jaime well enough. I ought to rest myself. Last night, after
his dance with Ser Addam, he’d been too sore to sleep.
But when he stepped into his bedchamber, he found his sister
waiting for him.
She stood beside the open window, looking over the curtain walls
and out to sea. The bay wind swirled around her, flattening her
gown against her body in a way that quickened Jaime’s pulse.
It was white, that gown, like the hangings on the wall and the
draperies on his bed. Swirls of tiny emeralds brightened the ends
of her wide sleeves and spiraled down her bodice. Larger emeralds
were set in the golden spiderweb that bound her golden hair. The
gown was cut low, to bare her shoulders and the tops of her
breasts. She is so beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to take
her in his arms.
“Cersei.” He closed the door softly. “Why are
you here?”
“Where else could I go?” When she turned to him
there were tears in her eyes. “Father’s made it clear
that I am no longer wanted on the council. Jaime, won’t you
talk to him?”
Jaime took off his cloak and hung it from a peg on the wall.
“I talk to Lord Tywin every day.”
“Must you be so stubborn? All he
wants . . . ”
“ . . . is to force me from the
Kingsguard and send me back to Casterly Rock.”
“That need not be so terrible. He is sending me back to
Casterly Rock as well. He wants me far away, so he’ll have a
free hand with Tommen. Tommen is my son, not his!”
“Tommen is the king.”
“He is a boy! A frightened little boy who saw his brother
murdered at his own wedding. And now they are telling him that he
must marry. The girl is twice his age and twice a widow!”
He eased himself into a chair, trying to ignore the ache of
bruised muscles. “The Tyrells are insisting. I see no harm in
it. Tommen’s been lonely since Myrcella went to Dorne. He
likes having Margaery and her ladies about. Let them
wed.”
“He is your son . . . ”
“He is my seed. He’s never called me Father. No more
than Joffrey ever did. You warned me a thousand times never to show
any undue interest in them.”
“To keep them safe! You as well. How would it have looked
if my brother had played the father to the king’s children?
Even Robert might have grown suspicious.”
“Well, he’s beyond suspicion now.”
Robert’s death still left a bitter taste in Jaime’s
mouth. It should have been me who killed him, not Cersei. “I
only wished he’d died at my hands.” When I still had
two of them. “If I’d let kingslaying become a habit, as
he liked to say, I could have taken you as my wife for all the
world to see. I’m not ashamed of loving you, only of the
things I’ve done to hide it. That boy at
Winterfell . . . ”
“Did I tell you to throw him out the window? If
you’d gone hunting as I begged you, nothing would have
happened. But no, you had to have me, you could not wait until we
returned to the city.”
“I’d waited long enough. I hated watching Robert
stumble to your bed every night, always wondering if maybe this
night he’d decide to claim his rights as husband.”
Jaime suddenly remembered something else that troubled him about
Winterfell. “At Riverrun, Catelyn Stark seemed convinced
I’d sent some footpad to slit her son’s throat. That
I’d given him a dagger.”
“That,” she said scornfully. “Tyrion asked me
about that.”
“There was a dagger. The scars on Lady Catelyn’s
hands were real enough, she showed them to me. Did
you . . . ?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd.” Cersei closed the
window. “Yes, I hoped the boy would die. So did you. Even
Robert thought that would have been for the best. ‘We kill
our horses when they break a leg, and our dogs when they go blind,
but we are too weak to give the same mercy to crippled children,’ he
told me. He was blind himself at the time, from drink.” Robert? Jaime had guarded the king long enough to know that
Robert Baratheon said things in his cups that he would have denied
angrily the next day. “Were you alone when Robert said
this?”
“You don’t think he said it to Ned Stark, I hope? Of
course we were alone. Us and the children.” Cersei removed
her hairnet and draped it over a bedpost, then shook out her golden
curls. “Perhaps Myrcella sent this man with the dagger, do
you think so?”
It was meant as mockery, but she’d cut
right to the heart of it, Jaime saw at once. “Not Myrcella.
Joffrey.”
Cersei frowned. “Joffrey had no love for Robb Stark, but
the younger boy was nothing to him. He was only a child himself .
“
“A child hungry for a pat on the head from that sot you
let him believe was his father.” He had an uncomfortable
thought. “Tyrion almost died because of this bloody dagger.
If he knew the whole thing was Joffrey’s work, that might be
why . . . ”
“I don’t care why,” Cersei said. “He can
take his reasons down to hell with him. If you had seen how Joff
died . . . he fought, Jaime, he fought for
every breath, but it was as if some malign spirit had its hands
about his throat. He had such terror in his
eyes . . . When he was little, he’d run to me
when he was scared or hurt and I would protect him. But that night
there was nothing I could do. Tyrion murdered him in front of me,
and there was nothing I could do.” Cersei sank to her knees
before his chair and took Jaime’s good hand between both of
hers. “Joff is dead and Myrcella’s in Dorne.
Tommen’s all I have left. You mustn’t let Father take
him from me. Jaime, please.”
“Lord Tywin has not asked for my approval. I can talk to
him, but he will not listen . . . ”
“He will if you agree to leave the Kingsguard.”
“I’m not leaving the Kingsguard.”
His sister fought back tears. “Jaime, you’re my
shining knight. You cannot abandon me when I need you most! He is
stealing my son, sending me away . . . and
unless you stop him, Father is going to force me to wed
again!”
Jaime should not have been surprised, but he was. The words were
a blow to his gut harder than any that Ser Addam Marbrand had dealt
him. “Who?”
“Does it matter? Some lord or other. Someone Father thinks
he needs. I don’t care. I will not have another husband. You
are the only man I want in my bed, ever again.”
“Then tell him that!”
She pulled her hands away. “You are talking madness again.
Would you have us ripped apart, as Mother did that time she caught
us playing? Tommen would lose the throne, Myrcella her
marriage . . . I want to be your wife, we
belong to each other, but it can never be, Jaime. We are brother
and sister.”
“The Targaryens . . . ”
“We are not Targaryens!”
“Quiet,” he said, scornfully. “So loud,
you’ll wake my Sworn Brothers. We can’t have that, now,
can we? People might learn that you had come to see me.”
‘Jaime,” she sobbed, “don’t you think I
want it as much as you do? It makes no matter who they wed me to, I
want you at my side, I want you in my bed, I want you inside me.
Nothing has changed between us. Let me prove it to you.” She
pushed up his tunic and began to fumble with the laces of his
breeches.
Jaime felt himself responding. “No,” he said,
“not here.” They had never done it in White Sword
Tower, much less in the Lord Commander’s chambers.
“Cersei, this is not the place.”
“You took me in the sept. This is no different.” She
drew out his cock and bent her head over it.
Jaime pushed her away with the stump of his right hand.
“No. Not here, I said.” He forced himself to stand.
For an instant he could see confusion in her bright green eyes,
and fear as well. Then rage replaced it. Cersei gathered herself
together, got to her feet, straightened her skirts. “Was it
your hand they hacked off in Harrenhal, or your manhood?” As
she shook her head, her hair tumbled around her bare white
shoulders. “I was a fool to come. You lacked the courage to
avenge Joffrey, why would I think that you’d protect Tommen?
Tell me, if the Imp had killed all three of your children, would
that have made you wroth?”
“Tyrion is not going to harm Tommen or Myrcella. I am
still not certain he killed Joffrey.”
Her mouth twisted in anger. “How can you say that? After
all his threats—”
“Threats mean nothing. He swears he did not do
it.”
“Oh, he swears, is that it? And dwarfs don’t lie, is
that what you think?”
“Not to me. No more than you would.”
“You great golden fool. He’s lied to you a thousand
times, and so have I.” She bound up her hair again, and
scooped up the hairnet from the bedpost where she’d hung it.
“Think what you will. The little monster is in a black cell,
and soon Ser Ilyn will have his head off. Perhaps you’d like
it for a keepsake.” She glanced at the pillow. “He can
watch over you as you sleep alone in that cold white bed. Until his
eyes rot out, that is.”
“You had best go, Cersei. You’re making me
angry.”
“Oh, an angry cripple. How terrifying.” She laughed.
“A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have
been the heir he wanted, but I lacked the cock. And speaking of
such, best tuck yours away, brother. It looks rather sad and small,
hanging from your breeches like that.”
When she was gone Jaime took her advice, fumbling one-handed at
his laces. He felt a bone-deep ache in his phantom fingers.
I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and
soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me
House Lannister won this war.
Jaime donned his cloak and went downstairs, where he found Ser
Boros Blount having a cup of wine in the common room. “When
you’re done with your drink, tell Ser Loras I’m ready
to see her.”
Ser Boros was too much of a coward to do much more than glower.
“You are ready to see who?”
“Just tell Loras.”
“Aye.” Ser Boros drained his cup. “Aye, Lord
Commander.”
He took his own good time about it, though, or else the Knight
of Flowers proved hard to find. Several hours had passed by the
time they arrived, the slim handsome youth and the big ugly maid.
Jaime was sitting alone in the round room, leafing idly through the
White Book. “Lord Commander,” Ser Loras said, “you wished to see the
Maid of Tarth?”
“I did.” Jaime waved them closer with his left hand.
“You have talked with her, I take it?”
“As you commanded, my lord.”
“And?”
The lad tensed. “I . . . it may be it
happened as she says, ser. That it was Stannis. I cannot be
certain.”
“Varys tells me that the castellan of Storm’s End
perished strangely as well,” said Jaime.
“Ser Cortnay Penrose,” said Brienne sadly. “A
good man.”
“A stubborn man. One day he stood square in the way of the
King of Dragonstone. The next he leapt from a tower.” Jaime
stood. “Ser Loras, we will talk more of this later. You may
leave Brienne with me.”
The wench looked as ugly and awkward as ever, he decided when
Tyrell left them. Someone had dressed her in woman’s clothes
again, but this dress fit much better than that hideous pink rag
the goat had made her wear. “Blue is a good color on you, my
lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your
eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes.
Brienne glanced down at herself, flustered. “Septa Donyse
padded out the bodice, to give it that shape. She said you sent her
to me.” She lingered by the door, as if she meant to flee at
any second. “You look . . . ”
“Different?” He managed a half-smile. “More
meat on the ribs and fewer lice in my hair, that’s all. The
stump’s the same. Close the door and come here.”
She did as he bid her. “The white
cloak . . . ”
“ . . . is new, but I’m sure
I’ll soil it soon enough.”
“That wasn’t . . . I was about
to say that it becomes you.”
She came closer, hesitant. “Jaime, did you mean what you
told Ser Loras? About . . . about King Renly,
and the shadow?”
Jaime shrugged. “I would have killed Renly myself if
we’d met in battle, what do I care who cut his
throat?”
“You said I had
honor . . . ”
“I’m the bloody Kingslayer, remember? When I say you
have honor, that’s like a whore vouchsafing your
maidenhood.” He leaned back and looked up at her.
“Steelshanks is on his way back north, to deliver Arya Stark
to Roose Bolton.”
“You gave her to him?” she cried, dismayed.
“You swore an oath to Lady
Catelyn . . . ”
“With a sword at my throat, but never mind. Lady
Catelyn’s dead. I could not give her back her daughters even
if I had them. And the girl my father sent with Steelshanks was not
Arya Stark.”
“Not Arya Stark?”
“You heard me. My lord father found some skinny northern
girl more or less the same age with more or less the same coloring.
He dressed her up in white and grey, gave her a silver wolf to pin
her cloak, and sent her off to wed Bolton’s bastard.”
He lifted his stump to point at her. “I wanted to tell you
that before you went galloping off to rescue her and got yourself
killed for no good purpose. You’re not half bad with a sword,
but you’re not good enough to take on two hundred men by
yourself.”
Brienne shook her head. “When Lord Bolton learns that your
father paid him with false
coin . . . ”
“Oh, he knows. Lannisters lie, remember? It makes no
matter, this girl serves his purpose just as well. Who is going to
say that she isn’t Arya Stark? Everyone the girl was close to
is dead except for her sister, who has disappeared.”
“Why would you tell me all this, if it’s true? You
are betraying your father’s secrets.” The Hand’s secrets, he thought. I no longer have a father.
“I pay my debts like every good little lion. I did promise
Lady Stark her daughters . . . and one of them
is still alive. My brother may know where she is, but if so he
isn’t saying. Cersei is convinced that Sansa helped him
murder Joffrey.”
The wench’s mouth got stubborn. “I will not believe
that gentle girl a poisoner. Lady Catelyn said that she had a
loving heart. It was your brother. There was a trial, Ser Loras
said.”
“Two trials, actually. Words and swords both failed him. A
bloody mess. Did you watch from your window?”
“My cell faces the sea. I heard the shouting,
though.”
“Prince Oberyn of Dorne is dead, Ser Gregor Clegane lies
dying, and Tyrion stands condemned before the eyes of gods and men.
They’re keeping him in a black cell till they kill him.”
Brienne looked at him. “You do not believe he did
it.”
Jaime gave her a hard smile. “See, wench? We know each
other too well. Tyrion’s wanted to be me since he took his
first step, but he’d never follow me in kingslaying. Sansa
Stark killed Joffrey. My brother’s kept silent to protect
her. He gets these fits of gallantry from time to time. The last
one cost him a nose. This time it will mean his head.”
“No,” Brienne said. “It was not my
lady’s daughter. It could not have been her.”
“There’s the stubborn stupid wench that I
remember.”
She reddened. “My name
is . . . ”
“Brienne of Tarth.” Jaime sighed. “I have a
gift for you.” He reached down under the Lord
Commander’s chair and brought it out, wrapped in folds of
crimson velvet.
Brienne approached as if the bundle was like to bite her,
reached out a huge freckled hand, and flipped back a fold of cloth.
Rubies glimmered in the light. She picked the treasure up gingerly,
curled her fingers around the leather grip, and slowly slid the
sword free of its scabbard. Blood and black the ripples shone. A
finger of reflected light ran red along the edge. “Is this
Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.”
“Nor I. There was a time that I would have given my right
hand to wield a sword like that. Now it appears I have, so the
blade is wasted on me. Take it.” Before she could think to
refuse, he went on. “A sword so fine must bear a name. It
would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. One more
thing. The blade comes with a price.”
Her face darkened. “I told you, I will never
serve . . . ”
“ . . . such foul creatures as us.
Yes, I recall. Hear me out, Brienne. Both of us swore oaths
concerning Sansa Stark. Cersei means to see that the girl is found
and killed, wherever she has gone to
ground . . . ”
Brienne’s homely face twisted in fury. “If you
believe that I would harm my lady’s daughter for a sword, you—”
“Just listen,” he snapped, angered by her
assumption. “I want you to find Sansa first, and get her
somewhere safe. How else are the two of us going to make good our
stupid vows to your precious dead Lady Catelyn?
The wench blinked. “I . . . I
thought . . . ”
“I know what you
thought.” Suddenly Jaime was sick of the sight of her. She
bleats like a bloody sheep. “When Ned Stark died, his
greatsword was given to the King’s Justice,” he told
her. “But my father felt that such a fine blade was wasted on
a mere headsman. He gave Ser Ilyn a new sword, and had Ice melted
down and reforged. There was enough metal for two new blades.
You’re holding one. So you’ll be defending Ned
Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel, if that
makes any difference to you.”
“Ser, I . . . I owe you an
apolo . . . ”
He cut her off. “Take the bloody sword and go, before I
change my mind. There’s a bay mare in the stables, as homely
as you are but somewhat better trained. Chase after Steelshanks,
search for Sansa, or ride home to your isle of sapphires,
it’s naught to me. I don’t want to look at you
anymore.”
“Jaime . . . ”
“Kingslayer,” he reminded her. “Best use that
sword to clean the wax out of your ears, wench. We’re
done.”
Stubbornly, she persisted. “Joffrey was your . . . ”
“My king. Leave it at that.”
“You say Sansa killed him. Why protect her?” Because Joff was no more to me than a squirt of seed in
Cersei’s cunt. And because he deserved to die. “I have
made kings and unmade them. Sansa Stark is my last chance for
honor.” Jaime smiled thinly. “Besides, kingslayers
should band together. Are you ever going to go?”
Her big hand wrapped tight around Oathkeeper. “I will. And
I will find the girl and keep her safe. For her lady mother’s
sake. And for yours.” She bowed stiffly, whirled, and
went.
Jaime sat alone at the table while the shadows crept across the
room. As dusk began to settle, he lit a candle and opened the White
Book to his own page. Quill and ink he found in a drawer. Beneath
the last line Ser Barristan had entered, he wrote in an awkward
hand that might have done credit to a six-year-old being taught his
first letters by a maester: Defeated in the Whispering Wood by the Young Wolf Robb Stark
during the War of the Five Kings. Held captive at Riverrun and
ransomed for a promise unfuffilled. Captured again by the Brave
Companions, and maimed at the word of Vargo Hoat their captain,
losing his sword hand to the blade of Zollo the Fat. Returned
safely to King’s Landing by Brienne, the Maid of Tarth.
When he was done, more than three-quarters of his page still
remained to be filled between the gold lion on the crimson shield
on top and the blank white shield at the bottom. Ser Gerold
Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had
continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for
himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth.
Whatever he chose . . .