Though his fever lingered stubbornly, the stump was healing
clean, and Qyburn said his arm was no longer in danger. Jaime was
anxious to be gone, to put Harrenhal, the Bloody Mummers, and
Brienne of Tarth all behind him. A real woman waited for him in the
Red Keep.
“I am sending Qyburn with you, to look after you on the way
to King’s Landing,” Roose Bolton said on the morn of
their departure. “He has a fond hope that your father will
force the Citadel to give him back his chain, in
gratitude.”
“We all have fond hopes. If he grows me back a hand, my
father will make him Grand Maester.”
Steelshanks Walton commanded Jaime’s escort; blunt,
brusque, brutal, at heart a simple soldier. Jaime had served with
his sort all his life. Men like Walton would kill at their
lord’s command, rape when their blood was up after battle,
and plunder wherever they could, but once the war was done they
would go back to their homes, trade their spears for hoes, wed
their neighbors’ daughters, and raise a pack of squalling
children. Such men obeyed without question, but the deep malignant
cruelty of the Brave Companions was not a part of their nature.
Both parties left Harrenhal the same morning, beneath a cold
grey sky that promised rain. Ser Aenys Frey had marched three days
before, striking northeast for the kingsroad. Bolton meant to
follow him. “The Trident is in flood,” he told Jaime.
“Even at the ruby ford, the crossing will be difficult. You
will give my warm regards to your father?”
“So long as you give mine to Robb Stark.”
“That I shall.”
Some Brave Companions had gathered in the yard to watch them
leave. Jaime trotted over to where they stood. “Zollo. How
kind of you to see me off. Pyg. Timeon. Will you miss me? No last
jest to share, Shagwell? To lighten my way down the road? And
Rorge, did you come to kiss me goodbye?”
“Bugger off, cripple,” said Rorge.
“If you insist. Rest assured, though, I will be back. A
Lannister always pays his debts.” Jaime wheeled his horse
around and rejoined Steelshanks Walton and his two hundred.
Lord Bolton had accoutred him as a knight, preferring to ignore
the missing hand that made such warlike garb a travesty. Jaime rode
with sword and dagger on his belt, shield and helm hung from his
saddle, chainmail under a dark brown surcoat. He was not such a
fool as to show the lion of Lannister on his arms, though, nor the
plain white blazon that was his right as a Sworn Brother of the
Kingsguard. He found an old shield in the armory, battered and
splintered, the chipped paint still showing most of the great black
bat of House Lothston upon a field of silver and gold. The
Lothstons held Harrenhal before the Whents and had been a powerful
family in their day, but they had died out ages ago, so no one was
likely to object to him bearing their arms. He would be no
one’s cousin, no one’s enemy, no one’s sworn
sword . . . in sum, no one.
They left through Harrenhal’s smaller eastern gate, and
took their leave of Roose Bolton and his host six miles farther on,
turning south to follow along the lake road for a time. Walton
meant to avoid the kingsroad as long as he could, preferring the
farmer’s tracks and game trails near the Gods Eye.
“The kingsroad would be faster.” Jaime was anxious
to return to Cersei as quickly as he could. If they made haste, he
might even arrive in time for Joffrey’s wedding.
“I want no trouble,” said Steelshanks. “Gods
know who we’d meet along that kingsroad.”
“No one you need fear, surely? You have two hundred
men.”
“Aye. But others might have more. M’lord said to
bring you safe to your lord father, and that’s what I mean to
do.” I have come this way before, Jaime reflected a few miles further
on, when they passed a deserted mill beside the lake. Weeds now
grew where once the miller’s daughter had smiled shyly at
him, and the miller himself had shouted out, “The
tourney’s back the other way, ser.” As if I had not
known.
King Aerys made a great show of Jaime’s investiture. He
said his vows before the king’s pavilion, kneeling on the
green grass in white armor while half the realm looked on. When Ser
Gerold Hightower raised him up and put the white cloak about his
shoulders, a roar went up that Jaime still remembered, all these
years later. But that very night Aerys had turned sour, declaring
that he had no need of seven Kingsguard here at Harrenhal. Jaime
was commanded to return to King’s Landing to guard the queen
and little Prince Viserys, who’d remained behind. Even when
the White Bull offered to take that duty himself, so Jaime might
compete in Lord Whent’s tourney, Aerys had refused.
“He’ll win no glory here,” the king had said.
“He’s mine now, not Tywin’s. He’ll serve as
I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he’ll obey.”
That was the first time that Jaime understood. It was not his
skill with sword and lance that had won him his white cloak, nor
any feats of valor he’d performed against the Kingswood
Brotherhood. Aerys had chosen him to spite his father, to rob Lord
Tywin of his heir.
Even now, all these years later, the thought was bitter. And
that day, as he’d ridden south in his new white cloak to
guard an empty castle, it had been almost too much to stomach. He
would have ripped the cloak off then and there if he could have,
but it was too late. He had said the words whilst half the realm
looked on, and a Kingsguard served for life.
Qyburn fell in beside him. “Is your hand troubling
you?”
“The lack of my hand is troubling me.” The mornings
were the hardest. In his dreams Jaime was a whole man, and each
dawn he would lie half-awake and feel his fingers move. It was a
nightmare, some part of him would whisper, refusing to believe even
now, only a nightmare. But then he would open his eyes.
“I understand you had a visitor last night,” said
Qyburn. “I trust that you enjoyed her?”
Jaime gave him a cool look. “She did not say who sent
her.”
The maester smiled modestly. “Your fever was largely gone,
and I thought you might enjoy a bit of exercise. Pia is quite
skilled, would you not agree? And
so . . . willing.”
She had been that, certainly. She had slipped in his door and
out of her clothes so quickly that Jaime had thought he was still
dreaming.
It hadn’t been until the woman slid in under his blankets
and put his good hand on her breast that he roused. She was a
pretty little thing, too. “I was a slip of a girl when you
came for Lord Whent’s tourney and the king gave you your
cloak,” she confessed. “You were so handsome all in
white, and everyone said what a brave knight you were. Sometimes
when I’m with some man, I close my eyes and pretend
it’s you on top of me, with your smooth skin and gold curls.
I never truly thought I’d have you, though.”
Sending her away had not been easy after that, but Jaime had
done it all the same. I have a woman, he reminded himself.
“Do you send girls to everyone you leech?” he asked
Qyburn.
“More often Lord Vargo sends them to me. He likes me to
examine them, before . . . well, suffice it to
say that once he loved unwisely, and he has no wish to do so again.
But have no fear, Pia is quite healthy. As is your maid of
Tarth.”
Jaime gave him a sharp look. “Brienne?”
“Yes. A strong girl, that one. And her maidenhead is still
intact. As of last night, at least.” Qyburn gave a
chuckle.
“He sent you to examine her?”
“To be sure. He is . . . fastidious,
shall we say?”
“Does this concern the ransom?” Jaime asked.
“Does her father require proof she is still
maiden?”
“You have not heard?” Qyburn gave a shrug. “We
had a bird from Lord Selwyn. In answer to mine. The Evenstar offers
three hundred dragons for his daughter’s safe return. I had
told Lord Vargo there were no sapphires on Tarth, but he will not
listen. He is convinced the Evenstar intends to cheat
him.”
“Three hundred dragons is a fair ransom for a knight. The
goat should take what he can get.”
“The goat is Lord of Harrenhal, and the Lord of Harrenhal
does not haggle.”
The news irritated him, though he supposed he should have seen
it coming. The lie spared you awhile, wench. Be grateful for that
much. “If her maidenhead’s as hard as the rest of her,
the goat will break his cock off trying to get in,” he
jested. Brienne was tough enough to survive a few rapes, Jaime
judged, though if she resisted too vigorously Vargo Hoat might
start lopping off her hands and feet. And if he does, why should I
care? I might still have a hand if she had let me have my
cousin’s sword without getting stupid. He had almost taken
off her leg himself with that first stroke of his, but after that
she had given him more than he wanted. Hoat may not know how
freakish strong she is. He had best be careful, or she’ll
snap that skinny neck of his, and wouldn’t that be sweet?
Qyburn’s companionship was wearing on him. Jaime trotted
toward the head of the column. A round little tick of a northman
name of Nage went before Steelshanks with the peace banner; a
rainbow-striped flag with seven long tails, on a staff topped by a
seven-pointed star. “Shouldn’t you northmen have a
different sort of peace banner?” he asked Walton. “What
are the Seven to you?”
“Southron gods,” the man said, “but it’s
a southron peace we need, to get you safe to your
father.” My father. Jaime wondered whether Lord Tywin had received the
goat’s demand for ransom, with or without his rotted hand.
What is a swordsman worth without his sword hand? Half the gold in
Casterly Rock? Three hundred dragons? Or nothing? His father had never been
unduly swayed by sentiment. Tywin Lannister’s own father Lord
Tytos had once imprisoned an unruly bannerman, Lord Tarbeck. The
redoubtable Lady Tarbeck responded by capturing three Lannisters,
including young Stafford, whose sister was betrothed to cousin
Tywin. “Send back my lord and love, or these three shall
answer for any harm that comes him,” she had written to
Casterly Rock. Young Tywin suggested his father oblige by sending
back Lord Tarbeck in three pieces. Lord Tytos was a gentler sort of
lion, however, so Lady Tarbeck won a few more years for her
muttonheaded lord, and Stafford wed and bred and blundered on till
Oxcross. But Tywin Lannister endured, eternal as Casterly Rock. And
now you have a cripple for a son as well as a dwarf, my lord. How
you will hate that . . .
The road led them through a burned village. It must have been a
year or more since the place had been put to torch. The hovels
stood blackened and roofless, but weeds were growing waist high in
all the surrounding fields. Steelshanks called a halt to allow them
to water the horses. I know this place too, Jaime thought as he
waited by the well. There had been a small inn where only a few
foundation stones and a chimney now stood, and he had gone in for a
cup of ale. A dark-eyed serving wench brought him cheese and
apples, but the innkeep had refused his coin. “It’s an
honor to have a knight of the Kingsguard under my roof, ser,”
the man had said. “It’s a tale I’ll tell my
grandchildren.” Jaime looked at the chimney poking out of the
weeds and wondered whether he had ever gotten those grandchildren.
Did he tell them the Kingslayer once drank his ale and ate his
cheese and apples, or was he ashamed to admit he fed the likes of
me? Not that he would ever know; whoever burned the inn had likely
killed the grandchildren as well.
He could feel his phantom fingers clench. When Steelshanks said
that perhaps they should have a fire and a bit of food, Jaime shook
his head. “I mislike this place. We’ll ride
on.”
By evenfall they had left the lake to follow a rutted track
through a wood of oak and elm. Jaime’s stump was throbbing
dully when Steelshanks decided to make camp. Qyburn had brought a
skin of dreamwine, thankfully. While Walton set the watches, Jaime
stretched out near the fire and propped a rolled-up bearskin
against a stump as a pillow for his head. The wench would have told
him he had to eat before he slept, to keep his strength up, but he
was more tired than hungry. He closed his eyes, and hoped to dream
of Cersei. The fever dreams were all so
vivid . . .
Naked and alone he stood, surrounded by enemies, with stone
walls all around him pressing close. The Rock, he knew. He could
feel the immense weight of it above his head. He was home. He was
home and whole.
He held his right hand up and flexed his fingers to feel the
strength in them. It felt as good as sex. As good as swordplay.
Four fingers and a thumb. He had dreamed that he was maimed, but it
wasn’t so. Relief made him dizzy. My hand, my good hand.
Nothing could hurt him so long as he was whole.
Around him stood a dozen tall dark figures in cowled robes that
hid their faces. In their hands were spears. “Who are
you?” he demanded of them. “What business do you have
in Casterly Rock?”
They gave no answer, only prodded him with the points of their
spears. He had no choice but to descend. Down a twisting passageway
he went, narrow steps carved from the living rock, down and down. I
must go up, he told himself. Up, not down. Why am I going down?
Below the earth his doom awaited, he knew with the certainty of
dream; something dark and terrible lurked there, something that
wanted him. Jaime tried to halt, but their spears prodded him on.
If only I had my sword, nothing could harm me.
The steps ended abruptly on echoing darkness. Jaime had the
sense of vast space before him. He jerked to a halt, teetering on
the edge of nothingness. A spearpoint jabbed at the small of the
back, shoving him into the abyss. He shouted, but the fall was
short. He landed on his hands and knees, upon soft sand and shallow
water. There were watery caverns deep below Casterly Rock, but this
one was strange to him. “What place is this?”
“Your place.” The voice echoed; it was a hundred
voices, a thousand, the voices of all the Lannisters since Lann the
Clever, who’d lived at the dawn of days. But most of all it
was his father’s voice, and beside Lord Tywin stood his
sister, pale and beautiful, a torch burning in her hand. Joffrey
was there as well, the son they’d made together, and behind
them a dozen more dark shapes with golden hair.
“Sister, why has Father brought us here?”
“Us? This is your place, Brother. This is your
darkness.” Her torch was the only light in the cavern. Her
torch was the only light in the world. She turned to go.
“Stay with me,” Jaime pleaded. “Don’t
leave me here alone.” But they were leaving.
“Don’t leave me in the dark!” Something terrible
lived down here. “Give me a sword, at least.”
“I gave you a sword,” Lord Tywin said.
It was at his feet. Jaime groped under the water until his hand
closed upon the hilt. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a
sword. As he raised the sword a finger of pale flame flickered at
the point and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand’s
breath from the hilt. The fire took on the color of the steel
itself so it burned with a silvery-blue light, and the gloom pulled
back. Crouching, listening, Jaime moved in a circle, ready for
anything that might come out of the darkness. The water flowed into
his boots, ankle deep and bitterly cold. Beware the water, he told
himself. There may be creatures living in it, hidden
deeps . . .
From behind came a great splash. Jaime whirled toward the
sound . . . but the faint light revealed only
Brienne of Tarth, her hands bound in heavy chains. “I swore
to keep you safe,” the wench said stubbornly. “I swore
an oath.” Naked, she raised her hands to Jaime. “Ser.
Please. If you would be so good.”
The steel links parted like silk. “A sword,” Brienne
begged, and there it was, scabbard, belt, and all. She buckled it
around her thick waist. The light was so dim that Jaime could
scarcely see her, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this
light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she
could almost be a knight. Brienne’s sword took flame as well,
burning silvery blue. The darkness retreated a little more.
“The flames will burn so long as you live,” he heard
Cersei call. “When they die, so must you.”
“Sister!” he shouted. “Stay with me.
Stay!” There was no reply but the soft sound of retreating
footsteps.
Brienne moved her longsword back and forth, watching the silvery
flames shift and shimmer. Beneath her feet, a reflection of the
burning blade shone on the surface of the flat black water. She was
as tall and strong as he remembered, yet it seemed to Jaime that
she had more of a woman’s shape now.
“Do they keep a bear down here?” Brienne was moving,
slow and wary, sword to hand; step, turn, and listen. Each step
made a little splash. “A cave lion? Direwolves? Some bear?
Tell me, Jaime. What lives here? What lives in the
darkness?”
“Doom.” No bear, he knew. No lion. “Only
doom.”
In the cool silvery-blue light of the swords, the big wench
looked pale and fierce. “I mislike this place.”
“I’m not fond of it myself.” Their blades made
a little island of light, but all around them stretched a sea of
darkness, unending. “My feet are wet.”
“We could go back the way they brought us. If you climbed
on my shoulders you’d have no trouble reaching that tunnel
mouth.” Then I could follow Cersei. He could feel himself growing hard
at the thought, and turned away so Brienne would not see.
“Listen.” She put a hand on his shoulder, and he
trembled at the sudden touch. She’s warm. “Something
comes.” Brienne lifted her sword to point off to his left.
“There,”
He peered into the gloom until he saw it too. Something was
moving through the darkness, he could not quite make it
out . . .
“A man on a horse. No, two. Two riders, side by
side.”
“Down here, beneath the Rock?” It made no sense. Yet
there came two riders on pale horses, men and mounts both armored.
The destriers emerged from the blackness at a slow walk. They make
no sound, Jaime realized. No splashing, no clink of mail nor clop
of hoof. He remembered Eddard Stark, riding the length of
Aerys’s throne room wrapped in silence. Only his eyes had
spoken; a lord’s eyes, cold and grey and full of
judgment.
“Is it you, Stark?” Jaime called. “Come ahead.
I never feared you living, I do not fear you dead.”
Brienne touched his arm. “There are more.”
He saw them too. They were armored all in snow, it seemed to
him, and ribbons of mist swirled back from their shoulders. The
visors of their helms were closed, but Jaime Lannister did not need
to look upon their faces to know them.
Five had been his brothers. Oswell Whent and Jon Darry. Lewyn
Martell, a prince of Dorne. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser
Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning. And beside them, crowned in
mist and grief with his long hair streaming behind him, rode
Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the
Iron Throne.
“You don’t frighten me,” he called, turning as
they split to either side of him. He did not know which way to
face. “I will fight you one by one or all together. But who
is there for the wench to duel? She gets cross when you leave her
out.”
“I swore an oath to keep him safe,” she said to
Rhaegar’s shade. “I swore a holy oath.”
“We all swore oaths,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, so
sadly.
The shades dismounted from their ghostly horses. When they drew
their longswords, it made not a sound. “He was going to burn
the city,” Jaime said. “To leave Robert only
ashes.”
“He was your king,” said Darry.
“You swore to keep him safe,” said Whent.
“And the children, them as well,” said Prince
Lewyn.
Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now
dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands.”
“I never thought he’d hurt them.”
Jaime’s sword was burning less brightly now. “I was
with the king . . . ”
“Killing the king,” said Ser Arthur.
“Cutting his throat,” said Prince Lewyn.
“The king you had sworn to die for,” said the White
Bull.
The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime
remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his
throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned,
as the ghosts came rushing in.
“No,” he said, “no, no, no.
Nooooooooo!”
Heart pounding, he jerked awake, and found himself in starry
darkness amidst a grove of trees. He could taste bile in his mouth,
and he was shivering with sweat, hot and cold at once. When he
looked down for his sword hand, his wrist ended in leather and
linen, wrapped snug around an ugly stump. He felt sudden tears well
up in his eyes. I felt it, I felt the strength in my fingers, and
the rough leather of the sword’s grip. My
hand . . .
“My lord.” Qyburn knelt beside him, his fatherly
face all crinkly with concern. “What is it? I heard you cry
out.”
Steelshanks Walton stood above them, tall and dour. “What
is it? Why did you scream?”
“A dream . . . only a dream.”
Jaime stared at the camp around him, lost for a moment. “I
was in the dark, but I had my hand back.” He looked at the
stump and felt sick all over again. There’s no place like
that beneath the Rock, he thought. His stomach was sour and empty,
and his head was pounding where he’d pillowed it against the
stump.
Qyburn felt his brow. “You still have a touch of
fever.”
“A fever dream.” Jaime reached up. “Help
me.” Steelshanks took him by his good hand and pulled him to
his feet.
“Another cup of dreamwine?” asked Qyburn.
“No. I’ve dreamt enough this night.” He
wondered how long it was till dawn. Somehow he knew that if he
closed his eyes, he would be back in that dark wet place again.
“Milk of the poppy, then? And something for your fever?
You are still weak, my lord. You need to sleep. To rest.” That is the last thing I mean to do. The moonlight glimmered
pale upon the stump where Jaime had rested his head. The moss
covered it so thickly he had not noticed before, but now he saw
that the wood was white. It made him think of Winterfell, and Ned
Stark’s heart tree. It was not him, he thought. It was never
him. But the stump was dead and so was Stark and so were all the
others, Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur and the children. And Aerys.
Aerys is most dead of all. “Do you believe in ghosts,
Maester?” he asked Qyburn.
The man’s face grew strange. “Once, at the Citadel,
I came into an empty room and saw an empty chair. Yet I knew a
woman had been there, only a moment before. The cushion was dented
where she’d sat, the cloth was still warm, and her scent
lingered in the air. If we leave our smells behind us when we leave
a room, surely something of our souls must remain when we leave
this life?” Qyburn spread his hands. “The archmaesters
did not like my thinking, though. Well, Marwyn did, but he was the
only one.”
Jaime ran his fingers through his hair. “Walton,” he
said, “saddle the horses. I want to go back.”
“Back?” Steelshanks regarded him dubiously. He thinks I’ve gone mad. And perhaps I have. “I left
something at Harrenhal.”
“Lord Vargo holds it now. Him and his Bloody
Mummers.”
“You have twice the men he does.”
“If I don’t serve you up to your father as
commanded, Lord Bolton will have my hide. We press on to
King’s Landing.”
Once Jaime might have countered with a smile and a threat, but
onehanded cripples do not inspire much fear. He wondered what his
brother would do. Tyrion would find a way. “Lannisters lie,
Steelshanks. Didn’t Lord Bolton tell you that?”
The man frowned suspiciously. “What if he did?”
“Unless you take me back to Harrenhal, the song I sing my
father may not be one the Lord of the Dreadfort would wish to hear.
I might even say it was Bolton ordered my hand cut off, and
Steelshanks Walton who swung the blade.”
Walton gaped at him. “That isn’t so.”
“No, but who will my father believe?” Jaime made
himself smile, the way he used to smile when nothing in the world
could frighten him. “It will be so much easier if we just go
back. We’d be on our way again soon enough, and I’d
sing such a sweet song in King’s Landing you’ll never
believe your ears. You’d get the girl, and a nice fat purse
of gold as thanks.”
“Gold?” Walton liked that well enough. “How
much gold?” I have him. “Why, how much would you want?”
And by the time the sun came up, they were halfway back to
Harrenhal.
Jaime pushed his horse much harder than he had the day before,
and Steelshanks and the northmen were forced to match his pace.
Even so, it was midday before they reached the castle on the lake.
Beneath a darkening sky that threatened rain, the immense walls and
five great towers stood black and ominous. It looks so dead. The
walls were empty, the gates closed and barred. But high above the
barbican, a single banner hung limp. The black goat of Qohor, he
knew. Jaime cupped his hands to shout. “You in there! Open
your gates, or I’ll kick them down!”
It was not until Qyburn and Steelshanks added their voices that
a head finally appeared on the battlements above them. He goggled
down at them, then vanished. A short time later, they heard the
portcullis being drawn upward. The gates swung open, and Jaime
Lannister spurred his horse through the walls, scarcely glancing at
the murder holes as he passed beneath them. He had been worried
that the goat might not admit them, but it seemed as if the Brave
Companions still thought of them as allies. Fools.
The outer ward was deserted; only the long slate-roofed stables
showed any signs of life, and it was not horses that interested
Jaime just then. He reined up and looked about. He could hear
sounds from somewhere behind the Tower of Ghosts, and men shouting
in half a dozen tongues. Steelshanks and Qyburn rode up on either
side. “Get what you came back for, and we’ll be gone
again,” said Walton. “I want no trouble with the
Mummers.”
“Tell your men to keep their hands on their sword hilts,
and the Mummers will want no trouble with you. Two to one,
remember?” Jaime’s head jerked round at the sound of a
distant roar, faint but ferocious. It echoed off the walls of
Harrenhal, and the laughter swelled up like the sea. All of a
sudden, he knew what was happening. Have we come too late? His
stomach did a lurch, and he slammed his spurs into his horse,
galloping across the outer ward, beneath an arched stone bridge,
around the Wailing Tower, and through the Flowstone Yard.
They had her in the bear pit.
King Harren the Black had wished to do even his bear-baiting in
lavish style. The pit was ten yards across and five yards deep,
walled in stone, floored with sand, and encircled by six tiers of
marble benches. The Brave Companions filled only a quarter of the
seats, Jaime saw as he swung down clumsily from his horse. The
sellswords were so fixed on the spectacle beneath that only those
across the pit noticed their arrival.
Brienne wore the same ill-fitting gown she’d worn to
supper with Roose Bolton. No shield, no breastplate, no chainmail,
not even boiled leather, only pink satin and Myrish lace. Maybe the
goat thought she was more amusing when dressed as a woman. Half her
gown was hanging off in tatters, and her left arm dripped blood
where the bear had raked her. At least they gave her a sword. The wench held it one-handed,
moving sideways, trying to put some distance between her and the
bear. That’s no good, the ring’s too small. She needed
to attack, to make a quick end to it. Good steel was a match for
any bear. But the wench seemed afraid to close. The Mummers
showered her with insults and obscene suggestions.
“This is none of our concern,” Steelshanks warned
Jaime. “Lord Bolton said the wench was theirs, to do with as
they liked.”
“Her name’s Brienne.” Jaime descended the
steps, past a dozen startled sellswords. Vargo Hoat had taken the
lord’s box in the lowest tier. “Lord Vargo,” he
called over the shouts.
The Qohorik almost spilt his wine. “Kingthlayer?”
The left side of his face was bandaged clumsily, the linen over his
ear spotted with blood.
“Pull her out of there.”
“Thay out of thith, Kingthlayer, unleth you’d like
another thump.” He waved a wine cup. “Your thee-mooth bit oth my ear.
Thmall wonder her father will not ranthom thuch a freak.”
A roar turned Jaime back around. The bear was eight feet tall.
Gregor Clegane with a pelt, he thought, though likely smarter. The
beast did not have the reach the Mountain had with that monster
greatsword of his, though.
Bellowing in fury, the bear showed a mouth full of great yellow
teeth, then fell back to all fours and went straight at Brienne.
There’s your chance, Jaime thought. Strike! Now!
Instead, she
poked out ineffectually with the point of her blade. The bear
recoiled, then came on, rumbling. Brienne slid to her left and
poked again at the bear’s face. This time he lifted a paw to
swat the sword aside. He’s wary, Jaime realized. He’s gone up against
other men. He knows swords and spears can hurt him. But that
won’t keep him off her long. “Kill him!” he
shouted, but his voice was lost amongst all the other shouts. If
Brienne heard, she gave no sign. She moved around the pit, keeping
the wall at her back. Too close. If the bear pins her by the
wall . . .
The beast turned clumsily, too far and too fast. Quick as a cat,
Brienne changed direction. There’s the wench I remember. She
leapt in to land a cut across the bear’s back. Roaring, the
beast went up on his hind legs again. Brienne scrambled back away.
Where’s the blood? Then suddenly he understood. Jaime rounded
on Hoat. “You gave her a tourney sword.”
The goat brayed laughter, spraying him with wine and spittle.
“Of courth.”
“I’ll pay her bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires,
whatever you want. Pull her out of there.”
“You want her? Go get her.”
So he did.
He put his good hand on the marble rail and vaulted over,
rolling as he hit the sand. The bear turned at the thump, sniffing,
watching this new intruder warily. Jaime scrambled to one knee.
Well, what in seven hells do I do now? He filled his fist with
sand. “Kingslayer?” he heard Brienne say,
astonished.
“Jaime.” He uncoiled, flinging the sand at the
bear’s face. The bear mauled the air and roared like
blazes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He circled toward
her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear.
“You get behind. I have the sword.”
“A swordwith no point and no edge. Get behind me!” He
saw something half-buried in the sand, and snatched it up with his
good hand. It proved to be a human jawbone, with some greenish
flesh still clinging to it, crawling with maggots. Charming, he
thought, wondering whose face he held. The bear was edging closer,
so Jaime whipped his arm around and flung bone, meat, and maggots
at the beast’s head. He missed by a good yard. I ought to lop
my left hand off as well, for all the good it does me.
Brienne tried to dart around, but he kicked her legs out from
under her. She fell in the sand, clutching the useless sword. Jaime
straddled her, and the bear came charging.
There was a deep twang, and a feathered shaft sprouted suddenly
beneath the beast’s left eye. Blood and slaver ran from his
open mouth, and another bolt took him in the leg. The bear roared,
reared. He saw Jaime and Brienne again and lumbered toward them.
More crossbows fired, the quarrels ripping through fur and flesh.
At such short range, the bowmen could hardly miss. The shafts hit
as hard as maces, but the bear took another step. The poor dumb
brave brute. When the beast swiped at him, he danced aside,
shouting, kicking sand. The bear turned to follow his tormentor,
and took another two quarrels in the back. He gave one last
rumbling growl, settled back onto his haunches, stretched out on
the bloodstained sand, and died.
Brienne got back to her knees, clutching the sword and breathing
short ragged breaths. Steelshanks’s archers were winding
their crossbows and reloading while the Bloody Mummers shouted
curses and threats at them. Rorge and Three Toes had swords out,
Jaime saw, and Zollo was uncoiling his whip.
“You thlew my bear!” Vargo Hoat shrieked.
“And I’ll serve you the same if you give me
trouble,” Steelshanks threw back. “We’re taking
the wench.”
“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne,
the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?”
Her broad homely face turned red. “Yes.”
“Oh, good,” Jaime said. “I only rescue
maidens.” To Hoat he said, “You’ll have your
ransom. For both of us. A Lannister pays his debts. Now fetch some
ropes and get us out of here.”
“Bugger that,” Rorge growled. “Kill them,
Hoat. Or you’ll bloody well wish you had!”
The Qohorik hesitated. Half his men were drunk, the northmen
stone sober, and there were twice as many. Some of the crossbowmen
had reloaded by now. “Pull them out,” Hoat said, and
then, to Jaime, “I hath chothen to be merthiful. Tell your
lord father.”
“I will, my lord.” Not that it will do you any
good.
Not until they were half a league from Harrenhal and out of
range of archers on the walls did Steelshanks Walton let his anger
show. “Are you mad, Kingslayer? Did you mean to die? No man
can fight a bear with his bare hands!”
“One bare hand and one bare stump,” Jaime corrected.
“But I hoped you’d kill the beast before the beast
killed me. Elsewise, Lord Bolton would have peeled you like an
orange, no?”
Steelshanks cursed him roundly for a fool of Lannister, spurred
his horse, and galloped away up the column.
“Ser Jaime?” Even in soiled pink satin and torn
lace, Brienne looked more like a man in a gown than a proper woman.
“I am grateful, but . . . you were well
away. Why come back?”
A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before,
but Jaime only shrugged. “I dreamed of you,” he
said.
Though his fever lingered stubbornly, the stump was healing
clean, and Qyburn said his arm was no longer in danger. Jaime was
anxious to be gone, to put Harrenhal, the Bloody Mummers, and
Brienne of Tarth all behind him. A real woman waited for him in the
Red Keep.
“I am sending Qyburn with you, to look after you on the way
to King’s Landing,” Roose Bolton said on the morn of
their departure. “He has a fond hope that your father will
force the Citadel to give him back his chain, in
gratitude.”
“We all have fond hopes. If he grows me back a hand, my
father will make him Grand Maester.”
Steelshanks Walton commanded Jaime’s escort; blunt,
brusque, brutal, at heart a simple soldier. Jaime had served with
his sort all his life. Men like Walton would kill at their
lord’s command, rape when their blood was up after battle,
and plunder wherever they could, but once the war was done they
would go back to their homes, trade their spears for hoes, wed
their neighbors’ daughters, and raise a pack of squalling
children. Such men obeyed without question, but the deep malignant
cruelty of the Brave Companions was not a part of their nature.
Both parties left Harrenhal the same morning, beneath a cold
grey sky that promised rain. Ser Aenys Frey had marched three days
before, striking northeast for the kingsroad. Bolton meant to
follow him. “The Trident is in flood,” he told Jaime.
“Even at the ruby ford, the crossing will be difficult. You
will give my warm regards to your father?”
“So long as you give mine to Robb Stark.”
“That I shall.”
Some Brave Companions had gathered in the yard to watch them
leave. Jaime trotted over to where they stood. “Zollo. How
kind of you to see me off. Pyg. Timeon. Will you miss me? No last
jest to share, Shagwell? To lighten my way down the road? And
Rorge, did you come to kiss me goodbye?”
“Bugger off, cripple,” said Rorge.
“If you insist. Rest assured, though, I will be back. A
Lannister always pays his debts.” Jaime wheeled his horse
around and rejoined Steelshanks Walton and his two hundred.
Lord Bolton had accoutred him as a knight, preferring to ignore
the missing hand that made such warlike garb a travesty. Jaime rode
with sword and dagger on his belt, shield and helm hung from his
saddle, chainmail under a dark brown surcoat. He was not such a
fool as to show the lion of Lannister on his arms, though, nor the
plain white blazon that was his right as a Sworn Brother of the
Kingsguard. He found an old shield in the armory, battered and
splintered, the chipped paint still showing most of the great black
bat of House Lothston upon a field of silver and gold. The
Lothstons held Harrenhal before the Whents and had been a powerful
family in their day, but they had died out ages ago, so no one was
likely to object to him bearing their arms. He would be no
one’s cousin, no one’s enemy, no one’s sworn
sword . . . in sum, no one.
They left through Harrenhal’s smaller eastern gate, and
took their leave of Roose Bolton and his host six miles farther on,
turning south to follow along the lake road for a time. Walton
meant to avoid the kingsroad as long as he could, preferring the
farmer’s tracks and game trails near the Gods Eye.
“The kingsroad would be faster.” Jaime was anxious
to return to Cersei as quickly as he could. If they made haste, he
might even arrive in time for Joffrey’s wedding.
“I want no trouble,” said Steelshanks. “Gods
know who we’d meet along that kingsroad.”
“No one you need fear, surely? You have two hundred
men.”
“Aye. But others might have more. M’lord said to
bring you safe to your lord father, and that’s what I mean to
do.” I have come this way before, Jaime reflected a few miles further
on, when they passed a deserted mill beside the lake. Weeds now
grew where once the miller’s daughter had smiled shyly at
him, and the miller himself had shouted out, “The
tourney’s back the other way, ser.” As if I had not
known.
King Aerys made a great show of Jaime’s investiture. He
said his vows before the king’s pavilion, kneeling on the
green grass in white armor while half the realm looked on. When Ser
Gerold Hightower raised him up and put the white cloak about his
shoulders, a roar went up that Jaime still remembered, all these
years later. But that very night Aerys had turned sour, declaring
that he had no need of seven Kingsguard here at Harrenhal. Jaime
was commanded to return to King’s Landing to guard the queen
and little Prince Viserys, who’d remained behind. Even when
the White Bull offered to take that duty himself, so Jaime might
compete in Lord Whent’s tourney, Aerys had refused.
“He’ll win no glory here,” the king had said.
“He’s mine now, not Tywin’s. He’ll serve as
I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he’ll obey.”
That was the first time that Jaime understood. It was not his
skill with sword and lance that had won him his white cloak, nor
any feats of valor he’d performed against the Kingswood
Brotherhood. Aerys had chosen him to spite his father, to rob Lord
Tywin of his heir.
Even now, all these years later, the thought was bitter. And
that day, as he’d ridden south in his new white cloak to
guard an empty castle, it had been almost too much to stomach. He
would have ripped the cloak off then and there if he could have,
but it was too late. He had said the words whilst half the realm
looked on, and a Kingsguard served for life.
Qyburn fell in beside him. “Is your hand troubling
you?”
“The lack of my hand is troubling me.” The mornings
were the hardest. In his dreams Jaime was a whole man, and each
dawn he would lie half-awake and feel his fingers move. It was a
nightmare, some part of him would whisper, refusing to believe even
now, only a nightmare. But then he would open his eyes.
“I understand you had a visitor last night,” said
Qyburn. “I trust that you enjoyed her?”
Jaime gave him a cool look. “She did not say who sent
her.”
The maester smiled modestly. “Your fever was largely gone,
and I thought you might enjoy a bit of exercise. Pia is quite
skilled, would you not agree? And
so . . . willing.”
She had been that, certainly. She had slipped in his door and
out of her clothes so quickly that Jaime had thought he was still
dreaming.
It hadn’t been until the woman slid in under his blankets
and put his good hand on her breast that he roused. She was a
pretty little thing, too. “I was a slip of a girl when you
came for Lord Whent’s tourney and the king gave you your
cloak,” she confessed. “You were so handsome all in
white, and everyone said what a brave knight you were. Sometimes
when I’m with some man, I close my eyes and pretend
it’s you on top of me, with your smooth skin and gold curls.
I never truly thought I’d have you, though.”
Sending her away had not been easy after that, but Jaime had
done it all the same. I have a woman, he reminded himself.
“Do you send girls to everyone you leech?” he asked
Qyburn.
“More often Lord Vargo sends them to me. He likes me to
examine them, before . . . well, suffice it to
say that once he loved unwisely, and he has no wish to do so again.
But have no fear, Pia is quite healthy. As is your maid of
Tarth.”
Jaime gave him a sharp look. “Brienne?”
“Yes. A strong girl, that one. And her maidenhead is still
intact. As of last night, at least.” Qyburn gave a
chuckle.
“He sent you to examine her?”
“To be sure. He is . . . fastidious,
shall we say?”
“Does this concern the ransom?” Jaime asked.
“Does her father require proof she is still
maiden?”
“You have not heard?” Qyburn gave a shrug. “We
had a bird from Lord Selwyn. In answer to mine. The Evenstar offers
three hundred dragons for his daughter’s safe return. I had
told Lord Vargo there were no sapphires on Tarth, but he will not
listen. He is convinced the Evenstar intends to cheat
him.”
“Three hundred dragons is a fair ransom for a knight. The
goat should take what he can get.”
“The goat is Lord of Harrenhal, and the Lord of Harrenhal
does not haggle.”
The news irritated him, though he supposed he should have seen
it coming. The lie spared you awhile, wench. Be grateful for that
much. “If her maidenhead’s as hard as the rest of her,
the goat will break his cock off trying to get in,” he
jested. Brienne was tough enough to survive a few rapes, Jaime
judged, though if she resisted too vigorously Vargo Hoat might
start lopping off her hands and feet. And if he does, why should I
care? I might still have a hand if she had let me have my
cousin’s sword without getting stupid. He had almost taken
off her leg himself with that first stroke of his, but after that
she had given him more than he wanted. Hoat may not know how
freakish strong she is. He had best be careful, or she’ll
snap that skinny neck of his, and wouldn’t that be sweet?
Qyburn’s companionship was wearing on him. Jaime trotted
toward the head of the column. A round little tick of a northman
name of Nage went before Steelshanks with the peace banner; a
rainbow-striped flag with seven long tails, on a staff topped by a
seven-pointed star. “Shouldn’t you northmen have a
different sort of peace banner?” he asked Walton. “What
are the Seven to you?”
“Southron gods,” the man said, “but it’s
a southron peace we need, to get you safe to your
father.” My father. Jaime wondered whether Lord Tywin had received the
goat’s demand for ransom, with or without his rotted hand.
What is a swordsman worth without his sword hand? Half the gold in
Casterly Rock? Three hundred dragons? Or nothing? His father had never been
unduly swayed by sentiment. Tywin Lannister’s own father Lord
Tytos had once imprisoned an unruly bannerman, Lord Tarbeck. The
redoubtable Lady Tarbeck responded by capturing three Lannisters,
including young Stafford, whose sister was betrothed to cousin
Tywin. “Send back my lord and love, or these three shall
answer for any harm that comes him,” she had written to
Casterly Rock. Young Tywin suggested his father oblige by sending
back Lord Tarbeck in three pieces. Lord Tytos was a gentler sort of
lion, however, so Lady Tarbeck won a few more years for her
muttonheaded lord, and Stafford wed and bred and blundered on till
Oxcross. But Tywin Lannister endured, eternal as Casterly Rock. And
now you have a cripple for a son as well as a dwarf, my lord. How
you will hate that . . .
The road led them through a burned village. It must have been a
year or more since the place had been put to torch. The hovels
stood blackened and roofless, but weeds were growing waist high in
all the surrounding fields. Steelshanks called a halt to allow them
to water the horses. I know this place too, Jaime thought as he
waited by the well. There had been a small inn where only a few
foundation stones and a chimney now stood, and he had gone in for a
cup of ale. A dark-eyed serving wench brought him cheese and
apples, but the innkeep had refused his coin. “It’s an
honor to have a knight of the Kingsguard under my roof, ser,”
the man had said. “It’s a tale I’ll tell my
grandchildren.” Jaime looked at the chimney poking out of the
weeds and wondered whether he had ever gotten those grandchildren.
Did he tell them the Kingslayer once drank his ale and ate his
cheese and apples, or was he ashamed to admit he fed the likes of
me? Not that he would ever know; whoever burned the inn had likely
killed the grandchildren as well.
He could feel his phantom fingers clench. When Steelshanks said
that perhaps they should have a fire and a bit of food, Jaime shook
his head. “I mislike this place. We’ll ride
on.”
By evenfall they had left the lake to follow a rutted track
through a wood of oak and elm. Jaime’s stump was throbbing
dully when Steelshanks decided to make camp. Qyburn had brought a
skin of dreamwine, thankfully. While Walton set the watches, Jaime
stretched out near the fire and propped a rolled-up bearskin
against a stump as a pillow for his head. The wench would have told
him he had to eat before he slept, to keep his strength up, but he
was more tired than hungry. He closed his eyes, and hoped to dream
of Cersei. The fever dreams were all so
vivid . . .
Naked and alone he stood, surrounded by enemies, with stone
walls all around him pressing close. The Rock, he knew. He could
feel the immense weight of it above his head. He was home. He was
home and whole.
He held his right hand up and flexed his fingers to feel the
strength in them. It felt as good as sex. As good as swordplay.
Four fingers and a thumb. He had dreamed that he was maimed, but it
wasn’t so. Relief made him dizzy. My hand, my good hand.
Nothing could hurt him so long as he was whole.
Around him stood a dozen tall dark figures in cowled robes that
hid their faces. In their hands were spears. “Who are
you?” he demanded of them. “What business do you have
in Casterly Rock?”
They gave no answer, only prodded him with the points of their
spears. He had no choice but to descend. Down a twisting passageway
he went, narrow steps carved from the living rock, down and down. I
must go up, he told himself. Up, not down. Why am I going down?
Below the earth his doom awaited, he knew with the certainty of
dream; something dark and terrible lurked there, something that
wanted him. Jaime tried to halt, but their spears prodded him on.
If only I had my sword, nothing could harm me.
The steps ended abruptly on echoing darkness. Jaime had the
sense of vast space before him. He jerked to a halt, teetering on
the edge of nothingness. A spearpoint jabbed at the small of the
back, shoving him into the abyss. He shouted, but the fall was
short. He landed on his hands and knees, upon soft sand and shallow
water. There were watery caverns deep below Casterly Rock, but this
one was strange to him. “What place is this?”
“Your place.” The voice echoed; it was a hundred
voices, a thousand, the voices of all the Lannisters since Lann the
Clever, who’d lived at the dawn of days. But most of all it
was his father’s voice, and beside Lord Tywin stood his
sister, pale and beautiful, a torch burning in her hand. Joffrey
was there as well, the son they’d made together, and behind
them a dozen more dark shapes with golden hair.
“Sister, why has Father brought us here?”
“Us? This is your place, Brother. This is your
darkness.” Her torch was the only light in the cavern. Her
torch was the only light in the world. She turned to go.
“Stay with me,” Jaime pleaded. “Don’t
leave me here alone.” But they were leaving.
“Don’t leave me in the dark!” Something terrible
lived down here. “Give me a sword, at least.”
“I gave you a sword,” Lord Tywin said.
It was at his feet. Jaime groped under the water until his hand
closed upon the hilt. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a
sword. As he raised the sword a finger of pale flame flickered at
the point and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand’s
breath from the hilt. The fire took on the color of the steel
itself so it burned with a silvery-blue light, and the gloom pulled
back. Crouching, listening, Jaime moved in a circle, ready for
anything that might come out of the darkness. The water flowed into
his boots, ankle deep and bitterly cold. Beware the water, he told
himself. There may be creatures living in it, hidden
deeps . . .
From behind came a great splash. Jaime whirled toward the
sound . . . but the faint light revealed only
Brienne of Tarth, her hands bound in heavy chains. “I swore
to keep you safe,” the wench said stubbornly. “I swore
an oath.” Naked, she raised her hands to Jaime. “Ser.
Please. If you would be so good.”
The steel links parted like silk. “A sword,” Brienne
begged, and there it was, scabbard, belt, and all. She buckled it
around her thick waist. The light was so dim that Jaime could
scarcely see her, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this
light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she
could almost be a knight. Brienne’s sword took flame as well,
burning silvery blue. The darkness retreated a little more.
“The flames will burn so long as you live,” he heard
Cersei call. “When they die, so must you.”
“Sister!” he shouted. “Stay with me.
Stay!” There was no reply but the soft sound of retreating
footsteps.
Brienne moved her longsword back and forth, watching the silvery
flames shift and shimmer. Beneath her feet, a reflection of the
burning blade shone on the surface of the flat black water. She was
as tall and strong as he remembered, yet it seemed to Jaime that
she had more of a woman’s shape now.
“Do they keep a bear down here?” Brienne was moving,
slow and wary, sword to hand; step, turn, and listen. Each step
made a little splash. “A cave lion? Direwolves? Some bear?
Tell me, Jaime. What lives here? What lives in the
darkness?”
“Doom.” No bear, he knew. No lion. “Only
doom.”
In the cool silvery-blue light of the swords, the big wench
looked pale and fierce. “I mislike this place.”
“I’m not fond of it myself.” Their blades made
a little island of light, but all around them stretched a sea of
darkness, unending. “My feet are wet.”
“We could go back the way they brought us. If you climbed
on my shoulders you’d have no trouble reaching that tunnel
mouth.” Then I could follow Cersei. He could feel himself growing hard
at the thought, and turned away so Brienne would not see.
“Listen.” She put a hand on his shoulder, and he
trembled at the sudden touch. She’s warm. “Something
comes.” Brienne lifted her sword to point off to his left.
“There,”
He peered into the gloom until he saw it too. Something was
moving through the darkness, he could not quite make it
out . . .
“A man on a horse. No, two. Two riders, side by
side.”
“Down here, beneath the Rock?” It made no sense. Yet
there came two riders on pale horses, men and mounts both armored.
The destriers emerged from the blackness at a slow walk. They make
no sound, Jaime realized. No splashing, no clink of mail nor clop
of hoof. He remembered Eddard Stark, riding the length of
Aerys’s throne room wrapped in silence. Only his eyes had
spoken; a lord’s eyes, cold and grey and full of
judgment.
“Is it you, Stark?” Jaime called. “Come ahead.
I never feared you living, I do not fear you dead.”
Brienne touched his arm. “There are more.”
He saw them too. They were armored all in snow, it seemed to
him, and ribbons of mist swirled back from their shoulders. The
visors of their helms were closed, but Jaime Lannister did not need
to look upon their faces to know them.
Five had been his brothers. Oswell Whent and Jon Darry. Lewyn
Martell, a prince of Dorne. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser
Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning. And beside them, crowned in
mist and grief with his long hair streaming behind him, rode
Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the
Iron Throne.
“You don’t frighten me,” he called, turning as
they split to either side of him. He did not know which way to
face. “I will fight you one by one or all together. But who
is there for the wench to duel? She gets cross when you leave her
out.”
“I swore an oath to keep him safe,” she said to
Rhaegar’s shade. “I swore a holy oath.”
“We all swore oaths,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, so
sadly.
The shades dismounted from their ghostly horses. When they drew
their longswords, it made not a sound. “He was going to burn
the city,” Jaime said. “To leave Robert only
ashes.”
“He was your king,” said Darry.
“You swore to keep him safe,” said Whent.
“And the children, them as well,” said Prince
Lewyn.
Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now
dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands.”
“I never thought he’d hurt them.”
Jaime’s sword was burning less brightly now. “I was
with the king . . . ”
“Killing the king,” said Ser Arthur.
“Cutting his throat,” said Prince Lewyn.
“The king you had sworn to die for,” said the White
Bull.
The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime
remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his
throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned,
as the ghosts came rushing in.
“No,” he said, “no, no, no.
Nooooooooo!”
Heart pounding, he jerked awake, and found himself in starry
darkness amidst a grove of trees. He could taste bile in his mouth,
and he was shivering with sweat, hot and cold at once. When he
looked down for his sword hand, his wrist ended in leather and
linen, wrapped snug around an ugly stump. He felt sudden tears well
up in his eyes. I felt it, I felt the strength in my fingers, and
the rough leather of the sword’s grip. My
hand . . .
“My lord.” Qyburn knelt beside him, his fatherly
face all crinkly with concern. “What is it? I heard you cry
out.”
Steelshanks Walton stood above them, tall and dour. “What
is it? Why did you scream?”
“A dream . . . only a dream.”
Jaime stared at the camp around him, lost for a moment. “I
was in the dark, but I had my hand back.” He looked at the
stump and felt sick all over again. There’s no place like
that beneath the Rock, he thought. His stomach was sour and empty,
and his head was pounding where he’d pillowed it against the
stump.
Qyburn felt his brow. “You still have a touch of
fever.”
“A fever dream.” Jaime reached up. “Help
me.” Steelshanks took him by his good hand and pulled him to
his feet.
“Another cup of dreamwine?” asked Qyburn.
“No. I’ve dreamt enough this night.” He
wondered how long it was till dawn. Somehow he knew that if he
closed his eyes, he would be back in that dark wet place again.
“Milk of the poppy, then? And something for your fever?
You are still weak, my lord. You need to sleep. To rest.” That is the last thing I mean to do. The moonlight glimmered
pale upon the stump where Jaime had rested his head. The moss
covered it so thickly he had not noticed before, but now he saw
that the wood was white. It made him think of Winterfell, and Ned
Stark’s heart tree. It was not him, he thought. It was never
him. But the stump was dead and so was Stark and so were all the
others, Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur and the children. And Aerys.
Aerys is most dead of all. “Do you believe in ghosts,
Maester?” he asked Qyburn.
The man’s face grew strange. “Once, at the Citadel,
I came into an empty room and saw an empty chair. Yet I knew a
woman had been there, only a moment before. The cushion was dented
where she’d sat, the cloth was still warm, and her scent
lingered in the air. If we leave our smells behind us when we leave
a room, surely something of our souls must remain when we leave
this life?” Qyburn spread his hands. “The archmaesters
did not like my thinking, though. Well, Marwyn did, but he was the
only one.”
Jaime ran his fingers through his hair. “Walton,” he
said, “saddle the horses. I want to go back.”
“Back?” Steelshanks regarded him dubiously. He thinks I’ve gone mad. And perhaps I have. “I left
something at Harrenhal.”
“Lord Vargo holds it now. Him and his Bloody
Mummers.”
“You have twice the men he does.”
“If I don’t serve you up to your father as
commanded, Lord Bolton will have my hide. We press on to
King’s Landing.”
Once Jaime might have countered with a smile and a threat, but
onehanded cripples do not inspire much fear. He wondered what his
brother would do. Tyrion would find a way. “Lannisters lie,
Steelshanks. Didn’t Lord Bolton tell you that?”
The man frowned suspiciously. “What if he did?”
“Unless you take me back to Harrenhal, the song I sing my
father may not be one the Lord of the Dreadfort would wish to hear.
I might even say it was Bolton ordered my hand cut off, and
Steelshanks Walton who swung the blade.”
Walton gaped at him. “That isn’t so.”
“No, but who will my father believe?” Jaime made
himself smile, the way he used to smile when nothing in the world
could frighten him. “It will be so much easier if we just go
back. We’d be on our way again soon enough, and I’d
sing such a sweet song in King’s Landing you’ll never
believe your ears. You’d get the girl, and a nice fat purse
of gold as thanks.”
“Gold?” Walton liked that well enough. “How
much gold?” I have him. “Why, how much would you want?”
And by the time the sun came up, they were halfway back to
Harrenhal.
Jaime pushed his horse much harder than he had the day before,
and Steelshanks and the northmen were forced to match his pace.
Even so, it was midday before they reached the castle on the lake.
Beneath a darkening sky that threatened rain, the immense walls and
five great towers stood black and ominous. It looks so dead. The
walls were empty, the gates closed and barred. But high above the
barbican, a single banner hung limp. The black goat of Qohor, he
knew. Jaime cupped his hands to shout. “You in there! Open
your gates, or I’ll kick them down!”
It was not until Qyburn and Steelshanks added their voices that
a head finally appeared on the battlements above them. He goggled
down at them, then vanished. A short time later, they heard the
portcullis being drawn upward. The gates swung open, and Jaime
Lannister spurred his horse through the walls, scarcely glancing at
the murder holes as he passed beneath them. He had been worried
that the goat might not admit them, but it seemed as if the Brave
Companions still thought of them as allies. Fools.
The outer ward was deserted; only the long slate-roofed stables
showed any signs of life, and it was not horses that interested
Jaime just then. He reined up and looked about. He could hear
sounds from somewhere behind the Tower of Ghosts, and men shouting
in half a dozen tongues. Steelshanks and Qyburn rode up on either
side. “Get what you came back for, and we’ll be gone
again,” said Walton. “I want no trouble with the
Mummers.”
“Tell your men to keep their hands on their sword hilts,
and the Mummers will want no trouble with you. Two to one,
remember?” Jaime’s head jerked round at the sound of a
distant roar, faint but ferocious. It echoed off the walls of
Harrenhal, and the laughter swelled up like the sea. All of a
sudden, he knew what was happening. Have we come too late? His
stomach did a lurch, and he slammed his spurs into his horse,
galloping across the outer ward, beneath an arched stone bridge,
around the Wailing Tower, and through the Flowstone Yard.
They had her in the bear pit.
King Harren the Black had wished to do even his bear-baiting in
lavish style. The pit was ten yards across and five yards deep,
walled in stone, floored with sand, and encircled by six tiers of
marble benches. The Brave Companions filled only a quarter of the
seats, Jaime saw as he swung down clumsily from his horse. The
sellswords were so fixed on the spectacle beneath that only those
across the pit noticed their arrival.
Brienne wore the same ill-fitting gown she’d worn to
supper with Roose Bolton. No shield, no breastplate, no chainmail,
not even boiled leather, only pink satin and Myrish lace. Maybe the
goat thought she was more amusing when dressed as a woman. Half her
gown was hanging off in tatters, and her left arm dripped blood
where the bear had raked her. At least they gave her a sword. The wench held it one-handed,
moving sideways, trying to put some distance between her and the
bear. That’s no good, the ring’s too small. She needed
to attack, to make a quick end to it. Good steel was a match for
any bear. But the wench seemed afraid to close. The Mummers
showered her with insults and obscene suggestions.
“This is none of our concern,” Steelshanks warned
Jaime. “Lord Bolton said the wench was theirs, to do with as
they liked.”
“Her name’s Brienne.” Jaime descended the
steps, past a dozen startled sellswords. Vargo Hoat had taken the
lord’s box in the lowest tier. “Lord Vargo,” he
called over the shouts.
The Qohorik almost spilt his wine. “Kingthlayer?”
The left side of his face was bandaged clumsily, the linen over his
ear spotted with blood.
“Pull her out of there.”
“Thay out of thith, Kingthlayer, unleth you’d like
another thump.” He waved a wine cup. “Your thee-mooth bit oth my ear.
Thmall wonder her father will not ranthom thuch a freak.”
A roar turned Jaime back around. The bear was eight feet tall.
Gregor Clegane with a pelt, he thought, though likely smarter. The
beast did not have the reach the Mountain had with that monster
greatsword of his, though.
Bellowing in fury, the bear showed a mouth full of great yellow
teeth, then fell back to all fours and went straight at Brienne.
There’s your chance, Jaime thought. Strike! Now!
Instead, she
poked out ineffectually with the point of her blade. The bear
recoiled, then came on, rumbling. Brienne slid to her left and
poked again at the bear’s face. This time he lifted a paw to
swat the sword aside. He’s wary, Jaime realized. He’s gone up against
other men. He knows swords and spears can hurt him. But that
won’t keep him off her long. “Kill him!” he
shouted, but his voice was lost amongst all the other shouts. If
Brienne heard, she gave no sign. She moved around the pit, keeping
the wall at her back. Too close. If the bear pins her by the
wall . . .
The beast turned clumsily, too far and too fast. Quick as a cat,
Brienne changed direction. There’s the wench I remember. She
leapt in to land a cut across the bear’s back. Roaring, the
beast went up on his hind legs again. Brienne scrambled back away.
Where’s the blood? Then suddenly he understood. Jaime rounded
on Hoat. “You gave her a tourney sword.”
The goat brayed laughter, spraying him with wine and spittle.
“Of courth.”
“I’ll pay her bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires,
whatever you want. Pull her out of there.”
“You want her? Go get her.”
So he did.
He put his good hand on the marble rail and vaulted over,
rolling as he hit the sand. The bear turned at the thump, sniffing,
watching this new intruder warily. Jaime scrambled to one knee.
Well, what in seven hells do I do now? He filled his fist with
sand. “Kingslayer?” he heard Brienne say,
astonished.
“Jaime.” He uncoiled, flinging the sand at the
bear’s face. The bear mauled the air and roared like
blazes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He circled toward
her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear.
“You get behind. I have the sword.”
“A swordwith no point and no edge. Get behind me!” He
saw something half-buried in the sand, and snatched it up with his
good hand. It proved to be a human jawbone, with some greenish
flesh still clinging to it, crawling with maggots. Charming, he
thought, wondering whose face he held. The bear was edging closer,
so Jaime whipped his arm around and flung bone, meat, and maggots
at the beast’s head. He missed by a good yard. I ought to lop
my left hand off as well, for all the good it does me.
Brienne tried to dart around, but he kicked her legs out from
under her. She fell in the sand, clutching the useless sword. Jaime
straddled her, and the bear came charging.
There was a deep twang, and a feathered shaft sprouted suddenly
beneath the beast’s left eye. Blood and slaver ran from his
open mouth, and another bolt took him in the leg. The bear roared,
reared. He saw Jaime and Brienne again and lumbered toward them.
More crossbows fired, the quarrels ripping through fur and flesh.
At such short range, the bowmen could hardly miss. The shafts hit
as hard as maces, but the bear took another step. The poor dumb
brave brute. When the beast swiped at him, he danced aside,
shouting, kicking sand. The bear turned to follow his tormentor,
and took another two quarrels in the back. He gave one last
rumbling growl, settled back onto his haunches, stretched out on
the bloodstained sand, and died.
Brienne got back to her knees, clutching the sword and breathing
short ragged breaths. Steelshanks’s archers were winding
their crossbows and reloading while the Bloody Mummers shouted
curses and threats at them. Rorge and Three Toes had swords out,
Jaime saw, and Zollo was uncoiling his whip.
“You thlew my bear!” Vargo Hoat shrieked.
“And I’ll serve you the same if you give me
trouble,” Steelshanks threw back. “We’re taking
the wench.”
“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne,
the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?”
Her broad homely face turned red. “Yes.”
“Oh, good,” Jaime said. “I only rescue
maidens.” To Hoat he said, “You’ll have your
ransom. For both of us. A Lannister pays his debts. Now fetch some
ropes and get us out of here.”
“Bugger that,” Rorge growled. “Kill them,
Hoat. Or you’ll bloody well wish you had!”
The Qohorik hesitated. Half his men were drunk, the northmen
stone sober, and there were twice as many. Some of the crossbowmen
had reloaded by now. “Pull them out,” Hoat said, and
then, to Jaime, “I hath chothen to be merthiful. Tell your
lord father.”
“I will, my lord.” Not that it will do you any
good.
Not until they were half a league from Harrenhal and out of
range of archers on the walls did Steelshanks Walton let his anger
show. “Are you mad, Kingslayer? Did you mean to die? No man
can fight a bear with his bare hands!”
“One bare hand and one bare stump,” Jaime corrected.
“But I hoped you’d kill the beast before the beast
killed me. Elsewise, Lord Bolton would have peeled you like an
orange, no?”
Steelshanks cursed him roundly for a fool of Lannister, spurred
his horse, and galloped away up the column.
“Ser Jaime?” Even in soiled pink satin and torn
lace, Brienne looked more like a man in a gown than a proper woman.
“I am grateful, but . . . you were well
away. Why come back?”
A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before,
but Jaime only shrugged. “I dreamed of you,” he
said.