Chapter 01

she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know

Lancel… Kettleblack…. Moon Boy

Cersei is a lying whore

fucking Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack, Moon Boy…

Jaime opened his eyes after fighting with sleep that would not come. His eyes ached, his head throbbed, and his phantom fingers pained him. Slowly, he sat up and brushed his golden blonde hair from his face with his left hand. He shot a look of disgust at his right stump, forever cursing its uselessness. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and felt his bones crack. He wasn't as young as he used to be and his body never really recovered from the toll it had taken from the Brave Companions.

It was another night, another long battle with sleep. Jaime had always been a light sleeper. As a knight, a member of the Kingsguard, he was always prepared to awake at the slightest whisper in case he had a duty to perform. As the lover of Her Grace the Queen, he'd trained himself to fight sleep no matter how tired she'd made him. On the very rare occasion they attempted more than a quick tryst, when they attempted to hold each close and waste time whispering sweet nothings in each others' ears, Jaime had trained himself to jolt awake to his senses at the slightest scuffle.

His body had gotten used to getting little sleep. In fact, he felt weighted and groggy if he slept too long. Still, in those times he got some sleep. Now, he tossed and turned and groaned while the Imp's words replayed over and over and over in his mind.

She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know.

Jaime felt his teeth grit at the thought. The worst part of all was that he knew Tyrion, his younger brother, the infamous Imp, wasn't a liar. He'd discovered the truth from a blubbering Lancel Lannister. Lancel, now turned a pious waste, was desperate to cleanse himself of sin. Desperate to confess all he'd done wrong. In his moment of confession, he'd told Jaime exactly what Jaime had feared was always true. Cersei had betrayed him and the Imp wasn't a liar after all.

Clumsily, Jaime pulled on his breeches. He'd need a servant or a squire to tie them. He'd gotten proficient at untying his breeches, but still hadn't figured out how to tie them back. He pulled on his tunic next and then sat down in a small wooden chair in front of his desk. Maps and letters were strewn untidily across the surface. He thought idly that his father wouldn't approve.

"What does that matter?" Jaime thought. "Lord Tywin is dead. No one has do anything his way anymore."

Outside, the birds were already singing their morning songs. It wouldn't be long before the sunrise. With it, the host he'd brought to settle the siege of the riverlands would rise as well. Then, his tent would be invaded with a flurry of lords, squires, and servants, eagerly awaiting their next move.

They were at Pennytree, a small village in the riverlands. Jaime had managed to settle matters with the Blackwoods and the Brackens. Soon, he'd be allowed to return back to King's Landing. To Cersei.

He couldn't help but shudder at the thought.

She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know.

And then, he heard the boy. Jaime's eyes flicked to the opening of the tent and saw the outline of one of his squires, Lewys Piper.

"Ser Jaime, it's morning," he said eagerly from his spot outside. Jaime rolled his eyes. Of course it's morning you stupid boy, he might've said.

"Fetch me some wine and something for breakfast," Jaime called back in reply, slumping in his chair. "And hurry. If you see Paege along the way, send him here."

Squires. Jaime had three with him. Lewys Piper, Garrett Paege, and Josmyn Peckledon. More annoying, he had Tytos Blackwood's bookish boy Hoster trailing behind him now. Gods, would that I could give them to someone else.

He rose from his chair and, on cue, Garrett Paege stood outside Jaime's tent and requested entry. Jaime scowled as Paege helped him dress. It never ceased to irk Jaime that he was a man past thirty, yet now needed the help of boys just to dress himself.

Once Paege finished helping Jaime put on his surcoat, Jaime shooed him away. Then, turning, Jaime reached for his golden hand. Sighing, he fastened it himself and looked at it in disgust. As valuable as his new hand was, he would've paid all of the gold in Casterly Rock to have his old one back.

He wasn't left with his thoughts long. Just as he was finally dressed, the first lord poked his head into Jaime's tent. By the time Piper had returned with breakfast and servants to feed the rest, the tent was filled with people, each needing to speak with Jaime urgently.

They spoke of their next move, spoke of what they would do once they returned to Riverrun, if they would disband or pursue the rebels. Jaime felt much like Tommen at a Small Council meeting. He was now forever distracted, consumed by the thought of his sister fucking his cousin, that hairy oaf Kettleblack and the fool Moon Boy. The thought of her fucking them made his stomach turn as it always did. Coupled with a sick stomach, throbbing head, and his always-aching phantom hand, Jaime had no mind to handle these matters.

Then, as if one of the Seven had heard Jaime's silent prayer, he heard a struggle outside of his tent, causing the voices inside to die to silence.

"I must see him!" a voice boomed. He knew that voice from anywhere.

"But what is the wench doing here?" He thought.

Quickly, he stood up and slammed his golden hand on the table. "Let her enter!" he barked.

Seconds later, the big wench lumbered into his tent. Jaime's mouth slackened at the sight of her. She was always ugly and nothing would change that. However, her face had been utterly destroyed. By what, he couldn't say. Somehow, the wench had managed to make herself uglier than ever. She even looked as though she'd aged considerably since he'd seen her.

"Gods… but what has happened?" he wondered.

"Ser Jaime," she said breathlessly, falling to her knees in front of him. "You must come. You must come now."

Jaime's eyes scanned her face. Her big, blue eyes were filled with tears threatening to spill over. Her wide, flattened nose remained in tact. Those were the only parts of her face that he remembered. Sores covered her face. Are those bite marks?, he wondered, feeling concerned about what had happened.

"Jaime, please," the wench pleaded. "I know where Sansa Stark is and I can take you to her. But you have to come with me, else the Hound will kill her!"

"The Hound?" he wondered aloud. "The Hound has her?"

"Yes, and I can take you to her!" She insisted.

"Something isn't right," Jaime thought. "This doesn't make sense."

Still, he nodded at the wench and turned toward the lords, squires, and servants in the tent.

"If you'd all be so kind, I'd like a moment with Lady Brienne to talk about this issue of Sansa Stark," Jaime said curtly. Although there were minor objections in the forms of guffaws and grunts, no one openly spoke up. Soon enough, the tent was clear and Jaime and Brienne remained. "Gods be good, what in Seven Hells happened to you?"

"It doesn't matter," Brienne replied, flushing scarlet. "It doesn't matter. We're a day's ride from Lady Sansa if you'll hurry."

"Fine," Jaime conceded. "I'll have my squires ready their –"

"No," Brienne said sharply, cutting him off. "You need to come alone with me."

"Don't be stupid, wench. You think I'm to fight off the Hound alone? I have plenty of good men here with me, men who might be able to fight off Clegane. You won't be able to and I'm a cripple now," Jaime spat.

His head throbbed more, and his hand itched to grasp his sword pommel. He didn't even have his sword with him, but it wouldn't matter if he had. It'd been an old habit of his before his right hand had been cleaved off. Now that he wore his sword on his right side, he couldn't easily grip the pommel and his golden hand was always awkwardly knocking against the hilt.

"Trust me, Jaime," Brienne said softly, looking at him with her big, blue eyes. "You trust me, don't you? Trust me in this. You have to come alone."

"This is folly," Jaime snarled inwardly. He couldn't take the Hound and neither could the wench. Still, he wouldn't abide her tears. He sighed and then fell back into his chair.

"Fine. Fine. Just know, you're leading us to our deaths, wench," he growled. "Sit. Eat. Drink. You'll need your strength."

Silently, Brienne moved to a chair while Jaime called for his squires to saddle his horse and retrieve a fresh one for Brienne. He rose and awkwardly fastened his sword belt. It was a task he'd had to relearn to do one-handed, and it took him many sleepless nights to manage. Still, even that hadn't brought him any peace. His sword and dagger were in the wrong place, and no matter how many times he tried to train himself to reach to his right, his golden hand always shot out to his left to grasp at air. In battle, he would've been dead a hundred times over for that mistake, and Ser Ilyn Payne had given him many bruises and lumps for that mistake.

Brienne remained silent while he finished readying himself. Even as they walked from the tent and walked through the sea of Lannister crimson tents, she was silent. It made Jaime uneasy. He was trusting her, but he knew he shouldn't. His stomach turned more.

"I'll be back soon," he told his squire, Piper. "Stay out of trouble. Also, tell them to prepare two more tents, befit for noble ladies. We'll return with Lady Stark."

Piper merely blinked at Jaime. Even the boy thought what Jaime was doing was folly.

"Go," Jaime barked, sending his squire off. He didn't want to abide the boy's wide-eyed stare. Once mounted, Jaime turned and looked at Brienne, who had paled considerably since walking from his tent in the center of their camp.

"Well, wench," Jaime goaded. "You know the way. Lead me to her."

"Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor," Jaime reminded himself. "Whatever that means to anyone. Whatever that means to me."

Jaime gritted his teeth and spurred his horse forward after Brienne. He was unsure where the wench was taking him and his uneasiness had soured his stomach.

She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know.

Jaime scowled. Even his uneasiness about where the wench was taking him didn't unsettle him as much as the thought of his sister fucking others. His grip on his reins tightened, and for a moment, he thought maybe he'd be able to take on the Hound as long as he pictured it was Kettleblack.