JAIME
The Kingslayer strode briskly into Lord Tywin's solar and seated himself at the head of the table to await his father. He was shaved, groomed, dressed in his golden armor, and had been more-or-less safely delivered to King's Landing by Brienne of Tarth, to whom he was now deeply indebted. Handless Jaime Lannister crossed his golden arms over his chest and waited.
When Lord Tywin finally entered and got a look at his son he stopped dead in his tracks.
"What have you done with your hands," he said.
Jaime uncrossed his arms and held them up to be examined. Where his golden wrists ended, his new hands began. The hands were a pair of swords, three feet each of gilded Valyrian steel, both terminating in cruel points that were slightly hooked. Jamie used one of his long hands to toss his white cloak back over his shoulder.
"My gods," Lord Tywin said softly. "Who did this to you?"
"No one you need concern yourself with, my lord," Jaime replied. He stood and looked down upon his father. "A woman who will soon learn about Lannisters and debts."
Lord Tywin and his son spoke long into the night. A pact of vengeance was sworn in blood for the lost hands, although in truth both men agreed that the new hands were in some ways an improvement. Jaime could no longer grip a traditional sword, but he could strap shields on both forearms and still rain a veritable storm of blades down upon his enemies. He demonstrated some new moves he'd been working on, first laying Lord Tywin's table in two with a leaping strike and then opening the feather pillow with a series of thrusts and stabs.
"Holy fuck," Lord Tywin breathed. "Never have I seen such badassery."
"And that's not all," Jaime said. "I've got the Keep's blacksmiths working on a pair of morning stars I'll be able to plug my wrists into. I imagine I'll be able to handle about four feet of chain, along with a ten pound ball. Maybe even longer chains if I'm on horseback."
The following morning Ser Jaime donned his Kingsguard armor and strolled through King's Landing with his long, one-fingered hands nearly sweeping the ground. A simpleton with a large black mole on his cheek pointed at Jaime and uttered a hooting laugh. Jaime smiled and waved at him.
"Handless, handless," the simpleton shrieked, cackling and leaping up and down. "No-Hands Jaime!"
"Oh?" Jaime replied, sliding first one of his long hands into the simpleton's belly and then the other. "Then what are these?"
"Whoa!" cried a little boy who was walking by. "Cool! Mom, did you see that?"
"You bet your sweet ass I saw it," the boy's mother said. She dropped her satchel of groceries and ran over to touch Jaime's hands. Jaime stood proudly and let the growing crowd surround him. They were all impressed by the new hands.
"Mom, I want hands like that!" the little boy screamed. "When you're older," his mother told him absently, fondling Jaime's left hand in a sort of sexual trance.
Jaime had a splendid day showing off his new hands to everybody. The only bad thing that happened was when an old woman wanted him to sign an autograph and he realized he'd have to hold the quill in the crook of his elbow. While trying to dip it in the ink pot, the pot spilled and soiled the pristine white plate of Jaime's Kingsguard raiment. In a blind and reflexive fury he had cleaved the old woman in twain. This was received somewhat poorly by the crowd.
"She only wanted a autograph," someone opined. "You shouldn't'a did that, Kingslayer."
"Grannyslayer," someone else said.
Damn it, Jaime realized. I was supposed to start turning into a good guy. Damn you, Brienne! Damn it all!
"Shut up," Jaime said sullenly. He kicked the old woman's torso in the ribs and then walked back home to the Red Keep. Tomorrow he would work on becoming a good guy for sure… unless the morning stars were finished.