They set out early in the morning. Today, Jaime rode Glory. He sat silently in his saddle, pondering on what had happened the night before. He had not expected to make the acquaintance of people from the smallfolk, especially not a young woman as Estella. After she had left the tent, Jaime could not forget about her eyes, those green, calm eyes that were so similar to Cersei's. Once he had loved to get lost in those eyes but lately his sister's eyes had lost their appeal. They were the very mirror of her soul, disdainful and suspicious. She had been like that before, but her gazes of contempt had never been directed at him.
Yesterday, the peasant girl's eyes had reminded him of his sister as she was before. Not that there was any affection in her gazes. But she was calm, poised, fearless. He was used to being feared and respected, but the girl had taken her stand, and he was surprised to find himself fascinated by that. He knew very well what people said about him and he knew that even the smallfolk was familiar with the tale of how he had killed the king he was sworn to protect. It took the most courageous of men to withstand his gaze, let alone to object him. And there he had been, somewhere in the riverlands, facing a young woman who was either as bold as Barristan Selmy or as dim-witted as the oaf Boros Blount. He assumed that it was not the latter.
It took another three days until the host came in sight of Harrenhal. It was a monstrous castle with a monstrous history. But one thing had changed: he was in charge. The castle was back in Lannister-hands, and he had to settle some matters before he could continue his ride to Riverrun. He didn't like it but he had no choice but to name Baelor Butthole himself as the new castellan. He had been a part of Jaime's host, including his Holy Hundred. But for all he knew, Bonifer Hasty was as loyal as he could hope for and if he was to be honest, he preferred him to Littlefinger who could now name himself "Lord of Harrenhal".
He ordered his men to camp out in front of the castle for nothing would make him spend more time within these walls than necessary. He called for Ilyn Payne. Together they found a secluded place where they could practice without being noticed.
It had been a long day after many other days of riding and riding and even more riding. But Jaime knew that he couldn't miss an opportunity to have a session with Ser Ilyn. They had practiced every single night. Well, except for the night when they camped out at the cottage.
If they had fought with real blades, Jaime would have died eight times during the first half hour of their session. Ser Ilyn chuckled soundlessly while Jaime tried to compose himself after every blow the mute had dealt. But it was no use. Jaime was unfocussed, his arm ached and he knew that tomorrow, sitting his horse would be an utter nightmare. He almost could see his cheeks turning a darker shade of purple before his inner eye after every blow and every time he sat down ungently on his buttocks.
"That's it," Jaime declared after Ser Ilyn killed him for the eleventh time. By beheading, Jaime noticed, and he shuddered.
Back in his tent, Jaime lay straight down on his camp bed, bruised but happy with how smoothly things had gone in Harrenhal today. He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep. That night he dreamt of green eyes. Those loving, beautiful green eyes that he could sink into. But it weren't Cersei's eyes. They belonged to the peasant girl, Estella.