Chapter 31: Jaime III

Though Littlefinger had been named Lord of Harrenhall, he seemed in no great haste to stake his claim.

Jaime sighed. Of course not. Baelish was a traitor, destined for nothing more than an early burial. And so that task would fall to him.

And what a task it was! That Harrenhall was in need of a good 'sorting out' was in no doubt. The claim had been Gregor Clegane's before Cersei had called him back to Kings Landing and the Red Viper had severed his small head from his seething corpse. Yet the Mountain's men had not left, and were no doubt still scurrying around the crumbling halls and passages like rats in a sewer drain.

Unfit to restore the King's Peace, the lot of them. The only peace any of these men had ever given anyone was that of the grave.

His outriders had informed him that the gates to the castle were closed and barred, so Jaime drew up his men in force and sounded his horn, letting three sharp blasts announce his presence. After the sound had rolled off the surrounding hills and bounced off the stone and dissipated into the air, Jaime could hear the creaking of rusted iron hinges as the doors were slowly pushed open.

Under a dozen different murder holes he rode with his men, bearing witness to the sheer hubris of Harren's folly, the tattered stones around him black on one side where Balerion's flames had licked them and grey on the other. He emerged into sudden moonlight from the flickering torchlight as he entered the yard, the hooves of the horses behind him falling silent as their journey over the hard-packed dirt - occasionally dotted with weeds and rotting corpses - came to an abrupt end.

A handful of Gregor's men stood awaiting to greet him as yet more came streaming from the towers, their eyes hard as they watched him dismount. About the best that could be said of them is they were not quite as savage as the man they swore loyalty to. Gregor had been an animal. These men were merely cruel.

"Fuck me," one man said, slack-jawed. "It's the fucking Kingslayer, boys!"

Jaime felt a dull spike of fury at the name, one he quickly suppressed to keep his icy composure. I am no more that man, he thought. His hook ached, his long gone sword-hand baying for blood. "And who might you be?" Jaime asked instead.

"They call me Shitmouth, they do," the man said, grinning.

"Do you hold command here?" Jaime asked, impatient.

"Me?" the man asked, almost incredulous. "Shit, m'lord, no. Bugger me with a bloody spear."

"Ser Illyn, you heard the man, find a nice long one and shove it up his arse," Jaime said. He did not have a spear, but it was not long before one of the other men threw him one with a grin on his face.

Shitmouth paled. "Keep that bloody thing away from me," he said warily, stumbling back.

"Make up your mind," Jaime said. "Or better yet, clean up your mouth. Now, if not you then who? Who has command here?"

"Polliver," another man said. "Only he was killed. Him and the Tickler both."

"By the Hound," Jaime finished. "At the crossroads inn, correct?" His conclusion was met with a series of confused nods. "Well, if nothing else you need not worry about the Hound. He's been dealt with. I'm surprised such a thing was necessary. Did you not send men after him once you'd heard?"

Shitmouth frowned, as though this thought were entirely new to him. "No, my lord. Fu..." Shitmouth caught himself. "We never did."

"When a dog goes mad you cut it's throat," Jaime said, doing his best impression of his father. His proclamation was met with a flurry of uncomfortable glances. "You were all scared of him," he quickly surmised.

"Well, he were Ser's brother, so..." Shitmouth tried to say.

"He was the Hound," another interrupted. "You'd have to be mad to go after him. Or someone better. Someone like Ser. Or like you."

Jaime felt just a touch of discomfort at the looks in their eyes - admiration earned by another lie - and a second spike of fury at being compared to the elder Clegane. If only you knew, he thought. As he was, even after all those months with Bronn, he did not doubt Sandor at full strength would make quick work of him. "You have a name?" he asked.

"Rafford," the man said soberly. "Or Raff, if it please you."

Jaime nodded in approval. "Rafford, gather the garrison together in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and your captives too. I'll want to see them. Oh, and Hoat as well. I was distraught to hear he had died. I'd have liked the pleasure of killing him myself. Even still, I'd like to gaze upon his head."

And so the men went, and Jaime wandered to the hall himself to await the completion of his commands. In the meanwhile he sat and watched as one-by-one his men went around the hall and slowly set a fire in each hearth, giving the Hall of a Hundred Hearths it's characteristically orange glow. Yet his breath still emerged from his lips in cold mist in the midst of night. It would take a while for the fires to displace the chill that had settled into the space.

Before long, Hoat's rotting head was dropped into his lap. The Goat's lips had been sliced off, along with his ears and most of his nose, right down to a stubby little bit of bone that showed under the rotting flesh. It was Hoat - that much Jaime knew for sure by the greasy beard alone - but twisted beyond belief. Crows had supped his eyes, and only a few strips of shrivelled skin stuck to his cheeks.

"Where is the rest of him?" Jaime asked, steeling his stomach.

Nobody seemed to want to answer, and so that burden fell to Rafford. "Rotted, ser," he said. "And one of the prisoners was always begging for food, so we gave him the body to eat. Hands and feet, arms and legs. Ser said to see to it all the prisoners got a taste."

Jaime felt the steel in his stomach rust and decay, sickened. The prospect of vengeance seemed to lose it's shine right before him. Seven save us all, he thought, and tossed the rotting head into the nearest hearth. What little patches of fat remained on the flesh seemed to bubble and melt as the fire licked the skull clean and caught upon the grease in the beard, allowing the flames to climb higher and burn briefly brighter.

"I'll see those captives now," he said, remembering Tommen's orders. "Starting with Ser Wylis Manderly."

"He the fat one?" Rafford asked.

Jaime nodded. "He should be. And I warn you now if he is no more for this world, then you all will surely join him in his fate in short order."

Rafford swallowed, nodded and then opted to bow, and then finally turned tail and ran. Not long after, a line of prisoners were pushed forth through the doors at swordpoint. Of Lady Whent's people only a handful remained that Jaime remembered. A cook and an armourer, both looking half-starved, and a formerly pretty serving girl named Pia who'd no doubt been raped ragged, blood still staining her skirt. When she saw him she fell to her knees and clutched his legs and sobbed, mumbling pleas for mercy through shattered teeth and bloodstained lips, offering herself to him in desperation if only he would make her torment stop.

Jaime felt disgust and pity in equal measure as he shook her off his leg, and the poor girl sobbed all the louder when he assured her that she would suffer no longer. This was not the pretty, giggling little chit Qyburn had sent to his chambers after he'd lost his arm.

Mercifully, it seemed the other prisoners had been treated a little better. Wylis Manderly was the one Tommen had insisted on, but there were also several other highborn northmen Gregor had captured during his campaigns along the Trident, each of whom would no doubt prove useful to the king. They were ragged, filthy, some bruised and others broken, but they were still alive in all the ways that mattered.

And so, one hostage at a time, the north falls further into my nephew's hands, Jaime reflected. Into my son's hands...

The wailing only intensified when Jaime informed each man of his fate. Wylis collapsed into a heap on the floor and wept in relief at the news that he would wind his way back to White Harbour, and though the others had more muted responses upon learning that the capital was their destination, the notion that they would be hostages of the king and not of the Mountain's men seemed nonetheless welcome, and many broke down into tears of gratitude.

He commanded them to sit at one end of the table, to sup with dignity and be silent. Their meal was simple fare, for the Mountain's men apparently had little use for cooks. And once it was done, Jaime began issuing his commands. The Mountain's men would be split up - that he could not trust them was now clear. A third would go with a few of his own men to see to the delivery of Ser Wylis to the Saltpans, where a Manderly ship would await, and another third would take the rest of the political prisoners down to the capital and present them before the king.

The final third would accompany him, their presence supplanted by a force of a hundred men from his own company who would hold Harrenhall in his trust. This third would be made of only the most savage, Jaime decided, save for Rafford. If nothing else they will make fine fodder for the walls of Riverrun, Jaime thought as he issued his commands. And breaking them up would surely lessen the risk for any further indiscretions, the kind the king was eager to put an end to.

Not that Jaime had any silly notions of putting an end to such savage habits. Such cruel men were not like to change. Yet with cruelty came cowardice, and under his watch their worst tendencies would be restrained under threat of harsh consequences.

That night Jaime slept with his sword at his side, satisfied at a day's work. The next morning he washed and dressed at dawn, and took advantage of the castle's rookery to write and send a few short messages back to the capital with news of his progress whilst Harrenhall was still quiet. Another raven went north, to inform his cousin at Riverrun of his intent to see to the siege himself. The very thought of meeting his Frey friends made him tense. The king's commands were clear enough, but Jaime had no desire to wind up like Robb Stark. And so another secret he'd have to keep till the time came to drop the pretence and start the slaughter.

But his cousin could be trusted with the truth, Jaime was certain. He could be sworn to secrecy. But what of Aunt Genna...?

Jaime sighed. That was a question for another day. Not long after he was done the noise returned as men set busily about making the necessary arrangements.

The four groups were arranged; three heading out - one north, one south and one west, with one staying back. Jaime made sure the last lot were all loyal Lannister men. That would be important to seeing Tommen's other plans through. Parting words were offered, some touching and others torturously mundane, and then Jaime sounded his horn again, impatient, and all the men were ahorse and riding out to do their duty. They rode for perhaps a little more than two days and made camp for three nights without incident, moving fast across rolling plains and fording several streams. Jaime made sure to keep them away from villages and towns.

The cot may have been worse for his back than a bed, but if that meant there would be no trouble than Jaime considered it a sacrifice worth making. The riverlanders had suffered their presence enough. If he could avoid bothering them, especially now that he had the Mountain's men in tow, then he would.

As it was, he had difficulty keeping the rowdiest men in line. Three had lost their heads by the time the relatively short march was over.

And so Darry hoved into view.

All around, the fields surrounding the castle were under the till. It was mostly women working the fields, Jaime noted, many of their sons and fathers and husbands and brothers lost to the war. Weeds were pulled by hand even as a number of ploughs were pulled by oxen as other women trailed, planting seeds every so often in the wake of the oxen and patting the earth flat. Seeds and ploughs paid for by the crown, Jaime did not doubt. Lady Amerei Frey would be that type of woman.

Just like Harrenhall, Jaime found the gates closed to him, looks of fear in the eyes of the women at the golden lion emblazoned on his armour. I have to get duller plate, he thought at first, but then thought better of it. With my sword-hand perhaps the lion of Lannister is all that stays the hands of all who surround me. Nevertheless, it was enough for the gatemen of Castle Darry to slowly swing open the doors when he blew his horn, and Jaime led his men yet again under the murder-holes.

Most stayed behind, making camp beyond the walls, but Jaime was not fool enough to wander into Frey hands without a fearsome guard. Within the walls, Jaime saw workmen flanked by crossbowmen and archers up on the ramparts, watching out of the corner of their eyes. The stones were blackened and some cracked. During the fighting Darry had been burned once and sacked at least twice, and the evidence of that was still all around, despite Lady Amerei's continuing efforts.

When he had finally arrived, only a lone maester emerged to greet him.

"Lord Commander, Darry is honoured at this... unexpected visit," he said. "I was under the impression you were headed to see to the siege at Riverrun."

"I am here on behalf of my king," Jaime simply pronounced, dismounting and producing from under his armour a crumpled version of one of the letters that Tommen had given him when's he'd first been given this fool's quest. Mayhap the Seven will be kind and this little delay will allow me to keep my oath to Lady Catelyn to never take up arms against her family. Jaime resisted the urge to shudder at the thought. If the Seven are kind I'll never have to face her again.

"Very well," the maester said after a moment's silence. "I know Lady Amerei will be pleased to see you, and wished to welcome you herself. In fact, she's seeing to the preparation of a feast in your honour. It is her hope that you will join her at the table this evening."

Jaime quirked an eyebrow in the style of his father. "A hot meal would be most welcome, but I do hope this feast is not paid for with the funds the crown so generously provided. I'd hate to have to tell His Grace that his generosity was being wasted on frivolities. Humble fare will suffice for me - no more than the daily meal of the lordling. I come with purpose, not for pleasure."

The maester nodded nervously. "Yet I trust you'd still like me to show you to your chambers?"

Jaime nodded. "And to a hot bath, if you would. The road has been long and hard and muddy and cold, and I think I can permit myself that much."

The maester nodded, and they set off through the halls of Darry, ending with his chambers. Jaime did not spend much time there, and instead allowed his companions to strip him and fill the tub as he lowered himself into the water. Pia blushed as she saw his naked flesh, and Jaime had to restrain himself as he was suddenly reminded of the lovesick young slut she had been when she'd first slipped into his bed and tried to seduce him.

Mercifully, she and all the rest left soon enough and Jaime was left alone in the water, letting his arousal slowly fade away. The prospect of so much time away from Cersei had taken it's toll on his self-control.

When he finally departed his room for the feast that night, he came dressed in fineries, though he left his whites and sword behind. His gilded hook glinted threateningly in the light of the lone hearth in the hall, it's edge still razor sharp.

"My lord!" Lady Amerei Frey greeted him, curiously alone. She was a hearty wench to look at, that he could not deny. Long legs and smooth skin and full breasts that threatened to spill out the top of her dress. Such a shame her face let her down. She might have been pretty, but she would never beautiful.

"Is there nobody else to join us?" Jaime asked.

"My poor mother is still in mourning," she said. Amerei offered him a coy smile. "In any case, I was rather under the impression that I was not allowed to spend the king's gold on such things? Those funds are meant for the fields and the keep, no?"

"Of course," Jaime agreed as he he sat himself and the food started to arrive, all in the arms of suspiciously buxom serving-girls for a keep managed by a lady. Still, the food was good, and Jaime enjoyed eating something not burned or roasted after so many days on the road, and attacked his food with gusto. He used his hook to cut his bread and meat, the edge more than sufficient for the task.

And before long, the subject turned to wolves.

"They've lost all fear in men," Lady Amerei idly said. "Packs of them just seem to attack our men randomly. We had to kill half an entire pack - a dozen of them - yesterday before the others gathered the good sense to turn tail and flee."

Jaime felt himself pale a shade, his appetite suddenly gone. He'd heard similar reports from some of his own men when he'd sent them out as scouts. Wolves watching, following, but only occasionally venturing so far as attacking. Lady Catelyn...?

"I see," he cut in. "And aside from wolves have you any issues with warriors? Outlaws?"

Lady Amerei lost her perpetually pleasant expression for a second as she scowled. "Outlaws killed my father," she said. "Lord Beric's lot it seems like. And though we lost them we got reports of a one-eyed man and a hooded woman."

Jaime steeled himself. "A woman?"

"Aye," Lady Amerei said. "The peasants would have us believe that this woman is an old one, with white eyes and a torn face. They claim it was the woman, not the man, who was handing out the orders."

Seven save us all, Jaime reflected with horror. Lady Catelyn's corpse truly does haunt these lands. Suddenly, he missed having Oathkeeper at his hip. No matter, Jaime told himself. Tommen had a plan. He's seen all this. I just need to have faith.

"Woman or man," Jaime said, feeling suddenly dizzy, "they are scoundrels all the same."

Amerei nodded. "My men have all been unsuccessful in finding those responsible for my father's fate," she said, her features almost shifting into a pretty sort of sadness. She reached over the table and reached to grip Jaime's hook. "But I'm sure you could find them, Ser Jaime," she said in a lusty tone, fluttering her lashes. "Please, my lord, I beg of you, stay and help us with Lord Beric and this woman." Her hand caressed his hook almost seductively.

Jaime cleared his throat and withdrew his hook, still feeling faintly queasy, reaching with his one remaining hand to produce the letter he had shown her maester earlier. "Much as I appreciate your proposition, Lady Amerei," he slid the letter over to her, "my place remains besides my king. Even still, I do have a proposal of my own."

Lady Amerei unfurled the letter and read it quickly. "A betrothal to your cousin Lancel?"

"Ser Lancel," Jaime reminded her. "It is a better match than most."

"Better than most," Amerei agreed. "I accept, of course. It is a great honour."

Jaime nodded as he pushed his plate away. "A great honour indeed," he said. "Be grateful you hold a seat as significant as Darry. You are very lucky. Lannister lads are typically sought after; they do not seek."

Amerei had a coy smile on her face. "Were you one of those lads, ser?"

"A long time ago," Jaime said, thinking of Cersei.

Amerei's smile grew slightly. "Oh, not as long a time ago as you think, I would wager."

"Eager to have my hand, were you?"

"Not so much your hand..." Amerei allowed her smile to slip from coy to suggestive.

"What would I tell Lancel?" Jaime asked, still outwardly calm yet growing increasingly curious and frustrated.

"Who says he need know anything?" Amerei asked in such a tone, leaning forward as though to afford him the best possible view between her breasts and down her dress. "I am not a maid in any case. You would not be despoiling anything for him. It can be our secret." The target of her touches went from his hook to his hand, caressing and stroking and massaging. "You've sworn vows of celibacy how long, my lord? I can see the effect of those oaths all over your face, in the way your eyes linger. Deny it all you like, but I can see you want me. Don't worry, I won't say so much as a word to anyone. And you can have me any way you please."

"I don't deny I desire you," Jaime said, and snatched his hand away, apprehension and unease supplanted by anger as he arose from his seat, a fresh wave of arousal tightening his breeches. "But I know better than to betray my oaths. You may not be a maid, but for Lancel's sake you will behave like one. No man other than him will you touch in that away ever again, do you understand me? You will stay as pure as the Maiden herself till he arrives from Kings Landing."

Amerei cocked her head to one side, and then nodded. "That should be no difficult thing," she said. "I've heard Lancel is a handsome one, and gallant, like you. Easy enough to wait for, even for a wench like me."

"He's better than you deserve, certainly," Jaime spat, and stormed out. Through the halls and up the steps till he was back in the chambers the maester had given him, his guards in close pursuit as he left Darry's great hall. The sheer gall of that girl! It was one thing to keep secrets for his king, but that...

Jaime shook his head, suddenly unhappy to be surrounded by stone walls and windows and shadows. He felt trapped. His arousal refused to abate. He went to the rookery and sent another message - meant in this case for his Uncle Kevan - and then returned to his room to find his urges still threatening to overpower him. And so, in a fit perhaps of madness, he sent for her.

Pia came into his room meek as a mouse, offered a deep bow, silent as she awaited his instructions.

"Look at me," Jaime commanded. Pia raised her head, and Jaime caught a glimpse of her mouth before her lips pursed. I've lost a limb and you've lost your looks, Jaime lamented. Still, at least she can close her mouth. I can hardly hide my hand, now can I? "That night you came to my bed, just after I'd lost my hand, you claimed you'd always dreamed of me. Was that true?"

Pia blushed and nodded.

"And is it still true?" Jaime asked, in a softer tone.

Pia nodded again, the hue of her cheeks reddening till her blush became a flush.

"Well," Jaime said, "now's your chance. If you truly desire me, you'll drop your dress, and stand before me completely bare, bereft of secrets."

Pia averted her eyes as she lifted her hands and undid the lacing on her brown roughspun dress before lifting her hands to her shoulders and pushing the cloth away. The dress hung briefly from her breasts, and then her hips, but before long it lay in a pool on the floor, and Pia was naked. She was still a shapely girl - with round breasts and wide hips and a pert arse - though a few of her curves had lessened with hunger, and much of her skin was still marred with splotchy, faded bruises.

The worst victim of her captivity, however, seemed her cunt. It was a mess - all swollen and bruised - and looking at it Jaime doubted if it'd ever fully mend. Her arse will be worse, Jaime knew without looking. We all had her a hunnerd times, Jaime remembered one of the men he'd been forced to behead had said after he'd been caught trying to rape her on the ride. A hunnerd each, honest! Gregor's men had seemed genuinely surprised when Jaime let his blade fall on the man's neck.

Yet the girl did not seem reserved, and instead eyed him with naked hunger, a desperation in her eyes that bordered on uncomfortable to be aware of. This was a dreadful idea, Jaime knew immediately, but he did not allow himself to be deterred. The girl was willing, and wanted him very much, and he knew he'd rather not suffer the guilt of denying her a second time, even if any desire he'd felt for her had already long since disappeared.

"On your knees, Pia," Jaime gently instructed her. The girl lowered herself to her knees without complaint and slowly crawled to him, nestling herself between his legs. She kissed his belt, and before long it was undone and his cock was buried deep in her toothless mouth.

Again, Jaime felt disgusted, but now only at himself - at what he'd become. She was so much smaller than him, so much younger. A little girl, that's all she is, Jaime suddenly thought. A little girl in a woman's body, scarred and scared. Yet Pia's tongue did not give his cock so much as a moment to wilt, and before long he had finished under the influence of her ministrations. She swirled his seed around her mouth and swallowed, before setting enthusiastically on his softening cock again, eagerly lapping up any stray drops as she committed herself to seeing it stiffen once more.

Jaime placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her away. "Do I not please you, ser?" Pia asked, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as she spoke.

"You please me plenty," Jaime said, not wanting to hurt the poor girl's feelings. "But it seems I have other matters weighing on my mind. Gather your things and go. We ride for Riverrun at dawn. Mayhap there you can find a more vital man among the soldiers, someone more suitable than I."

"But I only desire you, ser," Pia assured him. "I dream of you, all in white with your golden curls during Lord Whent's tourney, ever so gallant and brave. Allow me to please you properly, ser, even if it's only ever for one night. That's all I ask. You'll forget all your troubles once I start, I swear it."

Jaime grunted - unwilling to crush her hopes - and waved her away. Once she had dressed herself again and departed, Jaime turned to face the blade he'd set down on the bed. He pulled Oathkeeper from it's sheath, observed the swirling pattern of grey and red, ashamed at himself as he recited his vows in his mind.

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P.S. May be subject to a partial rewrite or edits in the future