We decided to visit Harrenhal, even though it lay off the Kingsroad. I wanted to see this gigantic fortress for myself, and Jaime wished to learn the latest news from the garrison.
Ser Bonifer Hasty greeted us amid the ruins of Harrenhal. Those who respected him called him the Shepherd. Others—Jaime among them—preferred a different name: the Crooked-Legged Gallop.
Ser Hasty commanded the Holy Hundred cavalry. They had once fought for Stannis and taken part in the Battle of the Blackwater on his side, where they lost fourteen men. After their defeat, they reconsidered their loyalties and swore fealty to Joffrey—yet another argument in favor of forgiving Edmure Tully, just like Ser Hasty.
All the knights of the Holy Hundred bore the nickname "pietists" and rode beautiful, tall gray geldings. I was struck not only by the fact that, under Ser Hasty's command, they clearly knew discipline firsthand, but also by how closely they embodied the ideal of knighthood: men who cared about honor, protected the weak, and aided the infirm. In times such as these, such people—and such ideals—were worth a great deal.
Jaime continued to surprise me. It turned out he knew quite a lot about these men. Upon joining the Holy Hundred, each knight swore an oath not to steal, lie, rape, or succumb to vanity.
I listened to my father and could not wrap my head around it. Given the realities of Westeros, it all seemed utterly impossible. Where—where did such people come from, in this cruel age and this two-faced world?
Ser Hasty was short, bowlegged like a lifelong cavalryman, with a shock of gray hair, a thick mustache, and a scar beneath his left eye. He looked weather-beaten, worn down by life itself. He had a reputation as a hard man with an iron will, one who observed all the commandments of the Seven.
The castle itself made a profoundly depressing impression on me. Its five immense towers—the Tower of Dread, the Widow's Tower, the Wailing Tower, the Tower of Ghosts, and the Kingspyre Tower—seemed impossibly tall and grim. Melted by dragonfire three centuries ago, they had never truly been repaired. Now they resembled black, twisted fingers clawing at the cold, overcast sky. The wind howled through the ruins, and somewhere deep in the forest a wolf answered it with a mournful cry. A light but unpleasant cold rain fell steadily. Perhaps that, too, colored my view and judgment of Harrenhal.
While Jaime was occupied settling the men, Ser Hasty was kind enough to give me a brief tour. He spoke of the towers, the fortifications, and the castle's long and bloody history. I did not especially enjoy it, yet I could not help but be amazed by the sheer scale of the construction and the enormous sums that must have been poured into it.
In addition, according to rumor, the castle was cursed and brought ruin to all who claimed it.
I knew nothing of curses, but I was firmly convinced that such toys were of no use to Littlefinger.
As I walked the castle and listened to Ser Hasty, a thought slowly took shape in my mind. Before me stood warriors who could serve not only as my men, but as the foundation of something greater than a mere personal guard. The Holy Hundred could lift the fallen banner of honor and dignity from the dust and remind the realm what a true knight ought to be. They could become a symbol of a new era…
The army rested at Harrenhal for three days. During that time, with the help of Jaime and Orm, I gathered every scrap of information I could about the Holy Hundred. And the more I learned, the more I came to like my own idea.
Every evening since the beginning of our journey, Jaime had been teaching me how to fight. At Harrenhal, whenever he found a free moment, he drove me to exhaustion without mercy.
His technique differed greatly from what Herald had shown me. It was more versatile, more fluid—and, as one might expect, far more effective. Jaime masterfully blended defense and attack, strength and agility, adapting constantly to the situation: confusing an opponent, wearing him down, or ending the fight outright with one or two powerful, lethal blows. His movements followed no obvious patterns or fixed combinations. He might fight one duel in a certain style and the next in an entirely different one. This made him exceedingly difficult to read, predict, or catch off guard—at least for me. He could taunt or provoke his opponent while remaining perfectly calm. He could fight in complete silence. At times, it seemed to me that Jaime was capable of anything. Even with his left hand, not yet fully returned to its former strength, he managed to perform feats beyond the reach of many, many knights. It all looked simply incredible!
On the evening of the second day, I summoned Ser Hasty to my tent and offered him—and the entire Holy Hundred—entry into the personal service of the king.
"It is a great honor for me, Your Majesty," Ser Hasty replied, scarcely hesitating.
The following morning, all his men came forward to swear their oaths to me. The only exceptions were three knights who, for personal reasons, did not wish to serve in the king's army. They were formally dismissed from the ranks and sent away.
In the vast courtyard of Harrenhal, the "pietists" knelt as one and swore fealty to King Joffrey. That day, the weather finally cleared; the clouds broke apart, though the wind remained sharp. Banners snapped in the gusts, and the words of the solemn oath echoed across the ruined stones.