The day they departed Harrenhal once more was gripped by a biting chill. Overhead, the clouds hung heavy and black, like a suit of rusted plate long denied oil or care. No one could say when the skies would break.
A man in a plain black robe, lacking the chain of a Maester but bearing the stooped posture of a scholar, rode a nag suited to his station. He leaned toward the gaunt knight beside him, his voice thick with oily flattery. "My Lord, I suggest we halt and find high ground to camp. The rain is coming. If your stump becomes damp, the rot will return, and your recovery will stall."
The old man was tall, his blue eyes bulging beneath a network of wrinkles. His hair was more grey than white, and a permanent, gentle smile sat upon his lips, giving him the look of a grandfather beloved by little girls.
"And if I stay dry, will my hand grow back? Hmph—let me know when you can manage that, and I'll consider your advice. Qyburn, keeping me whole is your task. Find a way."
The knight who answered was tall and skeletal, his face buried beneath a thick, unkempt beard. Golden hair, now shot through with silver, hung in a matted tangle about his shoulders. With his pale skin, sunken cheeks, and hollow eyes, he looked like a man of forty years who had lived through a hundred. Yet, beneath the grime, the bones of a legendary beauty remained—the kind of face that had once made every woman in the Seven Kingdoms catch her breath.
"Lord Jaime, your health is my sacred duty," Qyburn explained smoothly. "But it is my obligation to warn the patient. If you ignore my counsel and the inflammation worsens, the putrefaction will climb. I will have no choice but to take more of the arm."
"Enough," Jaime Lannister said, waving a hand in disgust. "Do not speak of it."
At Harrenhal, that sullen bastard Roose Bolton had tasked Qyburn with treating the ruin Vargo Hoat had left of Jaime's wrist. Qyburn had offered milk of the poppy, but Jaime had refused. He was terrified that if he slept, he would wake to find the rest of his arm gone. He had chosen raw spirits instead.
When the knife had finally come for the rotted flesh, the alcohol had been a joke. Jaime had screamed until his throat was raw, hammering the table with his good hand, again and again. Qyburn had poured boiling wine over the raw nerves. Jaime had blacked out, despite his vows of steel. When he woke, the scholar was stitching the skin with a needle and catgut. "I left just enough," Qyburn had whispered, "to cover the joint."
The memory was so vivid that Jaime felt a phantom itch in fingers that were no longer there. Sick of the man's company, he spurred his horse to the front of the column.
A round-faced, skinny Northman named Nage held a peace banner high, leading the way for Steelshanks Walton. The banner was a rainbow of seven long tails atop a staff crowned with a seven-pointed star—a desperate plea for safe passage.
"Walton," Jaime said, pulling up behind the banner. "It's going to rain. Find a hole for us. Qyburn's threatening to cut more meat if I get wet, and I'm rather fond of what's left."
Walton looked at the sky, his brow furrowed. "The South is a swamp. I don't know how you Rivermen breathe. The only shelter nearby is an abandoned village we passed on the way in. Last time, you said you hated the look of it."
Jaime shrugged, a movement that sent a sharp needle of pain through his wrist and twisted his forced smile into a grimace. "I still hate it. but a man grown can't always live by his whims. Take us there. Gods, it hurts."
He turned back to the rear of the column to find Brienne. Three days ago, he had forced Walton to turn the horses back to Harrenhal to pull her from the bear pit. He didn't regret saving her from Vargo Hoat's "entertainment," but her attitude was a constant irritant.
Why did I bother? She is the most miserable, stubborn, ill-favored companion I've ever had.
The "Wenching Knight" rode several paces behind the others, as if to declare she was not part of their company. Along the road, they had pieced together a man's wardrobe for her—a rough coat, breeches, and a heavy iron breastplate. In men's clothes, she looked almost natural, but no finery in the world could make her graceful or happy.
"Return my sword and armor," she had insisted the moment they cleared the gates.
"Oh, aye, we'll get you back into your tin," Jaime had snapped. "Especially the helm. Once you close that visor and shut your mouth, we'll all be at peace."
She had obeyed, but her brooding silence was as taxing as Qyburn's fawning. I actually miss Cleos Frey, Jaime thought. Heavens, help me.
He rode up beside her. "Hey, wench. It's going to rain. Can you see that with those big eyes?"
Brienne lifted her visor, her brow hooked in a scowl. "My name is Brienne, Ser Jaime! I am grateful for the rescue, but I am no one's wench."
"Of course, wench. Whatever you say, wench." Jaime felt a spark of his old self as her face reddened with fury. "We're camping in a ruin. Sleeping by a fire is one thing; sleeping in a downpour is another. My tent has room, if you can stomach the company."
Brienne said nothing. Jaime sighed and rode away. He could tell her he had no interest in her scarred skin, but it would only make things worse. She'll likely shiver in the mud all night just to prove a point, he thought. Stubborn as a cow.
The column of two hundred Northmen wound its way into the abandoned village. Jaime remembered this place. He'd had a cup of wine in the inn here once; a dark-eyed girl had brought him apples and cheese, and the innkeeper had bowed so low his nose nearly hit the floor.
"A member of the Kingsguard under my roof is an honor for my grandsons, Ser," the man had beamed.
The peace was a ghost now. The inn was a blackened shell, the fields choked with waist-high weeds. Walton had planned to water the horses here, but as they crested the hill, both men froze.
The village was no longer empty.
A wall of fresh-cut logs had been raised around the ruins. Inside the perimeter, neat rows of marching tents stood in perfect alignment. Jaime felt his pulse quicken. This wasn't a rabble of "broken men." This was a camp built by someone who knew the weight of a spade.
"Walton, what do you see?" Jaime asked.
Walton counted the tents. "Three hundred men, maybe more. If they're hostile, we're too deep to run. If not, we pass through. I'll talk to them."
"I'm coming with you," Jaime said.
As they approached, the camp came alive. The movement was silent and surgical. Squads of ten men emerged from the gate, covering each other as they formed a line on the open ground. They held pikes with a stillness that put a cold weight in Jaime's stomach.
Walton reined in his horse at a safe distance. "I am Walton, captain of the guard to Lord Roose Bolton! Under whose banner do you camp?"
A rider emerged from the golden-brown ranks. He sat atop a massive black destrier, clad in polished gold-and-crimson plate. He held a long pike in his right hand, the tip glinting even in the dull light.
"I am Aldric, Lightbringer of the Golden Dawn," the knight called out. He pulled off his helm, revealing a face Jaime knew. "Why do you creep around my gates, Northmen?"
Walton blinked, then slapped his thigh. "Captain Aldric! Ha! Remember the brat in Winterfell who stabbed the Cerwyn soldier? My nephew. If you hadn't mended that boy, my kin would have been short a head. I thought you went West with the King. What are you doing in the mud of the Gods Eye?"
Aldric offered a faint, acknowledging nod. "I left the King's service after Oxcross. Now, I serve the lords of the lake. We train the peace and hunt the wolves."
Jaime Lannister stared. This was the sellsword from Winterfell—the "Spider-Slayer." He remembered Tyrion stopping their duel, claiming a Kingsguard shouldn't soil his white cloak on a mercenary. Instead, they'd sent the Hound. Aldric had laid Sandor Clegane out in a few heartbeats. The memory was a sharp, uncomfortable thorn in Jaime's pride.
"And you, Walton?" Aldric asked. "I heard Lord Bolton held Harrenhal. Why is his captain wandering the woods with a peace banner?"
"Peace is the word," Walton said, gesturing to the tails. "I carry a message for Lord Tywin in the capital. We talk of prisoner exchanges."
Aldric's gaze shifted to Jaime, then back to Walton. "Then we have no quarrel."
"None," Walton agreed. "But the rain is coming. We seek a place to rest."
The village had a clear stream and a standing mill—the best ground for leagues. If they missed it, they'd be soaked to the bone before midnight.
Aldric looked at the Northmen, then at the skeletal, bearded figure of the Kingslayer. He remembered his time in the North with a flicker of nostalgia. "We hold this ground as hosts," Aldric said. "We have bread, salt, and ale. Will you take it?"
Walton's eyes brightened. To be treated as a guest was the best possible outcome. "We would be honored."
An orderly brought out thick slices of dark bread, dusted with a fine layer of grey salt. A skin of wine followed. Walton tore off a hunk, ate it, and passed the rest to Jaime. Jaime didn't hesitate; he stuffed the bread into his mouth and washed the dry crust down with a mouthful of sour red wine.
In Westeros, the Guest Right was sacred. Aldric didn't fully trust the superstition, but he knew the power of the theater. Once the salt and bread were taken, the tension evaporated. These were the men who were leaving the Riverlands, after all. The atrocities of the Mummers were, by common consent, blamed on the Lions.
Walton ordered his men to camp a hundred yards from the Dawn's perimeter. Many of his men were nursing old wounds; the chance to be near the man they called "Lightbringer" was a mercy they hadn't expected.
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