A detachment of five hundred men rode out for the Gods Eye, all mounted. We reached the lakeshore in a single day's march.
That night, we made camp amid the ruins of Whitewalls Castle. Once, it had been a place of great beauty. The stone used in its construction had been brought from the Vale of Arryn, and only pale, milky-white materials had been chosen. The castle had belonged to House Butterwell. In its day, the family was powerful, and its lord, Ambrose Butterwell, had even served as the Hand of the King of Daeron II the Good.
Jaime told me all this, and I was surprised to discover how well he knew such details of history.
Now, the ruins of Whitewalls were a somber and instructive sight—a testament to the fleeting nature of earthly glory. Crumbling walls, rotted wooden floors, scorch marks on stone. Ivy crept across the masonry, honeysuckle and elderberry choked the courtyards, and young fir trees and grass pushed through the rubble.
Wrapped in a thick cloak, I lay on a blanket near the fire, a saddle beneath my head, watching the strange, flickering dance of the flames. Thoughts crowded my mind. This was how we all lived—climbing upward, shoving others aside, committing deeds we would rather not remember. Then, when our strength finally failed us, we stumbled and fell. What remained behind were only ruins overgrown with brush. The rare travelers who wander into such places cast a fleeting glance at them and are lucky if they remember who these stones once belonged to…
The following day, our scouts led us to the Brave Companions. I don't know, perhaps they had once been a respectable mercenary company, summoned from the Free Cities by Tywin Lannister, but now they had degenerated into a band of common marauders and cutthroats.
Defeating them proved no challenge. Our cavalry tore through them like a sickle through wheat. I took part in my first battle on Westerosi soil, though only nominally. Jaime assigned several men to stay close to me, and while I rode with the rest—and even drew my sword for some reason—I never truly engaged in the fighting.
The Brave Companions were almost entirely wiped out. Only four men survived.
They now knelt frightened before Jaime, myself, and the guards, their hands bound behind their backs. Their knees sank into cold, half-liquid mud, though I doubted they felt it at all.
Our men had already questioned them. As it turned out, not long ago the Brave Companions had split up. One group, led by Urswyck the Faithful, had gone south. Their plan had been to reach Oldtown, charter a ship, and return to Essos.
Urswyck himself—much to Jaime's regret—had been killed during the fight. But Zollo survived. Fat Zollo, a Dothraki as massive as he was dim-witted. He was the one who had cut off Jaime Lannister's hand.
Jaime, clad in sumptuous, gold-spangled armor and a snow-white Kingsguard cloak, paced slowly before the prisoners. Mud squelched beneath his boots.
"The Lannisters always pay their debts," he said calmly. "But interest has accrued over time. So, cut off both of their arms at the elbow and send them on their way. All except that one," he added, nodding toward Zollo. "Cut off his hands at the elbow and his legs at the knee. Stop the bleeding, bind the wounds, and hang him in a cage from a tree. Let the boy live a little longer—starvation will do him good!"
Zollo's black, sweat-slicked face turned gray, as if dusted with ash. The huge man trembled, tried to throw himself at Jaime's feet, and croaked out a plea.
"Mercy, my lord," he howled—a sound filled with terror and despair.
One of the soldiers kicked him squarely in the face. Zollo fell silent at once, and only blood dripping onto the mud.
The soldiers moved quickly. They dragged the prisoners to the nearest stump. Shrieks filled the air, followed by the dull, wet thuds of axes. When it was over, the maimed mercenaries were kicked aside, not caring in the least how they were going to stop the bleeding or survive.
Then they turned to Zollo. His scream was wild and inhuman, sending birds shrieking into the air and echoing for a long time across the empty shores of the Gods Eye.
I looked at Jaime but said nothing. Westeros was cruel, and I had always known it.
The execution complete, Jaime and I stepped away. We stood on a small rise among the trees, with Herald Orm and the guards behind us. At our feet lay a sandy drop-off, tree roots jutting from the earth like twisted, ugly hands. Mud-streaked stones broke the surface of the water below.
The wind blew straight into our faces, whipping up fine, leaden waves. Leaves rustled darkly behind us. Everything spoke of rain soon to come.
This body possessed perfect vision, yet even so, it strained to make out the isle of Faces—it was so far away. From here, it looked no more than a thin line on the endless horizon of water.
I followed the flight of a lone gull. At times, battling the wind, it seemed almost to hang motionless in the air. Then, suddenly, a premonition struck me—clear and undeniable, like a king's duty made manifest. In a flash of insight, I understood what I had to do next…
"I have to go there."
"Where?" Jaime asked. The wind tugged at his cloak. He stood with his legs braced apart, his left hand resting on his belt.
There was peace in his eyes—a calm I had never seen before. It was as if he had finally paid his debts, shed the weight of responsibility, bid farewell to the past, and now stood detached and even serene.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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