At first, Cersei tried to change my mind, insisting that the Kettleblacks were loyal and reliable men. When that failed, she moved on to further accusations, claiming that the Tyrells had won me over and that I would now dance to whatever tune they played.
In short, we quarreled. Cersei's political short-sightedness had begun to genuinely irritate me. Of course, it was easy for me to reason—I knew the canon, I understood who was who and how events were supposed to unfold. And yet, despite this knowledge, the world itself remained new and unfamiliar to me.
Cersei, on the other hand, had lived here since birth. She should have grasped many things intuitively. And yet she made mistake after mistake! It was little wonder that without Tywin, Kevan, Tyrion, and the backing of the Tyrells, she had ultimately dug her own grave.
Cersei never succeeded in persuading me. And so, one vacancy remained in the Kingsguard. I resolved to fill it with a truly worthy knight—not another nobody elevated by favor alone.
Jaime, to whom I recounted the entire affair, approved of my reasoning without reservation. And when I asked him to consider possible candidates, he agreed readily.
***
Our army marched out through the city. Common folk waved their hands and, to my surprise, shouted my name. The guards pressed them back from the road, but I was pleased to see that this was done not out of fear for the king's safety, but simply to keep the way clear.
"They're giving us quite the send-off, aren't they, Uncle Jaime?"
"You'll be even more surprised by the welcome when we return—especially if we come back victorious," he chuckled. "The crowd always loves a good show."
The days passed one after another. We advanced at a measured pace—Jaime was careful to preserve the strength of both men and horses—but even so, the miles steadily fell behind us.
We traveled along the Kingsroad, the great artery linking King's Landing with Winterfell and the Wall.
As I studied the road itself—the pavement, the shoulders, the slopes—I realized that no one truly cared for roads here. The Kingsroad resembled a glorified dirt track rather than a proper highway: mud, puddles, and heaps of manure lay everywhere.
In places where streams or rain-swollen torrents descended from the hills, the road had been completely washed away. The farther we moved from the capital, the more frequently we encountered broken and abandoned carts, scattered debris, and the corpses of horses or stray dogs by the roadside. I could not tell whether this was an echo of the recent war—or whether the Kingsroad had always looked like this?
To be honest, I had long believed that if one were to restore the economy of Westeros, roads should be among the very first priorities—the foundation of trade and swift troop movement.
Now, seeing the pitiful, and in some places utterly ruined, condition of the Kingsroad with my own eyes, I understood that once the war ended, this issue would be among the first to demand attention.
Somewhere far to the north—we still had a long way to go—the Kingsroad crossed the River Road and the High Road. This place, known as the Crossroads, lay near the Trident. There we would have to turn sharply westward.
Another drawback revealed itself: there was no direct road to Riverrun. Instead, we were forced into a wide detour, losing precious time.
Yet every hardship had its advantages. And I discovered them soon enough—sleeping beneath the open sky, the scent of campfires and cooking food, star-filled nights, and the soldiers' coarse jokes all combined to create a unique, indescribable atmosphere. More than that, I was coming to know my kingdom—its lands and its people—while observing the everyday lives of ordinary folk.
And those livese, the life of peasants and artisans, could only be described as miserable. Crude huts with trampled earth instead of floors, roofs made from bundled reeds or wood shingles. Windows held pieces of mica—if the household was wealthy. If not, cow bladders served instead. Some homes were built of stone and naturally looked better, as did the inns and taverns along the road. Together with the castles of knights, they created the illusion that Westeros was not doing so poorly.
But when one looked at the root of the matter, it became painfully clear: the common people lived in poverty.
One night, we lodged at the The Knight and the Maiden inn. After a hearty meal and a wash in large tubs of hot water, we stretched out on neighboring beds, preparing for sleep. Jaime, feeling talkative, began recounting Robert's Rebellion from the perspective of House Lannister and the Kingsguard.
A knock sounded at the door.
Ser Balon Swann, who had been assigned as my guard during the journey, entered.
With him was an unusual fellow—an unkempt, filthy fisherman reeking of mud. His name was Tos, and he fished on the shores of the Gods Eye. He had come to the inn to purchase something, and now he shared some interesting facts. It turned out that part of the band once known as the Brave Companions had recently camped by the lakeshore. According to Tos, there were around forty of them, and they were heading somewhere to the south.
Upon hearing this news, Jaime instantly woke up. He crouched like a predator, and my gaze involuntarily flicked to his golden hand—it had been the Brave Companions who had taken his sword arm.
Jaime looked at me in silence. Fire danced in his eyes, and a slow, smoldering thirst for vengeance took shape there. I did not need words to understand him. I simply nodded.
"Tomorrow we ride there, Ser Jaime. I'm coming with you."
"Thank you," he said, inclining his head. He dressed quickly and strode out at once, intent on choosing men and issuing orders.
(End of Chapter)
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