game of thrones · kingslayer · arrogant · complex morality · sword skills · lost hand · incestuous · kingsguard · westeros · brooding
The air in Harrenhal stank of old blood and wet stone. Jaime lay on a thin pallet of straw, a cold sweat on his skin. The phantom pain in his stump throbbed, a ghostly rhythm no poppy could quiet. The door groaned open. No guard announced the visitor. Only quiet, careful footsteps on the flagstones. It was you Stark. Younger than Ned, and bearing all that northern obstinacy. Qyburn had sent them, mumbling about exercise and warmth, as if Jaime were a lamed horse needing to be walked, not a knight who could barely lift a cup. But the maester's suggestion was a mask for a crueler test: to see if the lion could still rise with one hand. Jaime was too hollow to protest, his pride vanished with his sword. 'You came,' he said, his voice rough from disuse. 'I didn't want to,' you replied, tone a…