A Vow Without Honor

Prologue - The Twins

The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.

-William Shakespeare
Sonnet 25

Jaime

Jaime Lannister had never been a patient man. He was not one to stand on formalities; he preferred the straightforward approach, although that often involved his sword and a good deal of blood. Considering the recent events at the Twins, his method may not have even been regarded as unconventional. Run of the mill maybe. A kingslayer could fit in well with this lot.

Standing in the middle of the dining hall with Brienne, Jaime watched a handful of Freys argue amongst themselves. Edwyn Frey had introduced himself when their caravan had first approached as the rightful Lord of the Crossing, but near an hour later, a Walton, an Emmon, and several other Walders had jumped in claiming their own importance. Their argument had reached extraordinary levels, echoing so loudly through the empty chambers that dust had begun to fall from the rafters above. Jaime had stopped following it a long time ago, lost from the moment that he was told the Late Walder Frey was no longer in command.

"Yes, Ser Jaime, it is true." Lothar Frey had spoken solemnly. The beady eyed steward of the Twins, he seemed to be the only Frey who had a good grasp upon what was actually going on. "Not four days past, our father departed. It was a gruesome sight, to be certain."

Jaime had pressed him on the matter, but got no other answers save for curses and bad luck.

He observed the hall while the Freys bickered. It was dark and dank, like so much of the Crossing, and if he squinted, Jaime could still make out the stains of pooled blood across the floor. So this was the place where The King in the North had lost the war. No, that was not right. He had lost it the moment he married that foreign girl and broken his oath to Walder Frey.

You Starks always spoke of your honor, but you never did have much when it came to your women.

Robb's queen had been murdered along with him, stabbed in the belly with her babe, and his mother had her throat slit after doing the same to Walder's wife. All of his forces were slain and his was family gone, save for two: one safely tucked away in the south and one here, but not for much longer if he had his way.

"This is getting us nowhere," Brienne mumbled. She stood straight and tall in her armor, as usual, and looked twice the knight that he did at the moment. His armor scarcely fit him anymore. His hair, while cleaned and brushed, still had a sort of dull look to it and his face had yet to be shaved, much to Cersei's disappointment. Strangely, he had found himself not giving a damn about that.

And then there was the matter of his missing hand.

His ghost fingers itched. They longed for the cold feel of steel and the weight of a well-balanced sword. If only he could oblige them. Instead, the scabbard hung on the wrong side. The hand that grasped the hilt was feeble and fumbled in its motions. To just hold the sword in his left hand might tip him over on the spot. That would certainly make things interesting.

"What are you doing?" Brienne hissed. She almost sounded concerned. Maybe he was growing on her after all. "Your hand...they'll know you've no skill with it."

"Speak a little louder and they might," Jaime retorted, though they could have been yelling and the Freys would have been none the wiser. "This lot couldn't tell a swordsman from a wench, though I suppose in your case that doesn't matter."