On the hill stood a stone fortress. As the twilight sky burned red, Lannister Jaime gazed up at it from horseback. Eldwin Fortress. Twelve days of hard riding from King's Landing. A small, shabby stronghold wedged deep into the western highlands. (So I've come all the way out here.) A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. Once, he had walked the halls of the Red Keep with easy grace—the King's Shield, a title given only to the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Now that same man was hiding in a remote outpost on the frontier. It was almost funny, he thought. If only he could actually laugh about it, perhaps the weight would lift a little. As the horse crested the slope, the fortress gates came into view. Thick stone walls, a rusted iron gate. Beyond them stretched only sparse woodland and rolling hills, with the thin glimmer of the Treva River visible to the south. Six hundred kilometers from King's Landing. He'd thought that distance might finally let him breathe. "Who goes there?" The gatekeeper's voice cut across the distance. Jaime pulled the reins and brought his horse to a halt. He raised his right hand—the golden prosthetic—slowly, letting his face be seen. "[cold]Lannister Jaime," A moment of silence. The gatekeeper's face went rigid. A young soldier beside him exchanged a glance with another. That soldier quickly looked away, fixing his gaze on some distant point along the stone wall. From beyond the gate, Jaime could see several more soldiers peering out. Whispers passed between them. Lannister. Kingslayer. The golden hand. (News travels fast. Faster than I thought.) Jaime said nothing and urged his horse forward. The gate groaned open. Every soldier he passed deliberately averted their eyes, stepping aside. Not one of them met his gaze directly. In the fortress courtyard, as he dismounted, Jaime took stock of his surroundings. The stone walls enclosed roughly four hundred meters. Two residential buildings, one barracks, stables, and a smithy. A cramped space. The world after the War of the Five Kings was exhausted everywhere, and Eldwin was no exception. The walls bore the scars of hasty repairs. The soldiers' faces carried the weariness of prolonged conflict. A middle-aged man who appeared to be the second-in-command approached. "[serious]Lord Lannister... we've been expecting your arrival," There was a faint stiffness at the edges of his words. "[sarcastic]You don't look very welcoming, but never mind. Prepare a room for me," The second-in-command pressed his lips together once, then nodded. Behind him, young soldiers murmured among themselves. "That's the Kingslayer, isn't it?" "Is it really him?" "Did you see the golden hand?" Jaime heard every word. He heard it all. But his expression didn't change. --- The eastern tower, second floor. He was shown to the commander's quarters. After setting down his belongings, Jaime walked to the window. He placed his right hand—the golden prosthetic—against the stone frame, expecting to feel... but there was nothing. Only the sensation of metal touching stone. No warmth, no texture transmitted through it. (That's right. I can't feel anything anymore.) He looked out. Beneath the twilight sky, the thin ribbon of the Treva River was visible. Willows grew thick along its banks, swaying in the wind. Gentle hills rolled on, beyond them sparse woodland. In the distance, the sky had taken on a grayish hue. Winter was coming. Frost would already be falling in the mornings and evenings. A quiet place, Jaime thought. The opposite of King's Landing. That city was always loud. Hoofbeats, human screams, the whispered schemes of intrigue. Walking the halls of the Red Keep, someone was always plotting something. Cersei too. The moment her name surfaced in his mind, Jaime pulled his hand away from the window frame. He'd run. That was the polite way to phrase it, but the truth was simpler—he'd fled. From his twin sister, from those golden eyes, from the voice that said "you belong to me." But he knew better than anyone that running was pointless. He'd already heard the rumors. Varg's Fangs had come to the fortress. Cersei's mercenaries. A band of about eighty men, the kind who moved for two thousand gold dragons. Officially, they were here to maintain order in the western territories. In reality, they were Cersei's eyes and ears. Wherever he ran, her threads followed. Like a spider's web. The more he struggled, the more entangled he became. (Well, it doesn't matter.) Jaime settled into a chair in the room. He hesitated for a moment about removing the prosthetic, then decided against it. It would be easier to keep it on if he went to the dining hall. More precisely, not wearing it would invite more questions. The golden hand was conspicuous, but its absence was even more so. A bird called outside the window. Wind came from the direction of the river, carrying the sound of rustling leaves. Jaime simply listened to it for a while. --- Night fell. The tavern occupied one corner of the fortress. It was called the Hoarse Voice Inn. The only place of respite in the stronghold, doubling as a dining hall, it filled with soldiers as darkness came. When Jaime pushed open the door, the smell of hearth smoke and mead wafted out thick and warm. Nearly twenty people were crammed into a space meant for thirty. Behind the counter stood Freda, the proprietor. A large woman. In her fifties, easily over a hundred kilograms. But her movements were quick and efficient. She hoisted three tankards at once with her thick arms while bellowing something at the soldiers, who laughed and brushed off her tirade with practiced ease. Short gray hair streaked with white, a ruddy face creased with deep laugh lines. Jaime found himself thinking that this woman was the fortress's true ruler. He sat at the end of the counter. Freda leaned in close immediately. "[serious]Mead suit you, young master?" "[sarcastic]I'm past the age of being called young master," "[laughing]In this fortress, anyone younger than me is young master," Freda laughed and set down a tankard with a heavy thunk—three copper pieces' worth. The sweet scent of mead tickled his nose. Jaime felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. From the neighboring table, soldiers' voices drifted over. The conversation reached his ears naturally. "...They say more bandits have appeared deep in the Ash Forest." "Remnants from the War of the Five Kings, probably. Soldiers who lost their livelihoods, fled to the mountains, turned to banditry." "But what about those mercenaries? Varg's Fangs or whatever they're called—they've been at the fortress for two weeks now, and they won't say a word about their mission." "Too scared to ask. Their eyes are different." (Varg's Fangs.) Jaime lifted the tankard. With his right hand. With the golden prosthetic. He thought he'd gripped it firmly. But in the next instant, his hand slipped. The tankard fell. Mead spilled across the table, the sweet liquid spreading. It dripped down the counter and onto the floor. The tavern went silent. Just one second. But in that one second, everyone noticed. And everyone noticed that everyone had noticed. And everyone deliberately looked away, as if they'd seen nothing. No one laughed. No one spoke. No one continued their conversation. Only silence remained. In that silence lived both pity and contempt. Jaime received both. He didn't want to feel them, but he did anyway. (Ah. So this is how they all see me.) The finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. The King's Shield. The pride of House Lannister. He'd felt those titles peeling away, one by one, for a long time now. Even if he polished his blade, his hands could barely hold it. The golden prosthetic looked impressive enough, but it was heavy, unwieldy, and transmitted no sensation at all. Jaime formed a thin smile. He stood and slammed three copper pieces onto the counter. The sharp metallic ring echoed through the room. "[cold]Thank you for the drink," Freda started to say something. But Jaime was already moving toward the door. Just before he reached it, Freda's voice dropped to a whisper. "[whispers]Wait a moment, young master," Jaime stopped. He didn't turn around, just waited. Freda hurried over and leaned close, her voice barely audible. "[whispers]Those mercenaries, Varg's Fangs—they're watching someone. I can tell. For two weeks straight, they've been tracking the same person's movements," A beat of silence. "[sarcastic]That sounds troublesome," "[serious]...It's you, young master," Jaime didn't answer. He pushed open the door and stepped outside. --- The night air was cold. A sharp chill cut into his lungs, and Jaime found himself breathing deeply. A night when frost would soon fall. The fortress's stone courtyard gleamed white in the moonlight. Looking up at the sky, stars were scattered thickly across it. He could see so many stars only because he was far from King's Landing. That city was always shrouded in smoke and light, the night sky obscured. Jaime stood there for a while, watching the stars. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular. He simply didn't want to move. (Varg's Fangs are watching me.) He'd known that already. Before Freda told him, he'd known. Cersei pursued him endlessly. Two thousand gold dragons' worth of mercenaries, sent all the way to this remote fortress on the frontier. It wasn't funny. Then he noticed something near the watchtower. A stone structure about eighteen meters high. In the moonlight, something was moving outside the tower. A figure. Tall. Even for a man, the build was substantial. But the movement was strange. Not crude. Rather, refined. Each time the sword moved, the sound of it cutting through the night air carried far. Shuu, shuu—a rhythmic sound. Practicing forms. Alone. At this hour. (Who is that?) Jaime took a half-step forward. Then stopped. (It's none of my concern.) He told himself that. What training the fortress's soldiers did was irrelevant to him. Tomorrow he could have his sword adjusted, and after that he'd simply stay quiet. Even if he'd received Freda's whispered warning, there was nothing to do with it. If he was being watched, then he was being watched. Jaime turned toward his quarters and began walking. Moonlight illuminated the stone courtyard. Cold wind swept across the hilltop, and somewhere leaves rustled. Beyond the fortress walls was darkness, and what lay past the sparse woodland was invisible. The road back to King's Landing was eight kilometers south, beyond the Treva River crossing. Far away. Everything was far away. As he climbed the stairs, he still heard the sword sounds. Shuu, shuu, continuing in steady rhythm. The tall figure in the moonlight clung to the edge of his awareness, refusing to fade. He opened the door to his quarters and stepped inside. He closed the door. Silence. Jaime looked out the window at the sky. The stars were still there. In the direction of the Treva River, he could faintly see the willow trees swaying in the wind. This fortress was confining. Narrow, isolated, watched. But tonight, at least, it was far quieter than King's Landing. He removed the prosthetic hand and set it on the table. The gold caught the moonlight and cast a faint glow across the room. Jaime stared at that light for a long time.