Now he was a pitiful sight—so pitiful that even a pimply squire could disarm him, let alone a real fighter. He was listed as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a Valyrian steel sword hung at his belt—but he wielded that sword as if he were ten or twelve years old again.
Not long ago, he still harbored illusions about his fitness. Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the Gold Cloaks, had sparred with him—and beaten him as no one ever had before. His whole body ached, every muscle screamed. Yet what hurt most was not the bruises, but his wounded pride—the pride of a Lannister, a Kingslayer, once one of the finest swordsmen in Westeros.
He was now commander of the Kingsguard, yet at the same time its weakest knight—fortunately, few knew it. Jaime prayed earnestly to the Seven that Ser Addam would not go boasting through the castle about how he had trounced him like a snot-nosed puppy.
His own sister—and lover— Cersei, also caused him many problems.
For some incomprehensible womanly reason, Cersei had decided that he'd been away too long, that he'd let her down, that too much had changed—and that now he must beg her forgiveness.
Seven hells, what for? She acted as if he had spent all this time fucked whores and drank wine, instead of rotting in a stinking pit with his severed hand hanging from his neck! During their separation, he had seen Cersei in his dreams almost every night, traveled countless miles to return specifically to her, and endured more suffering and hardship than ever before. He had suffered, half-rotted alive, and dreamed only of her—
—and now Cersei decided to be offended and show her temper! It was time for her to behave more modestly and realized that her cunt wasn't the most precious treasure in the whole wide world—though he needed not just her body, but her laughter, her presence, the sense of unity that bound them as one.
Since Robert's death, she had changed—markedly, and not for the better. Jaime loved his sister, but he had to admit that at times she could get even on her own twin brother's nerves.
Now he sat at the Lord Commander's table in the White Sword Tower, sipping wine from a cup and brooding darkly about the rabble that had joined this very Kingsguard in recent years. Before him lay the open White Book—the great chronicle of the Kingsguard, recording the deeds of every knight ever honored to wear the white cloak.
Jaime pushed the heavy tome aside so as not to spill his wine on it. In a strange way, it stirred something new within him—thoughts and feelings he had never known before. The White Book seemed to awaken something in his soul, something he hadn't even suspected was there…
The previous commanders, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, was probably turning in his grave; and his successor, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, had likely fallen into despair at the sight of what his brothers and their ideals had become.
By tradition established by the first Targaryens, there had always been seven knights in the Kingsguard, including their leader. And now there were seven once again: himself, Meryn Trant, Arys Oakheart, Balon Swann, Osmund Kettleblack, Loras Tyrell, and Boros Blount.
But truth be told, some of these so-called knights were not merely unworthy of such an order—they would scarcely find a place among the household guards of minor lords.
"Damn empty-headed fools," Jaime muttered through clenched teeth. How can he knock all the crap out of these men and make them worth anything at all?
Take Boros Blount, for instance—a cowardly glutton and pompous fool. To call him a knight was generous beyond reason, and his martial skill left much to be desired. The others called him Fatso or Snorer. Robert Baratheon himself had appointed him to the Kingsguard—gods only knew why. Not long ago, he had been dismissed for cowardice, only to be reinstated later, for reasons equally mysterious. Utter folly, in Jaime's view. The man would be better off in the kitchens; the most he could be trusted to guard was the royal supper.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack, on the other hand, was tall, strong, and fierce. That, however, was the end of his virtues—save for his blind devotion to Cersei. He had once served as a sellsword among a band calling themselves the Brave Companions somewhere in the Free Cities, and there, for reasons unknown and by whom, he was knighted. He also completely lacked moral principles, but he did have two brothers—just as loyal to Cersei, and just as shady as he was. All three were mercenary to the bone and thoroughly untrustworthy, which hardly pleased Jaime.
The friendly and courteous Ser Arys Oakheart was currently in Dorne, guarding Princess Myrcella. Jaime knew him to be a man of some dignity and a sense of justice; the same one who had dared to speak against King Joffrey when the boy ordered him to beat Sansa Stark. But then again, Oakheart was far away, and Jaime knew too little about him to judge.
Ser Meryn Trant was another of Robert's appointees. Jaime was convinced the man was too cruel, too sly, too petty by half. His gaze was as cold and lifeless as a snake's before it struck. He had taken great pleasure in beating Sansa Stark at Joffrey's command and had openly mocked Ser Barristan Selmy when the old knight was dismissed from the Kingsguard. Rumor had it that only very young girls stirred his lust, and that he fucked them so savagely the poor creatures had to be taken to the maesters afterward—quietly, of course.
"Damned pervert," Jaime thought grimly, spitting the words in his mind.