Ser Balon Swann was brave, honest, and courteous. He had distinguished himself at the Battle of Blackwater, excelled with a bow and a mace, was confident with a spear, and slightly less so with a sword. He came from a noble house, though his father, Lord Gulian Swann, was a cunning and unprincipled old man who easily shifted his loyalties. After King Robert's death, Lord Gulian sent his sons to serve various pretenders to the Iron Throne, while he himself stayed safely behind the walls of his castle, citing ill health. What Jaime disliked most in all this was that he was uncertain of Ser Balon's loyalty. Would the man serve King Joffrey to the end—to the last drop of blood—or would he abandon his vows the moment it proved convenient?
And finally, there was Ser Loras Tyrell, who reminded Jaime of himself in his youth. The young man possessed the same boundless confidence in his own strength and righteousness, and was just as proud, arrogant, and quick to take offense. True, Jaime believed that at that age he had been far more skilled in the art of war. It amused that Ser Loras thought precisely the opposite. The young Tyrell was indeed a fine warrior—impeccable (save for his well-known preferences) as a knight, handsome, courteous, and bound by pride and sworn oaths that guaranteed he would never forsake his service.
Jaime himself had once thought the same—until the Mad King had decided to burn the capital and all within it. Then Jaime forgot his sacred vows and became the Kingslayer.
The problem was that Joffrey constantly lost his temper and could do something reckless at any moment. It was entirely possible that Ser Loras, if faced with a grave enough reason, might follow in the Kingslayer's footsteps.
Such were the men of the Kingsguard. And these same men not only guarded the young king but were supposed to represent the very best knights in all of Westeros!
Still, Jaime did not spare himself in judgment. Deep down, he understood that after all those lord commanders and their great deeds described in the White Book, his own "exploits," written in the clear, neat hand of Ser Barristan Selmy, looked pitiful and ridiculous.
The White Book—three centuries old, the greatest treasure of the Kingsguard—lay open before him. Jaime suddenly realized that he did not want future guardsmen or any other reader to remember him only by the lines already written there.
He sighed, drained the last of his wine, closed the book, and turned his thoughts to more pressing matters.
First, he needed to bring the other knights under control and instill in them proper discipline and respect. Better yet, if he could find a way to rid himself of three of them—Meryn, Osmund, and Boros.
A pity that the Kingsguard had sworn for life! Still, Cersei rarely paid attention to such trivialities, which meant Jaime might yet have a chance to cleanse the Kingsguard.
Among his duties as Lord Commander was one particularly weighty task: ensuring the king's safety. The headaches that came with it were innumerable. Jaime had to vet the people, inspect rooms and chambers that the king will visit or planned to visit, keep an eye on guests, and oversee a hundred other details that no one ever noticed unless something went wrong.
He also needed to find a sparring partner. Such a person must not only be skilled, but also taciturn—and that is more difficult to find. Perhaps Ser Addam might have suited the role, but he was too busy and too visible in his position.
Jaime rose, adjusted his sword belt, pulled on his magnificent white cloak, and set off to perform his duties as Lord Commander. He walked the corridors of the Red Keep, inspecting guards and posts, visited Cersei and Tyrion, checked on his brothers in arms, reviewed the preparations for tomorrow's wedding ceremony, and tried to keep track of the countless important details that demanded his attention.
Later that day, Qyburn finally arrived, bringing what Jaime had long awaited—a prosthetic hand.
"How does it fit? Does it pinch?" asked Qyburn, the former maester—a gray-haired man with gentle, almost fatherly manners. He took the new hand from a leather bag at his belt. First, he fitted a soft, carefully crafted leather cover over the stump, and only then attached the prosthesis, tightening the straps to secure it.
"Not bad," Jaime said, waving his skillfully crafted golden hand. If one didn't look too closely, it could almost pass for real. But it couldn't hold a sword—or even a cup. "Is it made entirely of gold?"
"No, ser," Qyburn replied quietly, in his usual mild tone. "Gold is too soft a metal for someone with your occupation and habits. It's gold-plated steel."
"Even better." Jaime lifted his new hand closer to his eyes. It was indeed masterfully made—complete with fingers, nails, and knuckles, resembling a real human limb. But it had weight, and that would take some getting used to. What could he do with it, though? He could strike with it, perhaps—but little more. "We spoke of attaching a sword to it, or at least holding the reins. What of that?"
"You can hold the reins," Qyburn said. "Notice how the fingers are slightly curved. Though they release easily, I believe, in time, you'll gain some control."
"And a sword, shield, or dagger?"
"You can insert a weapon into the grip—it only needs to be tied in before combat," Qyburn explained, taking a few straps and fasteners from his bag. "Here, ser, I had these made especially for your new hand."
Jaime examined them and nodded. He wasn't thrilled, but in his situation, one had to take what life offered. If this hand could hold anything at all, that was already a blessing. Still, the cold, inflexible metal could never match the living strength of a true hand—its grip, its movement, its touch.
Jaime waved his new hand again, frowned slightly, and decided that, all things considered, he was satisfied with it.