Though Littlefinger had been named Lord of Harrenhall, he seemed in no great haste to stake his claim.
Jaime sighed. Of course not. Baelish was a traitor, destined for nothing more than an early burial. And so that task would fall to him.
And what a task it was! That Harrenhall was in need of a good 'sorting out' was in no doubt. The claim had been Gregor Clegane's before Cersei had called him back to Kings Landing and the Red Viper had severed his small head from his seething corpse. Yet the Mountain's men had not left, and were no doubt still scurrying around the crumbling halls and passages like rats in a sewer drain.
Unfit to restore the King's Peace, the lot of them. The only peace any of these men had ever given anyone was that of the grave.
His outriders had informed him that the gates to the castle were closed and barred, so Jaime drew up his men in force and sounded his horn, letting three sharp blasts announce his presence. After the sound had rolled off the surrounding hills and bounced off the stone and dissipated into the air, Jaime could hear the creaking of rusted iron hinges as the doors were slowly pushed open.
Under a dozen different murder holes he rode with his men, bearing witness to the sheer hubris of Harren's folly, the tattered stones around him black on one side where Balerion's flames had licked them and grey on the other. He emerged into sudden moonlight from the flickering torchlight as he entered the yard, the hooves of the horses behind him falling silent as their journey over the hard-packed dirt - occasionally dotted with weeds and rotting corpses - came to an abrupt end.
A handful of Gregor's men stood awaiting to greet him as yet more came streaming from the towers, their eyes hard as they watched him dismount. About the best that could be said of them is they were not quite as savage as the man they swore loyalty to. Gregor had been an animal. These men were merely cruel.
"Fuck me," one man said, slack-jawed. "It's the fucking Kingslayer, boys!"
Jaime felt a dull spike of fury at the name, one he quickly suppressed to keep his icy composure. I am no more that man, he thought. His hook ached, his long gone sword-hand baying for blood. "And who might you be?" Jaime asked instead.
"They call me Shitmouth, they do," the man said, grinning.
"Do you hold command here?" Jaime asked, impatient.
"Me?" the man asked, almost incredulous. "Shit, m'lord, no. Bugger me with a bloody spear."
"Ser Illyn, you heard the man, find a nice long one and shove it up his arse," Jaime said. He did not have a spear, but it was not long before one of the other men threw him one with a grin on his face.
Shitmouth paled. "Keep that bloody thing away from me," he said warily, stumbling back.
"Make up your mind," Jaime said. "Or better yet, clean up your mouth. Now, if not you then who? Who has command here?"
"Polliver," another man said. "Only he was killed. Him and the Tickler both."
"By the Hound," Jaime finished. "At the crossroads inn, correct?" His conclusion was met with a series of confused nods. "Well, if nothing else you need not worry about the Hound. He's been dealt with. I'm surprised such a thing was necessary. Did you not send men after him once you'd heard?"
Shitmouth frowned, as though this thought were entirely new to him. "No, my lord. Fu..." Shitmouth caught himself. "We never did."
"When a dog goes mad you cut it's throat," Jaime said, doing his best impression of his father. His proclamation was met with a flurry of uncomfortable glances. "You were all scared of him," he quickly surmised.
"Well, he were Ser's brother, so..." Shitmouth tried to say.
"He was the Hound," another interrupted. "You'd have to be mad to go after him. Or someone better. Someone like Ser. Or like you."
Jaime felt just a touch of discomfort at the looks in their eyes - admiration earned by another lie - and a second spike of fury at being compared to the elder Clegane. If only you knew, he thought. As he was, even after all those months with Bronn, he did not doubt Sandor at full strength would make quick work of him. "You have a name?" he asked.
"Rafford," the man said soberly. "Or Raff, if it please you."
Jaime nodded in approval. "Rafford, gather the garrison together in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and your captives too. I'll want to see them. Oh, and Hoat as well. I was distraught to hear he had died. I'd have liked the pleasure of killing him myself. Even still, I'd like to gaze upon his head."
And so the men went, and Jaime wandered to the hall himself to await the completion of his commands. In the meanwhile he sat and watched as one-by-one his men went around the hall and slowly set a fire in each hearth, giving the Hall of a Hundred Hearths it's characteristically orange glow. Yet his breath still emerged from his lips in cold mist in the midst of night. It would take a while for the fires to displace the chill that had settled into the space.
Before long, Hoat's rotting head was dropped into his lap. The Goat's lips had been sliced off, along with his ears and most of his nose, right down to a stubby little bit of bone that showed under the rotting flesh. It was Hoat - that much Jaime knew for sure by the greasy beard alone - but twisted beyond belief. Crows had supped his eyes, and only a few strips of shrivelled skin stuck to his cheeks.
"Where is the rest of him?" Jaime asked, steeling his stomach.
Nobody seemed to want to answer, and so that burden fell to Rafford. "Rotted, ser," he said. "And one of the prisoners was always begging for food, so we gave him the body to eat. Hands and feet, arms and legs. Ser said to see to it all the prisoners got a taste."
Jaime felt the steel in his stomach rust and decay, sickened. The prospect of vengeance seemed to lose it's shine right before him. Seven save us all, he thought, and tossed the rotting head into the nearest hearth. What little patches of fat remained on the flesh seemed to bubble and melt as the fire licked the skull clean and caught upon the grease in the beard, allowing the flames to climb higher and burn briefly brighter.
"I'll see those captives now," he said, remembering Tommen's orders. "Starting with Ser Wylis Manderly."
"He the fat one?" Rafford asked.
Jaime nodded. "He should be. And I warn you now if he is no more for this world, then you all will surely join him in his fate in short order."
Rafford swallowed, nodded and then opted to bow, and then finally turned tail and ran. Not long after, a line of prisoners were pushed forth through the doors at swordpoint. Of Lady Whent's people only a handful remained that Jaime remembered. A cook and an armourer, both looking half-starved, and a formerly pretty serving girl named Pia who'd no doubt been raped ragged, blood still staining her skirt. When she saw him she fell to her knees and clutched his legs and sobbed, mumbling pleas for mercy through shattered teeth and bloodstained lips, offering herself to him in desperation if only he would make her torment stop.
Jaime felt disgust and pity in equal measure as he shook her off his leg, and the poor girl sobbed all the louder when he assured her that she would suffer no longer. This was not the pretty, giggling little chit Qyburn had sent to his chambers after he'd lost his arm.
Mercifully, it seemed the other prisoners had been treated a little better. Wylis Manderly was the one Tommen had insisted on, but there were also several other highborn northmen Gregor had captured during his campaigns along the Trident, each of whom would no doubt prove useful to the king. They were ragged, filthy, some bruised and others broken, but they were still alive in all the ways that mattered.
And so, one hostage at a time, the north falls further into my nephew's hands, Jaime reflected. Into my son's hands...
...
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