"I hope there really is a Frey secret treasury, otherwise..."
"Damn it, do you think we're just decorations?" Anguy was furious. He slapped Rosso hard and drew his bowstring. "We can cut off the weasel's ears, and his nose too."
The two Gold Cloaks soldiers holding Rosso looked at Rosso The Cripple and also struck his abdomen twice with their sword scabbards. Rosso's tears and snot burst out, and he was taken away by the soldiers for severe torture.
Anguy contained his anger and placed his longbow at Gendry's feet. "long live the storm!"
"Let the Little Monkey temporarily usurp the Red Keep and the iron throne for now. The battle has just begun." Lord Jason also drew his longsword and knelt at Gendry's feet. "long live the storm!"
Bronze Yohn also stood up and then came to Gendry's side. "long live the storm."
All the Knights rose one after another. The Commanders from the Riverlands, Claw Peninsula, and the Vale all rose, then placed their weapons at Gendry's feet: longsword, spiked mace, longbow, Longspear.
All the soldiers stood up, drew their swords, and knelt. Their voices soared through the sky. The Twins, where the fires of war had been extinguished, once again felt this passion and flame. The Twin Towers trembled beneath the storm of the stag's iron hooves.
"Victor! Storm!"
"Victor! Storm!"
"Victor! Storm!"
Gendry's gaze swept over everyone. He raised his warhammer, his golden robes like a fertile field, with all the emblems on them coming alive: the stag, the dragon. Gendry shouted, "Victory!"
"Victory!" Everyone cheered loudly, the soldiers waving their weapons in their hands, their voices seemingly shattering the clouds in the sky.
The past storm had passed, and a new storm had arrived... Gold Tooth.
The severed limb throbbed with a fiery pain. The Kingslayer felt pain from two places on his body; flames were licking at his flesh.
Jaime felt his fingers shriveling in the flames; those fingers no longer belonged to him.
He had often been injured, but he had never tasted such pain. He often recalled that scene: the arakh flying towards him, too fast to discern.
The boy's face appeared before him, that young man who resembled Renly but was exceptionally brave and martial, staring at him coldly. He was the Mountain in Jaime's life.
Jaime cried and cried in his dreams. He finally remembered the words of prayer, words he had learned as a child but never paid attention to. He finally understood his brother's feelings, being called Little Monkey his whole life.
"Ser Jaime, I'm very sorry, but your body has reached a point where I must act," the Old Maester asked, looking at the young Lord's body, once such a brilliant lion, now a Cripple.
The Old Maester of Gold Tooth naturally often treated wounds, but the patient before him was the most special and noble.
"Save it, save my hand," Jaime couldn't open his eyes. He was in a state of high fever and weakness, but he still murmured and pleaded.
"I'm very sorry, young master." The Old Maester looked at Ser Jaime's wound. "The surrounding flesh has already gone bad and must be excised. The best way is to amputate your entire arm."
"No, no!" Jaime shouted. "Clean the wound, stitch up the hand. I'll take my chances."
"I can save your upper arm, from the elbow, but..."
"Kill me. If you do that, I'll kill you. If you dare to cut even a bit..."
"Alright." The Old Maester looked at Jaime. "I will only treat the wound; nothing else. First with boiling wine, then... I'll get you milk of the poppy. This is somewhat risky, but..."
"Just do it," Jaime cried out.
The Old Maester began to apply the wine, then bound Jaime.
It was a cruel surgery. Jaime drank strong liquor and screamed loudly.
The sharp blade moved again and again, then boiling wine was poured onto the remaining wound. Jaime screamed continuously.
When Jaime woke up, he found that the Old Maester had already stitched his palm with a needle and catgut.
"I'm sorry, Ser, I could only do so much," the Old Maester sighed. "Some skin was left, but your palm is gone. Fortunately, your wrist joint is still there."
"Thank you," Jaime said, his mouth filled with his own blood.
"My face," Jaime couldn't help but ask.
"I'm very sorry," the Old Maester lamented. "If it's that handsome face of yours, it's gone now. Fortunately, it didn't cut into your bone. It just left a long wound on your face. But I'm afraid, in the future, you will need a golden hand and a golden mask."
"Who did this to you?"
"A failed war," Ser Jaime said, feigning lightness. "Before, I was the Kingslayer; now, I am a Cripple."
"Is that person very insidious?"
"No, he is a ruthless warrior. It's just that I've grown old."
"Get some rest, Ser. Your wound needs to be treated regularly with boiling wine. Also, you need to take care of your body, rest, and nutrition. You are too tired today; it's time to rest."
"Here, take this. Perhaps it will be of some use when you are in pain." The Old Maester placed a piece of weirwood in his palm, telling him to clench it tightly.
Jaime was too tired and fell into a dark dream again. He hoped to meet Cersei. The high fever and dreams, perhaps so real in contrast.
"The young master is too pitiful," Jaime heard the guards whisper. They loved him so much, but many others had also died on the battlefields of the Riverlands. Jaime did not stop their discussion; these words were all true.
"No, the opponent was too vicious, ambushing our young master."
"Who is that person? They say it's the ambitious Gendry."
"That boy is truly vicious. Will Ser Jaime be a Cripple from now on?"
"Alas, he is so young. Robert's Rebellion, it was probably around this time."
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