When Jaime walked into the council chamber, the sight of him froze everyone in place.
His gilded armor was slashed and punctured, blood dried into dark, crusty patches. A dirty rag was wrapped around his bare right arm.
Yet the corner of his mouth still twitched with a smirk.
"Well, damn. Whole crowd turned out for me," Jaime said, scanning the room. "I'm touched."
No one answered.
He shrugged, strolled to the long table, yanked out a chair, and dropped into it. His wounded right arm rested on the armrest like it was nothing.
"Talk," Eddard's voice came from the far end.
Jaime leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
"I walked into an ambush," he said flatly, like he was recounting someone else's screw-up.
"The crabmen besieging the town were bait. When they charged, I couldn't hold back."
"So I ordered the attack and cut down a few hundred of them."
"Then the cowards in the camp started shooting arrows—hitting their own men and ours. The archers stayed hidden behind the tents, never showing their faces."
"Some poor bastards got yanked off their horses. One idiot in full plate still took an arrow to the arm."
He kept going.
"I tried to break south toward Rosby, but a swarm of pirates popped up out of nowhere."
"They'd hidden their ships under the cliffs and climbed up in the dark. I never saw them."
"But you were all mounted," the Imp cut in. "How the hell do foot soldiers stop cavalry?"
"They couldn't. But Ser Balon was on the other side. I wanted to link up with him and pull back through the woods."
Jaime's mouth twisted. "The second we rode in, the whole forest went up like kindling."
"Not the slow kind that creeps along," he added, a rare flicker of fear in his voice. "It exploded into a roaring blaze in one heartbeat."
"The horses panicked. We got driven back out. When we looked again, the woods were a sea of fire."
"That bought the pirates time to form a line to the south."
"East was the crabmen's siege camp, and those gutless shits in Duskendale never once came out to help."
"So you withdrew north," Eddard said.
"Yeah."
Jaime was quiet a moment.
"Only to find Stannis waiting for us up there."
"Stannis?" the room erupted.
Jaime nodded. "Everyone from Dragonstone was there."
"Flaming-heart banners, Velaryon's silver seahorse, Celtigar's red crabs, and every little lord from the islands."
"Thousands of them in perfect formation—spearmen packed like hedgehogs, crossbowmen lined up behind."
"Like they were rolling out the damn red carpet."
The Imp blinked.
"Brother, from what you're describing, it sounds like Stannis knew exactly what you were going to do—fires, ambushes, the works."
He didn't say the name, but everyone knew who he meant.
Melisandre.
Eddard frowned. "Ser Jaime, you will answer for your actions. You're certain Stannis was there?"
"Damn right I'm certain," Jaime snapped, half-rising. "We barely fought our way out."
He sat back down, head lowered.
"About three hundred of us made it."
"Has Ser Balon returned? We got separated in the woods."
"No word," Eddard shook his head. "Alive or dead—unknown."
Jaime pressed his lips together.
"Then he's dead."
Tyrion stared at him, mismatched eyes flashing with something complicated. He opened his mouth, then looked to Eddard instead.
"Lord Hand, my brother may be a fool, but he is still—"
"Punish me," Jaime cut him off. "I disobeyed orders, attacked without authorization, walked into a trap, and lost men. Whatever the penalty, I'll take it."
Eddard nodded, as if confirming something he already knew.
"Jaime Lannister," he said. "You are stripped of all command. You will remain confined to quarters."
"After the war you will personally apologize to the families of every man who died because of you and see their bodies recovered."
"Fine," Jaime nodded. "The Hand is fair."
"I can see why Robert liked you."
"Anything else?"
"Of course there is," Cersei burst out. "What the hell happened to your arm?"
Jaime glanced down at the blood-soaked rag.
"I told you—some poor bastard in full armor still caught an arrow."
"Let me see."
Jaime hesitated a beat, then held out his arm.
Cersei moved beside him and started unwrapping the strips.
"I didn't have time to deal with it. Just snapped the shaft off," he said, still trying to sound casual.
But the slight lift of his brow gave away the pain.
"Vylar dug the head out later, poured wine on it, wrapped it quick, and we rode straight back."
"It's nothing. Pycelle can slap some ointment on it."
A faint foul smell drifted through the air.
Everyone drew a sharp breath.
The flesh around the wound had turned black and purple, edged with sickly yellow-green. At the center was a deep puncture, the skin curled back to reveal rotting meat inside.
"Pycelle," Cersei's voice shook. "Pycelle!"
The Grand Maester shuffled over, squinting. His face grew graver by the second, white brows knitting tight.
"Ser Jaime, you have been poisoned."
The Imp's voice went sharp. "Grand Maester, none of us are blind."
Pycelle ignored him.
"The crabmen often use local hemlock for their arrows, but this wound shows more than that."
"I have heard they mix in secretions from poison frogs. Some soak the heads in dung or rotting corpses for days."
"Do you still have the arrowhead?"
Jaime patted his belt, pulled it out, and tossed it onto the table.
Pycelle prodded it with a small stick, then wrapped it carefully in oilcloth.
"I will take this to the maester's tower to analyze the exact mixture."
"But Ser Jaime… this is not something a simple poultice can fix."
"I fear amputation will be necessary."
Jaime had been keeping up the carefree act, trading jabs with Tyrion. At those words he turned, disbelief plain on his face.
"What did you just say?"
"You want to take my right hand?"
"One hand won't be enough," Pycelle said, shrinking back. "The wound is in the forearm. We will need to remove everything below the elbow."
"And because you kept riding hard after you were hit, the poison has almost certainly spread."
"To be safe…"
He swallowed.
"…it would be best to take the entire arm from the shoulder."