"You're the future Lord of Casterly Rock, heir to the Warden of the West—and yet here you are, sneaking into the holy sisters' quarters. What exactly were you trying to do?" Lynd looked at Jaime, who had just been escorted in by the Red Sisters, and let out a quiet chuckle. Then he turned to the sister beside him and said, "Sister Linda, you can return now. Leave him to me."
Lynd had already guessed Jaime would come back after Podrick left. What he hadn't expected was that Jaime would try to sneak into the residence to take Cersei away.
What Jaime didn't know was that he'd been spotted the moment he approached the estate. The Silent Men had been watching. As soon as he slipped into the courtyard where the Red Sisters lived, he was immediately knocked down by one of them and dragged in front of Lynd.
At this point, the Red Sisters under Lynd's command had evolved into a fourth generation, each trained through increasingly intense trial methods. Their combat abilities were more than double what they had once been, their bodies gradually becoming something beyond human. A full fourteen-person squad—seven Red Sisters and seven Silent Men—could easily stand against an army of thousands.
Jaime had not only lost his sword hand, but even in his prime, he wouldn't have stood a chance against a fully trained Red Sister.
"Do I really need to say what I came here for?" Jaime stood up from the ground, his face full of frustration and shame. He picked up the prosthetic hand the Red Sister had tossed aside and reattached it. "Lynd Tarran, I thought we were friends. I didn't expect... this."
"You never treated me like a friend, Jaime," Lynd said calmly. "Because if you had, you wouldn't have put me in this position."
"I'm the one making things difficult for you?" Jaime asked, clearly annoyed.
"Think about it," Lynd said patiently. "Why did I take Cersei? Think it through. I'm simply fulfilling my duty as a witness—making sure that everyone honors the oath they made. I'm not the one who brought this on. It was Lord Garlan and Lord Tywin. And why did Garlan target Queen Cersei? Because she humiliated House Tyrell. Badly.
"Lord Tywin once brought the Rain of Castamere down on those who humiliated his house. House Tyrell, on the other hand, didn't take advantage of Lannister weakness. They didn't join the other houses in attacking. All they did was ask for the instigator—Cersei—to be held accountable. They even offered to aid House Lannister through a renewed alliance. Shouldn't you be grateful for their restraint?"
"I..." Jaime wanted to argue, but found himself at a loss. His mind was clouded. There was no denying it—Cersei had brought this on herself. She had no one to blame but herself.
"Instead of worrying about your sister, maybe you should start worrying about your brother," Lynd added, his voice low. "At least here, Cersei doesn't have to fear for her life. But Tyrion? He's in real danger."
Jaime's face darkened. "What are you talking about? Father just put Tyrion under house arrest. After the wedding, he's coming back to Casterly Rock with me."
Lynd shook his head with a faint smile. "You really think charges of treason can be brushed aside that easily? From what I've heard, Tyrion made a lot of enemies among the nobles of King's Landing during the war. Even His Grace Joffrey was slapped and scolded by him in front of others—more than once. Do you think Joffrey is the forgiving type?"
Jaime went pale.
No one knew Joffrey better than his father, and he was painfully aware of the boy's nature. If even Cersei, his own mother, wasn't safe from Joffrey's wrath, what chance did Tyrion have? Jaime recalled the moment in the Tower of the Hand when Joffrey had so smoothly driven a knife into Cersei's back with a single sentence.
And now, thinking back to the new charges Joffrey had added to Tyrion's case, he could feel it—Lynd was right. Joffrey had no intention of letting Tyrion go. He would find a way to take his life.
"Father won't let him," Jaime said through clenched teeth.
"Are you sure Lord Tywin still has control over everything?" Lynd asked quietly.
The question made Jaime recall the events in the Tower of the Hand. He turned to Lynd, eyes wide with sudden realization.
Lynd shook his head. "I don't interfere in the kingdom's politics. Don't look to me. Even without me, Lord Tywin is no longer the strongest force in King's Landing."
"You mean House Tyrell will move against Tyrion?" Jaime asked, alarmed.
"No," Lynd replied. "As far as I know, House Tyrell has no grudge against Tyrion. They won't harm him. But they're close to Joffrey now. If Joffrey insists on putting Tyrion on trial for treason, I doubt they'll stand in his way. And don't forget—the Red Viper is still here. He despises your family. Watching House Lannister turn on itself would be a delight for him. What do you think he'll do?"
By this point, Jaime's face had drained of all color.
Right now, saving Cersei could wait. Rescuing his brother was suddenly far more urgent.
So Jaime immediately turned to leave—but Lynd stopped him.
"It was wrong of me to break into your residence without permission. I apologize. And as for Cersei... I won't bother you about her again," Jaime said, frowning slightly as he lowered his head.
Lynd cut him off. "You misunderstand. I didn't stop you to hear an apology. There's something else I wanted to talk to you about."
"What is it?" Jaime asked, puzzled.
Lynd pointed at Jaime's severed wrist. "Do you want your hand back?"
Jaime froze. Then, forgetting any sense of decorum, he grabbed Lynd's arm and asked with urgency, "You're not joking, are you? Because if you are—this isn't funny."
His reaction wasn't surprising. That hand had represented his honor, pride, and identity. Losing it had meant losing everything. That was why he hadn't put up a fight when Lord Tywin ordered him to step down from the Kingsguard.
He hadn't given up the white cloak to chase after the title and lands of Casterly Rock. He'd done it because he knew, with his right hand gone, he no longer deserved to wear it. He couldn't protect the king anymore—hell, he couldn't even beat a common foot soldier. Keeping that cloak would've only made him feel like a walking disgrace.
"You've heard of the Black Cave, haven't you?" Lynd asked calmly.
"Of course," Jaime nodded. "Your Black Cave has become legendary. Any scrap of information about it sells for dozens, even hundreds of gold dragons."
Lynd's tone turned serious. "The Black Cave has been researching methods of regenerating severed limbs. Recently, we've made some breakthroughs and conducted live experiments. The problem is, the subjects so far have lacked the willpower to endure the transplant. Every one of them failed. None could survive the grafting process. But… would you be interested?"
"Yes. I'm interested," Jaime blurted before Lynd could even finish, afraid any hesitation might cost him the opportunity.
"Slow down. Let me finish," Lynd said, motioning for him to stay calm. "I can arrange a transplant, but you'll need to provide the original tissue."
"The what?"
"The source limb," Lynd clarified. "Your severed hand. I assume you still have it?"
"I do." A glimmer of hope lit up Jaime's face as he nodded.
Back during the Battle of Riverrun, his hand had been hacked off—though a sliver of skin and tendon still held it on. Roose Bolton had completed the job, cutting it clean and turning it into a specimen using Bolton family techniques. When Jaime was released from Harrenhal, the hand was returned to him as a parting gift. He'd considered tossing it… but in the end, he couldn't. And now, he was glad he hadn't.
After a moment, curiosity got the better of him. "And if I hadn't kept the hand? Would the transplant be impossible?"
"Not impossible," Lynd replied. "But the results would be far more uncertain. Without your original limb, the new one might not grow back the way it should. It might not even be a proper hand. And there's a chance your body could undergo... unintended mutations."
As he spoke, disturbing images of failed experiments in the Black Cave flashed through Lynd's mind. Those unfortunate test subjects were now living a fate worse than death.
Jaime didn't fully grasp the implications, but he could feel it—replacing the hand with something that wasn't his own came with enormous risk.
Lynd told him to arrange a time to bring the severed hand to him. He would take it back to Summerhall and prepare it as a viable graft. Once ready, Jaime could come for the procedure whenever he wished.
Hearing that, Jaime didn't linger. He quickly took his leave from Lynd's residence, heart pounding with renewed hope.
...
Not long after Jaime departed, two unexpected visitors arrived at Lynd's door.
"Your Highness, please help us," Beric Dondarrion said, bowing his head as soon as he saw Lynd.
Lynd glanced at Beric, then looked over at the red-robed priest Thoros, and said, "I've always admired what the Brotherhood Without Banners has stood for. If what you're hoping for is for me to lift the bounty Lord Tywin placed on your heads, I think I could arrange that."
Beric shook his head quickly. "No, my lord, you misunderstand! We're not here to ask for the bounty to be lifted. What we need is supplies—food, medicine, weapons—anything you can spare."
Lynd frowned. "Just recently, the lords and representatives of the Seven Kingdoms—everyone except the Vale—signed a peace agreement. The war is over. Are you still planning to roam the Riverlands, ambushing nobles?"
Beric and Thoros froze. They looked at each other in stunned silence, unsure how to respond.
The Brotherhood had always operated like rangers or vigilantes, striking at corrupt and predatory lords, stealing from the wicked to aid the innocent. They robbed the greedy and used the spoils to feed and protect the people caught in the chaos of war. They had assumed that this life would continue for a long while yet—but the war had ended abruptly, without warning, leaving them unprepared and adrift. Suddenly, their purpose was gone, and with it, their direction.
"How many times have you been resurrected?" Lynd asked, looking at Beric. He could sense the deep magical resonance emanating from him.
Beric paused, brow furrowed, trying to remember.
"Seven," Thoros answered before he could. His voice was quiet, but certain.
"How much have you forgotten?" Lynd asked again.
Beric didn't respond. He didn't seem to know how.
Lynd continued, "Do you remember your wife and children? I've brought them back to Blackhaven. They miss you. You should go see them."
"My wife... my children?" Beric's face filled with confusion. He knew, vaguely, that he had a wife and children once—that he had lived a happy life. But he couldn't recall what they looked like. He couldn't even remember the time they had spent together.
"How many happy memories do you still have left?" Lynd pressed gently.
Beric's eyes remained vacant. He didn't answer.
"Humanity," Lynd said. "Each time you returned, it cost you part of your humanity. When all the memories tied to joy and love are gone, your humanity goes with them. At that point, you're no different from a corpse that walks."
Lynd's eyes narrowed slightly. "No—that's not quite right. You'd become something worse. A vessel. A vessel the Lord of Light can use."
Though Beric's situation differed from Willas and Patchface, there was one undeniable similarity between them—they were all vessels for ancient beings.
But the way they became vessels had varied. Willas possessed the blood of Garth Greenhand, making him a perfect vessel—through him, Garth could reclaim fragments of his divine power.
Patchface had been a mistake. The transformation failed, leaving him mentally shattered—but still containing lingering fragments of an ancient power. That leftover force gave him prophetic visions.
Beric, on the other hand, had become a vessel through sacrifice—a single death, transformed by the Lord of Light's power into something not entirely mortal.
In truth, one could argue that Beric Dondarrion resembled the legendary Azor Ahai more than Stannis ever had—because Azor Ahai, too, was likely just a vessel of the Lord of Light.
"A vessel of the Lord of Light?" Thoros stared at Beric, stunned, but a flicker of understanding passed across his face.
He had revived Beric time and time again through prayer. Somewhere deep inside, he'd always believed there must be a reason—that it wasn't random. A sign. A divine message. He just never understood what the message was—until now.
Beric fell silent, lost in thought. After a long pause, he looked up at Lynd and asked, "Why would the Lord of Light turn me into a vessel?"
Lynd thought for a moment, then said, "To prepare—for the final battle against the Cold God beyond the Wall."
He looked from Beric to Thoros.
"The war is over. There's no need for you to stay in the Riverlands. Go to the Wall. That's where you're needed now."