“He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; no sellsword would make him scream.Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.”

“Jaime smiled. "I hope you're not thinking of taking the black on us, sweet brother."Tyrion laughed. "What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”

“Jaime," Brienne whispered, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. "Jaime, what are you doing?""Dying," he whispered back."No," she said, "no, you must live."He wanted to laugh. "Stop telling me what to do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me.""Are you so craven?"The words shocked him. He was Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, he was the Kingslayer. No man had ever called him craven. Other things they called him, yes; oathbreaker, liar, murderer. They said he was cruel, treacherous, reckless. But never craven. "What else can I do, but die?""Live," she said, "live, and fight, and take revenge."Craven, Jaime thought.... Can it be? They took my sword hand. Was that all I was, a sword hand? Gods be good, is it true?The wench had the right of it. He could not die.”

“The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it was a shock when his destrier dropped a load of dung right at the base of the throne.”

“Ser Gerold Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth.Whatever he chose ...”

“Underneath his steal and wool and boiled leather, Jaime Lannister was a tapestry of cuts and scabs and bruises.”