Jaime I

Jaime Lannister spent a moon's turn gathering what men he might, and might wasn't much.

When Tyrion said the Crownlands could raise ten thousand swords, mayhaps fifteen, Jaime hoped for fifteen, mayhaps twenty. But it seemed that outside King's Landing, the lands sworn directly to the Iron Throne were not terribly populous. The best part of his strength came from Duskendale: Lord Renfred Rykker with three thousand men. Rosby, Stokeworth, Hayford, and various houses of landed knights along the lower Blackwater amounted to another six.

Nine thousand, seven hells, and fewer than five hundred knights, Jaime thought ruefully. Sellswords were coming across the Narrow Sea, but not nearly fast enough. They would have to elude Lord Stannis' ships, so Tyrion planned to land some at King's Landing, some at the mouth of the Wendwater, and some at Duskendale to maximize their chances of getting through.

Oh, and they were a motley crew. His light horse were plowboys on drays with not even a saddle, brandishing rusty swords that hadn't been honed since Aerys sat the throne. Much and more of his foot were field hands brandishing sickles and sharpened hoes. They were poorly fed, poorly shod, and poorly trained, or not trained at all. One man in ten had training at arms, and none of his knights had distinguished themselves in tourneys, despite the opportunity. King's Landing was right there! Robert held four or five tourneys a year at the least. Were they too poor to risk ransoming their horses and armor? Or mayhaps they lacked prowess at arms at all. It was a dark thought. Anointed knights should be able to uphold a certain standard, at least.

Initially so confident, Jaime wondered whether they had any hope of victory at all. Just now, Stannis was rounding Sharp Point most like, and had sent ravens ahead. Aye, right now it was a war of ravens. The letter they received from Dragonstone was terribly detailed, with the seals of both Lord Stannis and Jon Arryn affixed. It named Joff and Cersei's other children bastards, claiming that all of Robert's natural children had his coloring, but not the princes. They cited some stuffy old book of ancient lineages, and argued that only he, the Kingslayer, had been alone with the queen long enough to sire bastards on her. Alone, that would convince no one, but it sent Cersei up the wall.

"We must silence this vile slander!" she shrieked in indignation, as if it all wasn't perfectly true. Jaime only barely restrained himself from laughing. Frankly, he didn't care who knew, and was tired of pretending. Even so, Tyrion wrote other letters, claiming the book was unreliable, and there was no way to know the bastards were even Robert's. King's Landing did not lack folk with black hair.

How many knights of the Stormlands was Jaime to face on the Kingsroad? Scattering them in small numbers was possible, but as things were, Ser Jaime could not hope to overcome even half their power. Tyrion sent ravens naming Stannis and Renly rebels, even accusing them of Robert's death, but would it be enough? If they doubted, might be some would go over to him, and that would be all the difference.

Their food situation wasn't at all favorable, either. Soon he'd need to march regardless, for they were eating up the country, and already prices were rising in the city.

He had plenty of archers, at least. Those yew longbows could do murder against enemy formations, and Tyrion had set tradesmen in the city to fletching thousands of arrows, as well as making boots, iron-banded shields, and proper spears to replace the farming implements.

While he waited, Jaime drilled his men, such as they were. The foot out of Duskendale might be able to form a shield wall and stand a charge or two, but as for the rest, he wasn't terribly confident.

The only thing that made his frustrating days bearable were the pleasures of his nights. He and Cersei shared a bed, living almost as man and wife, the way he always wanted. With most of those who would object dead or fled, they could be far more open than ever they were. Still, she refused him.

"Ser Barristan stays!"

"Cersei, please. He's worth ten knights by himself. I have few enough as it is."

"Then stay here with me. Father will be here soon. This plan of the imp's is foolish and like to get you killed."

Would that it were true. Casterly Rock could call their banners no faster than King's Landing, slower in fact. Gathering up all his swords from the mountains and hills might take Father another moon, and marching down the Gold Road another. No, Ser Jaime was the only thing standing between them and Stannis. He had to march. If the gods were good, they would bring him and Stannis together on the battlefield, and this war would end quick as it began.

So Cersei wept and fussed over her boy, whose head was still half-covered in bandages. Joffrey had trouble eating, he heard, and had lost some weight. Well, that would happen when a longsword tore your cheek in two. Might be it would humble the boy a bit, but mayhaps that was too much to hope for.

Things went well when he crossed the Blackwater and into the Kingswood. Some five hundred foresters and huntsmen from down the Wendwater even joined them. It didn't make ten thousand, but Ser Jaime was grateful for every one. They were able to hunt their own meat, and even salt a bit away, which was a comfort. Some men were already complaining of poor food, and not enough of it.

Ser Roger Hogg of Sow's Horn was one such, a stout knight who reminded Jaime a bit of Strongboar Crakehall. Listening to him ramble on was like being a boy again.

"Food will get better once we pass by Bronzegate, I deem," the big-bellied knight said bluffly. "Good land, there, wheat, barley, turnips, aye. My mother's family is from those parts, you know. Ale, too, aye. The inns ought to be bursting with the stuff! Plenty to wash down our game and the little salt beef you allow us. I've always been a pork man myself, Ser, pardon the talk of kinslaying if you please. We keep many a swine down Sow's Horn way, I'll have you know."

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Jaime laughed aloud. House Hogg's sigil was a hog! It made the march a merry one. If this man fought anything like the Strongboar, mayhaps their chances had improved.

They found the bronze gates of Bronzegate closed and barred. Men walked the walls, looking down suspiciously at his host.

"See here!" Jaime called out to them. "I fly the king's banner, and am about his business. In the name of Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, I demand you yield up your castle to me!"

"That ain't no king's banner!" a man replied, pointing at the banner they flew, the crowned stag quartered with the lion of Lannister. "If he were a true Baratheon, he'd fly his father's sigil! When King Stannis gets here, you will learn to your sorrow that the Lannisters are not the royal house!"

Well, there wasn't much Ser Jaime could do to them right now. He hadn't the numbers to storm the place, and needed to conserve his strength. Thankfully, the way to Storm's End was open, and there was good forage on the way.

His scouts made contact with the enemy a few days later. A host was encamped by the sea, beneath the walls of Storm's End. Jaime dare not send out more scouts, for he did not have spare horses to lose. Every one was precious. Negotiations with Ser Cortnay Penrose, the commander, proved no more fruitful than with the men on Bronzegate's walls. They met on a hill under a peace banner.

"I bid you bend the knee, disband this unlawful assembly, and yield Storm's End up to the king. Renly and Stannis are attainted traitors. This castle by right should pass to His Grace." All the while, Ser Jaime looked over Penrose's shoulder, counting tents and banners. They had more men, but not so much as to make victory impossible. It was good open country, plenty of room for his knights, such as they were, to maneuver.

"I think not, Kingslayer!" he spat. "You Lannisters murdered King Robert and Lord Renly, and conspired to put your bastard on the throne! More men come every day, Kingslayer, and His Grace will be here soon."

Drat, Jaime had been hoping to catch Stannis in the open field. "You are resolved, then?"

"Aye, resolved to put you incestuous traitors to the sword! I will see you on the field!"

Sooner than you would like, Ser Jaime thought darkly.

The sun was high, giving neither side the advantage. Jaime hastily arranged his host into three battles, placing the more reliable foot on the far left, under Lord Renfred Rykker. They would be the strong pivot on which the battle turned. Stout Ser Roger would have the center, to hold as long as he might, and Jaime took the right for himself, all their knights in a single armored fist, bristling with steel-tipped war lances. There would be no reserve, no need. It was conquer or die.

The trumpets blew, the drummers drummed, and he sent his archers forward. They seemed to get the better of the Stormlands longbows, driving them back with clouds of grey goose shafts, raining down and doing murder. The men in green, the huntsmen of the Wendwater, were particularly accurate. Jaime ordered them to focus on the enemy left. Spearmen raised their shields, but many a man fell, feathered with arrows. Ser Cortnay had his back to the sea, so there was nowhere to run. His men edged away from the storm, and Jaime considered pressing his advantage.

Instead, Ser Cortnay attacked. He ordered an all-out charge, foot and horse alike. His knights slammed into the shield wall of Rykker's spearmen, and his foot started the game of push of pike, pressing Ser Roger Hogg in the center. They drove back his Crownlanders, and Ser Jaime knew it was time.

Men, as a general rule, were as brave as their leaders, and Jaime Lannister was brave. The trumpets blew, the drummers drummed, and five hundred lances couched. The push of pike had exposed a gap in Ser Cortnay's line where Jaime's knights could pour through and land like a hammer on an anvil. The old maester who taught him warcraft would be pleased, no doubt.

"Baratheon, to me!" Ser Jaime cried, recalling a marching song Domeric Scalp-Taker sang once. What an absurd thought to think while they charged pell-mell and straight to hell. Then, madness. He drove his lance through the chest of a man at arms, then it was sword work. His gilded sword flashed in the sun, lashing out like the barbed tip of a manticore's tail, dealing death wherever he touched. They wheeled and charged again, following Jaime and the quartered stag-and-lion banner.

Ser Cortnay's foot could not stand a second charge, and his thousands of spearmen rolled up like a Myrish carpet. It was the easiest thing to ride them down. They pursued for a short space, cutting them down as they fled, before forming up again.

Lord Rykker's foot still held, but they were sorely pressed. It was time to take the pressure off. The man had courage, Jaime had to admit, for when the old man saw Jaime in his golden armor, leading his knights straight at them, Penrose charged right back. Two masses of armored horse collided, shattering into splinters. For a while, Jaime was lost to blood and steel, cutting and killing whatever came close. When it was over, Ser Cortnay Penrose lay dead, and his host broken. They still had light enough to organize a pursuit. Some managed to withdraw within the walls of Storm's End, but not many.