Jaime II

"Well, there's your van, my lord," Brown Ben Plumm said mildly, as if there wasn't a field of dead bodies in front of his army's line of march. He shook his head ruefully. "The Titan's Bastard was always heedless."

Wasn't he your captain and comrade? Jaime wanted to ask. Old Brown Ben did not seem particularly grief-stricken. Was he even really a Plumm? A man could call himself whatever he liked in the Free Cities. Might be Jaime would have to do the same if they lost this war. He'd dye his hair green and pretend to be Tyroshi. Aye, that would serve. Jamio Lannistaris, he'd call himself.

Since his outriders kept getting ambushed and killed, Ser Jaime had taken to sending out hundreds of men as a reconnaissance-in-force. Near on half his host was mounted. They had no lack of horses. It seemed the right move, considering...

"Dreadful," stout Ser Roger Hogg said in dismay. "Must they do insult to the bodies? Never have I seen savagery such as this, Ser."

"Domeric Scalp-Taker's work," Lord Renfred Rykker pointed out unnecessarily. Of course it was him! Nobody else took scalps. It was in the name.

Jaime swallowed an angry retort. It would not do for the men to know how frayed his nerves were. Lack of sleep had done it. He hadn't slept at all these last three days. Wildling raiders attacked their camp every night, then slipped off into the shadows. No amount of ditches nor sharpened stakes nor doubled watches deterred them. They came in the night regardless. All Jaime had managed was a bit of dozing in the saddle. The scalped bodies terrified his sellswords especially, but his knights liked the grim little reminders no more than they did. One company, might've been the cats, or mayhaps the hats, slipped off last night riding hard for a port. Plainly, they wanted no part of this kind of war. Jaime didn't blame them. He'd hang them for deserters if he caught them, but he didn't blame them.

Instead, he kept his voice level and reasonable. "The enemy must not be far. I want all of you to remember what happens to men who fall into their power. You want to keep your mangy pates? Best kill him before he kills you."

He patted the longsword hanging from his belt. Steel was the only thing he could trust out here, not these sellswords, not the Baratheon men that bent the knee, not even the Crownlanders who'd fought and bled with him on two battlefields. They do not fight because they love Joff, nor me. If Jaime gave them a chance to run, they would.

His army followed the Kingsroad north. They were closer to Harrenhal than King's Landing now, and the God's Eye, that great lake, seemed an endless ocean to the west. He took pains not to get too close. Being bounded by the water would limit his tactical options.

Might be his best hope was an inconclusive battle. Bloody their nose a bit and withdraw south, but slowly, bleeding them as Jaime's scouts had bled. Mayhaps Father would be here by then. A battle beneath the walls of King's Landing, where the men felt their rear safe, would be just the thing. The only trouble was keeping control of his men in retreat. Once this lot broke, they'd break bad; he did not doubt. All the sellswords, especially, would scatter like cockroaches in lantern light.

The land here was a bit less settled, with farms and holdfasts spaced two or three leagues apart. Closer to the capital, they were hardly ever out of sight, with plowed fields and trimmed hedges to tell of the folk about. Now they were in empty, lonely parts, with gently rolling hills and not even shepherds by the roadside for company.

They pushed on for another league, eyes wary and swords loosened in sheaths. Jaime called a halt when he heard a rat-tat-tatting on the wind.

"What's that?" asked Ser Roger Hogg.

"Drums, most like," answered Brown Ben Plumm. The lowborn mongrel at least spoke the common tongue well, so Jaime had taken to commanding the sellswords through him.

"I want-"

Jaime was about to order a party of light horse to form up for scouting, but the unmistakable sound of trumpets stopped his command in his throat. Instead, men drew steel and scanned the horizon, expecting a sudden attack.

Drums and trumpets, drums and trumpets. The enemy took no care to conceal their position. When pipes joined in, they spotted Vale banners cresting over the hill before them. It was a gentle hill, but the curve of the land served to conceal their position until now. Arryn's moon and falcon was everywhere, as was the red castle of the Redforts, the bells of Bellmore, and many more.

"To arms!" Jaime cried.

They had already planned their dispositions before contact with the enemy was made. His sellswords were mounted lances in chief, with swords and axes for close work. Though no equal of true knights, they had some training at arms and discipline of a kind. Brown Ben warned him they wouldn't stand in a death grapple, though.

"War in the disputed lands is never quite so...final," he'd told Jaime. "We kick the other lads with the side of the boot, not the toe, if you take my meaning. Next war, might be we fight under the same banner."

There wasn't going to be a next war if they lost this one. House Lannister would be finished. He divided his sellswords into two wings on the left and right flanks, respectively. Their orders were to skirmish and envelop the enemy if it looked likely, but to take no risks. That much, Brown Ben promised they could do.

In the center, he placed his more reliable Westerosi. Lord Renfred Rykker, Ser Roger Hogg, and Red Ronnet Connington all would have their own sections of the line. They each received a hundred knights to support their foot, but the bulk of the chivalry Jaime held back for himself. At the time of uttermost need, he'd lead the charge personally.

The Valemen host unfolded like an iron flower on the hill before them. More and more climbed and planted their feet. Spearmen and archers formed ranks, and knights men called the best in the Seven Kingdoms, held their lances high. Rapidly counting soldiers was one of the lessons Jaime remembered well from the old maester at Crakehall. His foes had twenty-five thousand, mayhaps thirty. More than me, and fresh. His sellswords feigned a few harassing charges, but the Arryn longbows saw them off.

Jaime searched for Bolton banners, but found none in evidence. If he was very fortunate, the Vale van was off chasing those deserter sellswords, cats or hats, it made no matter. With no Domeric Scalp-Taker to face, he felt a little lighter. They had a chance.

The rat-tat-tatting of the drums carried over the hill, and a trumpet sounded the advance of the Vale foot. They gave up their little hill and marched to meet Ser Jaime's men on even ground. Chivalrous of them. His sellswords made to harry them, but they were seen off again by stout shield walls and clouds of arrows.

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Jaime's archers answered with clouds of their own, feathering the enemy soldiers as they approached. In half a heartbeat the lines collided, and men pushed and stabbed and died.

For now, both sides were content to let the infantry get to grips without undue interference. The Crownlanders gave ground slowly, but the Baratheon men had hotter blood. "A griffin! A griffin!" was their battle cry. Red Ronnet Connington, a promising young knight, and eager for glory, led a small but spirited counter-attack that took the pressure off their fellows further down the line. Redfort spears, surprised by the sudden onslaught, backed off slightly to reform, leaving behind half a hundred dead and dying men.

Lord Horton Redfort was a cautious man, Jaime knew. Bronze Yohn might've already ordered his knights in, but Jaime's present enemy held back his heavy horse, watching and waiting. If nothing else, he needed the threat of them to deter the lighter lances of the sellswords skirting the edge of the battlefield.

"A griffin! A griffin!" Red Ronnet tried to wheel his men and turn the flank of the foot pressing Ser Roger's sector, but he overextended himself, and the Redfort spearmen came roaring back on like a tide. All the while, arrows still flew. Soon, the griffins were getting pushed back just like the rest.

This, alone, was not a disaster. Advancing infantry lost their formation, making them vulnerable to cavalry charges. If it got too bad, he'd send some knights to take the pressure off.

After some time, the Redfort foot stalled and broke contact to rest and reform. Jaime's men were holding. So far, losses were light on both sides. Somehow, Jaime got the sense that the man who committed his heavy horse last would carry the day. Of course, it wasn't exactly necessary to carry the day. To keep the host intact was itself a victory. So long as they stayed athwart Lord Horton's path, King's Landing and Joff's throne were safe for another day. If they could keep it up, mayhaps he could withdraw at evenfall.

Of course, their good fortune couldn't last. One of the sellsword companies, the Stormclaws, if Jaime remembered correctly, got a little too close to the knights of the Vale and provoked a reaction. Those foreign mercenaries were as tired as anyone, and bound to make mistakes. Their overcommitment got punished harshly. A mere hundred Redfort knights couched lances and crashed into the poor Stormclaws, cutting them to pieces. The action was so one-sided that Jaime wanted to retch.

"Tell them to pull back!" he thundered in the general direction of Brown Ben Plumm. "Going lance to lance with true knights is death for the likes of your people!"

"Aye," Brown Ben agreed. The man, who might've been a Plumm if he were more purple, rode off to see to the right flank.

The success of their knights made the Vale foot bolder. They came on aggressively, but his own men dug in their heels and would not be pushed back an inch. Soon, his own spears had the advantage.

"A griffin! A griffin!" Red Ronnet joined in, and this time the Stormlanders were driving the enemy before them. How queer. His enemies, a fortnight past, were fighting harder for him than anyone. Jaime was starting to fear they'd bring down Ser Horton's knights to plug the gap. If that happened, he'd have to charge in himself.

Ser Roger Hogg seemed inspired and renewed his own attack to catch up to Red Ronnet. Jaime watched and waited for a response. The threat of the sellswords on the flanks seemed to paralyze Lord Horton. Would he let his foot break before he intervened?

And where was Domeric Bolton? Where were the wildlings? It was too much to hope for that they were leagues away, chasing deserters. Something smelled wrong. But as the battle progressed, his foot grew bolder. Spears and pikes and men-at-arms, leavened with longbowmen carrying mauls and daggers, smashed into one another, bleeding for inches. It very much resembled a game of come into my castle writ large, with death for a penalty.

The sun climbed high, cooking both armies. Jaime's gilded steel was positively sweltering. There was no movement in the lines for some time, and he realized everyone was tired. A bolder man might've taken advantage, but Lord Horton Redfort seemed not to be such a bold man. Without a hotspur like Domeric Bolton to urge him on, he'd let the battle taper off to no result. An opponent like that was frankly ideal. Jaime had visions of delaying actions all down the Kingsroad, then Father would come at last to sweep the Vale aside.

If they could just hold where they were until the sun went down, he might retire from the field with honor. Some story about "seeking more favorable ground" would forestall panic.

Then everything went to shit. Like a sudden squall, the battle fired up again. All his men's gains of the morning were reversed in minutes. Redfort's foot found new courage, and soon Red Ronnet had to draw steel and join the brawl personally to keep his sector from breaking. "A griffin! A griffin!" Then a man-at-arms hooked Red Ronnet with a poleaxe and pulled him off his horse. A griffin was caught!

Drums and trumpets and pipes, the knights of the Vale came down at last. They sent a small number of men to screen off the sellswords on the flanks, who fled before them, and thousands of heavy horse shattered Jaime's line.

"Form wedge!" Jaime shouted. It was now or never. If he couldn't drive them back, Lannister was lost. He was about to order trumpets of his own to sound the charge when he heard heavy hoofbeats shaking the ground to the rear.

Bolton banners! Somehow, they'd gotten behind them! Drums and trumpets and pipes kept him from hearing their approach! With enemy in front and enemy behind, what was he to do?

The choice was made for him, as knights flying the flayed man took him in the rear. The battle was lost, but Jaime wasn't done! Through the chaos, the shattered knights, the drums and trumpets, and pipes, the screaming horses, he spotted the hated armor of the red demon. If he could kill that man, his family would be safe. His death would have meaning.

He drew his golden sword and spurred on his horse, but as he galloped forth, he marked a stripling of a boy, some squire, riding right at him. The sun glinting off the lance was in his eye. The steel tip of the lance was in his heart.

Cersei was his last thought.