Hooves drummed across the dry grass, kicking up a thin haze of dust that hung in the hot summer air.
Joffrey's orders still rang in Jaime's ears.
"Fine by me," the boy had said.
"He crosses the river, I cross the river."
"If he crosses to hit my Casterly Rock, then I'll cross and drive straight into Highgarden."
Jaime had thought he was the aggressive one. Turns out the kid was even hungrier for blood. Where the hell had Joffrey learned to think like that?
Bronze Yohn Royce rode beside him, gray beard stirring in the wind, back ramrod straight in that ancient bronze armor carved with runes. The old man looked like the actual commander of the vanguard.
Which, technically, he was. Jaime's title as Warden of the East had been politely shelved after that ambush. Joffrey had made it crystal clear in the war council: coordinate with Royce. So here he was—riding with a bunch of Vale knights who didn't give a damn what the Kingslayer thought.
A small party of scouts came galloping back. One horse carried a prisoner slung across its back like a sack of grain.
They dumped the man on the ground. He was filthy, coughing dirt.
Jaime nudged his horse forward. "How many men?"
"Ten thousand… less than twenty thousand."
So, under ten thousand. Tywin must really be spooked if Renly's boys wouldn't even hold Deep Den.
"Pick up the pace," Jaime told the messenger with a jerk of his chin. "Tell the rear to move their asses."
The man glanced at Royce, got the nod, and wheeled away. A few minutes later horns sounded. The infantry pretended to jog, spears bobbing, but their speed barely changed.
These aren't Westerlands men, Jaime thought. His father's troops would've been running already. Royce didn't seem to care about winning—he just let them plod along. No wonder the old goat never won a tourney. He'd been knocked out before the quarter-finals at the last one, and at Lannisport he'd been unhorsed by some nobody from the backwoods.
Jaime's jaw tightened. That Lannisport tourney still burned. He'd come closer to the championship than ever, trading lances with that she-bear from Bear Island until they'd snapped nine of them. Robert, drunk as usual, had declared her the winner. Typical.
The sun climbed higher. The vanguard—five thousand Vale cavalry, half of them proper lance-and-shield chargers, the rest light riders with swords—pushed southwest. Ten thousand light infantry trailed behind with a few days' rations, baggage left with the main host.
Joffrey had laid out some long-winded plan in council. Jaime had boiled it down to the simple version: Renly's men holding Deep Den were few and would run south the second they saw the allied army coming. This fast column's job was to catch them, pin them, and let the main force roll up and swallow them whole.
Jaime pushed back his hood and wiped sweat from his brow. This summer was brutal.
Back at King's Landing, that Stark girl—Sansa—had found Joffrey right before the army marched out. She'd gone all shy, then kissed him square on the mouth in front of everyone. Why couldn't Cersei ever do something like that?
From the cradle he and Cersei had been inseparable. One afternoon in the kennels they'd watched a dog mount a bitch and decided to try the same game themselves. Their mother had caught them and nearly lost her mind. She moved Jaime's rooms to the far side of the castle and threatened to tell their father if it ever happened again.
That misery hadn't lasted long. Joanna died giving birth to Tyrion, and the warnings stopped.
Speaking of Tyrion… twenty-five years old and still unmarried. Jaime felt a pang of guilt about that. Their father had insisted the farm girl only wanted Lannister gold, not Tyrion himself. Jaime hadn't dared argue, so he'd claimed the whole marriage had been his idea. After that, nobody ever told him what happened to the girl.
He shook the thought away.
Scouts kept coming back with updates. Jaime squinted at the sun. If they kept this pace they'd catch the enemy before nightfall.
He reached for his lance. A cousin handed it over—Lancel, Robert's old squire. The kid had been dumped on Jaime after Robert sailed off. Lannister cousins were a dime a dozen; Jaime could never keep all the names straight.
He hefted the lance, grimaced, and handed it back. His right arm still didn't have full strength. The cousin fumbled the catch.
Useless. Jaime had been a far better squire at that age. He'd served Ser Sumner Crakehall, helped smash the Kingswood Brotherhood, and been knighted by Arthur Dayne himself. Then he'd carried a message to Riverrun and old Hoster Tully had kept him there for weeks, seating that giggling goose of a daughter—Catelyn—next to him at every meal. He'd wanted to smash a plate in her face. The Blackfish had been the only interesting one there.
After that he'd gone to King's Landing to see Cersei. She'd grown even more beautiful. She told him their father wanted him to marry Lysa Arryn. Not a chance. Cersei had come up with the perfect plan: join the Kingsguard. White cloak, prestige, and he could stay right by her side.
A month later he wore the white. Their father had been furious. Only later did Jaime learn the Mad King had done it on purpose—one white cloak to rob Casterly Rock of its heir.
Tywin resigned as Hand, took Cersei home, and left Jaime in King's Landing.
Everything after that had been one long mess of shit.
Bronze Yohn barked a few orders. The cavalry split into two wings and spread out.
Jaime narrowed his eyes. Far ahead on the horizon, a dark mass appeared—enemy banners.
He drew his sword and checked his reflection in the blade. Still damn handsome.
Once they crushed these stragglers, Robert would be long gone. No one left to stop him and Cersei. Back in the city, Joffrey could marry Sansa or whoever, but Jaime was done sneaking around. He'd make Cersei his openly. Let the world know the Lannisters answered to no one but themselves.
Like the Targaryens.
Like gods.
War horns sounded.
Jaime spurred his horse and charged with the rest.