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Joffrey was starting to think Jaime's head had taken a worse hit than his arm.
The guy had turned paranoid as hell lately, acting like a full-blown lunatic. There were days Joffrey actually regretted calling in Qyburn. Maybe he should've just let old Pycelle saw the damn arm off and be done with it—might've fixed Jaime's attitude while he was at it.
Too late now. They needed a vanguard commander, and Jaime was still the best they had. He was an outsider in the Vale—no local grudges—so the lords actually listened to him. The Lords Declarant weren't exactly a united front anyway. They'd banded together to avenge Jon Arryn, punish Lysa Tully, and grab a slice of the pie. Now that justice was served and the entire Arryn bloodline was wiped out, everyone was eyeing the old lord's inheritance.
The Eyrie had fallen to young Harry Hardyng—Jon's sister's daughter's son, blood so thin it barely counted. Lady Anya Waynwood had already moved fast, taking him as her ward and quietly plotting to marry one of her granddaughters into the seat. The Royces were sniffing around too. Every house in the Vale had its eyes glued to that white castle on the mountain.
Joffrey wanted a piece of it himself. Just not the same piece.
Cersei paraded around him every day, dropping dumb ideas like sewing the Lannister lion onto the royal arms. He smiled, nodded, and promised to think about it—then quietly changed the subject. In public he never wore a single Lannister badge. He barely even wore red. To the world he was pure Baratheon.
In private, especially when talking to Tywin, he was all West. He praised Casterly Rock until the old lion looked at him like a favorite grandson. All of it for one reason: Casterly Rock.
Right now, though, they couldn't save it. Racing west from Deep Den to reinforce would be exactly what Renly wanted. The strategy was the same one Eddard had laid out—feint east, strike west. Until they knew exactly where the enemy was, the allied army had to move carefully.
Seventy thousand fighting men, plus craftsmen, laborers, merchants, and camp followers—close to a couple hundred thousand people total. The column stretched for miles. Worse, the usual "live off the enemy" plan didn't work in the rich northern Reach. Tywin had already picked the place clean.
Once scouts confirmed the force that took Deep Den was just a feint, Joffrey weighed the options and went back to the original plan.
Swap homes.
Renly pushes north toward Casterly Rock; Joffrey pushes south toward Highgarden.
The two armies would stare at each other across the river.
With seventy thousand men they couldn't all cram together, so Joffrey split the host:
Edmure would take three thousand and secure Deep Den.
Jaime would lead the Vale army as vanguard to chase down the retreating enemy.
Eddard would take the Riverlands and Northern forces to besiege Goldengrove.
Joffrey would command the King's Landing and Crownlands troops in the rear, guarding the supply line and staying flexible to reinforce anywhere. He'd also drift slowly toward Bitterbridge to block any Stormlands forces trying to slip across.
In theory, no one would come after him. So Joffrey set up a comfortable camp and waited for good news from the front.
"Report—!"
"Your Grace! Enemy troops sighted to the west!"
Mathis Rowan reined in hard, looking back at the few hundred exhausted men still with him. He glanced at the glittering Mander River ahead and finally let out a long breath.
He regretted everything. He should have listened to Renly and Randyll Tarly.
Being trapped at Goldengrove while Tywin's mad dogs burned his lands had been pure torture. He'd watched village after village go up in smoke. Mace Tyrell's army had taken forever to muster—waiting for the Hightowers and Redwynes—and even with nearly two-to-one numbers, they'd still been too scared of Tywin's reputation to attack.
Then Renly arrived from the Stormlands and smashed Tywin in one battle.
But Renly hadn't pressed the advantage or gone back to save Storm's End. Randyll had laid out the trap Eddard was setting, and Mathis hadn't believed it. His scouts swore the boy king's huge army was still camped outside King's Landing, waiting for the floating bridge to finish.
"You're welcome to ride north yourself, Mathis," Randyll had told him. "If you don't mind dying."
So Renly gave him seven thousand men and orders to make noise and spook Tywin. Tywin ran. After taking Deep Den, Mathis ignored the order to pull out immediately. In a fit of spite he let his men loot the place for a full day and night.
Then the scouts came back screaming.
The boy king's army had somehow crossed the Blackwater and was already closing in.
Mathis felt like he'd fallen into the seventh hell.
He abandoned every scrap of loot and ran. But soldiers don't spit out gold they've stuffed in their belts. They'd fled for three straight days and still got caught.
Vale cavalry—mountain horses built like moving walls—flying the roaring lion banner.
The Kingslayer had come for revenge.
Mathis hadn't waited around. He ditched the army and slipped away with his personal guard. After days of hiding, worse news arrived: Goldengrove was under siege again—this time by Eddard Stark and an even bigger host.
Run.
But the enemy was everywhere—south, north, even ships on the river. The only way out was east, toward Bitterbridge and the eastern Reach.
It meant losing contact with Renly, but he had no choice.
Mathis wiped sweat from his face and forced a smile for his battered knights.
"Renly will win," he told them. "Your castles are gone? Doesn't matter. Goldengrove still has hundreds of defenders. Highgarden has thousands more. Once Renly takes Casterly Rock, the gold there will let every one of you build a new castle!"
Including mine, he added silently.
Dust suddenly rose to the north. A column of troops appeared on the horizon.
Mathis nearly fell off his horse.
Had the boy king already taken Bitterbridge?
Then he saw the banners and almost laughed with relief.
Crowned stag.
"Stormlands reinforcements!" he called, grinning at his men. "Dismount, everyone! Let's go welcome them!"