Over a hundred fully armed cavalry burst from the hills to the south, kicking up a long trail of dust.
Horns blared. The resting Northern soldiers snatched up their weapons.
Greatjon's massive frame shouldered through the crowd like a bull and planted himself at the front.
The dust settled. Both sides stared at each other across a hundred paces.
The Northerners formed a shield wall behind their stakes, spears bristling in the sunlight.
"Friendly forces! We're allies!" someone shouted from the other side, voice edged with urgency.
Greatjon spat on the ground.
"You think we're idiots?" His voice carried to every ear. "Both sides fly stags—who the hell knows which you belong to? We don't even bother with fancy armor like that."
He wasn't wrong.
The knights across from them wore polished plate engraved with intricate vines and floral patterns—pure Reach craftsmanship.
The lead knight stayed silent for a moment, then removed his helmet.
"Oh, shit! The Kingslayer!" Greatjon froze. "What the hell happened to your face?"
Jaime's left cheek twitched.
He'd already grown sick of the question. Every acquaintance asked it. He'd decided that the next person who brought it up was getting punched.
Then he looked at Greatjon's size. The man was so tall that even standing still he reached Jaime's chin.
Maybe not the best idea.
"Where's His Grace?" Jaime said, dodging the topic. "I need to see him."
Joffrey was inside his tent studying maps when the sudden commotion outside made him lift the flap.
He saw Jaime swing down from his horse.
His eyes locked on the scar.
"What happened to your face?"
Joffrey stared at the wound, a strange sense of déjà vu nagging at him. After a moment it clicked—the scar looked just like the one on a certain big gray wolf.
Jaime's cheek twitched again.
"Your Grace, we rode hundreds of miles on your orders and this is how you greet me?" His tone dripped sarcasm.
Joffrey pushed his curiosity down and waved him inside.
"Of course not, dear uncle. I'm just surprised you got here so fast."
Jaime dropped into a chair without ceremony.
"Would've been faster if we hadn't gotten lost. Some idiot tried to trick us."
"I asked for directions. He told me to go left. Led us straight into a huge swamp."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "You didn't believe him?"
"Do I look that stupid?" Jaime rolled his eyes. "I sent scouts both ways. The other direction was a big river."
"The old farmer was trying to lead us into a dead end so his lord could wipe us out in one go."
"And then?"
"Then we spent a few nights in his lord's castle. Turns out the place is called Whitebark, right in the middle of the Mander."
Joffrey clicked his tongue.
In half a month they'd covered three hundred miles, passed through several enemy-held castles, and taken one along the way.
Typical Jaime—future legend who could march an army straight from the Westerlands to Highgarden in record time. The achievement was worth writing home about no matter who pulled it off.
"How swift!" Joffrey couldn't help praising him. "I knew sending you was the right call."
Jaime didn't look proud.
"Only a few hundred of us made it," he said. "The rest are still behind."
Joffrey's smile froze. "Then why the hell did you run ahead? Why leave the army behind?"
"They're harvesting wheat back there," Jaime said with a white-toothed grin. "It's what they do best."
"We ditched all the baggage to move fast. Ate light the whole way. By the time we reached Whitebark we were almost out of food."
"We stayed two days. Let the men harvest the fields themselves, then used the watermill to grind flour and bake bread."
"Taxes were due anyway, so I collected early and in your name waived their rent for the year."
Joffrey opened his mouth, then closed it. For once he had nothing to say.
Jaime glanced around, leaned forward, and lowered his voice.
"After that we rode south along the borderlands. At the Prince's Pass we ran into a lot of Dornish soldiers."
"I figured they were up to no good, so we pretended to be Renly's reinforcements and talked our way through the gates of Nightsong."
"Left Bronze Yohn there with some men to hold the place. I came straight here to talk to you."
Joffrey's expression turned serious.
Prince Doran sticking his nose in was expected. Tyrion had already contacted him about marrying Tommen into Dorne, but Joffrey had refused and that was the end of it.
He thought for a moment, then sighed.
"Let's deal with what's in front of us first."
Jaime sat quietly for a while, listening to the shouts outside, then started fidgeting.
"One-two-one! One-two-one!"
A strange, rhythmic chant drifted in from the distance.
He lifted the tent flap and peered out.
"What are those people doing?"
"Training."
The two of them stepped outside.
On a wide stretch of open ground, thousands of soldiers stood in neat squares while other groups ran drills.
They wore matching armor—some old, some new—but every piece was polished bright.
No lazy peasant levies. No cynical sellsword attitude. Just the quiet pride Jaime had only ever seen on the faces of the Lannister guards at Casterly Rock.
The look of real elites.
"Whose men are these?" Jaime blurted.
No one answered.
"Tell the ser whose men you are," Joffrey said.
"We are King Joffrey's men!" the soldiers roared back in unison.
Jaime turned to stare at him, eyes clearly saying Are you fucking with me right now?
Joffrey smiled.
Good food, silver stags in their pockets, and the honor of being the king's own guard—morale work had been thorough.
Jaime wandered through the camp.
"Roads are straight, packed flat, even the stones cleared out." He squatted and poked the ground. "Eddard teach you this? Didn't know he had it in him."
He lifted the flap of one tent, stepped back out, then checked another, and another.
Inside, the bunks were perfectly aligned. Weapons sorted by length. Shields stacked neatly. Blankets folded.
"This definitely wasn't Eddard. Where'd you learn this trick?"
Nothing mysterious. Just standard military training from another world.
Joffrey had imported boot-camp discipline.
He hadn't gone as far as requiring perfect "tofu-block" folds—most of these men didn't even own blankets. As long as nothing was left in a messy heap, it was fine.
A piece of tree bark hung from one of the tent stakes, carved with a daily schedule: wake-up, meals, training. Everything laid out clearly.
"They actually follow this?" Jaime asked.
Joffrey nodded, looking pleased with himself.
It was still a long way from the elite army he pictured, but in such a short time he considered it the best result anyone in Westeros could have achieved.
"Why would they agree to it?" Jaime pressed.
Eleven lashes.
Not on the guilty man.
Instead, pick one person at random from the squad and let the others beat him.
Joffrey gave a vague explanation.
Jaime stared at him for a long moment.
"Spill it. Where the hell did you learn all this?"
"Barristan? No way. Some Northerner? Riverlands man?"
"Well…" Joffrey started bullshitting. "I was sleeping one night, felt the Seven touch my head, and suddenly I just knew."