Chapter XII

The Marches of the Westerlands

Seldom had any sight been more welcome to Ser Jaime Lannister than seeing the low rolling mountains and foothills of his homelands. After many days of hard riding, north, then south and west, after many close shaves with freeriders of the Riverlords, traveling all night and all day and suspecting eyes in every hedge along the road, he was finally approaching home.

Ser Jaime and his company, twenty of his personal guard, rode along the hard-packed dirt of the river road, through open meadows and shaded forest. His men swayed in the saddle, looking listless and aimless, and their horses glistened with sweat and breathed heavily. Jaime was tireless. He felt driven onwards relentlessly. A long arm of mountains marched away to the north. To the south, another arm of lower foothills. On the road before them, the two arms narrowed and came together, like a funnel, leaving only the narrow pass where stood the fortress of the Golden Tooth. Jaime smiled. Once he was at that castle, he would be beyond the reach of Tullys and Starks.

Father likely already knows, and once we raise our banners then we can remind them all that Lannisters pay their debts Jaime spurred his horse on to a trot. His company followed behind him, riding briskly towards the pass.

Damn Catelyn Stark, damn that she-wolf bitch thought Jaime hatefully.

She had taken his brother captive. The nerve of that still galled him. Did the wolf forget its place? Did it forget that it was dealing with lions? Somewhere deep in his mind though, Jaime felt guilt for his brother's captivity. It hadn't been Tyrion that had been in that tower with Cersei…

This all would have been so much simpler if that boy would just have died Jaime thought.

But taking Tyrion captive? That was unacceptable. At first Jaime had had a mind to rush off to make old honest Ned pay for his wife's crimes. Stark was old, slow, he wouldn't be able to keep up with Jaime, no one ever could except Ser Barristan

And Aratan, and that debt too will be paid, in time he reminded himself.

Of course Cersei had begged him not to attack Lord Stark, not while he had an army around him and Aratan Isildurion at his side.

"We're Lannisters," she had said "And Lannisters don't act like fools,"

She sounded uncannily like their father when she said that. That had disturbed Jaime more than he would like to admit, and not just because of the things he and Cersei did.

She had convinced him though. At least not to attack Lord Stark. Yet he still couldn't just stand by and let Catelyn Stark of all people take her brother in captivity. Though Cersei had pleaded with him to stay, he had ridden out of King's Landing as soon as he had gotten twenty of their men together, with horses to spare. They had galloped north from the Old Gate with one thought on Jaime's mind: Getting his brother back.

The great race north from King's Landing had exhausted both horses and men. They thundered up the kingsroad for the crossroads as fast as their mounts would carry them, beneath an iron-grey sky. Ever Jaime was in the lead, his men trailing behind. He rode until he felt like he would fall from his saddle, then they would snatch a few moments of rest and a few bites of food by the roadside before he would force his men to ride more. There were grumblings amongst his guards at the grueling pace he set, but none dared to question Jaime.

"My lord, we will kill the horses if we keep up like this," Tregar had told him during that ride.

"Let the horses die, if we do not catch Lady Stark then you will have to reckon with me," Jaime had replied, and Tregar fell silent at that.

They swept up to the Inn at the Crossroads like a swift wind from the south. Jaime remembered the inn from their journey from Winterfell. He didn't recall the name of the old crone who ran the inn, but he did remember her awful sourleaf-stained teeth. Tregar had wanted to torch the inn as retribution against the innkeeper for allowing an insult to House Lannister to occur there, but Jaime had no patience for that. He only wanted to know where Lady Stark had taken Catelyn.

"She said she was riding north, milord, for Winterfell," the old lady had said, her eyes terrified at the shining steel of the drawn swords behind Ser Jaime.

"Good, that wasn't so hard now was it? If you've lied to me, you'll be hanging from the sign of your own inn," he had told her, mounting his horse as he did.

It had taken three days of hard riding and the death of two of their horses before Jaime realized he had been played false. North of the crossroads, no one had seen sight or sign of his brother or Lady Stark or indeed any groups of riders anywhere. The sleepy villages and holdfasts they passed were full of nothing but peasants minding their own business.

Jaime's wrath had burned hot and he wanted to ride back to the inn and watch that old woman strangle on a rope.

"Maybe Catelyn took Lord Tyrion to Riverrun? It is closer than Winterfell," Tregar had suggested. The Kingsroad stretched out north before them, countless miles beckoning. Jaime could follow it to the end of the world if he had wished, but there were more urgent matters at hand.

"Riverrun? No, that's too close to Casterly Rock. She would want to get somewhere far away from the other Lannisters, but where? If not Winterfell then…" that is when the realization him like a thunderbolt. "The Eyrie,"

"The Eyrie, my lord? But why there?" asked Tregar.

"Because Lysa Arryn is the she-wolf's sister, and because it would take an army to pry Tyrion out of there," said Jaime, and he cursed Starks and Tullys and Arryns bitterly.

He heard his father's voice in his ears: The lion does not allow itself to be insulted by any lesser beast. Not by the salmon of the rivers or the falcon of the vale or the wolves of the north.

"What can we do then, my lord?" the captain said.

"Go get an army," Jaime replied simply.

And they rode. They headed till they hit the Green Fork, and then followed it south to the Ruby Ford. From there came the second stage of their great race, west across the Riverlands. They cut across country wherever they could, through rolling hills and across broad grassy plains and farmer's fields. They kept their banners furled and their shields covered in the lands of the riverlords, it seemed unwise to display the lion of Lannister when a Tully had taken a Lannister captive. Jaime could not remember ever having ridden so far, at such speed in his life. More horses died from the unforgiving pace but their need for haste was great. Jaime did not ride forth from King's Landing only to be captured by some riverlands bumpkin that called himself a lord. They rode until the men nodded their heads and slept in the saddle. They avoided villages and holdfasts and kept off the road wherever they could. First they traveled directly towards Riverrun, then cut south and west to swing around it and avoid any Tully patrols. They swept across the river at a gallop, the Red Fork foaming round their horses' knees.

Now their journey was nearing its end, at last. By dusk, they would be at the Golden Tooth. Jaime smiled at that. He would allow himself a full night of rest in a proper bed before pressing on to Castlery Rock. They would not need to be so swift once they were safely behind the mountains. If only Cersei awaited him at the Tooth. He found himself yearning for the feel of her, to be with her, in her, whole.

Yet even thinking of Cersei, he could not stop worrying about Tyrion. Their dwarf brother had never been the favourite of the family, Tyrion had never gotten along with Cersei or with father, but he was still Jaime's brother. Brothers are supposed to protect each other. He felt like he had failed to protect his brother.

He set these thoughts aside and spurred his horse into a canter. Hooves pounded on the road behind him. With the mountains coming closer, casting deep dark shadows across the land from the setting sun, they entered the pass.

Night was deepening when they reached the Golden Tooth. The immense fortress loomed ahead, unclear in the blackness, yet vast like a mountain giant. Distant torches blazed on the ramparts, pinpricks of light in the darkness. And below the Tooth's high walls, fires. Thousands of fires. Fires as uncountable as the stars themselves. Around the fires, the shadowy figures of men and horses and tents. Jaime's eyes widened in shock and then he smiled again, his famous smile that cut like a knife's edge. His father had come forth from Casterly Rock, and he had brought the west with him.

All weariness vanished from Jaime in that moment. He commanded his banner to be unfurled. The night was growing dark yet the golden lion was dimly visible in the blackness. He led his men down into the camp at a gallop, smiling broadly, his golden hair floating in the wind of his speed.

All around him passed men wearing the sigils of all the houses of the Westerlands. They cried out to him in many voices as they saw him.

"Lord Jaime! That's Ser Jaime!"

"Ser Jaime has come!"

"Hail Ser Jaime!"

"The war's about to start, you're almost late milord!"

"The Lions of Lannister are with us now!"

He laughed and called out back to them.

"Hello my brave boys! The Young Lion has arrived!"

Jaime reined his horse up in front of a pavilion. In the torch light, he saw that it was decorated with the brindled boars of the Crakehalls. A tall man strode out of the tent, hearing the commotion. His hair was long and his face bristled with whiskers almost like the brindles of a boar.

"Ser Jaime!" boomed Ser Lyle Crakehall, smiling with a mouth that lacked a few teeth.

"Good to see you Strongboar," Jaime dismounted and the Strongboar caught his hand in a grip that could crush bone.

"We worried that the damned wolves would have fallen on you just like your brother," said Lyle.

"Much obliged that you came to war for me," Jaime replied.

"I came to war to have a damn good fight at last. I haven't had a good fight in years Jaime. Not having a fight is like not getting to fuck, you get all backed up, need to get it out," the Strongboar laughed. Jaime smiled at that. He had always known that Ser Lyle Crakehall would fight anyone, anywhere, at any time, for any reason.

"Think this will be a good one Jaime? I missed out on fighting the Ironmen last time 'cause of that damned Isildur, he finished 'em off too quickly!" said Ser Lyle.

"Lyle, if this goes the way I think it's going to, you might get to fight Isildur himself," Jaime told him.

"That would be worthy of the songs!" Lyle grinned.

"Where is my father? I've ridden far and hard and I must speak to him,"

"He's up at the castle, with your uncle,"

The Golden Tooth was the seat of House Lefford, and of Lord Leo Lefford, whom Jaime remembered as a dour and unpleasant man who rarely laughed. Yet above the portcullis, it was the lion of Lannister that floated there, and men in the red cloaks of his father's personal guard welcomed him in the courtyard when he dismounted.

"Tregar, see that the men rest and are well fed, they've earned it," Jaime commanded.

"Yes my lord," Tregar replied gratefully.

Some of his father's men led him into the keep, through the hall, up a long staircase. Their torches flickered in the chill air. They led him to Lord Leo's study, and flung the door open. In the firelight of the study, familiar faces rose to greet him.

They stood around a table strewn with maps. There was tall, lean Ser Addam Marbrand and his father Lord Damon, and next to them was sombre Lord Quenten Banefort. Across the table from Lord Banefort was Lewys Lydden, Lord of the Deep Den, with his badger sigil on his surcoat. Lord Roland Crakehall stood as tall and robust as his son the Strongboar, and Lord Leo Lefford looked as sour as if he had swallowed a lemon. And standing near the head of the table, balding and portly as ever, Ser Kevan Lannister smiled at Jaime.

Next to Uncle Kevan, there he stood. The Great Lion, the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West.

"Father," said Jaime in greetings.

"Jaime," said Lord Tywin Lannister. He did not smile to see him. Jaime knew that Father never smiled. Yet in the slightest movements, the minutest twitches of his father's drawn, stony face, he could see something like… relief? Satisfaction?

"How did your journey fare?" Tywin asked. Jaime idly wondered when he would start balding as Lord Tywin had, and if he would still be as muscled and powerfully built as his father when he reached his father's age.

"Oh the usual tiring days on the road, dusty, hot, nearly ran into Tully freeriders once or twice, just another happy summer ride in the Riverlands," Jaime replied, flashing his smile. Father's face was not moved.

"You must be weary from the road. My lords, we shall continue our business tomorrow when my son is rested and may join us," Lord Tywin commanded.

"But my lord, we still have many arrangements," but before Lord Lefford could finish his objection, Tywin Lannister turned his head and stared at him. He did not scowl, he did not snap or snarl or demand silence, he simply looked at him. Lord Lefford said no more.

One by one, the lords and captains of the Westerlands filed from the study, nodding to Jaime or clapping hands on his back in greeting as they passed. Soon only Jaime and his father were left in the study. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

"You know Father, it's the funniest thing, I was just riding home to get an army and here it is," Jaime said.

"Tyrion left us no choice," Tywin replied.

"Catelyn Stark left us no choice," Jaime said. He would not see his brother blamed for the crimes of his captors. There was a flicker of gold-flecked green eyes. Small, barely noticeable for any other than Lord Tywin's own children, but Jaime could see it plain as day. Father had never approved of Jaime's closeness to Tyrion.

"It was Tyrion that was fool enough that get captured by a woman," Tywin said in a voice of correction. Not angry, nor gentle, simply stern enough for Jaime to know the rebuke when he heard it. "But his foolishness is of no matter, Catelyn Stark will pay for this foolishness, she will pay with that which is dearest to her,"

"You mean to march then?" Jaime said. The corners of Lord Tywin's mouth twitched, not a smile, never a smile, merely a twitch.

"We cannot allow rebellious northerners to take a brother of the King captive at will," he replied.

"Brother of the King?" And then Jaime realized what his father was saying "Oh I see, very clever way of presenting it, but surely I don't need to remind you that the bitch's husband is our Robert's bosom companion and Marshal of the King's Host?

"And Cersei is his wife, and all of his children are half Lannister, and you and Tyrion are his brothers, and I am the father of his wife and grandfather of his children. We are a part of the royal family," Lord Tywin said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

They are your grandchildren father, but not by Robert, Jaime thought.

Jaime considered the brotherly love of Robert and old honest Ned. Seldom had he ever seen a stronger bond between men who did not share blood. Stannis and Renly were Robert's brothers by birth, Tyrion and Jaime were his brothers by marriage, but Ned Stark was his brother by choice. For once, Jaime thought his father might have it wrong.

"Not a part he's very fond of, admittedly," Jaime replied. King Robert had never hidden his distaste for the Lannisters. Not that Jaime could blame him really. Robert was surrounded by Lannisters, and Cersei would be cold in bed for anyone but Jaime. If he were in Robert's place, he'd probably get sick of Lannisters himself.

"It doesn't matter whether he's fond of us or not, if he wishes to be respected as king he must enforce upon his lords that the royal family is untouchable. And we must do the same for our house, we must get your brother back," Tywin said.

"I didn't realize you cared for my brother's life," said Jaime. There was the twitching of the mouth again that was the closest Father came to a bemused smile.

"He is a Lannister. The least of the Lannisters perhaps, but one of us, and I will not allow the Tullys or the Starks or anyone to hold him captive with impunity. I will remind them why the rains weep over Castamere," Tywin's words were not spoken in anger, there was no threat in them. He merely said it as fact.

"What about-"

"You are weary Jaime, you ought to rest from the road," Lord Tywin instructed. After many years of living at Casterly Rock, Jaime had become well accustomed to how Father would give his children commands. The heavy thud of armoured boots behind him confirmed it.

"Show my son to suitable quarters for him, see that he is fed, and summon him promptly tomorrow for the council of war,"

The guard led Jaime to a room in a high turret of the Tooth. Out the window, he could see the thousands of campfires spread out beneath him, like a tapestry of small lights. Men moved in the camp, shadows around the fires.

An impromptu meal was been laid out for him on the table, and he ate ravenously. There was a round loaf of bread that tasted as if it had baked earlier in the day. There were cold meats and a half a wheel of ripe cheese, and some dried fruit as well. To wash it down, a mug of good brown ale. It was simple fare but delicious. He had had little but hardtack and dried meat for a week at least, with the occasional apple snared from a passing tree on the road. Jaime hadn't realized how hungry he had been. He had eaten many fine meals in his life. He had sat at feasts and festivals, he had eaten meals by the finest cooks in the South and the North and even Gondor, but rarely had any meal tasted as good as that late supper at the Golden Tooth.

He barely managed to get his travel-stained clothing off before he collapsed gratefully into bed. Jaime didn't even have time to appreciate the softness of the pillows or the crispness of the sheet. Sleep was immediate, deep, and dreamless. His last thoughts before slumber took him were of Cersei.

Jaime awoke in the morning to the sounds of an encamped army. Men shouted and laughed, dogs barked, horses neighed and called to each, and armourers rang hammers off of blades and breastplates. He looked out the window as he pulled a fresh tunic over his head. An ocean of colour and heraldry stretched across the pass. All the sigils of the lords of the Westerlands fluttered in the wind. Jaime smiled. Even as a grown man, the sights of his father's banners could still bring a thrill to his heart.

When he had donned a clean doublet and trousers, he went to depart his chamber. He found one of his father's guards at his door.

"Milord, Lord Tywin instructs that you shall sit at the council of war today," said the guard. Jaime raised an eyebrow at him.

"This morning?" he asked.

"Yes milord, Lord Tywin was very clear," said the guard.

"Later, after I have broken my fast," Jaime smiled easily.

"But milord,"

"They're not going to go to war without me, I can assure you," Jaime said.

What he didn't tell the guard was where he intended to break his fast. He rode out of the gate of the Golden Tooth and headed down into the camp. Tents great and small stretched out in all directions, from the unmarked ones of freeriders and sellswords to the huge and richly decorated tents of lords, like canvas palaces with armour and shields hung out in front of their door to display their sigils.

Jaime quickly found the company he sought. Lyle Crakehall was outside of his tent in shirt and riding leathers, laughing loudly at some joke of thick-necked Ser Peter Plumm. One of the Strongboar's servants was frying a tantalizing-smelling breakfast of bacon, sausages, fried beans and eggs. Nearby stood Ser Addam Marbrand, smiling at the laughter. He wore a surcoat that bore the burning tree of his house.

"Good morning to you my lord," called Ser Addam when he saw Jaime vault down from his horse.

"Oh don't get all courtly on me now Addam," Jaime replied. Addam extended a hand in greeting and Jaime took it and then pulled the heir of Ashemark into a hug.

"It'll be good to have you at our side when we ride out to whip the Tullys," Jaime told him. Ser Addam grinned. Lord Damon Marbrand's eldest son had been a page of Casterly Rock as a boy, he had grown up with Lord Tywin's children, Jaime's only constant companion other than Cersei.

"When are we riding out Ser Jaime? I want to kill somebody!" announced Lyle.

"You always want to kill somebody Strongboar," Jaime replied. He pulled up a stool and sat down next to the cooking fire.

"Of course! There's nothing better!" Ser Lyle laughed, sitting down in a stool of his own.

Lyle Crakehall was built every bit as strong and fierce as the boar that was his sigil. There were few men in the Eight Kingdoms that Jaime wasn't sure he could defeat in a fight if he had too, and the Strongboar was one of them. Not as fast as Jaime, nobody was, but immensely strong and dangerous, with arms that looked like they could break a man's back.

Ser Peter Plumm, his face as red as a tomato, was of a different sort. He too was a big man, but more portly than and not as muscular as the Strongboar. Jaime wasn't deceived by the appearances though, Ser Peter was tremendously strong as well, if not quite as much as Ser Lyle. If it ever came down to a fight though, Jaime's gold would be on Ser Lyle Crakehall. He was also sure that he could beat Ser Peter if he needed too. There weren't many of his father's knights and bannermen he couldn't defeat in a fight if he had to.

Glancing over at Ser Addam Marbrand, Jaime wasn't entirely sure. He knew he could beat Addam, he'd done it many times in the sparring yard when he was young. But even then their bouts were often close. Since they were boys, Addam had grown his copper-red hair out to his shoulders. Long legs made him a good horseman and long arms gave him many advantages with sword in hand. It might be a close one, but Jaime was sure his speed would tell if he ever came to blows with Addam. That seemed unlikely though. They had been friends and rivals at Casterly Rock when they were young, but as Addam had grown he had become as loyal to Jaime's family in his own way as Uncle Kevan was to Jaime's lord father.

Ser Addam sat down next to Jaime, and handed him a plate of food hot from the fire.

"Speaking of the fighting, does your lord father know who will be in the field against us? He was tight-lipped at the council last night," said Addam.

"The riverlords at least I think, we'll have to humble Lady Stark's family," said Jaime.

"Serves 'em right if they were stupid enough to mess with Lord Tywin," laughed Ser Peter.

"It was my brother who was taken captive, Ser Peter, you'd best remember," Jaime said.

"Whatever they did to raise Lord Tywin's ire, we'll give them a damn good thrashing and be home in time for the next harvest," Peter replied.

"What of their allies?" asked Ser Addam, ever the soldier.

"The Starks I think, old honourable Ned will hardly just let his wife's home put to the torch. I'm not so sure about the Arryns, Lysa has always been a bit touched but I don't think even she is mad enough to let her family go to war alone," answered Jaime.

"A woman with thousands of swords at her beck and call, there's a terrifying thought," said Ser Peter.

Jaime had to agree. For all that he loved Cersei, the thought of her commanding armies was an uncomfortable one.

"Bah, the more foes in the field, the more glorious the victory," declared Ser Lyle.

"Or the more total the defeat. We'll have to keep eyes on the northern roads," said Addam, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Jaime shrugged, and dug into his breakfast. He was soon ignoring the conversation of the others entirely. He had almost forgotten the joy of a hot meal in the morning. Jaime was just in the middle of chewing on a spoonful of eggs when a question was asked that he had hoped wouldn't be.

"Ser Jaime, I heard that you tangled with the Dunedain at the Hand's tourney?" said Ser Peter. Jaime swallowed his eggs.

"Yes, you could say that," he said.

It had been around the first hour of the afternoon when he had met Aratan on the lists. Three opponents had already fallen to Jaime's lance. The herald matching him with the lean Dunadan had excited him, he had never fought one of their kind before. He had been confident that the son of Isildur too would fall. Aratan had ridden onto the field in a hauberk of mail down to his knees, with plate on arms and legs and a coat of plates on his chest, and Jaime thought that the long kite shield would make for a good target.

Jaime remembered that as he fell from his horse after the fourth tilt, with his own shield split by Aratan's lance, he thought something in midair. He had thought: This might be a bit more complicated than expected.

The laughter had irked him. Above the commotion of the crowds and the nobles, that drunken fool Robert's laugh had resounded loudest of all. They had always laughed at Jaime Lannister, he was used to it by now, but that didn't mean it didn't anger him.

Within his visor, nobody saw him smile when Aratan drew his sword. When Aratan dismounted and tossed aside his shield, Jaime was glad. He knew that the son of Isildur understood.

Jaime had fought many middling swordsmen in his day. He had fought many good swordsmen. He had even fought a few great swordsmen. Few people knew what a great swordsman was. It was not enough to just handle a blade well, you had to think, you had to be fast and cunning, and you had to be able to wrestle and grapple and use the whole sword to fight with. Aratan Isildurion was a great swordsman. His reach was long and his arm was strong. Parrying his blows was like trying to parry a bolt of lightning. Grappling with him was like grappling a bear made of steel and stone. His form was perfection, and even though Jaime could strike twice for every one swing that Aratan made, somehow the Dunadan still parried and deflected easily. Rarely had Jaime ever been pushed so hard in a fight and the joy of battle was like a fire in his veins.

It had been frustrating when Robert had commanded them to stop before the fight could finish. It had been more frustrating when Cersei had asked him so desperately to not try to fight Aratan again; she always worried about him. Most frustrating of all was when he finally caught Aratan in the melee after hours of seeking him out, only for Robert to get himself stabbed and the fight finished prematurely. Jaime hated leaving matters unfinished with a worthy foe.

"As good as the songs say?" asked the Strongboar.

"They're strong for their age, and faster than you'd think with those old bones," Jaime said, smirking.

"Will they come south though? What will Gondor do?" asked Ser Addam. Jaime smiled. Addam always had been a man to focus on the task at hand instead of wasting time on idle talk.

"Not sure, they may or they may not, hard to say with war. If they do, we'll fight them," said Jaime.

"Lord Isildur is the Hand of the King ain't he? And he's got that Host they've been raising," said Ser Peter Plumm.

"Bah, peasants. I want a real battle, I want to be able to tell my grandchildren that I fought the Dunedain and defeated them," Ser Lyle Crakehall's voice was loud and boisterous.

"Their ships could be a dagger in our back though," said Ser Addam quietly.

As if sensing that their talk had turned to strategy, a messenger rode up to them just when Jaime had finished his food. The lion of Casterly Rock was embroidered on the boy's surcoat. Jaime tried to think if he had seen him somewhere before, but decided that he hadn't. He supposed much had changed in his father's household since last he was home.

"My lord Ser Jaime, your lord father sends for you. Ser Addam, you are also summoned, my lord… ser," the messenger said dutifully and nervously. He looked about fourteen years of age and sounded like it as well.

Probably a page. Gods, he looks so nervous, he's sweating. I hope the brat isn't my squire Jaime thought.

"Very well, mustn't keep father dearest waiting," Jaime said, handing his plate to Ser Lyle's servant.

He and Ser Addam rode side by side back up towards the Golden Tooth. It was not the largest castle of the Eight Kingdoms but it was certainly one of the strongest. It dominated the pass, clinging hard to the shoulder of a mountain. A curtain wall of great thickness sat behind a dry moat, with a dozen huge round towers frowning down on the pass below. Within that wall was the main courtyard. A second inner wall with six towers protected the inner courtyard, from which rose the keep of Lord Lefford. A tall spire rose from the top of the keep, like the jagged fang of some huge beast, and from that spire the men of the Golden Tooth kept a watch on the mountain pass. In all the centuries that the castle had stood, no foe had entered the Westerlands from the east without having to fight past the Tooth first.

There was blast of horns and a roll of drums from the west. Jaime reined his horse up at the edge of the Tooth's drawbridge. From the western road, he saw a long, tramping column of men come marching. The tips of pikes and spears, and burnished helmets, and bits of armour caught the sunlight and gleamed. The drums beat out a constant beat for the soldiers. They looked to be about a thousand strong. Above them was a silken banner in the green and brown colours that Jaime recognized as the colours of House Moreland. At their head rode Lord Robin Moreland himself, a long green cloak over his shoulders, and all his retainers and men-at-arms about him.

Behind the Moreland levies came a second column. No banners did they fly, and their ranks were not as straight and taut as those of the Moreland men. They were talking, laughing, strolling almost casually. Over their shoulders they carried large crossbows with prods of steel. Jaime recognized the type; they were arbalests. So heavy and so powerful was an arbalest that it had to be cranked back by a windlass. On their backs they wore huge pavises, and each man came with a sword at his side. Jaime knew them now: Sellswords. Several hundreds of them, all crossbowmen.

"Lord Lannister has paid a handsome price for any professional crossbowmen he can find, and sellswords have been flocking to our banners by the thousands," said Ser Addam, seeing Jaime watch the approaching columns.

Lord Tywin had commanded that the council of war be held in the great hall of the Golden Tooth. The lords and the captains of the West gathered around the high table, standing or sitting, talking in groups or pairs, filling the room with a persistent murmur of chatter. Servants were setting out bottles of wine and goblets, and spreading maps across the table.

I wonder how many campaigns have been fought at the gap where two maps meet? thought Jaime.

At a glance he guessed that slightly over half of his father's bannermen were gathered already. He noted that the Falwells, Westerlings, Stackspears, and Presters had not yet shown, amongst those still absent. Nor did he see the hulking form of Gregor Clegane, a surprise as usually Gregor was amongst the first to answer his lord's call. And, to Jaime's confusion, his father was not yet amongst them, though Uncle Kevan was already sitting at the head of the table.

"Jaime, your father wishes to see you in the study. Alone," said Ser Kevan Lannister as soon as Jaime approached the high table.

Addam nodded to Jaime and then went to take his place next to his father Lord Damon. A silent guard accompanied Jaime up the long, winding staircase that led to the study, which was in one of the corners of the keep. Jaime had learned from long experience at Casterly Rock not to try to chat with his father's personal guards; Lord Tywin had always preferred them silent.

The door to the study was heavy, bound with iron, and almost closed. It was open only a slit. On the other side of it, Jaime heard voices.

"The Mummer's Ford is the perfect place for it, I promise you my lord," said a voice like the breaking of stones. Jaime recognized that it belonged to Ser Gregor Clegane.

"You would risk piercing him with a dozen arrows and then having him drown in the river. He's no use to us dead, you idiot," said the stern voice of Lord Tywin.

"My men are better than that. He will be taken alive my lord, I swear it," replied Gregor.

"Your men are murderers, rapers and thieves. Luckily for them, they're more use to me under your command than hanging from the gallows. Now go, and see that it is done properly," said Twin.

Jaime opened the door. He was treated to the sight of his father staring up at the Troll That Walks in the Day. Ser Gregor Clegane was known to some as The Mountain That Rides. His body fit the description. He was a beast of a man, built on a colossal scale, nearly eight feet tall and even broader and heavier than usual in his harness of dark grey plate armour worn over mail and leather. Beneath his arm he carried a huge greathelm with a closed fist atop its crest. A sword that lesser men could barely lift was sheathed at his side. And yet despite his great bulk and tremendous strength, be bowed his head as if berated by Jaime's lord father. In all his years, Jaime had only ever seen the Mountain bow his head to Lord Tywin.

His father's eyes flicked over to Jaime.

"Ser Gregor, you may leave us. Remember what I told you," Tywin said.

"Yes my lord, it shall be done," said Ser Gregor, and he turned and walked past Jaime without as much as a by your leave to the son of his liege lord. His plate harness shook and clattered mightily with every step.

"Sending the gallant Ser Gregor on some valiant quest I see," Jaime said. His father snorted, a short inhale through the nostrils, it could almost be said to be a chuckle.

"Ser Gregor has his uses. And if he is intelligent enough to do as I have asked him, he will hand us the key to Gondor," Lord Tywin sat down in a chair by the fireplace. He grabbed a rolled up letter off a table and handed it to Jaime. "Read this,"

It was a scroll of the kind sent by raven, covered in a small script. Jaime unrolled it in his hands and read aloud:

"Uhh, on the authority of Isildur, son of Elendil, Hand of the King, the usual titles, and in the name of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, more titles. Ser Gregor Clegane is hereby declared an outlaw and sentenced to death. Let any freeman put him death and let none shelter him lest they wish to share in his fate. In the name of the King, Lord Isildur will bring the outlaw to justice. Any who would hinder the King's Justice shall be considered to be sheltering the outlaw and will likewise be considered enemies of the Crown," he paused, raising an eyebrow and staring at his father.

"Sheltering outlaws now father? And I thought Tyrion was bad for drinking with thieves and whores," he said. His father was not amused.

"As I said, Ser Gregor has his uses," Tywin said, and suddenly Jaime saw it.

"You're using him as bait to draw Isildur out?" he said. Slowly Tywin nodded.

"But how do you know that Isildur will come himself and not send another in his place?" asked Jaime.

"Because Lord Isildur is a fool who thinks he's a hero from the songs," replied Tywin.

"Well he is a hero from the songs if you haven't noticed. Several of them, in fact," Jaime said. He tried to recall the lyrics of the last one he had heard. It had been awful, the singer kept trying to find rhymes for the word "courageous".

"He is a man. This whole realm seems to think that the folk of Elendil are sorcerors or demons or whatever the smallfolk and the singers can imagine, but they are nothing more than men, they bleed like the rest of us," Father was using the stern, factual voice he saved for when he wished to lecture his children.

"Men who live to be three hundred or more?" said Jaime.

"Men," repeated Lord Tywin.

"And why exactly have you decided to attack the Hand of the King? The last I checked, we were fighting for Tyrion, and Robert may be a drunken fool but he's unlikely to look kindly upon us attacking his Hand and his friend," Jaime's father gave him a look as if he was deeply disappointed in his son's words, but his face remained unmoved.

"And how was the drunk king when you left him?" Tywin asked.

"Bedridden," admitted Jaime. His father nodded.

"Now think: What would it profit us to have Isildur in our dungeons?" said Tywin. Jaime recognized that tone as the one his father used when he wished to teach something.

"Leverage over Elendil?" said Jaime. Tywin Lannister nodded again.

"If you had studied your history as diligently as you studied your swordsmanship, you would know that Elendil has been allied to the Starks for over two hundred years. Catelyn Tully is married to a Stark. We can fight the Tullys, the Starks or Arryns won't be able to come to their aid for weeks, but if the White Fleet were to sail it could set our homes afire while we campaign in the Riverlands and we would have an army of Dunedain and Northmen at our backs. I need an assurance that Elendil will stay in Gondor while we punish the Tullys," he explained.

"And so you want Isildur as your hostage?" said Jaime."The Greyjoys-"

"Were stupid. They raped and killed captives that were more valuable alive and unspoiled,"

"Alive and unspoiled? And you sent Gregor Clegane to do this?" Jaime said incredulously.

"Isildur has wanted his head for a long time. He is the perfect bait, and once Isildur is our captive then Gondor will stay out of this. Elendil is too old and Anarion is not a soldier. Elendil will not risk his heir's life," replied his father.

"I saw Elendil in Annuminas, he's very spry for his age," Jaime remembered the Lord of Gondor. He was one of the tallest men Jaime had ever seen, tall as the Troll perhaps, and despite the gray on his hair and in his beard he still looked vigorous and strong. Jaime wondered how he handled a sword.

"Age withers more than just your body, as you may discover one day my son," said Lord Tywin. "The Starks and Arryns will come though, after we have routed the Riverlords. We will draw them back to Golden Tooth, burning the Riverlands behind us so that all may see that Lannisters pay their debts. And when they have come here and they can come no further, then we will negotiate and get your brother back,"

Gods, this isn't about Tyrion at all Jaime thought. Not for the first time, Jaime hated his father.

"Ned Stark is still outside of the capital though, with nearly ten thousand men," Jaime said. Tywin snorted again.

"Ten thousand peasants with pikes, barely trained, with no cavalry. They're hardly worth the bread they feed them. We outnumber him over five to one. Ned Stark is not a fool, he wouldn't take such an army into battle against us," Lord Twyin said contemptuously. Jaime's worry was not about facing the King's Host in the field but of Cersei being taken captive.

"Ned Stark is a fool though, why else would he have Tyrion be taken captive? Terrible judgement, the Starks," said Jaime.

"I suppose I should thank your sister for talking you out of the stupidity of attacking him," said Tywin.

How does he always know? Did Cersei write already? Jaime wondered.

"You have something clever to say? Go on then, say it. If you and your brother had minds as sharp as your tongues, our house's future would be much more secure," said Tywin.

"Catelyn Stark took my brother, I had to go after Tyrion, to try to get him back," replied Jaime.

"Well at least you're thinking of your family, though not very intelligently. You shouldn't have wasted your time blundering about in the Riverlands where the Tullys could have captured you. Lannisters don't act like fools," said Tywin. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood up and looked at his son sternly.

"Now mark my words: The fate of our house hangs in the balance. We could establish a royal dynasty, or else collapse into nothing. Whether we stand or fall will depend upon us and our actions. I need you to set aside the boy, become the man you were born to be," Lord Tywin reached out and clasped Jaime's shoulder. Once again he noticed that there was no mention of Tyrion.

When Jaime said nothing, Twin continued.

"You will be given half of our forces, twenty thousand strong. You will take them to Catelyn Stark's girlhood home and show her how Lannisters pay their debts. Capture Edmure Tully and we will have a strong position when it comes time to negotiate. I will take the rest of our forces around south and march to the crossroads to defend your flank. Then when their allies come, we retreat to the Golden Tooth. Do you understand?"

"Yes father," said Jaime.

"Good," Lord Tywin released him and walked to the door. "When we enter the hall to sit at this council, you will sit at my right hand, so that all may see you,"

"I imagine they well know what I look like father,"

"They will see that you are my heir and your time wearing that ridiculous white cloak for madmen and drunkards is over,"

Jaime sat at his father's right hand at that council of war. He sat at his father's side and listened to the bannermen speak of provisions and maneuvers, scouting and sieges and stratagems. He sat at his father's side and looked stern and lordly as he knew his father wished, and smiled and joked and charmed his father's vassals as he knew he needed too. And not for the last time, Jaime hated his father.