LOG ENTRY: SURFACE DAY 240
Can't put it off any longer; it's time to go talk to the Lannisters.
This one's gonna be a right pisscutter, as my grandpa used to say. (Salt of the earth, us Martians.) My primary target's supposed to be tough but fair. Or at least that's what everybody seems to say about him. Even Stark thinks Tywin Lannister's administration during his time as vizier was well done. By all rights if I give him the briefing straight he'll react similar to Stannis Baratheon: skeptical but willing to listen.
On the other hand, I did make his son and grandson look stupid in front of a large audience, and he's at the head of an army laser-focused on the area where I and the Starks are currently based out of, instead of everywhere else Joffrey has rebellion problems right now.
So yeah, right pisscutter it is. Thank you honored grandfather for the necessary expansion of my vocabulary to deal with the problems I run into as a Ranger, no matter how mad Mom got when you talked like that around me.
But I digress. Which is unlike me, I know. So, have to talk to the Lannisters, which means I need to get close to the Lannisters. In order to do that, I need to solve the small problem of the large army between me and the Lannisters. My current methods—i.e. rely on bluster, bullshit and people paying too much attention to Victory to notice little old me—might be able to get me into the camp. Maybe even get me close. But I don't know if it's enough to buy me a space to talk. In a military camp all it takes is one guy taking a swing, or getting ordered to take a swing, and they'll be all over me, and at that point it's either beat them all up one-on-one, fight my way back to the ship or call in an airstrike. And that's just not a good way to end the day. So let's cross out just landing and walking right up to Lannister.
This is a job that requires a subtler approach. Problem is, Rangers aren't really all that good at subtle. They teach us how to do it, but most Ranger problems have a solution that's some combination of "hide behind a rock and scan it," "shoot it" and "run away as fast as you can."
Hm. Scan it. The drones relay through the ship's communications system; I could use that as a cutout, drop a drone into the camp and talk to the Lannisters through it. Pull the simsense rig off the translator and wire it to comms, that'd give me better feedback than trying to do it through a screen. Might lose the drone but I've got enough of them that's not a serious worry. Drop the drone and stand off out of sight.
It's a plan. I don't know if it's a good plan, but it beats beating up the entire Lannister army individually or indiscriminate murder.
JAIME
It was raining in the riverlands. Again. For the third day in a row the gods had decided to piss on the West. Jaime was tired of waking to the sound of raindrops, puddles of cold mud everywhere and the constant mist and fog covering the fields and little woods that dotted the land near the Trident.
At least he wasn't trapped in the tents like the rest of the army. The king's host had stopped at Darry to reprovision and wait for the Trident to recede enough for the crossing. Lord Darry and his household weren't the most generous of hosts, which was to be expected considering the situation. Still, Lord Tywin Lannister's name held considerable sway in these parts and with the more active objectors now adorning spikes above the castle gate, Raymun Darry was much more cooperative. Jaime's father had even generously allowed the man to continue to use his own bedchamber.
Jaime drew his white cloak about him and braved the rain and mud, headed towards the great hall where his father and the captains of the king's army conferred. The fog was thick even in Darry's small courtyard, and he kept his eyes on the mist as he walked. Fog was dangerous; all sorts of threats could be hiding within. Even now Jaime kept on guard for those who might think him easy prey, assassins and footpads... and the sound of small bells. Those damnable bells.
A figure loomed out of the fog, had raised in greeting. Jaime smiled as he espied the red hair and rangy shape of his old friend Addam Marbrand. "Hail, coz!" he said with a laugh. "What news from the hall?"
Addam's long hair swayed limply in the haze. "Nothing save the rain, Lord Commander. The Hand and the other captains await your presence."
"I should likely get out of the rain before my cloak gets too much mud on it," Jaime agreed. "Gods, you'd think we were in the stormlands rather than the riverlands."
Addam walked beside him. "I'd rather we were in the stormlands," he said quietly. "There's a war to be won there."
"We're at war now, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Are we?" his old friend asked. "Renly Baratheon is massing in the Reach. His brother is trying to do the same at Dragonstone and Cracklaw Point. Two rebel armies in our rear, each capable of putting the capital under siege. And where are the finest knights in the Westerlands? Riding like mad for Winterfell, intimidating every castle we see along the way." Addam shook his head. "If this is a war, coz, it certainly is a queer one."
"The Baratheons will murder each other easily enough," Jaime repeated his father's strategy. "One we're done burning the wolves out of their den, we'll have an easy enough time destroying whichever was the victor, if either."
"So you say, Jaime," Addam replied dubiously. "But then there's this witch. Worrying about swords is one thing, but having to keep an eye out for magic..."
Jaime stiffened, just a touch. "Have a care not to say that around Father," he cautioned his friend.
"Oh, I know, there's no wisdom in poking the old lion. Still, you've met the witch, Jaime. What truth is there in this business?"
Jaime thought about a whirlwind of light and the chiming of little bells. "Enough," he said shortly.
His lord father and the other captains were waiting in the hall, as Addam had said. They were arrayed around a large table covered with maps of their journey north. Lord Tywin looked up and nodded to his son. "Lord Commander," he said in greeting.
Jaime returned the nod with a small smile. "My Lord Hand," he replied. "How may I be of service this day?"
Lord Tywin passed him a map of the ruby ford and the lands north of the Green Fork. "What do you make of the land here, Ser Jaime?" he asked. "You have seen much of it before, after all."
Jaime gritted his teeth and looked over the map. It seemed correct enough to him; he'd never cared much about the riverlands to begin with. "My last time here I was more concerned with protecting the king than the keeps we passed," he lied. "Past the ford there's not much beyond a few villages and holdfasts. Little keeps held by little men, mostly."
His father grunted. "Sworn to House Frey, no doubt," he said. "Do you think any would stand against us, Lord Commander?" Something in his voice lit a momentary flash of annoyance aflame in Jaime's heart. Do you really expect these sheepherders and shit-shovellers to take up arms against us, Father?
"I doubt it," Jaime snorted. "Do sheep assault lions? Some will come out to swear fealty to the king, as they should, but most will just huddle in their towers and pray until we pass by." That much he'd seen the last time he'd traveled the kingsroad. The little lords along the way were cowed by Robert's progress, absurd wheelhouse and all. An army would have little trouble with such cravens.
His father nodded again. "The less men we have to leave behind to maintain garrison, the better," he said. "The Freys may prove difficult, but Lord Walder is easily persuaded. And what about the Neck, Lord Commander? What would you say about that?"
Jaime thought about the swamps, the lizard-lions and the reeking mire surrounding the road. "We will have to ride up the causeway," he said carefully. "Even if the swamps and the North's little frogs weren't an issue, the mire would slow the army down. Once there we would have to pass Moat Callin." Which would be difficult at best. He'd seen how the old towers were placed, and how the causeway wound through them.
Lyle Crakehall harrumphed, a booming sound that echoed through the hall. "Moat Callin is an old ruin," he proclaimed. "Even if there are men there, what walls exist that would stand against us? My lord, let me take half a hundred outriders north to the Moat and capture it in the name of the king. It would be child's play for my knights."
Assuming that Eddard Stark has cheese between his ears and hadn't already garrisoned the place, you mean, Jaime thought. Stark was a high-handed, inflexible prig but he only rarely played the fool. If he meant to bar the south he'd have more than half a hundred already standing ready for anyone coming up the causeway.
Lord Tywin took this outburst in stride. "Perhaps the bold stroke would be sufficient," he said. "Regardless, we will tear down all this barbarian mummery that cowed every king and prince in Westeros once and for all. Moat Callin is merely the beginning."
The captains of the West rumbled in agreement. Jaime was looking forward to it, in fact. Wolves have no right to look down upon lions. Bringing down the North, the unbroken citadel of the First Men, would be worthy of a song or two. And bringing Stark, his Tully bitch, their pups and the witch woman back to Joffrey in chains would be very satisfying.
Then he heard the echo of little bells somewhere inside Darry's hall. Jaime's hand snapped down to his sword and he spun, looking for the source. The captains of the West looked at him curiously, then looked around as the bells tinkled into silence.
"Who goes there?" Lord Tywin demanded. A light like a bolt of soundless lightning flashed through the hall and when it died, the space immediately before the Lord of Casterly Rock was filled by the ghostly impression of a slim Dornishwoman in mannish dress.
"Lord Lannister," the witch of Ulthos, architect of all Jaime's pain, bowed deeply. "A pleasure to meet you at last."
His father's expression seemed carved from stone. "What is the meaning of this?"
The ghost cocked her head. "A direct meeting seemed less than wise," she replied. "The army, you understand. Landing at the gate, talking to the guard, punching him, punching the man who came to help him, punching the guy who came to help him and the next and on and on... it was going to take too long. You're a busy man, I'm a busy woman, we both have way too many things to do to waste time with that kind of nonsense." His father seemed a bit nonplussed by that little tirade. "So!" The ghost clapped noiselessly. "Shall we get down to business?"
"Have you come to swear your fealty to King Joffrey?" Lord Tywin said coolly.
The ghost raised a single black eyebrow. "I think you shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to, my lord," she replied. Lord Tywin turned away from the apparition.
"Then we have nothing further to discuss, woman," he said to the far wall. "I believe you know the way out." Now it was the witch's turn to look nonplussed.
"Oh, come on, don't be like that," she chided the lord of the Westerlands. "I came all this way and went to all this trouble and you're not interested? I'm disappointed, Lord Lannister. Everybody else I've talked to might not have believed, but at least they heard me out." Lord Tywin studied the papers on the table, studiously ignoring the ghost. "Really? Really? You're going to play this game? Well, that's fine; I don't have to talk to just you."
His father's hand came down on the table with a hard bang. "Out, all of you," he commanded. The captains of the West all looked at each other, decided discretion was the better part of valor and abandoned the hall as best as they could. Addam was the last, giving Jaime a sympathetic glance as he departed.
"You know, that won't necessarily stop me," the ghost mused.
Lord Tywin glared at the witch's image. "We have nothing to say to you, witch."
"Fine," the ghost snapped. "Then listen. I'm sure you already heard the story from Joffrey's court, but you need to hear it personally. There's more at stake here than whatever dynastic issues you're worried about, Lord Tywin."
"A pretty mummer's tale you weave," his father sneered. "Snarks and grumkins massing above the Wall, and all the world needs saving by you. Aegon the Conqueror couldn't have done better with such a story, I'll grant you that."
"Though a much better pair of teats than Aegon had, wouldn't you say, Father?" Jaime put in helpfully. The witch blinked and smiled so sweetly at Jaime that he drew his sword and almost took a step backwards.
"Why, look who's up and about!" she chirped. "Swelling's gone down, I take it? All that riding north hasn't made it worse?"
Jaime pushed down his anger and let the sudden rush of terror at being under the witch's scrutiny yet again be buried under a mocking smile. "Pycelle is a better healer than you think," she said easily. "Why, my manhood is better than before."
"Oh, I'm sure Pycelle's a man of many talents," the ghost said thoughtfully. "No complaints from the ladies, then?" Jaime's smile slipped a little. In truth Cersei hadn't complained the last time they had a chance to share a bed together, just before the army left King's Landing.
The trap was there, waiting for him, but the particulars eluded him. "A Kingsguard knows nothing of such things," he lied. "Especially not the Lord Commander."
"Oh sure," the ghost agreed cheerfully. "I totally believe you, Jaime. But you see, I came into some interesting information," she added. "If I knew then what I know now, no maester in the world could've saved your balls. And here we are. Funny old world, isn't it?"
"And what grave disservice had I done to deserve such treatment, my lady?" Jaime asked archly. "Laughed too hard at your japes? Not placed your pet dogs on the throne? Slurped my soup too loudly? I beg you, what was my error?"
The false cheer drained out of the witch's ghostly face, leaving a mask cast out of bronze. "Winterfell," she said flatly. The trap's jaws closed around him, and he felt sharp fingers of ice crawl up his spine. The things I do for love, oh gods. "Ah, so you do remember," she added, a glint of something cruel in her eyes.
"I remember nothing," he said hoarsely. He remembered Cersei's warmth in that godsforsaken cold, the boy in the window, the look on the boy's face as he tossed him...
The sword in Jaime's hand slipped, the point striking Lord Darry's stone floor with a ringing sound. His father turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. The same way he always looks at Tyrion.
The ghost's eyes flickered behind Myrish glass. "I thought you were a better liar than that," she said sadly. "Shame, that."
The shock and fear turned to anger under the witch's gaze. Jamie snarled and thrust his sword at the ghost. His sword found only air, passing through the apparition with no resistance. "I have no need of your pity, witch!" he spat.
"Jaime," his father said steadily. "Enough." The words penetrated his anger enough, just enough to let him sheathe his sword and go to his father's side, glaring daggers at the ghost all the while. "Whatever lies you wish to spread about my son will find no purchase here," he said. "There is no soil in all of the Westerlands that your noxious weeds will grow in, woman, and in the name of Joffrey of House Baratheon, first of his name, I will crush your insurrection and repay the insult you have done to my house. You and your puppets will never sit the Iron Throne."
The witch was still for a long moment. "Is that really what you think, Lord Lannister? That this is all for the throne?" She fell silent again, and his father started to turn away when she exploded.
"You goddamned imbecile!" she roared, fury in her eyes. "This isn't about the Iron Throne, you tremendous jackass! It's not about valor or fortune or glory, it's not about beating you or Joffrey or any of the other over-armored idiots in this godforsaken place! I'm not doing it because it's fun, God knows I'm not doing it because it's easy. I'm not even doing it because it works because who the fuck knows if that's even true! I do what I do because it's right! Because it's decent! And above all, it's kind.
"I could leave Westeros," the witch said. "I could run away and pretend none of this is happening. But if I do that, good people will die. If I stand and fight, some of them will live. Maybe not many, maybe not for long. And hey, you know, maybe there's no point to any of this, maybe it's all fruitless. But it's what I can do, so I'm going to stay here and I'm going to keep doing it until it kills me."
The ghost pointed at the Lord of Casterly Rock. "I told the king and his court that I would drag them to salvation, kicking and screaming if necessary, and now I tell you the same thing. Your assistance would be appreciated. I don't need your permission. I'll tell you this much, Tywin Lannister: go home. Fight the Baratheons if you feel you must, but go home. Harvest crops, store food. If your knights demand glory then send them to the Wall. Winter comes, Lord of the Westerlands, and it will devour you whole if you aren't ready. Don't throw lives away on whatever revenge you're trying to work through; you're supposed to be better than that."
"Get out," Lord Tywin seethed, his face red. "I'll have you used like a half-copper whore before I see you flayed for speaking to me like that."
The ghost just looked disappointed. "Well then," she said, and vanished. Bells sounded in the hall, and Jaime looked up to see one of the witch's godsdamned metal demons dart out of a high window. So that's how she did it, he mused.
Any further discussion was cut off by a deep rumbling coming from above the castle. Father and son rushed out into the courtyard to find the sky lit up in a hundred different colors. The thick clouds flashed red and gold, blue and green. Shafts of brilliant light shot downwards and illuminated the army camp, sending men and horses scattering in all directions.
"My lord!" Addam Marbrand gasped as he saw them standing in the doorway. "What is happening?"
"The ship," Jaime mumbled. "Her ship is here." Just then the white metal belly of the sky-ship emerged from the clouds. The lights faded and the rumbling grew louder, until some knights clapped their hands over their ears. Soon enough, the rumbling took on the nature of a voice:
"MEN OF THE WESTERLANDS, MEN OF THE CROWNLANDS, HEAR ME." the witch's voice boomed like the Mother's from the clouds. "THIS IS NOT YOUR WAR. YOU WHO HAVE WIVES, CHILDREN, PARENTS BEHIND YOU! RETURN TO YOUR HOMES! A LONG WINTER APPROACHES AND YOU ARE NEEDED THERE, NOT TO DIE POINTLESSLY IN THE SWAMP."
The voice paused, then continued. "THOSE WHO STILL WISH TO FIGHT, GO TO MOAT CALLIN AND PLEAD YOUR CASE THERE. THE WALL NEEDS DEFENDERS, MEN OF HONOR AND VALOR TO STAND AGAINST ONCOMING NIGHT! GO, IF YOU MUST, BUT SEND WORD TO YOUR HOMES! THE OTHERS ARE COMING!" The rumbling faded, the ship's belly retreated into the clouds and the king's host was left standing speechless in the rain.
Jaime waited for the last of the rumbling to subside, his white cloak growing dark with damp, before returning to Castle Darry's great hall to resume planning the assault on the North.
LOG ENTRY: SURFACE DAY 241
I suppose it went better than the Arryn embassy. I mean, nobody pissed themselves and I didn't put an ally at risk of defenestration or anything. But yeah, so much for my diplomacy skills.
Of all the reactions I've gotten so far, the complete brush-off wasn't one I expected. In hindsight I probably should've expected that; Joffrey gave me a pretty similar reaction and I'm guessing he's not that far off the apple tree from his grandfather—more so assuming Stark is correct. (Ew, just in case I hadn't mentioned it in a while.) And yet I was banking on Tywin Lannister being... I dunno, more pragmatic about things? Like, I get that his pride was wounded but still, magic lady tells you major bad mojo is coming, maybe you should put some energy prepping for that instead of invading everywhere willy-nilly? But Tywin isn't that kind of man, I guess. Which is a pity; I'd been hoping for a rational discussion after the shitshow that was the Eyrie.
At a minimum I'm going to end up testing zh'Charrath's show of force theory. When negotiations went absolutely nowhere with Lannister I decided to see if I couldn't put some fear of god into his army. It was very impressive, and hopefully that will cause his army to shed people. The fewer soldiers keep going north, the better. On the other hand if Lannister's people are more afraid of him than they are the nebulous wrath of witchcraft they might maintain unit cohesion, in which case I'm going to have to resort to drastic action. Blowing up a good chunk of the causeway through the Neck is a pretty good deterrent, but we need to try and keep that open for logistics. Indiscriminate murder might end up being my only option here, and I'm not looking forward to that.
So, diplomacy has failed and I'm kinda bummed about it. However. I did get a look at Lannister's camp during my visit. Tywin was there, his eldest boy was there (And apparently got a promotion? I need spies to check up on stuff like that. Make a note: next time, bring spies.) along with a whole bunch of knights and lords... but there was somebody missing.
Maybe I can talk sense into a Lannister. It's a bit of a detour, but getting somebody, anybody on the ball in the west is worth the delay. I can send Al ahead to my next destination, hopefully get a little credit built up before I arrive for once... yeah, this sounds workable. I like plans; plans are always good.