Chapter 67 – The 20th day of February, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
Under the hot noon sun Jaime Lannister sweated in the saddle, watching as the silver plane bumped to a stop in the field ahead.
The Stark flying machine was smaller than Renly's, but it was a disturbing sight nonetheless. Its unnatural hum ceased as it came to a stop between the two massing armies. The Stark boy must have beaten them by only a couple of days, just enough time to block and stake out the path to Deep Den. It was not yet the narrow valley that would form a few leagues on in the Westerlands proper, but they had left the open fields of the Reach far behind. Rugged hills stretched off to the north, dense wood to the south, all of it dotted with streams and roots and rocks, as if custom made to throw a rider from his mount. One thing was clear, there would be no sudden flanking attacks here. They would have to meet the enemy head on.
Gladly Jaime thought.
Direwolf and leaping trout stood before them, along with red stallion and white weirwood, chained giant and white sunburst, twin towers and dancing maiden and a hundred lesser banners. It looked impressive, but Jaime knew the numbers were still on their side. Fifteen or twenty thousand the scouts had called it, while they still had thirty of their own.
It had almost not been the case. They had been praying for a miracle on the long march home, to the Father, the Mother, the Crone and the rest of the Seven. The surviving Warrior's Sons led the prayers by the campfires each evening, and Jaime found himself joining in. He couldn't have said it was out of true devotion. Whatever forces ruled this world, he had stopped believing in their benevolence a long time ago, perhaps even before he had stabbed Aerys in the back.
But he had to admit, for once, the Gods had delivered. First had come the news of Robert's ultimate demise, for which there had been much rejoicing and singing in the camp. Then, three days previous, the scouts had returned to report the Tyrell host behind them had suddenly stopped in its tracks, then turned about and headed back for King's Landing. No one could make heads or tails of it. Randyll Tarly was no fool. A few more days marching and he could have crushed them utterly, the hammer against the anvil that was the Stark host.
Whatever the nature of their deliverance, Jaime would take it.
His father trotted beside him, along with his uncle Kevan, Lords Lefford, Lydden and Rykker, Ser Harys, Ser Addam and half a dozen other prominent knights. A man named Galladon Graceford, of the Reach, had been chosen as the new Grand Captain of the Warrior's Sons. He rode with a pair of his fellow devout, conspicuous in their rainbow cloaks. Ser Addam held the queen's banner, the Baratheon Stag beside the Lannister lion.
A quarter mile away, a similar delegation was trotting through the Stark lines. It stopped beside the plane, from which emerged half a dozen more figures. Jaime had not seen Robb Stark since Winterfell, half a year and a lifetime away, but he had no trouble recognizing the boy now. His mother, naturally, followed her eldest like a shadow, with her brother Edmure behind her in turn. The new Warden of the North stopped to scratch the ear of his direwolf, the beast already swollen beyond the size of any wolf or hound Jaime had ever seen. He helped his mother up onto one of the spare mounts their lords bannermen had brought, then swung up into his own saddle. Jaime did not recognize all the lords that accompanied them as they approached the Lannister party, but their sigils were obvious enough. Lords Karstark and Umber, Blackwood, Bracken and Mallister. Ser Bryden Tully held the Leaping Trout aloft, while some Frey boy held the Direwolf. There was even a surly youth with a gold kraken on his shield he recognized as Theon Greyjoy.
The two parties came to a halt, twenty yards apart.
"Lord Tywin" Robb Stark said finally, when no once else seemed about to break the silence.
"Lord Stark."
"We haven't had the pleasure before."
"No, we have not."
"I have met your son however" Robb Stark said, looking at Jaime. "He's not as handsome as I remember him."
Jaime resisted the urge to lift a hand to his face. He had indeed beaten Robert, but the king's axe had caved in his jaw, leaving him just slightly better looking than the Hound. A dozen teeth were missing, and those that remained were cracked and misshapen now. Talking and eating were new adventures in agony, and he was fearing he would become addicted to milk of the poppy if he took any more. No one opposite had to know any of that however.
"You're still the same boy I remember, lord Stark" Jaime replied, careful in his enunciation.
"Call me boy again Kingslayer."
"Call me Kingslayer again boy" Jaime spat. "Still, I do not deny I am making a habit of it."
"You are a man without honor, Ser Jaime" lady Catelyn spoke up. "We should never have permitted you guest right in our home."
"On the contrary, my lady, I have never broken guest right in anyone's home."
Lady Catelyn gave him a withering look. "I would like to ask Ser Jaime, just the once, and I would give you a chance to give an honest answer, before gods and men" she glanced at the trio of Warrior's Sons at the rear of their party. "Did you push my Bran from that tower?"
Jaime made an effort to look disgusted. "I don't know what you're talking about, my lady. If I had pushed a little boy from a tower, I think I would have remembered that."
"Liar" lady Catelyn spat.
"My lords, my lady, this bickering is pointless" Lord Tywin interjected firmly. "We meet here, before gods and men, to see if there is any honorable way to avoid a bloody battle today. Perhaps this is a futile effort, but let us try. Under what terms would you let us pass in peace?"
Jaime saw Robb glance at his mother, who glanced at her brother in turn. Edmure Tully answered for them.
"Your men caused great suffering in the Riverlands, lord Tywin. Women were raped, babes torn from their mother's arms, men hacked into pieces by your mad dog, who now sits in my dungeon. Forgiveness for these crimes would not come easily."
"And how would it come about, my lord?" Tywin asked earnestly.
Edmure seemed to be mulling over his answer. "The Golden Tooth" he said. "And all the lands north of there, over the Pendric Hills to Ironman's Bay. Cede us those lands, so that you cannot march down the River Road to threaten us again, and I will let you return home to contend with Stannis at your leisure."
Lord Tywin's expression did not change. Jaime glanced over at lord Lefford, who ruled the seat in question. He watched as the man's face went from shock to rage, but he let his liege reply.
"A stiff price to pay, lord Edmure, it would seem. Tell me, when has an army ever marched and so many thousands of men remained innocent of any crime? Your own men have been gelded, perhaps?"
There was laughter from the Westerlands delegation. Edmure stiffened. "No man in my service has a tenth the cruelty of Gregor Clegane. He will hang for his crimes, or worse."
"Some regrettable acts on the part of my bannermen may have occurred" Tywin conceded. "If we were to offer compensation for this, it would most likely be in the form of gold or silver."
"Land is worth more than gold, Lord Tywin, unless you can shit out a continent as well" Edmure replied, and now it was the turn of his people to laugh.
The jibes went back and forth for a while, before Robb Stark spoke up again. He was looking straight at Jaime. "Take the Black, Kingslayer."
For a moment Jaime thought he'd misheard. "The black?" he said.
"The Night's Watch, go join them."
"And why should I do that, lord Stark?" Jaime asked.
Robb Stark gave an odd sort of smile, almost a smirk.
"I know Cersei rots in a dungeon now, and she deserves to, but to be honest, I have no real quarrel with the rest of house Lannister, just the two of you" he gestured at the great armies arrayed around them. "My father was friends with Robert Baratheon, but now the both of them are dead. Stannis? Renly? Myrcella? Its all much the same to me, but you're different Kingslayer. Take the black, live out your time on the wall, in service to the realm, thinking on your crimes, and I might just let the rest of you pass today."
The silence hung there for a while. For the briefest moment Jaime even considered it. He would never see Cersei again, or enjoy a warm summer's day. More like than not he would die in some frostbitten wood, hacked apart by wildling savages, but he had been hunting outlaws in woods since he was half a boy. That part of it might even be enjoyable. From a strategic point of view, Robb Stark was offering him a gift. His father's army could return home to fight another day, Myrcella's throne might well hinge on such a move.
But then he laughed. A harsh, bitter sort of bark. "A tempting offer, Lord Stark" Jaime replied. "Still, it is rather cold up north." He glanced at Lady Catelyn. "Though I guess if you think it was good enough for Ned's bastard, it might suit for me." She was looking daggers at him, but Jaime went on. "I am almost inclined to accept, after a fashion, but if you accuse me of this crime, then why not let the gods decide my guilt?" With deliberate slowness, he pulled his sword from its sheath. He pointed it at Robb Stark. "There doesn't have to be a battle, boy, just the two of us."
Robb really did smirk now. At his heels, his direwolf gave a dangerous growl. "You are a man without honor Kingslayer, but no one denies your skill with a blade, so no. You can surrender yourself or we can fight a battle, one or the other."
"So you are afraid?" Jaime pressed. "I am not surprised. "I have already killed two kings, including your namesake. Put a crown on your head boy, let's make it three."
"Try me Kingslayer" spoke up Lord Umber, in a booming voice. He turned to his liege. "I'll take him, my lord. If we win, Tywin bends the knee and surrenders Myrcella to us. If I lose, we go home and let them pass. Those are fair terms…"
Jaime was just sizing up the Greatjon when his father raised a hand for silence. "Lord Stark speaks the truth, on at least one thing. Winterfell is a long way from the Iron Throne. Our fight is with Stannis Baratheon, a jealous uncle who seeks to usurp the crown from my granddaughter, the rightful heir. A man who has abandoned the faith of his ancestors, cavorting instead with demon worshippers and bowing before the dark influence of the flying men." His eyes flickered over to the silver plane. "Face facts, my lords. He is no friend to the North. What advantage comes to you in fighting for him?"
"Stannis is Robert's heir" Robb said, with a certain childish stubbornness that almost made Jaime groan. "And my father proclaimed him king, over the kingslayer's get."
"Lies and slander" Tywin declared, before Jaime could speak. "Joffrey was Robert's heir, and now Myrcella is your true queen." He nodded at the ranks of spears and shields lined up before them. "Your position today is strong, and I do not doubt the bravery of your men, but we outnumber you two to one, and the Tyrell host has reversed course. No one will be arriving to reinforce you now. The wisest move would be to strike your banners and return home, without further bloodshed. When Queen Myrcella comes into her throne, she will forget your prior impudence and pardon all who served you."
"We are not here for pardons" spat Lord Karstark. "We are here for vengeance! For Ned! For my sons!" he gave Tywin a withering look. "Killed by your mad dog!
The Northerners were shouting their agreement now. The Riverlords soon joined in. "Off with his head Robb!" declared the Greyjoy boy. Jaime looked over at his father. "I told you this parley served no purpose."
"Very well" Tywin called out, over the din. "Honor demanded that we try." He looked over at Robb Stark and Edmure Tully. "Well met, my lords. The Warrior shall determine the day then." He turned about on his horse. The rest of the delegation followed.
On a slight rise, half a mile behind them, Myrcella sat on her own mount, a fine silver pony his father had conjured from somewhere. No one had a crown handy as the army retreated from the city. Some young squire had the idea of forming a chain of sunflowers sown into a small white hat. From a distance, it vaguely resembled a crown, even if it did make her look half a Tyrell.
Her two new queensguard sat their own mounts nearby, both study Westerlands knights who had stepped forward eagerly for the role. Ser Elwood Marbrand was a distant cousin to Ser Addam, while Lorent Baneson had long been in service to Lord Banefort. Jaime had sparred with the both of them. He had knocked them down into the dust eventually, but had declared their performance adequate. They lacked white cloaks as of yet, but with Jaime that made three at least. Last they had heard, Ser Balon Swann was dead, as was Ser Preston Greenfield. Of Sandor Clegane and Ser Tallad they had heard nothing. Jaime knew they had a long way to go in building a new queensguard worthy of the name, but it was a start.
Myrcella looked at them worryingly as they approached. "Is there to be a battle, uncle?" she asked innocently.
Jaime bowed his head. "I'm afraid so, your grace, but we shall win the day." He looked out at the ranks of armed men. Spears in front, archers behind. Normally the flanks would have been heavy with cavalry, but the terrain made that impossible, so instead they formed the reserve.
Opposite, he could see the Stark-Tully lines formed up a similar way. They'd had time to dig some rudimentary trenches and started filling them with wooden stakes. He could see them continuing the work even now, but they'd not had enough time to truly finish the job. Even the parley had been a mistake, he thought. Time to end this farce.
There was a brief conference as the commanders shared last minute instructions, before they dispersed back to their troops. Jaime trotted back towards the front of the army. Both of his squires, Rollam Westerling and Tion Crakehall, had survived the battle at King's Landing. One's father had been taken at the Whispering Wood, with the latter's uncle slain at King's Landing, so Jaime had taken the time to remember both their names.
Just ahead of the Stark lines, Jaime saw the flying machine come to life again, racing across the field and soaring back into the air with its unearthly drone. It was only minutes later that trumpets blew, sounding the advance. From a thousand throats shouts went up, of Tywin, Casterly Rock, Hear Me Roar and even Ser Jaime. But the loudest cry was for the queen. Myrcella! Myrcella! Myrcella!
Absent his own army, his father had given him command of the vanguard. Five thousand infantry, the pikeman arranged in squares for all round protection, a glittering forest of spears ten or twelve or fifteen feet high. Behind them walked three long lines of archers, bow and quiver slung over each shoulder, under the command of his uncle Kevan. Further back were assorted men-at-arms with sword and axe and Morningstar, where the lords Lefford, Lydden and Rykker led their own sworn retinues. Towards the rear eight thousand riders made up the reserve, under his father's direct command. Lord Tywin had taken up station beside the queen, resplendent in his crimson armor and heavy cloth of gold, visible even from this distance.
The flying machine buzzed overhead as they closed with the enemy. Jaime saw a few ambitious bowman loose shafts into the sky, but they fell back to earth well before reaching it. A waste of arrows. "Be cheerful lad, we're almost home" he said lightly, seeing Rollam's terrified expression whenever it approached. He looked back ahead. It would not be long until first contact now…four hundred yards, then three hundred. The massed infantry did not thunder ahead as cavalry would, but they had a certain relentless momentum to them, like a tide rushing into a bay.
From behind a line of Bracken spears he saw Tully archers drawing their bows. He even recognized the Blackfish, raising a gauntleted hand and then bringing it down. A thousand shafts or more launched into the air, falling on the front ranks like a steel-tipped rain. Moments later, Ser Kevan gave an answering command. Men on both sides were soon raising their shields above their heads. A few were not quick enough, or simply lacked protection, and stumbled and fell. Three more volleys hissed before the spearmen had closed to melee range.
The shock was not as sudden as it may have been. With just moments to spare, the men digging trenches hauled away their shovels and slipped back through the Stark lines. The spearmen closed ranks to meet the foe. Men were hollering and screaming bloody murder. Jaime was maybe fifty yards back, screaming orders and encouragement to his men. The spears were long enough to cross the makeshift barricades, but they were still perilous to fall into. A few men did just that, pushed forward by their comrade's momentum. Some few managed to climb out. Most were butchered in a muddy grave.
The advance stalled before trench and spear. Elsewhere, Jaime could see the same shock happening all across the battlefield. The valley here was some miles wide, but the trenches were not found everywhere. He trotted up and down behind the lines, looking for a gap. His squires and a score of other mounted men followed, his personal guard. Arrows continued to hiss overhead. The field was soon dotted with them. Squires and other servants began rushing about, retrieving those still useable for another volley. He saw wounded men being dragged back. Perhaps one in a hundred might be attended to by an actual maester. The rest were in the hands of the Mother above.
Hours past, the sun dipped towards the western horizon, only blinding the attackers. The Stark hedgehogs remained intact. Even in those few places where they had managed to push forward, he saw more lines of men frantically digging further lines of trenches. How many must have fallen already? A thousand? Perhaps two? Casterly Rock is three hundred miles distant he thought unhappily and we are but fifty yards closer.
An hour before dusk, more trumpets blew towards the rear, sounding the retire. Jaime barked more orders, relayed by his underlings. The squares of pikemen pulled back. Rows of skirmishes came forward to take their place as dusk fell. Opposite, he saw the bulk of the Stark troops retiring also. There would be only a sliver of a moon tonight, and no one fought battles at night. Unless you are a flying man Jaime thought uneasily. Nonetheless, he retired to his tent, half a mile back, shared with his squires and half a dozen others.
He slept fitfully, but he needn't have worried. Dawn came, and no flying machines appeared. As the army woke for another day's combat, his father called another council of war.
"Losses yesterday were heavy, my lord" Lord Lefford admitted. "The Starks have a strong position, but we will grind them down. We have given as good as we got" he said confidently, thumping the breakfast table such that a cup was knocked over.
"We are but twenty leagues from Deep Den" offered Lord Lydden, who ruled the seat in question. "I left my brother in control of the garrison there. He will know of our presence by now, my lord. He will rally men to assist us."
"How large a garrison did you leave?" Lord Tywin asked.
Lewys hesitated. "Perhaps three hundred, my lord, though they will be…"
"Green boys, cripples and old men" Jaime finished for him, irritably. He turned back to his father. "Yesterday we have lost at least two thousand. The Starks, I doubt, half as much, and they are digging more trenches all the time. At this rate, we will be ground down into nothing before we advance another mile."
"And what would you propose Ser Jaime?" asked lord Rykker. "Provided you will not be taking the black anytime soon?"
Heads swivelled to look at Jaime, and he felt his temper flaring. His jaw was killing him again. He had denied himself Milk of the Poppy since yesterday, so as to maintain a clear head. "My lords" he said, through gritted and chipped teeth. "Near the woods, on the south side, there is a creek. It is no more than a dozen paces wide, and one can wade across it, but there is a gap there where the Starks cannot dig."
His father and his uncle exchanged glances. "A most narrow gap, ser" uncle Kevan pointed out, doubtfully. Jaime turned to his sire.
"Father, give me two hundred of your best riders, but light cavalry only. Lancers, but no more than boiled leather for armour, else we will become bogged down in the muck. Today we will attack as we did yesterday, make the Starks think we have no more tricks to play. Send all the skirmishes we can off into the woods, so that they extend their lines still further. When the moment is right, I will force a gap in the middle. We send everything else into it."
"A bold plan, Ser Jaime" spoke up Ser Galladon. He glanced over at his fellow Warrior's Sons. "We shall ride with you, if this is the chosen path" he said piously.
His father was nodding slowly. "A risky plan, my son. You will be fighting upstream?"
"Yes, my lord" he turned back to uncle Kevan. "I will need the support of your archers. Once we smash through, we must prevent them reforming their lines."
There was some further discussion of the plan. By the time they had finished breaking their fast, it was midmorning. The armies were forming up again. Jaime's mounted escort had swollen to ten times its size. Two score Warrior's Sons were with them now. Ser Addam and Ser Galladon were leading their own levies.
Banners flew, trumpets blew. The vanguard, reinforced after yesterday's losses, marched forward to the Stark positions. Two great masses of pikemen clashed once more. The trenches looked even deeper and wider than yesterday. Jaime trotted back and forth. Several times he spied the creek in question, pointing it out to his fellow knights.
Finally, as the sun passed noon, Jaime decided the moment had come. He dispatched Rollam to inform his uncle Kevan. With deliberate, almost casual slowness, he turned his command around and trotted back south. After hours of slogging it out, he saw the lines of infantry were tiring. Gaps were appearing here and there. At a few points, Lannister men were able to scramble down into the trenches and over the far side. Within minutes however, a band of roving Stark cavalry would come down on them, howling like the Others themselves out of the Long Night. Try me boy Jaime thought, as he raised an arm to signal the advance. A trumpeter blew, and in moments his entire escort was cantering forwards. Two hundred men, riding twenty abreast.
Ahead of him, he saw lines of Tully spearmen forming up again. Seeing his target, a number scrambled down into the creek itself. Jaime splashed into the water, struggling to control his mount. He saw one rider stumble as his horse slipped on a rock, then another, but the great mass of men and beast pushed forward. Lances were lowered. Ahead of him, the Tully spears were only two or three ranks deep. Perfect.
"Myrcella!" he cried, as loud as his ruined jaw would allow. "Myrcella! Myrcella! Myrcella! For the queen!"
It was hard to control a gallop in the creek, but somehow they managed a decent speed. Just moments before first shock, Jaime heard a hiss, and a thick rain of arrows came down. He saw men clutching shields engraved with the leaping trout. Most still held them forward against the foe, leaving them vulnerable to the deadly rain. Maybe half a dozen fell. Others looked up uncertainly, trying to decide whether to raise them against another volley, or the men splashing up the creek towards them.
Either way, they were soon dying.
Jaime skewered a man through the stomach. Beside him he saw Ser Galladon do the same, and even young Tion. The first rank fell quickly, and the second only lasted a minute longer. Then they were through. Jaime looked back, at the long lines of spears and trench, now receding away from him.
His riders were soon charging forward. Tully and Bracken men were scattering before them. Maybe half a mile further on, he could see the tents of their camp. Jaime splashed his way out of the creek, his vanguard thundering forward. Voices continued to cry out. Myrcella! Ser Jaime! A few were even shouting Kingslayer! Kingslayer! And for once the name did not bother him. He even heard himself laughing at it, ignoring the pain. The battle fever was on him now.
A row of archers were loosing shafts at them, then scattered when they were fifty yards distant. Captains and sergeants were shouting at men to form up, but they were moving too quick for their foes. More men were mown down, a retreat that threatened to break into a rout. Another man-at-arms fell to his spear, then Jaime heard a buzzing noise overhead. He glanced up, just in time to see the silver plane dive down over them. Horses quailed at the sight of it, as did some of their riders. For a moment, Jaime braced, but the flying machine passed overheard without incident. It turned around and started circling the creek where Jaime had charged through. For a moment Jaime was incredulous. Did you think to scare us with the Stranger's toys, boy?
The purpose of the plane soon became evident however. From somewhere on his right, Jaime heard horns blowing. A minute later, and a line of riders appeared over the next ridgeline. He saw the Stark banner flying, Umber and Karstark and Manderly as well, as the Northern cavalry came to meet them.
"Form up!" Jaime cried, and the order was quickly passed on. "Form up! Meet them head on! Charge!" More trumpets blew, and soon they were wheeling north to meet the foe.
The ground here was uneven, with scattered trees and bushes, but the two sides closed with remarkable speed. Jaime was looking at the banners closely. The boy he thought. Kill the boy, and the rest will lose heart and break.
He lowered his spear, his sword still in its hilt. Ahead of him were a line or riders with sunbursts on their shields. For a moment, he was a knight in a tourney again, he was at Harrenhal, or King's Landing, or even home at Casterly Rock. It was peacetime, with no more than gold and honour at stake, and both men would walk away from the tilt intact, whatever the outcome.
Except that was a fantasy. It was wartime now. Jaime aimed carefully. He caught the rider full in the chest, while his opponent's lance overshot by two feet. The Karstark rider went down. Jaime plunged through the gap. Now he was surrounded by enemies.
Now he was in his element.
He dropped his lance and pulled out a sword. He batted one lance aside, then another. He slashed at a foe, tearing through leather to the flesh beneath. Blood splattered. He felt a blow to his side, but his gilded armour protected him well. He struck at another foe, then another. He heard himself laughing, oblivious to the pain, to the ache of his jaw, to his groin bouncing in the saddle, or his side where a bruise would soon be forming. He tore down yet another foe, then turned, catching sight of a greater quarry.
A hundred yards away, Robb Stark's face was hidden beneath a helm also, but the small array of banners around him was unmistakable. Maybe thirty other riders followed him, matching Jaime's own escort. The two sides came together like two gauntleted fists. Jaime raised his sword high, shouting "to me!" Beside him, he saw Ser Addam rallying his own riders. On his other side were his two squires, Rollam having caught back up with the main group.
Jaime urged his mount forward. A pair of Freys rode to meet him, but in moments Jaime had skewered one through the neck and knocked the other off his mount. The others stayed closer around their lord. Jaime was surging forward however. For a few moments he crossed swords with a youth carrying a purple shield with the Mallister eagle on it, before the flow of battle carried them apart. Then there was a Blackwood, then a Flint. Theon Greyjoy came at him howling. They clashed swords once, then twice. With a third blow, Jaime caught him in the shoulder, and the youth went down with a more wounded sort of howl. Before he saw what had become of the heir to Pyke, Jaime had already moved on to his next opponent.
He was face to face with the Stark boy now.
Robb Stark slashed at him, with a young man's energy. Jaime felt the sword clatter on his armor. His own blow was just as ineffectual. They hacked at each other for a few moments, oblivious to the rest of the battle. The whole world had shrunk to just the two of them. Jaime parried another blow, then saw an opening. He didn't stab. Instead he just shoved a gauntleted fist forward, the hilt of his sword taking the young lord in the side. For a moment he wavered there uncertainly, clinging to the reins, before he toppled off his mount in a heap. Jaime would have pressed the attack, but from somewhere to his right he heard an inhumanly low growl. Despite everything, the felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.
The boy's direwolf leapt up like some demon. Jaime felt a claw slash at him but it bounced off steel plate. For a moment he thought the beast had missed its target, but then his horse was rearing, then shrieking with a panic Jaime had never quite heard before. Jaime saw blood spurt, coating the green grass below, and its cries came to a sudden stop. Jaime just had time to register his mount's throat being torn out before he toppled over backwards in turn.
He took a moment to right himself, sword ready. Ten feet away, Robb Stark was also getting to his feet. The direwolf continued to tear into Jaime's horse. He looked at it mournfully, it had been a good beast. He had even been tempted to give it a proper name for once. It had survived King's Landing, after all. He had no time to dwell on the matter however. Unsteady as he was, Robb Stark had raised sword and shield against him. Before Jaime could move to meet him, he saw another figure rushing forward on his right.
"No!" Jaime shouted, as Rollam Westerling ran at the Lord of Winterfell, howling. Before anyone could react however, the direwolf had dropped its now limp victim and bared its teeth at the newcomer. Rollam took another hesitating step. He raised his shield, but he was too slow. The wolf lunged forward, claw and tooth aiming for the boy's shoulders, then his neck. Just as quickly, it had torn the boy's throat out.
Jaime stepped forward, slashing upward with his own sword. He caught the beast in the flank, but it was a shallow nick. The wolf dropped his latest victim, baring its teeth at him in turn. Tion Crakehall was rushing forward as well, blade swinging. Between the two of them the wolf seemed to think better of it. It gave a final growl, before darting through a pair of Stark riders, who were nearly thrown by their mounts in turn. Everywhere it went, horses were panicking from the direwolf's scent.
Jaime could not mourn for his lost squire, any more than he could for a horse. He turned back to Robb Stark, and the two men were circling now. Around them the melee continued. Voices were shouting, but for the moment it seemed it was just the two of them.
"Come here, boy!" Jaime shouted, taking two steps forward. He feinted to the right, then struck left, then from below. Robb Stark managed to keep up. Jaime pressed the attack, forcing his opponent to give ground. Their steel was singing, it moved so fast. Jaime had soon landed a blow, then another. He dented the Lord of Winterfell's armor each time, his breastplate, his gorget, his helm. Robb Stark was soon slowing. Jaime could hear him puffing with the effort. A few more blows and I shall finish him. He struck again, and his opponent's sword went flying. Jaime shoved him back, until the lord had stumbled over a fallen horse. Jaime wasn't sure whose. Robb Stark fell onto the grass, raising a pair of gauntleted hands, his last protection.
Jaime raised his blade for the killing blow, but at that moment there was a cry of blind fury to his left. He turned to meet a new foe, and immediately had a parry a blade. The white sunburst told him it was a Karstark, but it took a few moments for him to recognize the voice as the Lord of Karhold himself.
"Eddard! Torrhen!" Lord Karstark shouted. Jaime had not known the names of his slain sons, but he must have chosen them as his battle cry. "Eddard! Torrhen!" he shouted with every wild swing. "Eddard! Torrhen! EDDARD! TORRHEN!" His blows were strong, but he was a decade older than Jaime. He was soon tiring. Jaime saw an opening, and he took it. The man's helm flew askew. As he fell, Jaime struck again. The tip of his blade landed right between his opponent's eyes, killing the Lord of Karhold before he could even scream in pain.
Jaime turned back, searching for the fallen Lord of Winterfell instead, but the boy appeared to have run off. Fifty feet away, he saw the young lord being helped onto a horse, escorted by a pair of huge riders. They could only have been the Umbers. Half of Robb Stark's personal guard must have fallen. Jaime had suffered his own losses. He found Ser Galladon nearby, cradling a fellow Warrior's Son. The man's rainbow cloak was stained with his own blood. It spurted from his mouth for a minute longer, before his gurgles fell silent. Ser Galladon offered a prayer to the Mother's Mercy and the Father's judgement. Jaime looked back down the slope, where a broad crescent of red and gold was sweeping up towards him. His father's reserve was pouring through the gap he'd made. He couldn't see Tywin, but his uncle Kevan came riding up some time later.
"The day is ours, ser, look!" he said, happily. Jaime followed his gaze, to the great mass of tents that was the enemy camp. He could see men fleeing to the north, while others on horseback rode through the tents, tossing about flaming torches. Jaime looked at them curiously. He didn't think any of their riders could have reached the camp yet, then realized there was a steady stream of them, a crimson serpent uncoiling from the west. "Deep Den?" he asked his uncle.
"Even better I think. Tywin sent word to your uncle Stafford weeks ago to raise a fresh host in the Westerlands." He pointed out the Lannister lion and the Lydden badger. "He must have ridden his cavalry here with all haste."
Exhausted and horseless, Jaime sheathed his sword, watching the proceedings. He'd soon walked over to the limp figure of Rollam Westerling. The boy looked small and feeble, even in his amor. He couldn't have been past ten years old. Why didn't you stay back, you foolish boy? Jaime thought, but he reached down and closed his eyes all the same. From cheek to collarbone, his neck was a red ruin where the direwolf's teeth and claws had torn at him. Tion helped him with the body. He would need a proper burial before they moved on.
The battle went on for some hours yet. At first there was confusion in the enemy lines, but their predicament was soon obvious. More men dropped their weapons to flee. By the time Lord Tywin himself rode over near dusk, the Stark-Tully army was in full retreat.