Chapter 19 – The 25th day of June, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
It was day twelve of the march when they left the Westerlands behind.
They had spent two of those days resting at Crakehall, a necessity after the long trek from Lannisport. Ser Tybolt was lord now, his father slain at King's Landing. One brother, Ser Lyle, had bent the knee, while the other, Ser Merlon, now marched with Jaime, leading the levies of his house.
The army stretched back for leagues. Miles and miles of red and gold banners. It looked impressive, but Jaime knew war remained a matter of numbers, and the numbers were against them. This was not necessarily the end of the matter of course, but it was certainly the beginning. The simple truth of their situation was that five and thirty thousand sons of the Westerlands had marched into the Riverlands the previous year. Between the Whispering Wood, Riverrun, King's Landing and the Gold Road, some two and twenty thousand had returned home alive. With the allies they had gained, one could add to that total perhaps another three thousand.
Most of these were lord Rykker's men, a thousand miles removed from Duskendale. Then there were Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows, sellswords and freeriders and farm boys they had picked up along the way. Even a few hundred of Tyrion's surviving clansmen, still eager for booty. Some fight for righteousness or for justice. Some for gold. Some think all this is still a grand adventure. Some continue because they love killing or know ought else. Some have already risked so much their only hope lies in ultimate victory. Jaime was not a poetic man, but even he found the occasional moment to ponder why men fought and risked so much. Usually these came after a few hours in the saddle.
I fight for Cersei, locked up and bound like a lioness in a cage he concluded. For Joffrey and Tommen, lost to us forever. For Myrcella, who will be next if we don't prevail. In some moments weariness threatened to overwhelm him, or despair to break him. Then he thought of her pretty little neck sliced in two, her blonde curls tumbling down a row of stone steps. My queen, my niece…my daughter. Whatever the case may be. It will not happen.
Three months they had lingered in the shadow of the Rock, watching with increasing anxiety as Stannis had marched on Deep Den, and then Robb Stark on the Golden Tooth. They had little choice in the delay however. The army needed rest and resupply. The Smiths in Lannisport had been labouring day and night forging fresh swords and armour. New horses were supplied, and tens of thousands of sheep, pigs, cattle and fowl rounded up, now following in the army's wake like a beastly rear-guard. They had swept the potshops and alehouses of the west bare looking for fighting men. Then the new recruits needed to be trained with spear and sword and bow.
His uncle Stafford had already started this endeavour, and efforts had been redoubled once Tywin and Jaime had returned. The Faith Militant had proven their worth. Scores of knights and hundreds of smallfolk had rallied around Ser Galladon Graceford, until he commanded close to a thousand men all on his own. The effort had been tremendous, but another ten thousand had been added to their numbers, replacing their earlier losses. Not that we will be able to replace them again, mind you.
Thirty thousand now marched forth once more, with Jaime at the helm. The dregs had been left with Tywin, greybeards and old men and the City Watch of Lannisport, also doubled in size. The city was going to burn. Of that there was little doubt. His father was gathering everyone of import inside the Rock as he prepared their family's ancient stronghold for siege. The rest would be left to fend for themselves. But when was war ever any different?
They camped that night at another bend in the Ocean Road. The Sunset Sea glimmered blue and red and purple to their west. To their east stretched thick woods that eventually petered out somewhere near Cornfield. Scouts had ridden out ahead, for now they were in enemy territory, but what spies they had assured them Lord Tarly's army was still in the vicinity of Highgarden. No doubt the huntsmen lord worried more about the Hightower host, still encamped outside Brightwater Keep a mere fifty leagues to his southwest.
They gathered around the fires for their evening meal and prayer. Jaime sat and watched the sunset as Ser Garth Hightower called upon the Father's judgement and the Warrior's strength, while Ser Galladon pleaded for the Mother's mercy. His squires prepared the meal. Tion Crakehall remained with him. In the place of Rollam Westerling was a tall lad named Josmyn Peckledon. The boy had fought bravely at King's Landing, killing two Tyrell knights, wounding several more and at one point saving the life of his uncle Kevan. His father had rewarded him with a fresh suit of armour and a horse and offered him to Jaime as a squire.
Other lords and knights of note gathered around their fire. Lords Lefford, Lydden and Rykker. Jaime kept them close. All of their homes under siege. Ser Rupert Brax, with his brother and all his nephews captured or slain. Ser Steffon Swyft, commanding the baggage train after Tywin had sent his father home in disgrace. Ser Addam Marbrand, second cousin to the murdered Tyrek Lannister, in command of the outriders. All these men have lost something Jaime reflected. He felt his jaw ache as he munched gingerly on stewed mutton. He had never confessed it openly, but his squires knew he liked it well boiled now, the easier to chew. At least maester Creylen had tended to him at Casterly Rock, removing half a dozen teeth and giving them gold replacements.
I guess I am living up to the family reputation. His father may not have shit gold, but now Jaime certainly used it to eat. He wondered how many more body parts would turn gold before this war's end. A golden hand perhaps? Golden legs? Could the maesters fit him with a golden cock, if need be? Somehow the thought made him think of Tyrion, wherever he was now, and he nearly laughed.
Night fell. The less pious among them drank ale. Ser Willem Costayne passed around a skin of wine. Jaime usually declined, but tonight he felt a certain nervous energy. He had always preferred marching with an army to staying idly in one place. We are on our way again, seeking out the foe. Hear us roar. He took a deep swill. Some knights started up a rousing song, Seven Swords for Seven Sons. This was followed by Iron Lances, The Battle of Bitter River, The Rains of Castamere…
The hour was late when he left for his tent. Peck accompanied him, though Tion had wandered off somewhere. Odd that, but the mystery was soon answered. When Peck pulled back the flap of the tent they heard movement. Tion was sound asleep on the small pile of rugs and blankets that served as their bedding when on the march. Instead, a young woman was looking at them with wide eyes. She quickly grabbed a blanket to cover herself.
"Pardon m'lord" she said shyly. "Should I leave?"
Jaime looked down on her. A single candle burned in the tent's corner. She had short dark hair and large eyes that looked almost innocent. His eyes wandered over Tion's form, softly snoring. "Did you tire him out?"
"Perhaps, m'lord" she said, with a smile that turned surprisingly wicked. Jaime glanced at Peck, who had stopped by the entrance, as if uncertain what to say. Jaime saw his squire blush, and once again had to work to keep a straight face.
"What is your name?" he asked her.
"Shae, m'lord."
"I'm afraid I need my squires Shae. I can't have you tiring them out like this."
Her smile died a little. "Yes, m'lord." She went to find her smallclothes. Without quite meaning to, Jaime caught a glimpse of her bare breasts. They were not large, but looked firm, her nipples as ripe as plumbs. Her waist was thin. She couldn't have been much past eighteen. Maybe it was the wine, but he felt a sudden heat coming over him. A feeling he had not felt in quite a while. How long since he had Cersei in his arms? Why, it was almost a year now. It had never been that long, not in years and years. Far too long…
A sudden recklessness came over him. He turned back to Peck. "You've killed men boy. A pretty girl still unnerves you?"
Peck swallowed. "No, m'lord."
Jaime shook his head. "You're a better killer than you are a liar at least, here." He rummaged around in a purse about his waist, then flicked a gold dragon at him. "Tomorrow we march into the Reach. Find yourself a woman. Make a man of yourself before dawn. That's an order from your Lord Commander."
Peck blinked at him, cradling the coin like a newborn babe. "Yes, m'lord" was all he said. He turned and almost stumbled from the tent. Pulling her dress back over her head, Shae laughed. She stood and made to find her shoes, but Jaime raised a hand to stop her.
"Have I seen you before?" he asked, trying to place her.
"Mayhaps, m'lord" she said sweetly. "I followed your father's army, all the way to King's Landing and back."
"So you're a loyal camp follower?"
"Very loyal my lord."
"You only fuck Lannister men?"
"Always, m'lord" she replied, with that smile again.
Jaime sat down on his own bedding. He started removing his boots and armour. Shae hesitated a moment, then came forward to help him. He leaned back and watched as she steadily undressed him. When he was reduced to his smallclothes, they sat there a moment. Shae was looking at him. For some reason he focused on the candle, burning in the centre of the tent. The silence stretched on. Finally, she reached out a hand. With a gentle finger she traced the ugly scar that went from his jaw to his left ear.
"I have seen you often, m'lord. They say you are a brave man. I see you must be, to take a sword like that, and keep fighting."
"It was an axe" Jaime corrected her.
She nodded, still tracing with her finger. She even tapped gently against his gold teeth. Careful, she might try and yank them out while you sleep a little voice warned, but he dismissed it.
"They say you killed the king."
"Aye, I did."
"Two kings."
"Yes."
"You will kill Stannis as well?"
"If he comes anywhere near me."
"Then you will be Jaime Lannister, three times a kingkiller."
"Kingslayer is what they call me." He thought on it a moment. "But yes, thrice a kingslayer, now that would be something wouldn't it? I wonder if any man has ever killed three kings before?"
"You would be the first" she said softly. Her hand moved up to stroke his blonde curls. He could feel her breath on his cheek. "A golden lion, you would have to be, to kill three kings…"
She leaned forward and kissed him. Jaime let her. At first he didn't react. For a moment he thought of Cersei again. He pictured her, locked up in a cell, hair askew, sleeping on damp rushes. A part of him felt guilty, but another was telling him this was ok. I will see you again, sweet sister. He turned to the girl and started kissing her back.
They resumed the march the next day, camping in a valley where a bubbling brook crossed the road. Ser Addam's scouts went on ahead, marking out the army's campsite at least a day or two in advance. Each day Jaime started receiving reports of skirmishes, as riders of the Reach harried the fringes of his army. He calmly ordered the burning of holdfasts and the sacking of villages in retaliation. They passed forests and farms and hills, orchards and mills and pasture. Jaime burned it all. We shall put the Red God to shame.
He was, he thought, a little gentler than Tywin would have been. At Ser Galladon's urging, he forbid the men to rape. Many did not seem to take this command seriously, until the fourth day of the invasion when he gelded two culprits for that crime, after which he received fewer reports. Though no doubt many had just learned to be more discrete.
Every day he was up at dawn. His squires assisted him with his armour and saddling his horse. He met his senior commanders and they proceeded as a group, a mobile headquarters, with the great banners of Casterly Rock visible for all to see. Each day he dealt with a hundred different minor crises, but he had done this before, when invading the Riverlands. He thought back to his first victories, at the Golden Tooth, and then below Riverrun itself. The moments of glory that looked so monstrously brief in hindsight.
By night, he'd retire to his tent. Sometime after dark the girl, Shae, would slip in, a small, hooded figure. His squires would take it as their cue to leave. They never questioned it. Even stood outside the tent as a sort of guard. She didn't stay the night, at least. That would have been foolish. She would emerge an hour or two later. Where she went he didn't really know. Into another man's tent, probably, but he didn't especially care. He didn't even ask where she was from, but she seemed discrete enough. He was sure his fellow kingsguard knew before long, but no one was like to question the Lord Commander.
They camped in one burnt out village, a few days ride to Old Oak. They regretted their arson that night however. A wild autumn storm swept in from the Sunset Sea. The highborn in their tents weathered it comfortably enough, but outside common men and beasts alike were soaked to the bone. The camp was such a sodden mess at first light he ordered a day's delay for the men to recover. That afternoon he received their worst report yet. A band of Crane riders out of Red Lake had ambushed one of his foraging parties. Ser Addam reported twenty-six dead, including two Stackspear knights. That night, Jaime offered his condolences to Lord Selmond and shared a skin of wine with him, then sort solace in Shae's arms.
The next day riders spotted a flying machine, leaving a silent trail of white high in the sky, like some manmade comet. That night the Warrior's Sons were subdued, and Jaime heard much pious muttering from their fires. Ser Garth Hightower started distributing gemstones, blessed by the High Septon himself, to ward off the evil influences. He insisted each patrol carry at least one, and Jaime acquiesced. That night Shae stayed until the hour of the owl.
More rains came. More common men fell ill, coughing and shivering their way down the sodden road. He saw a few collapse. Their sergeants came along in short order, whipping and shouting at them to continue, usually to no avail. One of the army's maesters approached him one morning, warning of the bloody flux. Jaime ordered any men so named removed from the camp at once. Within a week more than a hundred suffered this fate. A maester and two acolytes were left in the longhall of a village to tend to those who survived. The rest of the host quickly moved on.
Fevers and desertion both took a greater toll than the enemy. A week after Crakehall Ser Addam brought the first group of runaways before him. Four men, leading a dozen stolen horses, trying to sneak back north through the hills. Ser Ilyn Payne served Stannis now, so Jaime took their heads off himself. I will take a leaf out of Ned Stark's book he thought savagely. That night, he attacked Shae with particular vigour.
It took a fortnight before they came to the seat of House Oakheart, atop a broad hill almost at the halfway mark to Highgarden. Its grey towers loomed over the Ocean Road like an army of stony sentinels. Their uniforms green leaves on gold, proudly draped over the battlements. Above the gate was a huge Tyrell rose, twenty feet across. Ser Addam had already laid siege the previous day. Jaime rode up with his retinue, looking on the defenders. Men stared down at him grimly from atop the walls, clutching crossbows and spears twice their height. Despite this, Jaime couldn't help but feel something was queer. They had clashed with riders from twoscore Reach houses, great and small, but seldom had an Oakheart been seen. What trap are we being lured into?
A knight named Osbeech called down to him.
"Lady Oakheart will treat with you, Ser Jaime, but you must come alone."
Jaime glanced over at Tion and Peck.
"Surely the lady will permit me my squires, if I am to come into her castle?"
"I will ask the lady."
There were some further negotiations before Ser Osbeech commanded the guards to lower the drawbridge and open the gate. Jaime trotted through, beneath a string of murder holes. Men stared at him, judging, contemptuous. He knew the look. Men had been giving him that look ever since Aerys. They only stop when I knock them into the dirt.
Ser Osbeech led them into the courtyard beyond. Under an archway, Lady Arwyn Oakheart was waiting for him. He did not recall when exactly, but he knew they had met four or five times over the years, at some tourney or feast or wedding or some such. She was seated behind a wooden table, laid with a humble offering of bread, cheese, salt and beer.
"Ser Jaime" she said, as he approached.
"My lady."
"I give you the traditional offerings" she said, indicating the meal. "You cannot be too careful in times such as these."
"Of course, my lady."
Jaime sat. His squires stood obediently behind him. He looked at Lady Arwyn. She was well past forty, but remained a handsome woman, her brown locks turning to grey. She too dressed in green and gold, with several emeralds braided into her hair. Servants and bannermen stood about the courtyard, watching the meeting closely, but too far to eavesdrop. He spied a maester, all dressed in grey, but also several septons with bright crystals about their necks. His attention returned to the lady of the castle. Only when she had swallowed a mouthful of her own offering and washed it down with drink did he follow suit. He took a long swill and waited for her to speak.
"Tell me, Ser Jaime. When was the last time you saw my son?"
Jaime kept his face neutral. She had several sons, but Jaime knew which one she meant. Ser Arys, one of Robert's seven. He had served with his fellow kingsguard for nigh on ten years.
"Last year, my lady, shortly before I left the capital."
"So you were not there when he…when he died, were you?"
"No, my lady. I had left for the Riverlands, to try and rescue my brother from Catelyn Stark."
"What do you know of his death?"
Jaime chose his words carefully. That my sister, the utter fool, ordered him to attack the flying men, leading to a totally pointless and needless slaughter. "He died bravely, my lady. He defended the Red Keep when it was attacked by the flying men. Two other kingsguard were slain, but the queen and her children went unharmed, that night at least."
"I have heard different stories. Stannis says Robert's children…"
"Are bastards, born of incest. My bastards, apparently" Jaime said, doing his best to look unperturbed.
Lady Oakheart stared at him for a good ten seconds. Jaime didn't let the façade crack.
"Arys…I cannot believe he died for no reason" she said eventually, looking down at the table. "He was brave, he was good. He was always the best…always courteous, and he always talked highly of you, Ser Jaime. He wouldn't hurt anyone, unless he had to, no…no" she looked on the verge of tears. "Stannis…his words are poison, they must be. He was always jealous of Robert. Now he tries to steal his throne. He will bow down before this red god and these flying men if that is what is takes…and now Mace Tyrell has joined with him…"
"Your son…let me assure you, my lady. He did not die for no reason. Neither did Ser Boros, or Ser Meryn." Or three hundred other brave fools. "They died protecting the true king. Now Joffrey is gone, but Myrcella lives. And we will fight until our dying breath to protect the realm from the Stranger's servants."
Lady Oakheart really was crying now. She pulled out a handkerchief from her garments. It looked well used. "Yes, you are right, Ser Jaime, of course." She patted her cheeks. "He did not die for no reason. I cannot believe that. These monsters slew him, and in so doing revealed themselves for what they really are." She looked at him again. "The septons are right. They are the Stranger's Servants, no matter how pretty their appear, and soon they will take over everywhere."
"You speak it truly my lady. I am glad" Jaime said, quite earnestly now. "Queen Myrcella would dearly welcome the support of House Oakheart."
Lady Oakheart blew her hose a little. "I cannot support Stannis. I cannot" she said, shaking her head. "But if I let you pass?"
"The dark lord will be greatly wroth, I am sure, as will be his new masters."
Lady Oakheart's expression changed. Despite the tears, it was almost a smile. "I do not fear this usurper, Ser Jaime. Old Oak is strong, and far from King's Landing, and I am old and done, but should my house live on, there is one thing I would want."
"Which is, my lady?"
She blew her nose again. "Highgarden" she said simply.
Jaime nodded. He had been expecting as much ever since her invitation to sit down. "Certainly, my lady. The Tyrells have abandoned the faith, they have abandoned their loyal bannermen. A true house of the Reach is needed to put the realm to rights."
Lady Oakheart nodded. "I saw it coming, years ago" she said. "The Tyrells have always been grasping. The Targaryens should never have risen them up. A house of Stewards. The Reach never followed them, truly, but the dragonlords made us heel. Eventually they started marrying into the older houses. The Redwynes, the Hightowers, now the Fossoways, but the old blood remembers. It should have been one of us. A Florent, a Rowan, a Tarly or an Oakheart. We are the children of Garth Greenhand, but the dragons had no respect of such."
"We remember our friends, my lady" Jaime promised. "If you are loyal and true, you can be our new lords of the Mander. The Wardens of the South." A thought occurred to him. "You have other sons, my lady?"
"Yes, two others, Arys was the youngest" she answered. "They march with Stannis now. Forsaking their house, forsaking the gods of their ancestors. I fear for them, but they are already lost to me. They are marching to their doom. I can feel it."
"As are all who fall under the dark lord's embrace" Jaime said sadly.
The silence stretched on a moment. Around the courtyard, distant eyes watched them. He could hear the sounds of drums and trumpets outside as his army continued to arrive and make camp.
"I will let you pass through our lands unhindered" Lady Oakheart said, wiping her cheeks clean. "My sons took most of our men, but there are still many who would join you. They seek to answer the faith's call."
"Ser Galladon Graceford is our Grand Captain" Jaime reassured her. "A true knight of the Reach. Any who wish to join, can follow him."
Lady Oakheart nodded. He made to rise, but she stopped him. "One last thing, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I overreach, but…the queen is unmarried. She is not promised to anyone, is she not?"
"No, not as yet" Jaime admitted.
"If my sons should return. Should they be saved from this red god…Perhaps a son of House Oakheart, raised to Lord of the Mander, would be suitable consort for a queen?"
"I can certainly discuss as much with my lord father" Jaime promised. "Myrcella will need a strong husband beside her."
"We are the children of John the Oak, ser" she said, with a hint of pride. "You will find none stronger, or more true."
He made his farewells, even leaning in to kiss her hand, then departed, flanked by his squires. The castle drawbridge remained open. Slowly, a trickle of men came forth into their camp. Jaime had Ser Galladon see to them. By nightfall, six score men had come forward to swear themselves to the Grand Captain.
Sitting around the fire that evening, for the first time in months, Jaime felt to be in truly good spirits. He even found himself thanking the Gods above. Thank the Crone he thought for refusing to share her wisdom with Lady Oakheart. There was much laughter and singing that night. Ser Garth led them in prayer, thanking the Mother for her merciful gift, that they would avoid a long and bloody siege. Just wait till we get to Highgarden Jaime couldn't help but think, but that was a problem for the morrow.
He was just thinking of retiring to his tent when Jaime heard some cries of alarm, and then the cantering of hooves. A pair of riders were galloping at full speed through the tents, shouting for the Lord Commander. They were quickly led to Jaime's side. There they dismounted and took a knee. One held out a message.
"Pardon, m'lord. A raven from Casterly Rock. Arrived at Crakehall three days ago, m'lord."
Jaime glanced at his squires. Peck reached out and took the scroll. He unfurled it, squinting in the fading light. Two dozen lords and knights fell silent, waiting for him to speak.
"The Westerlands…they are under attack, my lord" he said, as calmly as a fourteen-year-old boy could relay such news.
"Stannis? Or the Stark boy?" Jaime demanded, rounding on the riders.
"Neither, m'lord" the messenger said, sounding apologetic. "'tis the Ironborn, m'lord. They have sailed forth with their longboats. Everywhere from Feastfires to the Banefort, the Westerlands are burning."