""And a messenger, as these people have told, spoke to all creation, the flesh. The messenger brought forward a poor man who interceded on behalf of his child, who was, the messenger said, a boy of sixteen years of age, Possessed by a vile thing. A conversational thing, boy's Father claimed, had come.
It promised many things, for but a few days within that of the mundane world. Father obliged, offering not himself, but child. "This child of mine is very good-looking, a boy nearly man." Compared to the bewitched offering, father wept and tore, Though continued to rebuke goodness for what gained. - Daemond of the Two Worlds, Reflection upon Tattled Myth.
JAÏME
"BASTARD!" The harsh, guttural scream of the riverlander filled JaÏme's ears. JaÏme could hear the man's fear, his pain. The Kingslayer twisted the hilt of his weapon, driving the blade deeper into the riverlander's stomach. Feeble leathers did naught to protect the man as JaÏme drove him through. JaÏme turned from grim violence with a flourish,the rebel's innards spraying outward and staining the Kingslayer's white marble mask.
JaÏme looked ahead, saw more and more of them coming as they rushed between deep trenches. Something had changed-
Movement from the King? Or from Jofferét?
Bullets zipped past JaÏme as the disorganized mass of rebels drew closer. He turned, hopping back down into the trenches where he and his companions had been for the past eighteen hours.
JaÏme was immediately met by a Westman captain, Benjamím Altelebac. The captain bowed, his face hidden by a metal mask that was smelted in the visage of house Altelebac's progenitor, a custom taken to by Westmen whose families still adhered to the Old Way.
Benjamím was flanked by an other Westmen belonging to Lannister forces, though this one was clearly of more Andal stock. There had been slight frictions between Lannister forces- After Ei Caohen's withdrawal, the troops Gawen brought were decidedly of more Andal heritage. Despite hailing from the same region, differences in religion and language had made a tense situation even worse.
However, JaÏme could see now that everyone on his side wanted one thing-
Escape, or survival. Disputes on petty things such as race and heritage could be fought and bled over once they achieved victory.
Victory.
JaÏme closed tired eyes at the sight of Benjamím's salute.
"Oye Genefe," Benjamím greeted.
"Ser Lannister," The Andal, a man named Ramdall Swyft, said, bowing his head.
JaÏme opened his eyes. He raised armored hands upwards, thumbing back towards the upper side of trenches.
"They're advancing on us due to the rain. But that's not all. Something is making them march towards us." JaÏme said.
Ramdall made an affirmative sounding grunt in agreement.
"Marbrand men are reporting the same thing further down the line. Seven hells. They wasn't any of them this far out. Did they see us?" Ramdall asked.
Ramdall continued, his voice threatening fear.
'Some of the levies recruited- the Riverlanders, say they're bewitched. The rebels, is. The Fox and the Blackfish, taken by low magics. Witches, just like is at God's Eye. Is why they're winning, they say. They joined only for coin, and will leave rank once we're defeated. We're surrounded, sers. Inside and out."
Benjamím shook his head.
"Do not heed the misgivings of smallfolk. They are an ignorant folk; knowledgeable only when it comes to their rice paddies and the streams they drunkenly sail upon."
Benjamím continued, his speech painted by a small laugh.
"We moved only at night. Even if they had aerial reconnaissance, there's no way they would be focused on us. We took the long way away from camp, down the river."
Above, JaÏme could hear Riverlanders as they advanced. Savage and horrid speech ambled towards JaÏme's ears. It was dark, though JaÏme was unsure if it was early morning or near dusk. Rain felt as if it was drumming upon the material of his mask, a constant throbbing ebb.
JaÏme saw the forces coming for them when he was topside.
There were far too many. Hundreds, if not thousands.
His thoughts drifted to Cersei, though he hated himself for it. Cersei-
Did he love her?
I'm not sure.
Loving her came with the acceptance of what they were, what their union was, was in effect acceptable. The damnable truth that they hid from all their lives would suddenly be a factor they readily presented to those around them, and that was not something JaÏme could allow. Not on his honor.
JaÏme smiled behind his mask.
What honor?
He heard the voices again; despite the war waging around him, the voices within his own mind were louder than those that demanded Crown blood.
Kingslayer! Kingslayer!
What was victory here, what was honor to a man like him? He had already failed.
The shouts of the Riverlanders grew closer-
Ramdall stepped forward towards JaÏme, grasping him by both shoulders.
"What are our orders, Ser? What do we do? Are we to die here?" The Andal asked. His voice was begging, begging JaÏme. A decision worth the lives of over a hundred men. JaÏme...
He felt numb. It was similar, in a way...
He was reminded of how he felt when he watched the Starks as they were impaled. The youngest of the Starks, Eddard, was there as well. He remembered how hollow that boy's eyes were, a boy who was a mere year younger than JaÏme at the time. Aerys had laughed, gloated during the action. The sound of blood spilling over the stone of the throne room, the screaming of the Starks. Just like JaÏme, Eddard had remained silent.
When JaÏme killed Aerys, he remembered that silence. He felt no differential feeling towards Eddard, though he knew that they shared one commonality- they both witnessed the lowest cruelties of man, the dichotomy of empathy towards those afflicted, and the urge to make those who enact such wanton thrills to feel the pain that they ushered.
Do I want to die? Has this world given me all that I could reap?
"Retreat would only result in more casualties." JaÏme said steely. He repositioned his mask- due to the rain, it had been slipping.
Ramdall gave a scoff.
"More casualties as opposed to the death of all of us. Why not leave a detachment here, hold off the rebels so the rest can regroup-"
JaÏme returned Ramdall's inflection, chuckling as the mask he wore amplified his voice.
"Riflemen will line the trenches. Two lines, one firing while the other reloads. Then, the third line will be armed for martial combat. We will fight. And if need be, we will die." JaÏme said sternly.
Ramdall offered naught but a disgusted expression.
"It means nothing to you, doesn't it? These lives. After this battle you will return to the royalties and pleasures afforded you. What of these men? What of the survivors? We are doomed."
Benjamím turned to Ramdall as he drew not his rifle, but his sword.
"Of whom do you want filling the third line?" Benjamím asked.
JaÏme thought for a moment.
"Westmen. True westmen, those of Merovigini families. The others will maintain fire until the Riverlanders close the distance with us."
JaÏme turned to Ramdall, the man's cheeks red with fear and anger.
"Once the Riverlanders are here, I give you authority to hail a retreat. We of Merovigini will stay, and fight them at close range. The action of the Riverlander bastards... I know it is because of something happening. I will bet on that- but I will not demand those who do not hold the same hope."
JaÏme removed his mask, looking Ramdall directly in the eyes.
Ramdall opened his mouth to speak, but could utter no words.
"I ask that you ensure only your duty. They have stopped their artillery strikes, it is clear they want to retain their ranks. They're bleeding. This.. It is a shift of opportunity. I value your life, I value all of the lives under my command. That is what I was taught. That is what Arthur Dayne instilled within me." JaÏme said carefully.
Ramdall gave JaÏme a derisive look, not believing the Kingsguard's words.
JaÏme could almost see it- he could almost see the jape forming on Ramdall's lips.
Kingslayer! Kingslayer!
However, Ramdall said nothing. He nodded, pulling down the visor on his halfhelm.
The andal turned away from JaÏme, but as he did, he spoke; his voice quiet.
"I hope you are right, Ser Lannister."
JaÏme nodded, ignoring the man's apprehensions.
"You are not the ones giving their lives. I will leave that to those willing." JaÏme answered.
Cersei... one way or another, I will come back to you.
JaÏme gripped his sword, already covered with gore and blood, harsher.
One way or another.
NEXT TIME: JOFFERÉT II