CHAPTER 5

FIRE AND BLOOD

THE MANDER PLAINS

Jaime Lannister's POV

Jaime rode proudly at the head of the Kingslanding army, his high-polished, gold-plated armor gleaming with its lion emblems. His faint smile hinted at the certainty of a swift victory and glory for the Lannister lions.

It was a brilliant strategy, of course—Cersei's and his own. The maneuver reminded him of Robb Stark's lesson: go where the enemy expects you least.

And he was sure Tyrion would urge Daenerys to strike Casterly Rock. His little brother always fancied himself cleverer than the family he scorned, despite Cersei's loathing for him. Jaime knew his brother's habits, his tricks and weaknesses. Losing the Ironborn fleet and Dorne's leadership had Tyrion cornered, almost desperate. A bold move would be his next play.

A bittersweet satisfaction stirred in Jaime's chest. He was facing his own kin, playing a deadly game where the stakes were Westeros itself. While it pained him that Tyrion now served the Targaryen invader, he couldn't summon true hatred for his brother. The relief of knowing Tyrion lived eclipsed everything else.

Shaking his thoughts clear, he turned his attention back to the day's task. Securing Highgarden for Cersei would require focus. He didn't expect much resistance; the Lannisters' numbers were far superior, and the Tyrells were fractured. Jaime anticipated wrapping things up by nightfall, his gaze fixed on a swift return to Cersei and the shadowed love they shared. People called her a monster. He knew what she was, what she'd done, and still he would choose her over and over again, because he also knew he would always go back to her, regardless of her reckless hate and actions. It was beyond his control and his will to do otherwise.

He caught a faint, unsettling sound in the sky, a noise beyond the clouded sun. His stomach knotted. Leading the Lannister army into open plains with dragons lurking beyond the Blackwater was a risky bet. Trying to appear casual, he glanced up, aware the thought haunted every man in his ranks. Noticing Bronn's sneer, he scowled.

"Nervous?"

"No," he snapped, spurring his white charger ahead.

Bronn cackled beside him. "Let her come! I'll skewer her like the cunt she is."

At Bronn's insistence, the scorpion was placed at the front of the line, delaying their advance for easy access.

Once they were ahead of the vanguard, Bronn's teasing grew. "Bet it's just geese flying north. Let's go! We've a city to conquer. I hear there are ladies inside craving a real man to bed them."

The Tyrell army stood outside Highgarden's walls, unmoving.

Too easy, Jaime thought. Instead of meeting them in the field, the Tyrells were boxing themselves between his sword and the castle walls.

Jaime's fingers traced a small vial beneath his belt, reassuring himself of its presence. Cersei had imagined far crueler deaths for the Queen of Thorns, but he'd managed to secure a dignified end for the Tyrell matriarch. The extinction of a noble house deserved a milestone as marked by the dignity of its end.

His army advanced along the Rose Road, edging closer to the Mander River. Golden roses lined the path, their thorny stalks tangled with fragrant peach and fire plum orchards. Jaime inhaled the crisp scent of ripe fruit and summer roses. The Reach would be theirs, a land of beauty and bounty that could turn the war in their favor.

Suddenly, a bitter, unnatural scent cut through the floral sweetness—tar, mixed with smoke. His white charger shifted uneasily beneath him, scraping the ground with anxious hooves.

"Halt!"

The column stopped, and he saw Bronn's nose wrinkle. Everyone stood tense and silent, awaiting orders. The silence shattered with a wet thud. Then another, and another, each followed by a sickening splatter as tar-pitch missiles rained down on the army. The smell of burning pitch intensified, filling the air like poison.

Horses whinnied and reared, colliding as the sticky black lumps fell from the riverbank brush. Jaime strained to control his own steed, helpless to make sense of the chaos. Men shouted, their cries merging with the terrified shrieks of the horses.

A pitch-laden clump struck his temple, the hot, viscous liquid sliding down his face and neck. His ear rang as his world spun, and he hung precariously on the side of his mount. A steadying hand yanked him back—Bronn's.

"Move forward! Get out of here!" Bronn urged.

They could only press forward. Bronn took Jaime's reins, tugging his horse into a crazed sprint.

"Forward!" Jaime roared, his command struggling to pierce the bedlam. But then, a volley of arrows streaked overhead, their tips ablaze, bright against the darkened sky.

Instinctively, the soldiers raised their shields, but the tar splatters caught fire. Armor, horses, and the ground alike erupted in flames as fire spread across the army, screams of men and horses fanning the inferno.

Jaime shook himself free of the stupor. "Bronn!"

"They're burning us alive! We need to fight!" Bronn bellowed, a sellsword's instincts kicking in as he looked only to save himself.

"No, we need to get out of this fucking trap! There's a clearing up ahead. Push through!" Jaime's gaze locked onto the distant open field, but they'd never reach it if they kept running. He knew what he had to do. He yanked the reins away from Bronn's grasp.

Whirling his horse around, he shouted, "Cavalry, with me!" His voice echoed across the ranks as his riders rallied around him, each waiting for a signal in the smoke and flame. "Charge the riverbank! Overrun the archers with our cavalry!"

He turned his horse towards the slope leading to the riverbank. "Bronn! Bring the infantry down after us—we have to crush them!"

"Chaaaarge!"

At his command, the heavy cavalry thundered down the slope, their lances lowered, the horses' powerful strides gaining momentum. Ahead, the flaming arrows ceased as the archers retreated.

"Lances!" Jaime ordered, his vision blurring with tar-smoke. The brush blurred around them, only fragments visible through the chaos as horses barreled forward, blinded by grime and pain.

But Jaime's mount stumbled, catching on a stone and pitching him forward against its neck. Locked in his stirrups, he clung to the horse's mane, holding on for dear life as the steed kept its pace. Struggling to regain control, Jaime slowed, falling behind the front lines.

He saw them first: a line of sharpened wooden spikes, each as long as a man was tall, jutting up through the brush. Horses at the front plunged into the stakes, their armored riders hurled forward, vanishing into the bushes with cries of agony.

Seven save us.

At that moment, a thunderous battle cry erupted from the riverbank—guttural, fierce, and chillingly human. Wild warriors, tall and broad, faces streaked with war paint, surged from the brush in a bloodthirsty wave. Some wore studded leather and animal pelts; others were near-naked, wielding brutal two-handed axes. Women fought among them, wielding their weapons with equal fury.

These were not Tyrell soldiers.

Jaime gathered himself, forcing his body to move despite the weight of his armor. They had to retreat, or they would die here in the muck. The enemy tore through his remaining cavalry like wildfire, their battle cries resonating with merciless, animalistic fervor.

Urging his spent mount to carry him up the slope, Jaime aimed for the infantry struggling to form ranks amidst the flames below. Perhaps they could still overwhelm the enemy by using the higher ground to their advantage. These savage warriors wore no true armor; surely, his disciplined, armored soldiers could break their ranks. But as he spurred his mount one final time, the poor beast buckled, collapsing with a pitiful whinny halfway up the muddy incline. Jaime dismounted, hauling himself forward on foot, every step a test of his endurance.

Breathless, he finally stumbled into the ranks of his soldiers. "Go! Go!" he wheezed, gesturing them onward. Bronn appeared at his side, offering a flask of water. Jaime took a swig, steadying himself as he scanned the chaotic scene below.

The wild enemy soldiers had drawn together in a tight formation, creating a wall of round, wooden shields—interlocking and solid as stone. They barked orders in a guttural, foreign tongue. As Jaime watched, his infantry collided against the shield wall, only to be met with ruthless efficiency. The shield wall parted just enough to reveal spears and arrows thrust out with deadly precision, thinning Jaime's ranks. He witnessed archers nimbly climbing atop their comrades' shoulders to rain down a deadly volley on the men crushed against the shields.

Behind that brutal line, the enemy warriors were singing—an eerie, exultant song that echoed over the carnage.

Then, without warning, bare-chested warriors vaulted over the shield wall, wielding massive axes with unrestrained fury. The momentum of Jaime's men faltered, and for a brief, terrible moment, he saw his soldiers hesitate. Bloodied and outmatched, they fell like grass before a scythe.

Bronn seized Jaime, pulling him up onto a fresh horse. "Come now, we need to get clear of this!"

They retreated up the hill, the screams of fallen men and the acrid scent of smoke marking their path back to the road. The way was littered with the bodies of the fallen, the fields around them burning, the stench of death thick in the air. Among the survivors, a few soldiers stood in stunned silence, horror written on their faces.

Bronn spoke grimly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We need to make for the crossroads and join with the Castlery Rock forces. It's our only chance."

"There aren't that many of them," Jaime muttered, more to himself than to Bronn. His mind whirled, calculating their options. "We'll regroup and crush them in the open field outside the city."