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Jaime Lannister had never hated water as much as he did now. Truly, never before.
What lay before his eyes was a castle under siege. Those outside its walls longed to break in, while those within wished desperately to escape.
Yet, in the end, neither side could have their way.
What stood between Jaime and the castle was water—nothing but endless, insufferable water.
The Tumblestone and the Red Fork flowed endlessly, running right beneath Riverrun's stone walls. Together, they formed two moats no one could ever hope to fill.
As two of the five greatest rivers in the Riverlands, they rendered Jaime Lannister completely powerless.
The only potential breakthrough lay in a shallow trench that the cowards hiding inside Riverrun had dug on the southwestern side of the walls. But even that trench was now brimming with the very waters of those two rivers.
After more than half a month of continuous siege and assaults, Jaime had come to understand something clearly: the Tully family's ancestral stronghold had stood unshaken on the vast plains of the Riverlands for thousands of years not without reason. It truly was not a place one could take by force easily.
Fortunately, he had in his hands a most precious bargaining chip—the beloved son of Lord Hoster Tully. Even if Riverrun itself could not be broken, there was little the Riverlands lords could do to retaliate.
Everyone knew old Lord Hoster's health was failing fast. No one could say which day he'd be called to the Hall of the Seven. And once that happened, the Riverlands would fall into the hands of Edmure Tully. Who would dare challenge the Lannisters, the very ones who held Edmure's life in their hands?
All Jaime needed to do was keep a tight grip on the Tully heir and continue to fend off the desperate Riverlands rabble. Once his father defeated that boy Stark—who was, after all, just a child—then Riverrun's hope for rescue would vanish completely.
At that point, with no reinforcements and no escape, surrender would be their only option.
Yes... the advantage was his.
At least, that was what Jaime Lannister believed with confidence.
Still, a siege was a tedious affair. After dragging the pitiful Edmure Tully around beneath Riverrun's walls for two laps, Jaime realized that Lord Tytos Blackwood, commanding the castle's defense, acted as though Edmure did not even exist.
Archers kept loosing their arrows. Stones were hurled from the battlements. No hesitation. It was as though the life or death of Edmure Tully was entirely meaningless to them.
By now, Jaime had lost all interest in tormenting the disheveled and filthy heir of the Riverlands.
He left him in the caged wagon, treating him more like a showpiece animal than a hostage.
As for himself, he had found new amusement.
News had arrived from the northern bank. A group of cavalrymen, flying the banners of the Riverlands' northern lords, had been spotted beyond the northernmost section of the Lannister camp. They seemed to be engaging in repeated skirmishes with the soldiers stationed there.
Lord Quenten Banefort, the grim-faced Lord of Banefort, stepped forward with a proposal.
"Ser Jaime, I request permission to take five hundred horsemen and drive off these troublesome gnats!"
Jaime Lannister tilted his strikingly handsome face ever so slightly. Locks of golden hair slipped past his ear, and a faint, amused smile curved the corners of his lips.
"No need," he said. "Send word. Mobilize the entire cavalry corps. I shall lead the charge myself. Let's run down these bold Riverlands riders. But don't scare them off too fast. Drive them—herd them right back to their den."
"I want to see for myself just who in the Riverlands west of the Green Fork still dares to defy the might of House Lannister."
In Jaime's view, there was nothing wrong with what he said. In fact, he felt his reasoning was entirely sound.
The boy from the North had brought twenty thousand men, but they were all camped east of the Green Fork, locked in a stalemate with his father's forces of equal size. On the western front of the Riverlands, aside from a few thousand ragged troops holed up inside Riverrun, there was not a single organized force left.
This current cavalry must have been sent by one of those stubborn northern Riverlands houses. Most likely, they still had delusions of rescuing their liege lord.
All the better. He would pursue them back to their holdfasts, storm their castles, and crush their hopes completely.
Jaime Lannister was in high spirits. The two victories he had claimed over the Riverlands lords had thoroughly eroded whatever little respect he had for their combat prowess.
But this was not King's Landing, and Cersei was nowhere near. His hands itched with restless energy.
As the eldest son of House Lannister, he naturally disdained the idea of touching any peasant girls dragged in by his subordinates.
He just needed to end this damn war, round up everyone from House Tully and House Stark, toss them into the dungeons of King's Landing, and be done with it. After that, maybe he'd even take a trip up to Winterfell.
You know what? He kind of missed that broken tower in Winterfell.
The memory of Cersei's arms around him in that cold, lonely place was a hell of a lot more exciting than anything the capital's endless routine could offer.
Lost in those memories of forbidden pleasure shared with his sister, Jaime Lannister stepped out of his command tent. His loyal guards were already waiting for him, one of them holding the reins of his beloved white steed.
With a single, fluid motion, Jaime mounted the warhorse and rode off toward the ferry.
Farther north beyond the Lannister northern camp on the banks of the Tumblestone, Ser Brynden Tully stood amidst the thick woods, pulling his bloodstained sword from the chest of a Lannister soldier who had just moments ago been wailing in pain.
His eyes were fixed on the massive enemy encampment ahead.
With only three hundred elite cavalrymen under his command, Brynden had ridden all the way south from Raventree Hall, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Already, more than a hundred Lannister infantry and cavalry had fallen to their blades.
Most of those slain had been scouts—those same reconnaissance units they had spotted heading south during a previous skirmish.
Taking full advantage of surprise and superior numbers, Ser Brynden had methodically cut down every pair of eyes the Lannisters had stationed along the outer edge of their army.
But once the work was done, they did not retreat. Instead, they lingered near the main Lannister camp by the Tumblestone River, appearing suddenly and vanishing without a trace. Whenever Lannister forces tried to drive them off, they would withdraw just out of reach. But if no one came to deal with them, they would take the initiative and shoot down a few sentries to liven things up for the lions.
In short, these three hundred under Ser Brynden had become experts in the art of provocation.
Over the course of a day or two, the persistent harassment had driven the Lannister forces on the north bank into a state of deep agitation. If the Lannister soldiers gave chase, the enemy would simply slip away. If they chose not to, more blood would be spilled. Even when they did manage to catch up, there was no chance of gaining the upper hand or taking prisoners—every clash drew blood.
As a result, the entire northern section of the Lannister encampment had turned into a hornet's nest of rage and frustration. When Ser Jaime Lannister's orders to strike back were finally issued to the northern army, the troops greeted them with roars of enthusiasm. At last, there was an opportunity to deal with these damnable harassers.
"Seven hells," one grizzled veteran cursed. "We've been in the Riverlands for weeks, and when have we ever endured this kind of humiliation? It's enough to make both uncle and aunt lose their patience!"
In just half the usual time, two thousand Lannister cavalry had assembled, itching for a fight. Their eyes burned with fury, their weapons were already drawn, and all that remained was the arrival of their commander, Ser Jaime Lannister.
Jaime, having come from the rear of the army, was slightly delayed. He had expected to spend some time rousing his men into battle-readiness, as he was well aware of the lethargy that had settled into the camp after so many days of siege.
However, when he arrived at the main camp by the Tumblestone River, what awaited him was a sight he had not anticipated: two thousand Lannister cavalrymen lined up in perfect formation, their crimson armor gleaming in the sun, every soldier watching him with fierce anticipation.
Taken aback, Jaime could not hide his surprise. Despite being engaged in a prolonged siege, the soldiers here still possessed such morale and readiness. Whoever had been in command during his absence surely deserved a reward.
Thinking this, he offered a few brief words to rouse the troops before the battle, not expecting much in return. Yet the reaction from the soldiers stunned him—they responded with thunderous cheers, their excitement barely contained.
How to describe it? It was like dry tinder igniting at the slightest spark—a blazing wildfire erupting in an instant.
As he watched his soldiers brandishing their swords and shouting with fervor, Jaime Lannister felt a rare surge of confidence. This battle was as good as won.
"Move out!" he commanded, and without hesitation, he spurred his beloved white steed northward.
Behind him, the two thousand cavalrymen followed at full speed, determined to crush the few hundred Riverlands riders who had dared to provoke them so insolently. At the same time, they hoped to uncover the base of operations from which this troublesome force had been dispatched.
To the Lannister soldiers, these men were an insult to the nobility. Such behavior did not deserve land or castles. Their estates, their homes, and even their women ought to be seized and distributed, if only to quench the burning rage of the Westermen.
…
As he watched the massive Lannister host begin to encircle him, Ser Brynden's weathered face showed no fear. Instead, a cold, faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Ride immediately for the Maiden's Vale," he instructed the waiting soldier beside him. "Tell Lord Clay that the lion has taken the bait. Within two days, we should be able to lure them close to the cage. Please ask Lord Clay to prepare accordingly."
The soldier nodded hard, understanding the urgency in the command. When Ser Brynden said nothing further, he turned at once and mounted the strongest, most enduring horse they had. Without delay, he galloped toward the hidden ambush point where their main force lay in wait.
Once the messenger had vanished into the trees, Ser Brynden slowly drew the longsword at his waist. In that moment, the aging knight seemed to radiate strength and determination. Seated firmly atop his steed, he raised his voice and shouted to his men:
"Come, lads! Let them see what we're made of!"
If they were going to act, they had to play their parts to the end. If they fled the moment battle began, they might arouse suspicion. One must never assume the enemy is a fool—because the moment you start treating everyone else like an idiot, you risk making a fool of yourself. Ser Brynden understood this truth better than most.
The two forces were not far apart. It did not take long before cavalry on both sides began to close the distance.
But do not imagine this cavalry clash as two great walls foolishly slamming into each other. In this era, where cavalry was considered a precious asset, no commander would recklessly squander such a force.
On this battlefield, both the Northmen and Westermen slowed their horses as they neared one another, reducing their momentum to avoid fatal losses. What followed was not a grand charge but brutal close-quarters combat.
Cavalry charges were meant to scatter infantry formations. But when cavalry clashed with cavalry, the battle became a contest of steel—blade to blade, man to man.
The sound of weapons colliding rang out across the battlefield, accompanied by the splatter of fresh blood and the piercing screams of the wounded. In moments, both sides were drawn into a chaotic melee, every warrior fighting desperately to survive.
The Lannister soldiers, still seething from the past days of harassment, had expected to crush what appeared to be a feeble force of Riverlands riders. Judging by their appearance, the enemy seemed poorly armed and lacking in skill.
But the illusion broke the moment their swords crossed. The Lannister troops quickly realized that something was terribly wrong.
Although these Riverlands riders were not particularly well-equipped, their swordsmanship was remarkably skillful. The Lannister cavalry initially held the advantage in numbers, with over six hundred riders in the first wave, allowing them to outnumber the enemy in every small clash.
Yet their opponents, fierce and unrelenting, fought with a mastery of mounted combat that turned the tide. Despite being outnumbered, they held their ground and battled the Lannisters to a standstill.
Casualties rose on both sides. The sickening sound of blades slicing into flesh echoed constantly in the ears of every soldier on the field.
When the first charge came to an end, Ser Brynden, drenched in blood from head to toe, rallied his men once more on the western edge of the battlefield.
As he swept his gaze over the survivors, he quickly judged that he had lost around thirty men in the assault. That was within expectations. It was acceptable.
"Tell everyone, one more charge. After that, we head north. Follow my banner!"
They were all good actors, but getting too caught up in the role could be dangerous. There was no meaning in fighting to the last man here. The real protagonist had yet to step onto the stage, still waiting behind the curtain for the moment of his grand entrance.
As a minor character, he only needed to play his part well. It was important not to steal the spotlight with unscripted acts or reckless outbursts.
The charge began once more, and the fearless cavalrymen of the North urged their horses into motion again. This would be their final assault before they fell back.
Fortunately, everyone remained composed. No one cried out "Long live Robb Stark" or "For the North." They all understood the roles they had been given. Every single voice rose together in a unified cry: "For Lord Edmure Tully!"
One could only wonder if Edmure Tully would shed tears upon witnessing this scene. To know that someone was still thinking of him—it was a beautiful feeling. A warm, comforting emotion he had not felt since the day he was thrown into a wooden cage.
But it did not matter how Edmure Tully felt. The two opposing forces crashed into each other once again, giving no time to consider such sentiments. In the heart of the battlefield, two cavalrymen, unable to evade in time, collided head-on with their horses.
The two riders were hurled from their saddles and smashed into the ground. The Northern rider, wearing lighter armor, was dazed and shaken but suffered no broken bones.
The Lannister soldier, however, clad in heavy armor, had no such luck. His own weight and the force of the fall shattered one of his legs, and he lay on the ground wailing in agony.
The Northern rider quickly recovered and did not grant his opponent a second chance. Rising to his feet, he drove his sword through the man's body, sending him to meet the Seven.
But the Northern cavalryman who had lost his mount did not last long either. Almost immediately, a fresh wave of charging Lannister cavalry cut him down.
No matter how brave one was, the massive difference in momentum could not be overcome.
This was the second charge. The bloody fighting just moments earlier had stirred both sides into a frenzy. Roaring and shouting, they threw themselves into the fray once again. Blades flashed through the air, and anguished cries rang out one after another.
Each cry of pain marked another soldier falling. On a battlefield filled entirely with mounted fighters, being thrown from one's horse meant only one thing—death beneath the hooves of stampeding warhorses.
In a way, this was an even quicker end than that brought by blades and swords.
As the second charge drew to a close, the Lannister cavalry reformed their lines at their original position, preparing for a third assault. Over the course of two charges, they had already taken down nearly eighty enemy soldiers. One more assault, and the Riverlands cavalry would likely collapse.
However, their foes—those Riverlands riders of astonishing combat skill and unyielding fighting spirit—did not wait to be overwhelmed. After completing the second charge, they suddenly disengaged, regrouping beneath the banner of Raventree Hall, and began a swift retreat to the north.
The sight lit a fire in the hearts of the Lannister cavalry. Damn it, the feeling was all too familiar. These bastards had once again left them in a lurch, half-satisfied and wholly enraged. They had charged into battle, gained the upper hand—and then the enemy ran away.
Again, they had been left teetering on the edge of victory, denied the satisfaction of a complete triumph. It was infuriating beyond words.
With a furious roar, the leading Lannister cavalry officer spurred his horse forward, dragging his men with him. He no longer cared that their commander, Jaime Lannister, had not yet given the order to pursue.
But as it happened, Jaime had also intended to give chase. He immediately issued the command, and two thousand Lannister cavalry surged forward in the direction of the fleeing Riverlands riders.
This was a cavalry war, a contest between mounted warriors. Holding the command of two thousand men, Jaime felt no fear. In fact, he had developed a certain interest in these formidable horsemen. To defeat such a powerful foe would bring a spark of joy to this otherwise dull and dreary siege.
"Lannister, hear me roar."
"CHARGE!"
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[Chapter End's]
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