They hungered for slaughter.
The Kingslayer knew it in his bones—the same old song of steel and screams that had echoed across a thousand battlefields since the dawn of war itself.
He had danced to that tune more times than he cared to count.
Common soldiers would die in their thousands, their blood painting grand tapestries of conquest across the earth. Their wails would rise like incense to the gods, their souls the coin spent to purchase victory's fleeting kiss.
Knights in plate and mail would thunder across the field astride their destriers, invincible until they met their match. When death claimed them, it would come with honor—in single combat against worthy foes, or through surrender accepted with dignity. A few might fall, but most would live to fight another day.
Such was the natural order of war, the way it had always been and always would be.
Jaime himself had once embraced this truth without question. Men died in battle—what of it? There were worse fates than meeting one's end with sword in hand beneath the open sky.
But Joffrey had spoken of "forgiveness."
Jaime Lannister understood now what that word truly meant when it fell from his king's lips.
The very opposite of what these eager lords expected.
Those who should have died in windrows—the common foot, the levy troops, the nameless thousands—Joffrey would "forgive" with healing crystals and miraculous recovery. But the lords and knights who counted themselves safest, who expected to ride through carnage untouched...
The King's forgiveness did not extend to them.
The vast multitude would live. Only a precious few would perish—so few that their corpses would never breed plague, so select that each would merit a coffin of fine wood and silver fittings.
The warlocks traveling with their host would see to such arrangements, Jaime was certain. They seemed to plan for everything with disturbing foresight.
He wondered idly who would mourn these honored dead when the time came. Who would seek vengeance for their passing? And more importantly—who would be blamed for their deaths?
Images flashed unbidden through the Kingslayer's mind: Joffrey's cold smile, his father's disapproving frown, Cersei's calculating gaze. Each face carried its own weight of expectation and threat.
His attention turned to the weathered features of Ser Brynden Tully within the glowing screen.
The Blackfish—brother to Lord Hoster Tully, Knight of the Bloody Gate, living legend of the Vale. Time had carved deep lines into that angular face, and gray now threaded through hair that had once been auburn. But the strength remained, the quiet authority that had made him a natural leader of men.
He should not have been here at all.
Lady Lysa had refused to commit her strongest commanders to this campaign, and the Tullys of Riverrun had kept young Edmure safely at home. The Blackfish was the only representative of a great house among all these assembled knights and lordlings.
Though other earls and bannermen had answered the call, none possessed the prestige and proven ability that Brynden Tully commanded. By default, he had become the unofficial voice of both Vale and Riverlands contingents.
Jaime found himself oddly relieved by this development.
He and the Blackfish had been friends once, in the days when the world seemed simpler and honor still meant something. Brynden Tully was a true knight in every sense—a warrior and general whose word could be trusted absolutely. If any man could be counted upon to do what was right when the moment of truth arrived, it was he.
If he was on their side.
But was he?
The Kingslayer studied that familiar face with new eyes, searching for some hint of the man's true loyalties. Those sharp features remained as unreadable as ever, carved from granite and set beneath iron-gray brows.
Yet memory painted different colors over that weathered visage—the face of a younger man, vital and laughing, regaling wide-eyed squires with tales of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
When Jaime had still been years away from earning his infamous name, when he wore no white cloak and bore no knight's spurs, Lord Tywin had brought him to Riverrun for an extended visit. They had dined with two generations of Tullys for a fortnight, cementing bonds that might one day be formalized in marriage.
His father had seated him beside Lysa during those long meals.
The girl had been comely then, possessed of a delicate beauty that had not yet been twisted by madness and loss. She might have made some man a fine wife, under different circumstances.
But young Jaime had eyes only for the Blackfish, hanging upon every word of the knight's war stories. Battle at the Stepstones, the siege of Tyrosh, desperate charges against the Band of Nine—each tale had burned itself into the boy's imagination like brands upon flesh.
Ser Brynden had been gracious enough to indulge his hero worship, spinning out tales of courage and glory until the candles burned low.
What an innocent he had been in those days.
The young squire had lived in a world of bright dreams and shining possibilities, where knights were always valorous and causes always just. He had left Riverrun believing he had found a friend and mentor in the legendary Blackfish.
Only later had he understood the true purpose of that visit—the marriage contract his father had hoped to arrange between House Lannister and House Tully. The knowledge had filled him with relief rather than disappointment.
Whether from love of Cersei or simple personal preference, Lysa Tully held no appeal for him. Not even the sweet child she had been then.
Young Jaime's heart had room for only two things: his twin sister and the shining ideal of knighthood.
So when the Mad King had offered him a place among the Kingsguard—when Cersei had whispered that it would keep them together in King's Landing—he had accepted without a moment's thought for his father's reaction.
Lord Tywin's rage had been a terrible thing to witness. The Hand of the King had resigned his position that very day and returned to Casterly Rock in fury.
But the Mad King's true nature had soon revealed itself.
Men said that when a Targaryen was born, the gods flipped a coin—greatness or madness, with no middle ground between them. King Aerys II had clearly received the latter fate in abundance.
The king's obsession with wildfire had grown with each passing day, as had his reliance upon whispers and spies. Any action within the Red Keep that displeased the royal whim could result in imprisonment, trial by combat, or death by fire. The black cells beneath the castle had filled with those foolish enough to speak unwisely.
Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard had watched in helpless silence as the Mad King tortured his own queen, duty-bound to protect but powerless to intervene.
The throne room had become nothing more than an elaborate execution chamber.
Countless souls had met their end beneath the Iron Throne's twisted points—burned alive, torn apart, or simply left to rot in chains.
He would never forget Lord Rickard Stark's screams as wildfire consumed him, or the sight of Brandon Stark strangling himself in his desperate attempts to save his father. The young wolf had died first, the noose tightening with each futile struggle.
When rebellion finally came, when Robert's hammer and Ned's sword brought justice at last, the Mad King had chosen to take all of King's Landing with him into death. Wildfire caches hidden throughout the city, enough to turn half a million souls to ash in moments.
Ser Jaime in his gold-bright armor had ended it with a single thrust through the royal back.
And for his pains, he had earned Ned Stark's contempt—that cold northern stare that judged and condemned without hearing explanation or defense.
The smallfolk had dubbed him Kingslayer, as though saving their lives had been some great crime.
Had he explained? Had he justified? Pride had sealed his lips as surely as duty once had. Let them think what they would—the truth was his to keep.
Robert Baratheon had used the name to his face more times than could be counted. Others whispered it behind gloved hands or let it slip in unguarded moments.
At least the Blackfish had never called him by that cursed title.
Jaime Lannister regarded Ser Brynden Tully through the magical screen and felt the weight of necessity pressing down upon him like a physical burden. What he must do went against every instinct, every principle he had once held dear.
Betrayal. Conspiracy. Deception.
Such methods seemed fitting for a Kingslayer, did they not?
The soft chime that sounded within the communication crystal drew every eye to its source. Littlefinger had received his signal at last.
Ding.
The restored Formenr Master of Coin looked upon Brynden Tully with eyes that had not forgotten their shared history. Here was another thread in the great tapestry, another player whose strings might yet be pulled to serve the King's designs.
The Blackfish wore mail and leather as he always had, his black fish brooch of obsidian catching the magical light. Save for the lines that time had etched around his eyes, he looked much as he had during those long-ago days at Riverrun.
But the world had changed beyond all recognition since then.
"Ser Brynden," Littlefinger said, his voice carrying across the miles through sorcery and crystal, "if you would be so good as to share your thoughts on our coming battle? Your wisdom would be most welcome."
The trap was set. Now to see which way the Blackfish would swim.
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