The Mander was the biggest river in Westeros.
Without boats, the horses could never cross it.
So they went around.
Fifteen thousand Vale cavalry and infantry pushed south through the eastern Reach like they owned the place. With that many men, there was no point trying to hide.
The sun hammered down until the armor felt like a blacksmith's forge, but they stayed fully armed anyway. Deep in enemy territory, safety came first.
Jaime's hand drifted up to his helmet without thinking.
No gold plating. No snarling lion's head.
Just a twisted scar running across his left cheek like a centipede. The puckered flesh itched like fire whenever he sweated.
"If I ever wear that lion helmet again, I'm the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms."
The damn thing had already screwed him twice.
First at the tourney, when the Hound knocked him off his horse and the helmet jammed. He'd thrashed around on the ground like an upside-down turtle while the whole crowd laughed.
The second time was only weeks ago.
He'd charged too deep again, trying to prove something. A morningstar caught him in the back of the head. The padding and mail coif saved his skull, but the helmet twisted sideways and cut off half his vision.
He ripped it off.
Then his sword flew out of his right hand.
Jaime still remembered the man who did it. No sigil. No surcoat. Armor patched together from scraps. Just some hedge knight or low-rent sellsword who'd swing for coin and die with nobody to claim the body.
Back in the day it would've taken three moves. A quick twist, a flick of the wrist, and the man's weapon would've gone spinning. Then he'd be on his knees begging—"Ser," "I yield," "Spare me."
Not anymore.
Jaime couldn't even last three moves.
He aimed for the throat. The point missed and sliced past the ear instead.
The man came at him. Jaime dodged the first cut, the second, the third.
The fourth one caught him across the face.
The blade bit in at the cheekbone and tore straight down to the jaw. For one sick second he swore he heard the flesh rip open.
Jaime's lips moved. The word slipped out in a whisper.
"Surrender—"
Too quiet. Even he barely heard it.
The man grinned and stepped forward to take his prisoner.
Then Royce came thundering up from behind and split the bastard's skull with a spear.
Blood sprayed across Jaime's face.
He licked his lips.
Salty. Metallic. The taste of fear.
Not the sweet, victorious tang he used to know. This was something colder, deeper, seeping straight from the marrow—the kind of terror that made a man want to drop his sword and run.
His right hand would never work right again.
He could never go back to what he was.
Ever since that day, everyone looked at him differently.
The Vale knights. The soldiers. The squires who fed the horses. Even his cousin Lancel.
This is the Kingslayer? The future greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms? Ha!
Just a cripple who can't even swing a sword with his right hand.
And that scar on his face—tch. No more pretty boy.
Nobody said it out loud. They didn't dare.
But Jaime could see it. Feel it.
Their eyes on him felt like needles under the skin.
He pushed his helmet back and touched the scar again.
He could feel the raised ridge of tissue and the cooler skin around it.
If he'd gone to Casterly Rock he could've had the best maester in the realm. The best care.
But that would've meant leaving the army behind.
He'd already lost his hand. He'd already lost his looks.
He wasn't about to lose his dignity too.
So he let the army maester handle it the rough way.
No milk of the poppy. Just boiled wine poured straight into the wound to stop the bleeding, then a few clumsy stitches.
The scar looked like shit.
He didn't want anyone to know.
But every old friend who saw him asked the same question.
"Ser Jaime, what happened to your face?" Barristan Selmy asked, voice full of concern.
Jaime's left cheek twitched.
"Just a kiss from a girl," he said with a crooked grin, keeping his tone light.
The old knight nodded, stroked his neat white beard, and rode off.
That had been two weeks ago.
They'd just taken the supplies shipped up from King's Landing and were force-marching south toward Highgarden.
King feasts, the Hand cleans up the shit.
The grunts like them just swallowed their complaints and kept moving.
Big detour. Deep penetration. Mobile warfare.
Joffrey's orders always came wrapped in fancy words that sounded clever but boiled down to something simple and impossible to argue with.
Abandon the baggage. March east from Bitterbridge. Barristan's forces will link up with you.
All you have to do is cross the Blueburn and the other river, push through Greenvale, Longtable, and Whitebark—three castles—and join up with the northern army.
Then swing around and grab Nightsong and Horn Hill while you're at it, and Highgarden will be completely cut off.
Easy as pie.
Jaime chewed on the salted beef they'd soaked in water. His teeth felt ready to crack.
The meat was hard as stone. He had to let it sit in his mouth, soaking in spit, before he could gnaw it down bit by bit.
The knights around him were doing the same thing, cheeks bulging, faces twisted like they were being tortured.
"I'd rather chew my own boot," one young knight muttered.
Jaime agreed, but this was all Barristan had sent.
Ale would've helped, but the maester said wine was bad for the wound. And they had none left anyway—the little they'd looted along the way had already been split up.
The Reach folk here were shy as hell.
The moment they saw the army coming they vanished. Wouldn't share bread and salt with anyone.
The scouts they sent out never brought back good news. Seven went. Four came back.
Then Jaime realized they had a real problem.
They were lost.
"Which river is this supposed to be?"
Bronze Yohn Royce sat on his horse, holding the crumpled map up to the sun and muttering to himself.
Jaime had no answer.
People from the Westerlands and the Vale were used to mountains and narrow trails.
Now they were in the middle of an endless plain—golden wheat fields and rolling hills stretching forever. Every road looked the same. Every village. Every river.
Time to grab a guide.
They finally dragged an old farmer out of a village—the one who wouldn't leave his wheat field.
"Which way to Highgarden?"
The old man looked up. His cloudy eyes swept across Jaime's face.
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Left."