It had been hours since the death of Olenna, but if anything, Jaime Lannister’s fury had surged.
After the battle, plans earlier prepared had now been set into motion. Randyll Tarly was one of Olenna’s trusted men, a vital cog in managing her accounts, and were it not for him, it would have taken them days to load the gold on their carts instead of hours. Some of the wagons would be sent to King’s Landing but most to Casterly Rock, one of the safest places in war-torn Westeros. The men were ready to leave by nightfall, but Jaime ordered them to travel at daybreak, when chances of loot and plunder were slimmer.
The other lords of the Reach quickly pledged fealty to Houses Tarly and Lannister at break of dawn, but it was the people that would need better convincing. Tarly went to entertain them, and Jaime prepared his departure. As per the plan, he was to take his army and march to Dorne, thereby giving Cersei a vice-grip from the Twins to the Arbor. It was a thought meant to please, but did nothing but scare and anger. Yet Jaime had known the costs of choosing conscience over duty. It mustn’t do to please the bards praying for me to turn Queen as well as Kingslayer.
As Jaime was mere minutes away from sounding the command to march, Euron Greyjoy rode in his direction, carrying in his hand a parchment. How is it, that a man who has not been at sea for half a moon yet reeks of salt and seafood? “A raven from King’s Landing, Lord Commander,” he said, voice quick, quiet, deep and sober. Jaime fought the sudden urge to laugh in his face – the contrast between Euron in battle and outside of it was as comical as it was eerie. What stopped him from doing so was the sudden, involuntary fear that Euron may, in a fit of rage, attempt to snap his neck.
When Jaime read the letter, his inward smiles faded, and the rage lurking underneath resurfaced. To Euron, he reaffirmed the prime contents of the letter – that Cersei wished for them to siege Winterfell instead of Dorne. But that was not the source of Jaime’s rage.
This raven is addressed not to me, but to him.
Jaime knew Cersei well enough to assume that addressing the raven to Euron was no oversight. He had earlier presumed Cersei’s plans of marriage with the salt-smelling cunt to be a ruse to win an ally, but it now seemed like an ugly ploy to lord her power over him, a threat of refusal. Even if their plans of marriage were genuine, Jaime felt the antipathy set in. Both of them are similar anyway, quiet on the outside, perverse monsters within.
The rage was now pounding through his veins, making his head ache. Jaime had tolerated Cersei’s accusations toward Tyrion, her disastrous reign as Queen Regent, even the collapse of Baelor for the façade of duty. Yet one night of refusing to spill his seed in her and Cersei had sent him away to war. I’d rather cut off my cock than stick it inside her again. Jaime had half a mind to order his troops to visit every brothel in Highgarden and rest at Casterly Rock, but instead stuck slave to duty. “We march to Winterfell,” he told his troops.
Exiting Highgarden was a nasty, slow process, not less when Jaime wanted succor and quiet to think about Tyrion and Cersei. Many screams were toward Jaime, commoners unwilling to believe Randyll Tarly’s part in the battle, choosing to believe he was a begrudging pawn in the Kingslayer’s unholy schemes. Whoever said history was written by the winners?
Jaime tried to march away without incident, trying to be understanding of the fact that they had lost their Lady. But when a young lad tore through the crowd and began hitting his horse, in that moment, he was Olenna, he was Euron and he was Cersei. Jaime Lannister swung his gold hand across the brute’s face, feeling delight at the sound of his teeth falling to the ground like pebbles.
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