Chapter 48: Split-Hoof Valley
Sixty miles east of Lannisport, Jaime Lannister led four thousand cavalry through a narrow pass along the Gold Road. The locals called it Split-Hoof Valley, which sounded like the sort of name men gave a place after enough horses died there. Steep slopes rose on both sides, covered in brush, loose stone, and morning mist thick enough to make every shadow look like a man with a knife.
The men and horses were exhausted after a night of hard riding, but urgency kept them moving. Casterly Rock and Lannisport were both in danger. Jaime had gathered remnants from nearby garrisons and broken forces, scraping together more than four thousand cavalry from men who still had horses, loyalty, or no better idea than following a lion toward trouble.
“Faster,” Jaime called. “Once we are through the valley, the ground opens. Casterly Rock is not far.”
He did not like the terrain. No commander with half a brain would like it. Narrow road, steep slopes, poor visibility, tired horses. It had ambush written on it so clearly that even a singer might have noticed. His scouts had found nothing unusual, but scouts were men, and men missed things. Sometimes because they were careless. Sometimes because the enemy was better. Occasionally because the gods had a taste for comedy.
The front of the column was nearly out of the valley when the rear finally entered it fully.
Then the slopes screamed.
Stone shot and iron balls tore down from hidden engines and heavy slings. They struck the dense cavalry ranks with brutal force, smashing horses, cracking armor, and throwing men from saddles as if some giant hand had swept across the road. Horses shrieked. Men cursed, fell, and were trampled by the living before the dead had even settled.
“Ambush!”
“Ambush on both sides!”
“Do not stop,” Jaime shouted, raising his shield as a stone shattered against the ground near him. “Forward. Break out of the valley.”
He was right. Standing still meant becoming targets. Cavalry trapped in a narrow valley was just infantry sitting too high off the ground. The riders whipped their horses and drove toward the mouth of the pass.
The lead horses hit the tripwires.
The front line collapsed in screams, men and animals tumbling over one another and blocking the exit with flesh, hooves, and broken gear. Before the riders behind could force through, figures rose from the brush on both slopes. Archers, crossbowmen, and skirmishers with short spears stood where empty mist had been moments before. Arrows and bolts fell like rain, and javelins punched into shields, shoulders, horses, and exposed faces.
“Raise shields,” Jaime roared.
Some obeyed quickly enough to live. Many did not. Men fell from saddles, horses bolted into one another, and the whole column twisted into confusion. A rear officer shouted that the way back was blocked. Jaime turned and saw the other end of the valley filled with enemy infantry and banners.
They were sealed in.
“Dismount,” Jaime ordered. “Form around the horses and the dead. Shields outward.”
It was an ugly decision, which made it the correct one. The remaining Lannister cavalry dismounted and formed a circular defense around Jaime, using dead horses, living horses, bodies, shields, and anything else that might stop a missile. The formation came together under pressure, shrinking before it had even finished forming.
The attackers did not rush them at once. They did worse. They kept shooting. Arrows, bolts, stones, and short spears came from the slopes in measured waves. Wolves did not always leap at the throat first. Sometimes they waited until blood and exhaustion made the throat lower itself.
Jaime leaned against a dead horse, breathing hard. Sweat and blood ran down his forehead. He counted what remained. Fewer than a thousand men were still standing in any useful way, and almost all were wounded. The enemy seemed to cover the slopes and both ends of the valley. Ten thousand, perhaps more. Their equipment was mixed, but the tactics were clear and seasoned. These were not bandits.
“Battania,” Jaime muttered.
He remembered scraps from Riverrun and the road. A strange name. A young knight. The massacre at the Twins turning against the killers. Arthur Greyoak. That was the name now being passed around with too much fear and too little certainty.
“Surrender, Jaime Lannister.”
The voice came from above, carrying through the mist in the Common Tongue with an unfamiliar accent. Jaime looked up. The fog thinned just enough to reveal a figure beneath the strange Battanian banner on the slope. The man wore refined leather armor beneath a dark cloak, and even from a distance Jaime could feel the weight of his gaze. Cold. Patient. Irritatingly sure.
Arthur Greyoak.
So he was here. Then who had taken Lannisport? Had he split his army? Had he known Jaime’s route before Jaime himself had settled on it? Questions struck one after another, but none of them mattered enough to open a road out.
“A Lannister always pays his debts,” Jaime shouted back, raising his sword despite the blood running down his arm. “But he does not kneel for an enemy. If you want my life, come take it yourself.”
“As you wish,” Arthur said.
He lowered the Myrish far-eye he had been using and nodded to Kator.
The horns sounded.
From the slopes and both ends of the valley, Battanian warriors charged. They came under cover of arrows, shields raised, axes and swords ready. Clan Warriors, sworn men, and young nobles crashed into the shrinking Lannister circle from three directions at once. They did not fight prettily. They struck shields, hooked ankles, drove blades into gaps, and pressed with the steady brutality of men who had no interest in songs.
Jaime fought like the man songs had promised him to be. His sword flashed, and three attackers went down before the line even reached him properly. He moved despite exhaustion, despite blood loss, despite the weight of armor and defeat. Around him, his guards died one by one, buying seconds with lives that no one would sing about because bards preferred famous names.
“For Casterly Rock!” an old knight roared, leading the last few mounted nobles into a countercharge on foot.
They disappeared beneath shields and axes almost immediately.
A short spear struck Jaime’s flank, punching through mail and lodging between ribs. He gasped, cut the shaft with a backhanded swing, and nearly stumbled. An axe slammed into his shoulder armor, sparks flying from the blow. The force drove him to one knee. When he tried to rise, several weapons touched his neck.
The battle ended half an hour later.
Split-Hoof Valley was covered in bodies. Blood stained the stream, the grass, and the pale stones underfoot. More than four hundred Lannister cavalry had died in the fighting, and the rest were captured. Jaime Lannister, wounded and bound, was dragged before Arthur with his head still high. His golden hair was matted with blood, his face pale from loss of it, but the pride in his green eyes had not been broken. Bruised, yes. Cornered. Not broken.
“Jaime Lannister,” Arthur said. “We meet again. This time, you cannot run.”
Jaime spat bloody saliva near his boots and smiled. “Traps and ambushes. What skill. If you have courage, cut me loose and face me alone.”
Arthur shook his head. “War is not a tourney. When guest right was broken at the Twins and women and children were slaughtered under bread and salt, did anyone ask for skill? You lost. The loser does not set the terms.”
Jaime’s expression tightened.
Arthur turned to Kator. “Take him away. Guard him carefully. Do not let him die, and do not let him escape. He is still useful.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As Jaime was dragged away, he looked back once. Anger remained in his eyes, but there was something else there too. Confusion, perhaps. Curiosity. The wounded pride of a man discovering that the world contained kinds of danger no knightly training had prepared him to answer.
Arthur ignored it.
A scout arrived at speed, dismounted badly, and nearly fell before giving his report.
“My lord, good news from Lannisport. Lord Smith broke the city at dawn. Damon Lannister fled west with his remaining men. The port is under our control.”
Arthur released a slow breath. Lannisport was taken. Jaime was captured. More than half of the gold mines in the Westerlands were under his hand or pressure. The initiative was his.
That did not make the war over. Tywin Lannister was still returning. Tens of thousands of Reachmen under Randyll Tarly were moving west. Casterly Rock still stood. The North was being harried by Ironborn, the Riverlands were ruined, and allies had become a word that needed counting twice before use.
“Rest here for half a day,” Arthur ordered. “At noon, we march.”
Kator looked to him. “Target?”
Arthur turned southwest, toward the black shape of Lannister power carved into the coast.
“Casterly Rock.”
He had no road back now. The only way left was forward, through gold, stone, blood, and every lord foolish enough to think old walls could stop new hunger.
To read more, check the link in the profile!