The wind along the Red Fork still carried dust and the smoke of battle, and Jaime Lannister had not had even a moment to catch his breath.
He still wore his tattered prison clothes. The coarse hemp scraped painfully against his skin, the marks left by chains around his wrists were still dark red, and the misery and exhaustion of months in captivity were written all over his face.
He neither accepted the clean clothes a servant offered nor spared a thought for rest. Snatching the reins from a nearby Westerlands cavalryman, he swung into the saddle, raised his whip, and galloped straight toward the vanguard of the westward-marching Westerlands Army.
Only one thought occupied his mind: find Tywin and ask what had happened to Cersei. Was she... still alive?
During his months locked in a dungeon, he had only been able to piece together fragments of the truth from the jailers' scattered conversations:
Aegon Targaryen had returned with dragons and an army, occupied Dragonstone, destroyed Stannis, and finally taken King's Landing.
Beyond that, he knew nothing of Cersei's whereabouts or safety. The uncertainty had worn him down until he was nearly at the breaking point.
The Westerlands army moved slowly west along the riverbank. Red-and-gold Lannister lion banners rose and fell through the dust, while the sharp clatter of armor mingled with the dull thud of hooves.
Tywin Lannister stood on a rise at the head of the army, the wind lifting a corner of his crimson cloak. Holding a riding whip, he surveyed the marching formations with a cold gaze. The authority radiating from him kept the guards and commanders beside him still and silent, afraid to disturb him in the slightest.
Jaime rode straight through the marching ranks, drawing stares from the soldiers along his path, but