Chapter 288

"Where is Young Griff?" Jaime asked immediately.

"We're still looking for him, Your Highness," Florent's armor was smeared with soot, his voice hoarse and weary, but taking Wind's Rest Fortress thrilled him, his tone light, "But I must remind you, Your Highness, Wind's Rest Fortress is coastal; we haven't blockaded its shores, so you'd best not assume the boy fears water and won't board a ship."

He at least wasn't foolish enough to fight to the death.

"Damn it, if that's the case, let him fall into the sea and drown!" After all, more great men than him have died in Brokenback Bay; one more won't matter.

After the soldiers sent Wind's Rest Fortress's last cornered mercenary to hell, he then donned his cloak, mounted the finest warhorse his attendant had prepared, and entered the castle famed as the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms.

It truly deserved to be called the strongest. The outer wall of the castle stood nearly a hundred feet high—thick, sturdy, gray-black, and savage in appearance—immediately reminding him of the drunkard Robert, evoking disgust.

As he passed through the gatehouse corridor, the surrounding darkness and the long passage made him feel as if the gods were watching him, mocking his insignificance and ignorance, rebuking an outsider's unwarranted intrusion.

Upon entering the city, the massive keep came into view, its high battlements standing dead center, making it look like an ugly whip, stiff and proud, braving the sea's raging winds and waves. If the histories are correct, it has stood thus for thousands of years under the gaze of the sea god and the wind goddess, letting those deities hear the builders' descendants' roars and songs.

A barbarian's castle, he thought more than once, and also a castle of the wrathful.

Throughout the castle's long history, it had never been taken—well, many castles in Westerosi history boast that fame, but at least Wind's Rest Fortress must now relinquish that title—within a short time it fell twice.

He looked back at the section where the wall met the land—a short stretch of wall, dozens of battlements and murder holes, densely set along the high wall, behind which lay piles of defensive supplies, whether stone or timber.

This is still the inner city; the outer city would be even more horrifying.

Even after stepping onto the castle grounds, he remained terrified.

If that impostor hadn't rashly led his mercenaries to attack him, and if he hadn't suffered several defeats, he would at least have enough men to defend a castle that hardly needs defending.

Yet the boy hadn't studied history—not Robert's father's tales, but those of the last Storm King, Argilac Durrandon. He was grateful his father had, when he was young, pressed him against the table to hear the history he deemed necessary for his descendants to know, even if it was myth.

Had the so‑called "proud" Argilac not chosen to march his army out to fight the Reach on land, he could have relied on this massive stone fortress to withstand dragonfire—there were hardly any wooden buildings within its walls, so fire posed no threat—moreover, legends said the castle was etched with magic, making it immune to dragon flame, which is also why the last Storm Queen continued to rely on it to resist the Baratheons and the Conqueror.

Obviously, the boy repeated Argilac's mistake, which was fortunate for Jaime.

"Your Highness, the living prisoners say their garrison never exceeded three hundred men," Ser Florent said, his smile fading, "yet we have sacrificed at least two thousand lives for fewer than three hundred."

"For them?" Jaime snapped, turning, "We're certainly not fighting for a few hundred mercenaries…… we're fighting for Wind's Rest Fortress, for the entire Stormlands of the kingdom," Jaime raised his voice, "if the Tyrells knew two thousand men could buy this place, they'd die of shame, and tens of thousands of Tyrell troops would die of shame as well."

He had every right to feel proud of this accomplishment.

After Robert's death, this castle had never been under the Iron Throne's control; it was he who brought the whole Stormlands back into the realm. If a Baratheon king or queen sat on the Iron Throne, this castle ought not to be lost.

"If the Tyrell lord knew there were still many Florents and Bouchers among these mercenaries, he'd be the one who should be ashamed," he brushed dust from his cloak and pried off a clot of congealed blood stuck to his outer armor, "Your Highness, what should we do with the few mercenary prisoners—hang them, behead them, or toss them into the sea to feed the fish?"

The Golden Company was originally founded by exiled Westerosi—damn it, if there were any Lannisters or Tyrions among the mercenaries, I wouldn't be surprised!

"Find out these mercenaries' true purpose and any follow‑up plans." Not capturing Young Griff is a regret, but who made him lack a navy? "Are there any maesters in the castle—and any ravens? If so, send two to the Iron Throne. Humph, just ask the Tyrells directly how much longer they intend to keep us in the dark!"

Besides greed, nothing could keep the Tyrells planted on the current Iron Throne.

If he were the Tyrell duke, he would now take the southern army and noble sons straight from King's Landing back to the Reach and never bother with this mess again. However, Mace Tyrell is not Jaime Lannister; perhaps he could sprinkle enough rosewater over the stench Jaime cannot tolerate.

Damn it, he now actually hopes the Tyrell duke stays in King's Landing—without Tyrell support, the Iron Throne isn't the Iron Throne… frankly, he utterly fails to grasp which string Cersei the Queen Mother plucked wrong when she aimed her sights at the Tyrells; did she think the other kingdoms of the Seven Kingdoms were all stable?

"Your Highness, sending ravens is easy, but truly to question the Prime Minister about why he's kept us in the dark?"

Only a madman would "question".

"If he hadn't deliberately concealed things, I should have received his letter; he at least ought to have consulted me on the subsequent plan to escort Princess Myrcella back to King's Landing to assume the queenship. Does he think we can keep the queen abroad and still shamelessly rule the Seven Kingdoms in her name?"

Even if shameless, it's fine as long as the Tyrell family continues to support the Iron Throne.

He couldn't be sure, and that uncertainty is also why he resolved to take Wind's Rest Fortress—who knows, the Tyrells might try to slip their daughter into Stannis's bed again.

"Your Highness, whether he acknowledges the queen or not, he still has a daughter to marry, and you presently lack a wife," Tytos interjected at that moment, "You might as well send back the news of taking Wind's Rest Fortress and, incidentally, express your admiration for the queen that exceeds the ordinary… just a little… I think our Prime Minister should grasp your meaning."

He was unsure about that clever suggestion; when he wanted to continue discussing it with the officers, steward William Pryor entered from outside the hall.

"Your Highness, Ser Ronnet Hightower has arrived."

The newly appointed King's Guard, accompanied by a detachment of Tyrell soldiers, slowly entered from outside the hall into the chamber where generations of Storm Kings received envoys and distinguished guests; Jaime leaned against the Storm King's throne, watching Ronnet Hightower.

Only the Hightower family could have such numbers, always devoting ample energy and manpower to the church, the Citadel, and positions of importance beside the Iron Throne; frankly, throughout history no family has ever supplied more King's Guard than the Hightowers.

"Congratulations, Ser Jaime, for taking this castle for the Iron Throne—this fortress truly inspires awe," he began.

"You're not guarding the king in King's Landing; what are you doing here?" Jaime hooked one hand on the chair and pulled himself forward, "Could it just be to congratulate me?"

"Of course not." He drew a scroll of parchment from beneath his white cloak, holding it aloft in his right hand, "By the Regent Queen's orders, I am commanded to deliver the Iron Throne's directive."

The words "order" and "Regent Queen" were unfamiliar to him.

"Where does this Regent Queen come from?" Tytos challenged, "What's wrong with your head? Standing before you is the Iron Throne's Regent."

"Ser Jaime, you sitting up there certainly look like a king," he smiled, watching the steward take the scroll and laughed, "I never imagined Wind's Rest Fortress's hall would be so vast. Frankly, upon entering the hall, I even thought the person seated before me was some former Storm King."

"You haven't answered Ser Tytos's question," Jaime replied blandly.

"His lineage is noble, yet before Lord Lefford died he held no lordship, nor was he my king or queen, so I need not answer his question." His hand went to the King's Guard's greatsword, eyeing him coldly, "If you wish to know, Ser, open the letter and all will be clear."

Jaime took the scroll, clumsily prying open the king's wax seal with a hook, and with his left hand slowly unfurled the parchment, unaware what surprise the Tyrells might have in store for him.

"Ha ha ha…" he laughed, not because of the old news of the king's death, "The king was accidentally assassinated by enemies; Mace Tyrell thinks this is the joint fault of the Regent and the Prime Minister?"

"If it weren't for your unlawful killing of the Fat Man, the Warrior's Son, and the common folk's gathering, this wouldn't have happened; therefore the Small Council holds you chiefly responsible for the king's death and has decided to strip you of the title 'Regent,' a duty the queen will temporarily assume."

"So this cap, the Tyrells must wear it too?"

The hall fell silent; the white knight swallowed.

"You worry too much. The Small Council also deems that Prime Minister—Lord Mace Tyrell—failed in his duty to protect the king after you left King's Landing, and thus it likewise decided to strip him of the premiership…"

"You think I'm interested in the Tyrells' game?"

"Ser, I have not the slightest interest in whether you are interested in me."

"Who the hell is currently acting in his stead—his wife, his son, or some lover of his?" Jaime nearly laughed from anger.

"You just heard the news of the king's death and are deeply shocked—I can understand that," his expression unreadable, perhaps a sarcastic smile, "but the Small Council must consider the realm; those senior officials responsible for the king's demise must bear the cost."

Bear the cost. The cost he has borne is already more than enough, deep and painful.

"What else does your Small Council plan to do?" Jaime scoffed, "They've appointed and dismissed the Regent and Prime Minister; I need to know whose backside they intend to plant on the Iron Throne—or do they simply not care what I think?"

"Certainly not, Ser. King Robert still had a daughter; by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms she ought to become queen on the Iron Throne." He paused, "The Tyrell duke is preparing to levy an army, clear the Prince's Pass, march straight to Dragonstone, and bring Princess Myrcella back from Dorne."

"He seems to have forgotten that road isn't easy to travel."

"The Small Council has already reserved a seat for either the Florent lord or the Uller lord—perhaps even the premiership—using the Tyrell lord's words, it depends on who is more obedient," the King's Guard straightened his back, "In short, the Small Council believes that as long as we give them sufficient benefits, we can not only regain Princess Myrcella but also unite Dorne."

"Unite Dorne? It's more like splitting Dorne, isn't it?" Even now, Duke Tyrell still entertains greedy designs; he continues to look at the letter in his hand, "The duke even wants me to return and serve as commander of the southern army? That's really a good idea."

"If I'm not mistaken, the Small Council will still summon your uncle Kevon to return to King's Landing, to serve as Hand before the Dornish reach King's Landing."

He really wanted to agree outright, then take the opportunity to stay completely away from King's Landing.

"Your Lordship..." Maester Wendell, at this moment, trudged into the hall with heavy steps, his face stricken with fear; Jaime could almost hear his ragged breathing.

"I'm not your lordship," Jaime sneered, "the Iron Throne has stripped me of the title 'Prince Regent'."

"I... I was checking the ravens at Storm's End... and I saw a letter that beggars belief..."

"If the letter's contents concern the Iron Throne, you might as well just tell us," he said, raising his hook-handed right hand and gesturing to the others, "opening letters is quite difficult for me these days!"

The maester bent over, looking at the white-cloaked knight and Jaime, "Your Lordship, the letter says... the letter is addressed to Storm's End, from Dorne's Arianne Martell—she has proclaimed herself queen—because the Golden Company's sellswords killed Princess Myrcella, whom Dorne had sworn to protect, she has declared... that she will never swear fealty to him—Young Griff."

The officers downstairs snatched the letter from the maester's hand, and then began to whisper among themselves.

The mocking smile on the white-cloaked knight's face finally faded, and Jaime also felt the world spin, slumping back into the Storm's Throne.

I don't know if he still looks like a king now.