❝ you’ve already found enough trouble today. ❞
from : @irnbrn / jaime
to : edmure
location : the first siege of riverrun, 298ac
The defeat had been a humiliation; the capture even more so. The Kingslayer had got the jump on him - his march had been so rapid, so unexpected, that even the best commander would have been caught unawares, but that did not help Edmure's bruised pride any, and his bruised and bloody face even less. Lord Vance and Lord Piper had been supposed to halt the Lannister forces at the Golden Tooth - or at least delay them; no one had any illusions about the Kingslayer's skill - but the Lannister victory had been so all encompassing that the Lord of Pinkmaiden had not even had time to loose a raven to warn of their approach, and the great force ammassed outside Riverrun's walls had been taken unawares, their scouts caught slacking. Edmure had only just had time to throw on a breastplate and gorget before he was in the thick of the fighting. He had slain half a dozen men before they brought him down, and in the heat of the battle he would have gladly been killed rather than captured, but now that his blood had cooled he could find some hope in his defeat. Riverrun was no easy castle to take by force, and the Kingslayer did not have the patience for a long siege.
The great walls of his home loomed above the Lannister camp. The remains of the Tully forces had scattered into the woods, the brooks and the marshes, knowing this land much better than their Westerlander counterparts, and Edmure had every confidence that much of his men had escaped and could be rallied. He shifted uncomfortably in his bindings. He had been treated honourably enough, as a noble prisoner, but aside from a quick glance over by the Maester to determine he was not going to die of his wounds, they had left him tied to a stake in the centre of a small tent. He could still hear Brynden Blackwood struggling and swearing somewhere nearby; if his childhood friend wasn't careful, they would just crack him over the head and save themselves the trouble.
The mud was already thick under his knees, churned up by both armies, but it felt cool through his breeches - it would be cold tonight, the first days of autumn taking hold, the rivers running high. Edmure's shoulders and wrists were cramping, and he was finding it difficult to draw in a full breath; he had taken a glancing blow to the chest from the butt of a spear in the final seconds of the rout, and thought he might've cracked a few ribs. With his wrists bound behind him, the angle was excruciating if he turned two far to his right. Catching his breath, he ceased his squirming and tilted his head to one side, listening. Lannister's war horns had ended their mournful cries; the army was in order, and the trenches and siege lines were being erected. He thought of his father, only half a mile away across Riverrun's flooded moats, tossing and turning in his bed, feverish, perhaps unaware of the crimson and gold banners floating just outside his window. At least he will not know his son and heir lost the war before it even began.
There were footsteps in the mud, distinguisable from the constant comings and goings of the soldiers by their measured tred. Edmure assumed they were heading towards Blackwood; his father had managed to lead a large company of men back inside the walls of Riverrun, for which Brynden would probably suffer. Edmure ignored the approach and focused on attempting to twist his way free of his bindings; the pain lanced through his chest, making him gasp; it felt like a cold sharp knife, but he gritted his teeth. The rope was damp, rubbing his wrists raw, but that made it flexible. These were his lands, his people; if he could escape the boundaries of the Lannister camp, he would be sheltered by any village he came across. And what would happen to that village then? a small voice echoed in the back of his mind. Slaughtered and burned once the Kingslayer discovered they had hid you, and that bnlood on your hands...Edmure ignored the knowledge like he ignored the pain. He almost had one wrist free when the voice spoke from the entrance to the tent:
"You've already found enough trouble today."
Edmure had, in fact, met the Kingslayer only once before; he had been eight, and Lannister a squire, a golden older boy, aspirational, so desperately shining that Edmure had wanted nothing more than to be just like him. That was many years ago, and the golden glow had long since tarnished. Lannister was as handsome as everyone said, and aflush with victory in the torchlight; Edmure went still. There was no point trying to hide what he was doing; he slumped back into the bonds, and his ribs ground together. They would need to be bound, but he was loathe to ask for any Lannister Maester's assistance.
"I think the trouble found me," he said, and realised how parched his throat was. He cleared it, trying to rid himself of the hoarseness. "You will not take the castle, Kingslayer. Better men than you have tried and failed." Not that there were many men worse.
