As the remaining Dothraki process what had just happened, more arrows hiss through the air and find new homes in the chests and heads of the riders. Horses scream, men shout, and total pandemonium erupts. Darmon takes the opportunity to hurl his knife into the heart of the nearest horseman, and then slices open the mount of another with his sword.

Jaime cranes his neck around as far as he can from his sedentary position in the cart, searching the trees on both sides of the road for the source of the arrows. As his eyes took in the forest, he sees shadows moving between the trees. Soldiers. The shadows grow larger, getting closer, until they burst into the light of the sun. Men rush from the forest onto the road, begin to brutally hack the disorganized Dothraki to pieces. Jaime watches one gaunt soldier gore a Dothraki horse with a spear, pull the screaming rider from his mount as it dies, and repeatedly thrust a thin dagger into the man's throat.

The new combatants are pale, and some appear ill-fed, as though they have not eaten a hearty meal in quite some time. They are wearing Lannister uniforms, though the armor of a few of them is coated in a layer of ash and dust.

Deserters from King's Landing, perhaps?

Jaime does not recognize any of the men, but seeing as there's a battle on he supposes that is not overly surprising.

It isn't long before the Dothraki have been slaughtered almost to a man; they are fierce warriors but when surrounded and outnumbered in a space where they cannot use their great speed, their lack of armor is a crippling disadvantage. The last remaining rider takes a look around at his fallen compatriots and wheels his horse around to flee.

The apparent leader of these soldiers, a vaguely familiar-looking knight with shoulder-length copper hair and deep shadows beneath his eyes, sees the escaping Dothraki and shouts, "Boras, bring him down!"

A man in similar Lannister livery to the other steps out of the forest, an unusually large longbow firmly grasped in his hand and a quiver of arrows hanging by his side. He looses an arrow at the now distant rider and confidently walks away. Jaime watches in awe as, in the distance, the fleeing rider topples from his mount with an arrow in his back.

That man, Jaime decides, may be the best archer I have ever seen. I've met perhaps three men that could make a shot like that, in all seven Kingdoms.

Looking about, the battle appears to have been more of a massacre than a real fight; none of the red-cloaked men lie dead upon the ground like the Dothraki do, although one appears to have sustained a cut on the arm. Jaime pulls himself into a more upright position as the copper-haired knight walks over to the cart, with Darmon following close behind. He still keeps his hand on Widow's Wail's hilt, though; the intentions of these men might be counter to those of the Dothraki but they still might attempt to hold him for ransom or some other such trickery.

"Lord Jaime." The knight speaks first, with a tone of bewilderment coloring his voice. "I had thought you to be dead, old friend."

Jaime is shocked beyond words for a moment; he and Addam Marbrand had grown up together, but he had thought the man to have perished with the rest of the Lannister army. "Well, Ser Addam, I had some unfinished business here in the world of the living and the Seven Hells are rather crowded these days, so here I am." After a brief pause, the two old friends embrace (albeit rather awkwardly, seeing as Jaime cannot stand). "How did you survive King's Landing, my friend?"

Ser Addam looks at him, confusion apparent on his drawn and weary face. "I wasn't there. The Queen appointed me to lead the Lannister garrison in the Riverlands once you left to head North, and we've been harassing the Targaryen forces ever since. What happened to your legs?"

Jaime sighs, shaking his head. "I was … foolish." Regret pools in his voice like poison, eating away at his soul. "The Red Keep fell on me. I'm lucky to be alive, and in time I should walk again." A heavy pause hangs in the air for a moment before Jaime finds the resolve to continue. "I'm now headed to Winterfell to collect the woman I love and my child." He stares, almost defiantly, at Ser Addam, who to his credit shows no surprise if he feels any. One of his favorite things about Addam Marbrand has always been that the man knows when not to ask questions.

"Very well, my Lord." This is simple courtesy as Jaime is, in name at least, the rightful Lord of the Rock and heir to House Lannister. Addam's next words, however, are admittedly surprising. "Come to our camp, my Lord, and we shall escort you there. Capable as this fellow," Addam gestures at Darmon, "may be, these are dangerous times, and the Lord of the Rock should travel with his army."

Jaime is touched by the loyalty of his old friend and his army, but he cannot help but feel that it is unwarranted; it has been a while since he's done anything to deserve such respect. At present he wears no armor, but the guilt that cloaks him is heavier than even his father's grand set of plate mail ever was. "I'm a man with two broken legs and one hand, Addam, I'm in no fit shape to - "

His friend interjects, an almost desperate tone colouring his voice. "You're our rightful Lord, Jaime. These men," he points at the red cloaks around them, dragging the dead Dothraki off of the road, "and their compatriots back at the camp have nothing else to fight for. You're the last lion this world has left in it."

Jaime decides not to mention Tyrion; it is likely that his little brother is a sore subject with the Lannister loyalists at the moment. Addam is still talking. "You're all they have left, all your House has left. They need you just as much as you need them."

A pregnant silence comes after the Lannister bannerman's impassioned speech. For a moment Jaime almost feels his father's eyes on him, though he knows they shut long ago. Tywin Lannister was not often proud of his children, Jaime knows, but Jaime also knows he never lost the desire to change that fact.

"I'll do it." He grins, a genuine one, somehow. His friend smiles too, and orders his men to get the cart going in the right direction. It seems, Jaime reflects, that when he arrives at Winterfell it will be with an army at his back. Strange times indeed.

Alright, alright. It was late and probably rather bad, I know. But it's here, which is good at least. I lost motivation to keep writing for a while and I hope it doesn't show. Please, review with any feedback you might have, and I'll have the next installment out ... at some point :p.