Greatjon Umber fired the siege towers we were building, and Lord Blackwood found Sir Edmure Tully in chains among the other captives, and made off with them all. Our south camp was under the command of Sir Forley Prester. He retreated in good order when he saw that the other camps were lost, with two thousand spears and as many bowmen, but the Tyroshi sellsword who led his freeriders struck his banners and went over to the foe.
Curse the man. His uncle Kevan sounded more angry than surprised. "I warned Jaime not to trust that one. A man who fights for coin is loyal only to his purse."
Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin. Only his eyes moved as he listened. His bristling golden side-whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father's shaven head.
How could it happen? Sir Harys Swyft wailed again. "Sir Jaime taken, the siege broken... this is a catastrophe!"
Sir Addam Marbrand said, "I am sure we are all grateful to you for pointing out the obvious, Sir Harys. The question is, what shall we do about it?"
What can we do? Jaime's host is all slaughtered or taken or put to flight, and the Starks and the Tullys sit squarely across our line of supply. We are cut off from the west!