280 AL

A high pitched scream tore through the clearing, ringing along the Kingsroad. The distinctive female quality of it was alarming. Arthur momentarily gazed away from his opponent to look at the wheelhouse. He could not make out anything amiss, yet he knew that is had been the Dornish Princess that had screamed.

Dawn sliced through his enemy's arm, cutting through flesh and bone. The man's howl of pain was assurance enough that he would not be getting up. The Bull was yet occupied with his own opponent, so Arthur cut through another member of the Kingswood brotherhood and rushed to where the women were. He was, thankfully, not accosted a third time.

Peering inside he was treated to a view of one of Elia Martell's companions holding the Princess in her arms. Blood trickled the front of her gown. "What happened?" he questioned, trying to find the source of the wound.

"An arrow," came the shaky reply. "Her Grace was hit by an arrow." Arthur supposed it was the awkward way in which Elia was being held that hid the wound. "She broke it."

The Kingsguard gave a shallow nod. He could say nothing. The Princess was wounded and that was on them, on all of them who had had the duty to protect her. They'd failed. May the gods forgive them for the King was not likely to, nor was Rhaegar.

Pushing away all thoughts of his friend, Arthur turned his back o the scene of their failure and returned his attention to the raiders. Dawn glimmered in the pale sunlight and he charged another man. They were retreating though.

"The Lord Commander is down," Whent called out. And indeed, when Arthur looked he saw Commander Hightower kneeling in the tall grass, clutching his middle. Although armoured, it seemed that he'd been caught.

They were close to a small keep, he knew. If he could manage to get everyone there, then mayhap a maester could check the Princess' wound and the Lord Commander's. It was the best he could do. Oswell seemed to be thinking similar thoughts, for he was already striding to the wheelhouse to check the harness of the horses. Arthur reached Gerold Hightower and helped the man to his feel. He could not tell by looking at the wound how deep it was, but he guessed it would not be fatal if treated soon.

"Her Grace?" the Lord Commander demanded, his voice abrasive, thick with pain.

"Wounded," the younger answered. "I do not know how grave it is. An arrow."

The leader of the Kingsguard swore. And little wonder he did. Arrow wounds were a true danger. Even cleaned and bandaged they could cause a lot of trouble.

"Nearest keep?" Arthur was slightly startled. The Lord Commander did not repeat the question though.

"Not far. Mayhap you should ride in the wheelhouse." Riding a horse would likely put him in an early grave. The older knight nodded his head. Arthur helped him to the wheelhouse, keeping an arm around the other's waist to balance him. Despite the Bull being half a head taller and nearly twice as wide as him, Arthur managed to get the Lord Commander in the wheelhouse where the second d of Elia's companions began stripping him of armour.

The Princess gave a pained moan and then a louder cry when the female holding her pressed lightly against her.

"Where is the wound?" Mayhap her shoulder. But then Arthur realised that, nay, the wound was not there. The companions nodded towards the Princess' back and indeed Arthur could make out with much attention that there was a bit of wood protruding through the folds of Elia's dress.

Horror gripped him. The arrow had hit her spine. Yet she could still be saved. He'd known of men who had lived through such wounds. After all, she was young and her health had been considerably better.

A nod was all the answer he could produce. Stumbling backwards, Arthur closed the door to the wheelhouse. He looked towards Oswell. His sworn brother looked about as worried as Arthur was feeling.

"'Tis not good, my friend," Whent dared.

It was either that a cyst would form and she would be bedridden for the rest of her life or she would die. No one could tell either way. Even the best of maesters. One had to look for fever though. Mayhap infection. The more they delayed the bigger the risk of losing the Princess grew.

"We must away."

The keep was as close as Arthur remembered it being, and praised be the Seven, the lord welcomed them into his home. He offered to have some men searching along the Kingsroad for the bandits, in case any of them might still be lingering in those parts. Oswell elected to go with those men. All Arthur could do was accept.

In the meantime, he was to stand guard outside the Princess' chambers as the maester of the keep looked her over, and hopefully saved her.

But the ancient maester, once having conducted his consultation of the injured woman, shook his head; his stooped frame trembled like a leaf in a storm. "There is nothing I can do for Her Grace. Marrow has startled leaking into her blood. She may survive if she can weather through it, or she may not."

The lord of the house had already sent a raven by the time any of them could think to ask. Arthur could only hope it would be Rhaegar that came and not the King's men to relieve them all of their heads.

"I understand, maester," Arthur replied. "And the Lord Commander? What of him?"

"He fares better. The wound he sustained needed stitching, but baring an infection he should be right as rain within three moon's turns. It should be best that he get much rest."

At least Gerold Hightower would not die. Once more Arthur nodded. He thanked the maester and returned to his post by the door.

After a few moments the wooden structure creaked on its hinges and one of Elia's women poked her head out. "Has the message been sent?"

"Aye, my lady," the knight answered. She nodded in returns, her eyes never leaving him. Discomfiture snaked through him. Arthur cleared his throat softly. "How fares Her Grace?" He strained to make out anything, but it was quiet. Too quiet.

"Sleep has stolen her away. I suppose 'tis for the best. She would not stop weeping even after the maester fed her a quarter of a cup of milk of the poppy, poor thing." The woman pulled back after and shut the door softly.

Arthur was left alone with his thoughts. But it was not to last, for peace, even frail and tattered, is forever hounded by troubles.

Heavy, his failure cloaked him. The reminder of those failed duties slept though, and the knight would have to endure as best he could.