Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red
Maekar
"Are you trying to will the river to dry up?" Prince Baelor inquired, all curiosity. The taunting note in his voice would not go well with his brother, he knew, but it would do lots of good to their battle commanders surrounding them, let alone the thousands of knights and men at-arms who stared at the said river in dismay, helpless and cursing the Seven for turning the weather against them.
Maekar did not look aside from the grey, rain-swollen hell, ironically named the Small River. The water lever was much higher than normal, they could say that even never having been there. The Small River ran cold and dry, carrying thorn trees and dead animals. Maekar's stallion whinnied and pawed, obviously liking the situation no better than his master. He patted him absent-mindedly. "Come on, Pride," he said. "It's all right."
The horse obviously didn't think so, though. In fact, neither did Maekar. The only ones who seemed to do were Daemon's sentries on the other bank. They were left to guard the ford and obviously thought the river would do the job for them. It might very well would.
"Well?" Baelor asked again. "Are you?"
He looked as if he actually expected an answer to his ridiculous question. Maekar sighed and decided to play along. "Is it working?" he said. Baelor would have much to answer for when it was all over. Right now, Maekar wasn't so sure it would end the way they wanted. The rain might put an end to their plan to divide their forces and then Daemon would win. Maekar's lips curled in disgust. The idiot! What exactly is he planning to do with the things he can't kill with his shiny sword? If there weren't so many things at the stake, I'd love to see him making a mull of it. But there were this many things at the stake. The idea of Daemon sitting the Iron Throne in Maekar's father's stead was ludicrous, yet it might very well turn into reality. The Seven had just made their latest cruel jape with them, barring their advance. He stared at the river for a moment longer and caught himself actually willing it to dry up. Angry with Baelor for planting this queer suggestion into his head in the first place, he turned to the others – his brother, Bloodraven, the aging Grey Lion of Lannister whose hair was still more golden than grey, the bold Lord Arryn and the Knight of Ninestars whose advice in all things to do with strategy Maekar would prefer to any of the great lords', Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard, composed as ever, and Ser Carral Mansel who had taken Fireball's place as master-at-arms and insisted that his place was there.
"How deep do you think it is?" Maekar asked and made Pride follow Baelor's just as recalcitrant horse to the edge of the river. Soon, all battle commanders were there, trying to guess the answer to this. No one could. They only knew it was deeper than it should be. But the ford they were hoping to find, it must still be there. Daemon's men were there to guard it, weren't they?
Maekar looked at the silent men at-arms, at the tightened faces of their commanders, at his brother's composed expression. They were all aware of the reality of the istuation, of course, and they were waiting for him to voice it.
He did. "Well," he said. He could not lift their spirits by joking with the danger as Baelor had and he didn't even try. Instead, he stated calmly, "It seems we must cross this river. There is only one way to find out how deep it is."
No one was surprised and no one was elated when he went on, "I find it fair to be the first one to test it. Are you coming, my lords?"
Everyone nodded grimly. "Good," Maekar said and dismounted. While the others stared, he untied his saddle bag and took out a small bag from the inside. This, he handed to Baelor who only stared in surprise. "My maps and some books on strategy," Maekar explained. "I'd rather not have them get wet. I'll take them back later," he added and his brother laughed all of a sudden.
"There is still hope for you, Maekar Targaryen," he said. "I'll keep them dry for you."
"You'd better," Maekar warned. "Good luck to you."
Baelor nodded, suddenly serious. "And you, too. See you soon!"
Ser Carral looked nervous, obviously not relishing the idea of the others plunging into the Seven knew how deep waters while he stayed behind. Still, it had been decided that he'd join Baelor in his ride to Dorne. It had to be done in secret, so the men who'd accompany the Crown Prince were the best swordsmen, the ones the King trusted above all others. So when Ser Carral approached him, Maekar only shook his head before hearing a word. "No, Ser, you cannot accompany me," he said and added in lower voice, "Take care of Baelor and don't let him place himself in greater danger than need be."
The old man nodded miserably, the perspective of traveling around the roiling kingdom and possibly dying defending Baelor obviously scaring him less than leaving Maekar cross the flooded river on his own. He had served as the master-at-arms second long enough to actually form attachment to his young charges.
Maekar got on Pride again and drawing his sword, spurred the stallion forward into the water, cursing at the first splash of icy water on his legs. Lord Arryn was the first one to follow. Bloodravenon charged into the river next and then no men dared balk. Shivering, cursing, coaxing the nervous horses, and complaining of the cold, fighting to not let the water sweep them away, they still advanced. With their hearts in their mouths, Baelor and his small party watched as the first men reached a brighter place into the middle of churning waters and shouted in elation. Fortunately, the ford was still there, as flooded as it was, and by the time the last ones reached the opposite shore, the others had already dealt with the vastly outnumbered guards.
Baelor exhaled with relief and turned to the twelve men of his party. "Come on," he said. "We're leaving."
A/N. The summary was adapted from a line in another fic of mine, Foreign Queen. Those of you who are interested in Myriah Martell might like a look.