Thank you Ramzes for the constant support!

AELIX

"Things are going well," sang Toland in his rich Dornish accent, grinning out over the parapet at the carnage beyond the walls. "A good day's work, yesterday, considering."

A good day's work. Below them, on the other side of the ditch, the bare earth was scarred and burned, bristling with spent arrows like stubble on a brown chin. Everywhere, siege equipment lay wrecked and ruined. Broken ladders, fallen barrows spilling rocks, burned and shattered wicker screens, trampled into the hard dirt. The shell of one of the great siege towers was still half standing, a framework of blackened timbers sticking twisted from a heap of ash, scorched and tattered leather flapping in the salt wind.

"We taught those Tyroshi bastards a lesson they won't soon forget, eh, Tatters?"

"What lesson?" muttered Illyrio. What lesson indeed? The dead learn nothing. The corpses were dotted about before the Tyroshi front line, two hundred strides or so from the city walls. They were scattered across the no-man's-land between, surrounded by a flotsam of broken weapons and armour. They had dropped so heavily just before the ditch that you could almost have walked from one side of the city to the coast on the other without once stepping on the earth. In a few places they were crowded together into huddled groups. Where the wounded crawled to take cover behind the dead, and then bled to death themselves.

Aelix had never seen a slaughter like it. Nothing compared to the occasional acts of brutality and violence that he and Illyrio had to doll out amongst the scum of Pentos on their many jobs, trying to scrape together some meagre living.

He frowned slightly as he looked down at the dead. Corpses sagged and lolled and sprawled, some charred with fire, some bent in attitudes of final prayer, some spread out heedless, heads smashed by rocks flung from above. Some had clothes ripped, and rooted through. Where they tore at their own shirts to check their wounds, hoping they were not fatal. All of them disappointed.

Flies buzzed in legions around the bodies. Birds of a hundred breeds hopped and flapped and pecked at the unexpected feast. Even high up on the battlements, in the blazing wind, it was starting to reek. Well, we must fight on. It is a little late for second thoughts.

"They have nearly filled the ditch down below us, and over near the gates."

"True," said Toland cheerfully. "They drag up their carts of rocks and try to tip them in. we can only kill them so fast."

"That ditch is our best defence."

"True again. It was a good idea. But nothing lasts forever."

"Without it there is nothing to stop the Tyroshi mounting ladders, rolling up rams, mining under our walls even. It might be necessary to organise a sortie of some kind, dig it back out."

Toland rolled his dark eyes sideways. "Lowered from the walls by ropes, slaving in the darkness, not two hundred strides from the Tyroshi positions? Was that what you had in mind?"

"Something like that."

"Then I wish you luck with it."

"Might be our friend Corisin could volunteer," Aelix grinned. "His daughter would surely appreciate his efforts."

"That might be the thing."

Aelix looked around again. "We should build a barricade behind the gates. That is our weakest point. A half circle, I would guess, some hundred strides across, would make an effective killing ground. If they manage to break through we might still contain them there, long enough to push them back." Might being the key word…

"Ah, pushing them back." Toland scratched at the stubble on his chin. "I'm sure our brave soldiers will be falling over each other for that duty when the time comes. Still, I'll see it done."

"You have to admire them." Magister Thrayn strode up to the parapet, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He shook his head as he peered down at the corpses. "Some courage, to come at us like this, over and over, against defences so strong and so well manned. I've rarely seen men so willing to give their lives."

"They have that most strange and dangerous of qualities," said Toland. "They think they are in the right and that these lands belong to them."

Thrayn stared sternly out from under his brows. "It is we who are in the right."

"If you like." The sellsword grinned sideways at Aelix. "But I think the rest of us long ago gave up on the idea that there's any such thing. The plucky Tyroshi come on with their swords and it's my job to shoot them full of arrows!" he broke out into a sharp laugh.

"I don't think that's amusing," snapped Illyrio suddenly. "A fallen opponent should be treated with respect."

"Why?"

Illyrio's face was full of scorn. "Because it could be any one of us rotting in the sun, and probably soon will be."

Toland only laughed louder, and clapped Illyrio on the arm. "Now you're getting it! My great-grandfather fought against the Young Dragon, my grandfather against Daemon Blackfyre, my father against the rebel lords that killed King Maekar and I myself served in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Four generations of warfare, and you know what I learnt from all that? I learnt that you have to look at the funny side!"


The long, dim hall had once been a temple. When the Tyroshi assaults had begun the lightly wounded had been brought here, to be tended to by priests and women. It was an easy place to bring them: down in lower sections of the city, close to the walls. This part of the slums was mostly empty of civilians now, in any case. The risks of raging fire and plummeting boulders can quickly render neighbourhood unpopular. As the fighting continued the lightly wounded had gone back to the walls, leaving the more serious casualties behind. Those with severed limbs, with deep cuts, with terrible burns, with arrows in the body, lay scattered round the dim arcades on their bloody stretchers. Day by day their numbers had mounted until they choked every part of the floor. The walking wounded were dealt with outside, now. The place was reserved for the ruined, for the maimed. For the dying…

Every man had his own special language of agony. Some screamed and howled without end. Some cried out for help, for mercy, for water, for their mothers. Some coughed and gurgled and spat blood. Some wheezed and rattled out their last breaths. Only the dead were entirely silent. And there were a lot of them. From time to time Aelix would see them being dragged out, limbs lolling, ready to be wrapped in cheap shrouds and heaped up behind the back wall.

All day, Aelix knew, grim teams of men were busy digging graves for the dead, great pits in the ruins of slums, big enough for a dozen corpses at a time. All night, the same men were busy burning nobles. The few that had decided to test their mettle against the Tyroshi had been cut down during the early attacks and given to the flames in some pathetic attempt to emulate the Valyrians of old.

Aelix strolled slowly through the halls, echoing with the sounds of pain, wiping the sweat from his forehead, peering down at the casualties. Dark-haired, dark-eyed men of Myr, Pentoshi sellswords, olive skinned Dornishmen, all mixed up together. He could see people of all types and colours, united against the Tyroshi invasion, and all dying together, side by side, all equal. My heart would be warmed, if I hadn't cast it aside…

Illyrio looked sick to his stomach at Aelix's side, his face deathly pale, his blonde hair dishevelled. War, it seemed, did not suit him. "This isn't right," he hissed. "We came here to get a contract for Pentos, not get involved with this vulgarity."

"If we want Myr on our side back home, then there needs to be some Myrish alive to fulfil the agreement, fighting for a contract beneath you is it?"

"Dying for it is."

Aelix snorted. "You think anyone in this city is enjoying themselves?" he gestured down at a young man, lying on dirty straw by the wall, wedged between two others. His face was waxy pale, eyes glassy, lips moving rapidly as he mumbled some meaningless nonsense to himself. His leg was off just above the knee, the stump bound with a bloody dressing. "His chances of survival are slim to none; his last few hours will be spent in agony and squalor, listening to the groans of his fellows. Is that the sort of thing that makes your stomach turn Illyrio?"

"Not everyone has your stomach."

"No?" Aelix felt a fire bubble up in his stomach at that. "Well then, you picture Serra, on her back every night and then remember why we're doing this."

Illyrio flinched at his words and kept his eyes downcast, watching the dead and dying. "But how long can we hold out?"

"If we can be supplied by ship, if the Tyroshi cannot find a way round the city walls, if we can stick together and keep our heads, we can hold out here for weeks."

"Hold out for what?"

Aelix paused. "Perhaps the Tyroshi will lose heart."

"Hah!" snorted Illyrio. "Men of Tyrosh have no hearts!"

"Then we must hope that the Myrish forces fighting near the coast will have their troubles quickly settled and come to our aid."

"And when might we expect such help?"

When the stars go out? When the sky falls? "If I had all the answers I wouldn't be here now would I?" Aelix snapped. "Perhaps you should take knee near one of these damned altars and pray for divine help."

Aelix stopped and stared at the sight before him; a beautiful young woman was serving water to the multitudes of wounded. She seemed almost untouched by the carnage that surrounded her, a pleasant and reassuring smile on her face as she brought the cool water to a dying man's parched lips. No one is as thirsty as the dying, but give them an ocean and they'd still need more….

"She's been diligent with all this," said Illyrio with a hint of admiration in his voice. "It surprises me how one such as her would care so much for the plight of others."

"Have you been making sure that none of Corisin's men have come in contact with her?" He asked casually, never taking his eyes off the young woman.

Illyrio gave a tired nod. "Her father has not been in contact with her, I have made certain of that."

"Well after tonight we may not need to worry about him anymore." After tonight, we should all start worrying about ourselves. He felt a sudden touch on his shoulder and he caught his breath and spun around, almost falling over a corpse. Toland was standing behind him, smiling. "Damn it! Didn't anyone ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"

"They taught me the opposite!" he chuckled madly, "Have you been admiring the good work?"

Aelix eyed the wounded. "What's good about it?"

"We're in a room full of heroes, even if they are all on their way out of life."

Aelix felt himself smiling. "The funny side again, even as the Tyrosh slowly tighten their grip on the city. Our doom draws nearer, and every man in the city sees it….and yet you're the only one who gazes at it with a smile."

Toland threw his arm round Aelix's shoulders and drew him close, "Why should I fear it? I refuse to let myself die until I've tasted the Princess of Dorne. The gods owe me that much at least."

"Charming."

"Oh it was," the last traces of joy vanished from the Dornishman's face. "Until those bastards at her side began to whisper secrets in her ear about me, lies and tricks. Gargalen, Blackmont….they drove me into exile. But soon enough I'll see them both dead and have my time in the sun again."

Aelix gave the sellsword an appraising look. "I'd say you've spent too long in the sun."

A bubble of laughter erupted from the Dornishman's mouth. "You've a sharp tongue, Tatters." He took a long moment to stare at Aelix then, dark eyes squinted in concentration. "Where are you from? You have that vague look of Valyria, but something's not quite right with that. Your hair throws towards gold rather than pure silver, and your eyes are a rather dull lilac. Your family aren't bastards from Oldtown are they? I knew my share of Reachlords."

"I'm not from the Reach," he admitted. "At least, I don't think so."

Toland's frown pressed deeper. "Did your father serve in the War against Maelys? You look….vaguely familiar."

Aelix stumbled on his words, trying to give them sound. "I…..I was raised by cousins…..they say I'm a bastard of one of the Targaryen princes."

Now Toland's whole body was shaking with laughter, a silent thing that shook his whole body as if he were in the throes of a violent fit. "Oh….by the gods this….this is sweet!" he let out another cackle. "I know your father alright boy, fought with him on the Stepstones!"

For some reason, some foolish, childish reason that Aelix had long thought abandoned him, he felt excitement. How many years had he lain awake at night wondering about his parents, trying to picture their faces and imagine the sound of their voices. "You know him?"

"I knew him," Toland gave a tired sigh. "There is only one dragon at King's Landing and he is not Aemon Targaryen."