Plains of the Horde
"What is my duty to you, Ser Devan?"
"To lead, child. So long as my lord is wise and true, I shall serve."
"And if I stray? If I become a shadow of what the beggar king seems to be, what would you do then?"
"I have no fear that madness would consume you. But should it take hold of your heart I would give you council until the true Roger Reyne reappears."
"I feel it at times, Ser. It gnaws at me, calls my name, and tempts me with terrible deeds. I...I would rather die than succumb to its embrace."
"You are not mad, Lord Roger. Madness and guilt are not the same."
"Gods forgive us, Ser, we are all mad. None save the guilty know the true meaning of strength."
"Well said, my lord."
"I am not your lord yet."
"Today, my lord… Today you are."
"You must blow into it, Lord Roger, hard and true." Said ser Devan from his position across from me, the sheep's carcass taking up space between us. One of the younger Dothraki boys had brought it to be skinned and cut for supper, and I was there to do my part. I sighed as I brought my lips closer to the point where the boy had cut a hole into the sheep's wool, low on its hock while he took the position at the front and did the same. I blew with all my might, and I could see the bubble of air separate the animal's wool from its flesh.
Needless to say, this was my first time skinning an animal or seeing one skinned for that matter. I was yet to be impressed with the Dothraki ways.
"That's the spirit!" Laughed ser Devan, finding the situation far too amusing for my liking. The Dothraki boy grinned at my flushed face, no doubt finding the sight of me as amusing as my treacherous knight did.
I took a deep breath and continued with my task. The Dothraki boy interrupted me with a thin and long knife in his hand, its edge curved in the slightest of ways and its hilt presented for me to seize. Before I could grasp it, however, the bloodrider sitting next to Ser Devan, named Jhorro, barked out an order, and the boy took a step back, the blade going with him.
Jhorro met my gaze and spoke, in the common tongue, "No steel for Andal."
I nodded, expecting as much. In all honesty, over the course of the days and nights we had seen pass alongside the horde, I came to forget my predicament. Bloodshed and slaughter aside, traveling with the Horde was most pleasant. We rode and raced all day, feasted all night and all that happened in between was either brawls over drinks or brawls over women.
In time, I had come to see something different, despite their savage and murderous ways. Some were even kind enough to speak to us, to give us tasks to undertake, as a stepping stone to regaining our steel and freedom.
Granted it felt a bit silly to be denied a knife while skinning an animal, but I had no complaints about not going further. The work was far too strange for me, and the smell did not help in any way. I nodded again in Jhorro's direction and wiped my hands on the breeches I wore before turning back and walking out of the tent into the faint light of the setting sun.
I had to admit that the plains the Dothraki roamed were nothing short of perfection, the gods' own haven if man had not claimed it with steel and blood. Wherever the gods sat perched while they watched over us, it must look something similar, for this land was beautiful, untainted and the earth was rich.
Enough for the hordes that came, plenty more for the hordes that will.
I sighed as I looked over our camp. These people did not take much from the land, did not settle as my people did across the sea. Their ways saved the land, kept it from ever running dry or losing its herds and it made me wonder whether they had the right idea, whether we Westerosi, with our lordships and kingdoms, our keeps and our maesters, had it all wrong. A thousand years had passed and a thousand more will, the hordes of the horse will still gallop across these plains, while the world around them wilts into ashes.
Perhaps men of the known world would flock here, in time, and find more reason to fling steel and arrows at one another, this time over dirt and grass rather than gold and silver. The hordes for all their feats and prowess would crumble if one knew their strengths and weaknesses. If the armies of the civilized world poured through these plains, perhaps none at all shall survive, and all that would remain of lions, horses, and dragons, of all the bloodthirsty creatures in men's hearts, - Gods forgive us - would be an echo of what once was, ringing through the hollow darkness of the destruction left behind.
My hands were wet with sheep's blood, and yet I raised one to my forehead, for I felt distraught, weary of what was to come, and for a moment I considered staying with the horde, to live and die whenever the gods saw fit. Let Westeros burn, to the seven hells with all those fools and their politics, I am a warrior, a man of my own making, of Ser Devan's making if anything, and everything I have ever known, everything I have ever loved was here with me, save my sweet mother, and the unborn sister that was burned alongside her. If there ever had been one life I would give mine for, I would not know which of them to choose.
Best not to dwell on what could have been.
"You look a man, Andal." A woman's voice summoned me from the worlds I imagined above. One of the Khaleesi's handmaidens, a Lyseni woman I recalled, one that the beggar king had bought days past. She stood before me, a bundle of firewood in her arms and a smile upon her lips. She looked beautiful in the green scenery the gods painted, and the brush of the setting sun could almost make you forget that she was a slave, fool you into thinking her an avatar of divine beauty. "There is rarely any blood on any of you Westerosi nobles." She chuckled.
I said nothing, simply smiling at her with a nod, and I wiped my hands on the back of my breeches in an attempt to salvage what remained of my pride.
"Except for the day the horde found you." She continued, her hand straightening the logs in her arms, "They say the Lion was red with the blood of Khal Drogo's men, that your roar shook the hills." Her voice carried a dramatic flair, coloured silly by the jesting tone and the smile that never left her lips. I felt odd then, as though this was no deed a man should be praised for even in jest. I sent men to meet the stranger, and though I would fight again for my life, I find no pride in what I did.
"I find little joy in death," I said, moving forward and easing her burden, allowing her to shift the bundle into my arms instead. "But I'm told the Dothraki do, that they long to ride with their ancestors in the great beyond. I hope the men that fell to my blade found joy in theirs."
We started our walk towards the Khal's tent, where her mistress no doubt awaited her return. We walked at a slow pace, and I took in the sights around me.
"You are a lord of your homeland? From the dragon king's kingdoms?" She asked after a few moments.
"I was born in exile on this side of the narrow sea. All that I can remember knowing is Braavos." I answered, not knowing what else to say. "My family has not ruled anything for a long time."
"Neither has the dragon king, but men believe in him anyway." She said, her voice lower than it had been and her eyes darting around for any signs of the mad prince.
"Men say that they believe in many things, my lady, but very few of them do." I shook my head, feeling disdain towards the beggar prince and everything he stood for. A more malicious worm the world had not yet seen. "Faith lies in our deeds. I believe in my knight and he in me. I don't know anything else well enough to believe in it."
She was silent for a while, but I could tell she had more to say. When at last she spoke again, it was when we had stopped outside the tent. "You are a brave man, Red Lion. Do you call every slave you meet a lady?"
"Only the clever ones." I retorted. With a smile and a nod, I stepped forward and laid the bundle upon the ground just outside the tent flap, while she walked on inside.
"What makes us noble, Ser Devan? Is it our blood or our deeds? Is it even either?"
"Can it not be both, Lord Roger? Must it be either?"
"Spare me your riddles, Ser, I care naught for twisted words. Speak your heart's truth, if you would."
"The truth that I know is that it does not matter either way. I have seen kings with not a drop of nobility in them, just as I have seen common folk with the spirit of royalty."
"How does it not matter then?"
"People believe in the powers they think matter. A soldier would raise their steel and give their lives for someone else's banner. Very few would do the same for the bannerless, the nameless."
"You have given me no answers, only more questions."
"Lord Roger, you are young still. There will come a day when you will realize that a dull answer to such a terrible question comes without apology. Your hand in the grand game of the gods allows you a choice. You are a Reyne of Castamere, and your blood carries a power that some men believe in. This you cannot dwell on."
"What is this choice you speak of then?"
"You are not a common soldier. As the man you are, as the last Lord of House Reyne, you choose the powers you serve. Will you fight for someone else's banner? Or will you fight for the bannerless? Can we even choose one without the other?"
"I...I do not know."
"In time, Lord Roger. In time, you will."
As was our habit, Ser Devan and I would speak into the late hours of the night. Long ago, when I was a child still, I had dreams and delusions of grand wars and epic battles that I would no doubt shake the world over. I had dreams of roaring into the dying embers of Casterly Rock for all that Tywin Lannister had taken from me.
It was during one such rant that Ser Devan for the first and last time ever laid his hand upon me.
The slap had caught me unaware, flinging me from my feet and onto my back, breath all but gone and resolve beyond broken. He told me then that a lion's roar was naught if it came before the deeds of its claws, and that wisdom was the trait that pleased the gods, that I was no Reyne without it.
Wisdom, he said, was the difference between us and everyone else.
Ever since then, before my father's illness took him and after still, we would sit and speak, question the world we live in and our role in its midst. I would ask the question at the heart of the maelstrom inside my mind and his words would be the thunderclap to either dissipate the chaos, or breathe life into it once more.
It was my way of learning, of acquiring wisdom, for he never lied to me or led me astray. Ser Devan was the finest of men. And I trusted his judgment. I seldom trusted my own thoughts, especially when they did not sound like mine own.
My mind did not entirely feel like it was my own at times… Is this madness? Is it the Gods or their will?
The Khaleesi's handmaiden had left me with questions that ran so deep into my own identity, I could not help but mention to my knight that perhaps I was unworthy of the privilege that men hung upon my shoulders. Perhaps if the cloak of nobility had been around her shoulders instead, he would be her knight and guardian rather than mine.
And wasn't that just a reassuring thought. For I was no innocent, and I was not worthy.
I was walking alongside the ever-moving horde. My presence had somehow offended the beggar king and my horse was taken from me. What it was that I did to offend a man I barely spoke to or met with, I did not know. I knew that this king was a petty one, a shadow of what his sister was to these people. His actions did not need to be justified, and his words were wind to most, more so to my own ears.
And so I walked. The pace was not in any way harsh or fast, and the whip never touched my skin as it did others. But as we walked, I could feel the pain in the bottom of my feet, wondering how it was that these barefooted slaves could move with such ease and vigor.
Man was not meant to be chained.
From somewhere ahead, a galloping noise could be heard approaching. I strained my neck, as did others, to see Jhorro riding towards me with all haste.
"Andal!" He called, in the Dothraki tongue. I knew enough to piece together what he was trying to say. "Ride. Khal Drogo calls." He said, extending a hand towards me.
I grasped it with my own and he hefted me onto his horse, riding away just as swiftly as he arrived, towards the front of the procession, and past what seemed like an endless stream of travelers. We found the Khal atop his mare, his Khaleesi riding her silver beside him, and his bloodriders around him with Ser Jorah and Ser Devan observing the scene.
I climbed off the horse and the Khal spared me a glance before looking out towards the horizon, and the tents that seemed perched a few leagues ahead. There were banners there all over the unknown camp, ones that none of us could clearly see. But we knew with all certainty that they were not Dothraki.
The Khal spoke, and though I knew a few words of their tongue, I always found his words, him of all the horde, hard to understand. Ser Devan's face seemed contorted in anger, confusion, or grief, I did not know. But I knew enough even before he spoke, to understand that I had a daunting task ahead of me.
"The Khal has a task for you." My brave knight said, "He will not allow any other to go, not even I. He says this will prove your worth, that earning your steel is now within your reach."
It was all the motivation that I needed. "What am I to do, Ser?"
Ser Devan was silent a moment, and Ser Jorah seized his silence to speak his piece, "The camp ahead is too large to overlook. Might be mercenaries or merchants, we do not know for sure. The Khal would have you scout ahead, approach their camp, and learn what you can. You must return with news by nightfall."
The Khal barked an order and Jhorro dismounted, handing me the reigns and walking away.
By the time I was atop the steed, Ser Devan had approached and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "Keep your distance, Lord Roger. If they're armed, count their numbers and return, do not throw your life away."
I nodded at him and looked around, my eyes set upon the Khal's great form, then his lovely bride and the clever handmaiden standing beside the great silver steed. I rode then, with fury and determination, hoping beyond hope that the splintered shield upon my back would remain there until the journey back.
The lion of the splintered shield, they would call me, and as far as names go, that was not half bad.
The hill I chose would have been perfect if the men of the unknown camp had not cut down its trees. It was a shame, as it overlooked their position so perfectly, I would have had no trouble counting their numbers and leaving.
They had taken precautions, however, and I chose to continue on foot.
I approached the camp from the northern side, unfortunately situating the camp between myself and where the Horde hid leagues away, a touch too far to be of any help. I used the cover of the setting sun on my back to get closer, the horse left behind and a splintered shield on my arm.
I saw their banners then, and I felt dread.
The banners were of solid gold, no sigils or emblems upon them. This was the Golden Company's men, thousands of them. Ser Devan and I had the misfortune of running into a few of their soldiers back when we escaped Braavos. Though they had not been contacted by our enemies, the knowledge that they could grasp the last Reyne and whatever coin my life was worth had them reaching for steel and singing a song of death that I was too young to understand.
Ser Devan had fought then, and we barely escaped.
I looked through the camp, spotting the armor and glint of steel on men that would not hesitate to kill me should I be seen. I could not count from my position, I needed to get higher. There was nowhere that I could go anywhere near the hill that they've claimed, the sun was setting soon and I did not have much time left. I looked around, moving the branches that obstructed my view and raised my eyes high.
From the center of their camp, trees sprung high into the sky, and I spotted a soldier positioned at the very top of one sturdy oak, a makeshift scout's perch, one that would perfectly serve my purpose. I had no steel, but I had fingers and dread on my side. And if the gods willed it, then I would send them his soul before long.
Work of filth awaits.
I waited with bated breath and watched the movement of everything and everyone between myself and my target. I studied where they went and how often they moved and before long, I found myself approaching the old tree and the ladder leaning upon it. Ever so slowly I climbed, making sure to focus on the scout above and I noticed that the lazy bastard was sleeping.
The gods have spoken.
My arms found his neck and before he could even squirm into consciousness, the man was dead, thrown over a sturdy branch and left to bother none no more. I took his helmet and wore it, hoping it would reassure anyone who dared to look up at me, as I gazed at the camp before me, and started counting. It took some time, as I had to gaze far and wide to count the tents, the men, and the horses. I had gotten as high as six thousand men and five hundred horses before a noise right next to me captured my attention.
The fallen man I had killed not so long ago was slipping, and unless I did something, his corpse would fall and bring all manner of chaos down upon me.
Just as he was about to fall, I reached out and with a heavily beating heart caught hold of his leg. I held with all my might, but the panic in my heart left me no time to plan my next move. I had planned to pull him over my own body and find a solution then, but he was slipping, and my grip was growing weaker.
He fell from my grasp and I could feel my heart still for a moment.
The sound of a body hitting the ground was clear enough for me, but I had no time to dwell on it. I climbed down as quickly as I could, praying that none had heard the commotion. As soon as I landed, I reached for the man's sword, pulling it from its sheath and running towards the horse I left beyond the camp.
Torches converged on the tree and the dead man beneath it, and I ran as if the hordes of the seven hells were on my heels.
There is very little distinction between madness and guilt. Ser Devan disagreed with that sentiment, but I wholeheartedly believed that true power was a sign of guilt, proof of madness, and a sure path towards greatness in its most terrible and awful form.
"This way! He is running! Quickly, men, after him! Bows and arrows!"
I tire of life with every passing day. I feel anger every waking moment and I tire of it. Why must it all be so difficult? Why must I lead a life with peril at every corner and death wherever my gaze falls?
"Which way did he go? Who could possibly- Wait I see him! This way!"
Perhaps I did not want to do this anymore. Perhaps men would live longer should I fall a little early. Why does my journey matter more than their own when I find little joy in life and no faith in my purpose?
I am almost certain that I fell to fatigue and circumstance rather than that thought. If I had fallen to the clutches of the Golden Company because of that one stray thought, would that make me a coward or a brave man? Either way...
Fuck it. Bring on the rain.
I turned with a dead man's sword in my right hand and a splintered shield hanging off my left and faced the Golden bastards in my wake. My sword sliced through a man's guts when he ran towards me, my shield came up to stop an arrow meant for my heart and I stomped towards the bowman with fury in my heart and within moments, he fell, as did the man next to him, and yet more of them kept coming.
One such golden warrior bested me. He had speed and agility, while I was weighed down by my shield and more tired than I ever felt before. So close I was to my moment of bloodlust and carnage, so close I was to that moment of immortality and feeling of divine strength that if I had fought and won against one more soldier, the trees and plains would hear me roar into the night. But this warrior, this golden bastard had quenched my thirst for blood, had denied me my moment of triumph. His blade found my side in one swing and found my leg in a second. I fell to my knee, bleeding and dazed and looked up at my foe, his blue eyes glistening in mad glee, in gloating victory. Bastard. He looked at my shield and the red lion upon it, an arrow's shaft still attached to it and he grinned.
An armored fist connected with my head and I welcomed the darkness.
I welcomed it… Because only the guilty know the true meaning of strength, and it is that knowledge… It is that knowledge that makes us terrible.
Do you hear me, child?
The dispute was never over exile and golden lions. Your dispute was not in the world around you, it is within the mind that you never believed was at war with itself.
But then again you drift in between worlds, in and out of consciousness hanging by a thread and asking yourself how it is that you found the presence of mind and the perseverance to believe that beyond the struggles of this world, you will always hoist yourself onto the ledge of sanity, refusing to fall back into the abyss.
"Wake, spy!"
You're a curious little worm and you will always keep knocking on that red and bloody gate beyond your mind's furthest reach.
Are you still listening?
Good...
"Hey! Do you hear me, boy?! Open your eyes or by the Harpy, I will spoon them out!"
I am your deepest fear.
"Control yourself, Alerys. Leave us if you will, this does not concern you."
There is nothing on this mortal land you walk, in this world that you fear more than me. I have seen all that you keep to yourself, I have seen all that you keep from yourself and I, only I, pass judgment.
"On your head be it, Griff. Come find me when words lead you nowhere."
Even the gods might be damned to the Seven Hells…
"Time to wake up, Reyne. You and I, we have much to discuss."