Eddard Stark was reading a letter from King's Landing. It was not the best way to spend the hour after one woke up, but it had to be done. And Eddard Stark was nothing if not conscientious of his duties.
There was news from Jon about quite a lot of topics. Robert's army movements, the list of various new lords that would be appointed to replace the old nobles that had chosen not to yield, the former queen had chosen to peacefully yield and surrender the Targaryen fleet, and the work on one Robert's canals had begun in earnest.
There was a lot to take in.
How much would be relevant to the North, or the current campaign was another question.
Robert was apparently chasing after a decisive battle, and according to reports, he had joined up with the full army from Braavos. That was well over twenty thousand men, every man battle-hardened and experienced. By all accounts, it was at least twice the number of fighting men the rebels had.
If Robert could force a battle he could most assuredly win with those odds.
And the rebels needed to come to battle sooner or later, or their army would melt away, as reality began to set in.
He remembered the great battles of his life.
The Battle of the Trident, and the Battle of Storm's End.
Both had been massive battles, as tens and thousands of men clashed and broke against each other in the kind of organized madness that only could be found in battle. Where both parties were just a hair's breadth away from giving in to either madness or fear.
He recalled both vividly. The smell, the blood, the sounds, the uncertainty as he had no idea how things were going beyond his corner of the battlefield.
He had been on foot for the Trident. Leading the majority of the Rebel infantry as they smashed into the Dornish pike line and as they smashed together, he had laid about himself with the force that only a two-handed blade of Valyrian Steel could.
That was what the blade had been made to do. To crash into enemy lines on foot, and lay low any who had the misfortune to be in the proximity. On horseback, it was much harder to wield, though, in return, it had allowed him to pull off maneuvers no other weapon could have.
He still remembered it. The Battle of Storm's End. The charge.
The Trident was chaos. Storm's End… was butchery.
The feeling as his cavalry punched through the weak spot that had appeared after hours of the infantry clashing, and then as he wheeled around… And saw how unguarded the entire backline had been.
As Eddard had maneuvered Ice out to the side, and begun kicking his horse to go at full speed along the back of that line of men, he hadn't fully understood how it would go. Not truly. He had understood the idea behind it certainly, but the idea and the grizzly reality was something else.
Ice was long enough that it had hit every single man in the back rank of the Tyrell lines, and many in front of them as well, and the executioner blade, with the power of a charging horse behind it, had bitten through mail, steel, flesh, and leather as easily as grain before the scythe.
It was a maneuver that you could only have done with a Valyrian steel blade.
Hundreds had died. All at his hands.
He had won the battle with that maneuver, the Rose infantry lines breaking in his wake, and their own infantry finally beginning the push forward like water across a dam.
In the moment, he had continued to push forward, the rush driving him on.
It was only once the cliff began to near, and he had been forced to turn right, that he had been forced to actually see his handiwork.
It had been horrifying.
Eddard had not needed another lesson of the brutality of war.
He knew that all too well.
The rebels apparently did.
At the very least Mace Tyrell might have had a genuine hope of victory, however misplaced his decision to fight his rightful King had been.
These rebels in the hills of the west however did not.
They were like Loren Lannister and Mern Gardener. Throwing away thousands of lives in a battle of pride that they could not possibly win. And for what? To avenge Tywin Lannister and all those who had earned the privilege of a particularly burning hell?
Well, Robert would send them all to Hell to join them soon enough. And then their lands could be given to true and loyal lords instead.
And after that… There would be peace.
Outside, he heard the sounds of the morning's first rock being launched through the sky, and, judging by the sound it made, it glanced off the tower it had hit.
He ignored it, and kept reading reports on more hidden tunnels in the Red Keep, more battles, and more…
A man burst into his tent, Eddard's hand immediately went for Ice's hilt, but he stopped, and relaxed as he realized it was Tommard, one of his personal guards.
"My Lord-Your Grace, there is another turncoat army approaching."
Ned sighed. He was just, so tired.
"Another one? Dornish?"
"Yes!"
There'd been a lot of those. Manwoody, Yronwood, Fowler. All of them and more had come north out of the passes to join the war, now that it was won to help put the last of the rebels in their place. It was either that or see the nobles of their houses captured after the Trident lose their heads.
And each and every one of them had decided to come to talk to him.
Some to measure him, others to partake in the food of his camp, fresh from the fields of the Reach, and some just wanted to get into his good graces in hope that he would tell Robert to grant them the land of the broken rebels.
"Which house is it this time? Qorgyle? Uller? I don't suppose we could be lucky enough that the actual Prince of Dorne has decided to directly join the campaign?"
"None of the above." Another voice piped in, and in through the tent, flaps walked the little Crannogman Howland Reed.
Howland looked… More apprehensive than Ned was used to seeing him.
"Then who?"
"House Dayne, led by Lady Ashara."
At the mere mention of that name, a thousand different feelings flowed through Eddard. Many of them in direct conflict in his heart.
As Ashara entered his tent, Eddard couldn't help but think how beautiful she was.
She was tired, sad, with dark rings under her eyes, and yet he could not help but think of how… How Stunning she looked. Like a living painting by a grand artist given life to walk the Earth.
Long, dark hair that went far down her back and tumbled down her shoulder like waterfalls of silky black. Her skin was bright as marble, showing her as a true descendent of the first men, so familiar to him, yet unlike the exotic dark of other Dornishfolk. And a height that would have allowed her to see Robert in the eyes without having to look up at all.
Unlike the last time he'd seen her though, she was not wearing the silken gown that hid nought of her enormous… Tracts of lands, but instead a set of purple and silver-colored brigandine armor, accompanied by mailed arms, and a huge cloak around her shoulders adorned with dozens of replicas of her family sigil.
She was beautiful.
Eddard felt a strong stab of guilt over the thought.
You're married now, you Idiot, you should not think of such things of a woman, not your wife.
As she saw him, Ashara gave a weak smile, and it seemed as if her haunting purple eyes lit up with life once more.
"Hello, Ned."
Eddard Stark dried his suddenly dry lips, before answering.
"Hello, Ashara. It is… Good to see you again, even if our… Place of meeting is not befitting of such."
"Yes, I suppose it is… Then again…" Eddard could tell the smile gave him then, was a forced one. It was uncannily similar to ones he'd seen on soldiers who had suffered battle shock and forced themselves to smile despite it.
"Many of my ancestors would have been happy I was here, at the downfall of house Peake. We have had quite… The bloody history we and they."
"You'll get well along with Lord Manderly then."
Ashara blinked. Then turned to look at the third person in the tent, seemingly only now realizing the two of them were not alone.
In the corner, on a chair sat Howland Reed.
"I see. And you ar- No it cannot be… Howland?"
"Indeed my lady."
He could understand her initial doubt. Months of campaigning had done quite a lot to make Howland Reed look quite different compared to the boy he'd been at Harrenhal.
Bronze Scale armor, an untrimmed mane, a beard, and a couple of small but very noticeable scars, made him seem a decade younger than he'd been the first time Eddard had met him.
About the only thing that remained was his short height, which from what Eddard had seen from his other Crannogmen subjects, was not likely to grow much more.
"I am he, aye. And it is good to see you, my lady. I am glad you managed to make it home
safely before the war began." Howland said, much more cheerfully and honestly happy than Eddard felt.
"Did you not?"
"No sorry to say. I was barely begun traveling up the Trident when the news came of Lyanna's capture. But the Tully's declared for the Rebels, and Walder Frey remained neutral all the way until the Trident, so I managed to make it home unmolested, and unharmed."
"Well… That is good to hear. It is… Good to see you again Howland." The forced smile shrank to a more genuine, if smaller, and sadder one. "I'm glad to see not all my friends perished in this damnable war."
As she talked, Eddard noted how Ashara seemed to become relaxed, less stiff, if mayhaps not less sad.
He also desperately hoped she would not call him out on why Howland was actually here. Which was to act as a chaperone. Nothing would happen between them. Eddard had to make certain of that.
He had dishonored lady Dayne once before, but at that time, he had a way to make up for it. A road that had only been untaken due to his brother's untimely death, and the marriage that he had been forced to step into in Brandon's place.
He would not dishonor her again, nor would he Catelyn.
"I am… Sorry to hear about your losses my lady. You are not alone in that. All of us Northmen have suffered grievously as well."
It was meant to be a show of solidarity. He'd seen his father talk like that to his Clan Lords regarding losses to the wildling raids.
Her response was as if Robert had slammed him in the gut with his hammer.
"Yes… The Trident took a lot from all of us poor souls in the Seven Kingdoms."
Idiot. She was Dornish. Of course, her dead friends had perished on the Trident! Where else?
Images of Ice cleaving through Dornish spear lines and biting through mail, brigandine, and plate and into the flesh beneath came unbidden to his mind.
Had he killed these friends of hers?
Then there was her brother.
Amazingly, it was Ashara herself who came to his rescue.
"But let us not talk of death, you Grace. This war is nearly done, and with it, the bloodshed will finally end."
He grabbed it like a line thrown out to a drowning man at sea.
"As you say, my lady. Robert is dealing with the last of the rebels now. We shall have true peace soon enough.
After the sieges at least.
"Some wine?" He offered her, along with a chair to sit in.
Ashara took both, and after pouring a cup for her of white-yellowish arbor gold, he sat down beside her and began filling her own drink.
After taking a sip, she continued.
"I'm glad to see your new crown hasn't gone to your head. Princess Martel would never have sullied herself by actually having to fill the vine herself."
Eddard snorted.
"I'm not some pampered princeling, afraid of my hands getting dirty."
"No, that you most certainly are not. It's one thing I rather liked about you, Starks."
She stiffened.
"I'm sorry to hear what befell your brother and father."
"They… They were both avenged. They can rest easy now, wherever they are."
And they had been. If not mayhaps how he'd have liked.
"But thank you for your concern."
Whatever emotion she saw on his face then made her frown.
"Bother. Here I'm saying we should move past death, and yet I am the one bringing it up."
"It's fine."
It wasn't, but he had to move on. He didn't want to think about Brandon. Not now.
Your brother never had a problem talking to women. He was good at it. Yet you are Ned, acting like merely talking to a woman is a battle.
"We… We can talk of death later. For now, let us talk of more cheerful things, my friend. How did come to pass that you became a prince?"
"Our gracious King's fancy more than anything else. Robert decided that to celebrate our victory, he would elevate Stark and Arryn to the same rank as house Martel."
She smiled then, a more mischievous one than he'd seen on her before that day.
"Yes, you can believe it was not well received in Dorne. Everyone has been talking about it and complained until the wells ran dry. No doubt the Red Wiper will have similar words of disdain."
"But house Dayne does not?"
"No. I'm glad to hear that you managed to get something out of this damnable mess."
The smile he gave then made his cheeks blush.
Idiot. Remember Catelyn.
"It suits you,' I must say. Much more so than the Doran does his."
His crown, yes. Talk about your crown Ned.
"It's the crown of Winter. Forged by Brandon the Builder himself. 8000 years old or so the legends say."
She was kind enough to draw attention to how awkward he said that bit of ancient trivia.
"Forged by bronze and Iron, and forced to be given up to Aegon aye, I've heard the tales. He took all the crowns of Westeros for his own, save Harren's and the one of Dorne. But speaking of kings…"
Her expression turned serious.
"What sort of welcome should I expect from our King Robert?"
Politics. Yes, he could do politics.
"Well enough. By marching north, you've committed yourself to our cause, and your family was given a full pardon and accepted back into the fold. Just as he promised in his letter. Your smaller knights will have to pay their own ransoms or take a loan from you to pay them, but your family will be returned safe and sound once the rebels have been put down with no strings attached, along with Dawn."
Ashara stiffened.
"Dawn. So, my brother has been located then?"
Eddard froze.
"You… Have not heard then? About… The events at the tower?"
"No. What happened? Did you find my brother?"
Suddenly his throat felt truly, brutally dry. As if he hadn't just been drinking some vine.
"I… Assumed you had, but… if not… I'm not sure that-"
"Do not try and shield me from harsh truths, Ned Stark."
Ashara said harshly. Her hands had gone white, so hard did she grab the arm of her chair. They were shaking as well.
"If you have news of my brother, and what has come of his foolishness, then bloody tell me what it is!"
Eddard hesitated and gave a brief glance to Howland. If he was hoping to get some advice there, he was sorely mistaken. The Crannogman just looked at Ashara with a sympathetic, yet sad look.
He swallowed.
Then he began.
"Robert… Already knew of my sister's whereabouts after we took the capital. He also knew that we would find Aerys remaining Kingsguard there along with her as well. A certain tower north in the Prince's pass."
"How? How could he POSSIBLY know that? I know for a fact not even the spider knew where the tower lay."
"I… Don't know. Robert has refused to give me the source of the information. In either case… You knew of it?"
"...Yes. It was house Dayne that provided the men to build it. It was an… Important location for us from days of old."
"I see… Well… I know not how Robert knew of the place, but he did. And once we set course south he sent about 300 riders to scour the Prince's pass, to rescue Lyanna and offer the remaining Kingsguard a place in his ranks…"
Eddard understood that she knew what would come next through the grimace on her face, the way she bit her lip.
She knew what had happened then. She asked anyway.
"What happened?"
"Well… The tower was first discovered by Roose Bolton and his troops with the Glover men hot on his trails. He offered each of them the chance to yield. They… Refused. Harshly. Your brother slew 27 of his men, including Lord Bolton himself, but…"
He hadn't meant to draw it out. It was just that the words just wouldn't come. He had to force them out. Damn you Eddard. You've given command in battle. This should be nothing compared to that.
"Arthur… Well, he… He… Took a lance from a Glover rider. I… I'm sorry Ashara."
Eddard had expected tears.
Instead, Ashara just sat there with a complete and total look of despair on her face.
They sat in silence for a while, the lack of any sounds, other than the faint noises from outside ringing harder than any bell.
"I… I had hoped… That idiot…
" Her entire body began to shake.
"I told him Rhaegar's ideas were madness… But he would not listen... That stupid man…"
Her hands went down into her lap, and clenched around each other, as the tears began to flow.
A set of hands grabbed hers. Softly, and with a level of tenderness one would not expect from a man that had killed hundreds and hundreds of people in his young life.
Eddard, who was now kneeling, gave her hands a squeeze.
"I'm sorry Ashara… For everything."
The woman of Dorne sniffed. Then, suddenly lunged forward and grabbed him in a hug. Eddard was taken aback, but as he heard her tears begin to break loose, he returned the gesture in full.
They remained like that for a while, him supporting her as she cried on his shoulder. The only thing that changed was that Howland Reed stepped up to put his hand on Ashara's shoulder in support.
He wasn't sure how long they remained like that, but they did long enough for his to begin to grow stiff.
Finally, Ashara's tears began to stop, replaced by sniffles. Eddard patted her on the back. There wasn't much he could do.
"...I lost the babe."
Silence. A long silence followed, before finally, Eddard Stark, Prince in the North replied.
"You mean… Ours? We… We had a..."
"Yes... She was stillborn… I had hoped… Hoped my brother wouldn't follow her."
Eddard Stark rarely was left bereft of words these days. But as he knelt there on the floor of the tent, Eddard Stark, Prince in the North, was left unable to do nought but to continue hugging Ashara Dayne.
A deep sense of shame struck him. Shame… And a wave of sadness and melancholy.
A daughter. He'd produced a daughter. A child… A child outside the marriage bed. But he would never see her. Never hold her, never pat her on the head, or be able to talk to her.
Gods… His thoughts went to Catelyn. To his other, yet unborn child.
The fear was there… But it was overshadowed by shame and sadness.
Shame that he'd put this child in a woman he'd left soiled and abandoned, and the sadness of what could never be now.
The two of them sat for a while longer before finally, all 3 returned to their seats.
As they began talking again, it was as if a dam had broken. It was strange. It was as if their shared sadness somehow connected them. As if rain washed away the awkwardness of their previous talks, and they returned to how they had talked before.
Their speech flew freely, and lightly now, if not cheerful, but what they talked off was very different than what they had discussed in Harren's old castle.
They discussed their siblings. Living and dead. The good times, silly times, bad times.
Times of dunking them in snow and the opposite, of pushing them into the water, then laughing as they ran, being chased all the while across the beach.
The stupid times, the childish times, memories of old flowed through the tent.
It was not the triumphant and bombastic way Robert would remiss about the past, but it was not bad either. It was sad, but not bad.
Winter had come for Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne.
But spring would come anew.
I
A horn blast shook Tom out of his sleep as suddenly as if he'd been shot by an arrow.
As he shook himself awake, he heard Lann's voice "GET UP, UP, UP!"
As he stumbled to his feet, he heard sounds all around the tent. It sounded like the entire army camp was moving, such was the volume of the sounds.
"What's going on?" Tywin asked loudly while trying to stifle a moan.
"Robert's here damn you! Get dressed NOW!"
I
Tom had felt fear before in his life.
The feeling of vulnerability that time he'd helped his father poach a stag. The feeling of dread as he marched to his first battle. The fear as he realized he was on the losing side of the war, and what that meant.
Fear was no stranger to him.
As he got into his armor though, there was another, new kind of fear.
The fear of having no hope.
He understood, just how totally, absolutely, completely screwed they were.
"Dead walking we be…" William said, sounding about as good as he felt.
"SHUT. UP. BOY!" Lann hissed through clenched teeth, looking around worriedly.
If anyone outside their group had heard him they didn't take any notice. Though the chances of that were small. Not much was heard over an army in chainmail that was force marching as if their lives depended on it.
Which it very, very much did.
Their ability to make a stand depended everything on whether they reached their chosen battlefield before the enemy army that had suddenly appeared seemingly from nowhere.
As it happened, they did.
The valley was completely, and totally silent as the sounds of clanking feet disturbed the peace of the wilderness.
Flanked by two mountains on either side, they had a slight high ground against any opposing force that came from the other end of the valley.
As they marched to form up beside the edge of the rocky plain, in the very shadow of the mountain, he at any time expected to see the enemy army begin to form in the distance.
They did not. Instead, the entire army was able to form up through the valley.
A massive, wall of spears, steel, and shields mang ranks deep, flanked by crossbowmen, with cavalry behind.
It was a strong position. One that played into their strengths. Anyone who would want to break themselves on this spot would bleed.
Then… They waited. And waited. The sun had risen far into the sky when he felt his stomach begin to growl.
There were lots of murmuring going through the ranks.
Yet nothing silence was forthcoming across the plains.
Then, suddenly a shout. All murmuring stopped.
Then… He saw it. Colors. Colors on the horizon.
ALL of the horizon.
It took a while before he got a good look at the incoming army.
While the ground wasn't that steeply sloped, it went on for quite a while below them, and so they got a good look at what was in the distance.
He felt his stomach churn as he looked at the sights in the distance.
It was… Beyond words.
Column, after column, after column.
Thousands, and thousands and thousands of men. Men on horseback. Men on foot. Men in plated steel, men in chainmail. Men in brigandine, men in leather.
So, so many.
As they got closer, he saw banners and sigils by the thousands. They seemed countless. A sea of men in gold, blue, red, gray, white, purple, pink, green, and orange.
So many men, at least twice what they had.
It was so, so easy to forget all about the strength of their position in the face of that.
He recalled when he'd been in the capital, and the crowds had been out in the street following Duskendale to welcome their king's return.
He'd been but a small boy then, but he recalled the sight nonetheless. The throngs of the crows, the press, the masses.
Somehow, the army looked bigger than that. A tidal wave of men who had come for no other reason but to kill him and his brother.
He felt of pang of hate shoot through him along with the pain.
Why couldn't you lot have waited another week? We'd have been gone in another week.
The march of the men was slow, lumbering, but steady. They took their sweet bloody time, especially compared to how their army had hastened to the field.
It seemed as if it took hours for their enemy to approach them. Then it seemed to take another hour for them all to get into position.
All the while he stood there, feeling both hungry and tired.
"Oh, gods… So many archers." William exclaimed as the archers and crossbowmen began positioning themselves.
There were many of them. Far, far more than they had.
"SHIELD WALL!"
He obeyed without question, raising his shield and locking it with the others, his spear pointing out of the small open crack in between the pieces of wood.
For a short, short moment, his view of the battlefield cut off by a piece of wood, it was as if all the world was gone, and all he could hear was the sounds of the men around him. His own, frantic breathing. The fear, just barely there, ever-present.
Then, 4 crossbow bolts slammed into his shield. The shock ran through him, as he stared at the 4 heads of pointy metal was there just in front of his face.
Somewhere beyond the wall of wood, he heard screams. He assumed it was their own ranged troops. But he did not know.
Then another round of arrows slammed into his shield, more metalheads slammed into that thin piece of wood that protected his life, this time one of them was caught and stopped by his mail.
"Gods almighty…" his brother whined at his side.
"It'll be alright. So long as the shield wall-" Another wave of arrows and bolts slammed into them, bringing his speech to a halt.
"So long as the shield wall holds, we won't die to arrows."
He was right. Well over twenty volleys were loosened at the wall, and sure, a few died, but the was, wast majority of the men around them that he could see had survived the deadly rain.
Of course, there was the other problem that several arrows and bolts had gone so deep that they'd linked shields together.
Which became a problem as the next move of the battle came.
"SPEARS FORWARD AND READY!"
Tom swore as he had to wrench his arrow-riddled shield away from his brother's shield, but also his other neighbor Tywin.
As they finally managed it, and the shields from the men behind that had covered his head were suddenly pulled back, he once more got a sight of the sky, and a breath of fresh, spring air.
And he got a good look at the sight ahead of him.
Fear struck him then. As a horde of men with pikes was running right at him with a roar of rage. Thousands and thousands of voices were raised in hate and wrath.
He lifted his shield and braced himself. His shield, the center of the world, his one and only hope for salvation.
The large, round piece of wood that his liege lord had handed him, made of oak, and rimmer with leather, that was currently riddled with arrows and crossbow bolts.
Two long, sharp points of steel slammed into the shield, and through.
He was hit with such force that he was slammed, straight into the man behind him with a vicious impact!
As he heard the man behind him swear, he thought I'm dead. I'm Fucking dead. They punched through and killed me.
But no, though he felt two points in his guts blossom with pain, he wasn't dead yet. The mail and gambison had stopped both, though he felt the trickle of something run down his gut. The shield had slowed both pikes down enough that they hadn't managed to kill him.
As it was, he was completely incapable of doing anything, shoved up against the man behind as he was. But the pikemen who'd nearly killed him were now left in the position that they were as entangled with his shield as he was.
Suddenly, without warning, the pressure lifted.
Both men had been struck down by spears from his fellow men.
Sounds all around told of men screaming, dying, bleeding, crying. The smell of blood and shit had hit the battlefield with the same force as one of the arrows.
Pikes, spears, and halberds were thrust at each other, with vigor and rage as two lines of men tried their damndest to make sure the other died.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
The line of men in front of him retreated, men, swearing, but pulling out with a retreat that seemed almost graceful.
He fell forward and barely managed to avoid stumbling and falling on his face, catching himself just in time.
Gods his shield was heavy! The weight of the still stuck pikes made it both unwieldy, and heavy as sin.
Below, he saw a shield that was not covered in pikes and… It was Tywin's. He had a large hole in his neck, from out of which blood poured profusely.
Don't think about it, just take his shield. You need the shield.
He dropped his spear and was about to rip open the leather strap that kept it around his wrist… Then froze as a terror unlike any other he had ever felt crept it's way into his bowels.
Up in front of them, as the pikemen retreated after their first clash, the crossbowmen and archers were once more stepping forth and lining up, and at almost completely close range.
Several dozen or so, right in front of his part of the army.
They took aim, then with a shout, they all fired, all at once.
Against all luck, he wasn't hit.
The bite of the arrows however hit all around him, and dozens of men fell screaming.
It was as they loaded their second volley, that it happened.
They broke.
The front lines, or at least their section of the lines, broke to pieces, as the men in front not dead or dying, immediately threw down their weapons and began trying to escape.
Some ran straight into the wall of men behind them, others managed to force their way through.
This caused chaos, and as the second volley hit, the men in the second rank were practically fighting with the men in front as the arrows fell.
No shield wall was there to soften the blow of the arrows this time.
Just before the arrows hit, Tom had managed to loosen his shield, and grabbing his brother, one of the few that had stupidly remained to hold his shield up against the arrows, by the arm, he threw himself and him down flat on the ground, or as close as they could get.
The deadly rain soared over them, and once more it was followed by screams.
Then, as the crossbow bolts sang again, he dragged his brother up. William didn't need help and practically burst up, covered in blood and dirt, and followed as Tom dragged him after him.
As he'd hoped the way was clearer now. Their section of the line had completely broken, leaving nothing but men who were either fleeing or dying.
Now the only thing to hope was that they would not be killed by arrows as they ran.
They were relatively lucky. William took two crossbow bolts, but both hit the loose part of his armor where there was no flesh to render asunder. And Tom miraculously didn't take any on the first, or the second volley after they ran.
As he ran, feeling the pain from what he had no doubt were two hard bruises under his shirt, a crossbow bolt slammed straight into his left forearm.
Remarkably unlucky, the bolt hit right through the hole of one of the rings, punching DEEP into his skin.
He screamed, stumbled, and fell to the ground.
His brother was there, almost immediately afterwards, trying to drag him up. As he stumbled up, he at any time expected more crossbow bolts.
They weren't at the close-range kill distance anymore but even armored, a bolt at this range could be plenty lethal, as his poor arm could attest.
But this time, no further arrows came.
As he staggered his way to his feet, he looked back over the lines.
They weren't the only spots where the lines had broken, but the majority of the line had held.
That, however, didn't matter. One hole would have been enough, and the peasant levy had half a dozen. Through which now poured a sea of knights.
The only thing that he could focus on at the moment, was the horrible, horrible pain in his arm, but he understood that the day was lost.
He had been in plenty of battles where the opposite had happened after all. He knew the power of knights that were able to move behind their enemy and hit them in the rear.
Robert Baratheon had won this battle, the moment his cavalry had managed to make it past the lines, and their own cavalry was nowhere to be seen. Probably having made the wise choice to leave them behind, rather than die fighting.
It was a horrific sight.
Then, instincts took over, and something made him turn his head sideways.
That something was a rider standing right by them.
Storms, when had he gotten there?
The horse was unarmored and unadorned of sigils or equipment save the saddle and what came with it. The rider wore less armor than he or his brother, with but a full coat of chainmail and a surcoat over it. However, he had a long, narrow, and steel-tipped lance pointed right at William's face.
"Yield, or die."
He looked into those blue eyes. On his blue surcoat, was the image of a fish with a crown on it's head.
There was no mercy in those cold, blue eyes.
"We yield." He croaked.
"Yeah… Yield." William said, in an ashen tone.
I
They were rounded up along with the rest of the survivors who had surrendered, rather than managed to flee. He didn't know how many there were of them.
It was hard to tell, given they were all, one giant block of men, and at all sides, he was surrounded by men.
On a large rock, more a giant boulder that looked like a small plateau with it's flat top, stood a man in immaculate steel armor, covered by blood.
The giant antlered helmet he wore made his identity clear enough.
Robert Baratheon. The King who had overthrown the Targaryen dynasty.
The giant of a man lifted something to the breathing holes of his armor, that looked like nothing, so much as a giant, hollow arrowhead with a handle. As Robert held it, the pointy end was towards himself.
His forearm throbbed, where the arrow was still stuck in it.
He needed it out as soon as possible and to clean the wound.
Provided he made it out of this alive.
"MEN OF THE WEST!"
He flinched. And he was not the only one.
Robert's Baratheon's voice was… Astonishingly powerful. It boomed and echoed through the valley.
"I AM ROBERT BARATHEON! KING OF WESTEROS. BUT YOU ALL KNOW THAT ALREADY. AND I HAVE AN OFFER FOR YOU LOT. YOUR LORDS ARE TRAITORS AND REBELS! THEIR LIVES ARE FORFEIT, WHETHER THEY CHOOSE TO FIGHT OR FLEE. YOU, HOWEVER, ARE COMMON MEN, WHOSE ONLY CRIME WAS ANSWERING THE CALL TO ARMS WHEN YOUR LIEGE LORD CALLED YOU. AS SUCH I HAVE LITTLE WISH TO KILL YOU IF THAT IS WHAT YOU FEAR."
He twitched.
More like than not, Robert's forces had killed him already, regardless of what the king wanted.
"MY OFFER TO YOU IS SIMPLE. FIGHT FOR ME. THE REBEL LORDS WILL HOLE UP IN THEIR CASTLES AND WILL HAVE TO BE ROOTED OUT, SO THEY CAN DANGLE ON A NOOSES ROPE. MY ALLIES OF BRAAVOS WILL MARCH FORTH TO LAY A DOZEN SIEGES. THOSE WHO WISH FOR A ROYAL PARDON, AND BE PROVIDED WITH THE AID OF A MAESTER, FOOD, AND GUIDES TO GET BACK TO THEIR HOMES ONCE THE BATTLE IS OVER, WILL HAVE TO EARN IT. SWEAR YOURSELVES TO ME, AND GIVE ME YOUR OATHS THAT NOT ONLY WILL YOU FIGHT FOR MY CAUSE, BUT ONCE THIS IS OVER, YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN TAKE UP SWORD AGAINST HOUSE BARATHEON. THOSE WHO DOES NOT WISH TO FIGHT… WILL BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE. ONCE THEY HAVE SURRENDERED ALL ARMS AND ARMOR, AND WILL NOT BE PROVIDED WITH GUIDES HOME, NOR FOOD OR PROVISIONS. SO, WILL YOU FIGHT FOR ME, AND THROUGH SERVICE EARN BACK YOUR RIGHT TO GO HOME TO YOUR FAMILIES IN PEACE? TELL MR, AYE, NOR NAY?"
He looked to his side at William, who looked as astonished as he felt at the proposal. Then they both looked down at his arm.
Their voices joined 3651 others.
"AYE!"
I
Robert Baratheon was as good as his word. One of his Maesters did help him.
Of course, the pain of removing a bolt from his arm, and then pouring boiling wine over it, made that mercy and compassion feel more like torture. But he would live. And he would get to keep his arm.
I
Denny Blueflowers stared out across the ship's railing, holding his horse firmly by it's reins, along with the other 20 knights on deck.
He saw the sight of gold in the distance, long before the details of the cursed city came into focus.
Yunkai.
Ghizcari.
The very name brought bile to his mind.
Denny had hated Robert and all the rest of the men who had driven him and the Tyrell coalition out of the Reach.
He had thought he could never, in his life, come to hate anyone more than he hated Robert.
He had been naive. Robert was a bastard. But he was still a man. A human being.
The monsters who ruled in Slaver's Bay were not men. There was no definition of man, or woman for that matter, that these… These… Things in human skin would fall under.
The Ghizcari were abominations against EVERYTHING good in the world.
He had seen his exile as a horrible, horrible thing. It had been coming to Astapor, and it's red streets, that had opened his eyes, to his duty. His place in the world.
THIS was where the gods wanted him.
It was a purpose grander than any he could ever have had in Westeros.
As they finally sailed into the harbor of the yellow city, and the ship went up to the edge of the stone edges of the city, the boards of planks slammed down, connecting the boats to the harbor itself.
And down from there marched the Unsullied, with a lockstep proficiency, unlike any peasant levy he had ever seen.
Screams already began to fill the confused harbor.
The fools hadn't had any defenses ready. Not warships, not a chain, not soldiers of any kind.
He might have felt sorry for them… But as he trotted his horse down the gangplank, he saw a cross at the side of the harbor, with a child… a crying child.
He immediately turned his horse to the side as their legs touched the yellow stone, and trotted up to the cross.
All around him, blood began to flow, screams began to flow as Unsullied went to work, and his fellow knights began to saddle up, and go to work.
He didn't notice any of it, his focus being on the boy, as if he was the only thing that mattered.
It was a horrible sight.
The boy's eyes had been pecked out by birds, and similarly had they destroyed his loins.
He couldn't have been older than 8, the same age he'd been when he'd become a page.
His legs had both been broken at the knees, then both legs had been forced together and nailed through.
The wrists had also been nailed through, though pieces of rope were what truly held him up, and on the cross.
He considered cutting the boy down… but decided against it. There was nothing he could do for this boy now. Save, give him a final, quick and painless mercy.
When he stepped up and into the saddle a while later, his spear was coated in blood.
Then, with a cold, burning rage in his heart, he rode to do his part in the liberation of this city.
His horse smashed Ghizcari over, left and right, and trample them underfoot.
He didn't use his spear on any though. He used that to give the gift of mercy to others on the cross.
There wasn't one of them that didn't have some sort of additional, pre-inflicted journey that had doomed them to die on that blasted piece of wood, even if by some miracle they were released.
His heart filled with rage and hatred that only grew and grew for every crucified slave he found.
The septas and septons had told him it was his duty to do this, to liberate these slaves and do the Work of the Seven. As if he needed them, to tell him that!
As he saw slaves who had had horrible things done to them to make them look bizarre, or monstrous, the feeling of complete, and total certainty flowed stronger, and stronger as he and his horse trampled scared Ghizcari, after scared Ghizcari into the ground.
The other knights either did the same or used a sword to deal the Gods' justice on these monsters.
The Unsullied, like a silent wave, used their spears, and also freed any slave they across. Glorious.
Yes indeed… He had never felt like a truer knight than as he rode down Ghizcari, after Ghizcari.
So much suffering, so much, death, so much slavery.
What true son of the Seven could stand by, and watch these horrors happen without doing anything about it? Much less a knight sworn to protect the innocent?
As the hours went on, blood, gore, and dead bodies began to cover the street as it had done at Astapor, as the Ghizcari slave city of Yunkai died an ingnomous, and unmourned death.
At the end, as the red sun set on the Yellow city, tens of thousands of corpses of men, women, and quite a few children were stuffed in bags with rocks and dumped into the bay of Grief.
And Denny Blueflower, never slept better.
I
Tywin the Maester had worried greatly about the delivery of the Queen's child.
He had never seen the procedure taking place before, and as such he was both immensely worried, and academically fascinated by seeing the thing in practice.
In all honesty, it ended up being a complete and total letdown. It was neither dramatic, tense, nor drawn out.
In fact, compared to every other birth he'd been a part of, it went about remarkably quickly. Not even a single hour.
Adding to the abnormal smoothness of it, the queen passed out from the pain as the knife began doing it's work, which made it all much, much smoother.
That made the delivery of the boy a much easier procedure, and he came into the world squealing and crying. A good sign.
And then, when that was all said and done, he'd cleaned the wound with a rag dipped in some… Thing the Rhoynar of old had used to clean their cesspools, the healer from the east simply sewed the wound up with catgut thread.
And that was that.
"And now to wait, and see if infection will set in, or she recover." Daario said as he began cleaning his hands in the same bucket of water that had been used to cleanse the newborn babe. It had been clean then, but the boy's bath had dirtied it quite a bit.
Donal snorted.
"You better pray to your heathen gods that it does. If she actually DOES die of infection, Robert will have ALL our heads."
The Queen of Westeros awoke later that evening.
And of course, she wanted to see her son.
Tywin would have protested, but right now he was willing to do anything to prevent the queen from rising out of bed before the wound had healed.
So he obliged, bringing the boy, and his wetnurse.
He handed the boy to her, gently, carefully, and the queen responded in kind.
Afterwards, as the queen held him tight, and let him suckle her breast for milk, Tywin leaned against the closed window and looked out over the red mountains of Dorne.
"Jacaerys."
Tywin turned his head and looked at her with a confused brow.
"I beg your pardon, your grace?"
"His name. It shall be Jacaerys. Jacaerys Sand".
"Um… As you say, your grace. You are his one surviving parent. It is your right alone to name him."
He scrambled his brain for the name.
Jacaerys… There was some historical significance to that name… But what was it? There was a prince that had once had that name… Which one was that? No matter. He'd have to read it up later.