Author's Note: Hello again!
I've been enjoying writing on this as of late, and I hope you all have been enjoying the resulting chapters! Please keep leaving reviews, as they give me motivation to work even harder and get this story out quickly. Also, even if it doesn't seem like it, I have a plan. For this story, for Damon and his personality, for the major events, yada yada. Trust me!
Y'all rock. As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update.
He may have gone a bit overboard after the Battle of the Three Hills, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret the decision.
After originally chopping the antlers off of his helm in response to them nearly getting him killed, Damon had been set upon by the idea that a visor could just as easily be used to hinder his vision. In the ensuing days as the force moved towards Riverrun, Damon had scrounged up a plain, unadorned helm that had neither crest nor visor, only breathing and eye holes in a solid piece of steel. The battered chunk of armor was a plain grey and didn't match his brilliant black and gold plate in the slightest, but the Prince was still waking to the feel of his neck being twisted by the Riverlander and thusly didn't give much of a whit about how it physically looked. Its fit wasn't the best, but he could cinch the strap tight enough to stop it from moving, which was all Damon was concerned about at this point.
It was in his tent one night, after Bella had run her hand through his blonde curls, that the idea that his own hair might prove to be a liability. His first instinct had been to dismiss the notion of that ever being an issue as absurd; hair went under helms, and helms weren't supposed to come off in battle. But then the very recent fact that his helm had come off in battle—his only battle, so he was technically perfect on losing his helm in the middle of fighting—came rushing back to his head.
Bella had been as surprised by Damon's sudden command that she shear his hair short as by his sudden stop of what he had been doing prior to that. Even then she was adaptable, and after some trial and error Damon's hair had gone from hanging to his shoulders to being closely cropped and, if Damon said so himself, much more suited to him. It made him look older, more wizened…at least in his own mind. Bella agreed, though that might well just be her being prudent enough to always call the Prince who was her current paramour right.
His mother would most likely hate it, but Damon figured he was going to have hell to pay with his mother for all sorts of actions as it were, and this way at least he wasn't quite as worried about his own body being used as leverage in the middle of a battle. That was very relevant, considering he was looking down upon Riverrun and a host of Tully men.
The closer they moved to the castle they now faced, forging deeper and deeper into what the Prince supposed would be called 'hostile territory', the more he relived that first battle from all angles. There had been several moments that he probably should have died, most of them related to bad luck but a few to not reacting fast enough. Damon had taken to practicing with both Tyrek and Jaime of an evening whenever command issues weren't demanding his uncle's attention, both teaching Tyrek alongside Jaime and then battling them both at one time to try and increase his ability to react to the unexpected. He still didn't feel prepared enough, but Jaime had taken him aside and told him that the Prince would never be able to foresee everything. It came to a point of trusting his skill and using his instincts, as Damon had in his first conflict.
Damon was telling himself that over and over as he thundered towards the Rivermen from atop a bay destrier, not as big or flashy as the red he'd lost back on the border of the Riverlands but a well-trained beast of war all the same. The forces of House Tully here far outnumbered those they had faced on the Three Hills, but Damon was certain they still had the advantage. Jaime wouldn't have ordered the quick, bold charge down the throat of the Riverlands if he didn't think it were the case.
Not that his uncle wasn't prepared for a fight, though. Two other columns of mixed cavalry and infantry, again lead by Lords Quenten Banefort and Roland Crakehall, were angling wide, Crakehall and his men angling parallel with the Tumblestone while Banefort and his charged parallel to the Red Fork. Jaime led the force down the center, Damon and Tyrek again with the Kingsguard's column.
The three pronged attack was the best way to assault the castle, or at least the men outside it. Riverrun was a triangular shaped castle, nestled on a triangular piece of ground where the Tumblestone and Red Fork of the Trident met. While not naturally an island, the castle of Riverrun could be made one by the lifting of two sluice gates that would allow the Tumblestone and Red Fork to flood the massive, man-made ditch to the front of Riverrun. A permanent bridge extended over the ditch to a point, but only the lowering of the rest of the bridge from Riverrun's side would complete the road to the castle's gates.
The swarming hornets' nest that was the Riverlander camp was situated outside the castle however, as no holdfast outside of potentially Harrenhal could hold that many men for any amount of time. Damon, despite the jarring of a warhorse running at full speed, could see figures rushing to the walls of Riverrun even as hundreds and hundreds of men ran from the camps to join the defensive lines. The Lords of the Riverlands couldn't have had all that much time to from their defensive lines; scouts under Ser Damion Lannister had done a masterful job of ambushing Tully sentries and scouting parties. Still, they were in the Riverlords homeland, and the presence of a steadily growing defensive front told Damon that his cousin hadn't been entirely successful.
All of that was at the back of his mind however, his focus on the men he was about to try and kill. The fear was still in his gut, potent but not quite as bad as it had been the first time he charged an enemy line. The rush of battle, the same on that had brought his senses to a level he'd never experienced before days earlier, returned in full force, and he once again rose to the terrified, euphoric state that was matched by nothing else.
The Tully banner at the center of the enemy formation grew closer and closer, Damon settling into a place of little thought and instinctual action as the first volleys of arrows fell across them, striking his shield and his destrier's chainmail blanket but finding no purchase in his being. The sound of shrieking horses and men was drowned out by the growing war cry of the Lannister forces as they neared the spears of the Tullys, and Damon found himself bellowing one of his own out as he drew his lion-pommeled blade.
The two sides met in a cacophony of shields splitting, blades clashing and men and horses dying. Damon's mount slipped between two spears, one deflecting off Damon's shield and the other off the chainmail blanket of the horse. Damon's sword cleaved across the latter man's face, his screams ended a moment later by the Prince's second strike. He settled into a rhythm, surprised by how similar this melee was to the one on the border. Strike, parry, curse, strike. The lines were thicker here than they had been at the Hills, and it took much longer to work through the first line of enemy this time before Damon reached the second.
Later, Damon wouldn't remember when or how he ended up on his feet, in the middle of a savage brawl on all sides. He didn't remember falling from his horse or of the creature going down, but all of the sudden he was on the ground, battling a knight in the colors of House Vypren and killing him with a stab through the throat. A hedgeknight followed soon, nearly killing Damon with a backhand before the Prince ducked it and sliced his legs out from under him. Before the Baratheon could finish the man another was in his place, this one thrusting a spear that Damon narrowly avoided. Someone else, still mounted, cut the spearman down as he galloped past, too quick for Damon to see who it was. The screams of the hedgeknight from before had stopped in conjunction with the rider galloping across the place in which he had fallen, the wounded man likely crushed by the stomping hooves.
The Prince never had a chance to find out for himself even if he had been so inclined, for when one enemy fell another was certain to take his place instantly. A bright line of pain bit into his upper left arm when, while battling a man-at-arms in nondescript armament and a knight in the blue and white of Wayn, he didn't get his shield around in time to completely deflect away a downward strike at the chainmailed flesh below the pauldron. The sweeping slash cut deep and made both his arm and his mouth scream in pain, taking his concentration away along with the strength in his left arm, his shield dropping as his right, while still gripping his sword, instinctually went towards the wound where blood welled out of the split chainmail and boiled leather.
It left him open to the other man, who moved forward with a thrust. Only Damon's armor saved him, the well-made plate able to deflect the hastily-aimed blow off to the side. Still in pain but suddenly both angry and absolutely terrified, he brought his sword back from reaching towards the wound in a vicious backhand with all his strength, nearly decapitating the man-at-arms who had stepped forward.
The knight—the one to wound him—struck again, aiming for Damon's now-weak left side. The Prince sidestepped, but the toe of his right boot caught on the still falling man-at-arms, and Damon sank to a knee. The unintentional move may well have saved him, for the Wayn knight had swung his blade in a roundhouse blow after missing the downward strike. As the blade whistled over Damon's head, the Prince stabbed forwards, sinking the blade into the joint at the groin, blade digging deep where the pelvis and leg met and hearing the knight scream in response. The momentum of the knight falling helped Damon withdraw his blade as he gathered his feet, fighting through the pain to bring his shield up, blood running over the black chainmail and dripping off of his elbow.
In the slight lull in opponents the Prince was rewarded he heard a deep, close rushing sound. The Prince of the Iron Throne realized he had worked his way down the slope of the huge ditch only when the sluice gates to the Tumblestone opened with a scream of turning wheels and the roar of rushing water.
A moment of panic hit the Prince as he gathered his surrounding; while he wasn't deep into the ditch, the water would overfill its intended walls on the camp side, rising well above the level where the Baratheon's golden head was now. Damon could swim well enough, but not with a wounded arm and certainly not in armor. All thought of battle was gone as the Prince turned and started to scramble back up the incline.
One voice cut through the sounds of war and rushing water. "Help me!"
It was the Wayn knight, one gauntleted hand at the wound in his inner leg and the other reaching towards the man who had struck it. The ditch that was about to be underneath feet of water was full of corpses of both men and horses, as well as living trying to scramble out of the way. And wounded, like the man currently begging the Prince for help, who knew as well as Damon did that they were about to drown.
Damon hesitated, seeing the fear in the man's blue eyes underneath his helm. Logic screamed the reasons he should run; the Tumblestone and Red Fork were large rivers, and the ditch would fill very quickly, leaving Damon limited time to get away from the rushing water. The man was an enemy, and was responsible for the screaming wound on Damon's arm. He'd just been trying to kill the Baratheon prince moment's ago. The knight couldn't walk, courtesy of the Prince's blade, and dragging him out with one good arm couldn't be done quick enough to save him. In fact, it's probably only get Damon killed as well.
Jaime's words screamed in his mind; never hesitate, stay alive, no heroics, your enemy wants to kill you so kill them instead. Amidst it all his own conscience was screaming run, run, run, RUN!
Damon had sheathed his bloody sword, dropped his shield and gripped the knight's outstretched hand with his own before he knew what he was doing, turning and beginning up the gradual incline without another thought.
The man was heavy though not bigly built, most certainly because of his armor. Damon grunted as he started up the rise, fear and the strength brought by the rush of battle all that gave him the ability to keep moving forward. The sound of water grew closer in his ears, as did the sound of creaking wood and rattling chains, all accentuated by the screams of dying men and clashing blades. Damon focused ahead and above him, eyes settling on the back of a dead man in Crakehall brown as a target, pulling his dying enemy behind him.
His world became nothing but the dead man's back, the sound of rushing water and the weakening grip of the knight he was dragging. Thoughts of battle were gone, as was knowledge of where he was or what he was doing besides moving forward and dragging a weight behind him.
When the water struck his ankles Damon lost his footing, falling to his knees. Fear seized his heart, but in response the Prince gripped the Wayn knight's hand with his left and kept scrambling forward on his knees, despite the burning pain on the side of his arm and the exhaustion that had suddenly set in.
The sound of splashing boots came crashing towards him, the water by this point at his waist as he crawled forward on his knees. Damon suddenly remembered he was in the middle of the Riverlands fighting a war, and the renewed strength that thought brought sent him to his feet as he drew his dagger with his left hand, swinging it out aggressively in a wide arc in front of him. His right never let the Wayn knight's hand go, for reasons Damon didn't know.
The astonished face of a man in Lannister red was accompanied by the thundering voice of Ser Lyle Crakehall. "Prince Damon!"
The rest of the world came into focus as Damon recognized the blood-soaked men to be friendly. An authoritative, rough voice filled his ears. "Here, take him! Get his head out of the water!"
He only recognized the voice as his when three men rushed to do so, pulling the Wayn knight further out of the water. The Strongboar, a hulking brute of a man who could probably squash Damon with a meaty fist, gripped the Prince by his right shoulder, even as he shouted for a maester with his eyes on Damon's bloody left arm. The Prince was too focused on what had been a storm of swords and death moments ago, finding that all battle had stopped. Men stood around in various states of coming off their battle highs, corpses littered the ground, and soldiers—victorious Westermen, captured Riverlanders—were interspersed throughout the carnage.
Many of those who stood near where the river's new banks had been established were watching him.
"Your Grace," one of the men who had taken the Wayn knight said, Damon turning to face him. The man in blood-soaked Lannister crimson was crouched beside the prone knight, holding his head out of the water that even here came to Damon's calves. He was shaking his head in confusion. "This man is dead, Your Grace."
Damon stared at the now-glazed eyes of the man in Wayn blue, still locked over his head where he had been staring at the Prince trying to save him. A cloud of red blood was still raising from his submerged waist, the knight having bled out likely before the water even got near to his face.
The Prince could only stare at the dead man as the Strongboar ushered him out of the water, speaking of getting farther from the walls before archer fire focused in on them.
Damon said nothing, as was his norm. He thought nothing, either, mind as empty as the Wayn knight's eyes for a long, long time.
Bella was content to leave him in silence that night once he'd sated his desires, realizing his mind was locked on something from the battle earlier that day that it could not escape and was best left in peace. He lay in his usual position, this time minus alcohol, the whore slowly stroking his ribs as she had taken a habit to doing.
"Talk."
It took slender woman by surprise, that fact evident in her voice. "What?"
"Talk."
"About what?"
Damon took her arms, pulling them tightly around him like a blanket even though his eyes were far away, remembering something he wanted desperately to forget. "Anything. Everything. Just…talk."
After a moment of hesitation, she started. Slowly at first, then warming to the narrative, aware that the Prince was looking for a voice to focus on, not a conversation. She knew she would get no answers.
So Bella spoke of Wayfarer's Town. Of her father, a crofter until his death of a fever. Of her little sister and mother, both taken by that same illness within a few days of each other, leaving a Bella of two and ten to fend for herself in a cruel world. Of her nicer patrons. Of her worst.
The whore spoke long into the night, long after the Prince in her arms fell asleep. When she finally extracted herself from behind him and snuggled close to his side, she saw his face was, at least for then, at peace.