Author's Note: Hello again, and apologies for the wait!
The new job is going good thankfully, though it does leave very little time to write. Sorry this took so long, but I hope you enjoy this update! I'll try to get another one out quicker, but many of you know how that often works with me haha. Y'all rock.
As always, I hope you enjoy and review this chapter. And Happy belated Mother's Day to any potential mothers out there! God bless you for all you do!
Damon was out of his tent with a sword in his hand by the time the horn abruptly ended.
His men were nearly as fast, shouts of warning and alarm filling the air as other sentries echoed the horn blast of the first. His men, most of them dressed only in breeches and hastily put on boots, scurried out of the rows of Lannister crimson and Tyrell green tents like bees from a disturbed hive, sprinting towards lines of shields and spears.
Damon sprinted as well, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Face the west, the west! Shieldwall!" It was the only logical direction for a variety of reasons; while Damon still wasn't certain where exactly Robb Stark and his northern raiders were, they were still somewhere in the Westerlands, likely between his current position a few days ride from Payne Hall and Lord Damon Marbrands position in Sarsfield. Also, the first horn—the warning he'd ordered his sentry's to give if they were alerted—had come from that direction.
And, judging by how abruptly it had ended, Damon doubted the man who blew it was playing any sort of trick.
His thoughts were confirmed when a handful of riders, no more than twenty, burst over the crest of a hill, shouting and yelling as they spurred their garrons towards the Prince's encampment. They each carried a torch in one hand, illuminating the night around them. It was a terrifying tactic to be sure, but only half as alarming as the sudden wave of flame lighting the sky over them, as a volley of flaming arrows came cutting down over the camp.
The shots had been fired blindly for the most part, and likely at maximum bow range, but while only a small number of them hit feasible targets they did disconcert the Baratheon prince's sleepy men, breeding a touch of panic as men ducked to avoid the falling flame while still being ridden down upon by mounted foes. Damon never stopped running, through blind luck or the will of the Seven avoiding even a close call with any of the arrows. Thanks to that, he was among the first of his men to reach the attacking Northmen.
They'd set a handful of tents ablaze by the time he took one of their number by surprise, the Prince driving the point of his blade under the northerner's ribs and into his chest at an upwards angle. He fell from his horse with only a bloody gargle and a thud, nearly wrenching the Prince's blade from his hands. Damon quickly vaulted onto the dead man's horse, a sorrel mare of slight build, and kicked her towards another of the interlopers.
And, to Damon's utmost surprise, the Northman turned and galloped back the way he had come.
Just as they had at Harroway moons ago, the northerners disappeared as soon as they had struck, leaving Damon with nothing but an unorganized and burning camp. The Prince nearly kicked his captured mount after them, but common sense had him rein the sorrel to a stop instead. Damon was the only mounted man he saw in the light of the fires, aside from his enemies rapidly getting away. Many of his men were already fighting the scattering of fires, and while he'd only seen score of rebel riders the arrows from earlier hinted at greater numbers out of sight. Riding after them with a small contingent would be risky; riding after them single handed would be suicide.
It would be dumb for Damon to get himself captured, and even dumber to get himself killed.
And, unlike at Harroway, Damon had larger concerns than chasing the raiders or even helping his men fight the fires. He whirled his borrowed mare around and galloped towards the center of the camp, to a single tent where three women were staying under the current guard of Garlan Tyrell.
The Reachman was at the ready near the entrance, sword in hand. Tyrek, who apparently had had the same idea as Damon, came around the corner of Lady Sansa's tent at the same time, Lannister-green eyes checking for any fire. Bella, dressed only in a shift, stood peeking over Garlan's back, stepping out as she recognized the Prince dismounting at the front.
"We're fine," she said before Damon could even ask. "Remain out here, though, my Prince; Sansa is dressing."
"None of the arrows came near here, Your Grace," Garlan supplied, his fighting stance relaxing slightly. "With your leave, I'll organize the firefighting efforts."
I should have thought of that; it should be my responsibility. Instead Damon had been concerned for his hostage; the risk he was taking in bringing Sansa outside of King's Landing's walls hadn't truly sank in until the arrows began falling all around them. All it would have taken was one unfortunate arrow and all his plans and hopes would be as dead as his father. "Of course, Garlan. I'll be behind you in just a moment."
He waited a split second for Garlan to stride away before stepping in close to Bella. "Are you all well?"
She nodded, and Damon recognized her tense but prepared expression as one he often saw on his soldiers. With a start, Damon realized his paramour had been around nearly as many battles as he himself had. "Yes. The maiden and the crone were both startled, but whole."
"I'm fine as well," Tyrek piped in, cocking a brow at his friend. "Thank you for your concern."
Damon ignored him, instead placing a quick kiss to Bella's brow. "Calm Sansa down and get her back into bed, although I realize she won't sleep well."
"No, I won't," came an unexpected voice from the entrance. Sansa Stark stood in the entrance, only her head visible; she was using the flap of the tent to help conceal whatever she did or didn't have on behind it. Damon found the sight to be highly erotic, and cursed himself for thinking with the wrong head as his camp was literally burning. "Was it my brother, Your Grace?"
Damon saw no point in lying, even if he had to swallow once before he could speak. "Yes. Or at least some of his men."
"So he is close then."
Damon didn't know what to make of that, but he knew where it could have been leading. The last thing he needed was the meek and guarded hostage in front of him to start getting ideas. "Close enough to accidentally kill you, yes, or to get you killed by one of my men at the very least. Return to your tent, Lady Stark." He looked to Tyrek, then shot a glance at Bella. "Cousin, you are on guard until I return. You as well, Bella."
He didn't have to tell them just what to guard for.
He only suffered a mere three men killed, all of them sentries, and less than a dozen wounded in the raid, and returned the favor by killing two of the Northmen. But as Damon had learned that night, setting fires and killing hadn't been the Northern intent. A number of the northmen had, under the cover of the arrows and the charging men with torches, managed to steal a third of his horses out from under him.
Damon didn't know if he was more embarrassed or more pissed, but he was leaning towards the former.
By the second raid days later he was prepared for horse theft, moving all of them to a more central camp location, but was instead rewarded with several burning wagons of provisions. The third raid was merely a volley of blindly fired arrows that managed to kill an ox and wound a washerwoman, as well as cot his men half a night of rest. The fourth tried for the horses again though it was successfully beaten back after a handful of northern losses, while the fifth and sixth raids were more attempts to burn down the camp.
While none of the subsequent attacks were half as damaging as the first, each managed to make his men more and more uneasy at night as well as make Damon all the more agitated. He almost wished Robb would attack him head on and get it all over with, and to hell with whoever won.
On the seventh raid, that very nearly happened.
Damon was more surprised by it than any of the others, mainly because it was carried out in broad daylight. The Prince was the the head of his column, Ser Balon Swann on one side and Ser Philip Foote the other, riding through a wooded stretch in the eastern Westerlands, when without a war cry or horn or any indicator he was suddenly in the fight for his life.
They galloped out of the trees in heavier numbers than any of those he'd faced yet on this campaign, nearly upon him before Damon even realized he was under attack. The Prince's first concern was for his outriders—their entire purpose was to prevent this sort of thing, and the only way they would have failed so magnificently was if they were magnificently dead—but that concern was soon replaced by a complete focus on remaining alive.
It was difficult.
"To arms!" Ser Balon roared, even as he drew his morningstar and tried to shield Damon form the oncoming wave. The Prince acted on instinct more than anything else, drawing his sword before he was even fully aware of what was going on and bracing himself to meet the approaching enemy. All up and down his line orders were shouted, most of his men rushing towards the front while others fell back to protect the wagons of provisions and supplies. Damon himself gave none of the orders; no sooner had he drawn his sword than the charging northern's were atop him.
He took the first one through the eye after a hard parry and the third he opened from hip to belly, but no sooner had either of them hit the ground than another rammed his garron into Damon's stallion at full speed. Both horses and riders went down, the Prince leaping from his bellowing horse at the last instant. He probably should have died before he even hit the ground, but Ser Balon in his white armor had seen the Prince go down and quite literally came to his rescue, morningstar whipping and whirling as he muscled his horse into the throng beside the Prince. Shouts of "Protect the Prince!" and "Rally to His Grace!" came from behind him as the golden haired knight staggered to his feet amidst the claustrophobic press of horse, man and steel.
Though still slightly off balance, Damon came up swinging. That was probably all that saved his life, for there were so many men trying to kill him—and just him, it seemed—that he would have been skewered a dozen times over if he hadn't. He cut a Riverlander's throat and wounded a Northman's arm in the same swing, and only the falling body of the first saved him from a sword to the belly. Damon whirled and danced as his balance returned, simply because that was the only way he could avoid the seemingly hundreds of blades coming for him; he fought by pure instinct and training, and part of him knew that if he tried to put any conscious thought into what he was doing he would be dead in a moment.
He didn't think of Sansa or Bella or even Tyrek. He just fought, mind blank and arm red.
He couldn't even remember when or how he ended up back on a horse at all, much less how he made it all the way back onto his own stallion. He could feel the blood running down his face and arm as he swung but couldn't tell you how most of it got there, noticed but didn't comprehend Ser Philip Foote falling under the rising ocean of dead horses and men around him, took note of but didn't truly see Garlan Tyrell and his Reachman rear guard crashing into the fighting with lance and sword. He was surprised, truly and utterly surprised, from the moment the Northmen burst from the trees to the moment a column of cavalry under the burning tree banner of House Marbrand appeared over a hill to his front and descended upon the chaos.
The northerners disappeared as soon as they struck, in the near-magic way only they seemed capable of doing. It took several minutes after the last of his opponenets fell before him for Damon to come back to a fraction of his senses.
When he did, it was so thoroughly unpleasant he almost wished he had remained stricken dumb.
Corpses were thick around him, the furs and blues of Starks and Tullys intermixed with the greens and reds of Lannisters and Tyrells. Horses, more than one but probably less than a hundred, screamed in agony, their haunting bellows a sound one could become familiar with but never be unaffected by. Ser Balon Swann, now red from head to toe, held his left hand to a cut in his right forearm, though he was looking down at the Prince concernedly.
Down at... Damon realized he'd lost his horse again, and this time there was likely no chance of finding it in the mess of broken bodies of both man and beast around him. He ached from the top of his once-golden head to the toes of his once-black boots, though both were now colored red with blood and guts. It stank, of sweat and blood and shit, and with a barely-controlled heave Damon realized a finger was curled around his swordbelt.
Just the finger. There was no sign of it's owner once you got below the third joint.
By the time he had removed the stiff appendage with another dry heave, his mind still trying to catch up with all around him, a knight in grey armor and a bronze cloak appeared, his red courser in bronze barding with the burning tree of Marbrand. Ser Addam Marbrand, hair a deep copper and in ringlets to his shoulders, dismounted beside Damon, removing his helm. He spoke, and Damon had to cock his head to hear the man over the dying shrieks of a horse. Or maybe a man, for that matter. "Your Grace, are you alright?"
Damon realized the wounded Ser Balon had been asking that for quite a while. The answer was a resounding fuck no, but Damon had enough of his wits back to know giving that answer would not be appropriate. "I am fine, Ser Addam. It appears you arrived just in time."
The knight nodded. "My vanguard and I have been trying to join up with you for several weeks, but we kept getting delayed by raids."
That Damon could relate to. "Aye, the same can be said for us. Though never anything near this size..."
"Your Grace, this was a blatant attempt to kill you before our two forces could meet," Ser Balon chimed in, also having dismounted amid the slaughterfield. His arm still bled heavily.
"I agree," Addam said. "There would have been more Northerners I'm sure, but my lord father has kept the main Stark force relatively limited to the the far western reaches. We're no sure how many other forces Stark has in this area, but judging by this..." He waved at the mass of bodies around them. "I'd imagine more than we'd like to think."
Damon nodded slightly, still fully returning to his senses. "We should regroup in case they hit again. And sort through our losses."
It didn't sink in fully that the entire raid had been solely to kill Damon until a few hours later.
Ser Philip Foote, Damon's prefect, was dead. So were several hundred of his men, and most of Damon's patience.
The Northerners left as many dead on the field as the Southerners, but they also left a score of captives. One of these, a lordling, was as tall and broad shouldered as an Umber, his face pox scarred and determined. He near dwarfed Damon, but the Prince had gotten so angry once he'd fully recovered his wits that he would gladly bare knuckle brawl the giant right there in the middle of his command tent.
Damon took several calming breaths before he spoke, reasoning that he had never been one prone to anger and that this would be the worst possible time to become that way. Besides, this northerner was only fighting the side he had born to, as was Damon. There had been nothing dishonorable about any of the raids, not even the attempt on Damon's life. That was war. This was war.
The Prince was starting to learn that he both loved and hated it.
Only a select few were present; Sers Garlan and Addam, as commanders. Ser Balon, whom Damon had yet to thank but sorely needed to. Tyrek, because Damon had so few friends and desperately needed one right now. The heir to Ramsgate, Hullen Woolfield, though he unlike the others stood in chains.
And Sansa Stark, accompanied by a septa and a whore.
Damon didn't waste time. He was so bloody tired of wasting time. "I assume you know each other." He gestured between Sansa and Hullen.
The Woolfield said nothing. Sansa, after a moment, finally did. "Not personally, Your Grace."
"But you know who she is, don't you Woolfield." Again the man didn't answer, so Damon put an edge to his voice. "Your life depends upon your tongue right now. Use it."
The big man merely cocked a brow, and Damon nearly executed him on the spot for that. Sansa, seeing the change of emotions on the Prince's face and the refusal on the prisoners, quickly interceded. "Yes, I am sure he does. While we haven't spoke, Hullen Woolfield and his sisters were often in Winterfell for hunts and feasts."
Damon nodded. "Excellent. In that case, Hullen, you'll be fully aware of what's about to happen."
The Prince took the entire room by surprise when he subtly withdrew his dagger and took a step towards Sansa, reaching out with his left hand and grasping a handful of her red hair. Bella and Tyrek gasped, Morra and the until-then stoic Woolfield shouted, and Ser Garlan stepped towards him in a rush, but no one could stop him before he struck with the blade.
Sansa, who had been too surprised to move, stared open-mouthed into his emerald eyes for a moment, before looking down at the lock of Tully red hair in his hand.
Damon turned, stepping to the chained Woolfield in one stride, noting the terror of almost seeing his king's sister struck down in cold blood recede from the big man's eyes. "Balon, release him." The Kingsguard did so, though he and Ser Addam both drew there swords before hand. Woolfield rubbed at his chafed wrists. "You are going to bring this memento, a letter and what your own eyes have seen to Robb Stark. You are going to tell him Damon wants a parlay. And you are going to tell him I had best get it, or it won't be Sansa's hair I send to him next."
The Prince near threw the lock of hair at the big man, withdrawing his prepared letter from his belt and thrusting it at Woolfield at the same time. The giant took them, mainly because he had no other choice. The Baratheon Prince turned and started to walk away. "Tyrek, get him a horse and get him out of my sight. Oh, and Hullen." Damon stopped, whirling back around and stare pointedly at the northern lordling. "You are the second envoy I have sent to Robb. Make sure he understands you will also be the last."
The Prince turned again and left without a second glance at anyone.