For her planned daytime meeting with Caleotte, Jonquil arrived in a less secretive way. Since she intended to talk to him, there was no chance of him not recognizing her, so she didn't have to bother with being stealthy.
The Sunflowers and the Little Dragons were in front of the latter's quarters, rehearsing on a makeshift stage (a little) and arguing (mostly).
"We need to have some time left for the fireworks!" insisted a red-haired young man, who, Jonquil vaguely recalled, played the king in The Brave Queen. Now he was dressed in some probably wooden bluish-white armor and a blue cloak.
"Would the Great Other even use fireworks?" the old Greenblooder asked. He was wrapped in a grey-and-white fur coat, clearly portraying a Stark, and Jonquil wondered how he managed to breathe at all, considering how warm the spring sun was today. "I would say he would be the one for quick but terrifying attacks."
"What are you suggesting? That the northmen just drop dead and we pretend it's from a terrible frost?"
"You can stage a blizzard."
"How? By swishing sand around the stage?" scoffed a petite woman from the Dragons in a green dress and hooded cloak. "We need something effective! Something bright! You didn't even follow the instructions for The Penance – you had the Seven appear to the High Septon instead of the queen!"
"Her Grace never disagreed with our decision!" Mistress Myribeth snapped. "Garris is right – fireworks for the Great Other sound stupid. But, Garris, we do have to do something grand with the Other's appearance, now that we have all this fancy machinery. How about we get him to bring down the Wall?.."
Jonquil walked almost right to the stage and slightly tapped her boot against the ground.
"Oh! Lady Darke!" Myribeth was of course the first one to put on a polite smile and curtsy. "Does Her Grace require anything from us?"
"Not directly, but I need to talk to Master Caleotte," said Jonquil.
Caleotte, dressed like a northern warrior, gave a start but followed her down the stage. Jonquil even went a few feet away, so that the rest of the mummers wouldn't be able to overhear.
"Yes, my lady, how may I be of service?" he asked when they were far enough.
She weighed her options. At first she planned to be circumspect about it, getting to the truth with minor hints. However, now that she thought of it again, it wasn't the best path to take: Caleotte was probably alarmed by her visit already, so trying to gradually win his trust would only unnerve him more. A blunt question could result in a flat-out denial of any wrongdoing, but – well – Jonquil hadn't worked as a guard for more than fifteen years now for nothing. She prided herself she could recognize it when someone attempted to lie – at least as crudely as people usually did when the questioning began unexpectedly.
"Why and where do you sneak out every night?" she asked sharply. Sharpness and an assured voice were the key to success. He needed to see that she knew almost everything and was certain she could get him to reveal the rest.
The Reachman's cheeks grew brick-red, and his eyes went round with shock. It was obviously something more serious than secret brothel visits.
"Are you plotting against Her Grace?" Jonquil continued.
"No!" he exclaimed, aghast. "No, never! I..." he swallowed, looking down. "Please, Lady Darke, can it remain between the two of us? Even the Dragons don't know. Not yet, at least."
"As long as it doesn't pose a threat, you can trust me," she said, now intrigued. He didn't seem to lie when he denied taking part in a plot – so what was the reason for his excursions after all?
"I," Caleotte lowered his voice so much that even she had to strain her ears to hear him, "I... My lady, I haven't become a mummer because I wanted to. I hoped to become a soldier and maybe one day a knight. But when I was about ten, my sight started to fail. At first I had troubles seeing things in the dark, but then, little by little, it spread to daytime as well. Now I am almost three-and-thirty, and I can't see a thing after sunset, and even right now, all I can see is blurry shapes. I visit a maester every night, in the strictest secret, and try to find a potion to help me, but so far..." his voice faltered, "there's been no improvement."
Jonquil stared at him in incredulity:
"But why all the secrecy? Why do you go there at night at the speed of a snail? Why not in daytime, when you can see at least a part of the road?"
"I'm a mummer, my lady, and a below-average one at that," Caleotte said sadly. "For me to attract viewers at all, I need to keep up my image of a dashing hero. That's what girls in the audience fall in love with. They don't think why a dashing hero wastes his time in a troupe – they need to see him. And what sort of a hero can barely see the prop sword in his own arm?"
"But you have a good voice, Master Caleotte," she pointed out. "Why don't you become a musician?"
"With my eyesight? I'll still need at least a couple of guards to protect me. I won't be able to survive on my own on the road. And as for being part of a troupe... I assure you, my lady, playing a great warrior pays better than merely playing the lute. I hope that by the time my eyesight fails completely or Myribeth kicks me out of the Sunflowers... whichever happens first... I'll save up enough for a small house of my own and a servant or two. Mayhaps I'll continue to earn a few pennies with my singing too."
Now that Jonquil knew what it was all about, she berated herself for not having realized it before. The slightly blank look of Caleotte's large blue eyes that she didn't even fully register at first and attributed to his stupidity, his excellent hearing (she had met with a few blind people and knew that their other senses grew sharper, as if to make up for the loss of eyesight), the way he rarely ever left the troupe's cart...
"Master Caleotte," she said firmly, "I know that I promised you to keep your secret, and I will if you wish me to, but I ask you to allow me to bring the matter before Her Grace. I can assure you she will not shame you, but she – or, better to say, Grand Maester Elysar – might find a way to help your eyes."
"But what would she think if she next goes to watch our performance?" Caleotte asked miserably.
"You can be certain that she doesn't go there to gaze at you," Jonquil chuckled. "Her Grace will have no trouble with your acting."
Quickly, as if he was himself afraid to change his mind, Caleotte gave a nod.
"May I go, my lady?" he asked awkwardly. "The rehearsal's still underway... Myribeth doesn't like us being late..."
"Yes, of course. I will speak to the queen, and she will probably consult Grand Maester."
"Yes, my lady."
"What's the name of the maester you visit in the city?"
"Maester Gorrel," Caleotte murmured as he turned to leave, and Jonquil wondered if he was still unhappy with the decision they made, so desperate was he to keep his condition a secret. Perhaps he only agreed to her suggestion because he was frightened of repercussions against the Sunflowers.
So many years spent on the road must have taken their toll, Jonquil mused to herself. It's not that easy to stop being afraid.
She knew that feeling only too well, having lived through Maegor's tyranny and then been suddenly released from it by the monster's death.
Anyway, her spying task was almost accomplished: she had to double-check Caleotte's story with that Maester Gorrel (though she was certain that now he had told her the truth), and then she would get finally back to her main job. Sneaking around stopped being her main occupation more than two decades ago, and Jonquil decidedly enjoyed it a lot less than straightforward guarding and fighting.
The mountains were a treacherous place. Mandon learned it very quickly. Paths that seemed safe as sound turned to be more slippery than ice, seemingly comfortable slopes grew so steep that only a monkey would dare to scale them, and of course their Dornish enemies knew these mountains better than anyone honestly had a right to.
There was no chance of a head-on battle in this labyrinth of peaks, ravines and rocks, but Lord Rogar hadn't been planning one. He sent Lord Dondarrion with his marcher knights to the west of the mountains and was now advancing from the east, having divided his force into a few lesser battalions.
With a dragon, of course, it would have been much easier to track down the outlaws, but even without Silverwing's help, they were gradually closing in on them.
And tonight, Mandon's men became the one who found the lair of Borys Baratheon.
Well, "lair" was just how he called it to make his feat more impressive. It was a small cave, and Mandon found it by being quite generous with a couple of captured prisoners. He promised them a full pardon and a place in Lord Rogar's service if they revealed Borys's favorite tracks. Considering Lord Rogar didn't have much time left, it wouldn't be his fault if there was no one's service for them to get into.
(The pardon, however, he obtained immediately, signed by Rogar and everything. If he had these two executed now, it would discourage any sort of future assistance from captives in the future).
"The next morning, I'm going to kill that man," Lord Rogar announced as they got closer to the cave in almost pitch-black darkness. "Ser Mandon, you have my gratitude for letting me have my revenge."
"I only did my duty, my lord," Mandon bowed. "I am happy to have been of service."
His thoughts, however, were far less timid. Lord Rogar's gratitude was a nice boon, and since he spoke about it in front of several of his commanders, it could even be remembered after the war even in the event of Rogar's death on the march. However, there was still no guarantee that gratitude could get him anywhere.
Mandon quickly realized what he needed to truly make a lasting impression: he needed to fight Borys Baratheon by himself. Borys wasn't quite a giant, but he was very heavy and strong and a fabled warrior – much more skilled and dangerous than the actual Vulture King, who, judging by what Mandon learned from the prisoners, was pretty average in a fight.
But Rogar was absolutely adamant about slaying his treasonous brother himself, and Mandon understood that simply asking him for the honor to fight Borys wouldn't get him anywhere.
He thought about slipping Rogar some milk of the poppy. Weakened, he would be killed in the fight, and Mandon would step up himself.
But he quickly figured out it was far from the ideal solution. First, should Rogar die, there would be trouble getting the leaderless army back to the stormlands. Some commanders could go rebellious themselves, especially since the mountains are such a convenient hiding-place. Second, with how fragile Rogar's health was now, there was a risk of the milk of the poppy poisoning him before the battle. Third, Mandon didn't want to get anyone from the Kingdoms' army needlessly killed.
After weighing his options, he finally came up with an idea. It was risky, to be sure, but no more risky than any of the battles they had already been through, and, moreover, should it fail, there was no way it could be traced back to him.
He went to one of his two captured informers, a young Reach-born outlaw called Ronnel.
"I have bad news," he told him as he gave him a large slice of bacon (the prisoners were kept on bread and water). "Lord Rogar is planning to rescind your pardon."
"What?" Ronnel cried out. "The bloody motherf..."
"Wait, listen and be quiet," Mandon hissed. Ronnel was transported in a small cart in the rear of the army, and few actual fighters were in the vicinity, but there was always the danger of someone overhearing you. "I'll release you, and you can get him killed in battle."
"And why would you be so helpful?" the Reachman raised an eyebrow. Mandon chuckled:
"I want to marry Lady Jocelyn, but Rogar rejected my suit outright, saying I'm 'too lowborn'. Rather big from someone whose grandpa was a bastard, don't you think? I'm only eight-and-ten, so I can't best a hulk like him in a fight myself. If you help me along, you won't find me ungrateful when I become Lord of Storm's End."
"Jocelyn Baratheon has an older brother," Ronnel pointed out, but Mandon could see he was clearly considering the offer already.
"Does she now?" Mandon smiled. "He is merely a boy, and boys are liable to get into... unfortunate accidents."
Mandon did think of going for Jocelyn if, by some misfortune, the marriage with Alarra fell through. Being the queen's little sister and now a ward of the crown, Jocelyn, too, could grow up to wield significant power at court. The main drawback, though, was her age: she was a child of seven, and eight years would have to pass until he could safely try to win her affections (apparently, Queen Alysanne thought that the marry-at-thirteen rule only applied to her – quite the relic of Exceptionalism there, he thought sarcastically). Of course, he never really planned to kill Boremund – just like in Alarra's case, he had no particular wish to inherit Storm's End (especially since there were several more male Baratheon cousins alive and kicking). The heart of power in the Seven Kingdoms was the Red Keep, and that's where he was going to establish himself.
He pulled out a purse with silver: not too much of it, but enough to impress a commoner outlaw. Indeed, Ronnel's eyes gleamed.
"Rogar is deadly sick and surrounds himself with guards all the time," he continued. "He will only be alone when he goes to fight Borys. Now that's where you come in. I'll mix milk of the poppy into the cart driver's wine and leave the door unlocked. After you hear me cry out Fire!, sneak outside and go to the cave. Tell them you've escaped in the confusion. Manage to win their trust. Then steal Borys Baratheon's helmet and wait for Rogar's approach at first light. The sun will be shining in Rogar's eyes, his vision has been weakened by the disease, and you and his brother have a similar build – he won't realize he's mistaken until after you've run him through."
Mandon handed Ronnel the dirk he took from the latter just a few days earlier:
"To help you get the helmet. Bear in mind: you can certainly try to go on a killing spree at our camp instead, but you will be cut down before you can blink. I've already taken care of that. Either help me kill Rogar – or stay here like a weak greybeard."
Ronnel's fierce expression clearly said what his decision was. Or maybe he realized that there was no way Mandon would let him stay at the camp after this conversation.
In the latter case, maybe he had some brains in his head after all. If he hadn't left for the cave, Mandon would have raised an alarm about his escape attempt and theft of a dirk.
The cart driver, one of Mandon's own men, gladly agreed to share a bottle of Dornish red. In the dark of the night, he didn't notice Mandon pouring the drink onto the ground and his own dark fur cloak, and as for milk of the poppy, its already faint taste was securely disguised thanks to the strength of the wine.
After a couple of cups of Dornish red, Mandon smiled, praised the driver for doing well at his job, and went on to execute the last phase of his plan – or, to be exact, the last phase that truly depended on him.
There was plenty of flintstone in the mountains. It was quite easy to find two suitable pieces thereof, and even easier to light his cloak on fire and put it on the ground close to a nearby cart with supplies (this one carried the bandages and medicines, if he recalled correctly).
Once he saw the flames had spread to the cart, he yelled, with all his might:
"Fire! Fire!"
Within a few moments, the camp was in a panic. First, there was the confusion as to where the fire began (Mandon had to actually shout the instructions to the soldiers about how to get to the cart), then, there was a quarrel about whether to use water to put the flames out (there was precious little water around, so they mostly had to rely on their supplies in that matter as well) – to put it short, when they finally got it done, a good part of the bandages had already been burned.
Oh well, Mandon thought, if everything goes well tomorrow, we won't need them.
His own cloak had burned to ashes, so nobody really remembered who had raised the alarm – once again, the nighttime darkness was Mandon's friend. He had no desire to call attention to himself: it could seem suspicious if too many things happened around him in the space of just a couple of days. First finding the cave, then discovering the fire, and tomorrow... He smiled. Tomorrow, if everything went according to plan, he'd face Borys Baratheon.
If Ronnel was killed in his attempt to steal the helmet – well... It would be a slight disappointment, but nothing more. Mandon's involvement would never be discovered, and some time later, he would just find a new chance to make a name for himself.
He prepared his weapons and armor carefully. Borys Baratheon had many advantages over him – age, strength, and skill – but the anger and shock (not to mention the lack of a fitting helmet) he would feel tomorrow would serve in Mandon's favor. Still, there was just one chance to do it. Mandon sharpened his sword the best he could and made sure there were no chinks in his armor.
After sunrise, Rogar Baratheon walked to the cave:
"Borys!" he shouted. "Coward! Get out of there and fight me, if you are a man at all!"
A figure in a Baratheon helmet burst out of the cave, but Mandon chuckled to himself as he recognized that idiot Ronnel's cheap doublet. Rogar parried Ronnel's strokes with ease, until –
"Fucking bastards! Thieves! Cowards"
With a roar, the real Borys Baratheon ran out – helmetless. That's what Mandon had counted on: someone as hot-blooded would probably neglect to stop and breathe and think after hearing a summons to battle and discovering a robbery right away after that.
Rogar momentarily froze in confusion and struck clumsily, and Ronnel managed to slash his sword across his breast.
"Lord Rogar! No!" Mandon screamed and dashed at Borys.
The younger Baratheon brother was a larger opponent than anyone Mandon had ever faced before but deflected his strokes with surprising ease.
Well, at least I'll win posthumous glory, Mandon though briefly, trying and failing to hit the man again.
But then Borys was distracted for a split second (Mandon vaguely heard a yell coming from behind him), and, just like Ronnel before that, he seized the opportunity and managed to literally ram the sword into his opponent's face.
Lord Rogar – the one who was yelling – swung his own axe in the air after reaching them, as Borys had already fallen down in a heap. Mandon had to back away to make sure the axe didn't get him.
"Oh!" Mandon exclaimed, as if only just realizing what happened. "Oh no, my lord, I took your revenge from you," he let his sword drop to the ground and fell onto one knee. "Forgive me, my lord, I beg you. I thought to save you, and instead... instead..."
"You did lend a hand to me, Ser Mandon," Rogar grunted. "Get up, let's have none of those theatrics. I was," he sighed heavily, "I was... I wanted to have my revenge myself, but it seems fate doesn't want me to go down as a kinslayer."
Mandon put on a hopeful smile. The relief he didn't even need to feign – his head was still reeling from the battle and from the close brush with death it had turned out to be.
"It seems like this idiot," Rogar waved towards Ronnel's dead body, "wanted to face me by himself and stole Borys's helmet. Got me fooled for a few moments, too."
"Wait..." Mandon pretended to look closer. "My lord, it's one of my captives! He must have escaped yesterday while we were putting out the fire!"
"Didn't do him much good, now did it?" Rogar said. "Fuck, that bastard did get me a little. Have to sit down. You are a good fighter, Ser Mandon – and a very brave one, too."
As the rest of Borys's men saw their leader dead, it was fairly easy to get them to surrender. Meanwhile, Mandon noticed his brothers-at-arms, formerly a bit condescending towards him, were now treating him with newfound respect and admiration, and his heart swelled with pride. This wasn't like yesterday, when he "discovered" Borys's hiding place. This was something he accomplished through genuine hardship.
Lord Rogar, who had received several small wounds from Ronnel, lay down for more than three days, and Mandon began to fear he would die. But the Baratheons, it seemed, couldn't be killed by minor cuts: on the fifth day, Lord Rogar was astride his horse and happy as his host and that of Simon Dondarrion closed in on the remnants of the Vulture King's followers.
