Baldric
He had spent the last hour watching Gulltown's walls grow bigger and bigger before his eyes. The sea was so rough that he feared it would be the last thing he ever saw. He'd dressed lightly, but he'd never learned to swim, and being on a ship was terrifying. He'd done his best to hide his terror, but he suspected that the sailors sensed it.
It was the biggest settlement of the Vale, and one of only five which could be considered cities in the entire Seven Kingdoms. After seeing King's Landing, though, it seemed a very modestly sized place, even from the water.
Baldric looked around at the various other ships around him. Dozens of banners flew in the wind, a defiant and dazzling display of colour against a grey sky. The purple lightning of House Dondarrion flew from three transport ships, and Baldric had permitted his three main bannermen to fly their sigils beneath his own. But of all the banners that flew from masts, the most prominent ones were the red dragon of House Targaryen, the golden rose of House Tyrell, the golden lion of House Lannister, and the black stag of House Baratheon. The sun and spear of House Martell were also flown, but it was their bannermen who flew the sigil, not the Martells themselves. Sunspear's contributions had already sailed with the first contingent.
The truth was a little less grand than the banners might have implied; a minor rebellion in the North was not deemed worthy for many lords to see to it personally. Most thought the second contingent unnecessary, for Prince Baelor would surely have defeated the Stoneborn by the time the reinforcements arrived. Adlin Lannister and Alekyne Tyrell represented their elder brothers and Wyott Baratheon represented his father.
As the foremost ships approached Gulltown's harbour, they passed a small island which barely supported its own little dock and a handful of buildings. The largest of these buildings was big enough to be considered a small castle, if the term was generously allowed.
"What's that, then?"
Baldric turned to look at the sailor who spoke nearby.
"The Motherhouse of Maris," another sailor answered. "It's where they send highborn bastards to be raised out of sight."
"Someone better tell the Lord Commander that we're taking him home," the first sailor japed, prompting the other into laughter.
Baldric might have cowed them with a threat, or even a punishment, but he did not wish to walk across the deck in order to do it. And besides, most of the other lords in the contingent would doubtlessly agree with them.
The trouble began in King's Landing, when it was learned that King Daeron had appointed Jon Waters as their commander. The eldest son of Elaena Targaryen was an acclaimed knight, from what Baldric had heard of him, and he was undoubtedly descended from royalty through his mother, but his surname erased any goodwill that the lords of Westeros might have given him.
It did not even matter that his father had been the Oakenfist himself, nor that he'd spent his life being treated as royalty. It made no difference when the royal family was not present.
Baldric felt, as did most others, that the king should have appointed his youngest son, Maekar, to lead the expedition. He was legitimate, he was determined to prove himself a warrior, and such an expedition would be good practice for him. But it seemed that the Good King was unwilling to risk two sons' lives. Admittedly, Baldric could see why, given what sort of men Rhaegel and Aerys were. You won't see either of them sitting on the Iron Throne.
Gulltown's harbour was normally full of ships, but they had received advanced warning and made space for the fleet. As they sailed into the harbour, Baldric could see countless lesser ships forced to rest along the meagre beaches.
Finally, he was able to walk on shaky legs down the gangplank. Other men were doing the same from various boats all around him, including Ulrick Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Ulrick was one of the finest knights in the realm, and another second son. He was rumoured to have only agreed to sail for the North because he was determined to "make the nine" by bedding at least one man and at least one woman from each of the nine regions of the Seven Kingdoms. Baldric had yet to discover whether this was mere calumny, truth, or a bit of both.
"My lords!" Jon Waters, no stranger to the sea, was striding along the dock vigorously, rousing the seasick with his loud words. "My lords! Assemble to me!"
Baldric groaned and forced himself to follow Ser Jon; the king had strongly endorsed him, and woe betide any man who disobeyed the king's wishes. He passed Ser Ulrick, who vomited noisily into the sea before hauling himself upright and following the marcher lord.
Most of the highest born lords were less willing to follow Ser Jon, arguing that they must needs organise their troops. Jon, meanwhile, insisted that they all be present to accept the welcome of the city. Like all bastards, Jon was hot-headed and prickly, and he saw offence at every turn.
"I am the commander, and I have given you an order!" He shouted at Ser Adlin Lannister when the golden-haired man insisted that one of his ships was taking on water. "Will you scoop out the water with your own bare hands? Delegate the matter and attend to me, or else I will have you dishonoured!"
Baldric stood by, feeling miserable. He could see no clear way through this discontent, and wished for the pomp and ceremony to be done with so they could all get their rest.
Finally, Jon had rallied two dozen men to accompany him, and they approached the welcoming party which had stood on hand with growing boredom and irritation.
Because the fleet had arrived in the Vale, they might have expected House Arryn to welcome them. But it was well known that Lord Donnel Arryn had been struck down with a serious illness, and he was still in the Eyrie, recovering amid the clear mountain air. Instead, Lord Osgar Grafton was present, along with several members of his family and a man who introduced himself as Wiglaf Arryn.
"Welcome, my lords," Lord Osgar announced, in a voice which suggested that he knew full well that half the men present were not lords at all.
Wiglaf Arryn was more eloquent and tactful. "We urge you to take heed of all the pleasures which our city may give you. You will be well cared for, by our cooks and our whores alike."
Baldric had no wish for the latter, however. He was still feeling bitter about the manner of his departure from Cassana. He'd spent much of the voyage in his cabin, not just to avoid the waves, but also to brood in peace. Anger and resentment had burned within him over how Cassana had continually undermined him, undervalued him, and made him feel like dirt beneath her foot.
But as the voyage continued, Baldric felt his wroth cooling, yielding to the more familiar feelings which had plagued him ever since he was a boy. It is mine own fault. I could not stand up to her any more than I could stand up to my kin. Mayhaps they all had a point.
He also felt himself missing his family. He thought of Manfred and Caspor, of Cassana, and he wished that he hadn't so rashly left them behind. I could have stayed. I could have shown that I was not to be dismissed. I ran away rather than face her. Just as she expected me to, no doubt.
That train of thought had led him to wonder about Cassana's intentions. She had not pleaded with him to stay, she had not tried to speak with him. He had always known that she was not an outwardly passionate woman, but he had seen her passionate side come out during their games. There was a savage lust in her which came out whenever she was giving him orders, degrading him, and it made both of them go wild.
He could not reconcile it in his head, no matter how much he dwelt on it. But nor did he seek out any joy for himself in the brothels, for it was too risky. He had only made that mistake once in his life, and he would never do it again.
The one respite was that he had not needed to see any of his Swann relatives yet, and he'd taken great care to avoid encountering them by staying with his own bannermen.
Wiglaf and Osgar explained that various inns and brothels had been paid to stay empty so that every man in the second contingent might have a bed to sleep on until they departed for the North.
This news was received well by the men. They streamed into Gulltown by the thousands, eager to take as much out of the city as they could before they resumed their hellish journey to Skagos.
Baldric was not one of those who went to explore Gulltown, for Jon Waters intended to have a council of war with his highest-ranking men. Thus, Baldric was resigned to attend, especially since House Dondarrion was a marcher house, and therefore one of the most powerful in the Stormlands.
Much to his surprise, though, he was the first to arrive, apart from Ser Jon himself.
The knight was a young man, barely twenty years old from the look of him. Truthfully, he looked every inch the Targaryen princeling. His silver hair had grown long during the voyage, but he made sure to crop it short whenever they made port. His eyes were a deep purple, while his skin was darker than most, in keeping with his mixed Velaryon and Targaryen ancestry.
With his freshly trimmed locks, he stood over a large table, upon which a map of Westeros was laid out.
"Good evening, Lord Dondarrion," Ser Jon said curtly. "I am pleased to see that at least one of my commanders is punctual."
Baldric gave a bow, for he did not wish to provoke Ser Jon any more than the others. "I'm sure they will be here soon, my prince."
Jon scowled at the address, but he said nothing more. Baldric's prediction was proved correct when the others began to arrive.
For the first time since he'd left Stonehelm, Baldric was reunited with a member of his family. Raymont Swann was the youngest of his elder brothers, and easily the most sardonic. Raymont had always been overshadowed by their elder brothers, and he'd been infuriated when Baldric had also outmatched him. Father had always looked at Baldric least of his sons, of course, ever since that incident with the prostitute, but no amount of mockery or favour to Raymont could erase Baldric's prowess as a knight.
Now Raymont sneered at Baldric, sitting with those stormlords who had been at Stonehelm, especially Ser Judos Bolling and Ser Benedict Cafferen, both of whom had been sent by their elder brothers to lead their levies north.
When the council had fully assembled, Jon pointed to the map.
"We must resupply in short order, and then make for White Harbour. After that, it will be a long voyage around the bulk of the North to our brothers-in-arms at Eastwatch."
"How long were you thinking, Prince Jon?" Adlin Lannister lounged in his seat, a glass half-full of wine in his hand. "After all, the men's morale must also be considered, no?"
"Morale?" Jon glanced at the westerman. "I fail to see how the men's morale is a concern at this point. We have not yet begun to fight."
"They have been sailing for quite some time now," Ser Ulrick Dayne interjected. Unlike Adlin, he spoke courteously without any sardonic edge.
"Does the sea make for a worthier opponent than the Stoneborn?" Jon was in no mood for disagreement, no matter how courteous.
"If I may, Prince Jon," Baldric stood up, tired of this argument even as it was beginning. "Pray give us the answer Ser Adlin's question. How long do you mean for us to stay in Gulltown?"
Jon regarded Baldric for a moment, but his voice was cooled when he spoke again. "According to these merchant Arryns, it will take them four days to resupply all our ships. Lord Grafton has also assured me that his men will play their part. And I mean for us to do the same so that we might speed up the work."
"My prince, that might not be wise," Lord Ashford interjected. He was a burly man, whose belly was protruding as much as his hair was receding. "Many of our men are weary or ill, and more are unaccustomed to such work. Would they not hinder the work if they came between these Gulltowners and our ships?"
Jon Waters regarded Lord Ashford with a withering expression. "Do you believe your men to be incompetent or unwilling, Lord Ashford? Or is it perhaps that you wish to delay our voyage?"
Baldric felt himself turning pale. He cannot mean to call Ashford a craven. Duels have been fought for less than that.
Thankfully, the commander was interrupted from speaking worse by two Dornishmen. Lord Lucifer Yronwood, a hard man in his middle age, slowly stood up from his chair, as did Ser Uthor Dalt.
"Prince Jon," Lord Yronwood declared, "if it pleases you, my men will gladly assist the Arryns in their tasks."
"My thanks," Jon declared. "I will not forget that."
Much to Baldric's surprise, several stormlords arose, led by his brother, Raymont.
"We shall accompany Ser Uthor and the Yronwoods," Raymont announced.
Baldric frowned. Since when would my brother wish to assist in menial tasks alongside Dornishmen, much less the Yronwoods? He found himself wishing that Cassana were present, and began to brood silently on his foolish weakness.
Prince Jon, meanwhile, praised those stormlords who had volunteered, but Baldric only half-heard him. His longing for Cassana's guidance was growing stronger, and much to his shame, he felt himself longing for her commands and scorn as well. Gods be good, why does it always feel so good?
He avoided Raymont's gaze, and the gaze of any other men, as if his eyes would reveal his thoughts. He had often taken the time to relieve himself of lustful desire, but the deeper he dove into his melancholy, the worse it became.
You cannot go three weeks without missing her, you pathetic boy, you stupid weakling. What was I thinking to accept the lordship of House Dondarrion, much less lead it out into battle? Cassana should have led them herself... mayhaps she could have left me in chains in her tent...
"Ser Baldric?"
Baldric blinked and looked up with sudden alarm. "Yes, my prince?"
It was only then that he saw that the others had left. Baldric felt flushed, unwilling to stand in case Jon might notice the swelling in his breeches.
"Dismissed," Jon stated, but he was not even looking at Baldric anymore. The young commander was soon out of the door, leaving Baldric alone.
He waited a while longer before he arose and walked out, still wavering between his resentment and desire for Cassana.
"*"* "* "* "*"*"* "*"*"*"* "*" *"* *" *"*"*
The work proved far more laborious than any might have foreseen. Lord Wiglaf Arryn insisted that many of the remaining supplies had become unworthy for the voyage, but offering to remove the cargo and replace it all for additional sums. Jon Waters cursed and railed at him, but he had little choice in the matter.
As they had promised, the volunteers were actively involved; they carried crates and barrels onto every ship, they took the time to make repairs so that the sailors might relax ashore, and they did it all without any hostility towards one another.
On the third day since their arrival in Gulltown, Baldric could not suffer in silence any longer. As he sat with his three principal bannermen in the Falcon Head, a local inn where they'd been assigned rooms, he finally gave a voice to his deepening suspicions.
After he was finished, Ser Enoch Bolt shrugged, "Strange it may be, my lord, but what of it? What do you imagine is afoot?"
Baldric sighed. "I know not, that is the trouble. But to see so many marchers working alongside those Dornishmen... and yet I cannot imagine what they must be doing."
Karl Penny was little better than Ser Enoch. "Mayhaps they simply wish to be done with this voyage to Skagos?"
"If that is what they wish, then they are doing a damn poor job of it," Ser Garvey Sawyer interjected. "The work is delayed, and the Gulltowners are growing rich from Prince Jon's purse." His scornful smile disappeared as Baldric glared at him.
"None of that," Baldric insisted, "the boy is our commander, like it or not, and I won't have you pricking his pride. What will you suspect he shall do if he hears about it?"
As Garvey mumbled a half-hearted apology, Enoch suddenly stopped and looked upwards. "Do you hear that?"
Gulltown was a bustling city, but even amongst the common clangour, Baldric could discern several loud voices singing in the street. The noise grew louder and louder until the inn's front doors burst open.
In walked Ser Adlin Lannister, Wyott Baratheon, and several of their own bannermen. All of them had been drinking, much as they'd been doing while waiting for the boats to be repaired.
Baldric flinched when they entered, but sighed with relief when he saw no sign of Raymont or any of his allies. When Wyott Baratheon met his gaze, however, he was dismayed to see no friendliness in the burly young man.
Wyott was only a few years younger than Baldric himself; like so many Baratheons before him, Wyott was better suited to the melee than the jousts. On the first night in Gulltown, Wyott had found himself in a fight wherein he'd held his own against three other men before the city watch had arrived to break up the brawl.
Baldric gave his liege lord's son a respectful nod, lifting his drink in a salute that any Baratheon could surely appreciate. Wyott turned his back on Baldric, paying him no more heed.
Enoch, Garvey, and Karl all avoided Baldric's eyes as he fumed with helpless anger. But Baldric was sick of discretion, especially after he drained his tankard of the remaining ale.
"To House Dondarrion," Baldric cursed, "the most despised house in the Stormlands."
"No need for that sort of language, my lord," urged Enoch, the eldest and most cautious of the bannermen. "Mayhaps it is best if we turn in for the night."
Baldric fixed Enoch with what he hoped to be an intimidating glare, "I will feast as long as I like, and be damned any man who tries to say otherwise."
"My lord," Garvey interjected, "Ser Enoch meant you no harm. Pray consider his words for what they are. Join your brother in his work tomorrow."
Baldric gave a hollow laugh, "Join my brother, indeed. You do not know him."
"He is your kin," Garvey insisted, "and the gods are cruel to those who turn against their kin."
"Cruel," Baldric echoed. He wished he was properly drunk, so that he might speak more freely, but he was already being gripped with the familiar insecurity which had dogged him for so many years. "The gods have always been cruel, Ser."
He did not listen to Garvey's reply; he was growing tired of their deference due to a rank which he had not earned for himself. It was his wife's name, and what sort of respect could any man command in Westeros through those means?
"Mayhaps you were right," he said, wishing to put this conversation to rest. "I will go and rest. Tomorrow is another day."
"*" *"*"* "*"*" *"* "* "*"*" *"*"* "*
For the first instant that he was awake, Baldric wondered where Cassana was, and why his chamber was so small. Then he recalled that of course he was no longer in Blackhaven, and moreover that it was still hours before the sunrise.
He groaned in frustration as he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled around the small room. He had a raging thirst, but his mind was clear enough as he groped about in the dark for the jug which was still half-full of water.
He'd dreamed of hunting aurochs on the Dornish Marches, riding amongst them on his war-horse, shouting with glee as he slew them by the dozen. He might have known that such joy could only be found in the world of dreams.
It was not until he had quenched his thirst that something occurred to him. His window was open, and it appeared to be the hour of the wolf. There was a sound of men hurrying along outside. The noise was faint, as if they were trying not remain discreet. Indeed, Baldric would have slept through it if he hadn't awoken abruptly.
When he leaned his head out of the window, Baldric beheld several bands of men hastening along the narrow street. Only a few of them carried torches, but most carried hoods on their heads.
Baldric watched them silently, his eyes growing wide in astonishment. There was no decent reason for men to conceal their faces and roam the streets so late in the night. Deserters.
Baldric turned away from the window and dressed himself as quickly as he could manage. When he was garbed in leather and mail, he took up his sword and hurried from the room.
What are you doing, you fool? Summon your men. Alert your liege lord, your prince. He did no such thing. He left the inn and went into the street. The throngs of men had long ago left him behind, but he tried to follow in their footsteps.
Inevitably, he found himself going south-east towards the harbour. It seemed to him that the full moon and stars alone provided him with light for his journey, at least until he noticed how some of the buildings were lit by an orange glow to the east. Sunrise already?
Finally, after several false turns and blind alleys, Baldric was nearing the harbour. The orange glow was stronger, but what he discovered filled Baldric with horror. A strong smell was on the night breeze. Smoke.
He forced himself to run forward, wheezing for breath until he turned a corner and came upon the harbour. What he saw made the sword fall from his hand and land on the cobblestones with a clatter.
All the ships of the fleet were in flames. Anchored or tied to the docks, they were burning heartily as if they'd been coated in oil. Groups of men were lighting the last of the ships with torches, and Baldric could see the flames spread far too rapidly for them to be natural.
Over the sound of burning wood, hemp, and sails, he could also hear the screams of men. He remembered how many of the Royal Fleet's sailors stayed aboard their ships rather than take shelter on dry land. How many are trapped inside the ships? How many men are attacking us? What is going on?
Baldric stood by, utterly aghast, watching the flames rise as high as the buildings around the harbour. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, along with another smell that was much pleasanter at first, until he recalled the faint screams of men, and realised what sort of flesh was being burned. Baldric turned and retched.
Bells were tolling in alarm, and he heard the opening of windows and doors behind him. Voices were raised in alarm, and though he knew his duty, Baldric was unable to rise from where he'd knelt to vomit. Terror and shock kept him on his knees, helpless and alone.
It was then, with his eyes watering from the sting of smoke, that he saw men fleeing the burning ships, armed and carrying torches. They laughed and whooped with triumph, throwing more brands on the ships which had only begun to burn. One man in particular caught his eye as he'd cast his hood from his head. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and as he stood in the light of the flames, his face was revealed. Raymont.
"Traitor!" Baldric gasped, too angry to raise his voice. It was as if he was shaken awake from a stupour. He picked up his sword and sprang forward.
His brother was too far away, but other men were wandering amongst the maze of docks. None of them were prepared for a fight, and the first man who beheld Baldric thought him a friend. The man's greeting died in his throat as Baldric's blade bit through leather, cloth, and skin. Baldric did not even see the man fall; he hacked at the next man and pushed him into the water to stifle his shriek.
Others were beginning to notice him. They shouted in alarm, but Baldric ignored them.
"Traitors!" This time, Baldric shrieked the word as loud as he could. He ran along the dock, past burning ships, slashing at startled men who did not expect resistance.
The further he ran along the planks, however, the more he faltered from the raw heat of the burning ships. It was difficult to breathe, and that was before mentioning the smoke which billowed upward and outward.
"Hello, brother!"
The voice was familiar. Baldric turned and beheld his brother, shimmering as he advanced with a torch in his hand.
"Raymont!" Baldric declared, raising his sword. "What in seven hells do you think you're doing?!"
"What does it look like, you dunce? We're bringing the seven hells to Gulltown!" Raymont jeered. He threw the torch onto a fishing boat which had been fortunate enough to keep its place in the harbour amongst the bigger ships.
"Why?" Baldric took another step towards Raymont, holding his bloody sword in both hands. "All those men burning alive! Why?"
"For the Black Dragon," Raymont declared. As he drew nearer, Baldric saw that he held a mace in his hand. Although Baldric had not lowered his own weapon, he knew it was a hollow gesture; he could never bring himself to attack his own kinsman.
Whether Raymont sensed that truth or not, he did not show any sign of caring either way. He gave a wolfish leer beneath his thick beard, coming almost within range of Baldric's blade.
He made no move to strike Raymont; his mind raced elsewhere as he noticed most of the other hooded men fleeing back into the city. This time, they were all carrying torches, and they cried out in many triumphant voices. The burning of the ships had raised their blood, but where they intended to go was not something Baldric could guess.
"You prepared the ships," Baldric exclaimed. "You were preparing them for this burning, weren't you?"
"Try not to think too hard, brother, you might hurt yourself." Raymont spat at Baldric's feet and raised his mace threateningly.
"Your own brother?" Baldric was astounded. "The gods will curse you for this!"
"Nay," Raymont answered, "I won't stain my soul with your unworthy blood. Get you gone, back to your liege lady, and hide under her skirts till the war is won. No man of House Swann will slay you, but be warned; the Black Dragon has many knights who will gift him with your stupid head."
Baldric glared as Raymont turned his back on him contemptuously and strode away without a care in the world.
Where do they mean to go now that the job is done? Baldric tried to ponder that as he fled the burning ships, following on the heels of those who'd lit the fires.
Blackfyre men were scattering across the city streets, putting other buildings to the torch as they ran. Several screamed as Baldric cut them down with his blade, cursing them for cowards and murderers.
Now that the alarm was being raised, Baldric was not the only one who opposed their attempts. Other men were taking to the street, disoriented and confused, but several of them defended themselves with anything they could hold in their hands. Women and children screamed in panic or agony as they were burned or struck by the growing chaos of the street brawls.
Baldric knew that he should try and save as many as he could from these attacks, but he also knew that he could not do it alone. Driven on by fear and rage, he fought his way back towards the inn, praying that the commotion had roused his bannermen from sleep.
The Falcon Head was already aflame when he came in sight of it. Baldric hesitated as he beheld the horror from the darkness of an alleyway. His men were being slaughtered as they ran into the street to escape the flames. Most were half-dressed and empty-handed, but a few charged out with weapons and were holding off the raiders long enough for others to flee. Baldric could not see Raymont among the attackers, much to his relief.
He trembled as he contemplated the careful and meticulous nature of these attacks, even as he was unable to comprehend why or how they'd been organised.
Despite his confusion, Baldric knew that he could not stand by whilst his men were slaughtered. With a cry, he charged forward and swung his blade down upon one of the hooded men. "Rally to me!"
"Dondarrion!" Several men took up the cry, startling their attackers. Baldric saw one of them turn to face him, a look of astonishment on his face. Uthor Dalt.
Baldric lunged his sword at the Dornishmen, gritting his teeth from effort and outrage. "Traitor!"
Uthor's shock evaporated in the warm air; he drew a short short and parried Baldric's thrust while his other hand formed a fist and struck Baldric in the face. Baldric recoiled, staggering backward as he felt his nose explode in agony. Blinking tears from his eyes, Baldric lost his footing and leaned against a wall for support.
Uthor might have slain him then, but one of Baldric's men slammed into him with a yell. Both Dornishman and marcher fell heavily on the cobblestones, cursing and crying out as they grappled with each other for control of Uthor's sword.
Demoralised by Baldric's intervention and Uthor's fall, the surviving attackers withdrew from the Falcon Head, cursing and yelling in pain or fear as more men emerged from other buildings, rallying to the calls of "Dondarrion".
Baldric felt blood running from his nose as he wiped tears from his eyes. A hand clasped his shoulder. "Lord Baldric!"
It was Enoch Bolt. He was unharmed, but nor was he dressed for battle. His only weapon was the remains of a chair leg, but it was stained with blood.
"We must find Prince Jon," Baldric shouted thickly. "Arm yourselves and follow me!"
The men did their best to obey his orders, but the Falcon Head was beginning to burn in earnest. Men tried to put out the flames as others ran for weapons and armour on the upper levels. Baldric took a hood from one of the fallen assailants and held it against his nose to staunch the bleeding.
Uthor Dalt, meanwhile, was taken prisoner. He'd been unable to wrestle himself free to escape with the others, and now he was held fast on his knees by three men. He snarled and cursed, but he could not free himself from their grip.
Baldric approached him, glaring upon him with as much dignity as he could muster whilst pressing a bloody cloth over his nose. "Explain yourself, murderer!"
Uthor gave a mocking laugh at Baldric's altered voice, until one of the men holding him slammed his fist against the back of Uthor's head.
"There is nothing to explain, my lord," Garvey Sawyer declared furiously. He too was wounded, with a gash on his forearm and a black eye forming on his face. "His crimes are clear!"
"We need him alive," Baldric murmured, "How else will we know the truth of this?"
"Truth?" Uthor gave another laugh, "Raymont was right about you. You would not know the truth if you found it fucking your wife!" He spat at Baldric's face, but the spittle only reached his groin.
"On second thought," Baldric turned to Garvey, "I will save my questions for the next prisoner. Fetch me some rope."
To his credit, Uthor did not turn craven as the marchers bound his arms and legs at Baldric's orders. When the Dornishman was secured, Baldric gestured to the Falcon Head, where men were still trying to put out the flames. "Let it burn, lads! We cannot save it any longer." He turned back to those who guarded Uthor Dalt, "We've taken enough out of this place, now let's put him into it."
Uthor's eyes grew wide with horror. "I am a knight! I am owed a proper execution!"
"You are owed nothing," Baldric snarled thickly. His wroth was redoubled as he took in the hypocrisy of Uthor's words. "You burned sailors alive in their beds! You ambushed my men and butchered them! You're kneeling in their blood as you beg for mercy!"
He was aware that several of his surviving men were just as shocked as Uthor at these orders, but others shouted their approval, naming companions whose bodies were still lying in the street outside the inn.
Uthor shouted more protests, squirming in his bonds as several grim-faced men picked him up and bodily threw him into the Falcon Head. His screams heightened as the fire was allowed to spread again. Nobody protested as he wailed in agony, though few were able to look upon his end when it finally came.
Baldric was one of those who watched Uthor die. He recalled the names of those who had died, he thought of the men he'd heard burning alive in the ships, and he thought of Raymont's laughter at the madness he'd unleashed. And yet, after Uthor's screams finally ended, and long after he led his men elsewhere in the city, the screams continued to echo in his mind, filling him with a cold terror which could not be thawed by all the flames around him.