Quentyn V
It was another shit day. Rain. Mud. Poor rotten small folk.
Worse still was the small folk's excitement seeing the King's men stomping through their village like a manifestation of the thunder from the storm.
The Royal Ranging had questioned each village as they passed through about the band of brigands. They harried carted merchants. They would even stop in the septs, some of the greener idiots with steel drawn, chasing the wind with a net for all the good it did them for the weeks and weeks they were on the road.
As the cold rain dripped in from the rip in the skin he set up for shelter, against a decrepit elm near enough to feel the warmth from the fire if they could ever get it going, Quentyn stewed in his misery.
They never did get the fire started. None of the Gold cloaked fools were worth anything more than the shadow they cast, and with as many as they numbered, Quentyn failed to come to know even a single one personally.
It wasn't out of cruelty, but of necessity. Quentyn was nearly out of drink, and if he were to speak to any of the cretins, he'd likely feel obligated to share, as they too would likely wish to drink away the dregs that surrounded. Quentyn was thankful, on this night especially, for shunning the serving woman's offer for sex for more wine when they'd left Darry. She was cross, but Quentyn had just had Jessalyn.
I needed the drink more.
Upon first embarking, the lot of their group seemed hopeful and eager. The youngest among them was Daemon, but many of the men were still so green they'd yet to even face an armed foe. Goldcloaks were little more than chaperones for the city, holding the hands of the drunks and the bakers to make sure as little blood was spilled inside the city walls as possible.
On the road, the goal was to spill blood. And as such, those whose blood they were to spill would avoid them at all costs. Only Lord Deremont would have likely known what faced them once they'd left the castle's walls.
As much as the singers sang of the hunts for villains in the woods, Quentyn knew not a one ever spent a night on a ranging. If they did, they wouldn't have sung about it. It was shit.
Rangings were six months of looking through trees and leaves for one stick, and three minutes of horror one would be lucky to survive. Each moment of the six months could be the last moment before the horror, which made even sleep tenuous, but glory rides like this were only ever waiting until the moment, and hoping and holding tight to last the next.
They had been waiting for some time, and based on the answers from the small folk, they'd be waiting for quite some time more.
"Innit a blessin' then, the lot of you 'ere, all to foind 'em robbers that 'ttacked the King's Blackwood bastards, yet when them same robbers is lootin' are village an' takin' are kids, none of ya were anywhere to be found," the local spokesman answered Lord Darry's proclamation of their intent, rain dripping down his straw farmer's hat, and his patchy black beard spotted with as much dirt as stubble. The man was none too pleased by the looks of his face, and the rest of the small folk beyond him were running from the heavy rain.
"So, there's been villainous activity in these parts before, my good man?" Lord Darry asked, looking down from his proud but wet steed, streams of rain running down his sleek armor with his visor raised, and his proud demeanor unflinching in the storm.
The dank aroma of the wet village reminded Quentyn of a stable of mules. The dark sky was nearly brighter than the daub and wattle huts and straw roofed hovels these small folk were scurrying to. Off to the side of their village was a crumbled tower, not taller than any of the huts. Long ago, the structure might have been strong enough to withstand an assault of four men, or so, depending on the men. Ball didn't consider himself privileged much as little more than a servant in the Red Keep as Master-At-Arms.
Looking at this village, he did.
"Not since a year or so. Them lot are likely dead by now. Shit like that only work fer so long, 'til they catch the wrong farmer or the wrong baker's wife. Where there's men, there's steel, and the sharp edge of a knife or the hard end of a shovel'll take out even the meanest in'a end."
"Any information would help us greatly, my good man. You or anyone with such will be greatly rewarded, and upon the fiends' capture, even more so," Darry offered.
"Coin and gold'd be great. Be that as it may, still nothin' of brigands I've seen."
The rest of the folk just ducked against the rain and scurried to shelter.
And that wasn't just how it went that day in the rain.
Even when the sun was out, shining brightly on Darry's purse of silvers, none of the small folk they'd find in the towns and villages they traveled through would have even the hint of a whisper about the men they pursued. Not even a passing mention.
Quentyn wondered when his shelter skin had torn as he watched each drip of water form and fall, as there was nothing else to do, unless you were his former squire and somehow had the energy and will to laugh and make merry with the tasteless men that surrounded them daily.
The rain had soured Quentyn's mood, but he knew it was more so to do with his rations. With the amount of wine he had left, he could no longer drink until he was drunk. He only had enough to keep down the shivers, and feel the slightest twinge. He'd likely not be drunk until after this business was finished.
And like every other day, they'd achieved nothing.
Quentyn was in no mood for the new Lord Blackfyre's levity.
"You awake?" Daemon asked, peeking his wet head into Q's sorry excuse for shelter. Water collecting on the skin all dumped onto Quentyn as the young man leaned in from the rain, and Quentyn's mood soured more than he thought possible.
"What is it, young Lord?"
"I have a surprise for you," Daemon announced, sliding further into Q's shelter.
Ball was not amused.
"On with it, boy! I'm in no mood." Quentyn immediately regretted his words as they left his lips, but it was all he could do not to scold him even further.
"And as such, from the benevolent Lord Darry." From outside of the draped skin, Daemon pulled a half barrel, dripping from the rain, but somehow gleaming, and presented it to his mentor as if it were a chest of gold.
"You beautiful fucking . . . Lord. You beautiful fucking little Lord!" Quentyn almost said it. He always said it. Before Daemon. In the boy's presence. In jest. Out of anger. Frustration. Levity.
Bastard.
Quentyn vowed never to use it again.
The knight rose, the half barrel in his hands, giddy as if it were his nameday, to stash it away in the cart with his things, knowing the open cask under his shelter could now be finished. The gift from Daemon would grant him another week without rations. He now had a full two barrels left. He could go back to filling and emptying a cask each evening. Praise the seven for Lord Darry's bounty!
When Quentyn returned Daemon had left, and for a moment, Ball felt saddened.
It's my own fault he scurried away so quickly. He's the better for it. I'm nothing for him but something to pull him down anyway.
Ser Ball settled back into his shelter, somehow warmer than he'd been just before the boy arrived. Not a boy anymore. He's a man. With a smile, which was rarely found on his red-stubbled face these days, Quentyn drank his wine and sighed, mumbling to himself, "It could be worse."
No sooner did his eyes close than he heard it. His eyes sprang open, and his posture tensed, jumping onto his feet and into his armor. Quentyn knew the sound of a death throe. There was no sound more horrible one could hear.
Especially in the middle of sleeping.
Especially with Daemon out there somewhere in the darkness.
Ball grabbed his sword, and burst out into the rain. He left his helm to protect his cask, but he wouldn't have been able to see for shit with it on anyway. Priorities.
"Daemon!" he roared. Whatever was happening, their opponents chose the perfect time to strike. How could they know that we're here?
He fought through the rain and darkness to rally whatever men he could to form a defensive circle to minimize blind spots. The wood and road was dark enough, whatever they faced didn't need any more advantages. They had already strategically out matched Q and his party in every other way.
Q left the men around to find the boy. "Daemon!" he shouted into the void. "Daemon!"
"I'm here, but I'll be fine," the boy sounded.
Q rushed through the darkness to Daemon's voice, as he ran, he heard the sounds of steel. His blood rushed hot, and his hands flexed tightly. Quentyn then saw the first group of them, and the fire had been ignited within.
Fireball's sword began to dance, as if to gracefully catch each falling drop of rain, though the flashing succession of slicing steel strikes was but a savage array of mastery in the art of death, and the cold drops that fell on Q's face as he continued through to the boy's voice were mixed with the warm spray of his four or so victims as he cut through their nondescript once human forms, now butchered meat for the shadow cats.
Quentyn stepped clear of the group he'd killed and it seemed as if time before him stopped. Daemon was suited up like Quentyn, plated but for a helm, his wet silver hair shimmering behind him as he moved in the moonlight. Ball saw the action clearly, through the rain, the mist, and the darkness. The boy of twelve was squared up to a gruff man in a hood with a sword. Blackfyre was near invisible in Daemon's grasp, save the glistening wetness glaring off the swinging black blade. The two exchanged blows, and Daemon easily parried the sloppy attempt by the hooded brigand.
At the same time, another hooded man, wielding an ax, stepped away from a clean kill on a stumbling Gold Cloak, turning and setting his feet to swing at the engaged young Lord Blackfyre from behind.
Q's feet couldn't move any faster and he was still more than a stone's throw away. There was nothing Quentyn could do but watch.
The knight's heart nearly burst in his chest as he witnessed the boy drop to a knee to avoid the ax, bending his head down as the sharp edge swung over him. Having just parried the man with the sword, Daemon spun on his knee, nimbly finding his footing, gaining ground on the off-balance hooded brigand in front of him, and whirling to his feet, swinging the Valyrian Bastard Blade with an upward flourish through the man like he was a dummy of lard, splitting him as smooth and clean as if he too was but a raindrop in the storm.
As the blade continued to flow, like a rhythmic poem, both it and its wielder gracefully spun to parry the other man's ax, catching the strike as if by sorcery, somehow striking through the handle and severing it from the dual edged steel blade. Q's eyes were drawn to the glistening steel as it fell with the raindrops to the forest floor. He didn't even see the strike that sent the man's hooded head quickly chasing after it.
By the time Quentyn Ball reached the young Lord, Daemon Blackfyre had already claimed two lives, that he'd seen at least. "Q!" the boy screamed, covered in blood and rain, smiling. "You're alive! I'm glad you're all right."
"Me," Quentyn couldn't help but yelling back. "You're the child!" More clanging steel interrupted the moment. "Enough," Quentyn commanded, and the smiles they shared ceased.
They readied themselves back-to-back with their swords and stances prepared for the rest, if they came. There would be time for words in the morning.
Daemon and Quentyn fought off two or three more, as the initial attack waned into a chaotic scramble to survive for both sides. More and more Goldcloaks rose, armored and ready, which meant however many men were among their opponents would no longer matter. As the clanging in the darkness dwindled to random shouts and their echoes, Daemon and Quentyn left with none to oppose them but the still, warm bodies at their feet, a sound slashed through their ears like the screeching of some animal of the night.
Screeeeee eeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Screeeeee eeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Screeeeee eeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
It sounded in rapid succession. Only the three times, then, they vanished, the rushing steps and coordinated whistles of their attackers all drifted deeper into the wood.
"I'm going after them! Stay here and search for survivors," Quentyn snarled to Daemon. He almost finished the only proper order left. In his head, he formed the words, but looking into the boy's purple eyes light and tinted pale blue in the moonlight, he couldn't let the words slip from his lips.
Save ours. Leave one of theirs alive to question. Kill the rest.
The boy wasn't man enough for that. Not yet anyway.
No man is.
Quentyn let it be. The lad learned enough of what it meant to be a killer for the evening, and Quentyn had work that needed doing.
The attack lasted a mere quarter hour at most, but battles always felt longer. Those first few moments looking for the young Lord felt like an eternity. With the rush of the worst of it over, Quentyn finally nad the time and tried to think.
How many did they number?
Were they organized?
And enough to potentially be former knights, trained and armored?
What was their target?
How did they know when and where to strike?
Q shuffled quietly through the denser brush, keeping the fleeing footsteps within his hearing, trying to keep the sounds distinct in his head from the falling drops of rain, and squinting for what little light leaked down through the foliage from the moon to see. The ground was flatter than most of the Riverlands, but this far off the road, the shrubs beneath the trees were nearly too thick to climb through quietly. Q managed to move and think the best he could, his ears and eyes on the retreating foes, and his thoughts circling around one question over and over relentlessly.
How did they find us?
There was truth to the fact that the King's party did little to hide their advances through enemy territory, if indeed that's what this was. And though their number was too many to supply wine to, it was not near large enough to cause much of a ripple through the life of the commoners. Not near enough to alert brigands in the far woods detached from the rest of the realm.
Q kept trailing, climbing and creeping through the wood as both the darkening sky and thickening canopy made it harder and harder to see. In certain areas, he'd have to navigate as much by touch as sight, and at other times more so. But as he still heard whispers, grunts, and shuffled underbrush, his body kept up the slow chase.
With the mere nibble at bloodshed, his body just kept moving toward the chance at more.
That they know means one of two things: either their base in the deep wood was near enough that scouts saw us and followed, or they've information on us.
Quentyn found it puzzling that none of the small folk from the villages took Lord Darry up on his coin. At first, closer to Plowman's Keep, it made sense for his subjects to pass without the truth to offer. But they had long since left the Lord's domain, and these lands and these people had no such loyalty or fealty. The local spokesman that day could have just made up a farce, taken the coin, and vanished into the countryside. What could Lord Darry do? Hunt down a toothless minnow in a sea of rats and toads? Even if the fish stuck out, why go through the trouble?
So, the small folk were either part of the attacks or were threatened or paid to play ignorant to the ones they sought, and for as many villages, keeps, and towns they'd already passed through, the coin paying for all this was even more than even Darry would pay for Targaryen brats.
Maybe they are near.
Quentyn kept following, kept going, and the darker and darker it got, the more frustrating his chase became. Every step felt like an accident, and the clangor from his armor likely gave him up more than a few times, but he followed anyway.
Dark turned darker as evening sank into midnight, and total black, barely a strand of a moonbeam reaching even the tops of the trees above him. If there were stars, he saw none, and what little noise he heard, faint ruffling and rustling above and beyond, he clearly kept hearing the footsteps he'd heard from the beginning of his chase, and though trees blocked every third or fourth step as he went, he couldn't quit now.
But the darkness blocked his way, as did the trees, the brush, and the gnarled roots ripping through the otherwise even terrain. He followed, listening, moving, stumbling.
Until it was silent, and all he could hear was the heavy breathing from his armored chest, and the words of the Old Gods whispering as an invisible breeze sifted through the underbrush and canopy. The song of a little insect was all that followed the cool air, and the hunt had ended. There were no more footsteps to follow.
So far in, Quentyn feared he'd have to make do on the rough ground beneath and sleep until he could see. There was always an eerie calm in the pitch black, but Quentyn felt he had little to fear. Wild things were wiser than man gave them credit for. A bear or a wolf would know better than to tangle with him.
He'd likely taste like shit anyway.
But in the distance, he heard something again. Not a sound of the wood or the gods, but of men.
This far from where the King's party had camped, if the sound were from men, they'd likely be hostile. Quentyn pulled out his sword and held it, steadied against the darkness, patiently waiting for the next sound.
It was men calling. Not a wise move after a stealth attack. And they kept repeating it, however faint it was in the distance, as if they were calling a coded signal.
The noise crept closer, and as it did, so too did the faintest bit of light. A white glow, like that of an oil lamp, flickered off far in the distance, blocked at times completely by the wood. He could hear the calls.
Fuck. They're calling for me.
"Who goes there!" Q replied, hoping foes would respond, like the idiots they usually were, and reveal their location.
"Ser Ball! Lord Darry and Lord Daemon had us sent to fetch you. It is too dark. Return back to the encampment in case there is another attack tonight." It was still hard to see, as the Goldcloak or whoever was sent was now just screaming out the plans of their party for any of the enemy to hear. Quentyn ran to get closer, if only to stop him from informing on himself and his side.
When he was close enough, Quentyn whispered, "Keep it down, I followed them all the way out here and they may have an encampment close. Since you've the light and know the way back, I say we search just a bit longer to see if they've retreated to an outpost or fortress of sorts. If we find them, we can report back and develop a plan. We might have them right where we want them."
"But Ser, we're only a hundred or so yards from where our own encampment is. You've been missing for hours and you've only gotten this far?"
"We're a mere hundred yards from camp?"
"Less, Ser," the other man not holding the oil lamp said, similarly robed in a golden cloak, and looking none too pleased to be even the shortest distance from safety. "We were sent just moments ago to find you. At least we won't have to waste the entire night searching. Will you come with us or no, I have no wish to further inspect these woods until on the morrow the earliest."
Quentyn could do nothing but follow them back. In what seemed like fifty steps, he could see their camp. He saw with the light of the fire, which they had apparently gotten to start. Finally, but all the good it does now, a more obvious target if our foes decide to return. He saw his stretched skin for shelter, though it had fallen, likely in the skirmish.
His priorities firmly in line, he raced to his sunken shelter to see. When Quentyn reached it, he pulled back the fallen skin to reveal his bed roll and helm underneath. The bed roll was muddied, wet, and useless, but he didn't and couldn't give a shit less.
"No," he murmured out loud. "Not the wine."
The helm had turned over completely, somehow. Fucking savages. Kill the men, but leave the fucking wine!
Quentyn picked up the cask. He poured what little was left into his mouth, swallowing almost a mouthful. I'll need Daemon's new barrel after all.
Without a word to any among them, hearing Lord Darry recount the events, Quentyn stormed to the cart where he'd kept his belongings. It had been set to the side off the road, but not nearly hidden enough to keep what happened from happening, apparently.
The carts were destroyed, and some of the horses slaughtered, as the attack was meant to cause hardship more than it was meant to claim victory. If they had focused their attack and coordinated on the men, they likely could have killed them all, with the right training and leadership anyway.
But for them to have spent as much time as they did on the party's things and mounts, they were likely outnumbered and only fought because they were caught.
Quentyn wished he could have the clarity of mind to think more about the attack and what each bit of information meant, but as he crawled through the wreckage of the bashed and battered cart, flipped over on its side and crushed by the weight of its contents, he could only think of the wine.
Shard by shard and board by board, he combed through everything that was strewn around. With little hope, and much chagrin, he grumbled with each uncovered bit of rubble and rubbish. His face was as sour as a turned wine, yet even turned wine would suffice better than none.
Then, at last, he found them. Both barrels full and untouched.
And for that brief moment, all was right in Q's world.
The moment faded once the Lord Darry found him and began to recount the events and finalize the tally of their losses.
"We haven't many losses as far as the men are concerned, by the latest count, only three dead and one wounded, but when it comes to the provisions, we're down by a third in regards to food and water stores and half as many horses. Only a few were found dead, but the rest they sent into the night, mayhaps some return, mayhaps they don't," Lord Darry informed him and two of his men within the tent he had erected for the evening. Luckily, it wasn't destroyed, like Q's shelter, and while they spoke, the ever gracious Lord was able to provide some more wine, if only to ease Ser Ball back down from his frenzy.
"How'd they find us, Deremont?" the most grizzled among them asked. They called him Tack. Just Tack. There was obviously more to it, but Quentyn didn't know most of the men's names that he'd been riding with from King's Landing. Learning each and every one of their stories was not going to be something Quentyn spent any time on.
More often than not, once Quentyn learned about a man, when he truly understood who he was, the fuck would be dead the next day.
After so long, Quentyn felt it best not to tempt fate.
"How'd they find us indeed, Tack?" Deremont asked.
"Any truths will be near impossible to ascertain until the morrow, my Lord," a man they called Easton Pruitt. "We can speculate, but maybe the wanderings of Ser Ball were more than just a drunken stroll."
Great, they're going to want me to talk now.
Quentyn was still puzzled by what occurred. Though he'd had his fair share, he was not in a state of stupor when he began or until he finished his chase. As it concluded, he was disoriented, knowing how many steps he'd taken and how far out that would have had him, likely even still.
He should have been relieved to be back in a tent among the party. It would have taken far too much effort and energy to find them in the morning if he'd been as far out as he assumed and slept on the cold wet forest floor, whether they took down the camp and moved or not. But he couldn't stop thinking through what the events of the night meant.
"What you mean to imply?" Quentyn nearly snarled, in no mood for the games men played at councils. Men like these craved Lord Darry's acceptance as much or more than anything in the known world. So, when an outsider like Q was allowed into their private sessions of chit chat, the licksplittliest of the arse kissers would always try to assert dominance. This one, Pruitt, was starting his attempt at discrediting Fireball.
"Ignore the implications, Ser Ball," Lord Darry interceded, clearly the Lord among them, his strong voice neither harsh nor flimsy, but the words no less a command. "Yet it has been some time. What have you learned since their retreat?"
Quentyn told them what he could, though there wasn't much of substance to say. It was so dark he'd moved through the brush with his hearing and touch as much as his sight, and even if he tried, there was no way to retrace the steps he'd taken. He was a Ball of the Reach, not some tree sniffing wolf man from the North.
"And as soon as I lost the trail, your men found me."
"They doubled back? Are they among us?" Tack asked.
I'd never thought of that.
"No, there's just men from our party," Pruitt replied. "When we did the counts, we confirmed each name we had. The Lord Blackfyre was the one who knew the men. Sharp lad."
Not nearly as sharp as that.
"The boy is the one among us that knows? We, as the men of this ranging, had the boy be the one to confirm?" Quentyn didn't distrust the young man, he just couldn't believe the lad should have to shoulder such a responsibility. Especially with himself, the boy's mentor, among them.
But I know not a one of these men, and was wasting my time chasing ghosts in the woods.
"None of us ever gotten to know all them Goldcloaks, Ser Ball. And you were off out there, as you said. The boy's the only one been spending any time with them. How were we supposed to know?"
Shit! It was me who put this upon him. I've been tucked away to myself with just my wine and misery, and it's been me that's failed to lead this party. It was me who failed those that died. Fuck!
"The boy was correct. We didn't just have him confirm each face with a nod, Ser Ball," Deremont replied. "My man Ian Toppton keeps account of all the numbers, men or otherwise, and had a list. Daemon confirmed first the men who'd fallen, and then each of the men without the list to refer to. He's quite the amazing young lad. I'd never believe him to be younger than my nephew."
"That's that bastard blood," Tack snickered, "the boy's not made the way most men are."
Quentyn ignored the word the best he could, but Deremont immediately shot back: "That boy killed thrice as many as you even attempted to fight off, Tack, and he is a Lord and anointed knight. No man on this ranging will refer to the boy as such without fear of harsh punishment. Lord Blackfyre has earned our respect, in my eyes. And as far as words, only mine really matter to you."
"Yes, my Lord," Tack replied, bowing his head and mumbling.
"Ser Ball," Deremont said, reengaging the exhausted knight. "Is there any reason to doubt the boy's word on the men?"
Boy, man, we call Daemon by both because he's neither one nor the other truly. Quentyn did not wish to question his former squire's word, and Quentyn had failed in his own duties and would prove as useless as the Prince Daeron in the field.
"I do not doubt the boy, no."
Quentyn's suspicions only deepened the more mysterious his chase through the woods felt. The Lord Darry was not so green as to let the enemy sneak back in their camp. Was he? And neither would Daemon offer false information.
Would he?
They left the council, choosing only to spend what little focus and energy they had left surviving the night, as there still could be another attack, even past dawn, and they needed to be prepared. Upon the morrow, they'd move, investigating what they could with the ability to see, and finding a more strategically advantageous position to regain their strength with rest.
Quentyn, despite how spent he was, found it impossible to rest himself. The questions still circled his mind, and though the Lord Darry's offering during their discussion, the whole of the cask enjoyed only by the red-headed knight, was enough to ease his nerves a bit, it was not near enough to make the uncertainty calm even an instant.
Why the provisions and not the men?
Where did they truly retreat to, and was I following some animal?
Were his instincts that far off?
But over and over, as each of the smaller questions circled, the one kept hitting him, and he was incapable of letting it go.
How could they know where and when to attack?
Q sat with his back against the rotten elm, the cool of the night on his damp underclothes the only subtle relief to his distress. He had thought to trudge back over through the dark to get another half barrel, pour it into a container, and drink himself to sleep, but his body couldn't move as much as that. He wished for it, but could not make it so. In the dim light of the poor excuse for a fire, which they figured only alerted a position that was already known, and posed little further threat, he looked at the rest of the men.
They were defeated, even though few had even seen any fighting, and the toll their attackers paid seemed higher than what it cost the ranging party. It was a miserable night. It was a miserable morning as well. And every time Quentyn looked to the faces of the men he was responsible for, he felt a failure.
We weren't ready, and likely still aren't. We're blind to who or what our enemy is. And somehow, they're onto us.
Quentyn knew it was best to allow Lord Deremont to take the lead from there. It was better if Quentyn just drank and fought when the real work began. He thought he offered little else.
After two days, they set up camp again, thinking they were clear.
And that very night, another cart was set fire and two more horses were killed. Mounted Goldcloaks now had to walk with their inferiors to provide mounts to pull the remaining carts of the baggage train. Neither the leadership or the men were content in the least, and most of the younger men were frightened into a sullen silence, especially as they moved through the terrain, now, fleeing more than they were pursuing.
Lord Deremont suspected the small folk of the towns they passed were somehow involved. Quentyn agreed in part, but there was no way a farmer would take up arms against an entire party, even if it was under the cover of darkness.
There were too few men in the known world with the kind of madness it required to attempt such a feat, a madness Q knew all too well in himself, and would wager near impossible to cultivate in the settings they had already passed through.
But then again, what in the hells do I know?
Thenceforth, the baggage train and horses were guarded night and day, Quentyn, Lord Deremon, and Lord Daemon even drawing duty at times, as the travails of the road had begun to take a collective toll, and the men became more and more weary, traveling less each day, and never able to attain a restful sleep, worried of what awaited them beyond the darkness.
Quentyn wondered when they would stop their retreat and begin again with the hunt. They continued traveling through the vast terrain of the Riverlands, in vain, it seemed, as if to search and find those responsible. Yet Quentyn knew a retreat, there was no bat screeching call to summon it like that first night their foes had to, but there hadn't seemed a time the Royal Ranging felt truly in control of the pursuit. The search of every wood by their outriders came up with nothing, even that morning of the first attack.
Quentyn held out hope that after another few nights of relative peace, the men and the leadership would begin the hunt again in earnest.
But seemingly, it was not to be, for another attack would once again send them back on the defensive, and luckily for Q, the men posted on the baggage train that evening were able to turn the brigands away before getting to the cart with Q's wine. They only managed to set fire to one, but the one they'd chosen held the rest of the food for the journey. With as many men, it would be near impossible to provide enough meat each day from hunts, unless they spent every minute of the day hunting prey and not the criminals.
"We must now resupply, and we are too far from Darry," Deremont began the new council meeting, seated in his tent atop a stump they set up around for just the occasion. The man was tired. His broad shoulders hunched down in his plate, and his gauntleted hand kneaded his forehead as if he could rub away the incessant issues of the ranging. "The closest keeps are all of Lords of low esteem, meaning if we were to bother them with our numbers, we could starve their small folk. The closest castle with enough to seemingly support us is Harrenhall. A day's ride, but we should be able to resupply there."
Counsel dwindled to less in less in these meetings as Lord Deremont's underlings ran out of ways to chime in while simultaneously browning their noses, so they remained but ears for the Lord's ideas to be heard in silence. Q offered less and less each time, defeated by the failures of his leadership.
So, in the stead of a discussion, Lord Darry only managed to talk through the situation to himself, settling on the best course of action to resupply at Harrenhall and make contact with the King. Quentyn didn't remember why the idea sounded bad to him, but his gut said Harrenhall was all wrong. But Quentyn was so often in his cups, there were few things he could remember with clarity. He didn't want to contradict Lord Deremont.
Who am I to disagree with a man so much better than me?
So, Quentyn returned to his failure of a shelter, the ripped and muddied skin, now a tattered bed roll, and his only comfort the remaining half barrel of wine, realizing the resupply as much his failure as a victory for the brigands. It was as if each coordinated attack was meant to drive them closer to the ruined castle on the edge of the God's Eye, funneled into the great hall intentionally.
As soon as Q sat down, Daemon appeared from nowhere, as if he were waiting to jump out and frighten his teacher. "Seven Hells!" Quentyn shrieked, nearly spilling the half barrel as he poured it into the more manageable cask.
"I didn't mean to give you a start, Q, I just wanted to hear what they said in there."
Exhausted, as it seemed they all were, all the time, Quentyn could barely reply with any more than, "We're to set off to Harrenhall in the morning."
"Traynor will be happy to hear that. And I've always wanted to see the famous Harrenhall," the boy replied. Quentyn didn't hear it at first.
"What trainer, Daemon?" Quentyn asked, unsure of what the boy was talking about.
"Not trainer, Q, the Gold cloak with the short hair and the nice horse, Traynor Lothson. I'm sure he'll be happy for a chance to visit his home. It must be years since he's been back."
"What did you say?" Quentyn asked, his voice near a growl as he jolted from resting to ready, remembering the frail Prince of Dragonstone's veiled counsel all that time ago before they had left from King's Landing.
"Traynor Lothson will be happy to return to his nuncle's seat. Wouldn't you be pleased to return to High Round Hall after all this time?"
No, son, I have nothing but shame left for me there.
"You're saying one of the Goldcloaks on this ranging is a Lothson and he's been with us the whole time?"
"He sleeps a lot, so I don't always see him, but yes. Ser Lothson's been with us since King's Landing."
Quentyn feared how he could have been so ill suited for the task at hand that he had missed something so obvious for so long.
Thank the gods for the boy, the man.
For the first time since he'd climbed off Jessalyn, everything made sense.
A/N
What did you think? Let me know in the comments. I'd love to hear from you. Thanks again for reading and I should always put in there the extreme and passionate THANK YOU to the Silent Sister for her co-author and editing work. I'll be back with another chapter soon.