Lomas
"We shall reach Horn Hill within the day, ser."
Lomas nodded. It had been a long slog from the Mander, with several skirmishes that had bloodied their modest army, but now he breathed a weary sigh of relief.
The going had been slow, even without the skirmishes that they had fought. When Quentyn Ball and Hugo Strickland had parted ways with him, Lomas had been left with the bulk of their infantry and supply wagons. Only a handful of knights and mounted men had accompanied him.
Lord Tommax Cafferen was one of those who had remained, and he was most displeased that he was outranked by an old knight without land.
Thankfully, most of the knights that remained to Lomas were utterly loyal to him. Gideon Farring and Robin Horpe had been his squires. Byren Flowers was the bastard son of Aegon Leygood, one of Lomas' boyhood companions. Gareth the Grey was an old knight who, like Lomas, had won renown in the Dornish Conquest. He had also helped Lomas regain his fitness and ability upon his arrival at the Aegonfort.
Still, Lord Cafferen was a thorn in Lomas' side, constantly wishing to prove his authority. He seemingly did not trust men to carry out orders without supervision, and he made an effort to be everywhere all at once. Whenever there was a problem, Lomas could be sure to expect Cafferen to complain about it. Not since Titus Dondarrion had anyone vexed Lomas so completely.
Thankfully, they were close to Horn Hill, and Lomas was certain that the reinforcements would put Cafferen in his place. The marchers in particular would support Lomas as Daemon's appointed general, as would Boron Hightower and his bannermen.
Despite his jubilance at rallying important allies for the Black Dragon, Lomas felt a melancholy settling on him as he rode through the old forests of Tarly territory. These trees had been there longer than Lomas had been alive. They loomed up on both sides of the road, blocking the sun from view.
"Ser?"
It was Ser Byren Flowers. He rode beside Lomas, looking at him with a curious expression. He looked so much like his father that Lomas felt a lump in his throat.
"It pains me to come back here without your father," Lomas confessed quietly. "Without any of them."
Byren nodded, but then his face fell. "Mother never had anything kindly to say about him."
Lomas flinched. Aegon had always been careless with women's affection, but how did that make him different from most young men?
"Would you still say he was a good man, then?"
"Always," Lomas insisted hotly. "He was one of the best men I ever knew. He was a skilled warrior who did not make an oath lightly. He was loyal to his king, to his people, and to his friends."
"But not quite so loyal to his women," Byren added dryly.
Before Lomas could think of something to say, the lines of trees suddenly gave way to a large field which lay at the foot of Horn Hill. Garth's Green, as it was called, had spent untold generations of men serving as a rallying point for House Tarly's forces.
As Lomas had expected, the field was filled with tents. Great and small, gaily coloured and dull, they were in neat lines, between which animals and men alike walked or stood or rested by the thousands. Hundreds of red huntsmen danced in the wind on the green banners of House Tarly. There was also an abundance of House Peake's orange and black banners. Nowhere did Lomas see the banners of Caron, Selmy, Swann, or Dondarrion. Just as well. We have no need of that cursed house.
It was not long before the new arrivals were noticed. Lomas had already bade his squire to carry the Blackfyre colours. Cheers erupted from the massive encampment, echoed by those who marched behind Lomas.
As Lomas waved at the men gathered all around him, he was approached by Lord Gormon Peake. The man's lips were curled upwards in the closest gesture that he got to a smile.
"Welcome home, Lomas," Gormon loudly declared. His pale destrier snorted and whinnied as Gormon reined it in check.
His uncles always rode white horses too. "It is good to see you again, Gormon. Is it in your power to call a war council?"
Unfortunately, thanks to other practicalities, it was some time before Lomas found himself in Horn Hill's great hall with the other Blackfyre leaders. By that point, the others were seated and impatient for his arrival.
They sat around a great oaken table which had been decorated with intricate carvings of archers and warriors. Colourful tapestries lined the walls depicting the ancient and proud history of House Tarly.
Nearly every man of House Tarly was present, either in a chair at table or standing against the wall. Gormon Peake was also in attendance, as were nearly a dozen of his kinsmen and vassal knights. A number of lesser lords sat amongst them.
Lord Cafferen, Normund Tarly, Gideon Farring, and Robin Horpe accompanied Lomas as he entered the hall and took his place at table. The first thing that he noticed was his nephew sitting in the grand chair meant for the head of House Tarly.
"How does your father fare?"
Harriman Tarly looked at him with an unfriendly expression. "You will have to ask the gods, nuncle. My father was laid to rest two weeks ago."
Lomas sighed. He had expressed it - indeed, had wondered that Hunthor still clung to life - but he felt disheartened that he had not been able to bid his eldest brother one last farewell.
He looked at his nephew in a new light. Harriman Tarly was only fifteen years younger than he, with several sons and two grandsons, but he was still hale and hearty.
"We shall not see his like again," Lomas observed sadly.
"Speak for yourself, cousin," one of the Tarly men remarked. "I see his like before me." He indicated Harriman, who continued to look at Lomas with disfavour.
Lomas bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from speaking aloud the angry words on his tongue. He had not come here to argue with his kinsmen.
"Now that we are all assembled," Harriman declared to the council, "I believe we should address the first order of this assembly."
With that, he turned to look directly at Lomas. "Firstly, nuncle, you have our gratitude for bringing your reinforcements to Horn Hill. With that done, your title of command is at an end."
Lomas started. He was still brooding on the death of his brother and the shaming of his condolences. He had never dreamed that his own family would undermine him so abruptly.
"I was not aware that my position was so fragile as that," he answered bluntly.
"Why? Did Daemon Blackfyre command it?"
Lomas could taste blood in his mouth. He looked at the others who sat around the table. None looked at him with sympathy except for Black Byren, Gareth the Grey, Gormon Peake, Normund Tarly, and his two former squires. The others were indifferent to his plight.
"Well said, Lord Tarly."
Lomas looked murderously at Lord Tommax Cafferen, who seized his horn of ale and held it high. "I can think of no better man to lead us than you, my lord."
Others agreed with the call, until Harriman Tarly stood up and held both hands in the air for silence.
"It is my will that we send excursions eastward and westward. We shall rally the rest of the marcher lords, the Hightowers, and their allies."
Men thumped the table with their fists in approval of this decree. Lomas made a point of drinking from his horn instead.
He no longer cared which of these lickspittles would take command of the excursion. Nor did he much care what his nephew planned to do besides that. He was too angry to think about anything except the way he had been so unceremoniously discarded at the first opportunity. They were happy to admire me when I brought word of Daemon before the war. What do any of them know of the Conquest? What fighting have they done in Daemon's name?
Robin Horpe was whispering in his ear, but he did not care what the young man had to say. He waved the young man away and sat in stony silence. It was Harriman's voice which broke through his stormy thoughts.
"Nuncle?"
Lomas looked at his nephew again. "Yes?"
"I said I wish for you to join the eastern excursion and recruit the Stormland marchers to our cause. You did spend the better part of your life serving them, did you not?"
So, Lomas thought, that is how they see me. They do not see a war hero, or even a commander of soldiers. They see a servant.
He wanted to get up and storm out. He thought of riding back north to Daemon Blackfyre and serving him directly. No man would surely blame him for joining his king. But for all his anger, Lomas could tell that his kinsmen would take it as an affront if he tried to desert them.
"Very well," Lomas answered curtly.
Gormon Peake suddenly raised a hand. "Lord Tarly, I will personally take command of that excursion."
Harriman didn't like it, but he was in no position to refuse his fellow marcher lord. And anyway, it had not been a request in the first place.
Grateful as Lomas was for Lord Peake's intervention, he felt doubly humiliated as well. Why should I depend on young Gormon for my position in this army? How many men in this room were standing with Daemon Blackfyre when the rebellion began?
"****" """"* **"*"* "*"* "*"*"* "**"
"Again!"
Gideon Farring hesitated. "Ser, is that wise?"
"To the seven hells with wisdom," Lomas barked. "There is none of that to be found here."
Gideon sighed and advanced on his former master. They carried large shields and heavy training swords with blunt blades.
Since that despicable council that morning, Lomas had gone to vent his fury with sword and shield. He had already fought against Gareth and Robin Horpe. Now it was Gideon who faced him in the training yard.
Giving up beer, ale, wine, and all such draughts had been among the very worst experiences of his life. It had taken him years to abandon that which all his fellow knights drank, and to recover his body and mind from the ravages which heavy drinking had committed.
It was Gareth the Grey who had urged him to devote himself to his skills at arms. They had been his source of pride ever since he'd been a young man. It had been the decay of those skills which had contributed to his misery in Blackhaven. The shame of his struggles had nearly broken him, but he had forced himself to endure whatever hardships necessary. Now it was his only solace in his old home.
Gideon Farring was predictable to Lomas; who else had trained this young man, after all? But Gideon's youth was prevailing against Lomas. He was weary, and pushing himself to continue was taking its toll.
His swings against Gideon's shield were less forceful, and his weariness caused him to be wrong-footed. On the fifth such occasion, he fell heavily to the ground with a grunt.
"Ser?" Gideon was quick to drop his sword and help Lomas stand.
"Get off me, boy!" Lomas pushed his protege aside as he slowly pulled himself back to his feet. "I am no invalid!"
Gideon was the third man who had sparred with him today. It was to be expected that he would not hold his own against this young man. Still, he felt a stab of envy that his own former squire could best him without a drop of sweat on his face.
Normund Tarly was quick to attend to him as always. When Lomas cast aside his shield and training sword, Normund rushed forward to pick them up and put them away. Then he returned with a flask full of water for Lomas to drink.
He spent the rest of the day resting in his tent, lying upon the hard ground on a mattress made of soft grass. It was only when the sun began to set that Normund approached him again, accompanied by Gareth the Grey.
"Will you join us for a drink, ser?"
Lomas answered him by groaning as he slowly stood up again. Gareth had the grace to let Lomas stand by himself without offering a demeaning hand.
Gareth took him to one of the taverns that had been raised on Garth's Green. It was little more than a tourney tent covering barrels of ale and wine, but it had served to supply men with spirits. Luckily for Lomas and Gareth, a barrel of water was also on hand.
Gideon, Robin, and Byren were sitting together at a small table, along with Gormon Peake. Gareth and Lomas joined them as men laughed and caroused all around them.
"Good of you to rejoin us, ser," Robin greeted Lomas as he sat down. "Lord Peake has already informed us of the plan. We were honoured to accept his invitation."
Another boon. Lomas gave Gormon a respectful nod, receiving the same gesture in return.
Byren Flowers changed the subject without preamble. "Speaking of the council, what of Longthorn Tyrell?"
"Rumours are that he is in the northwestern Reach," Gormon replied. "House Florent has declared for the Tyrells."
"What?" Gareth was astounded. Lomas couldn't blame him for his outburst. The Florents had always despised House Tyrell as a glorified house of stewards.
"It matters not," Gormon countered. "The Florents are a weak house. I command more than twice their numbers!"
Byren frowned and shook his head. "And now Longthorn's army just added half your numbers to his own army. How many men does that make?"
"Enough of this talk. As for Longthorn, let him come," Lomas snapped. "Or better yet, let him ride against Fireball!"
"May the Warrior grant us that outcome," Gareth said in a solemn tone. His hand went towards his chest, where Lomas knew he wore a talisman of the Warrior around his neck.
Byren was visibly stung, but he said no more. Gods, what has come over him?
Black Byren was not the only example that Lomas could think of. It was clear that men were growing restless. Harriman Tarly had insisted that all men must train with arms whilst they wait, but that did little to dissuade the rumours. They gathered together and whispered, complained, grumbled. We need to ride out and fight! Harriman would have us sit on our arses till the war is won!
"We had best not drink too much," Gormon observed as he drained his horn. "I mean to ride for Nightsong tomorrow. It will be some twelve days' ride, by my estimation."
Just then, the hubbub around them began to quiet down. Lomas was about to inquire why, but then he heard the strings of music being played. A voice suddenly began to sing a well-known marcher ballad.
"My brothers and I were young men, but boys still at heart
When war was called against the Dornish, we swore that we'd take part,
And so we rode down to the king, to whom we were sworn
He led us south of mountains tall, and died in the sands of Dorne"
Gods be good, not that one. Lomas clenched his fists. He had heard "The Sands of Dorne" far too many times over the course of his life, and it never failed to put tears in his eyes. His nephew claimed that the song might arouse support for the Blackfyres, and so Lomas never spoke out against its renditions. If it did inflame men's hearts, it would surely be worthwhile, but Lomas only felt demoralised whenever he heard it. This singer seemed to feel the same way, for he sang in a mournful tone.
"Oh marchers brave, he called to us, come win great renown
For we shall make those Dornish bow, to my Targaryen crown,
Oh how we cheered, and laughed aloud, with such pride and scorn
And sang our marcher ballads on the way to the sands of Dorne"
Gormon Peake slowly nodded his head with the melody. Byren sat still, looking wistfully at his own hands on the table. Gareth the Grey had stood up and sang along, never missing a word. Several other men did the same, but their voices were clumsy and cluttered. The singer outstripped them, for he had a wide range and a sonorous voice.
"Our father dressed us in ringmail and gave us steel blade
Our mother wept no tears that day, as farewell she bade,
My eldest brother's helm was gold, for he was the firstborn
He led us and our vassals off to war in the sands of Dorne"
None of us had golden helms. Lomas had been a second son, just as all his boyhood friends. Lucas Roxton, Owen and Garth Peake, Aegon Leygood, Cuper Tarly, Roland Tarly, Thrain Tarly, and Pykewood Beesebury. The thought of them made him want to weep, much to his own disgust. They would laugh to see me now, and rightly so. Tears are a women's curse upon us by our mothers.
"We marched beneath the king's command towards the Boneway
A treacherous pass and guarded well by many foes that day,
They swore that they would hold us back, unless we became airborne
But a dragon we did have that day, to take the sands of Dorne"
A stormlander had written this ballad, that much was clear to Lomas. For his part, he had marched down the Prince's Pass with Lord Lyonel Tyrell's host instead. Owen Peake and Cuper Tarly had died in the first week of fighting, buried in haste where they had fallen. Lomas shamefully cuffed at his eyes as he recalled how Pyke had looked whilst burying Owen Peake. He'd sworn that they would return and bring his bones back to Starpike. It never occurred to us that we might never live to do it.
"The Dornish arrows blocked the sun, until the daybreak
But the king defied, for he had spied some goat tracks he could take
And so they braved that evil road, around those steel thorns
As Daeron proclaimed that they would look upon the sands of Dorne"
Lomas could not stand it. He would not listen to scores of verses of this song. He got up from the table and walked out of the makeshift tavern.
As he walked back to his tent, he glanced up at Horn Hill. The sun was long gone, so only the glitter of torches illuminated the castle against the blackness of night. Lomas was not drunk, but he fancied that he saw a face looking at him upon the castle. There were several eyes and a grim frown on the night's shadows.
He looked at it again before he rode out with Gormon Peake the following day. The castle was radiant in the morning sun, standing proud and erect above all mortal men. Castles will outlive us all. Houses which hold those castles will outlive any one man. And our accomplishments shall endure beyond our deaths. I will make my reputation in this war for good and all.
That vow restored his good cheer, as did his ride across the western Dornish marches. These were the grounds where he had become a man. He had patrolled these lands for years, battling Dornish raiders and chasing them back to the Prince's Pass. Now he was riding in the company of his former squires, his current squire, his comrades-in-arms, and the sons of his dear friends. It was the happiest that he'd felt in quite some time.
Two hundred knights, squires, and men-at-arms rode along, with almost as many spare horses carrying supplies so that they could make better time.
They passed villages which seemed to be lifeless, and others which were teeming with smallfolk. These regarded Lomas and his companions with suspicion, until Gormon Peake unravelled Daemon Blackfyre's sigil alongside his own. Then they received many cheers. Villagers offered supplies and assistance, hailing Daemon's name.
"Lord Caron has already called his banners," one village elder explained. "They mean to march west, or so it's been said."
Another village elder believed that Lord Caron meant to march north, and a third insisted that they'd planned to go east into the Reach. Lomas discredited this hearsay entirely, hoping to find true answers at Nightsong.
It was the westernmost of the great castles that owed allegiance to House Baratheon. House Caron claimed the title "Lord of the Marches", much to the irritation of the other marcher lords. Lord Swann also contested the Carons' claim that they were the oldest and foremost of the marcher lords.
What could not be denied was the majesty of Nightsong. It had been built on a high plateau overlooking the Prince's Pass. Its tallest structures, the Singing Towers, were said by superstitious smallfolk to rise as high as the mountain peaks. The Carons even claimed that the Arryns were either inspired by Nightsong to build the Eyrie, or else did so in envy of their castle.
Seven days since leaving Horn Hill, Lord Peake's retinue came across mounted scouts wearing the nightingales of House Caron. They hailed the newcomers and escorted them the rest of the way. It was another five days before they finally reached their destination.
Like Horn Hill, Nightsong was busy with restless men. Everywhere Lomas looked, he saw armed men. The sight heartened him. Men will fight for Daemon Blackfyre, they need only the right leadership.
Pearce Caron, the heir of Nightsong, had come down the pathway to greet the newcomers. He was courteous and polite, but Lomas could sense that he was eager to be done with the formalities.
He soon found out why. They were not the only delegates in Nightsong. Pearse brought Lord Gormon and Lomas at once to his father's solar.
Old Lord Argilox Caron was a greybeard; although he'd once been a hale and accomplished knight, and although he was still straight-backed, it was clear that his fighting days were behind him.
He was not alone. Four men were also in attendance. They might have passed for Andal lords if they were not garbed in copper scales over flowing silk robes. Their belts were jewelled, as were the daggers and swords they carried. Stony Dornishmen.
"Welcome," Argilox declared as Gormon and Lomas stepped into the room. "Your timing is serendipitous."
"Is it?" Gormon Peake was ever a curt man, and now he looked upon the Dornishmen with unfriendly eyes.
Argilox took the role of introducing the men to each other. "These are my guests. Mallor Blackmont, Ryon and Duilin Manwoody, and Melqart Fowler. Sers, you have the honour of meeting Ser Lomas Tarly of Horn Hill and Lord Gormon Peake of Starpike."
"And Dunstonbury," Gormon added haughtily, "and Whitegrove."
Even if Lord Caron had not snubbed these Dornishmen of their full titles, Lomas could tell that his meeting with them was not a pleasant one. He was feeling more cheerful already. "Do forgive us if we have intruded."
"Not at all," Mallor Blackmont answered. Like his compatriots, he had an ill-favoured look about him. His skin was pink and freckled from the sun, his cheeks were hollowed, and his eyes were sunken. His hair was a pale brown, like the copper he wore. Lomas was drawn instead to the black vulture on his robes, clutching an infant in its claws. An ugly sigil for an ugly race of men.
"Lord Caron was attempting to press a proposition upon us," one of the Manwoody men drawled. Even the stony Dornishmen speak with that Rhoynish taint.
"And what proposition is that?" Lomas frowned as he turned to look at Lord Caron.
"Given that we share a common goal," Lord Caron explained, "I thought it would benefit us to combine forces."
Gormon folded his arms as he regarded the four Dornishmen. "And what is the answer?"
"We have sealed the passes into Dorne," Mallor Blackmont insisted. "We alerted your allies to Lord Gargalen's presence. We have played our part and we will continue to do so. It is not in our interest to lead our strength out of the Red Mountains. We are not the Daynes and the Dalts, after all." Melqart Fowler snorted with laughter at the mention of those other Dornish houses.
Lomas saw little to laugh at. He was standing face to face with the men whose families had killed half his friends. At least Owen and Cuper died in battle. Garth and Thrain were tortured to death when these Dornishmen broke the peace.
Mallor was not finished. "What need do you have for us anyway? Daemon has defeated three armies in the Riverlands from what we have heard. Storm's End, the Eyrie, Casterly Rock, they are all besieged. What else is left to be done?"
Much as he was not going to admit it, Lomas couldn't help but agree. He certainly had no wish to fight alongside these men.
Lord Caron chose that moment to jolt everyone in the room. "You have heard the sunny news, but my head is wet from the rain. The North has declared for Daeron. Word from King's Landing is that an army is gathering at Moat Cailin. They'll be marching down the Neck soon to liberate the Riverlands. The campaign in the Vale is stalling. The Ironborn are keeping quiet for once. And Leo Tyrell has driven our supporters out of the Reach. One of them stands before you, as it happens."
Lomas felt himself redden as the Dornish turned to look at him.
"Be that as it may," Mallor replied, glancing back at Lord Caron, "we have our own concerns. Prince Maron Martell is preparing to march against us."
"How do you know?"
Mallor paused and looked at Lomas with casual disdain. "We have an ally in the prince's court who wishes to rule an independent Dorne."
Pearse Caron, younger and more naive, chose that moment to speak. "Is he one of us, then?"
Mallor's contempt seemed to deepen. "Ser, do not mistake me. Hiram Martell is not one of you. Not one of us is with you, for that matter. That is the very reason why we are turning against Prince Maron. He has betrayed our people to bed a dragon. We will not have it."
Lomas frowned, and turned to Gormon. The younger man was no less baffled and suspicious at these words. "We had an arrangement. House Yronwood would assume leadership of Dorne."
"Is that what you thought?" This time, it was one of the Manwoody knights who spoke aloud. "House Yronwood is no less ambitious than Maron. They do not speak for all of us. We are not fighting against you, but nor shall we fight with you."
Lord Caron gave a heavy sigh. "Might I at least be satisfied that my lands will not be overrun whilst I am away?"
"For now," Mallor declared. He spoke lightly, with a grin on his face.
Lomas wanted to walk forward and break every one of that Blackmont knight's teeth. He thought of his friends, of Pyke, and of the countless marchers who had died cruel deaths in raids. It was with great effort that he allowed all four of those men to leave the solar intact.
"""**"""** """"**** "*"*"* "*"*"*"*"*"
Lord Caron called his banners the following morning.
"It will take some time," he admitted, "but we will ride with you to Horn Hill." With that, he and Pearse mounted up and rode out to rally their followers. Good men will lead their army from the front. The Carons always knew their duty.
That left him as a guest of House Caron alongside the other men. As the Carons began the muster, Lomas sat in Nightsong's main hall, breaking his fast alongside his companions.
"Shall we ride to Blackhaven? Stonehelm?" Robin Horpe asked his questions between mouthfuls of bacon.
"Nay," Gormon interjected. "I spoke with Lord Caron earlier. The Swanns have their hands full with the Dondarrions. Lady Cassana is a fugitive on the run, her family is holed up in Cloudwatch, and Alfred Swann is master of Blackhaven."
Lomas was surprised. "Where would she go, then?"
"It matters not," Gormon replied tersely. "I will not go gallivanting after one woman. She will be recaptured, or else she will die. If we can rally House Caron to join us in Horn Hill, we will have an army big enough to put Leo Longthorn in his place."
Lomas nodded reluctantly, and returned to his breakfast. As the conversation went on without him, Lomas' eyes wandered the length of the mighty hall. Very few men were left in the castle, but several dozen women and children were still eating and drinking together. A thought struck him as he noticed another absence.
"Where are those Dornishmen?"
Byren turned to look at Lomas. "What Dornishmen?"
"Never mind them," Gormon interjected. "Three of them left this morning, and the fourth is soon to follow."
"The fourth?"
"Aye. Mallor Blackmont. Seems that he slept in late. Doubtless he'll depart later today."
Lomas nodded, and said no more on the matter. But as he sat and ate, he could sense a pair of eyes on him.
Robin Horpe had learned to be mindful of Lomas' disposition, and even now as a grown man and an anointed knight, he was still in practice. Lomas did not need to say anything to the young man. He simply jerked his head to the side before standing up. "Does any man know where to find the privy?"
"I do." Robin stood up. "I need to go as well, I can take you there."
He sounded so casual, so routine, that nobody sensed anything was afoot. Lomas followed Robin out of the hall, but then took the lead as soon as they were out of sight.
A serving man was quick to give him the information he wanted, especially when Robin offered him a silver stag as reward.
Mallor Blackmont was still half-dressed when he opened the door to his chamber, but his eyes were alert as he stepped back in surprise at the sight of two men in mail and leather. "What is this?"
"A visit," Lomas declared, holding his hands outwards to show he was unarmed. That didn't stop the Blackmont knight from trying to bar Lomas from entering, but Robin quickly put his full weight against the heavy wooden door. It swung inwards, even as Mallor seized his jeweled dagger from a pile of his clothes.
The room was cluttered with the Dornishman's belongings, and there was a musky smell omitting from the bed. Lomas wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Does a Dornishman ever sleep alone?"
"Why should he?" Mallor gripped his naked steel as he eyed Lomas. He recognised him, that much was clear, and Lomas could tell that holding his knife made Mallor feel confident. For his part, Robin stood by awkwardly, looking embarrassed and foolish. That seemed to give Mallor yet more confidence.
"You strike me as a man who always sleeps alone," he jeered at Lomas. "Is it by choice? Or are you doubly unarmed from old age?"
Old age is a problem that you will never face. "Tell me," Lomas queried in a mild tone, "I have not been to Blackmont in a long time. Do the women of your house still fuck horses to produce those sand steeds you love so much?"
Dornishmen were hot-blooded, it was said, with their own senses of honour. Lomas had reached a point in his life where he understood it. He would have to be a fool not to see it in himself, in Quentyn Ball, in Aegor Rivers. Those men were hot-tempered too, but that was nothing to the madness which afflicted men and women of Dorne. That truly was what he hated about them; the Dornishmen represented the worst traits of man, taken to their extremes. They were slaves to their passions, flaunting their shame as if it were pride.
This man was no exception. Mallor's eyes flashed with rage, and his hands slowly curled into fists.
"I hear your sister takes two horses at once," Lomas declared. "Sylvenna, yes? Sylvenna the Slut, so I've heard. She's sired two foals with human heads? Or is it two infants with horse heads?"
"You speak strangely for a man who claims to be my ally," Mallor proclaimed dangerously.
"I would never make that claim," Lomas countered. "Why do you think I am fighting this war? I want nothing to do with your filthy kind. And you stony Dornishmen are the worst. You could pass for a marcher if you wished. Yet you throw your lot in with those degenerate Rhoynish. You embrace your deserts and your mountains, relishing in barbarity and savagery." He spat at Mallor's boots.
Mallor lifted his hand so the dagger was pointed at Lomas' face. "Get away from me, old man. Shake your fist at some clouds."
"This old man could break you over his knee. Just as he could breed a proper child on your sister if she weren't such a filthy horse-fucker. But mayhaps that's all she can hope for, being a long-faced cunt."
Mallor reacted so quickly that even Lomas, who'd been braced for it, was taken aback. Mallor leapt forward with a shout. His dagger was a blur, whistling through the air.
Robin Horpe had been expecting him. His leg struck out and caused Mallor to stumble and land heavily on his face. Before he could recover from his fall, Lomas brought his own boot down on the hand which clutched his knife. The sound of fingers breaking was music to his ears. Daemon has no need for treacherous pigs like this squealer.
"The first Dornishman I ever killed was a Blackmont," Lomas snarled as he brought his boot down on Mallor's neck again and again. "Just before he died, he begged me for water. I took out my cock and quenched his thirst with piss. He thanked me for the familiar taste before he died!"
By the time he recovered himself and ceased his stomping, Lomas saw that Mallor was well and truly dead. Such was the damage to his neck that even Robin seemed to be taken aback.
"His end was merciful," Lomas reminded him, "compared to how my friends died in the conquest. Your grandfather was butchered in Sunspear too, was he not?" Pyke was serving alongside him in the garrison. Good men, both of them.
Robin's eyes narrowed, and he glanced back at Mallor's corpse. "All the same, his companions will not take this well."
"Let them," Lomas declared. "They will do nothing to hinder our cause. Why should they? They say they want their independence again, they want nothing to do with us. Well, here is a reminder of the future they can expect. Daemon will win his war without their help."
"Still," Robin observed, "it is best that we fight one war at a time."
They picked up Mallor's broken body and wrapped him up in the bedsheets. The Dornishman's chamber window opened up to a view of the mountains and a sheer drop into a chasm behind Nightsong. It was a natural moat to deter any attacks from the west. The shrouded corpse fell like a stone without raising any alarm.
"You're a good lad, Robin," Lomas murmured, clasping his former squire by the shoulder. "You always were."
They said nothing else about what they had done, even as they returned to the main hall and played dice with Byren Flowers and Gideon Farring. They feigned ignorance when Caron guards inquired after a missing guest, swearing that they hadn't seen Mallor Blackmont.
The inquiry was abandoned after the third day, for Lord Caron had returned with several hundred of his knights and warriors. More streamed into Nightsong at the head of Pearse Caron and landed knights, but Lord Caron cautioned that his full strength would take time to gather and marshal.
It galled Lomas, but he kept his piece; his killing of Mallor Blackmont was enough to fill him with good cheer.
Finally, two weeks after he'd first arrived in Nightsong, he and Gormon Peake rode alongside Lord Caron, with more than three thousand men at their back. Pearse Caron was ordered to stay behind with the rest of House Caron's strength, in case the Dornish proved treacherous. Moreover, word had reached Nightsong that the Swann siege of Cloudwatch had been broken by an interjection of House Selmy.
"Traitors," Lord Caron had gnashed when he'd heard the news. "We should ride against them at once!"
"Nay," Lord Gormon intervened. "The bigger enemy is to our east. Lord Selmy will never win against the full might of House Swann."
Thankfully, Lord Caron had agreed, and after twelve days riding, the Carons were camped on Garth's Green. Much to Lomas and Gormon's surprise, however, there was no sign of reinforcements from the Reach. Moreover, the men of House Tarly and Peake were more restless than ever.
"We've been doing nothing," one man griped. "And there's no word come back from the other excursion."
If Gormon and Lomas were angry at this revelation, then Harriman Tarly was livid when they took Lord Caron to meet him. "The Reach is lost! Quentyn Ball has abandoned it for the Westerlands! Cockshaw and Myros Ball are dead! The Bulwers have surrendered!"
Lomas was shocked. "What of the Hightowers, then?"
"They are not joining us," Harriman raged. "They will not march against Longthorn now. They are insisting that we help defeat him first!"
"A likely story," Gormon snapped. "They wish for us to fight Longthorn alone! If we win, they will reap the rewards. If we lose, they will swear that they stayed loyal. Cowards!"
"The Hightowers lost all their manhood during the Dance," Lomas lamented, cursing each and every one of that pompous family to a grisly death.
"There is hope that their bannermen might join us," Harriman added. "Boron Hightower has promised to rally as many as he can to defect."
"What of the east, Lord Tarly? Is there any word from the Swanns?"
"Nothing yet," Harriman said in response to Lord Caron's question. "All we know is that Selmy has thrown in his lot with House Dondarrion."
"Is Cassana still at large?" Lomas hadn't expected that cold and detached Cassana would ever be a rallying point for her house's bannermen.
"Indeed she is," Harriman confirmed angrily. "Men are saying she rode alongside Geraint Selmy and liberated Cloudwatch."
Rubbish. Cassana wouldn't even cut her own meat. The thought of her riding out with a sword in hand made Lomas burst into a scornful guffaw.
"I'm glad you find this funny, Nuncle," Harriman snapped, "but the tide is turning against us."
Despite this outburst, however, Lomas' nephew proved too cautious for his own good. He spent several more days dithering and debating with the other lords whilst waiting for Boron Hightower's reinforcements.
As the days passed, they slowly trickled in. Apart from Boron, the highest ranking defectors were Lord Mullendore's brother and a second son of Lord Cuy. Those that followed them fell short of Boron's promise; hundreds came instead of thousands, and none of them were from Oldtown.
Moreover, food was beginning to run low at Horn Hill. Rumours came that Stonehelm was taken, that the siege of Storm's End was broken, that Longthorn Tyrell was marching on Horn Hill, that Daemon Blackfyre was fleeing the Riverlands, that Baelor Targaryen had ridden south at the head of the North's forces. Nobody could tell what was true and what was false. It only served to increase men's agitation, as well as Lord Tarly's diffidence.
As before, Lomas was cast aside, reliant upon Gormon Peake for news on the councils. Not since his time in Blackhaven had he felt so trapped. The triumph he'd felt from Mallor Blackmont's death had long since grown stale.
It was a miserable and rainy day that he went out riding with Gareth the Grey, who never let any type of weather deter him from keeping active.
"We will have to march soon," Lomas grumbled as he blinked rainwater out of his eyes.
"Whither should we go?" Gareth had never been a man to despair, but even he was growing frustrated with the lack of a good solution.
"We should march against Storm's End," Lomas suggested. "That is the surest road to King's Landing, is it not?"
"Sure indeed if we can avoid Brynden Rivers and Prince Maekar," Gareth answered.
"Maekar is a boy, and if Bloodraven could win this war single-handed, he would have already done so. Besides, how many men could they possibly command? The dregs of King's Landing? Crownlander rabble? When could such men ever stand up to the marchers? We spent thousands of years keeping Dornishmen in their place!"
"Spoken like a proud marcher," Gareth chided him. "But even the marches are divided by this war. Selmy and Dondarrion against Caron and Swann."
"We could crush them too," Lomas insisted. "How many men do we command now? Ten thousand? Twelve thousand? More? And that's before House Swann's army joins us."
"This is getting us nowhere."
Lomas turned to look at his companion. Surely you aren't giving up on us too? "What did you say?"
"This path," Gareth raised a hand and pointed forward. "It's just a small clearing."
Lomas turned and peered through the rain drops. It was as Gareth said; the crude path cut into the forest had only one destination. But as Lomas looked, he saw some movement.
A man was leading his horse from beneath the trees, only to stand in the clearing as he looked from side to side. Then he noticed Gareth and Lomas, for he lifted his arm and hailed them.
Flinching as thunder began to rumble above him, Lomas approached the man cautiously, drawing his sword as he remained on horseback. "Who are you? Why do you ride on Tarly land?"
"Ser Lomas?"
With a start, Lomas recognised Clifford Straw. Gods be good, not you again.
"Are you lost?" Gareth sounded far more amused than Lomas at this encounter.
"Not if I found you," Clifford replied. "I bring word from King Daemon."