Chapter 52: Remembrence
Never did he expect this. His uncle, the strongest person Jaehaerys had ever known - his memories of his grandfather were of a kindly older man long since having put his dynamic youth behind him, but Maegor had always been considered the splitting image of the Conqueror - only now none of this was visible. Covered in bandages, he rested upon the stretcher still as a corpse.
"Is he even alive?" Jae murmured. Vermithor, heavy on his shoulders, offered what comfort he could. Syndor, the King's direwolf, never left Maegor's side.
"He's still breathing," stated Lord Commander Gawen Corbray, himself limping and haggard from his own wounds. "So is Dick Bean, albeit barely. The others…"
Jae hung his head, nodding. Seven warriors. Three survivors, only one of them still conscious. King Maegor Targaryen, wounded and in a coma. Dick Bean, mercifully passed out. Gawen Corbray, alive but wounded. "Where is Ser Marden?"
"Over there, your Grace." Marden Karstark, dead. Guy Lotsthen, dead. Benarr Brune, dead. Caspar Mormont… Brandon Snow stood vigil over his grandson, not speaking a word. He had no tears, but it was said that the aged Master of Whisperers couldn't cry since his tears froze in his eyes.
"Your Grace." Alyn Stokeworth, his armor drenched in blood, pulled back his visor. "We've managed to secure most of the city."
"What? They didn't abide by the results of the Trial?" Jae wasn't shocked, but was a bit surprised.
A nod. "Murmison and whomever of the warrior sons left managed to marshal their forces as we sallied. They're barricaded at the Sept of Remembrance, taking the northern part of the city - we have the docks, and Visenya's Hill is contested."
Grumbling, Jae knew he was still in charge with his uncle incapacitated. "Conscript loyal men among the populace, do what it takes to secure Visenya's Hill."
"Yes, your Grace."
Somewhere had emerged Grand Maester Gawen, his chains jostling. "By the gods, the King." He approached Maegor. "Rest assured, your Grace, I shall tend him."
"You will not."
There was a tense silence, all staring at Jae. "I am the Grand Maester," Gawen huffed. "It is my duty to see to his Grace and to make sure his wounds are properly cleaned and dressed." The older man tried to approach the King's body, only for Syndor to growl yet again. Jaws snapping at Gawen when he didn't make to step back, which did the trick.
Jaehaerys could feel mistrust roiling off Vermithor. Dragons had good instincts about people, and so did Direwolves. "Forgive me, Grand Maester, but you failed to preserve Princess Ceryse's babes - not to mention how my grandfather's health failed him under your watch."
Gawen bristled. "I fail to see how a sudden death or the nature of a barren, hostile womb have anything to do with me."
At Jae's direction, Vermithor spat a slight flame at Gawen. "Your arrogance offends me, Grand Maester." He had no time for the egos of prickly men in high positions. Neither did his uncle, grandfather, or grandmother… nor did his muna and sister. "See to the other wounded. You're not to touch my uncle." After all that had happened, all Jae knew he had to make right, he wouldn't trust Maegor's health to just anyone.
Waiting for the Grand Maester to say something, Jaehaerys ended up watching Gawen simply hobble off. The Prince sighing in relief that he avoided yet another headache.
"Who do you intend to watch over his Grace?" Even wounded, the other Gawen was still on his feet. Bandages covering him.
"The midwives," Jaehaerys replied. "My sister hand-picked them."
"May I suggest recalling Lady Tyanna from Dragonstone?" Jaehaerys eyed the Lord Commander. "She ensured the safe delivery of Prince Daemon, your nephew. If anyone can perform a miracle…"
Jaehaerys nodded. "See to it." Tyanna… The woman was unsettling but she was loyal. First to his grandmother and then to Rhaena. All of Rhaena's favorites could be counted on, something Jaehaerys realized quite early on.
His legs ended up carrying him to where the four bodies laid in near reverence - a feeling held by all the Targaryen loyalists within the Dragonpalace. Jaehaerys however was focused on a particular person. "Ser Marden…"
The northern knight that had trained him looked broken. Death Head Harry had inflicted the worst of wounds, but the Karstark's sword was stained with dried blood. The blood of his killer.
"Even in death, you distinguish yourself as a man of both honor and fury."
"Your Grace?" Jaehaerys turned to see another Northman, one of the men-at-arms that Ser Marden had brought from Karhold.
The perfect sort of person that Jae needed to speak to. "Have his body cleaned up, but his sword the way it is. I want his kin at Karhold to know how furious he fought when they inter him in their crypts." As fitting a fate as any northern warrior could have.
He watched the attendants swarm over the body as a shrill shriek echoed through the sky.
To those that knew dragons, Dreamfyre was not a beast that could break the will of a man simply by showing up. That honor belonged to monsters such as Balerion or Vhagar - the former from his size and the latter by sheer ferocity. The dragon of Jaehaerys' older sister was a smaller, sleeker beast built for speed and agility. An almost graceful reptile. Beautiful. Regal. Feminine even.
But Jaehaerys knew just from sight as the dragon careened towards the open field within the Dragonpalace that Dreamfyre was not to be trifled with. A heat seemed to simmer out of her scales. This heat was white hot, pure rage threatening to metaphorically melt all around her.
On his shoulder, Vermithor seemed to shrink away from Dreamfyre's presence, wrapping his serpentine body around Jae's neck. He didn't blame his bonded dragon.
If Dreamfyre was in this mood, either she was wounded, her territory was threatened… or her rider was in the greatest of agony.
From the expression on Rhaena's face as her beautiful form quickly scrambled down Dreamfyre's spines - three parts anger, four parts desolation - it was the latter.
Quickly did her gaze find Jaehaerys'. The Prince was already rushing towards his elder sister. "Jae…" she croaked.
"Rhaena," he cried, and soon the siblings collided with each other. Vermithor screeched and flapped off Jae's shoulder but stayed close as Jae buried his face in her neck. Sobbing uncontrollably. He was only ever this vulnerable with Alysanne or their muna, and with Alyssa trapped in Harrenhal Rhaena would have to serve as that maternal figure for him. "I'm sorry… forgive me…"
"Hush, valonqar, hush." She kissed his forehead, only for the sorrow and terror on her face to threaten to break him once again. "Where… where is he? Is he alright?"
Jaehaerys had no doubt as to who she meant. "He's in the holdfast… being tended to by the midwives until Lady Tyanna comes." Rhaena let out a haggard breath, nodding. "Follow me." The passivity in which his fearless older sister simply followed him only caused him greater agony.
It wasn't the first time she was given a wide berth.
A Princess all her life, Rhaena was used to those treating her as royalty. Deference but with a slight bit of fear and more obvious awe - though the latter was quite obviously added to when she realized she was also a dragonrider - it was quite recognizable. Rhaena, however, only realized after her coronation on Dragonstone how being a reigning Queen made it all the greater. No one making eye contact with her, constantly bowing and backing away to the sides of the hallways. Soldiers in armor standing straight with their weapons flat on their shoulders and sides.
On Dragonstone it had surprised her.
In the Vale, she reveled in it - a dragon naturally assuming her place in the sun.
But in the Dragonpalace, the first time she had returned here since that fateful argument with her kepa - the last time she had seen him alive - the deference only added to the abyss her soul had fallen into. More pronounced, a grim formality about it from the courtiers and soldiers that had remained loyal through the Faith's occupation of King's Landing and the siege of the symbol of Targaryen power. Undoubtedly they knew of her husband's condition, more so than even Rhaena given she had just landed.
Jaehaerys was quiet as well. Occasionally she saw out of her periphery her younger brother look worriedly at her, but he never spoke. Rhaena never urged him to.
Did she wish for him to make the first move, or did she wish not to hear what he had to say?
Was she a coward.
Yes. On this only.
"Your Grace." Big Jon Hogg was a familiar sight, bowing low in his thick armor. "His Grace is in here."
Rhaena's eyes stared hard at the door to the King's chambers. They moved him here. Only natural - Rhaena didn't expect them to remain a shrine to her kepa. "Were you there? Did you fight with your King."
The big knight seemed to wilt under the gaze of the Queen - however grim it was. "His Grace ordered me to hold the keep. I wish I had gone, since then his Grace would've emerged unscathed and Caspar Mormont wouldn't have died."
"Yes, you should've." Rhaena didn't know Caspar Mormont was one of the fallen. Her heart broke yet again for dear Jorelle, but still she felt nothing but numbness in her soul knowing who rested behind the doors. "Let me see him, valonqar."
Jaehaerys gulped, but nodded. "Ser Jon, open the door." He bowed and did so, Rhaena brusquely walking in.
And the sight made her gasp out a labored breath. "Maegor."
He looked nothing like the man she fell in love with. Granted, the wounds and subsequent unconsciousness hadn't taken away his physical prowess, but even still. He looked sapped of life. Denied that powerful essence that made him a dynamic dragonrider. Rhaena's numbness broke, and in the safety of the private quarters she allowed her tears to fall as she rushed to his side.
Rhaena didn't bother to speak to him. To ask him to wake, for she knew better. "How is he? Will he wake?" There was a woman there. Wylla, the chief midwife, she recognized.
"Your Grace, the King's wounds are not in and of themselves fatal. They will heal well as long as they do not fester, and I will use all my skills to prevent that from happening."
"Then why won't he wake?" Her voice did a little catch. Barely able to hold it together as she clasped Maegor's unmoving hand. Feeling his callouses. Taking comfort in the fact they were still warm.
Wylla approached, touching the Queen's shoulder. As someone who appreciated the companionship of women - in more ways than one - Rhaena allowed it. "I am no expert in the troubles of the mind, your Grace. Such are what ail King Maegor, I'm afraid."
Eyes scrunched shut, fists clenched, Rhaena shook her head. "Where is the Grand Maester?"
"I dismissed him from his care," Jaehaerys replied. The man who couldn't save my nephew shouldn't be involved in uncle's care."
"Good… you thought well."
Turning back to her husband, Rhaena lifted his strong hand and kissed the back of it, tears flowing freely. This was a glorious victory for him, the trial by seven. While trials by combat were relatively common, the other Andal means of deciding the favor of the gods were rare enough so that each was a legend, and this one…
Maegor had delivered the winning blow against the Grand Captain of the Warrior Sons, but here he was clinging weakly to life. It was… both tragic and deeply ironic in a dark manner.
"Husband," she murmured, praying to Tessarion that he not be taken before his time. "You're not alone anymore. I'm here." His lips remained closed, eyes shut. "You have so much to live for… please come back to your family. Come back to me." Rhaena leaned down and kissed his lips. The lack of passion simply broke her.
Only for a dragon to emerge as she stood up. Whereas she had been numb before, now steely emotion radiated from her eyes and skin. "Sister…" Jaehaerys said, nervous.
"Where are the Faith now?"
"In the Sept of Remembrance, barricaded there."
"Murmison?"
"Aye."
"Good." She dropped her husband's hand. "Do not leave his side, I shall be back."
He nodded. Hugging her. "Fire and blood, sister."
She nodded too. "Fire and blood."
"Your Eminence."
Murmison looked up from the central altar of the Sept of Remembrance to see a senior Poor Fellow approach him. He still didn't recognize the proper armor and iron discipline, remembering from his youth the peasant mob more used to pillaging the houses of heretics rather than actual soldiers. "Yes, son?" he asked.
The man, the blood not his own staining his hands clearly indicating he had recently fought at the barricades, presented a dispatch. "Raven, from Captain Horys."
Taking the dispatch, he broke the seven-pointed star wax seal and perused the document. The handwriting simplistic but legible. As such, soon did he wince. "They're not disengaging around Harrenhal," he murmured to himself.
"So we aren't being reinforced?"
"Until the main army arrives from the Reach, we are on our own." Jonos Arryn had been defeated at the Bloody Gate, while the siege of Harrenhal and the advance of the Starks from the Twins distracted Ser Horys Hill and Rupert Falwell. "Undoubtedly Red Harren won't abandon his ancestral keep till Daeron Qoherys is wiped out."
"Gargon Qoherys is a lecher but he's a good warrior."
"Unfortunately." It was just them, holding half the city while the wounded and the pious leadership had retreated to the Sept. "How did Ser Damon lose," he murmured. "How?" Murmison, hearing the cries of the wounded men and without a unifying military figure to take charge, fled away to the private chapel. Needing a moment alone with the gods.
Not for the first time wondering if he had made the right decision to betray his King. His
Friend. Murmison fell to his knees, looking up at the carved statue of the Father. Begging for clarity. For truth in the face of the lies and deceptions.
The candles suddenly flickered within the chapel, smoke wafting around the statues of the Seven. Obscuring their faces, all but the hooded gaze of the Stranger. One couldn't see his eyes, but it was nevertheless piercing deep into one's soul. "What makes these candles burn so?" Murmison cried, stumbling back. Only to hear a raspy moan. "Who… who comes here?"
He looked around, not seeing anything but the smoke… until it appeared. Until he appeared. Pale as anything, the only colors being that of the red splotches upon his robes. "I do," the wraith spoke, voice hollow and mournful.
Murmison rubbed his face. "I think my eyes deceive me!" He couldn't believe it, for standing - hovering in front of him was Aenys himself. Gaze filled with a steel he had never seen before. "This monstrous apparition… no, you shan't come upon me!" The septon backed away, nearly tripping over the altar. "No god, nay, some devil! Why are you here?! To make my blood cold and hair grey as a corpse?!" Aenys said nothing, and it only infuriated Murmison. "Speak to me!"
The wraith cocked his head. "To bear one last look upon your evil spirit, Murmison."
Heart beating out of his chest, Murmison clutched the altar as if it would protect him. "It is the dragons that are evil."
"You served me, faithfully. We were friends." Aenys did not sound sad, merely resigned. A strength beneath his words. "You betrayed me."
He closed his eyes tightly. "Why did you come?"
If the wraith had been terrifying before, the smirk curling on his handsome, pale face could leave the dragonmont covered in ice. "To say you shall see the fire of my soul soon."
"You had no fire, that is why you died…"
"My fire was destined for another."
Queen Rhaena… "Well," Murmison's hand trembled. "Then I shall see you again?
The smirk didn't falter. "Aye, very soon." And as suddenly as the wraith had appeared, it vanished. That damned smirk being the last that Murmison saw before it disappeared into thin air, leaving not but the hooded Stranger staring down at him.
Just as the apparition disappeared did the entire building shake. Murmison stood on unsteady legs, a roar echoing over the city. He knew the dragons by sound - Dreamfyre, the Queen had returned.
The building shook again, worse now. Dust and bits of stone falling from the rafters. He pushed his way to the door and opened it, greeted by a sudden heat and great orange glow. "Your Eminence!" A group of Poor Fellows approached, yanking him out. "The Queen is burning the sept!"
"Sacrilege!" he said without thinking.
"Aye, your Eminence." The response was muted, and even Murmison knew it was foolish. The High Septon had excommunicated the entire Targaryen family. They committed no crime against the gods since they were beyond the gods.
Smoke already began to fill the place, adding to the heat. The terrible heat. Heat only dragonriders could stand. "The wounded, evacuate the wounded," Murmison begged as they rushed towards the main entrance.
"First yourself, your Eminence." Shoving open the door, the Poor Fellow hadn't made it out five steps before an arrow slammed into his chest. "Fuck!" he bellowed, pitching back. "Ambush!" The word disappeared into a gurgling mess as another arrow sliced open his throat, blood oozing out into his windpipe.
"Take cover!" Murmison watched in horror as, illuminated by the red-orange flames stabbing high into the sky of Rhaenys' Hill, the barricades around the Sept were carpeted in the dead or dying. Some were charred or still ablaze from the dragonfire, but many more were felled in a hail of arrows from the buildings surrounding the hill. Somehow the Targaryens - likely Alyn Stokeworth or perhaps Ser Gawen if he was well enough - had snuck archers and crossbowmen into position. They had plenty, and cut off all hope for escape.
"Your Eminence! We need to get you out of here!"
"The arrows…" he whispered.
Apparently the Poor Fellow heard him. "Better than burning to death!"
No… Murmison swore he could see Aenys appear again, that smirk still on his face. "No, this is the end. The Stranger has come for me."
"Your Eminence…"
"Go, my son," he urged the young man, who hesitated. "Do away with your armor and melt into the city. Live however you can. Raise a family, abandon this fight." Grimly, the poor soul merely nodded and hurried out through the doors. A crossbow bolt smacked into the stone column beside him, just missing his head.
Sighing, Murmison reentered the sept. Screaming grew in number as the flames roared into the central nave. Many wounded had drawn daggers to stab themselves, ending their suffering. The statue of the Crone collapsed, dragonfire weakening its supports. The others would soon follow, Murmison knew. Without a word, he merely sat upon the floor, awaiting his fate with prayer.
His punishment for betraying his friend.
It came as Aenys said it would. A dragon's roar, followed by a whoosh of flame… then nothing.
"We'll put into King's Landing by sunset."
Hand on the railing, Tyanna watched the bobbing of the waves. Powerful was the sea, it and the rivers that fed it leading the Rhoynar to do what no other did - come close to defeating the Valyrian dragonriders. But dragons won regardless in the end, proving fire was more powerful.
"Good," she finally said, pulling away from the side of the Valeryon ship. Wrapping her arms around her chest. "The sooner I land, the sooner I can treat Maegor."
"Maegor, indeed." Lord Daemon Velaryon was loyal to the crown. That did not mean he shared her sentiments towards Maegor, rather that of his sister Queen Alyssa. Dowager Queen Alyssa, rather. "I'm not sure what you plan for healing his Grace, Lady Tyanna," said Daemon, crossing his arms. "My sister hasn't spoken highly of your methods."
Tyanna leaned back against the mast - her lack of position at court, it gave her a sense of invulnerability. An lack of restraint by social niceties. "To tell you the truth, Lord Daemon, I feel your sister the Queen Dowager hopes that his Grace dies."
Lord Daemon went red in the cheeks. "That is slander."
"I haven't seen her treat him with anything but contempt."
"If your daughter was left with child outside of wedlock, you'd understand."
"This predates that."
While the Lord of the Tides opened his mouth to speak, he then held up his hands, checking himself. "Queen Rhaena, my niece, is my Queen and if she chose Maegor as her husband and King then my loyalty to her extends to him. I am no traitor…" Tyanna turned her gaze to him when he trailed off. "Good gods."
Her brows furrowed. "Lord Daemon?"
"The entire city is aflame."
Eyes widening, Tyanna swiveled around and gasped. The greasy black pyre of smoke stabbed high into the sky. Almost higher than the clouds themselves. Winds carried them lazily over Blackwater Bay, obscuring the late afternoon sun. "That… is not the entire city."
"Hmmph." The Lord nodded. "Well then, whatever happened I'm sure the Faith are no longer a presence in the capital." A fair assumption to make. The Dragonpalace was visible upon Aegon's High Hill, and untouched. The fire came from what appeared to be the north of King's Landing. The great Sept… good. "Should then be good for you."
"What do you mean?"
Lord Daemon smiled mockingly at her. "Balerion clearly was busy, so his Grace must've recovered. No need to risk your unproven magic."
Tyanna rolled her eyes and gazed at the pyre again. Around them, little flecks of ash - looking almost akin to blackened snow - fell from the growing cloud. She peered at the cloud, and at the city. "No, this isn't Balerion. This is Dreamfyre's work."
"Dreamfyre? My niece's dragon is fierce but not capable of this."
"Oh, it would be, if her rider was furious enough." She pursed her lips. "Means Rhaena is here." Gods, she wished it was under better circumstances.
Tyanna's inferences proved accurate. Balerion could be spotted upon the cliffs as they approached the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. He curled up on the ground, quite despondent and quiet which was unlike the great dragon. Dreamfyre on the other hand flew over the keep in lazy circles. Restless beast.
She didn't rub it in to Lord Daemon, mind preoccupied with the worst of thoughts. Jaehaerys' raven was frantic, and Tyanna scrambled to gather her belongings upon the ship - as well as the household of the wee babe snugly sleeping in her arms. Young Daemon needed to be back in his home, which by the looks of things was now completely secure.
The babe cooed, stretching and threatening to undo his swaddle as the skiff they loaded onto began to row to shore, the small jetty used only by the royal family. "Easy, sweetling," Tyanna cooed - never good with children, it simply came naturally with Rhaena's babe. With Maegor's babe… "Your kepa will be alright, I promise."
She hoped she was telling him the truth. For the babe's sake, and for her own.
Tyanna did not expect Rhaena at the docks. She did not expect that when the Queen threw her arms around her and Daemon, that the kiss upon the cooing Daemon's head would be matched with a warm kiss upon Tyanna's lips. She didn't resist though, immediately reciprocating. Eager even… until the tears in Rhaena's eyes reminded her of reality. "When did you arrive, Rhae?" she asked softly.
Rhaena clutched her son as if he were the only thing keeping her alive. "Yesterday," she replied."
"The sept? Your doing?" A nod. "Good."
"All are dead, Ty," she said as they walked towards the stairs leading to the Dragonpalace. "I wish I could burn them all again, but it doesn't help Maegor, does it?"
Nodding, Tyanna wrapped an arm around her waist. Comforting her. "That is why I am here, to do what the others can't. To bring him back to health."
"Promise that you will."
Charged words. Tyanna wished she could, both for Rhaena and herself - her feelings were a chaotic mess, but one thing was for certain. She could sense a similar connection between herself and the King that she held for the Queen. It brought Tyanna nothing but agony at the thought that Maegor would die rather than recover. She wanted to save him.
She needed to save him.
"I promise."
A vulture cawed in the sky, lazily circling overhead as if waiting for a meal but in no rush to get it.
Such was a terrible omen even in the North, but Brandon wondered if he was merely being paranoid. Surely he was. Among thirty-thousand elite Northern warriors, there would be very little that could harm them in any manner. "We're still waiting for Lord Flint's scouts, My Lord."
Brandon eyed Lord Karstark sparingly. With Lord Rogar Bolton left behind to prevent the Tullys sallying out of Riverrun and Theomare Manderly keeping the sea lanes open between White Harbor and Dragonstone, his kin was the largest force there was besides his own. The Umbers were more battle-hardened and the Mormonts fiercer, but quantity had its own quality, so Lord Karstark was in the van. "Widen your front, have the infantry shift to row formation with the horse on the wings… apart from a screen of skirmishers in front."
"You think we'll run into hostile banners?" asked Gyle Mormont. "Lord Marbrand…"
"We're not at Ashmark yet," Brandon replied. "And even if he is ready to defect as he said in his dispatch to me, until we arrive he'll need to keep up a front for Tyrion." The Lannisters still besieged Prince Aegon and the Reynes, and they could call upon a massive, elite host. Not to be trifled with until they could add Lord Marbrand's heavy infantry to their ranks and cut through the Valley of Ashmark and hit Tyrion from the rear. "Take no chances."
"Aye, my Lord."
All dispersed back to their banners, horses galloping over the freshly green grass - apart from Lord Marlon Umber, sticking close to his liege. "You do not approve of my orders, Marlon?" Brandon asked.
Lips pressed together, Lord Umber did not look like a man content. "Truly, my Lord, don't you think everything is just too perfect?"
Brandon blinked. "I am not following."
"A dispatch rider from one of the main bannermen of House Lannister speaking of the imminent fall of Castamere and then offering to allow you to go through his lands in exchange for royal pardon - it is just too good to be true. It smells of a trap."
"My wife's nephew, the brother of Queen Rhaena, is stuck in Castamere with the entire Lannister Host besieging him. I don't know if the situation is as dire as what Lord Marbrand says it is, but by the Old Gods themselves even the best of scenarios has him only one storming away from death. Lord Marbrand may be lying, in which case I will storm his keep and raze it to the ground, but if there is any chance I can rescue my nephew then I must take it."
Lord Umber stared at him for the longest time, but nodded. "If it is any consolation, once they returned from their long expedition my mounted scouts reported a large collection of tents surrounding Castamere, or close to it. Tyrion Lannister is camped there, for better or worse."
"Good. Probably wants us bogged down if Lord Marbrand is lying, in which he'll be in for a wonderful surprise." Brandon still wished he hadn't left Rogar Bolton investing Riverrun… or that he had Rhaenys with him, but the past was the past. Only forward.
The sun had just begun to descend from the apex of the sky when the sound of horns resonated across the valley. From the hills. "Your scouts?" he asked Lord Umber, horse beginning to grow skittish. He tugged on the reins to calm her down.
Marlon furrowed his brows. "My men don't use horns like that, my Lord." They seemed to grow in intensity, from both the north slope and south slope as they marched towards Ashmark. Unsettling enough for the entire Northern column to halt in place, soldiers milling about.
It was Lord Flint that brought the news to his liege. "Lord Brandon!" He looked completely out of breath, horse nearly blown as noncombatants grabbed its reins. Helping him dismount and refresh with a skin of water. "Horsemen… Heavy Horse… an hour ahead of us!"
Brandon's blood went cold. "How many?"
"Ten thousand… under the Lord's Banner of Casterly Rock… mayhaps infantry as well, but I didn't… I didn't…" He collapsed, exhausted, breathing labored.
"Fetch a healer, now!" Brandon ordered, his heart starting to pound. "I thought you said your scouts found Lord Tyrion investing Castamere."
"I did," Marlon shot back. "They must've…"
"It's a trap." Gods, did Brandon feel like a fool. But how was he supposed to know of… "Sound the retreat!"
Ser Ned Cassel, his guard captain, looked at him in disbelief. "How far, my Lord?"
"To Riverrun, then back across the Trident!"
"That's a week's march away, if we do not stop." All but Lord Umber looked on him if he sprouted five arms. "You hear those horns?" They hadn't stopped. "Tyrion Lannister occupies the high ground. If we stay we'll be cut off and annihilated. Full retreat! Torch the wagons if you have to."
A race against time, and it was only a race between defeat and death.
A sinking part of Brandon realized that the victor had already been decided once he marched into the Ashmark valley.
