Prologue (Ezekiel)
The Dornish Marches sprawled out before Ezekiel, an untamed wilderness of hills and dense forests, delineating the tumultuous border between the Stormlands and Dorne. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. Ezekiel, draped in worn leather armor adorned with the sigil of House Caron, firmly gripped the shaft of his longbow with calloused hands. By his side, Lommy, a fellow foot soldier with unruly hair, matched Ezekiel's stride.
Their day's patrol had been routine, devoid of any noteworthy events. Ezekiel embraced the familiar task of scanning the horizon for signs of movement. The Dornish were known for their cunning, relying on stealth and guile. Ezekiel's eyes flickered from tree to tree, vigilant for the glint of a hidden blade or the rustle of an unseen threat.
Breaking the silence, Lommy, always eager for diversion, challenged Ezekiel. "Ezekiel, bet I can shoot more rabbits than you today. The winner gets an extra ration of ale when we return to Nightsong."
Ezekiel chuckled, adjusting the quiver of arrows on his back. "You're on, Lommy. But you know ale is wasted on you. You drink like a fish but shoot like a blind man."
Feigning offense, Lommy clutched his chest dramatically. "Blind man? I'll have you know my aim is as true as Harlon the Hunter's! Watch and learn, my friend."
They found a suitable spot to establish their makeshift patrol base—a small clearing with a clear view of the surrounding terrain. The air carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Ezekiel took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the bow in his hands and the familiar tension of the string against his fingertips.
"First one to five rabbits wins," Lommy declared, mischief gleaming in his eyes.
Ezekiel nodded, nocking an arrow and scanning the nearby bushes. The forest seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the opening salvo of their friendly competition.
The first arrow sailed through the air, hitting its mark with a satisfying thud. Lommy whooped in triumph, pointing at the motionless rabbit a few paces away. "One for Lommy!"
Ezekiel smirked, drawing his own bow. "Beginner's luck. Watch this." His arrow found its mark in the neck of a rabbit hiding in the underbrush. "One for Ezekiel."
Their banter continued as they moved through the clearing, each arrow hitting its target with impressive accuracy. The sun sank lower, casting long shadows that danced between the trees. With the score tied at two rabbits each, Ezekiel could see the determination in Lommy's eyes. The promise of an extra ration of ale fueled the young foot soldier's motivation.
As the competition intensified, so did their playful jibes. Lommy claimed he could shoot a hare from the back of a galloping horse, while Ezekiel insisted he could split an arrow at fifty paces. Laughter echoed through the woods as they reveled in the camaraderie of their shared patrol.
With the score tied at four rabbits each, tension gripped the clearing. The final round would decide the winner, and both soldiers approached it with focused intensity. Ezekiel spotted a twitch of fur near a large oak tree.
"Last one, Lommy. Make it count," Ezekiel said, a competitive glint in his eye.
Lommy drew his bow, squinting at the distant target. The arrow grazed the ear of the rabbit before embedding itself in the ground.
Ezekiel grinned, drawing his bow with practiced ease. He took a deep breath, focusing on the target. The arrow left his bow, striking the rabbit square in the chest.
"Five for Ezekiel," he declared, triumphant.
Lommy sighed in mock defeat. "Well played, friend. Ale's on me when we return."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest into shades of deep blue, Ezekiel felt content. The competition had lightened the mood, and the banter had forged a bond stronger than the steel they carried.
With the competition settled, Ezekiel turned his attention to retrieving their arrows before nightfall. The forest, bathed in twilight, took on an ethereal quality. He made his way through the underbrush, Lommy trailing behind.
"You know," Lommy remarked, "I still think I'm the better shot. You just got lucky today."
Ezekiel chuckled, bending down to pluck an arrow from the ground. "Luck or skill, it matters not. We patrol the Marches, and skill with a bow may be the only thing between life and death out here."
Their banter continued, the fading light turning the woods into a labyrinth of shadows. Ezekiel moved deeper into the forest, the familiar crunch of leaves beneath his boots the only sound in the gathering dusk.
The air grew colder, and Ezekiel shivered. The feeling of being watched sent a chill down his spine. Dismissing it as a trick of the imagination, he reached the oak tree where the final rabbit had fallen. A sense of unease settled over him.
He bent down to retrieve his arrow, the forest silent except for the distant hoot of an owl. Lommy's voice echoed from behind, but a subtle rustle in the underbrush caught Ezekiel's attention. Unease gripped him, dismissed as the primal fear of the wild.
"Lommy, where are you?" Ezekiel called, his voice carrying through the darkening woods.
No response came, only the haunting silence of the trees. Ezekiel shook off the ominous feeling, convincing himself that Lommy had likely wandered off in search of more game. With a sigh, he straightened, clutching the retrieved arrows in his hand.
As he turned to head back to their makeshift patrol base, a sudden rush of wind whizzed past his ear. Instinctively, he dropped to the forest floor, arrows thudding into tree trunks around him. Panic seized his chest, and he shouted, "Lommy!"
His heart pounded as he searched for his companion. Another volley of arrows sailed through the air, and Ezekiel caught a glimpse of Lommy, frozen in shock as an arrow struck him between the eyes. Time seemed to slow as his friend crumpled to the ground.
"No!" Ezekiel screamed, a raw, desperate plea.
Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and dashed towards the fallen Lommy. Arrows continued to rain down, and Ezekiel's heart hammered. He reached his friend's lifeless form, hands trembling as he fought to process the brutality of the ambush.
A searing pain erupted in Ezekiel's leg as an arrow pierced through flesh and bone. He stumbled, collapsing beside Lommy. The realization hit him—they were under attack. He twisted his head towards the unseen assailants, his mind racing.
Through the dense foliage, a group of Dornish raiders emerged on swift standsteeds, faces masked by scarves. Their dark eyes held a predatory glint as they closed in on the fallen soldiers.
Ezekiel's hand fumbled for the hilt of his dagger. The taste of fear lingered on his tongue, but defiance burned in his eyes. He wouldn't be taken without a fight.
"Cowards!" he spat, venom in his voice.
As the Dornish raiders approached, one rider separated from the group—an olive-skinned man with dark hair rode a black standsteed adorned with crimson tassels. He dismounted with graceful ease, approaching Ezekiel with a swagger that oozed confidence.
He offered a wicked grin, revealing a row of gleaming teeth. "Greetings, Stormlander. I am known as the Red Reaper."
Ezekiel's eyes narrowed, anger and sorrow burning within him. "Red Reaper or not, you're nothing but a common murderer."
The Red Reaper chuckled, unsheathing a slender blade with a crimson hue. "A murderer, perhaps, but no common one. I offer you a chance, Stormlander. Single combat. A dance of blades to decide your fate."
Ezekiel's blood boiled at the audacity. He glared at the Dornishman, pain throbbing through his wounded leg. "I'd sooner face the Stranger himself than dance with the likes of you."
The Red Reaper shrugged, twirling his blade with a flourish. "Very well. But know this, Stormlander, your defiance changes nothing. The dance has already begun."
With that, the Dornish raiders mounted their standsteeds, circling Ezekiel like vultures. The Red Reaper remained on foot, eyes fixed on Ezekiel with an unsettling intensity.
Gritting his teeth, Ezekiel pushed himself up, using his dagger as a makeshift crutch. The pain in his leg was a constant reminder of the peril he faced, but he refused to submit without a fight. The forest, once a haven, now felt like a labyrinth of shadows closing in.
The Red Reaper raised his blade, signaling the raiders to hold back. Ezekiel squared his shoulders, dagger poised. The two warriors locked eyes—a silent understanding. In this dance of blades, only one would emerge victorious.
The Dornishman lunged forward, fluid and deceptive. Ezekiel parried, steel clashing through the silent forest. The Red Reaper was skilled, each strike calculated. Ezekiel fought with desperation fueled by grief and rage.
The dance continued, blades flashing in the fading light. The Red Reaper's taunts echoed through the trees, laughter haunting. Ezekiel felt the weight of his wounded leg but pressed on, determined to defy his impending fate.
A quick feint left Ezekiel off balance. Before he could recover, a swift kick sent him sprawling. The Dornishman stood over him, blade poised for the final strike.
"What say you, Stormlander?" the Red Reaper sneered.
Ezekiel's eyes burned with defiance. "Tell your Dornish devils that the Stormlands don't yield to murderers."
Blinded by rage and desperation, Ezekiel's hand clawed at the dirt. Grasping a handful, he hurled it into the Red Reaper's eyes, momentarily blinding him. Seizing the opportunity, Ezekiel kicked the Reaper square in the groin, causing him to double over.
"Damn Dornish devils!" Ezekiel spat, a raw growl. He lunged forward, plunging his dagger into the side of the Red Reaper, who howled in pain. "This is for Lommy, you murdering scum!"
The Red Reaper staggered back, clutching his wounded side. Ezekiel, fueled by grief and vengeance, raised his blade for the final blow. His eyes locked onto the Dornishman's, burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished.
But fate, cruel and capricious, had other plans.
An arrow sliced through the air, its deadly trajectory aimed at Ezekiel's chest. The impact was brutal, the force knocking him backward. Pain radiated from the wound as he crumpled to the forest floor, vision swimming.
Hunched over, Ezekiel managed a raspy laugh. "Cheaters, all of you Dornish bastards."
The Red Reaper, recovering, laughed mockingly. "Any last words, Stormlander?"
Ezekiel's response was a defiant yell, a declaration of his refusal to yield. His cry was cut short as the Red Reaper swung his sword with a vicious arc, the blade slashing through the air, meeting its mark.
The world turned black as Ezekiel's consciousness slipped away. His last thought was of Lommy, laughter and banter now echoes in the Dornish Marches. The forest, once filled with camaraderie, became his final resting place.