Baldric

It seemed to Baldric after weeks of travelling across the Vale, that it was the most picturesque region in all of Westeros.

Ironoaks was no exception. Situated at the foot of grey mountains, beside a blue lake which shimmered like a pale sapphire in the sun, the castle's exterior was almost as black as the ironwoods which grew across House Waynwood's territory.

Even though the Vale was splintered by war, Wyl Waynwood insisted on giving Baldric a tour of his estate as a visiting noble.

"My lord, please," Baldric had practically begged, "I swear, I will return after the war. I will bring my wife and children!"

Waynwood had laughed and clapped Baldric on the shoulder. "Excellent idea, dear fellow! They will marvel at the sights here too!" He had practically shoved Baldric towards the stables and the marcher lord knew better than to say anything more on the matter. He'd once been told that the Vale, for all its Andal legacy, was still half-wild. He had not known what they'd meant until he'd met Wild Wyl.

"The only ironwoods left in the Vale! My ancestors were here when the Wall was being built and we've held onto these ironwoods the entire time! We named our castle after them too, so we did! Not even the Andals dared challenge us on it, they just married into our house to get their hands on them!" Wyl, a devoted follower of the Seven, laughed as he spoke of the Andal conquerors as if they were bothersome in-laws rather than his direct ancestors.

Regardless of his blustering, Lord Waynwood was intensely proud of his black forests, claiming he never hunted anywhere better.

"Forgive me for asking," Baldric ventured, unable to restrain his curiosity, "but why is your castle called Ironoaks when the trees are ironwoods?"

Wyl's smile vanished, and he frowned at Baldric. Just when Baldric was about to apologise, Wyl burst into peals of laughter.

"Gods be damned! I haven't the faintest notion of why! Except that my First Men ancestors must have been bloody fools!" He clapped Baldric on the shoulder. "You're the first man who ever questioned that! Hah! First man!" He seemed to think he'd made a witty jape, for he bent over in his saddle, wheezing and holding his side.

Baldric laughed too, half because of Waynwood's contagious mirth, and half from fear that he might meet his end if he displeased this madman.

Wild Wyl certainly earned his name. He was a horse-faced fellow with a tall and gaunt build. His hair was greasy, looking as though a bird had made a nest out of steel wires on Waynwood's head. His garments were all made of some sort of pelt. He claimed to have slain each and every one of the beasts who'd relinquished their hides to him.

After they'd returned to the castle, Baldric was relieved to see that the Waynwoods had already called their banners to Ironoaks.

"How many men do you have?" Baldric asked eagerly.

"Well, it would be around thirty-eight hundred," Wild Wyl replied, "but it seems that some of my lads have thrown their lot in with the Blackfyres instead." He speaks of the traitors as lightly as if they'd declined an invitation due to a death in the family.

Truthfully, Baldric was no longer surprised by such revelations. Not after he had spent a month campaigning since the Battle of Gulltown. There had been no pitched battles with the Blackfyres since then, just a long series of skirmishes with bands of men, some of them smallfolk armed with slings and farming tools.

Other groups were far more deadly. Many of them were made up of those traitors who'd survived the Battle of Gulltown, including Baldric's brother Raymont. This time, they were being led by Lord Arson Tork, the great knight known as Redtusk.

Jon Waters was eager for a pitched battle, but his army was difficult to maneuver amongst the mountainous region of the Vale. Tork, whose family had fought for the last Bronze King at the Battle of the Seven Stars, was careful to keep his troops on the high ground, scattering his forces into small groups which could strike quickly and retreat faster. The loyalists were losing their morale, so Jon was desperately trying to rally as many Valemen to his side as possible.

That was proving a difficult task. The Royces of Runestone had no men to spare, with most of their strength away with Prince Baelor. Donnel Arryn was holed up in the Eyrie with his family and some three hundred men. The Blackfyres had first seized control of the Gates of the Moon, and then the Bloody Gate. They had settled into a siege, hoping to starve the Arryns out while wreaking havoc among their bannermen. They launched raids to keep bannermen home, and they sent out orders from "Lord Arryn" which had actually been sent by Wiglaf Arryn rather than Donnel.

Thankfully, Wyl Waynwood was not so easily fooled by these tactics, and he had heartily welcomed Baldric once he'd shown him the king's seal.

Baldric had been sent by Jon to treat with him, taking five hundred cavalry with him. Jon Waters had delegated other men elsewhere whilst he was staying in Runestone.

"Send a raven to the Royces," Wyl instructed his maester. "We are marching for the Eyrie!"

It took over a fortnight before Prince Jon Waters arrived at Ironoaks, and he was livid about the delay.

"Lord Arryn's probably surviving on falcon droppings by now," Jon fumed as they set out with their combined forces. "And this army's a good size, but we'll be another three weeks traveling to the Eyrie at this rate!"

The road which Wyl insisted on taking was hardly better than a goat track. Worse than that, much of it was an uphill climb into the mountains. Horses, mules, and men were all floundering.

For his part, Baldric couldn't help but note the beauty of the land all around him. As they ascended the mountain path, he was able to look down upon Ironoaks in the valley below, as well as the pine forests, the lake, the tilled fields, and the uncultivated grasses. The air was cool and fresh, smelling of the pine trees which still grew in abundance along the mountain slopes around him. It was a beautiful place, and Baldric lamented that he was too preoccupied by war to appreciate it. One day, I will return here with the boys. They will love it as much as I. Immediately, he felt a pang of guilt when he remembered Cassana.

She haunted his dreams and his conscious thoughts. He could still feel the slap across his face when he'd brought up her father, the rage in her voice as she berated him, but also the way her fingers felt when she stroked his head and lay beside him.

As the sweet smell of trees filled his nose, he found himself thinking back to those first few months, getting to know her when he was barely older than a boy.

She had been a girl then, brought on a visit to Stonehelm by her father to elicit some marriage proposal. If that had been Armond Dondarrion's wish, it was denied him that first visit. Cassana was always a cold girl. All three of his older brothers had found her to be comely, but they loathed her sharp tongue and spoke only of her generous dowry and what they would do to tame her shrewish disposition.

Baldric had been used to insults as the youngest boy. Mockery had motivated him to become the best lancer in the family. Whenever he'd failed, his shame burned him as no fire ever could. And yet success did not provide him with any reward or admiration. He shamed his brothers when he defeated them, as their father had always made clear.

Gods be good, Father, what did I do that was so wrong? He knew the answer, of course. He forced himself never to think of it again. Yet sometimes she reappeared in his dreams.

She had been an older woman with three children, whose husband served House Swann until he'd broken his neck in a fall. Baldric's father had been gracious enough to give her some silver in compensation, but that had not been enough. Baldric had heard rumours that she whored herself to any man that might have her.

His brothers had scorned her; they preferred younger, more beautiful women. But Baldric had been attracted to her from the start, though he scarcely knew why. She was old enough to be his mother. She had crooked teeth and pock-marked skin; when she'd taken off her clothes, her breasts had hung down almost to her stomach.

She was pathetic, Baldric thought to himself. She was ashamed to sell herself.

Truthfully, he had felt discomfited by the sight of her, but he had not gone so far to turn back. He knew what a man was supposed to do when he took a woman to bed. He had grabbed her breast and squeezed hard enough to make her wince. He had gotten on top of her and began to thrust inside of her.

Of all the sensations, of all the experiences, of all the little moments of that tryst, none was more vivid to Baldric than the moment when shame turned to scorn on her face. She had not said anything, nor had she smiled or laughed. But when he'd been unable to finish, he suddenly forgot that he was a scion of the second-strongest house in the Stormlands. He'd forgotten that this aging woman was so desperate for coin that she sold her virtue to any man that would have her. None of it mattered, for he had been utterly shamed as he lay on top of her and felt himself going limp.

He had fled her house, unable to stop the tears from coursing down his cheeks. He had threatened her not to tell anyone or else he would punish her. He never found out whether she had betrayed him, or perhaps someone who'd witnessed him fleeing. The stories had spread from there, reaching the ears of Gawen Swann.

Baldric was still very young when he'd ventured to the whore's home, and some might have dismissed his antics as unruly boyishness. But his failure, his disgrace, had tainted him from then on. Every accomplishment he'd ever achieve would forever ring hollow; it was merely a desperate act to compensate for his failure in that most manly of pursuits. And thus, the shame would ever remain to him, rising above all his successes.

He'd never even had the nerve to live up to his threats against the whore for betraying his secret. Once, he'd seen her at the small marketplace outside of Stonehelm and had fled rather than face her again. He never discovered what became of her after that, for she and her children had left the castle soon afterwards. He'd been too relieved at their absence to wonder what had become of them.

Even without that hanging over his head, Baldric would have drawn few marriage prospects. He was the least of Lord Gawen's four sons, and not even his skills as a warrior could avoid his low status in his own house.

The worst of it was that nobody spoke these truths aloud. Empty courtesies surrounded him, little traps to capture his hope and remind him that praise was hollow. Even his brothers abandoned their name-calling and assumed lordly airs to join in the fun of sneering at him in plain sight. They saw how much it burned him, and they enjoyed it hugely.

Cassana had been different.

She had openly mocked him, sneering and taunting him as she'd also ordered him around to prove his devotion to her. Baldric still recalled how he had felt to hear those long-dreaded words come from a girl with whom he felt utterly besotted. Where he had once had filthy dreams of the whore berating him and laughing at him, now it became Cassana who did so.

Chivalry was his duty, it was his armour as much as the steel that he wore on his back during tourneys. He tried to be gallant to her. She took glee in testing his resolve. He would kiss her hand as if she was a queen, he would lay down his cloak into the mud for her to walk, among other demands from her.

On her sixth or seventh visit to Stonehelm, when they were somewhat older, she had ordered him to take her down to the dungeon and dared him to try on some of the manacles which hung from the wall. When he had done so, she had surprised him by locking the manacles shut. He had been trapped, begging her to release him, and she had only laughed and undone his breeches.

He had cried aloud in shock, only for her to stuff his mouth with a cloth and bind another over his lips, so he could not speak.

And yet, despite his alarm at being discovered in such a state, he had been shocked to find himself aroused as he'd never been before. Cassana had mocked him for that too, asking if he wished to relieve himself. "I'll set one arm free, but if you don't finish yourself right here, I'll keep you locked up for the whole castle to find!"

He had obeyed. He had stroked himself furiously as she'd smirked and berated him. At one point, she had even undone part of her dress and tauntingly revealed parts of her body that no other lady would have dared to show off. It had not taken him long to finish. He'd sprayed the stone dungeon floor with his seed, groaning into his gags as she'd tossed him the gaoler's key so he could unlock his other arm. She had walked away, leaving him alone to sit and collect himself.

Just as he remembered the whore's face, so too did he always remember Cassana's face while she had watched him. Her mouth quivered between a smile and a grimace as her eyes blazed. No other woman had ever looked at him in such a manner. It was a look of triumph, but also astonishment and hunger. She had later confided that she'd gone straight to her chamber and spent an hour with herself, reliving that moment.

Baldric had spent many nights of the campaign thinking of that first time. It was as though his lust and his shame had been welded together by that fire in Cassana's gaze. Nothing and nobody else could have satisfied him after that. No other woman had ever caught his eye like Cassana.

He had nearly wept with relief when she had declared that she wished to marry him. Gawen had been astounded; he had never imagined that Armond would allow Cassana to choose her own husband, nor that Cassana would ever wish to marry Baldric. Baldric had shared his father's bewilderment, but he had been too grateful to question the miracle of his life.

Why, though? Why did Lord Armond allow her that much choice? He was distracted from his bewilderment by his horse wrong-footing and panicking as it stumbled.

"Whoah!" Baldric, jolted, furiously patted his horse with one hand, terrified of falling and breaking bones on the hard stones along the narrow path. He slid off the beast's broad back and proceeded to lead him by the reins instead. Soon, all the other mounted men were forced to do the same as they went onward and upward.

Eventually, a halt was declared when they reached a plateau amongst the peaks. Even Jon Waters was too tired to lose his temper as he slumped down onto a fallen log.

Wyl Waynwood and the Valemen were much less fatigued. Moreover, the nobleman seemed to relish his advantage over the others.

"Steady on, lads," Wyl exclaimed as he strode amongst the loyalists. "Something to eat, that's what you need! And no wine or ale, you don't want to make yourselves ill!"

"Ill?" Adlin Lannister gave Waynwood a suspicious glance from his one good eye.

"You ever been up this high before? A man like you needs time to adjust. You had best drink water, unless you want to prove me right!"

Baldric did not hesitate to dip his flask in a little stream nearby and swig the cool mountain water. It tasted so pure that he gasped in awe before refilling his flask.

Adlin, however, gave Waynwood a sour look. "You have not been to Casterly Rock, else you would not see fit to lecture me on altitude!"

"Casterly Rock, eh?" Waynwood grinned. "How high is that, then?"

"Three times higher than the Wall!"

"Oh? And you golden boys spend your days climbing the outside of it, do you?"

Waynwood's men laughed at his observation as Adlin turned purple with wroth. Ulrick Dayne needed to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising to his feet.

Wyl Waynwood could not anger Baldric, though. Nothing he said or did was like to what his family had put him through. Let him have his fun. He means no true harm by it.

"* **"" ***"" "***""" ""**

The journey through the mountains was a slow one. Even in the height of summer, the wind chilled every man who walked the trail. The army also lost most of their wagons as they came apart or slipped to crash down the mountain slope. Several drays who pulled them were killed in that manner, or else they simply dropped dead from exhaustion.

Contrary to the dismay of other men, Wyl was cheered whenever that happened. "Horseflesh for supper," he would exclaim jovially. "Almost as good as moose!"

He certainly earned his moniker. No setbacks seemed to dismay or disappoint him; he took everything in stride, laughing at misfortunes and shrugging away Jon's concerns.

"If I know Donnel Arryn," he once exclaimed, "he's having a grand old time pissing on those Blackfyres from his window!"

Baldric was unsure - or unwilling - to decide whether he was inspired by Waynwood or frightened of him. He seemed to relish the chance to shout and react with aggressive abandon to mishaps. He would often slay the lamed horses himself, as if he were a common butcher. "A man ought to slay what he eats" was his proud explanation. He would sometimes insist on taking the prince and his fellow noblemen aside to show them some particular view or some peculiar-shaped rock which had inspired a legend or two. Sometimes Baldric wondered whether Wild Wyl had forgotten about the purpose of their march, or even the Blackfyre Rebellion itself.

On and on the army slogged; all the wagons either broke or were abandoned. Many of the horses died along the way, tumbling down the slopes, sometimes taking dozens of men with them as they went. Baldric stopped counting the days out of sheer frustration and panic that they would be too late to liberate the Eyrie.

It was a sunny day when one of the outriders stumbled back on foot crying that the Eyrie could be seen from the next peak.

Sure enough, Baldric beheld the sight when he finally dragged his weary bones up the mountain which overlooked the Vale of Arryn. From where he stood, he might as well have been looking down upon a garden. The villages and farms were smaller than the toys which his children would have played with; there was a lake which was closer to a puddle from his view, and the scattered woods were like tiny shrubs.

Across from them, perched like some glorious great bird, was the Eyrie. Baldric's eyes watered just from looking at that beautiful castle. It gleamed in the sunlight against the dark rocks upon which it was built.

The majesty of the moment was quickly lost when a cry caused Baldric to look down into the valley again.

A swarm of ants milled about below them. Many of them glinted and glimmered faintly in the bright sunlight.

"The besiegers!" Prince Jon drew his sword, as if he would leap down into the valley from his position. "We must go down there at once!"

It was one thing to say that, and quite another to lead the army down the mountain. Footsore and weary, they staggered down as fast as they could manage. Jon Waters gnashed his teeth and took out his frustration on the men around him, but it was no use.

Much to his own surprise, Baldric did not feel so eager to charge into the battle. He had not forgotten that these Blackfyres included his brother Raymont. "No man of House Swann will slay you, but be warned; the Black Dragon has many knights who will gift him with your stupid head."

After three of the longest days in Baldric's life, the army mustered in a pine forest which grew thickly on the mountain's base.

"I don't hear anything," Ulrick Dayne remarked quietly as he craned his neck with a hand cupping one ear.

"That means nothing," Lord Fossoway argued. "We are still too far away."

"We should be hearing something," Ulrick insisted.

Baldric folded his arms. "Have we sent any scouts ahead?"

"Aye, but they have not returned yet," answered Adlin Lannister. "No good dithering until they do."

At the commanders' urging, the men hastily put on their armour whilst trying to catch their breath. All the horses had died along the way, so it would be an army which would advance on foot. Some ten thousand men crowded awkwardly amongst the trees, spreading out as they dropped their heavy packs and prepared to fight.

After his squire had dressed him for battle, Lord Waynwood immediately knelt and began to loudly pray. "In the name of the Father, may our just cause be rewarded with victory. In the name of the Warrior, may our hands smite our foes. In the name of…" Much to Baldric's bewilderment, the full complement of his bannermen knelt and obediently listened to his words whilst the others stood by awkwardly.

"What is the buffoon doing?"

Baldric flinched as Prince Jon continued to hiss impatiently. "Has he lost the last of his senses? We have a battle to fight!"

He had spoken too loudly, for Wild Wyl halted his prayer and looked up balefully at Princess Elaena's eldest son. "Do you object to the gods, my prince?"

There was a cold silence. Jon's mouth opened and closed rapidly without any noise emanating.

"If it please you," Waynwood continued in his scathing tone, "I will finish my prayers." He bowed his head again and resumed where he'd left off, but not before loudly asking the gods to forgive the interruption.

Flushed with shame and rage, Jon stalked out of sight, his hand shaking as he gripped his sword. Baldric was too overwhelmed by his own emotions to do anything other than breathe. The screams of Uthor Dalt echoed once again in his mind as he braced himself for combat. He could smell the burning ships again, as he always did before battle. Every skirmish that he'd fought since that night in Gulltown, whether in attack or defence, he could not shake the sounds and smells of that dreadful ambush.

Over the sounds of Uthor's screams, however, came the sudden thuds of several feet in full sprint. Baldric drew his sword, as did the Dondarrion men around him.

He needn't have bothered; the men who ran into view were adorned with golden lions of House Lannister.

"The battle is over!" One of them wheezed as he skidded to a halt. "The Eyrie is made safe!"

Baldric lowered his sword. He heard Ser Enoch Bolt utter a curse of frustration, and he echoed the sentiment to disguise his sigh of relief.

"What is the meaning of this?" Prince Jon strode forward.

"There was a battle, Your Grace. They Blackfyres retreated to the Bloody Gate," the scout answered, growing visibly frightened of Jon's mounting rage.

"All that for nothing? Seven fucking hells!" Jon hefted his sword. Just as Baldric was convinced that Jon would cut the scouts down where they stood, the prince turned and hacked at a nearby tree, cursing with all his might as he hacked at one branch, then another.

Wyl smirked as he knelt down again. "May the Warrior guide the prince's arm, may the Smith save his sword." Several of his knights laughed at his mock prayer. Thankfully, Jon did not notice.

It was Adlin Lannister who got the story from the scouts. The Blackfyre army which was besieging the Eyrie had been attacked by a combined force of loyal Valemen. The scouts described the banners that they'd seen, and one of Waynwood's knights interpreted them as belonging to House Lynderly, Corbray, Hunter, and Belmore. Thousands were dead or wounded on both sides, but Donnel Arryn and his folk were liberated.

Baldric turned to behold the others. Weary frustration was on most of their faces, while some stared with bemusement at the prince's tirade. Others laughed with Wild Wyl, who'd given up on his mock prayer and simply guffawed while leaning on his battle-axe.

Jon finally took notice of the Valeman's jocundity, and turned on him with fury.

"This is your doing!" He waved his sword in the air as he raged at Lord Waynwood, who simply grinned in return.

"My doing?" Wyl echoed. "Indeed! I brought you here, did I not? How else would you have come to the Eyrie?"

"I am a prince of House Targaryen, and I will not be disrespected!" Jon was angrier than Baldric had ever seen him. He pointed his badly blunted sword at the older man. "You dithered along the way! We might have gotten here in time if you hadn't been so bloody sluggish!"

Wyl was entirely unaffected by Jon's tantrum. "Spoken by a man who brought all those wagons instead of putting his supplies on men's backs!"

Baldric sighed. He should have been more alarmed at this row, but he was just tired. He thought of Raymont, and wondered if he had met his end on the battlefield, or whether he had survived to escape. What disturbed him was that he could not decide which outcome he preferred.

"*"*"* """* "* "****"" "* ""**"*"* "*"* "*"* "" "*"* "*"* "*"

Thankfully, Jon Waters had recovered himself by the time that he met Lord Donnel Arryn within the castle known as the Gates of the Moon.

Donnel was, in so many ways, the opposite of Wild Wyl Waynwood; he was refined where Wyl was coarse, bald instead of hairy, and he had a stocky build. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue that Baldric had ever seen on someone who was not a Targaryen.

Thankfully, Donnel knew how best to mollify Jon's wounded pride and simmering anger. "I cannot imagine what you have endured to come here, Your Grace," Donnel declared before the assembled Vale lords, "but I salute you for your devotion to protecting the realm!" His men hailed these words, and Jon's disposition improved markedly.

As for the Blackfyres, they had surprised everyone. Those who had not been slain or captured had retreated to the Bloody Gate. It was assumed that they would make a stand against the united loyalists, but the scouts came back with a surprising report.

"They've gone," one man announced. "They went out the other side and left the Vale!"

Few men cheered those words. Baldric frowned and scratched an old wound on his shoulder. "Whither did they go?"

"My guess is that they wish to rejoin Daemon Blackfyre," Donnel Arryn suggested. "Where else could they have gone? They did not wish to be slaughtered by our forces."

"Cowards," Jon added exultantly.

Baldric was less sure. If the Blackfyres had retreated, he doubted very much that they were fleeing out of cowardice. There was some good reason that they had for abandoning the Vale.

"There is little time to waste," Wild Wyl proffered without any prompting. "Wherever those devils go, we had best follow them!"

"I think not," Donnel replied. "We had best write to King Daeron and declare the Vale to be liberated. He may have some other plan for us." He turned to Jon Waters. "If you could do us the honours, Your Grace. I trust your cousin is anxious for news about your wellbeing."

Jon nodded silently before following Lord Arryn's maester to the rookery.

Baldric had not asked Donnel Arryn the question which was on his mind, but now he steeled himself and approached the kindly man. "Lord Arryn? If I might ask you something of a personal nature?"

"Go on," Donnel encouraged.

"Of the Blackfyres whom you slew or captured, was there a man who called himself Raymont Swann?"

Donnel's face fell, and his smile faded. "I know not his name, but if I recall my sigils, House Swann is known for its black and white birds?"

"Aye." Baldric felt himself growing tense.

Donnel sighed. "This Raymont, was he a kinsman of yours?"

"My brother," Baldric almost whispered.

"You will have to see him yourself in order to be sure," Donnel admitted sadly, "but I daresay that he has fallen. For what it is worth, he may have chosen the Blackfyre cause, but he fought with great zeal and refused to surrender."

It did Baldric no satisfaction to hear that, nor was it any more pleasant when he was brought to look upon his brother's body. The silent sisters had cleaned him and prepared his corpse for the final rest. It was unnerving to Baldric; Raymont had always been bursting with life, never failing to make some snide comment when the situation arose. Now he was pale, stiff, and silent. His eyes were closed, but there was no illusion of sleep. Death was far crueler than that.

Much to Baldric's shock and shame, he felt no tears coursing down his face. There was no grief that he could muster for one who had never once given him a reason to mourn. He could not recall a single pleasant memory which they had shared. And now we never will. He simply stood beside his brother's body, coldly affirming who he was, and then left the sisters to their duty.

There was something about his cold demeanour which nevertheless filled him with self-doubt. He wondered if he was becoming more like Cassana, or if it was simply his brother to blame; had he not chosen the wrong side? Had he not slain man unjustly? Murdered them in their beds?

This was too much for Baldric to comprehend or ponder. He doubled his pace to put as much distance between his brother and himself. Wild Wyl had invited him to sit at his table and drink some proper "Vale ale", as he'd called it. A good idea.