Dagnir
"Just a little further! Please!"
Dagnir groaned. There was no pleasing young Caspor. They had been riding since before the sun had fully risen. He would keep riding until he starved to death, if he got the chance.
Caspor Dondarrion's escort numbered thirty riders in total. There was Dagnir, ten other knights, their squires, and a number of mounted archers. None of them would have dared to complain, but Dagnir could sense that some of them were growing weary of this duty.
I should have gone back to Edain. It was an idle wish, but not without merit. Dagnir did sometimes long for the village of his boyhood. Buried deep in the rainwood, his people were woodmen who still worshipped the old gods. It was said that their ancestors had settled in the rainwood after the Pact had been made with the Children of the Forest. The village had withstood the Long Night, the coming of the Andals, the disappearance of the Children, the Conquest of Aegon, and doubtless they would still be there a thousand years from now. They did not even know to which lord they owed allegiance. They traded with any man brave enough to venture that far into the deep forest, whether they came from Crow's Nest, Mistwood, Amberly, or Stonehelm. Lords were said to have bickered over where the people of Edain should send their tribute, but if that was true, the argument had never been resolved, nor had it ever disturbed the woodmen's lives.
Dagnir had been a restless young man. He'd loved to roam his corner of the rainwood. By the time he'd turned twelve, he could find his way back to Edain blindfolded. He'd lost count of the times that he'd encountered some dangerous beast and narrowly avoided a cruel end. One of those occasions had resulted in him scrambling up a weirwood tree to escape a huge bear. It had tried to climb after him, until he'd swung his hatchet and cut off three of its claws. He'd worn those claws around his neck ever since.
Now it seemed as though Caspor was his punishment for being such a wayward and reckless lad. The boy was a born wanderer. He often left Blackhaven to go exploring the wilderness of Dondarrion territory. Whenever his father and mother departed the castle, he begged to accompany them.
Soon, he would embark his first journey to King's Landing, and he could hardly wait. He pestered his parents with a thousand questions, and each of their answers inspired a dozen more.
"Let's visit your godswood, Ser Dagnir!"
He was referring to a small grove which grew in the shadow of a mountain east of Blackhaven, not far from Erich's Pass. A weirwood tree stood there in deep isolation, having somehow avoided the axes of men.
Dagnir had found it on his journey to infiltrate Stonehelm during the war. He doubted that he was the first man to encounter the weirwood, but he and his cousin had almost wept for joy upon his discovery. After the war, and he took up his abode in Blackhaven, he visited it regularly to ensure that it still stood.
Caspor knew that, and he knew full well that Dagnir still followed the old gods. It was a calculated suggestion to make. Clever boy. Too clever by half. Still, that pass is far from House Wyl's territory. There ought not to be any harm in that.
"Very well. But we cannot stay long."
Grumble as he might, Dagnir could not resent the precocious lad. He was far more likely to pity him. His restless nature betrayed the fractured spirit which festered in him. Lady Cassana was particularly worried about him, but had no solution.
He was unable to focus on his lessons, for one thing. He would wander off when it suited him, he would speak his thoughts aloud, he would not look others in the eye… the maester said he had seen this behaviour before, but he had not worked out what it meant.
Dagnir suspected that the simplest answer was the plain truth. The war had left scars upon everyone that it touched. Dagnir still awoke in a cold sweat from his nightmares. Slaying other men in battle, wounded near to death in the siege of Stonehelm, losing Orleg… sometimes he still shed tears when he recalled his cousin.
He often drank with men who had fought in the war, including Baldric Dondarrion himself. They never spoke of what had happened to them, or what they had done to survive. It was enough that they understood each other's plight.
"Do you think we'll see the aurochs herds?"
"I doubt it," Dagnir replied as he looked at Caspor again. "They have a wide range."
"How far do they travel?"
Gods be good… "You should ask your father, he would know better than I."
He wished he could see Keir and Koss again. They alone of his companions had survived the Blackfyre Rebellion. Keir had been rewarded with land, while Koss had become his master-at-arms. The last time he'd ate and drank with them was three years ago, when Baldric and Cassana had gone to visit Keir and Falia Hasty after the birth of their twin sons.
As he kept his eye upon Caspor, Dagnir thought of his elder brother, Manfred. Sixteen years old, he was already hard-eyed and stern. The war had touched him even more than his younger brother. He laughed little and trusted less. But he was, at least, a well-disciplined young man. He'd been a ward of Lord Lanval Selmy, who was married to his cousin, Jocelyn. Baldric had been reluctant to send his son away, but Cassana had insisted that it would help him more than it hurt. Dagnir had only overheard a few snippets of these discussions, but he could recognise Cassana's unspoken concern.
Lady Cassana worried for her husband. He was a hero of the Blackfyre Rebellion, and regular guest of the Targaryens at Summerhall. No man would ever dare question his reputation. But something had snapped within him. More and more, he was growing careless and lax, preferring to indulge his whims and seek out pleasures. He doted upon his children overmuch, even spoiling them. Cassana never expressed this concern in words, but Dagnir could sense it clear as day. Would that any of us could overcome it.
Manfred recognised it better than his younger siblings. He had spent eight years in Harvest Hall. He'd been given the martial training that any marcher learned. He'd also imbibed the sternness of Lord Selmy, who resembled his father Geraint more with each passing year. Now that Manfred was back, his cold eye was judging his father.
As usual, Caspor rode ahead of his escort on his energetic pony. He'd dubbed the animal "Lightning" in honour of his family sigil, but Dagnir thought it doubly fitting, since the pony could bolt at great speed, but only for a short burst. Therefore, he never fully disappeared from sight.
The others were watchful, but not worried. Outlaws were plentiful since the war, but they were not so foolish as to attack thirty armed horsemen.
Dagnir's mind was free to wander as he kept his eyes upon Caspor. He wondered once again if it was past time to go home. He had been amply rewarded with knighthood, a position in the Dondarrion household, and a small fortune which would last a frugal man many years of comfort. With all that, why should he not return to Edain?
For one thing, he did not imagine Cassana would be pleased to lose him. With Keir and Koss living elsewhere, he was the last of the seven knights who had rescued her from House Swann. She had even suggested that he marry Ser Garvey Sawyer's eldest daughter.
"I can think of no better man to serve our house," she had insisted only two days before. Dagnir Sawyer does have a nice ring to it. Cassana was not a woman who freely gave out praise, but Dagnir had still demurred, begging leave to think on it.
Truthfully, he was daunted at the notion of leading any house, be it noble or knightly. He knew that Keir had felt the same way, and depended on his wife Falia to manage their household whilst he struggled to educate himself.
Another matter which gnawed at him was that he was more than twenty years older than Sawyer's daughter, who'd only just flowered. He had known her since she was born, and the girl had been brought up in Blackhaven alongside Cassana's daughters. He knew such a concern would be dismissed if he ever spoke it aloud, but there was something distasteful about the idea of marrying her.
Still, what will I do if I go back to Edain? It had been three years since he'd gone to visit his home, but his friends were all fathers now. They hunted, foraged, managed their cabins among the huge trees, and kept to themselves. He had been viewed with suspicion in his fine clothes and shining black mail. Even his speech had been altered from living abroad. It filled him with resentment and loneliness.
He was still pondering these things when Erich's Pass appeared on the horizon.
Caspor spurred ahead once again, aiming for the heart tree which was fewer than a hundred paces south of the pass.
"Strange," one of the other knights murmured. "I can't look at any of those mountains without shuddering."
Dagnir glanced at the speaker. "What makes you say that?"
"What do you think?" It was one of the mounted archers who stared at Dagnir with incredulity.
"Come now," another archer interjected, "he's of the rainwood, not the marches. How could he understand?"
Dagnir disliked this condescension, and he felt himself growing wroth. "I've been on the marches for more than ten years now. Exactly how much longer before I tremble with fear at the sight of those mountains?"
The knight who'd first spoken was glaring at Dagnir. "You wouldn't speak so lightly if you'd grown up here. Any man of the marches would know that death lies behind those monstrosities."
Dagnir shook his head. "We've been at peace with Dorne for years."
Truthfully, he knew that this was a weak argument. Raiders and outlaws still abounded in these mountains. Why else would Caspor require such a guard to dissuade any attacks?
Still, he could not allow these feelings to fester. He turned to one of the older men, a veteran of the Redgrass Field. "Is this not why we fought the Blackfyres?"
"We fought them because we were loyal to the Iron Throne," the man replied cautiously.
"And Dorne is loyal to them as well," Dagnir insisted. "Such is the way of things, and I'll not hear any fear-mongering which claims otherwise."
The dissenters looked away, looking resentful and foolish. Despite his anger with them, Dagnir could understand why they sought reasons to dislike him. All of them had been too young to fight against the Blackfyres. They longed for a taste of glory, deeply envying those who had fought. Young fools. They ought to look at Baldric Dondarrion and remember the costs of such glory.
One of the archers who'd spoken was muttering something under his breath when an arrow suddenly pierced the side of his skull.
Dagnir gave a cry of alarm, wheeling around as he drew his sword. More arrows whistled through the air, thudding into men and horses alike. Screams of pain and alarm were mingled together as Dagnir instinctively charged forward.
Caspor was not in sight; he had spurred ahead whilst the men had argued. Fear seized Dagnir as he forced his horse into a gallop.
The heart tree was surrounded by smaller, more stunted trees. After two years of autumn, the trees had all lost their leaves. The skeletal branches swayed in the breeze, like so many grasping gnarled fingers.
Caspor's pony lay dead at their roots. Several arrows were embedded in its neck and head, which had also been hacked with an axe. A group of men stood by the heart tree, leering at Dagnir as they brandished weapons. Two of them had their hands on Caspor, forcing him to his knees with his arms behind his back. Tears were running down his pale cheeks.
"Let him go!" Dagnir pointed his sword at the man holding Caspor.
"Drop your sword," one of the men shouted, "or we'll start cutting this boy to pieces!"
Caspor's wail of terror turned to pain when a man struck him over the head,
Dagnir shook with fear and fury. Behind him, he heard a clash of weapons as other men engaged the survivors of the bodyguard. He did not need to look to know which side was winning. The smiles on the outlaws' faces were too brazen for doubt. Ambushed and trapped. This is my fault.
"We're waiting," one of the men shouted. To prove his point, he drew his dagger and slashed Caspor's face. The boy screamed in agony as blood mixed with the tears coursing down his face.
Dagnir wanted to charge forward. He wanted to slay every one of these ruffians for laying hands on Caspor. But he did not. He was not so wroth as to overlook what would happen if he did not surrender. Slowly, nearly weeping for shame, he dropped his sword onto the hard soil.
"Get off that horse."
Dagnir obeyed, doing nothing as men approached him and bound his arms behind his back. "You're making a terrible mistake," he growled. That earned him a hard punch to his stomach which sent him to the ground, gasping as the outlaws rained kicks and spittle upon his jerking form. Blood and loose teeth soon filled Dagnir's mouth.
Eventually, they tired of beating him, and pulled him upright again to face them.
The men were a diverse group. Their hair ranged from black to blonde, red to brown, grey to white. It was difficult to tell whether many of them were marchers or stony Dornishmen, but several were sandy and salty Dornish in appearance.
Caspor's body was shaking from sobs. His face was paler than Dagnir had ever seen it before.
"You are making a terrible mistake," Dagnir protested. "I am a knight, and that boy is the son of Lord Dondarrion! You can ransom us for a high price!"
Much to Dagnir's surprise, the ruffians laughed and jeered at this admission.
"Are you all mad?" Dagnir struggled against his bonds once again.
"No," one of the men replied cheerfully. "Not mad. We simply have no wish to haggle with Lord Dondarrion for his second son." His neck was swollen by a goitre, and his hair was so greasy that Dagnir could not determine the original colour. He held a large axe in both hands.
I never said Caspor was a second son. Dagnir felt himself growing cold, but he forced himself to sound calm. "What is your purpose, then?"
The man's jaw twisted into a dangerous-looking smile.
"I serve the Vulture King. He has a message for your lord in Blackhaven." And with that, he gave the men holding Caspor a nod. Another outlaw emerged with a block in his hands.
"Please!" Caspor shrieked the word as the block was placed in front of him. The men holding his arms forced him downward, even as he repeated himself shrilly.
Dagnir gave a cry of horror. "He's just a boy!"
None heeded him. The greasy-haired man lifted his axe and brought it down on Caspor's neck, cutting off his pleas with a single stroke. It was the only mercy that was afforded to Caspor.
The boy's head rolled away from his body, towards Dagnir. One of the men gave the head an encouraging kick so that it rested at Dagnir's knees.
Tears ran down Dagnir's face as he looked down at the head of his charge. He'd known Caspor since the boy was just three years old. He had sworn to protect him with his life. Now his brown hair was flecked with blood and mud. The light was gone from Caspor's open eyes, and his jaw was slack. Forgive me, Cassana. Please forgive me.
"Any final words, knight?"
His grief turned to wrath in an instant. Blinking tears from his eyes, Dagnir looked upon Caspor's killer. "The vengeance of House Dondarrion will find you yet!"
The man's grin faltered at this curse, but only for a moment. He spat in Dagnir's face as the block was picked up. Caspor's head was kicked away once again to make room for the block.
While this took place, Dagnir's eyes shifted to the weirwood tree. Its face did not change expression as it witnessed the carnage. Hear my curse, gods. May vengeance find these men and punish them cruelly for this wicked murder.
As the greasy-haired man stood beside him and raised his axe, Dagnir bent his head and waited for death as bravely as he could. I'm coming, Orleg.