Gyles VIII
Deep in the rank depths, he'd had lots of time to think. His nose had long been deadened to the stench of the ship's belly, but the corsairs had given him other torments to occupy his attention. The deep cuts that the scourge had torn across his back had burned endlessly at first, so badly that he'd taken to chewing on a frayed bit of hempen rope to give himself anything to do besides groan in pain. For a time, he'd been unsure if the wounds across his back would grow infected. If they had, it would have been a slow and painful death. Though he'd never been particularly religious, he'd silently begged the Gods to spare him within the dank and dark. If the Seven spare me, he'd vowed, I will see justice done. The slavers will die at my hand, no matter the cost. Cramped and confined amongst the other prisoners, he'd sworn his silent vow again and again when the agony of his wounds became nearly too much to bear. Desperate purpose became a singular goal, that which gave him the strength to go on as gnawing despair threatened to overwhelm conscious thought.
His wounds hadn't festered. They'd begun to scab after a time, and quickly itched. The pain blessedly went away as the scabbing began, but the constant itching was a new form of torment. Relief could be immediate in the form of scratching long unkempt fingernails across his back, made awkward and unwieldy by lack of space and reach. Doing so, however, made the scabs tear and peel, reopening his wounds and allowing his blood to pour forth once more, slicking his back and dripping into the fetid murk at his feet. He stopped the scratching soon enough, and bore the infernal itching of his scabbed scars in silence.
There had been a storm the night before. The ship had bucked and rolled on roiling waves, and rain and seawater had merged into one ceaseless flow from the top deck to the depths. The prisoners had rattled in their chains and begged to be allowed above decks, fearful of drowning should too much water be taken in. The corsairs had ignored their cries and pleas, leaving them confined as water continued to flow in. After a few tense hours, the storm had abated. A few hours after that, the mid-deck hatch above them had opened, and several corsairs had climbed into the depths with a single lantern and hands on sword hilts, noses wrinkled at the hold's stench.
One of the corsairs produced a key, and began to undo the manacles on several of the prisoners. "Come," he grunted in a coarse eastern accent, "No try nothing." He spared a glare for the prisoners, as though expecting stares of defiance. When he saw none, a cruel sneer twisted his features. Tucked in the gloom as he was, the corsair hadn't reached him yet.
"Gyles," the voice next to him whispered. He turned to regard Ella with a small amount of disquiet. It felt like ages since he'd heard his name spoken. Dignity was not all that had begun to erode within the depths of the ship. Identity began to slip through one's fingers after a time as well, lost to the ceaseless malaise that pervaded the ranks of the prisoners. That's right. Ser Gyles Yronwood, knight and nobleman. It almost felt like a jape even thinking about it. What am I now?
He felt the hilt of Ella's stolen dagger pressed into his palm. "Conceal it," she hissed, "and wait for your moment." Gyles nodded and tucked it beneath the right leg of his tattered trousers, where he'd tied a length of torn silk from his tattered shirt about his calf for that exact purpose. Sure enough, Gyles' manacles were undone several moments later as the corsair with the key reached them. Ushered up to the mid-deck with Mero of Braavos and several other men, Gyles watched as the hatch was closed on the rest of the prisoners. Hidden in the dark beneath the slats of the closed hatch, it was as if they'd ceased to exist. Remember your purpose. He'd be back for them all, or he'd die trying. A promise meant nothing without action to prove its worth.
Climbing the steps to the top deck, Gyles resisted the urge to wince as sunlight suddenly and intensely pierced his vision. The ship appeared to be in a somewhat poor state, but it did not appear to be in danger of sinking. Corsairs were working to patch damage on the ship's main mast, but Gyles immediately ascertained the purpose for which he and the other male prisoners had been brought for. The cog's forward sail had been torn partially free of its riggings, and floated in the sea to the ship's port, sodden and partially submerged. Several frayed ropes held a corner to the forward mast.
Sure enough, he and the other prisoners were ushered to the strained ropes, and under the watchful eyes of the corsairs, began the slow and grueling work of hauling the sail back onto the ship's deck. "Did you see?" Mero grunted quietly in his ear, from where he stood directly behind Gyles, hauling on the same rope.
"See what?" Gyles hissed in response. Weighed down by seawater as it was, hauling the sail proved torturously slow going and a constant strain on the muscles of the entire body. Starving as he was, Gyles struggled to remain upright. One man to his left did stumble and collapse after a time, quickly coerced back into hauling the rope by a burly corsair's sword.
"The corsairs' original ship." Mero's voice behind him remained a strained whisper. "It's gone. It must have sunk in the storm."
Gyles resisted the urge to immediately look all about for the other ship, that which had been shadowing their southern journey since capturing them. He looked slowly and inconspicuously as he continued to haul on the forward sail's hempen rope. Mero is right. It's gone. Gyles had noticed something odd the moment he'd been brought up on deck, and it suddenly became clear to him. The corsairs are far fewer in number. Most must have gone down with their other ship. The feral smile that appeared across Gyles' features quickly turned to a twisted grimace as he continued to strain with the rope, but his thoughts rushed forward at a gallop. Far fewer men, and distracted. Still armed and dangerous, however. Even so, if there was ever to be a chance, this would be it.
"Prepare yourself, Mero," Gyles grunted quietly. The Braavosi was one of the few that Gyles and Ella had told about the dagger. "When they take us back to the middeck, I will act. Be ready." Mero merely grunted quietly in the affirmative. He thought that any attempt to fight the corsairs was madness, but madness was all that was left to resort to. Steeling himself for what was to come, Gyles continued to haul on the rope.
The sun was halfway from its zenith by the time the forward sail had finally been hauled back aboard. The day was bright and cool, yet this far south, the waters remained relatively calm even in the depths of winter. Except for storms like that of last night. Gyles surmised that they couldn't be far from the famed Shipbreaker Bay of the eastern Stormlands, if not even further south. In truth, he had no idea where they truly were. One problem at a time.
A small group of three corsairs ushered Gyles and the others back to the middeck; all others remained above as they continued their repairs. Now or never, Gyles thought to himself. He felt cool, and at peace. One way or another, this is all about to end. He felt oddly aware of himself and his surroundings as he rarely had before. His back itched fiercely, and the scabbed scars across his back burned as rivulets of sweat flowed into them. The corsairs accompanying them seemed distracted, far more concerned about the loss of their other ship and the majority of their crew than the men they escorted.
The corsair in the lead bent forward, and lifted the hatch of the lower deck. Both the key ring for the manacles and a heavy short blade were tucked through a dirty silk sash that he wore about his waist. Before the man had fully straightened from lifting the hatch, Gyles drew the dagger from beneath his tattered pant leg and shoved it through the man's throat. Grasping the hilt of the man's sword with his left hand, he kicked the gurgling corsair along with his key ring into the lower hold, yanking both blades free of the corsair as he fell.
Without a moment's hesitation, Gyles turned and threw the dagger at the second corsair. The man was so shocked at the sudden turn of events that he barely had his hand on his sword's hilt before the dagger plunged into his left eye. He collapsed to the middeck like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The third corsair would likely have attacked Gyles had they been the only two men in the middeck - and likely would have won too. Gyles was weak, and had just driven himself near to exhaustion hauling in the forward sail. The corsair never had a chance. As soon as Gyles had stabbed the first corsair, Mero had delivered a vicious punch to the center of the third corsair's chest, causing him to double over and gasp nearly soundlessly for air. The other prisoners had needed no further encouragement. They knocked the corsair to the floor, and one grabbed his sword. Still out of breath, the corsair raised a pleading hand into the air. The prisoner brought down the blade upon the corsair's face in a vicious chop without any hesitation. The outstretched hand dropped limply into a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
In the moments that followed, there was naught but a stunned silence. To have so suddenly achieved what so many of them had long ago given up on hoping for, it took a moment for the mind to stop reeling and form coherent thought. It's begun.
"It's begun," Gyles whispered in quiet affirmation of his own racing thoughts. The men standing about him merely looked at him expectantly. It's up to me, then. Footsteps on the lower hold's ladder immediately drew his attention to the hatch. Red Ella's face appeared in the dim gloom of the middle hold, and she took only a moment to survey the scene in front of her before scrambling up fully.
"Good work," she said simply. No joy nor rage was in her voice. Her tone was dangerously calm, and her eyes were steely and cold. We haven't won yet. Gyles handed Ella her stolen dagger, that which had won them all their initial freedom. He kept the dead corsair's sword for himself.
"Let's get the others," he whispered. Lady Anya may not be of much help in the fighting that was to come, but Prince Qyle and Lord Nymor would be, given that they hadn't been crammed in the lower hold for weeks on end. Several of the prisoners kept watch on the stairs leading to the upper deck, watching to see if any corsairs would descend to check on their fellows. The blood of the three corsairs already slain had begun to drip into the now-empty lower hold, and Gyles' grip on his sword tightened. Let the work continue.
The corsairs had put up a tough and vicious fight. Though initially surprised by the tide of enraged prisoners that had surged to the top deck, it hadn't taken them long to rally and counterattack. Though outnumbered, they were far better armed, and likely could have won if the prisoners hadn't had trained warriors amongst their number. Far too many prisoners had died for Gyles' liking - and the wails of their kin continued as they cradled the slain in emaciated arms.
"They died as men and women, not chattel," Ella said to him, catching where Gyles' gaze had drifted.
Gyles nodded at her words, but felt little relief at them. "I'd sooner have had none of them die at all." The words felt childish and foolish as soon as they'd left his mouth. People died in battle, and though the fight was unconventional, it had been a battle. They were lucky that any of them had survived at all.
He was surrounded by every face of note that remained amongst the ship's former prisoners. The survivors of the delegation, Mero of Braavos, and an aged Stormlander by the name of Brent, who had been the village elder's younger brother before the corsairs killed him. They'd dragged Brent and much of the village's meager population onto their ship while a lucky few escaped to their kin still working out in the fields beyond. If any found Gyles' words foolish, none reacted in a way that made such sentiments clear. Even Ser Yorick Wyl no longer seemed outwardly hostile. Just because a serpent doesn't look like it will bite doesn't mean it won't. Gyles would have to stay cautious around him.
Brent the Stormlander nodded in acknowledgement of Ella's words. "The lady's right, Ser," he murmured respectfully. "They died free, which is more than any of us dared to hope for even a day before. The Gods'll see to 'em now."
Gyles nodded at the words, though they still rang hollow. The Gods may be seeing to the slain prisoners, but Gyles had ensured that he'd seen to the corsairs personally. Several of them had thrown down their arms and begged for mercy when the fight had turned decisively against them, but Gyles and the other prisoners had been unanimous in their vengeance. The surrendering corsairs were struck down without mercy or a second thought.
Gyles' last kill had been an older corsair, short, wiry, and grey. The man had begged for his life, and despite himself, Gyles had nearly hesitated until he saw the pan flute tucked through the man's belt. That damnable flute, which had haunted his waking hours in the hold, its bright piping notes swirling amongst the sound of the corsairs' constant depravities until the seemingly endless music became indistinguishable from their unceasing cruelty.
Gyles had seized the pan flute and smashed it to pieces with the edge of his stolen blade, but not before first using the blade to open the corsair's throat. Ella and Ser Yorick had taken the corsairs' captain and several of his fellows prisoner, and tied them up with rope. If the corsairs had hoped for their mercy, they were sorely mistaken. Ella had brought the most wretched of the prisoners forward, the Lyseni bedslaves, and the unlucky Stormlanders who had been seized for the same purpose. She and Yorick offered them swords with which to exact their own vengeance on the last of the corsairs. Not all of them accepted, but those that did made short work of the captain and his remaining fellows. They were not trained warriors, however, and the last of the corsairs died slowly and messily because of it.
Their bloody deaths had in no way chastened any of the former prisoners - the corsairs were animals and had deserved their violent deaths - but the last of the killing was enough to quench the bloodlust of most remaining on the deck. Gyles didn't doubt that several others beyond himself, Ella and Ser Yorick amongst them, would have been happy to kill plenty more hapless corsairs each, but the villains were slain and the need for immediate retribution passed. A brief and aimless lethargy had settled amongst the surviving prisoners, and their impromptu leadership had convened as those remaining began to mourn their dead.
"I've had a look at the captain's maps," Mero began, "and we're not far beyond Shipbreaker Bay." The Braavosi scratched at his scraggly and unkempt beard in consideration for several moments. "It seems that our captors were hoping to avoid most of the skirmishing and fighting amongst the Three Daughters and their sellsails in waters further to the east, and had been keeping close to the coast of the Stormlands because of it. By my estimation, we're only a day or so south of the isle of Greenstone."
"Then we are not so far from Dorne after all," Prince Qyle added.
Mero nodded in acknowledgement. "Right you are, your highness. However, this ship has taken significant damage, and no longer has an experienced crew to sail it. I've enough experience on a deck to get us to a nearby port with the people we've got, but I don't trust this ship nor the hands that remain to it to get us across the Sea of Dorne."
Gyles and much of the delegation frowned. The thought of yet another diversion from home is nearly intolerable, but all that we've struggled for will be for naught if we maroon ourselves in the Sea of Dorne and die of thirst and hunger.
"We can dock at Whitehead!" Brent added, a painfully earnest expression on his face. Gyles had to suppress a sharp feeling of guilt upon hearing the Stormlander's words. Brent and his people want to go home too. Where is the fairness in trying to drag them to Dorne when they can nearly see the coastline of their own home from this deck? Even if such a choice were an option, it wouldn't be wise. The Dornish delegation and the Stormlanders were allies, for now, if for no other reason than the shared torments they'd survived together. Any goodwill amongst the Stormlander smallfolk would not last if the few Dornish nobles amongst them demanded that they all sail for Dorne, rather than the far closer Stormlands.
Mero nodded in acknowledgement of Brent's words. "Yes, I've heard of the harbor of Whitehead. Braavosi ships sometimes dock there for trade in lumber and amber. If the late captain's charted course is accurate, we should be able to reach the harbor in a few days."
Gyles shared a look with the other members of the delegation, and it took only a few moments for a silent agreement to be reached. Prince Qyle spoke with a nod: "Fine then. We shall sail for Whitehead, and from there find passage across the Sea of Dorne."
Though his feet had been upon land for several days, Gyles still wasn't quite used to it. His freedom didn't yet feel quite real. Will it ever? During the journey to Whitehead, Gyles had washed and shaved, and finally had the wounds on his back properly attended to by Ella, Lady Anya, and an old village woman who had passed for the healer of the Stormlanders' small village. The pain of their initial cleaning and dressing of his wounds had been immense, but the almost immediate relief he'd experienced afterwards was worth it.
He'd found his belongings largely left behind in his original room on the cog, and most of the rest through searching the rest of the ship. Several of his finer doublets and garments were lost, along with his sword and all of his coin. Likely went down on their other ship. To his great relief, however, Gyles had found his goldenheart bow in the captain's cabin. He had sat back in the captain's chair for a while, merely appreciating the feel of the bow in his hands and the strength and security it afforded him. I'll never let anyone bring me so low again, not for the rest of my life. I'll die first.
Sitting there, Gyles had been forced to acknowledge a deeply uncomfortable truth. We were lucky, escaping our captors as we did. How many things had needed to go perfectly right, just the way they had, to even afford them a chance to kill their captors and win back their freedom? A pilfered dagger, a freak storm, a sunken ship. Unwary captors and sleight of hand, but most of all, luck. Luck, luck, luck. It appeared that Gyles hadn't yet run out of his. Was he lucky for bringing down his captors as he did, or unlucky for being captured at all? Was he lucky for all that he'd seen and experienced north of the Red Mountains, or unlucky for having been forced out in the first place?
It was a deeply problematic question that seemed to beg for a happy, self-assured, nigh storybook answer. Gyles knew that he was a better man for having known people like Mors, Ser Jarmen, and Ser Maegor. He was grateful for all they'd taught him. But he wasn't sure he could be grateful for the circumstances that brought him to those experiences and lessons. But do I need to be? I don't have to value the circumstances of my exile to appreciate the lessons I've learned. I can miss my home without needing to resent all that I've seen and experienced beyond it.
He thought of all the heroes of the cherished tales of his childhood. The singers and storytellers extolled the tales of their valor, the hardships the hero experienced in the ultimate completion of his quest. The friends and comrades he had before and made along the way, the women that he loved and all too often lost. But what happened to the heroes when their quest was completed, and it was time to go home? There were no songs about what a hero did when he sat before his hearth, alone with his thoughts and without a quest to drive him inexorably forward.
Gyles didn't think he was a hero, but bards and singers further north had already been singing songs about him when he sailed from King's Landing. Not him, in particular, but the knights that had ridden forth from King's Landing as it burned in the aftermath of the riots, riding north to find the allies of their beloved queen, so that they one day might ride south again and free her. None of the singers seemed to find it important that the Queen they left behind was beheaded before they returned, or that they marched south again for no reason at all - the war ended before another battle was even fought. Even so, some of the singers had remembered that it was a Dornish knight that had led his intrepid fellows in battle against the dastardly bandits, even if they forgot to mention the men-at-arms, city watchmen, and smallfolk that fought alongside them.
Even a year before, Gyles feared that the man he was would have been liable to drown within his own vanity at the realization that songs were being sung about him. Now, it all just felt like empty praise. He didn't need it, nor did he really want it. In truth, he just wanted to go home. He wanted to see his parents, and tell them that their only child was alive. He wanted Mors and Ser Jarmen to still be alive. Just like the heroes in his childhood stories, however, he ultimately couldn't have it all. So he'd settle for home, and figure out what it was that heroes did when their journeys ended and they sat alone before their hearth.
Gyles left the inn's stable after finishing his brushing of Evenfall's mane, and tossed some foreign eastern copper to the stableboy sitting outside, even though he'd just done the lad's job for him. The boy looked at the foreign coin with wide eyes, before grinning and knuckling his forehead. Gyles found it within himself to give the boy a grin of his own and a roguish wink, which sent the boy running back into the stable with a cackle, clutching his newfound treasure tightly.
In truth, Gyles didn't much feel like a mysterious rogue. Alone in the stable with Evenfall, he'd found himself suddenly overwhelmed by all the emotion he'd been forcing deep within himself since his capture by the corsairs. He'd buried his face in his beloved companion's mane and sobbed like a child. He'd had to be strong, even at the worst depths of his own captivity. It was expected of him, as a noble and a knight. More importantly than even that, he'd known it was what Ser Jarmen would have done. Be the beacon of hope and strength that others clung to when there seemed to be no way forward, no way out.
Gyles had felt like a fraud the entire time. He put on a bold front as much as he could, but in truth he'd been so scared that he'd often felt like weeping along with all the others in the dark, horrid depths of that hold. It wasn't fear of dying. Growing up on the Marches meant that one was always at peace with the possibility with every skirmish fought. If not, men lived somewhere else if they wanted to be a knight, where a soft life of naught but tourneys and melees was possible. Gyles supposed his true fear had been not of dying, but of living a drawn-out and agonizing existence chained to some ship's oar, living like a caged animal and slowly going mad. The experience also taught him to hate as he never had before. The mere thought that Dorne had allied with the Three Daughters in the past during their wars with Daemon Targaryen filled Gyles with disgust.
Finding Evenfall alive had been a great joy to him, in the days before reaching the port of Whitehead. The horses had remained in the mid-deck hold, and were better-fed than the prisoners, which might have been darkly humorous if it hadn't instead made Gyles wish for another corsair to throttle with his bare hands. Even so, the relief had quickly overpowered his rage. Since coming north of the Red Mountains, it felt as though Gyles had lost everything he cared for. To find that it wasn't so was such a relief that he'd nearly wept then, but he couldn't bear to do so in front of Yorick and the other members of the delegation.
Entering the inn, he walked across the common room floor as he made his way to the private dining room at the rear. He spared a glance and a nod for Mero of Braavos and several other former prisoners that were arrayed about a table. Most were drinking, and one sullen lad, one of the former Lyseni bedslaves, was carving himself a new set of dice. Mero, the lad, and the rest of those men at the table had taken it upon themselves to be Gyles' men, whatever that was supposed to mean. Mero had claimed that the lot of them had nowhere else to go, whether it was a home that no longer existed or a home that they no longer wanted. The former Stormlander prisoners had departed several days before with enough provisions, heavy cloaks, and pack animals to see them back to their village and the kin and friends that remained.
For the prisoners of eastern origin, they'd dispersed every which way. Some had found themselves a place on a new ship's crew in the harbor, or working at the docks. Some tried to find passage to wherever home was with coin taken from the corsairs, though few ships left the port these days due to the piracy and impressment around the Stepstones. A few had even decided to go with the Stormlanders and start a new life in their village, wherever it was. The last of them had decided to stay with the Dornish at their invitation, and the majority of those were the men who said they now followed Gyles. A knight can do with a retinue, I suppose. Gyles thought that he was a sorry excuse of a fool to follow, but "his" men seemed to think otherwise. They seemed to think that he was a hero that had freed them from their bonds of servitude.
Forgetting his new retinue for the moment, Gyles pushed open the door of the inn's private dining room and entered quietly. The other members of the delegation were already within, and the food that had been provided sat largely forgotten, starting to go cold. At the head of the table, the young Prince Qyle. Along its left side sat Ella, wearing boiled leathers as though she expected a fight at any moment, and Lady Anya in heavy purple wool and a silver cloak. Along the table's right, Lord Vaith picked at his food, though the old Lord seemed to have aged another ten years since they'd left King's Landing. Ser Malwyn was in doublet and mail, and still looked far too grey in the face. Lord Whitehead's maester had recommended amputation of his left leg, due to fears of gangrene. The wound on Malwyn's leg hadn't been treated soon enough, and it had become infected. Malwyn had vehemently refused amputation, however, and ordered the maester to clean his wound as best he could and do no more. Malwyn might or mighn't survive, depending on whether infection had reached his blood and other humors, but the young knight had made clear that he'd either live with both legs or be buried with both.
The delegation hadn't spent long in Lord Whitehead's castle while arranging transportation to Dorne, preferring rooms in the finest inn within the town below. Its members hadn't taken long to learn that raiding from Dorne had grown worse during their captivity. Since then, they'd made it their goal to distance themselves as much as possible from Lord Whitehead, who seemed torn between his duty to treat noble guests well and a freshly reinvigorated hatred for Dornishmen. The raiders didn't originate from the Boneway, as Lord Borros Baratheon had violently put down a Vulture King there recently, with near-on the entirety of his host. Gyles neglected to mention to Lord Whitehead that Lord Baratheon's presence at the Usurper Aegon's side had likely been sorely missed earlier on in the war.
The Dornish raids of the present had swept up the Prince's Pass and into the Reach. What greenery remained in those southern fields had been quickly turned to ash with fire and sword, with raiders being so bold as to burn orchards beneath the walls of castles themselves. Not just the Marcher Lords, either. Raiders had burned their way to the mighty walls of Oldtown, with the Reach lacking most of its fighting men and Lords, either dead or far further north. It was the last bit of news that had filled the delegation's members with the most disquiet. No Vulture King would have the kind of manpower for a successful raid that deep into the Reach, even as bereft of men to defend it as it is. Though none said the words in Lord Whitehead's hearing, the truth was plain: this new Vulture King, whomever he was, had the backing of Dornish Lords. And if the Dragon Kings learn that this is more than petty raiders, that could mean war.
Though he'd been reluctant to tell them, Lord Whitehead had given them more information of import. Ravens had been sent from Sunspear to King's Landing, first asking, then demanding information about the delegation's whereabouts. It had been information the Regency had clearly been unable to provide, as ravens had been sent to coastal seats as small as that of the Whiteheads, asking for their Lords and landed knights to watch the coasts for any signs of the delegation. That speaks of the Dragon Kings' own desperation to avoid a diplomatic incident, and possible war. Gyles had frowned at reading the message, taken from Lord Whitehead's reluctant hand. Dorne does not know what happened to its delegation, and suspects the Dragons to the north of treachery. The Dragons had no answer to give them that would be believed, and did their best to delay and obfuscate, which made their intentions only more suspect to Sunspear.
"This is a fucking mess," Ser Yorick growled, bringing Gyles back to the present with his succinct and accurate summation of the situation.
Prince Qyle looked to Gyles with a raised eyebrow, and when Gyles shook his head to confirm that there were no listening ears in the hall beyond, spoke: "I have sent a message to Sunspear with one of Lord Whitehead's ravens, as you all well know. And one to King's Landing. By now, they should both know of the truth of our unfortunate circumstances."
"Truth has no bearing when the slain are already dead and the ruins already burned," Lord Vaith spoke sourly. He bit into a shriveled grape, and a meager trickle of its juice ran down his chin like blood. "By now, the Reach will be howling for vengeance, if they aren't already. If they find one noble's banner, take one noble prisoner in their lands-" Lord Vaith cut off, shaking his head morosely. "It will be war."
Gyles thought of his grandfather and uncles then, those that he'd never known. How they'd sailed so confidently forth from Dorne with the Prince Morion, dreaming of conquest and glory. Of how they must have screamed as they died, when the ships they sailed upon turned into their own blazing funeral pyres. Ser Jarmen would have been there to see that, at Prince Aemon's side. He would have rejoiced in the great victory, as the skin of my kin cooked and their marrow boiled. It was a hollow thought, accompanied by the taste of bile in the back of his throat.
When Queen Rhaenys died all those years ago at the Hellholt, Aegon the Conqueror and Queen Visenya burned Dorne high and low. No seat but Sunspear was spared. Gyles' mother's health had always been fragile. He knew she wouldn't flee Yronwood castle, even with the threat of approaching dragons. His father, devoted as his parents were to each other, would never leave her side. As steward, he would stay, directing those that remained this way and that, storing up supplies to consume while they waited out the dragons' flames. His parents hadn't seen Harrenhal. Gyles had. The mightiest castle in Westeros, melted like candle wax. They knew the stories of the Targaryens' fury in Dorne, but they hadn't been alive to see it. They didn't know, and if war and dragons came south to Dorne, they'd die screaming for it.
Gyles had begun having nightmares about it. If dragonriders were used against Dorne, Ser Maegor would be one of them. He had dreamed of returning to Yronwood at long last, only to find it a smoking ruin. Ser Maegor was sitting in the Lord's seat, surrounded by ash and burned corpses, Gyles' parents among them. Ser Maegor had smiled at him, as the smoke curled around his face. He held forth a tankard, and Gyles took it. "You promised me a round of drinks the next time we met," Maegor told him. Gyles looked within the tankard, and saw that it was full of blood. "It's time the debt was honored. So drink, Ser, drink deeply of the folly of your countrymen."
"What I don't understand," Lord Nymor said, heedless of Gyles' silent turmoil, "is why your father would allow such raiding to occur, Prince Qyle." Lord Nymor's eyes looked to some distant past the others couldn't see. "We fought in the Stepstones against Daemon Targaryen, he and I. He knew the threat of dragons. It's why he refused to involve himself in their war of succession." He shook his head. "I mean no offense, my Prince, but why? Why now, does he risk so much?"
Prince Qyle thought for a moment. "It may be that my father no longer rules in Sunspear." The delegation looked at the Prince with shock. "My father was ill when we departed. If he has passed, it is now my elder sister Aliandra that rules. Even as a girl, she envisioned herself as a new Nymeria. She pressed my father hard to take advantage of the civil war to the north and attack while the Dragons were preoccupied. He refused her, and she was enraged." Prince Qyle looked to Ella. "You know her as well as I do, Lady Ellara, mayhaps even better. Surely my words must make some sense."
Ella nodded in agreement, but she did not look happy to do so. "Aye, my Prince. I fear you may be right. Aliandra has always been quick to anger, and if she had reason to think that our delegation was subject to Targaryen treachery-" she paused, but the implication of Ella's words went unsaid.
For a long moment, the room was silent as a tomb. Then, Prince Qyle broke the reverie. "We can no longer wait for a ship to sail us to Dorne. We will gather provisions, cloaks, weapons, whatever else is needed, and then we ride south for the Boneway. Sunspear knows too little of the truth, and I will not have war break out while we wait for a ship."
The Prince's command allowed for no argument, but Gyles knew with certainty that none would have contested his decision in the first place. We ride for Dorne, and we ride hard. A man only had so much luck, Mors had told him. Did kingdoms have luck too? If so, it appeared that Dorne's was running dangerously thin.