Author's Note: Here you go lords and ladies, and thanks for the support. I hope you enjoy and review this chapter!
Chapter 7
Original Word Count: 2,496
Revision Word Count: 3,243
He found Morgan Byrch in the arms of his brother.
The Dragon of Duskendale stood amidst the corpses ten paces away, eyes on the ground instead of the heartwrenching scene in front of him. Balman, middle of the Byrch brothers, had seen the youngest gallop back towards the Tarth charge, one of the first of Aelor's men to counter it. Having lost his horse to a levy spear on the first line, Balman had remained there for the duration of the fighting. When Morgan did not return, he had gone to find him.
Morgan had been found locked in a deadly embrace with a knight in the colors of Musgood. The knight's sword had run Morgan through the torso. Morgan had gripped the knight's wrist with one hand, holding him and his blade in place so Morgan could drive a dagger into his neck. They'd died together, both still holding the blade that had killed the other.
Aelor wished it had been someone else who had discovered them, if only for Balman's sake.
The middle Byrch brother now held the youngest in his lap, openly crying and caring not a whit if other men saw him as he cradled his baby brother's lifeless form. Lord Cleyton stood stony faced behind him; the eldest had had a fiery relationship with both his brothers, but blood was blood, and Aelor could see the pain Cleyton shared with Balman.
Ser Barristan quietly stepped up to Aelor's side, leaning in to speak quietly. "No lords among the prisoners, my prince. Unless Lord Rykker finds them in the town or keep, it can be assumed they were on the galleys, as you expected."
The prince nodded. "Thank you, Barristan." After a slight hesitation, he continued with a gesture towards the scene in front of him. "That is my fault."
"Men die in war, Aelor. Friends and foes alike."
"Yes, but Morgan needn't have. I took the bait and rushed in like a fool and had my flank turned. If Selwyn Tarth hadn't been outnumbered three to one, we would all be dead now."
Barristan's voice turned firm. "This is not the time for self-pity. A leader leads; sometimes mistakes are made. You learn from that and move on. If you start second guessing yourself, we will all end up dead."
Aelor was quite a moment, then patted Barristan's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend." He turned away, unable to bear Balman's tears any longer. If that were Rhaegar, would I do the same? Would he for me?
The prince didn't know that answer, and that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
Renfred trotted up then, Sers Willis and Alester with him, the last bearing a bloody bandage around his hand. Aelor nodded towards it. "How bad, Alester?"
Turnbuckle shook his head. "Just a scratch, my prince. A bloody scratch, but still a scratch."
Renfred had dismounted, Aelor noting that the bay he had been astride was different than the steeldust he'd rode into battle. "The castle opened her gates before we even reached them." Ren extended a waterskin towards Aelor, the prince accepting it. "Only a skeleton garrison, greybeards and women. No sign of Lord Musgood or his family."
"They never intended to hold out, my prince. They'd cleared out hours if not a full day ago, just in case we showed up."
Aelor, having taken several long gulps as they reported, finished with a weary sigh. He handed the waterskin to Des, who had quietly remained at Aelor's shoulder. The squire took it, bringing it to his own lips as the prince spoke. "Their entire goal was to either get their men off the galleys, or their nobles on them, depending on when we showed up. When we caught them amidst the unloading, they wasted no time. What are our losses?"
Ren grimaced. "Close to six hundred foot left on the field, counting wounded. I have no idea how many have fled yet. I say we lost no more than a quarter of that from the mounted." He looked over Aelor's shoulder, towards the bawling Balman. "Morgan?"
The prince merely shook his head. Rykker cursed under his breath, then continued his report. "About three hundred captured from the lines. There were around two hundred knights and freeriders in their flanking force, but nearly all of those are dead."
"They took more than their times their number with them, as well as running off half my levies. Impressively done, even if it was against me." Aelor looked to Barristan. "Send out a few parties to round up what levies they can find, Ser Barristan. No punishments this time, but stricter training and a warning. Make it clear that the next man to panic and flee will be considered a criminal to the crown." He looked back to Renfred and Sers Willis and Alester. "We'll rest at Drakesgrave tonight. Move the camp up."
Rykker bowed his head. "It will be done." The big man remounted, then slapped his hand to his breastplate. "Strong shield."
Aelor returned the gesture. "Stronger sword."
His friend gave him a small, sad smile. "All men must die, Aelor." Ren turned his horse and trotted away, Willis and Alester close behind.
The prince turned to Desmond Langward. The boy's shaggy black hair was soaked with sweat, his hands still trembling from the retreating fear and bloodlust of battle, but he had managed to hold on to his lunch this time. "You did well, Des."
The lad, ever serious, nodded. "You told me to stay with you, ser."
Aelor grinned at him. "That I did. You ride well and are good with a lance." He glanced at the Kingsguard, then back. "We'll catch the sword up as well, on one condition."
"Yes, Prince Aelor?"
"You keep keeping me alive."
Desmond nodded, finally cracking a smile. "Yes ser."
The Dragon of Duskendale swung up onto the back of the black-haired behemoth of a horse he was starting to grow so fond of, Des also mounting without having to be told. He jerked his chin in the direction Renfred had ridden in. "Assist Lord Rykker in moving up the camp. Barristan and I will be reviewing the castle."
His squire had only just began galloping after Renfred when Aelor noticed the man weaving a line through bodies both living and dead, his destination quite clearly the prince of the Iron Throne. "Report, solider?" He asked as the rider, horse lathered, reined up near the prince, bowing over the neck of his mount.
"Yes, my prince, from the western scouts. Robert Baratheon is marching."
She missed Aelor.
Elia Martell imagined the Seven were frowning on her because of that. It was Rhaegar she was supposed to miss, her husband and the father of her children. But it had also been Rhaegar who had abandoned them, up and disappearing before snatching Lyanna Stark from the North and going into hiding. All Elia felt when she thought of her husband now was anger and embarrassment and heartbreak, so instead she thought of his younger brother.
It had always been easy, that.
The capitol had received word from the Stormlands, both official dispatches from the Dragon of Duskendale and the quiet reports of spies from Varys' spiderweb. The prince had scattered a stormlord host at Bronzegate and slaughtered another at Drakesgrave on the shores of the Narrow Sea, capturing both castles and several lords and their families. A handful of smaller skirmishes had been fought, and half a dozen smaller keeps and towerhouses had fallen, four of them without a fight.
But not all was good news. Robert Baratheon had also fought three royalist houses at Summerhall, defeating all three one after another. Aelor had also, sadly, been proven right about Hoster Tully's intentions. Word from the Riverlands claimed that his eldest daughter, the 'grief-stricken' Catelyn, was apparently not as heartbroken as the Tullys had claimed; she had wed Eddard Stark, the younger brother of her dead betrothed. At least Hoster Tully told some truth, for he didn't wed his younger daughter until after the eldest. It was a matter of seconds, but still after.
The three regions, unified by Catelyn's marriage to Eddard and Lysa's to Jon Arryn, were massing at Riverrun. The distance between King's Landing and the seat of House Tully, while not short, was much too close for her comfort. Even with the power of the Reach moving north, she felt the presence of the rebel forces like the point of a dagger between her shoulder blades, wicked steel waiting to plunge into her back or, worse, the backs of her children.
Shivering at the mere thought, Elia was once again thankful for the presence of Ser Manfred Darke. Only a few inches taller than her but easily three times her width at the shoulder, the knight had proven to be everything Aelor had told her he was, as mean as a snake and as loyal as a hound. Though he always treated her with the utmost courtesy, he'd reduced more than one servant and noble to tears when he felt Elia was growing annoyed with their questions or presence. She knew she should say something to him about it…but Manfred had been right about her mood every single time.
Lost in thought as she had been, Elia only realized she had reached her destination when a familiar voice called out. "Good morning, Princess."
Elia jerked to attention, finding herself staring into eyes that could have been her own by their color. And by the lines of stress around them. She smiled despite that. "Good morning, uncle."
Prince Lewyn Martell, the silvered armor and white cloak of the Kingsguard contrasting against his dark Dornish skin, smiled at her lightly from his position outside of the queen's chambers. "Is all well?"
She glided up to him, standing on the tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. "Yes, ser. With you?"
"Yes, Princess." He gestured back over his shoulder. "Have you come to see the queen?"
"And Viserys. It has been a week since I have seen either."
The tightness of Lewyn's eyes told Elia that may not be her bet idea. His words confirmed it. "The queen is unwell today, Princess. She is keeping the prince close these days as a comfort." What that really meant was that the queen wanted to remain in the relative safety of her chambers and was keeping Viserys close to protect him from Aerys. It was a sad thing, but a needed one.
Alas, while the queen protects Viserys, no one in Westeros can protect the queen. Though Elia felt slighted, both by Rhaegar for his elopement and by the Seven for taking away her chance of more children, she knew her position in life was infinitely better than that of her goodmother. Rhaella Targaryen, pregnant again after three living children and eight who didn't survive infancy, was a haunted woman, a shell of the beauty she had once been. Elia believed that the unborn child in her belly and young, eccentric Viserys were the only things keeping her alive.
It had disturbed Elia to no end when she'd first married Rhaegar and heard her goodmother's desperate pleas for help on the occasions Aerys took his "rights" as her husband. It had infuriated her that Rhaegar did nothing while his mother suffered so, but she'd soon learned that no one could lest they die that very night. Not the Kingsguard, not Rhaegar, not the Seven, not even Aelor, he who had always been hot tempered and a touch brash. No one raised a finger to the king.
Elia nodded slightly to show she understood, though she said nothing of it out loud. "I understand, uncle. I shall return another time then."
Before she could leave he spoke again, tone neutral. "Any word from your brothers?"
For a moment Elia was taken aback. As a Kingsguard she had thought the prince would know war tidings well before she did, but then again Aerys liked to keep most people in the dark. Elia herself only knew what she did from her friendship with Varys, who had been calling on her often of late. "Oberyn is in the Boneway with a vanguard, blocking Robert Baratheon from escaping Aelor. From the tone of his letters he is chafing at the command, but he likes Aelor—I think he'll continue to listen."
Her brother Doran, ruling Prince of Dorne, had been reluctant to call his levies at all, considering the slight to Elia at the hands of Rhaegar. Only her own request for the benefit of Aegon and Rhaenys had prompted him to move, and even now he seemed to be doing it slowly.
"I hope he does, for his own sake." Lewyn smiled softly and spoke softer. "Be careful, Elia. Things are only getting worse."
Elia was still pondering that statement when she returned to her chambers to find Manfred Darke at the door. "Princess," he greeted, eyeing the guard who had been shadowing her on her trip to the queen's chamber. The man-at-arms, an older but spry man named Robin, was one of the ten soldiers of his household guard that Aelor had left under Manfred's command. He wore the same white warring dragons on his chest as the boulder knight, and Elia knew the two were familiar with each other, but Manfred stared at the older man until Robin excused himself. Manfred treats everyone as an enemy, even his friends. That doesn't make him popular, but it makes him effective.
The knight waited until the hall was clear before extending one of the bear paws he pretended were hands, a rolled parchment inside. "A letter for you, Princess."
Though she was still unsettled, Elia smiled brightly at the knight. It had become a game among her ladies to see who could coax a smile from Ser Manfred, and Elia couldn't help but occasionally join in. None of them, not even sensual Talana Vaith or breathtaking Ashara Dayne, had succeeded yet. "Thank you, Ser Manfred." Taking the letter, she started to continue towards her chamber before she realized the big knight wasn't done. "Is there something else, ser?"
Manfred slowly extended his other hand, opening it to show a tiny doll in the center of his palm. "This came with it." Elia couldn't help herself. She laughed aloud at the ridiculous sight of the monstrous man holding such a delicate doll, then laughed even louder when the man blushed.
The man does have emotions besides anger. My ladies will be devastated to learn a doll has done something none of our feminine wiles could accomplish.
The Dornish Princess ended the man's silent suffering and reached out to take the proffered doll and parchment, her spirit lifted by the laugh and the warring dragons on the seal. "Thank you, Ser Manfred." Then, unable to resist, she added. "Don't worry; I won't tell Ashara that a doll is the key to your heart."
A few moments later, red-faced Manfred left at her door, she split the seal and unfurled the letter. For just a moment it was as if she had received a letter from Rhaegar, as she had done frequently in their courtship. But while the narrow hand was similar to that of his brother's, Aelor was not the wordsmith Rhaegar was. Her husband could bend words into marvelous arrangements at will, a true poet. Aelor wrote as if he was saying the words out loud as he wrote them. Elia liked to think he did just that, for it made her smile all the more.
Elia,
This may come as a surprise to you, but I have a new doll for your daughter.
I found it in the chambers I commandeered at Drakesgrave. I suppose it belonged to one of the Musgood girls, but it belongs to Rhaenys Targaryen now. Call it dishonorable thievery if you will, but I'm sure your daughter won't see it that way.
I know Ser Manfred has you well taken care of, but I worry for you and your children's safety, as well as my mother and Viserys. I know I have said and written this often in the last few weeks, Elia, but I will say it again. Keep Aegon and Rhaenys close to you. Be always ready, for what exactly even I cannot say. But when the time comes to act do not hesitate.
This war is the greatest threat to the Targaryen dynasty since Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel, and I fear more lives will be lost during its course than even those claimed by the Redgrass Field. I beg you to remember that Ser Manfred is your bodyguard; please, for the sake of the Seven, let him guard you.
I like to think I am a realist, that I knew what true war was. I spouted how it was not a tourney or a game, how I learned against the Kingswood Brotherhood its true nature. I was wrong. Oh, all the things I said were true, but even I didn't truly believe them. I have since realized that I did not know the true nature of war, though I am rapidly learning it now.
I am also, to my shame, learning my own. I killed a boy today, Elia. He was a squire, no older than thirteen. It wasn't even a true battle, just a skirmish trying to throw me off of Robert Baratheon's true force. He thrust a spear at me, I suppose hoping to gain fame as the slayer of the Dragon of Duskendale. I killed him in an instant, without even a moment's thought or hesitation. A boy not even old enough to grow his beard, not old enough to know the feel of a woman's embrace. Now he never will. All he'll ever feel is the embrace of cold clay.
While not proud of it, it isn't the action that bothers me. What bothers me is that I didn't feel a damn thing after I killed him. No regret, no remorse for one so young. He was an obstacle, too young to know he was in over his head, and I batted him aside like so much waste. Even now I am more ashamed of the fact that I'm not ashamed than I am of taking that boy's life.
Hug Rhaenys and Aegon for me. I pray that I'll be able to do it myself someday soon. And I pray that the Aelor Targaryen that returns to King's Landing, if one even does, is at least a little bit like the one that left.
Aelor
The letter was gently lowered to the table, the doll taken in hand. The princess went to her daughter in the adjoining room, the young girl squealing delightedly at receiving another doll for the army she already had, most procured by her uncle. Her mother took her daughter into her arms and held her as she fussed over it, saying "doll" and "pretty" and "uncle" in a rush of words she was still mastering. Elia said nothing, holding Rhaenys close to her chest and rocking slowly.
It had been a long time since Elia Martell gave in to the need to cry. The urge had been with her for months now, but she had never surrendered to it.
But when that first tear cut a trail down her coppery cheek, she couldn't stop the dozens that followed.