Some time ago...

It was three, maybe five days, as the raven flies true to get a letter from Starfall to Sunspear. If the raven flew true and if they had a raven to spare on such a triviality.

It was not a triviality yet Lady Ysabel needed to treat it as such. That level of subterfuge pervaded her every day since the realm broke apart and fought old and new grievances against one another. It was a performance she knew well, but one that she sometimes forgot was just meant to be performance. Ser Russell was a good husband, a good father, but ancient animosities could not be forgotten even when two shared a marriage bed. She knew for some time that he acted behind her back, that he aided his family in their support of the so-called Blackfyre king, the pretender. They did so openly and Russell Yronwood was not a man who forgot his ancient blood. And so, as she had done for some time now, she readied her miscellaneous pleasantries and requests, her regular correspondence with her beloved brother at Sunspear, and buried in those uninteresting, sundry words was the notice of what her men had found.

The cache of coins and metal had not entirely been a surprise to the Lady of Starfall, but finding it first had been. It was a dangerous game they played, the minted coins with the Pretender's visage, young and aquiline, ethereal in the way only the one-time dragon lords were meant to be. Not at all like their young heir, Prince Baelor who had been marred by Dornish blood, and not like their steady king, who could never be mistaken for the Warrior. If only the Seven had seen fit to give this burden to another. She was tired in a way that sleep would never resolve, on edge so that her hands jittered whenever she had a moment to stand still and think.

She wrote to her brother, hid the urgent request beneath light tones and sisterly warmth, bid that he intercede with Prince Maron. Wrapped in boring details so prying eyes would glaze over, she suggested that those who moved the false dragon's coin could be found in the Boneway passages. Her youngest sister, Dyanna, had sent troubling reports of increased raids in the marches and Ysabel was more than certain these were connected events. Whether it was Yronwood directly or another Dornish house eager for the opportunity to bleed their northern neighbors, a show of force from their liege-lord might be enough to force them back to the shadows. Or so she hoped.

She sent the letters off to reach Sunspear nearly a fortnight after discovering the cache. It was a delay, but it had been necessary. Jami's response had been short and terse, carefully worded as her own had been. Outriders arrived not long after, without banners. It was a telling message to her, Ysabel had been in one of the upper galleries when she saw the desert's dust rising up on the horizon. The men told her that their prince had ridden as well, though along a different path than they. Though he was not there, he had come in strength and had ridden himself. No matter how serious she had known it to be before, her heart had dropped anyways at seeing a portion of the prince's response.

Even had she not been growing heavier with child, she would not have ridden with them, no matter that her Prince would do so. Her steady hand was required in Starfall, to maintain the truest loyalist hold this half of Dorne. So it was her other brother, Ryon, who was set to accompany the men on their way. Russell had little choice too but to accompany the men as well, his face noticeably absent of any disdain or pleasure at the task. He took it all in stride if not in exuberance, Lady Ysabel giving him a sweet kiss upon his cheek and bidding him to return before their babe arrived. She meant it, no matter how easy it would be to wish otherwise. Damn the wars and the men who started them.

The column had left seemingly as quickly as they arrived. Horses and men had enjoyed a brief respite in the oasis Starfall provided before they made their way back to the dry dirt and rocks. Ryon had looked back once, a mailed fist raised in parting. Russell had not and she would not hold it against him.

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The Present...

North and east, past the ancient roadways through the Red Mountains and into the contested lands where Dorne met the Reach and the Stormlands; a border that had never quite decided who it belonged to. Reports had been arriving and departing for months. Villages, outposts, farms, septs - it did not matter, men came and took what they could carry then burned the rest. Men, women, children were slain if they did not flee in time and those that did returned with slim hopes that they could rebuild in time and that they would be spared from the next roving band of brigands.

Though the smallfolk were unlike to see it as thus, this was deliberate and patient, seemingly random but a determined bleeding against those who made the marches their home. Whoever directed it understood that the most effective provocations were those that had deniability and fell short of demanding an answer in kind. They danced at the edges, pushing and shoving, prodding and poking, until the men they played their games with took action of their own, none the wiser to whom had triggered them to action.

The Reach lords whose land bore the weight of it had not been silent, ravens went to those with reason to listen, and to those who had the means to care. A man, even a lord, could only absorb this kind of damage for so long before absorbing it meant condoning it. Enough of them swore themselves to the Black Dragon and those who didn't readied themselves to defend. Prince Baelor's presence gave them the courage to go on the offensive.

Closer to all of it than few would find comfortable was Summerhall. Prince Maekar's wife waited there, her household including two young royal sons. Dyanna Dayne was not an unprepared woman, nor a stupid one. Her presence was a symbol and one that drew attention in these times. She wielded that in hopes it would prevent it being wielded against her. She had written to her sister, to lords of the reach and the stormlands. The pince's wife watched the roads and fields for signs of what she felt in her gut would come next.

The Martell column moved north through the Boneway, the dead pretender's coins in their baggage train. They had not yet found answers to their questions, but the men they pursued seemed ever ahead of them or ever scattered around them. Perhaps someone would eventually decide that the game of hide-and-seek had become to dull, that making their presence known could nudge the war in their favor.

In the marches, it is always a matter of who moves first. And so far, Daemon Blackfyre seemed the master of it.

Tidings Upon the Walls

A fine morning rose on Starpike, a golden sun rising high in the east peeking through billowy scattered clouds. The redstone walls of the mighty castle glistened, wet from an evening rain that broke just before the morn. A cool breeze drifted westwardly, down from the red mountains and into the valley, stirring the proud orange banners flying upon Starpike’s triple towers. A small tributary of the mander flowed past the southern and eastern walls forming a half moat of shallow mountain water before it eventually turned west on its long journey to the sunset sea. Dotted fields, manor houses, and settlements lined along its waters carving out habitable living spaces from the stretching moorland that dominated the southwest. In the north were patches of pine forests and meadows where great flocks of sheep grazed on dew soaked grass. Watchful sentries patrolled the towers, dressed in tunics of brilliant hunters orange and clutching strung lowbows, an arrow ready upon the string. Below in the valley the castle town of Little Apicem nestled a half league away from Starpike the smallfolk were finishing up their morning labors, though a certain quiet held sway over the cobbled streets. Mothers kept a close watch on their children, and young women did far more of the work than normally seen, for many husbands and sons were away.

A familial trio traveled atop the northern wall where a thin woman of strawberry blonde hair held the hands of her small children leading them to her favored spot. She’d dressed herself in a dark blue dress and cloak of furs, dressed warmly despite the mild temperatures. She had not yet grown accustomed to the cooler climate of the moor and mountains, which stood in stark contrast to the pleasant omnipresent warmth of her father’s lands. Her name was Lady Antonie Peake, and she commanded the castle now that her husband found himself away fighting. Antonie looked pale and a little sick with worry, and she clutched tightly to her children as if afraid they would be led away to battle as well. The eldest child skipped and chattered like a squirrel, her darker head swayed cheerily and grey eyes gleamed giving no indication of recognizing the somber ambiance that held sway over the wartime castle or her mother. The grim faced sentries they passed would see the happy girl and could not help but smile themselves, warmed by youthful naivety. They would nod their heads and murmur. “Pleasent morning my ladies, good master.” Before returning to their rounds. The girl’s given name was Ellen, and there could be no subduing her. The little boy, having seen no more than eight years, wore a very different expression. He remained sour and downcast, trailing behind his mother and sister. Occasionally he would glance towards the distant northwest, a look of jealousy and longing in his blue eyes. His name was Meryn, and he long complained at the denial against his wishes to travel with his father and elder brother to bring battle to the sandblooded. Even his beloved uncle Ser Unwin Peake could not bring a smile to the dour little face when it came time to depart two moons ago. Ser Unwin assured the boy that a strong man must be left behind to protect the women of the house, and that not all the fierce warriors of the March could leave home undefended. Ser Derrium Daring had taken charge of course, not an eight year old boy. Castellan of Starpike and master of arms Ser Daring saw to little Meryn’s training, allowing the boy to take a leading role in the decision making and running of the keep in order to distract him from his malaise.

The three settled at the base of the second tower, where the height of the walls and the elevated hillside position of the castle gave an excellent and unhindered view of the spreading countryside. A serving maid brought a basket containing a kettle of tea and a batch of warm scones and honey to spread for a light refreshment. The pleasant scent of fresh baking washed away the worries for a brief moment reminding the young mother of home, and Antonie tried to relax. It would do no good to brood. The maid departed leaving them in peace as they enjoyed the sunshine and birdsong and prayed for their kin’s safety wherever they might be.

They were interrupted again by the approaching sounds of boots and a middle aged man appeared. He wore a sword and a knightly coat of arms across his doublet which depicted an orange mountaineer scaling a black mountain. His face bore many scars and each step displayed a noticeable limp from an old battle wound. This grizzled veteran was none other than Ser Derrium Daring himself, and the landed knight bore himself with a stubborn pride, refusing to show any pain from his past injuries. He had risen far, to be in his current station. Holding the high regards and trust of lord Gorman Peake himself, and granted the honorary position of castellan of Starpike. A notable appointment, especially considering the many Peake kin that lived in the moor and valley. A large bushy mustache of grey scrunched up in a pleased smile as Ellen skipped over and gave the old knight a hug. Meryn, far more restrained than his eager sister, merely shook the man’s hand, but hovered close to the knight, drinking in every word.

“I knew I would find you here, my lady.” Ser Derrium spoke in a low gravely tone and he restrained a cough. Giving a short polite bow to Antonie he continued. “ I beg your pardon, I did not wish to interrupt your pleasant morning, but this concerns your decision and I deemed it prudent to approach you at once. A raven arrived from your lord husband, it seems his honor Lord Gormon has left the Westerlands and achieved many victories. You must be so proud, my lady.”

“Of course,” Antonie could barely believe it. Would Gormon be returning already? The war had scarcely just begun it seemed. It could be probable such a great victory won total control for the Black Dragon, she dared hope for good news.

“I am afraid the war goes on, and Lord Peake is needed elsewhere.” Ser Derrium said, as if sensing her thoughts. “Though he sends word that a hundred yeomen, and four knights including his third cousin Ser Gyman Peake are returning to Starpike, bearing great wagons full of treasure and gains from the west. Seems he wishes to refill the treasury and that taxation may be relaxed upon the knightly manors and smallfolk. That should cheer the people I think. Included in the company is a hostage, a young Halys Swyft, heir to Cornsfield whom we are to treat as a guest.” He turned his attention to the youngest present, considering the boy under a quizzical eye of a teacher. “He is Meryn’s age, so perhaps the two might get along while the lad resides among us.”

“I shall ensure he is welcome.” Little Meryn said importantly, puffing out his chest in pride. “House Peake treats even its prisoners to our best, right Ser?”

“Right indeed.” The knight tousled the lad’s hair looking pleased. Antonie felt a small flush of pride at her son’s good conduct. Little Meryn took his lessons very seriously.

“Ser,” Antonie said when the knight did not continue. “Any word of Able, or my husband’s health? Or that of my brothers who march with him?”

“Ah, I am afraid not.” Ser Derrium’s smile faded, and the big mustache drooped. “You know my lady, Lord Gormon is all business when it comes to these matters, he does not waste words. I am certain if some ill had befallen your son or brothers the honorable Lord would ensure news reached you. In this instance no news is good news I think.”

“My husband never writes,” Antonie said a little sadly. “Though I thought Able might, I asked that he would. Perhaps he is so caught up in the excitement of it all.”

“I hope you do not think less of the lad, I am certain his heart will grow fond and he will heed your instruction.” Ser Derrium turned from the family, leaning against the parapets and gazing out over the forests and moors. Antonie recalled that the knight’s own sons had ridden away in the departing host, and that the veteran knight no doubt wished he were there, ensuring their wellbeing. Derrium licked his lips and turned back to Antonie, his smile gone, his face a picture of gravity. “My lady, I do not wish to alarm you, but Lord Gormon leaves little in his reports, for ravens can be intercepted and code can be broken. However, it worries me that the honorable Lord sends a hundred men and four knights and wagons full of gold back to Starpike, and expresses it so clearly in his missive. It bears foul omens. I fear he expects we need reinforcements.”

“War is coming to Starpike.” Antonie’s breath caught in her throat, and a trill of fear raced down her spine.

“Dunstonburry is in the greatest threat, so close to Highgarden and Brightwater I think we shall send the bulk of our fresh troops there. Whitegrove is nigh impregnable up in the mountains, its garrison can resist all of Dorne I think, and Ser Harry Peake who commands there is stubborn as stone. He will not give up Whitegrove without battle. The additional men shall make it easier to patrol our borders and ensure we know well in advance if any host approaches unwelcome.” Ser Derrium Daring pressed his hand to his heart, resolved to prevail against any odds. “I swear my lady, while I still draw breath you and your children will be safe in this castle, and we shall drive all comers from Peake lands. I need only your permission, and I shall take full command and prepare Starpike and the other castles for the storm and we shall defy it.”

“Go and act as you see fit Ser Daring.” Antonie spoke, her voice shook and she felt a tremble in her hands. She wished again that her husband would return. In his presence she felt safe, in his grim stoic way he remained a reassuring figure. Even if he did little in providing words of comfort. Here at Starpike and its skeleton garrison she felt alone and vulnerable despite the high walls and mighty towers. Ser Derrium soon departed, intent on fulfilling his promise in shoring up the defenses of Starpike and Dunstonburry. He was a good man, a dedicated servant, and a skilled warrior, but he was not Gormon. The Lady of Starpike’s heart ached, and she wiped away the tears that threatened to fall unbidden. She hugged her son and daughter closer and longed for home and peace again.

“Your husband is going to kill me.”

Dyanna rolled her eyes at the dramatic man beside her. Her head shook with a chuckle, sandy hair rustled by the pleasant summer breeze. “Most likely, regardless of what you do. Better to enjoy the time you have left.” She shifted atop her horse, a proper Dornish sandsteed, pale brown with white socks and a bright blaze down her nose. The mare nickered softly beneath her, irritable at being made to stand still.

“Dyanna…” Ser Ulrick started, his tone soft but pointed. “What exactly is enjoyable about testing the Stranger? Wouldn’t it be better to be inside the gardens with wine and women?” He was displeased that she had chosen to ride out alone except that he had been allowed to follow, and he had made it known the entire way out. He did not think she had heard most of it, the speed of their travel sending his protestations as just noise on the wind.

She huffed. “I’d share the wine but the women are all yours. If you manage to fill the castle with sand, you will be the one sweeping up before he returns.” Purple eyes winced, a momentary lapse of bravado. When he returns. Always when, not if, always. Her heart ached with a familiar pressure behind her ribs but the smile returned as she gave a pointed stare. “You know there are too many ears, even in the gardens.” Her pause was brief, just to catch her breath, “I received word from my sister, though the letter seems to have been delayed. I expect we’ll hear of Prince Maron’s arrival any day now.”

The sandsteed felt the tension through the saddle and kicked at the ground, snorting her shared displeasure. Dyanna pat the creature's neck without thinking, soothing both of them.

“I know that look. You cannot join them.” Ulrick reached across to grip his cousin’s hand. “That would be foolish and your dragon will blame me.” His eyes pleaded even as his voice remained firm.

“You do not allow it?” One eyebrow shot up though she turned her hand beneath his and held it. “I think that would make him angrier.” A sigh slipped past her lips regardless. “I don’t seek to ride off to war, cousin, but I cannot sit idle and do nothing. Something is going to happen, something…” Her voice trailed off, her jaw setting firm.

Her gaze drifted ahead of them. The green and brown fields hid a land that wide and flat under the bleached summer sky. Hints of mountains were in the distance, smudged by a heat haze. The Dayne woman breathed deeply in the silence, dry grass and warm stone, not the scented pleasures of Starfall or of what they had managed to build within Summerhall. She held it for a moment of shared understanding between them, where no words were needed.

Ulrick did not prod her further. He had been privy to all manner of correspondence and discussions to not know and agree with what she thought gathered around them. The threat drew closer day by day it seemed, like the heavy gray stormclouds that lurked in a distance. Always possible that they move on in another direction and yet somehow always instead striking when you least wanted it. Her good-brother was nearer than her husband, but not close enough. “Do you wish you had returned to the capital?” He asked at last though he knew the answer.

Dyanna let out a sharp sound, shaken from her reverie. “I will take men with swords over that stinking nest of snakes any day.” The childhood romance that King’s Landing had once been to her was long dead and buried. Maekar had come of it, but nothing had made her happier than when he promised her that they would reside in Summerhall. And here, at least, their children would be spared the treatment their Dornish blood would earn them. Or at least they could be better protected. Few dared it when Maekar was there, even those who had been raised as marchers.

“Do you think they’ve made it to the Twins yet?” She didn’t have to say who she meant. His last letter had been short and terse, and she could feel his annoyance through the way the quill had dug into the paper, the tears and weeping ink it had left behind. Dyanna could picture him writing it, a soothing daydream even if in it his lips were pressed in a thin line, and a vein along his forehead pulsed.

Ulrick scratched at his chin in thought. “Could have. If mud and blood hasn’t delayed them.” It was a bleak statement, but honest. The Riverlands offered misery in the best of times. “They sound an ugly place, I hear the Freys aren’t much better.” The knight chose his next words carefully, lips pressed between teeth in thought. “Suppose there won’t be too many temptations for your husband, at least.”

She groaned. “Can you imagine? I pity a woman who thinks to throw herself at him, out of all of them.” Baelor would surely be firm but kind in his rejection, Aerys wouldn’t have known the woman was there. Her husband would roar for the fucking cunt to be removed from his presence before she’d finished her approach. Dyanna might not have tried hard to smooth away that specific lack of tact. She might even find it enjoyable to watch from behind a goblet so that she could hide her grin. That particular concern many women had when their men rode off was not one she shared.

Ulrick’s arm swivelled suddenly, his mount stomping to turn to whatever had grabbed his attention. Dyanna stiffened, ears sharpening to the sound of hoofbeats, rhythmic and growing from the distance. Her stomach rose into her throat. Perhaps this has been a foolish decision.

He shifted his horse in front of her, a wall of muscle and readiness. But all that approached was the single rider and even at a distance, both Daynes could see the colors marking him as one of theirs. The rider’s horse was lathered and the rider himself caked in dust from a hard ride. His face was creased and darkened from having spent too many days under the sun.

“My lady, Ser.” He hailed some distance out. His voice carried an urgency even through the wheeze of a hard ride. Dyanna did not recognize him though Ulrick did and he rode forward to meet the man. Dyanna pulled up quickly before he could think to leave her out of the news.

“Lord Maron has been sighted, just a day out, maybe two.” He was a Stormlander and before he could continue, Dyanna corrected him.

“Prince Maron.” She did not offer the correction harshly, but she would not allow poor manners to take root.

The man straightened and cleared his throat, his sunburned cheeks reddening. “Of course, Prince Maron, forgive me, my lady. He and his men, they’ve come up through the Boneway.”

Dyanna and Ulrick shared a look. The Prince of Dorne riding north into the marches. That was unheard of, no matter the long history of animosity. Dornish raided, House Martell was alleged to support any number of campaigns against the border houses, yet House Martell had never once seen fit to send their own north in a warband.

“There was more, ser.” He hesitated, his eyes sliding to Ulrick, instinctive but uncertain. “The tin mines have been set upon. Some burn from within, workers are fleeing while they can.”

The mines were just south of them, the edge of the Red Mountains that gave way to the flat plains they now stood upon. They were contested grounds and always had been. At least half a dozen lords had half a dozen claims and disputes that never fully resolved. Who would they each blame? Who would decide to act first and clarify later? Dyanna turned the pieces over in her mind. The prince’s arrival was timed with a sudden attack on the mines, but she was still missing something. It didn’t fully fit and the shape of it was not clear to her. Not yet, anyways.

Before Ulrick could speak, Dyanna urged her mount forward.

“Return to Summerhall. Rinse the road off and eat something hearty. She gave a soft, affirming smile. “Speak to no one else of what you’ve told us.” She watched him go until the dust closed behind him.

“I need you to ride to our prince,” she said quietly. “I need to call upon the friends we’ve made.”

The dusty road rose before him, trailing ever eastward towards destiny and victory. Behind him came the Marchermen, and march they did. Dressed in orange and brown and upon their heads bright red caps of wool. They carried yew bows, wicked billhooks and banners the color of molten rock. Their booted feet stamped the dirt sending up a great cloud of dust and as they marched they sang. Songs of a hundred verses written to keep a steady pace and a valiant heart. In their hands and draped over their backs were the emblems of vanquished houses, Lannister lions and purple Plumm and the cock of Swyft amongst many others. They shamed these captured standards, holding them ever below the orange of House Peake in a display of conquest. Above all the others and in the forefront, rose a massive vexillium of ruby red cloth like a mighty square sail on a ship's mast, supported by three marching men. On its embroidered fabrics curled a great black dragon of House Blackfyre, King and conqueror.

At the head of the long column rode Lord Gormon Peake upon a black palfrey. Surrounded on all sides by his sworn knights in the vanguard who displayed their proud colors on their tabards in hunters orange, rusty red, brilliant yellow, and brightest blue. A wagon train trailed the marching host and finally in the very rear came the hedge knights and mercenary cavalry in rearguard. They traveled too fast for campfollowers, as Lord Peake pushed his cohort to their limit. Three thousand told they were a formidable force though only a fraction of the army that gathered beneath the Black Dragon banner in total. They had parted from Fireball and his host following the victory in the Westerlands. The tactful general having split the overall army into manageable pieces to ease the logistical strain. They took separate roads through the Reach. Close enough to gather in number should word be sent, but far enough apart they did not make a wasteland of their neighbor’s fiefs. They passed through neutral territory, some friendly and sympathetic, others wary and cowed, but whether potential ally or foe it would not be wise to make enemies of them all.

On Gormon’s left rode his son Able, a lad of thirteen, strong and tall already despite his tender years. He wore the colors of his father’s house in obvious pride and he kept his bay palfrey close at hand. In his grip he carried the warbanner of House Peake, the wooden lance upon which the great banner flew strained in his grasp, ever threatening to escape on the noon breeze but kept in check by the steady youth. On the right rode Ser Neville Tottington, an older knight and Gormon’s most trusted advisor. He commanded the vanguard and his aggressive nature complimented Gormon’s own fierce initiative. Able and Tottington had joined in the song that reverberated from three thousand throats, off tune and and having no accompanying instruments they did not do the verses justice, but they raised their voices and sang with gusto and vigor.


“Ho all to the borders, the marchers come down.
With your trousers of sheepskin and tunics of brown.

With your red woolen caps, and your weaponry come.
To the gathering summons of trumpets and drums.

Come down with your longbow, let brown wolf and fox.
Howl on in the shadows of primitive rocks.

Let lions feed securely from your sheep flocks and stalls.
Here's Dornishmen foe for your arrows and call.

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.

From the north came the dragons, our land to police.
While armed for the battle, they canted of peace.

From the east came the Dornish, the sand blooded band.
To hang up our leaders and eat up our lands.

Ho all to the battle for the warriors stand firm.
No gains for the armies of Sunspear shall earn.

They crave our possessions, these pitiful knaves.
The tribute they gain shall be blood and graves.

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.

You may have our fealty if we bow to your throne
It must be won by the iron and blood of your own.

Our lords themselves are our own fellow kin.
Who can handle the sword and the lance in the din.

Hurrah for the March, this land that we till.
Must have sons to defend her, from valley and hill.

Our vow is recorded our banners unfurl.
In the name of the March we defy all the world!

So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer.
And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.”

“Riders my lord, from the east and at pace.” Ser Neville had ceased singing, his sharp eyes spotting movement ahead above the rise of the hill. Gormon spotted them soon after, two men riding fast. At once he recognized the tabard that marked his younger brother and the dull green of the scout Ser Patryk Pax. Ser Unwin Peake, Gormon’s wily younger brother commanded the outriders, keeping watchful eyes all around in host for leagues ahead. They could never be blind, Marcher men paid in blood for the folly of military conceit. Unwin also trained Able as his squire, though the boy did not yet have the skills needed for the vital military intelligence that the outriders provided. Moreover Gormon preferred his son close at hand where an eye could be kept on the boy. Knowing his brother would not abandon his duties on a whim Gormon leaned back in his saddle bringing the stirrups forward, never bothering to touch the reins. His horse stopped at once. Pressing two fingers from each hand into his mouth Gormon unleashed a long piercing whistle that rang out above the singing. He spat after, his fingers tasted of horse. Another rider nearby responded at once to the whistle, bringing a horn to his lips and sounding out a dull blast that brought the march to halt. Like a great ungainly beast the column ceased in song and step. Men at arms hefted their spears and yeomen began stringing their longbows and checking their arrows. Ninety to each archer, tipped in steel and feathered by dornish geese. They were blooded veterans now, baptized by the Warrior in battle against Westermen hosts and well versed in such martial necessities. If enemies were upon them soon the Marchers would be ready.

“Ser Tottington, Ser Sootman, Able join me.” Gormon drove his spurs into the palfrey’s dark flanks, stirring the horse into a gallop. His son and knights rode out from the stationary host meeting Unwin and Patryk at the base of the hill. The two outriders were flushed and hot, their horses sweating from a spirited ride, but they seemed unafraid, only excited. Able offered the two men wineskins from which they drank deeply.

“Banners my brother.” Unwin reported once he refreshed himself enough to speak. “A league and a half to the east along this very road marching west. They fly brown standards emblazoned by golden wheat, and are in good order. How many would you say Ser Pax?”

The little man who’d rode alongside Unwin squinted his brown eyes, scrunching up his face in concentration. “Twas difficult to count, we were harried by their own outriders, just as we’re harrying theirs keeping them away from your men my lord. Can’t have been more than four grand total. A great assemblage of knights, maybe four hundred horse and lance all told. Twas a quick count.”

“Able,” Gormon grunted, turning to look at his son who seemed surprised to be addressed. “You heard the scouts description, yes? Whose army approaches us?”

After a moment of hesitation Able responded. “Lord Selmy of Harvest Hall, no doubt. His banner is golden wheat on a brown field. He is a Marcher like us, an ally?”

“Mayhaps,” Ser Neville huffed. “Though he certainly took his time rousing himself. We’ll have to turn him around, the battle is already won in the West.”

“A Stormlander.” Gormon cautioned. “He may be of Marcher blood, yet Lord Selmy takes his oaths seriously no matter Daeron’s corruption and broken promises. He will not be easily convinced to turn his cloak to the Blackfyre cause. Did you see any dragons flying above his standard?”

“Nay,” Unwin provided. The Peakes themselves flew the Black dragon in full view, there could be no doubting their allegiance. Where they marched the people knew they served the true king of Westeros. A bastard born, but a warrior forged. “Nary a red or black to be seen. Seems he wishes to maintain a level of anonymity, the craven. Upon your leave brother I will approach them under a sign of truce and discover whether we need paint these hills red with Selmy blood or welcome them as true Marcher kin.”

“I should go as well, my cousin Ser Nygel Tottington rides amongst Lord Selmy’s knights. He is a good man and will not allow the others to be harmed under the sign of truce.” Tottington offered his white whiskers bristling.

“You’ll need your squire Ser.” Able said at once to Unwin. “To carry your banner and see to your horses whilst talks are underway.” Gormon twitched at this, his flinty grey eyes darting over towards his audacious progeny.

“I ought go too.” Ser Patryk Pax spoke up, hand on his sword hilt. “A calming presence would be needed to keep all these hotheaded heroes in check.”

A scowl appeared on Gormon’s face and he shook his head in resigned consternation. “The Others take you all and your bravado! Shall I deliver all my best men into Selmy’s hand? Should he deem you traitors and capture you I will be undone. Ser Sootman, will you ride out as well and leave me hiding behind my army whilst my bravest take all the risk? Leave me alone to rescue the hostages so willingly given?”

“No.” The dark quiet knight said in response and left it at that. Ser Sootman bandied few words, he let his lance hold his conversations for him and the results were a bloody affair. He commanded the hedge knights and mercenary elements and kept them fearful and well in order.

“Right, then you three.” Gormon gestured for the trio of knights who had volunteered. “Will bring my warm greetings to Lord Selmy and a spare black dragon banner, and bid he raise it up amongst his own standards or face us in the field.”

“Cheer cheer!” Shouted the three knights in chorus.

“Please father.” Gormon felt a tug at the sleeve of his gambeson, Able had taken note of the absent permission to go. For a moment the fatherly protective instincts rose up in Gormon, and he made to command Able to remain alongside him and never to question his decisions. The rebuke never left his tongue. Able wished to demonstrate his daring, and take risks as Gormon would have done in his youth. He would heed orders if commanded, but he would be embittered. A warning notion crossed Gormon’s mind, and he wondered if he could turn his gaze away and allow his son to be slain as a hostage if it came to that. The realm and his bastard king, or his own blood. A test, Gormon realized, not just of Able’s courage but his own as a father. These were times of war, and a young man could never prove himself if his elders kept him under constant observation and guard. Steeling himself Gormon nodded his assent and the boy beamed.

Their train had been making good time, even with the heavier guard and that a litter had been necessary for transporting two women, one of whom had flatly refused to ride the many weeks’ journey to House Frey’s castles.

All good things needed to come to an end, it was more surprising they had covered more than half the distance than it was that they finally suffered a difficulty. Though they had seen signs of the war along the Kingsroad, they had largely been left unmolested. They could see smoke in the distance some days, heard tales of it when they stopped at inns and small keeps, the knights and men who escorted them had become dashing accessories, boredom threatened to consume them.

That day though, the litter had listed for the better part of the morning before its axle gave entirely and it sounded like the crack of green wood in a fire. The guards were woken from their boredom and reached for steel before they understood what had actually happened. Shiera pushed the curtain aside to see men with steel turning to look at her descent from the now cockeyed litter. They quickly returned swords to scabbards, some managing a sheepish look of apology for the overreaction.

Shiera stepped out onto the road with an expression of someone who had decided that composure itself was a form of protest. She found that Elaena was already out and making her way around. The older woman had felt it coming through the sway and creak that had begun hours earlier. The guards were already looking past Shiera to the aging princess for their instructions. They were given without raising her voice and the men moved.

There were spare horses in the train, two were swiftly brought up the column, prepared for the ladies to ride in their traveling gowns. Shiera looked at hers the way she looked at difficult people at court, a long and assessing silence that contained an entire argument she ultimately decided she would not have as she had already won but would do the thing anyways. She allowed one of the men to help her mount, her hand holding on to him more tightly than needed and longer than necessary. The young woman said nothing to him, nor spared him a second glance once it was done. She arranged herself and soon found themselves making way again, this time in far less comfort.

It was a good road, as roads went. They were on flat ground, the Green Fork ran somewhere to the est of them through the trees, the land broad and pale in early summer heat. It was pleasant, or should have been. It was the kind of day that flattered the idea of travel, that made the journey feel more important than the destination.

Elaena had settled her horse into an easy pace and let the guards pull ahead of them. One of them glanced back and was met with a look of stillness that contained all the instruction he needed. The gap widened again after just a moment and soon enough it was just the sound of hooves on the packed earth, birdsong, and the occasional creak of the remaining wagons behind them. There was nothing else, and little likelihood of anyone to hear the two women’s conversation.

Elaena looked over her charge and decided she was riding better than she’d led them to believe at the start of their journey. Of course she was, the cunning girl.

“You can be angry about it.” Elaena said, after a while.

“I’m not.”

“I didn’t say that, just that you could be.”

Shiera looked at her sideways. Her eyes were striking, sapphire and emerald, vibrant and full of life. She used them the way her mother never had a chance to teach her to but would have; lessons learned early that beauty could be an armour, if she practiced it. “Would that change things?”

“No, but maybe you’d feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

Elaena said nothing to that. Their road turned slightly, following a curve in the land. The guards were ahead of them, dark smears. Though they could not see the river, the smell of it hung in the air. Blessedly that was all, they were again shielded from the battles that carried on around them.

“I hate horses.” Shiera offered, breaking the silence.

“No you don’t.”

“No. But I do hate this horse.” Beneath the complaint, it nearly sounded like Shiera attempted a joke, something to laugh at if only to avoid crying.

Elaena could understand that, though not for whatever trivial reasons the girl held. She had seen forty-six namedays when Daena died. She would be forty-seven by the time they reached the Twins. Daena had been just fifty-one. Should see the next few years out, she would finally be better at something than her sister.

The distance that had grown between them had always been there. Some part of her always thought that there would be time to mend things between them, between all of them. Yet now Daena was dead five months and she still had not sent a single letter to Rhaena. There was time still, she would correct it soon. There was always time until there wasn’t, she wouldn’t do that again she resolved to herself one more time.

Whatever had happened in those last days were unknown. Daena was dead and Daeron tried to quell the rebellion’s embers before they could fully take hold only to throw kindle to the smolder and ignite it fully. The princess could not accept that Daena’s death was natural and could not accept that someone could have caused it directly. Look as she might, she had yet to find a third option.

Is this what Daena would have wanted, her boy, her only child, in revolt against their cousin? If Daeron wasn’t who he was, perhaps Elaena could have supported it. But he was and she was tired of the messes men kept making of her life. She was angry at the mess her sister had created when she escaped the Maidenvault. Her companion now seemed determined to make the same mistakes. Stupid girls entangled with stupider men.

She realised she had been quiet too long when Shiera spoke.

“You don’t have to look at me like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, and you have, four times in the last mile.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About me.”

Elaena considered denying it outright, but had no desire to explain the full context of her mind. “Partly.” She agreed.

Shiera straightened in the saddle, bracing herself. “If you’re going to tell me again that I should return to Kings Landing…”

“I’m not.”

“...or that Brynden will wonder…”

“Shiera.”

She stopped speaking, her name landed differently when Elaena used it without a half-beat of patience around it. Shiera heard that because not actually foolish, no matter how much she chose to behave like someone who was.

“I know you spoke with Aegor,” Elaena said, finally deciding to bring up this particular topic. “Before they began this nonsense.”

A heavy silence hung between them. Shiera looked straight ahead, as if the road would open up to swallow them both and free her from this conversation for good.

“You told me yourself.” Elaena continued, her voice quiet and low. “I know you didn’t mean to. When we rode through Rosby. You said ‘the night before he rode out’ and then you stopped. I didn’t press then, I could see you didn’t want to be.” She paused. “I can see you still don’t want to be.”

Shiera’s voice was shrill. “Then why do you now?”

“Because we have days ahead of us on this road and you are too young to be carrying whatever it is you are carrying. You are young enough to correct it so that you do not carry it your entire life.” She pressed her thin lips together. “I would rather we speak about it now, on the road in summer rather than…” Her tongue flicked out over dry lips. “Rather than not have the chance at all.” It was quiet and safe and it had been, but that could change in an instant.

Shiera’s jaw as set, delicate features made harsh in the expression. She had a quality when she worked at not showing something of a kind of a terrible stillness, a person waiting for the pain to peak and pass. She used it, and then it broke, a glimpse beneath the exterior.

“I don’t think it was my fault.” She said at last, carefully but not measured, as though she only sought to protect herself from hearing the truth spoken aloud rather than obfuscate it any more. “He had already made his decision, I know that. Nothing I said could have…” She stopped and looked down at her horse’s neck. Her head hung so that hair and veil obscured her face and Elaena wouldn’t be able to see if the tears fell or not. “But I did say something, something that he knew but didn’t want to know and hoped that I wouldn’t.” Her explanation said everything hidden beneath its vagaries. “And then he left.” Shiera could see the look in those deep violet eyes, in the hardness of his face somehow hardened further when she uttered the last word. Maybe if she had reached for him, or told him to stop, or hadn't sought him out at all.

Elaena offered nothing in response.

“I know what you think.” Shiera said, her voice shifting, cracking. “You think I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“I think you understood part of it.”

“I thought…” Now her lips pressed together, the threat of tears dissipated and she lifted her head again. “He was going to go regardless. I thought maybe I could show I cared, that that would matter even if…” She shook her head and her silver hair moved with it, even slick from sweat under the afternoon sun. “I thought it was kind thing to do.”

“It was.” Elaena agreed.

Shiera could not hide her surprise as she turned her head to face Elaena.

“It was a kindness.” Elaena reiterated, and meant it. “It also may have consequences that have nothing to do with your kindness. Both can be true. They usually are.”

“Brynden doesn’t see it that way.”

“No.” Elaena agreed again. “I imagine he sees it as a ledger.”

“And Aegor, he thinks -”

“I imagine I know what Aegor thinks too.” Elaena said, this time carefully neutral. Brynden was elegant in all the ways his half-brother Aegor was not. Truly, Aegor was his mother’s son, and he had little in common with the rest of the bastards Aegon had sired. She wondered how Shiera could somehow see something in two men so different from one another save their love for her. Perhaps, that was all that it was, their grasping attempts at what they would offer up as devotion. The girl was a vain creature, though she hoped to break that and mold it into something more, into the promise that was not far beneath the surface.

The road straightened again. The guards ahead had lost track of themselves and slowed. Elaena noted the reduced gap with irritation.

“I want to go to the Twins.” Sheria said with a sudden clarity, the complaint stripped out of it. “I want to be somewhere that isn’t…Somewhere I can be useful and can do something that is mine.” She paused and bit her lip, a faint line marring her porcelain skin. “Not because of them.”

“I know that too.” Elaena less charitably thought that at this point the girl really had no choice but to go. It was a long stretch of nothing between their last stop at the Crossroads Inn and the Twins. She wouldn’t share that information, it was better for the girl to make a decision than feel there was no other choice. She did not look forward to the first night that they would need to sleep on the ground rather than a bed, even one of straw.

“Then why does it feel like everyone believes that’s the only reason?”

“You are your father’s daughter.” Elaena said bluntly, “and people are lazy.” She said it with a tonal shrug, no heat behind the words. “They see a Valyrian woman and think they know everything that comes after it. They did the same with your mother, they do it with all of us.” As she said it, she felt the weight of Daena somewhere underneath the words. Daena who shared their imprisonment and dealt with it as she did, and whose son was currently burning the Reach. Elaena had dealt with it differently, yet her own choices or lack thereof, had set her on her own path. Different but the same. “It’s infuriating, you can acknowledge that, but also know that it’s not going to stop.”

Shiera was looking at her with an expression that was trying not to be grateful. That would feel like a concession and that would feel like losing.

“I’m never going back.” Shiera said.

“I’m not telling you to.”

“Not even after the Twins?”

“Perhaps I would have before. But what’s happened has happened and maybe there is some other way I can assist in keeping you away from the Red Keep even if I must return to it.” Before her husband has a thought that he should take more direct action as Master of Coin. The man occasionally misunderstood his role in things, maliciously or not.

Something moved across Shiera’s face that was not quite a smile but could have been if youthful petulance had not won out in the end.

Elaena looked ahead to the guards and gave the look. They quickened their pace without turning around again.

The Green Fork ran west of them. Somewhere behind them the broken litter would be stripped for parts or left at the roadside, she didn’t particularly care which. Ahead of them, the Twins sat across the river. With Freys who would be eager to capitalise on their hosting of what they hoped would be a pivotal moment, and House Stark eager to gain some advantage to send their strength south in support of the throne.

They had not been invited as such. They rode to the Twins with their own reasons, not unlike those that Elaena now silently judged for their opportunistic natures. She rode and ignored the hypocrisy, she tucked away her grief once more, and said nothing else for a while. It had been enough, for now.

M A D D A N E L L E

“The sharpest sword in the Riverlands, and here I am babysitting a lady what thinks she’s a lord.”

Danelle ignored Hoster’s grumblings, spurring Nightmare onwards. The great black stallion’s hooves thudded against sodden ground, its onyx coat gleaming like dragonglass beneath the gentle glow of the sun.

Danelle’s armour was the same sheer black as her horse, with steel plates that clanked and rattled in rhythm with Nightmare’s bouncing strides.

“The Blackwoods must be bleedin’ desperate if they’re lettin’ maids pretend to be knights,” Hoster Rivers prattled on, “Ain’t never seen somethin’ so queer in all my days.”

“Give this one to the Black Goat,” the shadows hissed and whispered inside Danelle’s skull, “The darkness will delight in the taste of his blood.”

Hoster was not especially impressive to look upon. He was a dumpy, pig-faced bastard with brown hair that reminded Danelle of mud. His small, ugly eyes looked like dirty chips of ice, and his armour was a motley hodgepodge of rusted plate and worn leather.

The bastard’s mount was a pitiful mare, who was about half the size of Nightmare. Where Danelle’s stallion was a giant beast, caked in rippling muscle, Hoster’s mare was a gaunt, scrawny creature.

“There.” Danelle nodded at the rickety building that had popped up in front of them.

The Warm Hearth was a ramshackled tavern, rising out of a stretch of boggy wetland. Its painted sign was chipped and faded, and its wooden supports looked as though a gentle breeze would snap them in twain.

House Blackwood’s scouts had reported that the Warm Hearth had been seized by men fighting for House Bracken. Supposedly, they were led by a brutal, bloodthirsty thug that folk had taken to calling “Calon the cruel”.

“I ain’t blind!” Hoster snapped.

“Blind him,” the shadows begged her, “Blind him and send him screaming into the black forest.”

Ever since the witch Naessanara gave Danelle her dagger, the shadows had writhed and sang inside her head.

She carried the knife with her wherever she went. Its hilt was carved to resemble a monstrous goat, with horns that looped and curled around its shaggy head.

The pair rode onwards, the tavern growing larger and larger as they drew near. After a few minutes of riding, they dismounted a stone’s throw from the Warm Hearth.

A lone post poked out of a tuft of long grass, which they hitched their horses to with a long coil of rope.

Danelle Lothston rested one gauntlet-clad hand upon the pommel of Visenya’s Fury.

“Tread quietly,” she advised, “We don’t know how many of them are here.”

“Bugger that,” Hoster spat a fat wad of phlegm on the ground, “I ain’t not damn coward.”

“Such arrogance! All are made humble before the Black Goat. Gods and men are naught to the hungry darkness.”

Danelle watched with a combination of amusement and irritation as Hoster marched up to the front of the tavern, beating his fist against the door.

“Oi!” he bellowed, “Open up!”

Danelle slowly strode up behind her travelling companion.

The ramshackled door creaked open, and Hoster marched brazenly inside. Danelle followed, her fingers coiling tightly around the leather-wrapped handle of Visenya’s Fury.

The interior of the Warm Hearth was as old and battered as its exterior.

Huge wooden support beams held up the ceiling, infested with rot and decay. The walls were built from stone so faded they looked as if they were laid during the Age of Heroes, and the inn’s chairs and tables seemed equally ancient.

There were no crackling flames in the fireplace. Amusingly, the Warm Hearth had a markedly cold and empty hearth.

“All fires burn out. All light is extinguished. In the end, there is only darkness.”

“Find a different drinking hole,” a gruff, common-sounding voice commanded, “This one’s ours.”

Three men were sitting around a shabby wooden table. They were dressed in boiled leather and tarnished chainmail.

The biggest of the three sat at the head of the table. He was huge in both height and width, with an enormous battleaxe slung across his back. He had a gaunt, sunken face, wreathed in dark whiskers. A long, pointed moustache drooped down his haggard likeness, and his skin was the colour of warm bronze.

“You are the one they call Calon the cruel.” Danelle addressed him.

It was not a question.

“You know me,” the giant grunted, “But I don’t know you.”

“This land belongs to House Blackwood!” Hoster puffed out his chest, “Bracken dogs have no place here.”

A murmur of chuckling washed over the three men.

“You gonna make us leave, little man?” the figure to Calon’s right laughed.

He was smaller than Calon, with a lithe frame. His skin was unusually pale, and he had a pair of daggers resting on his belt.

“You and your bitch?” the man on Calon’s left chimed in.

He was a plump, somewhat rotund man. He was completely bald, with a soft face encased in blubber. An oaken shield and a pointed spear rested at the foot of his chair.

“All this land belonged to the Andals and the First Men, before the Conqueror came,” Calon wore an amused smirk, “Didn’t stop Aegon from taking it. Why should I care who ruled these parts a week ago? It's Bracken land now.”

“Bugger the Brackens!” Hoster growled, “And bugger you!”

Calon gazed at Hoster with bored, detached eyes. His gaze wandered past the dumpy warrior, settling on Danelle.

“Don’t see many women with swords,” he mumbled, “Can you use it?”

“Well enough.” she replied.

Calon gestured to the men sitting on either side of him.

“You two take the loudmouth,” he commanded, “I fancy seeing how the woman fights.”

“This one thinks he knows cruelty. Show him how wanting his grasp of suffering is.”

Moving with terrifying speed for such a massive man, Calon leapt up onto his feet. He darted over the table, barreling towards Danelle with his axe suddenly unsheathed.

Calon’s lackeys charged at Hoster.

Danelle drew Visenya’s Fury. She left Hoster to whatever fate awaited him, her focus locked on the axe-wielding giant who was storming towards her.

Calon’s movements were fierce and wild, fuelled by primal fury rather than skill. She ducked beneath the swing of his axe, thrusting the point of her blade at his stomach.

The behemoth pulled back, narrowly dodging the sharp of her sword.

Calon’s axe shrieked through the air as he chopped downwards, aiming for her crown.

Danelle parried with her sword, catching his axe with the flat of her blade.

Her arms throbbed with pain as the force of Calon’s swing reverberated through her. She had to fight through the instinct to drop her sword, such was the strength and power behind Calon’s attack.

The muscular colossus swiped at Danelle with his foot, trying to kick her off-balance.

Danelle hopped over Calon’s kick, but doing so made her wobble. Her footwork became awkward and clumsy as she struggled to regain stability.

Calon seized advantage of her unsteadiness. He charged forward, using one of his massive shoulders like a battering ram.

Danelle was too slow to dodge, gasping for air as Calon slammed into her. It was as though she had been struck by a rampaging aurochs.

She landed in a heap on the floor, messy tangles of red hair twisted across her face.

Calon loomed above her, a wicked grin twisting his features.

“Should have spent less gold on fancy armour, and more on learning how to bleedin’ fight.” he sneered.

Danelle yanked her goat-pommel dagger off of her belt, ramming it into Calon’s right calf.

A roar that was equal parts shock and pain exploded out of her attacker.

The shadows giggled and tittered, singing their delight inside Danelle’s skull.

Whilst the brute was stunned, she thrust her blade into his belly.

Visenya’s Fury let out a wet squelch as it bit through leather, plunging into the flesh beneath. Calon gasped, dark blood bubbling out of his open mouth.

Danelle yanked the sword free.

A torrent of carmine gushed out of the open wound in Calon’s stomach. Danelle rolled to one side, whilst Calon swayed forwards, landing in a bloody heap on the ground.

He twitched and jerked as life flowed out of him, his limbs spasming erratically. Calon the Cruel died laying face down in a pool of his own blood, with his belly torn open.

She tugged her knife out of Calon’s corpse, slotting it back into its holster on her belt. Danelle slowly clambered to her feet, leaning on Visenya’s Fury for support.

Hoster was slumped against a table, with the corpses of Calon’s thugs laying beside him.

He was breathing heavily, sweat and blood smeared across his features. Half a dagger stuck out of Hoster’s shoulder, its blade thrust through his ragtag armour, and deep into the tissue below.

“Fucker got me whilst my back was turned,” Hoster wheezed, “Didn’t stop me splitting his throat open.”

He let out a raspy, guttural laugh.

“What did I tell ya? Sharpest sword in the Riverlands.”

Danelle waded over to Hoster, her armoured boots thudding and clanking against the wooden floor.

“You said a lot of things,” Danelle said as she stood over her blood-stained escourt, “A lady who thinks she’s a lord.”

“Help me up!” Hoster snapped, “Can’t you see I got a feckin’ knife stickin’ out of me?!”

“MORE! More blood! More misery! GIVE US MORE!”

Danelle eased her knife out of its holster. The blade was still wet with Calon’s blood.

Worry flashed across Hoster’s face.

“Hold on now -”

“You irritate me,” Danelle told him, “I don’t much care for your tone.”

“All in jest, m’lady! Don’t take nothin’ I said to heart.”

“Blackwood has plenty of men,” something sinister danced across her face, “Some of them will be less irritating than you.”

Hoster raised his hands defensively. The cocksure arrogance in his eyes melted away.

“Come now, Lady Lothston! See sense!”

Danelle’s chuckling was cruel and vicious.

“It is a shame that Calon’s men proved too strong for you, Master Rivers. We’ll have to make do without the sharpest sword in the Riverlands.”

“WAIT! PLEASE!”

The dagger gave a sickly squooshing noise as Danelle rammed it through Hoster’s eye.

The Black Goat was pleased.

More than a Fortnight Ago…

“How is Rana doing, Lord Juron?” The prince asked his Lord of the Treasury about his wife, a woman from House Qorgyle.
“She is ill, my prince,” Lord Juron responded dryly
“I am saddened to hear this. What is her prognosis?”
“Maester Sands believes she has an infection in her chest. He has given her milk of the poppy to help her rest. He believes she needs rest to cure her.”
“Well, let’s pray it works. Good health to your wife, ser!” The Prince exclaimed.
A loud noise erupted from the entryway as Archmaester Blackmont entered the room. “A Raven has arrived from Starfall, my prince,” Archmaester Dontin Blackmont hunched slightly, more from poor posture than poor health. He walked with a decidedly quick gait for a man of sixty and three years. Possibly able to jump a tipped-over sack of potatoes if necessary. The man had retained most of his raven black hair with streaks of grey north of the temples. Crow’s feet decorated lines at either side of his steel grey eyes. The distinguishing feature of his face was his large, pointed nose, which formed more like a beak than what most men call a nose. But his appearance was not his strong suit. It was his mind. Some called it a steel trap. He forgot nothing. There was a reason he was Archmaester of Sunspear.
“Lady Ysabel?” The prince sat in a very comfortable chair at the head of a rectangular oaken table used by his council members. Ser Jami Dayne and Ser Juron Santagar sat on either side of the Prince of Dorne.
“Yes, my prince,” Archmaester Dontin handed the missive over and stood by awaiting instructions.
After a few seconds of reading, “It appears the King’s wayward brother, Ser Daemon has been minting his own coinage, and these coins are believed to be in the Boneway.”
“I guess the day has arrived,” Ser Juron spat in disgust. “The pretender can’t leave well enough alone. What sort of response should we send to dig them out?”
“Just a few regiments from the Red Mountains. They are closest. The Yronwoods, Wyls, and the Lady of Kingsgrave should be able to handle it. I will take a hundred knights and race for the Boneway to join them. I want you gentlemen to assemble the remaining banners and have them ready to move at a moment’s notice.
The prince turned to his Castellan, Ser Jami Dayne, “Secure Sunspear. You are charged with defending the city while I am away. We will maintain communications through Raven.”
“Yes, my prince,” Jami responded.
“Maester Dontin, send ravens to the Lord of Yronwood, Lady Glorina and the Blackadder. Tell them to meet me at Yronwood. Expect my arrival in five or six days.” Ser Trystane Wyl, is also known as the Blackadder named for his house sigil—apparently a name passed down through generations.
“Yes, my prince,” the Archmaester responded and hurriedly made his way to the roost.

Five days later…

Prince Maron wore banded mail armor over a mail surcoat. He preferred to wear no headgear, claiming it blocked his vision. A small piece of metal was attached to both pauldrons, referred to as Brechrand, armor used to block a weapon from reaching the head of an armed warrior. He wore high, hard leather boots on horseback and leather breeches. Trained in the martial arts of spear fighting, Maron had no fewer than three spears strapped to his all black destrier named, “Divine”. He also kept a Roynish Scimitar at his left hip. The blade was adorned with gold and jewels. His squire Rolan Vaith, youngest son of Lady Elna Vaith, Lady of the Red Dunes whose family lived at the castle named for them. The boy was not quite fourteen. He was a sturdy lad, and the Prince kept his eye on him, knowing he would one day grow into a sturdy Dornish man.
“Rendal, see to my tent. I’m going to meet with Lords Yronwood and Wyl. When I see you next, I’ll assume our sleeping arrangement is set.”
“Yes, my Prince.” The boy ran off to the baggage train. He knew he could get soldiers to help him with the tent. Everyone knew who he was.
“How was your ride, my prince?” Lord of Yronwood approached with his two sons, Daltis and Herrin in trail.
“Nothing of note,” The prince responded. “How many troops do you have assembled? How does our approach north look?”
“I brought a regiment of spear and a cavalry squadron. So did Lady Manwoody. The Blackadder brought a regiment.”
“I brought a hundred knights. That makes about four thousand, including a thousand horse. We should be in decent shape. We’ll lead with Cavalry.” The Prince looked at Ser Daltis Yronwood. “Lord Daltis, how do you feel about leading a squadron of cavalry up the Boneway?”
The young man stood firm behind his father who turned to look at his expression. All three Yronwood men stood around seventy to seventy-two inches. The young man was excited for this responsibility. Daltis looked the Prince in his eye, “M-m-m-m-yyy Prince…, really?” he was more a man than a boy now and the Prince new it. “I am honored.”
“Well?” his father asked.
“Yes, my prince! Hells yes!” His brother and father both had big smiles reflecting pride.
“I want you on the road before dawn. You’re looking for anything suspicious on the road between here and Summerhall. If you find anything, do not get in over your head. Send a rider back. I’d rather send infantry in to root them out. Keep your eyes on them until we catch up. Understood?” The Prince was very deliberate in his instructions.
“Yes, My prince!”
“Go coordinate with Jorge Sands. He will help you.” His father knew his son could manage this but also knew he would be very nervous. Fortunately, Jorge had a calming effect on people and should put Daltis at ease. At age 45, Jorge Sands was one of the more experienced horsemen in House Yronwood.
“Lord Trevas, I need to send ravens out to all the houses. Can you assist?”
“Yes, my prince.” The meeting broke up with Lord of the Stoneway and Prince Maron heading into the keep to take care of the messages. Ser Herrin followed his brother knowing he would need his help on the Reconnaissance mission he was leading.

Present day at Summerhall…

_{collaboration with @Vanq}
Prince Maron took twelve knights with him to the gates of Summerhall. His host was encamped six miles to the south. A wagon with the confiscated coin followed closely behind the Dornish knights. The Martell banner fluttered rapidly in the wind as they rode into Summerhall. The Dornish men dismounted and strode inside to see Dyanna Dayne, wife of Prince Maekar Targaryen. The following lords accompanied the Prince of Dorne: Trevas Yronwood, Daltis Yronwood, Harrin Yronwood, Trystane Wyl, Rendal Vaith, Justan Vaith, Dorrin Uller, Rohar Blackmont, Richard Blackmont, Branton Toland, Lawsen Qorgyle, and Jaran Fowler. Upon finding Lady Dyanna seated, the Prince of Dorne motioned for the others to remain near the entrance of the room.
“Lady Dyanna, it is a pleasure to see you grace this hall,” the prince smiled. “I have passed through the Boneway and would like to give a report on our findings."
Dyanna’s cousin had begrudgingly left with a small number of riders in search of the prince. She would have a list of jests ready for his return at how much he had failed for the prince to arrive himself, no need of Ulrick. She had not had much notice and had had little time to make proper preparations. She wore an embroidered linen robe of black over pale lilac, the needlework fine enough to suggest care without announcing an occasion. It was not what she would have chosen had this been one of her planned parlays, and yet it felt right to her. The women attending her had disagreed, Sylva Jordayne had managed to convince Dyanna to allow her to nestle in the thin circlet of silver set with ruby stars and black swords. It had been a gift from Maekar earlier in their marriage, made for court, though she had found more use of it these last few months than in all the years before.
The Lady of Summerhall looked at those assembled before her; her Prince had assembled a good representation of his loyalists. She noted that her good brother was absent and wasn’t sure if that’s because he had never joined the party or if Prince Maron had not seen fit to bring him here.
Sylva remained to her left alongside of Alys Wylde, Dyanna took pride in those two having formed a closeness. To her right were the ladies Jeyne Rosby and the girl from House Caron. Summerhall's men were ranged behind her in silence, some of them more than likely nervous with the majority being Stormlanders and unaccustomed to so many Dornish faces watching them. Yet Maekar's hand was still felt in the way they held themselves, shoulders squared and steady.
She gave a welcoming smile. “My prince, I am grateful to host you. I apologize we’re not better prepared to do so, though,” she paused knowingly, “I imagine you will forgive us given the circumstances. My husband will be sore to know he’s been unable to welcome you himself.” That was most certainly a lie, probably. Myriah Martell was a lovely woman and dear mother, but Maekar was not one for pleasantries, even if it was his uncle.
Dyanna’s head tilted to either side of her, her gaze catching her ladies’ eyes. “You may leave us for now.” Returning her attention to the prince, she nodded in acceptance. “Shall we get the business of it done now and then have you shown to the rooms we’ve readied for you?” Were still readying most likely, but their servants would be quick about it.
“I’ve always been one to get to the point, Lady Dyanna,” Prince Maron admitted. So, let’s be done with it. “Your sister, Lady Ysabel alerted me to the existence of counterfeit coins someone had printed somewhere in the Boneway. I took about four thousand troops into that pass and discovered the coins. They are in a wagon outside. It appears Daemon Blackfyre began printing currency to fund his rebellion against our Grace, King Daeron II. You can have them and do as you wish. I’m sure this information will be of use to your husband and King Daeron.” Prince Maron recognized the dirt that had stuck to his armor from spending more than a fortnight in the dust and sands of Dorne. He enjoyed being on campaign. It always suited him well. “I am unsure as to the supposed value of that cart of fake coins outside, I’m sure the King’s small council can have their way with it.”
Dyanna had sucked in a breath, her brow furrowed in a way her husband would have been proud of. It smoothed away far more quickly, returning to placid interest in what was otherwise a bizarre tale yet one she had no doubts to the veracity of. Seven above, this was more than she had expected and she silently prayed that the increased heartbeats didn’t show across her face, no matter how hard she felt it pulsed at her neck.
“It will, your grace, be news we share delicately with our king.” It would perhaps even be best to keep any further news of this quiet rather than public acknowledgement. “Whatever we do with it, it is good that we’ve removed it from the pretender and his supporters’ hands.”
Without turning to look, she waved forward one of her men and gave him the brief instructions to see that he and another make haste to aid the Prince’s men in securing the coinage. “It is to be guarded day and night. Set up a proper rotation until Ser Ulrick returns.” The man pressed hand to heart and left to carry out her orders without a look back at any of the Dornish host.
“When I reached Yronwood, I realized this Rebellion by Blackfyre is much larger than anticipated. Before leaving Sunspear I put the entirety of Dorne on alert and sent ravens from Yronwood. Ser Tyland Fowler took less than 7500 soldiers through the Prince’s Pass to conduct reconnaissance on the Reach. Meanwhile the bulk of the Dornish host reached us at Wyl and are encamped six miles south of here. The Main body numbers 16,000 spearmen, 2000 light cavalry, a thousand men-at-arms and six hundred mounted knights. All told, I have approximately 27,000 Dornish soldiers spread between the Red Marches and the Stormlands. Unfortunately, I have not heard from Ser Fowler who went through Prince’s Pass. I fear the Peakes may have sortied out to harass his host. I was hoping Lord Fowler could give us an understanding of what strength Lord Gorman may be in possession and if there are any other Rebellious Lords in the Reach. Lords Russell Yronwood, Darris Uller, Dorrin’s son, Rohar Blackmont, Lord of Blackmont, his son, Richard and your cousin Tavion are all accompanying Lord Fowler into the Marches.”
It was an exceedingly impressive number of men that her prince had gathered on his journey. She bristled at mention of the Yronwoods, their open declaration had created more than just an awkward situation, near enough to open rebellion to their liege-lord no matter how they tried to argue it. It, of course, had never taken much for that house to find cause to be in dispute with house Martell. No matter that Russell was attached to the campaign, it meant they knew of something even if not everything. That did not sit well with Dyanna, but there was little chance of having avoided Yronwood on the march, no more than they could have thrown up resistance to the force’s approach.
“Rest here as long as you need, your grace. At the very least, rest here for the night before returning to your host. We should talk in the morning, and I can arrange for any other missives you need to have sent, of course. We have friends we can call on as well.” Friends, begrudgingly more often than not, especially with Maekar gone. Dyanna offered a tight smile, a waning glow of warmth. “With the little clarity my sister sent ahead of you, I had been preparing to contact houses Caron and Florent both, along with a small number of others who had romised their aid and support when my husband rode north.” Promises no doubt she would need to delicately press them on.
“Thank you, Lady Dyanna,” The prince nodded in response. “We shall take our leave and retire.” The Dornish men left the hall with servants guiding them to their rooms.

A light drizzling rain began to fall and Lord Harold Hayford turned his face skyward, letting the first drops of chilling water strike his visage. Autumn rains he thought, soon enough the leaves would turn gold and red and brown and litter the earth. Winter would come and all warfare would cease as men hung up their arms and armor and huddled closer to hearth. Not soon enough though. He twitched the reins and Stringstep, his dappled grey palfrey hurried her idling pace, ambling along at a gentle trot. The other members of his entourage, a score in number, followed his lead eager to be clear of the oncoming rain. The promise of a comfortable castle and a warm fire gave them fresh vigor here towards the tail end of their journey. Nearly a month in the making they’d traveled from Hayford Hall at a steady pace avoiding trouble for the most part despite the obvious signs of war that lingered in burnt villages and smoldering holdfasts. Even a party as large and well armed as Harold’s own slept warily in these lands. Brigands and traitors prowled in number, growing bolder by the day. Still the people went about their lives in a resigned determination. Here and there they passed smallfolk tending animals, fixing homes, and tilling the soil. Landed knights would wave while they patrolled their little patches of land offering the seven blessings in passing.

The farther north Harold rode the less ruined the countryside became. It seemed these people cared little for the politics of distant southron kings. Lord Hayford wondered how his own fiefdom remained. The Crownlands were well in Targaryen control, but that would not give pause to a sizable raiding party slinking in under the cover of darkness. Harold could only pray the capable men he’d left behind to defend his possessions would prove adequate to the task. Here he needed to keep his mind focussed on the objective at hand. Defeating the traitors by reminding these far flung northerners of their oaths. First the wolves in their winter dens, and then the falcons roosting upon mountain peaks, and lastly whatever meager strength could be drawn from the cowed lion in the west.

They approached a shallow stream which they forded and stopped to let the horses drink and rest. A young lad of fourteen wearing the sigil of Hayford upon his breast joined Harold by the streambed, letting his palomino gelding walk along the banks grazing leisurely while he strode beside it minding the reins. The squire had headful of curly dark hair that fell to his shoulders and round boyish features. A bit portly like his grandfather, though not nearly as well fed. Truth be told Harold felt positively thin after the month long ride from the Crownlands. His personal cook remained behind in Hayford Hall, meaning the usual fresh fare he typically enjoyed lacked of late. Persistent hunger gnawed at him night and day interrupting his sleep darkening his thoughts. The thought of another hurried dinner of cold salted beef and stale travel bread did not ease his pangs. The sacrifice he made for the realm, he chuckled to himself.

“You seem deep in thought, Grandfather. What troubles you so?” His grandson piped up when he drew closer.

“Oh, nothing serious dear boy. Just the grumblings of an old man’s stomach. We haven’t had a proper meal since we left that holdfast the previous morning. Here’s hoping the Frey’s have a decent kitchen, and ample stores.” Harold patted his large stomach, a dreamy glimmer appearing in his eye. “What I would give for a lamprey’s pie, they ought concoct an excellent eel confection at the Twins. Out on the river like that. Perhaps fresh baked salmon, or small-eye bass fillets cooked in cranberry sauce and chives.”

Steffon licked his lips and covered his eyes in exasperation. “Oh grandfather I plead you cease lest you set my stomach to rumbling as loud as yours.”

“Mmhmm. Crawfish steamed and buttered, and fruits aplenty on the side. Apples, bloodmelons, blueberries and more. Sugar cakes hot from the oven, cinnamon scones and honey and sweet preserves spread on thick brown bread all served with spiced wine from the arbor - Say, who’s this?” Harold interrupted himself, his gaze having been drawn to the stream where a small child waded through the shallows. Unclothed and decidedly unconcerned the boy, who could be no older than four sucked on his thumb and gazed up at the gathered men and horses on the bankside. At long last he waved.

“Hello, I’m Nory. I’m hungry too.”

“Well we have provisions, nothing fancy as all that.” Harold smiled down at the toddler. “Get on out of that water young man. Steffon, fetch something for the lad to eat. For me as well, we might as well rest here for a moment and partake in the last of our salted beef and stale bread. So now, where’s your mother? You should not be wandering around on your own.”

“Dunno, lost her.” Nory shrugged and looked saddened. “Sara is sleepy.” He pointed upstream and returned to sucking his thumb.

“Sara, your mother? Sister?”

Two small shakes of the head. Harold sighed and dismounted Springstep. He wrapped his cloak around the child which enveloped the toddler in the greens and golds of House Hayford. Presently his friend and trusted knight Ser Mallyn and Steffon approached bearing a small luncheon for them all. They all dug in hungrily while Harold tried yet again, unsuccessfully to pry more clear answers from the child. At last he sighed and gestured for Ser Mallyn.

“Ser, I ask for your service my friend. Take three men and search both sides of the stream for Sara. She’s sleeping up that way supposedly. She might provide proper answers, though I fear what you may find.”

“I suspect that fear is well founded.” Ser Mallyn agreed but he chose three others and they began laboring their way through the shallow waters. It did not take them long. He returned a child sized smock in his hands, and notably stained dark by what Harold suspected was copious amounts of blood. Yet, the child bore no wounds. Grimfaced the old knight shook his head.

“Found her, an arrow deep through her back. An old septa no doubt about it. She must have ran far carrying Nory before she collapsed. See this too. The boy’s clothing I suspect. I think it must have stank of blood so he pulled it off, and the old woman still had a powerful deathgrip on the sleeve. Took a touch of effort to pull it free.” He held the smock out for Harold to inspect. Surprise filled the lord of Hayford Hall and he squinted at a tiny embroidered badge which would normally be positioned above the heart.

“Here Steffon, your eyes are young and keen. What emblem is this? It appears we have a little lordling on our hands.”

“Steffon peered, but frowned. “I am not certain grandfather. It is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps a cadet branch of Vance? It is quartered by two green dragons and two towers.”

“I’m Lord Vance.” Nory piped up, pointing at himself. “Sara says so.”

Dumbstuck the diplomatic party of Hayford watched as the self proclaimed lord of a great Riverlands house nodded, smiled and sucked his thumb.

Letters, so many letters. Jon was an incredible multi-tasker, of course. This was no exaggeration, for even now he was listening to those letters being read whilst playing a game of cards, chess, and reading a book. But perhaps it was age, perhaps it was frustration at the repetition of this over-exertion, but he grew weary of it. The droning on and on, of reports of chaos erupting amidst this fracticide. So tiresome, but something that Jon had seen coming.

Without him, that incompetent inbred on the throne would meet an even more inglorious fate than his father. He had already seemed to be accumulating a paunch in its infancy, seeming to want to emulate the worst examples his predecessor set.

Well, so be it. All that he could do was laugh, truly. The dance of dragons had made the family somewhat reticent to truly engage in the full extent of the politicking of Westeros. Jon had certainly made a concerted effort to become the hand of the King, but he wouldn’t arrange something along the lines of his predecessor. He had no patience for a civil war, and rather stability was what he sought to arrange despite everything.

Perhaps keeping the King’s loins sated was a bit too large within the balance-sheet of needs to keep the realm boring, but Jon felt that he could hardly be blamed for what followed. If he had remained hand, he would have navigated into peace and calm. Instead, ruin was coming, and the more he read into it, the more he read of what Maesters had heard from the more successfully prophetic of witches and septons alike, the more he laughed.

The strike to his ego would be compensated tenfold with how things would turn out for the House of the Dragon after this, that he knew.

Still, his children made this all too annoying. He could hardly enjoy what was to come as age started to mar him if he knew his own house would be ruined.

“Shut up, all of you.” He announced loudly, thinking for a moment, wondering where exactly his children were.

---

Morgan looked in the mirror, turning this way and that. He had already dismissed the beauticians, their efforts to hide the wrinkles far beyond his years failing. In the end he settled for the more stately appearance he gave them, even as the other advisors spoke of how the rest of his dress would interact with the appearance of skin and hair.

“That garment is too ostentatious, my Lord. They will think you are celebrating, or take it as a sign of you flaunting funds you haven’t spend in defence of the crown.”

The man sighed. That was true enough. Where would he be without these crones?

“I think this is all that I haven’t tried on.” The Lord replied, spreading his arms for the servants to take the jacket off of him, and donning a new one. Yes, it was perfect. It was decorated with small frills as if to resemble the battlements of a tower - the High Tower - but it was nonetheless solemn for the occasion.

“Are you ready for the next rehearsal, my Lord?”

“Of course, you can be swifter this time.” Morgan declared, turning this way and that, feeling the fit of the garment. No amount of preparation could make him ready for every question that might be levelled to him at the summit, but he could get close, especially if he managed to be just quiet enough that he didn’t bring attention to himself as representative of his House, yet not so quiet as to arouse suspicion.

Of course, it would be difficult anyway. It always was.

---

---

The girls chuckled, running hand in hand down the stairs. The disparity in their age had made most expect that they’d have little interest in each other’s company, but the shock of what the rest of their family thought and expected of them had ensured their mutual company was a rare respite. Sara was faithful, she knew that even in private this was more than a mere ruse to threaten her male kin’s plots with. But her Sisters in devotion rather than blood were all much younger or much older than the mere decade gap between her and Fiona. They understood each other’s world all too well, most other women in their lives being previously nobles of lower standing, those with aspirations and especially obligations much lower by orders of magnitude.

It was a much reciprocated feeling by Sara, for her days ever more seemed to… empty. Ever since father’s failure to wed her to a man with white hair, she hardly seemed to exist. It seemed that was the culmination of her existence, and its failure to materialize meant she served no purpose. Oh yes, the good mornings and good nights and any other amount of pleasantries were there. But it seemed that father had already handed her off in his mind, and the woman that remained merely a phantom.

Both opened their mouths to speak at once, and giggled as the interruption got in the way. They turned their heads to the grunt of a Guard in the House’s colours, the man staring at the contact he found slightly too intimate given the rumours the boys told him between pints.

The man shook himself out of his stupor however, and then barked out a summons to see their Father.

---

---

Hengist looked upon the assorted mass of hedge-Knights. This was technically treason, for it was the plump arse of a man called Targaryen, not Blackfyre that warmed it. That was something he had gotten from his father. He couldn’t remember the exact verbage, but was something along the lines that sitting on a throne did not mean did not make you a ruler, it merely meant one had a bottom. He did not understand what this meant, until he just once gazed upon his new so-called King. The image hardened his resolve, and so he took off his ornate helm in the shape of his family’s titular seat.

Approaching them, he knew it wasn’t quite the gleaming legion of Sers. But they were Knights. The Hightowers were not the Lannisters, but with the banking based in Oldtown, the tithes from their peasants and vassals, and the other businesses his father left in his hands, Hengist had more than enough to spare for ravens and other messengers to martial Sers without land.

Some were surprisingly well armed, even bearing the funds for barding upon their horses. Others were so clearly stricken by poverty they had a moth-eaten gambeson as their armour, their shields seeming more like chipped bits of driftwood and old planks than anything truly useful in battle, not to speak of presentable. One man Hengist was all but certain was a grave-robber, for indeed he was well armed and armoured, but between the rust and the suspiciously old design he couldn’t believe it was from well-gotten gains. But the Knight’s credentials were legitimate, and there was no proof Hengist could level that this man’s trappings were illegitimately gained and hence he left him be.

But as much as he could decry the merits of these men, they were better than any kind of levy, and he would hazard to guess that they were better than most sellswords too.

His speech to them was brief, perhaps more laden with calls to scripture and formality than such people would appreciate, but from their reactions it was good. He laid out the moral case of ending the bastard, he promised them great riches and land as reward for following their Blackfyre King, and he laid out the great knowledge assembled about the forces they could soon encounter. Thus he had played to all three of their main senses. He had stoked their greed, their jealousy for the many landed Knights, promising them an end to the unfortunate unofficial prefix to their titles as Knights. Hengist had played on their self-righteousness, their beliefs in their oaths at least for the ones that had meant them sincerely. Finally, he had assuaged some of their martial concerns for despite everything even the worst of the men here was still a warrior, and they did not wish to walk into things blind.

It was an unfortunate thing that he was dissatisfied in doing, but a few carefully planted men within the assembly cheered at the completion of his words, which started the chorus.

A few left amidst the cacophony. Hengist knew this and (despite a whisper he’d receive later to kill them lest they join with the loyalists) he let them leave; if their cause was honourable, it ought to survive without such treachery.

Thus a very brief feast was had, the finale of what was promised to these men to entice them. It was all about as cheap and quick as Hengist could get it, but for the most of them it was still better fare than what they were used to, not to speak of the fact most of it was warm.

Their bellies were stuffed and so smiles were aplenty, even if the whores they had expected were not arranged by the more puritanical member of the Hightower sons. But morning came as it always did, and so they marched.

---

---

The assembly of Parlan was in strong contrast to that of his twin. Sellswords haggard and professional alike, some of them were certainly aware of their lot in life. Nobody wanted to be the anvil, everybody wanted to be the hammer.

But ultimately, greed motivated these men even more than the Hedge Knights of his brother. The money promised was carefully calculated to be plausible, yet more than they could typically expect. Moreover, a great many of these men were criminals of one sort or another. Petty enough that nobody would ever bother collecting their bounties, especially as far from home as they were. But, with lies and promises of pardons combined with veiled threats that their pursuers were near, it wasn’t hard to add a hefty sum of brigands to the ranks he had.

If people knew the full extent of how Parlan had obtained these soldiers, then history would be cruel to him. But that would only happen if he lost, and if he lost then history would be cruel to him regardless. It was a cynical reality that was the default in which so many in Westeros operated. His brother didn’t want it to be so of course, but that was why his brother would lose. Plugging his nose at the smell of these gentlemen, he nonetheless grinned at his own genius, if only because he knew he had spent a lot less on this than whatever scheme he could imagine his sibling conjured up.

---

---

Jon had finished wetting his lips, and so spoke to the scribe.

“My dear sons. I do not particularly care which of you reads this, as the message is the same and so it will be copied as such thrice. Your schemes are as infantile as they are lacking in morals. But I will tolerate them, for there may be a lesson in them, or a chance to prove I am underestimating you. I will tell you know that you may do as you wish to your ends, a trial to see which of you bears the most merit. But should you directly scheme towards the death of your siblings, you will be considered as dead to me. Should they result in reprisal against our family that yields death within it, you will also be considered as dead to me. Your cousins, fruitless as they are, at least would then have proven to be able to temper their ambition amidst their mediocrity, unlike you. I hope. Cut that part out. No a bit- here I’ll cross it out myself. There. Now, if you wish your sisters any part, you will have to return and make your case to me personally, in their presence. Shrewish as they may be, I still have love and duty to them. Do not disappoint me. Leave it at that.”

What a nuisance. He had to remind himself, it wasn’t arrogance if you really were wiser than everyone else in the room.

They were surrounded in a heartbeat. The four negotiators found themselves encircled by twenty horse of the Selmy household, knights, squires,and freeriders all armed and armored for battle. None of Unwin’s companions wore plated armor or helms. Unwin and Patryk dressed in blackened hauberks of ringmail suitable for outriding, but Able and Neville were armored only in fabric traveling tunics and riding trousers. For armaments they carried swords and a single lance, held by Able which was fastened the orange banner of house Peake. Unwin brought along a white cloth which he now thrust over his head in clear view. The outriders from Selmy had allowed them to approach within a mile of the army before pouncing, ensnaring the four in a well constructed trap beneath the trees. No naked steel was drawn, no arrows flew but Unwin and his would be captured or dead in a moment should word be given.

“Halt, in the name of his honor Lord Bearmond Selmy of Harvest Hall! State your names and intentions.” One of the knights who surrounded them spoke through his closed visor, the steel muffling his voice. Unwin recognized the chief sigil, upon which the passant bear in silver strode on a field of yellow. A Tottington, Neville’s cousin no doubt.

“Well met Ser!” He called boldly holding high his white cloth. “I am Ser Unwin Peake, the Fourth Keep. Before you ride the invincible Ser Neville Tottington, the wise Ser Patryk Pax, and my beloved nephew Able Peake heir to Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonburry. We come bearing tidings of our liege Lord Gormon and a gift for your Lord Selmy. Please grant us passage and safe escort."

“Well met indeed Ser Peake, I am Ser Henry Tottington. Your arrival is most fortuitous, my lord Selmy is expecting you.” Polite nods and greetings were given to all in turn before he addressed his kin. “Many warm welcomes to you dear cousin. How is the wife and the grandchildren?” Henry raised his visor so that Unwin could get a good view of his face. White whiskered and sunburnt, the cousins bore striking resemblances.

“The wife is fierce as ever Ser, spitting mad I’m off on campaign again. You ought to have seen her chastising me about coming home before winter. The grandchildren are multiplying faster than an old man can keep track, some may even be married soon.” Came Neville’s reply. The knights around them visibly relaxed, and Unwin felt his own muscles loosening. The greetings were friendly, and it seemed their presence was a welcome one met only by the caution of an army on campaign, not enemies meeting under the banner of truce.

“Come Sers,” Benard gestured them to fall in behind his riders. “Lord Selmy is awaiting you, he has news for Lord Gormon and a plan of action.” Curious now Unwin flicked his reins and drove his palfrey into a steady trot, bringing himself alongside Henry.

“You speak of a plan? Is this why you leave the Stormlands and follow the road west?”

He looked uncertain and shook his head. “You will hear soon enough our reasons. I best say little, they are words for Lord Selmy to share at his discretion.”

“How mysterious.” Unwin chuckled. “The entirety of the war must hang in the balance.”

“Mayhaps.” The knight shrugged. “Who am I to say?”

They rode on, continuing down the road until the forest broke for a stretch of open hills. The land brightened here, wildflowers grew in abundance and tall grasses stretched for miles. These were Ashford lands, where herds of cattle and sheep grazed and wary herdsmen watched the foreign army assembled on the road with suspicious eyes. The host from Harvest Hall were well armed, much the same as those Marcher’s from Starpike. Tall triangular shields, longbows, and pikes were in much abundance. They wore good armor, ringmail and gambesons. On their heads were shining halfhelms and even decent boots shod their feet, befitting a merchantman more than a levied spear. Up close and counting Unwin’s silent mental calculations did not bode well. If it had come to battle, he could not be sure his brother’s soldiers would vanquish these. It would be a costly and uncertain contest. Unwin breathed a small relief seeing how it seemed the two armies would pass peacefully. Still, it gave him pause to see the men milling about so casually. Unwin knew his brother would be forming up into battle order, and having his soldiers don full armor and prepare positions. These troops were busy jesting with each other, partaking in meals or even playing dice. One could chalk it up to extreme confidence that the nearby Peake force was friendly, or perhaps and more likely the Harvest Hall host was commanded by an inexperienced leader. Or both. Unwin thought back to what he knew about Lord Selmy, though it was little.

“We are only part of the army.” Henry began explaining while they rode past the ranks of resting men. “Ser Benard Selmy, Bearmond’s uncle commands a detachment to defend Harvest Hall and its lands from incursions. He’s going to bring together a force from Blackhaven and Stonehelm if all goes well which will remain in the Stormlands.”

“The Stormlord Marchers are gathering then.” Unwin said, impressed. If the quality and numbers from the Dondarians and Swann’s matched these together they would make a large, impressive force.

“Indeed, we’ve cast our lots though it is not against the Dornish we march. Not yet, come Lord Selmy shall explain.” They found Bearmond near the middle of his host surrounded by senior knights and advisors including a grey robbed maester. Lord Selmy could not have been older than fifteen, though tall and strong his youthfulness remained evident from his pimpled face to the thin wisp of a starting beard on his upper lip. He raised a gloved fist in greeting when his guests arrived, shaking each of their hands in turn when they dismounted, even young Able.

“About time you arrived Sers, my outriders were lathering at the mouth about how you were surely foemen. Keeping them so efficiently from your host, as you did. I told them though, I said there is no bloody way Gormy sides with the Dornish loving arse kisser who calls himself king.” The boy lord spat and Unwin couldn’t keep his smile from spreading. He was going to like this young lord.

“Gormy,” Able groaned, covering his face with his palms. “Only Ser Aegor is allowed to call my lord father that. Any lesser man is liable to have his tongue ripped out.”

“Good thing I am no lesser man laddie.” Came the bold jest, and the easy smile from Lord Selmy. Able looked thundertruck.

“I-I meant no offense my lord my many apologies-”

“None taken, I suppose I might be a lesser man compared to your honorable father I should think.” The young lord soothed the rattled squire. “Seeing as I wish to keep my tongue where it is I shall refrain from using the alias meant for Bittersteel’s usage alone. Though I do wish to hear the tale behind that.”

“You’ll hear it from me if there is time enough for tale telling.” Unwin offered while giving Able a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It is most heartening to hear you’ve raised your banners to fight alongside King Daemon. We were concerned when we saw no black dragon flying over your host.”

“Pfft, my late father wished to be neutral, I had no time to have one swen.” For the first time anger flashed in Selmy’s eyes, but hurt lingered where the hate flared. “He shamed us I think in his hesitation. Even if he’d chosen to ride alongside the filthy Dornish that might have been acceptable. If we could just pinch our noses against the stench.” The boy lord shrugged though Unwin recognised the moment of grief behind the harsh words. “It matters not now, I suppose, I’ve chosen my king. May the seven faces of god bless me or curse me for that choice.”

“They shall surely bless you.” Ser Unwin said confidence in his words. “The Warrior rides alongside the man with the thickest armor and the longest lance.”

“Cheer, cheer.” Came the murmured reply.

The negotiators were offered wine and smoked venison of which they partook eagerly. When they had eaten and drank their fill Unwin bid Able fetch the gift they’d brought. An eight foot length of embroidered cloth, sewn by Lord Gormon’s wife herself. Bright red like blood, with a mighty black dragon stitched in great detail in the center.

“Is this a gift or a threat?” Selmy laughed as he examined the fine workmanship of the battle banner.

“I am gladdened it is a gift.” Unwin said without missing a beat. “May it fly before your host when the battle is hardest, and give heart when morale begins to break. May it never be captured or touch the ground.”

“By blood and iron shall it be.” Selmy agreed, handing the folded bolt of cloth to one of his knights. “We shall raise it up as we continue our march.”

“That’s the other thing my lord.” Unwin scratched at the stubble under his chin. “You seem to be marching the wrong direction. Summerhall and Dorne are to the east, why are you moving west? We’ve already tamed the lion.”

“Just so,” Selmy agreed, waving for his advisors to bring forth a map. The maester hurried forward and spread a drawn depiction of the southern realms before the assembled. Weighing the edges down using nearby stones. Selmy tapped on a location on the banks of the Mander, labeled Highgarden. The seat of the lord Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South. “It seems Longthorn is on the move, he has not been idle since his domain erupted into chaos. Lords declaring for this king and that. He commands a company of knights and mounted men at arms and is bloodlessly scattering his bannermen whenever they assemble their armies. It is hard for men sworn directly to Longthorn himself to raise a hand against him. They do not wish to battle him, whether out of loyalty or cowardice. Especially when he arrives at their castle, thousands at his back and demanding their hospitality. Anyone who declared for Blackfyre within reach of Highgarden had their hosts sent home, their gold confiscated and become prisoners in their own castles.”

“You move alone to challenge the lord paramount of the Reach?” Unwin asked incredulously. “That is a mighty undertaking indeed.”

“We have not sworn anything to Longthorn.” Selmy explained as if this solved everything. “We will not hesitate to bring him to battle and hole him up in Highgarden, or even capture him in the field before he can escape behind his walls. Either way we plan to remove him from the war. I suspect the castle will prove difficult to seize, however we can keep him contained and allow our many allies in the Reach the breathing space to gather their hosts again and assemble around Ser Ball. I have reason to believe this would greatly swell our numbers.”

“Who ordered this strategy?” Unwin asked, not wishing to insult anyone before he knew the originator of this absurd plan.

“Myself of course.” The boy lord looked very pleased with himself.

“My lord…” Unwin began choosing his words using the utmost care. “The Dornish are a more present threat I think. If Longthorn wishes to ride about the southern half of the Reach glaring at his bannermen I think we ought let him. He is a capable warrior, and if he is brought to battle he might wish to raise a proper host of his own and defy us directly. Meanwhile the Prince Martell crosses the red mountains bringing tens of thousands at his back. We must throw him back here and now utilizing all our combined strength.”

“You think my plan a bad one?”

“No my lord, I would just ask that we send ravens to Ser Ball or King Daemon and ask their opinions. I know for a fact Ser Ball wishes his army to gather in the Marches and bring the Dornish to battle. Your presence would be a welcome one indeed. The Selmy's fearsome reputation would do wonders to encourage our forces and terrify the enemy.”

“I wished to put challenge to Longthorn…” For the first time the boyish lord looked uncertain, his past bravado fading. Unwin guessed there to be some unknown history between the Lord Paramount and this pimpled youth, something that pulled stronger than the festering hatred against the Dornish. Unwin decided to seize on this.

“You shall my lord, if he dares show his face in the Marches. For now your lands, the lands of your father are under threat and must be defended.”

For a long moment Unwin feared Bearmond would reject his words and insist on his initial course of action. At long last the bold glint faded and the young lord nodded. “I am torn, but you are right Ser, the present threat must be contained, nuy then Longthorn shall have his reckoning! We should send riders to Dondarrian and Swann as well. They ought to know the Dornish are crossing the red mountains. We can join forces under Ser Ball and crush them.”

“Most wise,” Unwin said, a feeling of relief flowing through him. It seemed Bearmond could be swayed from his mission quite easily. Unwin noted that a few of the Selmy knights looked enormously relieved at Unwin’s success, while others scowled and shook their heads. At that moment a rider galloped into the gathering. The horse breathed like a forge bellows, its chest heaving from exhaustion. Even the man astride her looked sweaty and tired.

“Dornishmen!” The outrider shouted, pointing wildly over his shoulder. “Riders to the south near Ashford. Hundreds of them!”

_{collaboration with @Dusty}

One Day Prior…

“Lord Brant, I want you to divide your squadron into smaller detachments of twenty or eighty horse and conduct reconnaissance in the areas of Starpike, Whitegrove, Ashford, Cider Hall, and Longtable. Do not become decisively engaged with anyone from the Reach. I am looking for any assembled hosts from the rebels. They may be flying the Peake or Blackfyre banners.” Ser Tylan Fowler gave instructions to Ser Brant Blackmont, son of Ser Gordon Blackmont, brother to the Lord of Blackmont. Lord Brant commanded the cavalry squadron from his house to conduct the primary reconnaissance. “If you spot any formations, get as much detail as you can and report back to me. If the enemy should pursue, give them some parting shots, but do not become engaged in a melee fight. Live to fight another day. Your purpose is to acquire information.”
“Aye, sir!” Lord Brant responded.
“Lord Willem, position your squadron north of the main body of Spearmen moving through the marches. Send out a troop ahead of the Spearmen so they do not walk into an ambush. Watch your left flank and be prepared to assist Lord Brant of House Blackmont if he is being pursued by Rebels. If he is being chased, engage in melee combat with the enemy for no more than fifteen minutes and then break off your fight and return to the main body.”
“Fear Our Venom!” Lord Willem responded with his House Words in affirmation.
“Ser Darris, your squadron should follow about a mile behind the Scorpion’s Squadron and perform the same task as Lord Willem. Assist Lord Brant’s cavalry if they are being pursued.” Ser Darris Uller is the legitimate son of Dorrin Uller, Lord of Hellholt. His brother Jarden Sands would accompany him with the Cavalry.
“Burning Bright, m’lord!” Ser Darris Uller, at age twenty and four years, was a hot-tempered young man. He was prone to running off and attacking when he should not. His bastard brother Jarden was the more level-headed of the two. Tylan Fowler hoped the younger brother could rein Ser Darris in.
“Ser Yronwood, you can lead the spearmen through the Marches. Keep them moving. Don’t stop for anything. I will be by your side for most of the trip.” Tyran Fowler felt confident in Russell Yronwood’s leadership ability. “Keep your wife’s cousin, Lord Tavian, safe. Your wife just might appreciate that.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Ser Rusty took note of all the instructions and formations this Dorne host was taking on its mission.
Fowler’s host left Nightsong at early light. The cavalry galloped off to take up their positions to the north and east. The cavalry thinned and spread out through the lands of House Carron and House Peake. They were curious and eager to meet the enemy. There wasn’t a man among them who was foolish enough to think they might be able to take on a much more powerful Reach Lord if they encountered one. Except for Lord Darris Uller. The Ullers had a reputation for being slightly crazy at the wrong times.

The next day…

Brant Blackmont neared the river south of Ashford. They searched for a bridge or ford across the river. Following him were twenty men from his house wearing the yellow tabard of his house with the black vulture carrying a pink infant in its claws. The soldiers were quiet in their approach, being cautious, knowing they could bump into the enemy at any moment.
Ashford is also known as Ashford Castle and can be found in the shape of a triangle, which is considered an odd shape for a castle. The city has round thirty-foot towers at each of its three points. Between the towers run thick crenelated walls. The orange banners of House Ashford can be seen fluttering in the breeze above the battlements. Before Brent Blackmont ever reached Ashford Castle, he and his men could see a small inn on the far side of the river near a mill that had burned years earlier.
They found a ford across the river and made their way into the woods near Ashford Castle. After a brief movement through the forest, they could see the outline of the castle to the west. The castle showed no signs of movement. The group of twenty riders made their way north to see if there was any movement along the road network. When they came out of the woods, they made their way up a small rise of hills. Upon cresting the highest, Brant Blackmont spotted dust rising to both the east and the west. Within several minutes, they identified a few thousand infantry supported by cavalry displaying the banners of House Peake. The Dornish cavalry was able to spot the brown banners of House Selmy moving towards them from the west. Their host appeared to be slightly larger than the Peake’s.
“This is exactly the sort of information Lord Fowler was seeking,” Lord Brant spoke softly to himself.
“Ser Blackmont!” One of his riders shouted, pointing to the north-east. Brant peered in the direction the man was looking. He could see many Reach Cavalry heading towards their location. The soldiers wore the tabard of House Peake
“It is time to depart these happy hills, my friends, and make haste back to Lord Fowler.” The detachment of Dornish Cavalry turned on their heels and raced off towards the river. They anticipated a much larger force of Dornish Cavalry from Sandstone to be somewhere south of the river to cover their movement to the south.
A hundred pairs of hooves thundered across the open lands. The flower of the Reach’s nobility set forth in pursuit, alerted to the Dornish light cavalry's presence. Adorned in full gleaming armor and wielding ten-foot lances, they made the picture of gallant courage and ferocity. Lord Gormon himself led the way, astride his red destrier stallion, who tossed his head whinnying in hot-blooded temper. Even the horses were in fighting spirit, and after weeks on the road, man and beast alike were eager to shed the lifeforce of the reviled Dornish. They’d left their standards in place, an attempt to lure the light scouts closer, and now crested a small rise, a half mile separating them from the foe. In a moment, the Dornish turned and fled before the oncoming horse. Gormon rallied his riders, his spurs drawing blood from the flanks of his destrier. “See how the sand blooded flee? After them, I say! Drive them into the river. Steel shall taste flesh and stain these waters red! For King Blackfyre and the March!”
“For the King and March!” Came the reply from a hundred throats. They drove the warhorses into a gallop, skilled riders leaping over obstacles that barred their paths, stones, fences, fallen trees; it mattered not. The fastest pulled ahead, eager to be the first to claim a kill, yet ever before them went Gormon himself, his face hidden behind a heavy armet helm. He plunged into the forest in hot pursuit, his knights following hard on his heels. Drawing in his lance, Gormon held it at half-length to prevent the weapon from being caught in the branches. The trees slowed them, scattering the riders through the underbrush, but onwards they went undeterred. Glimpses of retreating Martell colors led them on. Shouts and taunts filled the woodland, sending startled birds skyward, while herds of deer sprang clear.
“Manfrey!” Lord Brant shouted as the twenty riders spurred on to the southeast. “Blow the signal! Blow the signal!” Whether or not anyone was at a distance to listen to him was something Brant Blackstone may never know. His bugler let loose a cacophony of bugle calls, alerting the surrounding countryside that contact with the enemy had been made and that at least his squadron should turn in toward the Marches. The light cavalry pushed on as hard as they could. It could take almost an hour of racing ahead of the Peake Cavalry before they reached the squadron from Sandstone. ‘Hopefully, Ser Willem will hear the bugle call,’ Brant thought to himself. He would at least hear the pounding of hooves heading in his direction.
Fortunately, for Ser Brant, his pursuers did not catch him before he reached relative safety. Ser Willem did hear something. “Face to the left!” Ser Willem yelled. “Open Ranks!” The three troops of cavalry in the first rank, numbering two hundred forty, stopped moving, turned their mounts to the left. Each horse had at least two meters of space between them. The second rank, with one hundred sixty cavalrymen, repeated the movement of the first rank. About five meters of spacing between the first and second ranks. “First rank, ready shields and spears! Second rank, ready bows!” Ser Willem yelled in command. He intended to send a few volleys of arrows at the enemy when they appeared and engage them with the spear when they got close.
The sound of twenty hooves pounding on the earth resonated across the field on which the Sandstone cavalry was formed up. Each man wore a red tabard with three black scorpions on the facing. They readied themselves for the onslaught about to strike them. They knew not from whom, just that this was their moment to shine…or die.
The Blackmont cavalry erupted over a slight rise to see Sandstone’s finest arrayed in formation. They spurred their mounts to push past their Dornish brothers and head for the infantry formation more than a few miles beyond this squadron of light cavalry. Brant’s riders were out of the fight. The Sandstone Scorpions would accept the charge from whoever rose to face them.
They did not have to wait long. Lord Gormon whipped the reins of his steed, urging the great beast onward. The horse’s flanks heaved from the spirited ride, its mouth foaming, sweat wetting the dark red fur. He could feel the powerful muscles flexing under him as they surged together over the rise. The sight laid out before him might have faltered a lesser man. Outnumbering the oncoming Marchers four to one, the Dornish waited in ambush like a scorpion poised to strike. The metaphorical tail flashed, and hundreds of arrows hissed forth, clattering off cavalry shields, armor, and barding alike. Screams of agony from both man and horse could be heard as proud knights were thrown from their saddles, or merely slumped where barbed shafts found purchase through gaps in steel. The great red destrier under Gormon neighed wretchedly, an arrow lodging itself between the barding and shoulder bone, where ringmail and plate did not protect. It was everything he could do to cling on as the stallion reared and bucked. Somehow, he managed to keep himself from being thrown. A second volley snaked through the hesitating Marchermen, and more knights fell.
“The Others take you, cravens! Sssssdeaaaath!” A wild howl escaped Gormon, and he drove his spurs deep. The red stallion reared again, and furiously they charged. Numbers be damned. He would not turn and flee when the enemy was so close at hand. Behind him, his knights reacted accordingly. Trained since they could walk to ride and hate Dornish, they would not sit idly while their liege pushed forward alone. They followed lances couched, at full tilt across the open ground, a steady roar rising from their throats, ninety now thanks to the marksmanship of the scorpion’s tail. The third buzz of arrows whistled harmlessly over their heads, the horse archers taken unawares by the sudden surge of movement. There wouldn’t be time to unleash a fourth. Already, Lord Gormon spotted the man he would kill. A Dornish knight or lordling, a red cockatrice adorning his tabard. The foemen rallied forward in a counter charge, long spears and round shields against war lance and triangular shields. A deadly array of color, horse, and man. Gormon could almost taste their fear. Reach knights were fearsome when they came to grips in the melee, and their lances were longer. The first rank of men-at-arms would fall like autumn leaves before the armored charge. His lance remained steady on target, his horse raged and screamed. Gormon braced himself against his stirrups, his white-knuckled grip crushing the pine lance. They closed faster now, a blur of movement. Thirty meters, ten, five.
The Dornish knight perished before he hit the ground in a tumultuous crash of metal, a foot and a half of Gormon’s lance protruding from his heart. His own spear deflected off Gormon’s shield, leaving a long gash upon the orange-painted oakwood. Throwing away the ruined lance, Gormon whipped free his mace, a wicked flanged head the shape of a castle tower on a three-foot Ashwood shaft. His momentum carried him forward through the din of milling horses and warriors until he met a second man, one hurriedly stowing his bow and reaching for a sword. The mace swung in a deadly arc, crushing the man’s helm and scattering brains and viscera and bits of skull from the force of it. The fury of his charge carried him past the battle line, and he drew his horse up short, spinning around in his eagerness to return to battle. The red beast stumbled but regained its footing, and again they charged. Another horse archer rode up, scimitar in hand. They met, clashing in a series of blows that sent reverberations down Gormon’s arm. This man did not wish to die and fought like it; nevertheless, he rode against Lord Gormon himself. The red stallion surged forward of its own accord and sank its teeth into the Dornishman’s leg, biting to the bone. The doomed wailed in agony until Gormon caught his sword arm in a downward blow, and then his chin in the following upswing. The man collapsed from his saddle, silent besides an agonized gurgle through his ruined jaw. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Lord Gormon cast about, looking for a fourth warrior to kill. Searching for the enemy commander.
Ser Willem Qorgyle set his formation ready to receive whoever charged over the rise. He had no idea what enemy force the Lord of Blackmont had dragged into his ambush. It did not take long to uncover the prey stepping, no charging into his kill zone. But what he saw was a bit unsettling. As a Dornish lord, training in the martial arts of armed combat was a custom passed on through the generations. His brother, Lawson, the Lord of Sandstone, rode with the Prince and should have camped out near Summerhall. Ser Willem volunteered to lead the cavalry contribution from their house. His younger brother, Brandon, led the 2nd spearmen regiment with their Liege-Lord. Ser Willem enjoyed being on campaign and took pride in his accomplishments as well as those of his House. Their father had passed years ago after the Prince of Dorne bent the knee to King Daeron I when he and his brothers were children. Many lords did not agree with their liege-lord, and Ser Samwel Qorgyle was one. During a minor revolt that ended up in the Lord of Sandstone’s death somewhere in the Red Mountains, ten-year-old Lawsen Qorgyle inherited the castle, lands, and titles of his father. Willem was only five at that time. Although they were told how their father died, they did not grow up hating the Targaryens. They honored their father’s death but chose to make a name for their house under Targaryen rule.
The Reach Cavalry thundered forward. Although their numbers were fewer than the Men of House Qorgyle, they were better equipped and using lances rather than spears. The Dornish cavalry wore studded leather armor under their house tabard, a flaming red. Their steel conical helmet trimmed in a yellowish-orange cloth wrapped around the edging, showing fealty to House Martel. The soldiers of Dorne were not surprised, but a majority of their number were green to actual combat aside from the drills they practiced. The one trait they all possessed was confidence that they would prevail.
“Loose!” The Archery Master in the second rank yelled. A volley of one hundred sixty arrows flew through the air, striking a few riders either in the mount or the rider. Two more commands of loose and the attackers were too close.
Racing to the center of the first rank, Ser Willem yelled, “Charge!” propelling the two hundred forty soldiers in the front of his squadron forward, armed with their small round shields and spears. The spear is no lance, significantly shorter and lighter. Wearing lighter armor, the Dornish soldiers planned to rely on greater flexibility in the saddle or the strength of their round steel shield to help deflect the lances away from them. The hooves thundered as the two lines neared one another. A relative quietness or at least eeriness surrounded the men on both sides just before the collision of men and horse, the crashing of wood and steel upon leather and steel; a loud explosion of might.
For most of the soldiers, success with deflecting the oncoming lance blows was achieved. Unfortunately for several soldiers, the lance, held by a seasoned warrior, found its mark. The pointed tip narrowly avoided the underside of a shield or penetrated studded leather armor, knocking the rider to the ground. In more than a few cases, the Dornish cavalrymen died within a few minutes of striking the ground.
A maelstrom of riders who had thrown or stabbed their spear quickly drew their Roynish scimitar to begin the conduct of a full-scale melee between the Peakes of Starpike and the riders of Sandstone. Orange and red-clad soldiers hacked and slashed at one another.
Ser Willem Qorgyle wore banded mail armor, which was light and comparably as strong as the armor worn by the men of the Reach. Ser Willem’s Grey Andalusian, named “Solaris,” behaved with a calm demeanor, but with athleticism and spirit. The horse was in control, knowing when to sidestep another horse or jump over a downed soldier. Willem reacted with an equal level of athleticism to his horse’s movement. Like his comrades, the younger brother to the Lord of Sandstone drew his uncle Rego’s scimitar, which contained more than a few emeralds and rubies. The hilt of the blade was painted black, and the blade was originally painted in red, but the color had worn off over the years of use and sharpening. Much of the blade shone its metal.
Even with his visored helm, Willem could see a noble of House Peake charge into the second rank of riders as they were switching weapons. He wheeled his horse around and headed to confront this man. With shield and scimitar in hand, he rode hard towards his prey.
All around, the conflict progressed into its most vicious stage. Bodies began to pile, horses trampling over wounded men. Meadow grass became torn into dirt, and blood ran thick, leaving only mud in the whirlwind of battle. The Dornish men-at-arms were brave, to their great credit. They swung scimitars, thrust spears, and loosed arrows, but more often than naught armor turned the blades. Sturdy oaken shields held against the onslaught while the knights retaliated in equal measure. The Reach knights knew how to fight Dornish light cavalry. They ignored the wickedly swift curved swords, letting them bounce off breastplate and helm, bullying forward on stronger steeds to bring down warhammer and mace in cruel arcs. Bones shattered, flesh split, and men died by the dozen. Ser Samuel Sootman, the huge knight wearing a sigil of a burning barn laid all about him, using a greatsword of immense length, aiming for horses as much as men. Riders would be thrown from their screaming mounts, and he would trample them under hoof mercilessly. Another knight, Ser Anthony Ambrose, still wielded his lance. He would keep his opponents at a distance, dancing away on a swift mare while he exploited weaknesses in his foemen’s armor, using the speed of his horse to drive the weapon home. For every Reach knight that became incapacitated or killed, three Dornishmen fell. The weight of numbers might still tell, but Ser Willem Qorgyle would need to act fast and defeat Lord Gormon before his soldiers' courage deserted them and the battle became a rout.
They spotted each other across an open space between the warring horsemen. Three black scorpions amidst red like blood set against the triple castles on orange like molten rock. The scorpion raised its tail, claws outstretched to tear stone and mortar apart, whilst the sturdy keep prepared to break its foes upon walls unassailable. Together, they crashed in a ferocity unmatched by any around them. Men paused in their battling to watch, open-mouthed as lord and knight determined one-on-one who would take the field. Here on an unassuming stretch of Ashford meadow, one of them would perish.
Lord Gormon grunted in frustration, his mace clanging once again off the boss of Willem’s round metal shield. The scimitar against him snuck around his defenses, leaving a stinging score across Gormon’s thigh. The grey steed the Dornishman rode would dart away, not letting itself be caught. Both horses bore multiple bite marks, but the mighty red Gormon rode breathed heavily, already worn down by the gallop to reach the battle and the preceding victories the duo had already won. Blood leaked down the beast’s foreleg, where the irritating arrow remained stuck fast, causing a spreading weakness to shake the muscles of the animal. Gormon could almost sense the growing weariness in his mount; if he became dismounted, he would surely lose. Willem closed once more, and the Lord of Starpike narrowed his eyes, determined not to let this wily scorpion escape him again.
Willem sensed the time at hand; he could win. He drove Solaris forward, urging the horse to greater efforts. They powered straight into the opposing lord, horses slamming together in a flurry of hooves and gnashing teeth. The red stumbled, and Solaris fixed his jaws upon its opponent’s bloodstained neck. Meanwhile, the riders exchanged blows in equal savagery, Willem's scimitar clanging against Gormon’s helm, sounding ringing vibrations through the steel and causing stars to burst into Gormon’s vision. His round shield warded away the mace that sent bone-shuddering blows through Willem’s arm. Down came the scimitar once again, in a heavy, telegraphed blow that would surely send the lord slumping from his seat.
The Lord of Starpike saw his chance. He threw away his shield, splintered to ruin, and caught the sword blade in his hand, closing gauntleted fingers around the blade like a vice. It would have been wise for Willem to release his sword and break away again to retrieve a fresh weapon, but he tested his strength against Gormon’s to his undoing. He tried everything in his power to wrench his blade free, but to no avail. Having no hands available, Gormon let the mace fall and grabbed a fistful of the red’s mane, wrenching back to bring the stallion rearing onto its hind legs. Willem cried with dismay as he followed, still stubbornly holding onto his scimitar. He only thought to let go when he was halfway out of the saddle, his grey panicking beneath him. He sat vulnerable, dangling precariously sideways off the edge of his saddle, struggling to regain his seat as the red’s steel-shod hooves and the hilt of the captured sword came crashing down on top of him.
The terrible force of it snapped his spine and sent the proud knight tumbling into the mud. A slap from the scimitar sent Solaris away, and Gormon urged his red stallion to rear high in the air again. Once, twice, thrice he drove the hooves onto the prostrate form of his defeated enemy. If it had been a knight from the Westerlands, or the Crownlands, or even a far-flung northerner, Gormon might have shown mercy. There was no space in his heart for such restraint for the Dornish.
Leaving the dead man where he lay, Gormon switched the captured scimitar from his left to his right, inspecting the fine weapon. The rubies embedded in the hilt glimmered all the more beautiful for being won in glorious conquest. Meryn would appreciate the curved blade, he thought, running a thumb down the edge to check the sharpness. His youngest son would revel in the tale of the fight and admire how his father won. Thrusting the sword safely into his belt, Gormon leaned down from the horse and reacquired his mace before straightening and surveying the battlefield once more.
The Dornish Cavalry from House Qorgyle could see their numbers thinning, more so than the riders from House Peake. When their Commander, Ser Willem’s beaten, twisted body flung upon the ground, the Dornish cavalrymen fled to the south. The grey horse ridden into battle by Ser Willem ran with the remainder of the horses of his squadron.
A Man-at-Arms, named Howar, rallied the survivors from House Qorgyle and rode to the front of the column to locate Ser Fowler. “M’Lord!” Howar called Ser Fowler as he rode forward. “M’Lord!” Lord Fowler and Ser Yronwood turned to see the rider, who was bloodied and worn. His horse lathered from the ride.
“M’Lord, we were set upon by a company of heavy cavalry in the meadows south of Ashford. They were Lord Gorman Peake’s men. I believe he may have led this company. I am afraid we lost at least a hundred men in the fight, and probably another hundred were badly injured. Ser Willem did not make it. He fought bravely against Ser Gorman personally, and the Peake Lord bested him. I fear he may intend to pursue the column.”
“Send a rider ahead to Summerhall. Inform our Prince that House Peake and House Salmy are in the area. We should arrive before nightfall.” Lord Fowler was concerned with the heavy losses in one of his squadrons. He would need to keep Lord Uller’s and Lord Blackmont’s squadrons available to counter this move.