Chapter Twenty-Three: Complacency and Success
I dismounted from Vhagar at the center of the camp, stashed my helmet in her saddlebag, and took in a deep breath of the fresh evening air. I rested against her warm scales. It felt good against my sore muscles. I had been baking in mail and cloth and helmet all day, and the breeze cooled and caressed me.
It had been oddly hot today, and the heat had only let up recently. Is the heat worse because of the valley we're in? It reminded me of home, almost. A wetter heat, and a completely different landscape. The valley lay long and narrow, almost straight north and south while the east and west were hemmed in by green and healthy trees.
I wore red velvet boots, part of me wanted to take them off and feel the cool green grass between my toes. The grass would not be here tomorrow. It would be trampled into dirt and mud by man and beast alike. Men who were at work raising the palisades of the camp nearby and horses who were being watered at the nearby river.
Raising them as they had day, after day. Never let your fighting men become lazy, always put them to work and keep an orderly camp. That had been the advice of one of the frontier commanders from the colonies. She had been dead for many centuries now, but her words had been forever preserved in ink and parchment, though.
Will people quote me, a thousand years from now? I shook my head, feeling my hair pressing against Vhagar's scales.
The day was uneventful, and a part of me was disappointed by it. The gentle plains and farmlands surrounding Gulltown gave way to rolling, low hills, and even valleys as we marched northward. They were small things, compared with the steep hills, bogs, and dark thickets and jagged coastline and forest of the less tamed parts of Crackclaw Point.
There had been a market town and villages and farms. There had been a few watchtowers built of wood and stone and thatch. We came across few signs of the enemy, and all we met were eager to bend the knee to my banner and the banner of the Warrior's Sons.
What few men aside from them I had seen were shepherds in the heights of the valleys. Men who'd said they hadn't seen hide nor hair of any force marching this way other than my own.
I had spent the first day scouting ahead, and yet… nothing. Then the second was the same. Some pasturelands and herds of horses and travelers along the roads. Was my letter not inflammatory enough? I wondered if I should have said more. A mild rumbling of my stomach reminded me of why I had chosen to land when I did after flying for an hour.
A part of me was annoyed at my body demanding food when it did. A part of me remembered overly thin arms, and hunger pains. Never again. Adopting Visenya's eating schedule would do me a world of good.
I took her exercise one, after all. One I was having a difficult time keeping up with, of late. You aren't eating enough. Without food, I did not have enough energy to keep going all day. Without food I could not maintain muscle. Without food I would wither away.
How can I hope to plan years ahead, if I keep forgetting to plan my own dinner?
I resolved to do better.
The scent of cook-fires and pots filled with stews only made my stomach grumble more. I patted Vhagar's scales nearest her eye, and gave orders to camp servants to slaughter an ox for her, before going off to my own tent. Its scarlet silk, and sheer size made it stand out from the rest.
Outside of the tent owned by the Knight-Captain of the Warrior's Sons, it was probably the most well-guarded tent in the whole camp. Stout Dragonstone men guarded it, and there was nowhere safer I could be. Except in the skies on Vhagar. I ignored that thought.
With little more than a gesture, servants scurried off to prepare a light evening meal as I entered the tent, my hand already on the clasp of my cloak before I was inside. The itch to reach for my waist, and to Dark Sister, ignored for now.
In my tent at least, it felt almost like a home away from home. Fine Myrish rugs covering the ground, a stand on which several books rested, some well-worn and others barely touched, the silken walls of the tent felt as good as stone, for my privacy. Hangings of myriad colors covered the "walls" of the tent, and ornaments of gold and silver beside. A part of me felt that was wasteful, as there was no need to carry that at war. Another felt it right, to display wealth was to show status. Right or wrong, what does it matter?
On another stand, set upon a copper tray was some unleavened bread, a pat of butter, two pears, three stalks of celery and a silver pitcher of water beside a Myrish goblet of carved crystal. Idly, I realized I was licking my lips, my mouth watering as my stomach growled even more.
The thought of food was on my mind as I removed my armor and threw off my cloak and when I did have dinner it was as fine as any I could remember, despite its plainness. Roasted quail and buttered corn on the cob, bread and red wine.
Prepared for bed a time later, my hair brushed and my body clean, all I could think of as my head rested on soft pillows, was how much I wanted lamb, and sausages. Fluffy white bread slathered with butter, but always the thought of meat over anything else. Perhaps, in the morning....
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It took me a moment to realize where I was, as I looked down to see the lands far below. Vaguely, I remembered flying there the day before. But here there were no winds, and beneath me no dragon. It was as if the very air was a platform, but a part of me was afraid.
Terrified to stay still. If I stayed still, I felt as though I would fall. I had to keep going. The moon was like a silvery sickle, ready to reap its harvest if I dared to stop moving. Looming over the world.
In a moment, that feeling was gone, and I was at one of the courtyards at Dragonstone. Clad in a pristine white tunic, my feet bare as they touched the hard stone. Then in the gardens, empty gardens, and Lord Redwyne was there. Lord Lymond Redwyne who had hosted Aegon and I years ago, who had crinkled his nose when Aegon had addressed me as his wife.
A part of me wanted to heave, as I felt something touch my shoulder, and I turned around. For a brief moment I swore I saw a woman clad in ashen grey. A woman wearing my face, her eyes piercing and pale and blue.
Liar. Fraud. Thief. I shoved the feeling away, and I was atop the Dragonmont lit only by the moon, and a giant upon the mountain top looked down at me and then pointed somewhere I could not see, and I felt too frightened to look at its face. A giant of storm clouds, and wild winds.
The giant had the shape of a man, and there was an insistence to his gestures, as I felt a hand reach out for me, a hand that could have reached down into the depths of the seas and yet was gentle, firm like a father's comforting hand.
I looked toward where the man of storm and wind had pointed and saw fires rising ahead of me, even greater in size and intensity than the fires that blocked my passage backward. The man looked me in the eye, and I only then beheld his face which was of onyx, and eyes of amber and molten bronze, a gaze in which I felt pinned. Fire in his right hand, and lightning flashing from his left. A man of bronze was ahead of me where the figure pointed, a giant in whose shadow thousands were sheltered and suddenly that shadow covered the way behind me as well and the world beneath me shook…
Smoke, I smelled… smoke. As I woke up with a start, my heart pounding, the faces of the man of onyx and the woman with pale blue eyes both vivid as ever as a buzzing filled my ears, and I threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. Shakily, I stood and realized that it wasn't a buzzing… it was yelling, muffled by the thickness of the tent walls, but I could hear yelling.
"What's going on…" It felt almost like a dream as I began dressing myself. I'll brush my hair later. I did not want to waste time.
My mouth was dry, I realized. Smoke, smoke and yelling… We were under attack.
My thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of the banging of drums. My hand was at my waist, reaching for Dark Sister, coming up empty. I cursed myself for leaving her on the other side of the tent. I snatched it up and slipped into shoes.
I felt naked without my armor, but a helmet and cloak would have to be enough covering in a hurry. At night and on dragonback, I can escape, if it comes to it. I scurried out of the tent, and a shiver ran down my spine. Fire, palisades burning, and smoke filling my nostrils. The cool of the night was gone, and for a moment a part of me reveled in the feeling of warmth, of the smoke and flame. This is what I get for complaining of boredom.
"-issa"
There were banners, banners aloft, including that of my own and the Warrior's Sons, the rainbow-thread of their banner reflecting the light as it fluttered, as men gathered to defend the camp, an-
"A-archontissa!" A part of me wanted to strangle whatever cur had the temerity to yell at me, but it was one of the men of Dragonstone. Clad in scale, and his face hidden by a veil of mail.
I took a breath, and held myself to my full height, "Guardsman Adarys, who is attacking us?" It had to have been an attack, or some fool had let a fire get out of control. No, the walls are too… that has to be deliberate.
"Royce!" The guardsman yelled, struggling to be heard over the din. I cursed, and walked as fast as I could to Vhagar., five of the other guardsmen falling in behind me. Five. I wished for a hundred, a thousand. My grip on Dark Sister did not loosen even a bit.
As long as I can make it to Vhagar, five will be enough.
The guardsman informed me as to what had happened as we walked. Rather, he told me what he thought had happened.
Only half an hour before, the banging of shields had been heard from around the camps, and horns and drums coming closer as smoke began to rise from the palisades, and fire. The only part of the camps that seemed fine was the southern exit, until fifty men had gone out to reach the encampment nearest to our own, only for screams to be heard, and the sound of metal parting flesh.
"We are surrounded," he said at last as he finished his story. "Somehow, they've surrounded us." In all his years serving, I had never heard him sound like this.
Coward. A part of me wanted to sneer at him, another part felt it was unfair. I was afraid too, I could feel my hands almost shaking.
"How many of them are there?"
"More than us, I believe. I do not know!" He sounded strained as we approached Vhagar, her gaze having been fixed on us for some time, as the guardsmen met with a few of their fellows, and with a cringe I realized I had stepped in the remains of the ox she had eaten.
A part of me wanted to stop, stop for a minute to think, but there was no time. With whip in hand, I clambered up to the saddle and we flew.
In the dark of the night, I could not see. The moon and stars provided so littlelight as to be nearly useless, and so I picked out torches, or what I hoped were torches, outside of where I roughly knew the camps to be, and when I gave the command, the darkness was pierced and broken by the jade-green fire of my Vhagar.
The flashes of flame spreading, and the screams of the dying and their horses were more than enough to tell me I'd struck true.
Fire along the ridges, fire in the greenery, fire in the valley, fire green and gold and red was all I knew until dawn.
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I drank deeply from the crystal goblet, not caring about the water that dripped off my chin. Or how my hair, hanging loosely, stuck to my sweat-slick skin. I shuddered, feeling filthy.
I wanted to gag.
"Four hundred men dead. Four hundred." Royce had lost far more in his attack, but that was little comfort.
That more than a hundred of our own dead had died of burning was not something I could forget easily.
It was night. You could not see. The thought did little to help.
Would it have been better if they'd fallen by Royce spear instead? A part of me thought so, and that only made me feel worse.
"More than half the fallen were not even your men, your grace." Aron Celtigar chirped, an easy smile on his lips. He had somehow managed to sleep through the entire battle. I wanted to flog him for that. I wanted to strangle him for acting as though this were some grand game. I wanted to drive Dark Sister into his chest and see how long that smile lasted then.
A part of me felt guilty about that.
"Every man who marches with us is my man, Celtigar. From the meanest follower in the train to the highest lord and his retinue." The knight-captain had died, and fifty of the Warrior's Sons with him. Ten of whom had died carrying their knight-captain's corpse to safety.
Will his father blame me, or Royce? I hoped Royce. I needed Elys' support.
"With what you took you can more than afford to replace them." I did not need to meet his gaze to know what he was looking at. Lamentation, which a soldier had tried to desert with after prying it from the burnt corpse of Lord Royce. Burnt, his iron helm melded to his head, alongside his gauntlets, but his bronze armor had been untouched, it seemed.
I wondered how long Royce had lasted before death had claimed him. I hoped it was quick. Green flame turning to yellow and red and orange was an image I could not shake. The thickets and forest I had burned, the horsemen, whatever men I could see in the dark. Men drowned in the stream, presumably trying to put the flames out.
Others had died trying to reach the hidden side-passes of the valley, burned alive in dragonfire as green as the lush foliage that had hidden them.
Vhagar's flame was all that allowed me to somewhat keep track of the enemy. And her flame melded the metal of men to their flesh.
I blinked.
A part of me was tempted to keep it, another part wanted to sell it, but it was probably the best reward I could give out. My lords will fall over themselves for a chance to get their hands on it. A part of me had scoffed at the sword compared with my own Dark Sister.
Lamentation was plain, the most distinct thing about it being a bastard mix of glyphs from Valyrian Script, and runes of the First Men running along the blade's fuller, somehow blending in with the smoky rippled steel. Rippled steel born of fire and blood. Steel that had felt warm when I had touched it.
I did not want to see it again after today, if I could help it.
"I will make a prize of it to whatever man serves best, I think. And that will not be some child that considers the deaths of our followers something he can smile while speaking of." I drained my goblet dry, and slammed it against the table. "Be ready to march on my order, Ser Celtigar. And do be awake." I excused myself from the tent, and made my way back to my own.
We would have to march later, men needed time to bury the dead, and clear the road and scout ahead.
G-d, I need a bath.
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The walls surrounding the town of Bronzedoor were old, and strong from what I could see of them. Though perhaps not so great from where I sat, atop Vhagar.
Despite the quiet, despite the clear blue skies and the morning sun, all I could think of was Lord Royce's attack. For men who so strove for chivalry, it felt wrong for them not to have met me in the open field.
In the open field, where they would have been slaughtered? I wondered if that was what had driven the men of Dorne to do as they did against my f-... Aegon's family. Fighting openly in pitched battle is for great powers or peers, not for underdogs.
Defensive warfare is key to success against greater numbers, and quality. Ambush tactics were a part of it. I would have done the same.
Again, and again, that thought had played out in my mind as we rode to Runestone. Royce had no ace up their sleeve, he had wasted most of his men in that attempt, and had died with them. He had thrown the dice, and he had lost.
The ride to Runestone had been uneventful. Save for the angry murmuring of men whose blood was up, and who wanted 'vengeance' for the night attack, and for men they'd lost. Friends, or kin. Or lovers among the train.
A part of me wondered how many spoke of that, and instead only wanted loot from Runestone. The chance to sack a town and castle that I'd denied them at every opportunity.
Soldiers are dangerous. A part of me always thought.
The few men who did ride, or run, to meet us on the way to Runestone were stragglers from the battle at the valley, and other landed knights sworn to House Royce, now they swore their swords to me. Or, rather, to the royal house Targaryen.
Within two days, a host of fewer than two-thousand had swollen to three by the time it finally arrived outside the walls of the town below Runestone. Waiting for the regent of Runestone to arrive to meet us.
Our banners were flying proudly, Aegon's red dragon and my green the most prominent among them. That of the Warrior's Sons only slightly less so. Idly, I touched at my braid with a gloved hand as I looked around.
Every man with me was ahorse, armored as I had ordered. I could not trust our enemy to not attempt some trick. Even under a banner of truce.
The farmlands around Runestone reminded me of those of Gulltown, fine orchards and well-paved roads leading to the town and castle themselves. The Royces were not minor lords, they were still rich and proud.
For a moment I thought back to Lamentation, hidden in a chest, carried on a white palfrey. Poor men could not afford Valyrian steel, even before the Doom. A part of me remembered that in ten days it will have been a century, to the day, since the homeland of the dragonlords went up in flame and ash and poisonous air.
A part of me felt sorrow at that. Another felt only sorrow for the lowborn caught in it.
We did not have to wait long before the gates of the town were opened, and the regent of Runestone rode out alongside several hundred people. I was able to pick out a Septon, and his bodyguards at a glance. A man in grey robes, old and bowed over even ahorse, wearing a chain the length of a man's arm.
The Regent of Runestone himself was a tall man, taller than me, built like an ox. Brown hair streaked with gray, and his dour face creased with the lines of age. Armored in bronze scale that glinted in the sun.
Heralds announced titles, both my own and those of Royce, and I gave the order to have the chest opened and its contents displayed. Lamentation was carried around by a boy, barely twelve, whose father had marched to war with Lord Royce.
On a whim I had made him a squire to Aron Celtigar.
"Lord Royce was given a burial, and rites as according to the customs of your people." The words sounded hollow in my ears, and I was aware of my heart beating.
Royce's dour expression changed to one of resignation. I had thought I caught a flicker of anger cross his features, but ultimately negotiations for surrender had not taken long after that. Lamentation indeed.
The Septon of Runestone's support had only sealed the deal. With profuse apologies for the death of Knight-Captain Arnold, and promises of any aid they could give. Slowly, carefully, my men were allowed into the town.
Runestone was beautiful. To me at least, with how the sun reflected off the bronze-capped dome of the castle's central keep as we approached, crossing the bridge leading from the town to the castle grounds.
Upon reaching the castle, more a fortified palace, we were hosted and treated to a banquet. They had prepared it ahead of time, I guessed. For us, or for the Lord Royce upon his victorious return?
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Perhaps it had been the drink, the choicest wine from the cellars of Runestone, or the sight of its treasure being carted off, but I was… happy. Genuinely happy. It was a strange sensation.
There had been no sneak attacks, no betrayals, no real complaints as I had men brought in and sent out. No complaints as I spoke with the Septon Martyn over dinner, no real animosity from Elton Royce.
"You took up arms against me, so I will punish you. But you surrendered, so I shall leave you your family lands." I had told Elton Royce, regent of Runestone, bypassing the deceased Lord Royce's second son, a small child, in favor of naming Elton as Lord of Runestone.
A child could not have worn the armor I had given back, after all.
Part of me tried to think of what could go wrong, of how danger could pop out at any point.
I could not keep the smile away for long, as I looked out from the balcony toward the sea below. Something had stirred in me.
It had been only a few days, but… I had missed it. A part of me felt more at home beside the sea, to be far from it felt wrong. I had missed the cries of gulls, the scent of the salty spray, the rush of the waves lapping against the land or crashing against rocks.
A river, or at least the rivers I had seen thus far, had been a poor substitute for the wide waters and the glittering of the sea in the light of the summer sun. And even the sea here felt an inadequate substitute for the waters of the Gullet and my home upon the Narrow Sea.
Another part was still unsettled by it, the sea was too open, too vast, and a body of water I could not see the other side of was not one I trusted.
It was with a light heart that I went to bed. A part of me reveled in the feeling that the past days had brought.
Life is good.
It had been oddly hot today, and the heat had only let up recently. Is the heat worse because of the valley we're in? It reminded me of home, almost. A wetter heat, and a completely different landscape. The valley lay long and narrow, almost straight north and south while the east and west were hemmed in by green and healthy trees.
I wore red velvet boots, part of me wanted to take them off and feel the cool green grass between my toes. The grass would not be here tomorrow. It would be trampled into dirt and mud by man and beast alike. Men who were at work raising the palisades of the camp nearby and horses who were being watered at the nearby river.
Raising them as they had day, after day. Never let your fighting men become lazy, always put them to work and keep an orderly camp. That had been the advice of one of the frontier commanders from the colonies. She had been dead for many centuries now, but her words had been forever preserved in ink and parchment, though.
Will people quote me, a thousand years from now? I shook my head, feeling my hair pressing against Vhagar's scales.
The day was uneventful, and a part of me was disappointed by it. The gentle plains and farmlands surrounding Gulltown gave way to rolling, low hills, and even valleys as we marched northward. They were small things, compared with the steep hills, bogs, and dark thickets and jagged coastline and forest of the less tamed parts of Crackclaw Point.
There had been a market town and villages and farms. There had been a few watchtowers built of wood and stone and thatch. We came across few signs of the enemy, and all we met were eager to bend the knee to my banner and the banner of the Warrior's Sons.
What few men aside from them I had seen were shepherds in the heights of the valleys. Men who'd said they hadn't seen hide nor hair of any force marching this way other than my own.
I had spent the first day scouting ahead, and yet… nothing. Then the second was the same. Some pasturelands and herds of horses and travelers along the roads. Was my letter not inflammatory enough? I wondered if I should have said more. A mild rumbling of my stomach reminded me of why I had chosen to land when I did after flying for an hour.
A part of me was annoyed at my body demanding food when it did. A part of me remembered overly thin arms, and hunger pains. Never again. Adopting Visenya's eating schedule would do me a world of good.
I took her exercise one, after all. One I was having a difficult time keeping up with, of late. You aren't eating enough. Without food, I did not have enough energy to keep going all day. Without food I could not maintain muscle. Without food I would wither away.
How can I hope to plan years ahead, if I keep forgetting to plan my own dinner?
I resolved to do better.
The scent of cook-fires and pots filled with stews only made my stomach grumble more. I patted Vhagar's scales nearest her eye, and gave orders to camp servants to slaughter an ox for her, before going off to my own tent. Its scarlet silk, and sheer size made it stand out from the rest.
Outside of the tent owned by the Knight-Captain of the Warrior's Sons, it was probably the most well-guarded tent in the whole camp. Stout Dragonstone men guarded it, and there was nowhere safer I could be. Except in the skies on Vhagar. I ignored that thought.
With little more than a gesture, servants scurried off to prepare a light evening meal as I entered the tent, my hand already on the clasp of my cloak before I was inside. The itch to reach for my waist, and to Dark Sister, ignored for now.
In my tent at least, it felt almost like a home away from home. Fine Myrish rugs covering the ground, a stand on which several books rested, some well-worn and others barely touched, the silken walls of the tent felt as good as stone, for my privacy. Hangings of myriad colors covered the "walls" of the tent, and ornaments of gold and silver beside. A part of me felt that was wasteful, as there was no need to carry that at war. Another felt it right, to display wealth was to show status. Right or wrong, what does it matter?
On another stand, set upon a copper tray was some unleavened bread, a pat of butter, two pears, three stalks of celery and a silver pitcher of water beside a Myrish goblet of carved crystal. Idly, I realized I was licking my lips, my mouth watering as my stomach growled even more.
The thought of food was on my mind as I removed my armor and threw off my cloak and when I did have dinner it was as fine as any I could remember, despite its plainness. Roasted quail and buttered corn on the cob, bread and red wine.
Prepared for bed a time later, my hair brushed and my body clean, all I could think of as my head rested on soft pillows, was how much I wanted lamb, and sausages. Fluffy white bread slathered with butter, but always the thought of meat over anything else. Perhaps, in the morning....
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It took me a moment to realize where I was, as I looked down to see the lands far below. Vaguely, I remembered flying there the day before. But here there were no winds, and beneath me no dragon. It was as if the very air was a platform, but a part of me was afraid.
Terrified to stay still. If I stayed still, I felt as though I would fall. I had to keep going. The moon was like a silvery sickle, ready to reap its harvest if I dared to stop moving. Looming over the world.
In a moment, that feeling was gone, and I was at one of the courtyards at Dragonstone. Clad in a pristine white tunic, my feet bare as they touched the hard stone. Then in the gardens, empty gardens, and Lord Redwyne was there. Lord Lymond Redwyne who had hosted Aegon and I years ago, who had crinkled his nose when Aegon had addressed me as his wife.
A part of me wanted to heave, as I felt something touch my shoulder, and I turned around. For a brief moment I swore I saw a woman clad in ashen grey. A woman wearing my face, her eyes piercing and pale and blue.
Liar. Fraud. Thief. I shoved the feeling away, and I was atop the Dragonmont lit only by the moon, and a giant upon the mountain top looked down at me and then pointed somewhere I could not see, and I felt too frightened to look at its face. A giant of storm clouds, and wild winds.
The giant had the shape of a man, and there was an insistence to his gestures, as I felt a hand reach out for me, a hand that could have reached down into the depths of the seas and yet was gentle, firm like a father's comforting hand.
I looked toward where the man of storm and wind had pointed and saw fires rising ahead of me, even greater in size and intensity than the fires that blocked my passage backward. The man looked me in the eye, and I only then beheld his face which was of onyx, and eyes of amber and molten bronze, a gaze in which I felt pinned. Fire in his right hand, and lightning flashing from his left. A man of bronze was ahead of me where the figure pointed, a giant in whose shadow thousands were sheltered and suddenly that shadow covered the way behind me as well and the world beneath me shook…
Smoke, I smelled… smoke. As I woke up with a start, my heart pounding, the faces of the man of onyx and the woman with pale blue eyes both vivid as ever as a buzzing filled my ears, and I threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. Shakily, I stood and realized that it wasn't a buzzing… it was yelling, muffled by the thickness of the tent walls, but I could hear yelling.
"What's going on…" It felt almost like a dream as I began dressing myself. I'll brush my hair later. I did not want to waste time.
My mouth was dry, I realized. Smoke, smoke and yelling… We were under attack.
My thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of the banging of drums. My hand was at my waist, reaching for Dark Sister, coming up empty. I cursed myself for leaving her on the other side of the tent. I snatched it up and slipped into shoes.
I felt naked without my armor, but a helmet and cloak would have to be enough covering in a hurry. At night and on dragonback, I can escape, if it comes to it. I scurried out of the tent, and a shiver ran down my spine. Fire, palisades burning, and smoke filling my nostrils. The cool of the night was gone, and for a moment a part of me reveled in the feeling of warmth, of the smoke and flame. This is what I get for complaining of boredom.
"-issa"
There were banners, banners aloft, including that of my own and the Warrior's Sons, the rainbow-thread of their banner reflecting the light as it fluttered, as men gathered to defend the camp, an-
"A-archontissa!" A part of me wanted to strangle whatever cur had the temerity to yell at me, but it was one of the men of Dragonstone. Clad in scale, and his face hidden by a veil of mail.
I took a breath, and held myself to my full height, "Guardsman Adarys, who is attacking us?" It had to have been an attack, or some fool had let a fire get out of control. No, the walls are too… that has to be deliberate.
"Royce!" The guardsman yelled, struggling to be heard over the din. I cursed, and walked as fast as I could to Vhagar., five of the other guardsmen falling in behind me. Five. I wished for a hundred, a thousand. My grip on Dark Sister did not loosen even a bit.
As long as I can make it to Vhagar, five will be enough.
The guardsman informed me as to what had happened as we walked. Rather, he told me what he thought had happened.
Only half an hour before, the banging of shields had been heard from around the camps, and horns and drums coming closer as smoke began to rise from the palisades, and fire. The only part of the camps that seemed fine was the southern exit, until fifty men had gone out to reach the encampment nearest to our own, only for screams to be heard, and the sound of metal parting flesh.
"We are surrounded," he said at last as he finished his story. "Somehow, they've surrounded us." In all his years serving, I had never heard him sound like this.
Coward. A part of me wanted to sneer at him, another part felt it was unfair. I was afraid too, I could feel my hands almost shaking.
"How many of them are there?"
"More than us, I believe. I do not know!" He sounded strained as we approached Vhagar, her gaze having been fixed on us for some time, as the guardsmen met with a few of their fellows, and with a cringe I realized I had stepped in the remains of the ox she had eaten.
A part of me wanted to stop, stop for a minute to think, but there was no time. With whip in hand, I clambered up to the saddle and we flew.
In the dark of the night, I could not see. The moon and stars provided so littlelight as to be nearly useless, and so I picked out torches, or what I hoped were torches, outside of where I roughly knew the camps to be, and when I gave the command, the darkness was pierced and broken by the jade-green fire of my Vhagar.
The flashes of flame spreading, and the screams of the dying and their horses were more than enough to tell me I'd struck true.
Fire along the ridges, fire in the greenery, fire in the valley, fire green and gold and red was all I knew until dawn.
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I drank deeply from the crystal goblet, not caring about the water that dripped off my chin. Or how my hair, hanging loosely, stuck to my sweat-slick skin. I shuddered, feeling filthy.
I wanted to gag.
"Four hundred men dead. Four hundred." Royce had lost far more in his attack, but that was little comfort.
That more than a hundred of our own dead had died of burning was not something I could forget easily.
It was night. You could not see. The thought did little to help.
Would it have been better if they'd fallen by Royce spear instead? A part of me thought so, and that only made me feel worse.
"More than half the fallen were not even your men, your grace." Aron Celtigar chirped, an easy smile on his lips. He had somehow managed to sleep through the entire battle. I wanted to flog him for that. I wanted to strangle him for acting as though this were some grand game. I wanted to drive Dark Sister into his chest and see how long that smile lasted then.
A part of me felt guilty about that.
"Every man who marches with us is my man, Celtigar. From the meanest follower in the train to the highest lord and his retinue." The knight-captain had died, and fifty of the Warrior's Sons with him. Ten of whom had died carrying their knight-captain's corpse to safety.
Will his father blame me, or Royce? I hoped Royce. I needed Elys' support.
"With what you took you can more than afford to replace them." I did not need to meet his gaze to know what he was looking at. Lamentation, which a soldier had tried to desert with after prying it from the burnt corpse of Lord Royce. Burnt, his iron helm melded to his head, alongside his gauntlets, but his bronze armor had been untouched, it seemed.
I wondered how long Royce had lasted before death had claimed him. I hoped it was quick. Green flame turning to yellow and red and orange was an image I could not shake. The thickets and forest I had burned, the horsemen, whatever men I could see in the dark. Men drowned in the stream, presumably trying to put the flames out.
Others had died trying to reach the hidden side-passes of the valley, burned alive in dragonfire as green as the lush foliage that had hidden them.
Vhagar's flame was all that allowed me to somewhat keep track of the enemy. And her flame melded the metal of men to their flesh.
I blinked.
A part of me was tempted to keep it, another part wanted to sell it, but it was probably the best reward I could give out. My lords will fall over themselves for a chance to get their hands on it. A part of me had scoffed at the sword compared with my own Dark Sister.
Lamentation was plain, the most distinct thing about it being a bastard mix of glyphs from Valyrian Script, and runes of the First Men running along the blade's fuller, somehow blending in with the smoky rippled steel. Rippled steel born of fire and blood. Steel that had felt warm when I had touched it.
I did not want to see it again after today, if I could help it.
"I will make a prize of it to whatever man serves best, I think. And that will not be some child that considers the deaths of our followers something he can smile while speaking of." I drained my goblet dry, and slammed it against the table. "Be ready to march on my order, Ser Celtigar. And do be awake." I excused myself from the tent, and made my way back to my own.
We would have to march later, men needed time to bury the dead, and clear the road and scout ahead.
G-d, I need a bath.
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The walls surrounding the town of Bronzedoor were old, and strong from what I could see of them. Though perhaps not so great from where I sat, atop Vhagar.
Despite the quiet, despite the clear blue skies and the morning sun, all I could think of was Lord Royce's attack. For men who so strove for chivalry, it felt wrong for them not to have met me in the open field.
In the open field, where they would have been slaughtered? I wondered if that was what had driven the men of Dorne to do as they did against my f-... Aegon's family. Fighting openly in pitched battle is for great powers or peers, not for underdogs.
Defensive warfare is key to success against greater numbers, and quality. Ambush tactics were a part of it. I would have done the same.
Again, and again, that thought had played out in my mind as we rode to Runestone. Royce had no ace up their sleeve, he had wasted most of his men in that attempt, and had died with them. He had thrown the dice, and he had lost.
The ride to Runestone had been uneventful. Save for the angry murmuring of men whose blood was up, and who wanted 'vengeance' for the night attack, and for men they'd lost. Friends, or kin. Or lovers among the train.
A part of me wondered how many spoke of that, and instead only wanted loot from Runestone. The chance to sack a town and castle that I'd denied them at every opportunity.
Soldiers are dangerous. A part of me always thought.
The few men who did ride, or run, to meet us on the way to Runestone were stragglers from the battle at the valley, and other landed knights sworn to House Royce, now they swore their swords to me. Or, rather, to the royal house Targaryen.
Within two days, a host of fewer than two-thousand had swollen to three by the time it finally arrived outside the walls of the town below Runestone. Waiting for the regent of Runestone to arrive to meet us.
Our banners were flying proudly, Aegon's red dragon and my green the most prominent among them. That of the Warrior's Sons only slightly less so. Idly, I touched at my braid with a gloved hand as I looked around.
Every man with me was ahorse, armored as I had ordered. I could not trust our enemy to not attempt some trick. Even under a banner of truce.
The farmlands around Runestone reminded me of those of Gulltown, fine orchards and well-paved roads leading to the town and castle themselves. The Royces were not minor lords, they were still rich and proud.
For a moment I thought back to Lamentation, hidden in a chest, carried on a white palfrey. Poor men could not afford Valyrian steel, even before the Doom. A part of me remembered that in ten days it will have been a century, to the day, since the homeland of the dragonlords went up in flame and ash and poisonous air.
A part of me felt sorrow at that. Another felt only sorrow for the lowborn caught in it.
We did not have to wait long before the gates of the town were opened, and the regent of Runestone rode out alongside several hundred people. I was able to pick out a Septon, and his bodyguards at a glance. A man in grey robes, old and bowed over even ahorse, wearing a chain the length of a man's arm.
The Regent of Runestone himself was a tall man, taller than me, built like an ox. Brown hair streaked with gray, and his dour face creased with the lines of age. Armored in bronze scale that glinted in the sun.
Heralds announced titles, both my own and those of Royce, and I gave the order to have the chest opened and its contents displayed. Lamentation was carried around by a boy, barely twelve, whose father had marched to war with Lord Royce.
On a whim I had made him a squire to Aron Celtigar.
"Lord Royce was given a burial, and rites as according to the customs of your people." The words sounded hollow in my ears, and I was aware of my heart beating.
Royce's dour expression changed to one of resignation. I had thought I caught a flicker of anger cross his features, but ultimately negotiations for surrender had not taken long after that. Lamentation indeed.
The Septon of Runestone's support had only sealed the deal. With profuse apologies for the death of Knight-Captain Arnold, and promises of any aid they could give. Slowly, carefully, my men were allowed into the town.
Runestone was beautiful. To me at least, with how the sun reflected off the bronze-capped dome of the castle's central keep as we approached, crossing the bridge leading from the town to the castle grounds.
Upon reaching the castle, more a fortified palace, we were hosted and treated to a banquet. They had prepared it ahead of time, I guessed. For us, or for the Lord Royce upon his victorious return?
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Perhaps it had been the drink, the choicest wine from the cellars of Runestone, or the sight of its treasure being carted off, but I was… happy. Genuinely happy. It was a strange sensation.
There had been no sneak attacks, no betrayals, no real complaints as I had men brought in and sent out. No complaints as I spoke with the Septon Martyn over dinner, no real animosity from Elton Royce.
"You took up arms against me, so I will punish you. But you surrendered, so I shall leave you your family lands." I had told Elton Royce, regent of Runestone, bypassing the deceased Lord Royce's second son, a small child, in favor of naming Elton as Lord of Runestone.
A child could not have worn the armor I had given back, after all.
Part of me tried to think of what could go wrong, of how danger could pop out at any point.
I could not keep the smile away for long, as I looked out from the balcony toward the sea below. Something had stirred in me.
It had been only a few days, but… I had missed it. A part of me felt more at home beside the sea, to be far from it felt wrong. I had missed the cries of gulls, the scent of the salty spray, the rush of the waves lapping against the land or crashing against rocks.
A river, or at least the rivers I had seen thus far, had been a poor substitute for the wide waters and the glittering of the sea in the light of the summer sun. And even the sea here felt an inadequate substitute for the waters of the Gullet and my home upon the Narrow Sea.
Another part was still unsettled by it, the sea was too open, too vast, and a body of water I could not see the other side of was not one I trusted.
It was with a light heart that I went to bed. A part of me reveled in the feeling that the past days had brought.
Life is good.
