Opposite Sides of the Same Coin
Fifteenth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
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Gerold had not known exactly what he was in for, when he first agreed to accompany Mercy and Ser Denys back to the Riverlands for the remainder of the month--he did not want to rest on his laurels back in the Deep, not while everyone else was still running around at the King's behest. He might have been done taking care of his enemies, but it was not as though the King rested easy himself. Before long, they had charged off east at the head of a small army of champions and mages and dragons. None of them had been invited along... truth be told he was not sure if he should feel slighted because of it. Any fight the other dragon sorcerer, Amrelath, would find challenging, he knew as surely as anything else he would not survive.
Dragons, the Dayne knight thought in slight wonder. Intellectually, the Dornishman knew that the King had hatched dragons of his own for months. But there was a stark difference between a handful of hatchlings barely grown large enough for a small rider to get around in the air, and several full grown ones, such as had flown over the Field of Fire and burned just about every castle in his homeland to the ground.
The fact of the matter was... it did not
matter what the Lannisters did. It was a thought that had struck him, as he had wondered after his first tasks for the King what worth a knight on the ground was when you had dragons in the air. It was more likely the Grand Fool of Casterly Rock would see his lands whole, hale and healthy were they not more likely to burn it and all of Westeros to the ground out of spite, as the King struck him as no man for bloody conquest such as Aegon had led.
Why burn your own Kingdom to the ground, after all, especially when you near rule it already? That would have been a bitter jest, Gerold thought, just a year ago. Now he planted feet in a Kingdom that near unanimously bent the knee to the King before his armies had even done the same, with only some poor trout flopping around left to stink up the place.
"You having fun down there?" Gerold smirked for the seventh or eighth time that evening, sword angled toward Ser Denys as he paused in their scramble to regain his feet. It almost made up for the first three times he fell for some trick and got smoke caught in his throat or eyes, leg stuck to the ground by expanding bladders of sticky fluid or half-deafened by a glowing vial.
Darkstar shook his head in exasperation as Ser Denys blew his slightly longer hair out of his face, jaw jutting out defiantly, though the man was hiding a smile of his own.
Likely thinking about the last time that almost worked, Gerold thought. "You're never going to impress those Lordly types, who care more about their swords and hunting trophies than they do of books and 'witchery nonsense'. Not if you don't get a handle on that counter riposte, at least." The Crownlander would never be as good with a sword as he was at rooting through the underbrush and digging up rare plants, or else blowing up or confounding monsters with his creations, but the magic potions he could drink down before a fight would probably allow him to handily defeat most Knights in Westeros without trouble. If a man could turn invisible, he could slit your throat without you ever knowing where he came from, or carve you open from breast to groin with runes of flame, or else turn into a beast and rip you limb from limb and cast off your blades. Or just toss bombs at you from the air.
Though that's 'cheating
', of course, something no honorable Knight would do, Gerold thought wryly.
"I practice every night with Ser Criston," the Alchemist replied, sighing as he lowered his sword. "Though part of me thinks I should just earn a fortune by selling magic and then wear a prince's ransom in enchanted items, instead. That's not quite as 'dishonorable' as drinking a few potions before a fight. Men would have to put aside their own spellsteel before admitting that."
Right, Gerold thought,
so when pigs fly.
While the man had come a long way, in Gerold's opinion, doing nothing to hide his contempt at the idea that his knowledge of brewing up magic was less worthy as knowledge of the sword, lance and horse, something that the Dornishman had warmed up to, after learning of the advantages which magic could provide a warrior in a fight against monsters who were born with those abilities... they also wouldn't go back on their word if they agreed to duel on another man's terms.
And all because my cousin set the damn precedent on having the best magic sword Westeros has seen in hundreds of years. Men were born fools, not sorcerers, Gerold knew this. One could awaken magic or else learn it, but you had to stop being a fool before you became anything else, or you would never amount to much more.
But that doesn't mean you have to play the fool, either.
The two looked out over the hills, gazing upon the nearby Lord's castle which was at present lit up, the settlement before it bearing an assortment of merry crackling fires, a small celebration underway. A bevy of lasses and lads deciding to throw Mercy a party on a whim wouldn't make the Dayne knight scoff in disbelief, in all honesty he'd come to expect oddness to accumulate around anyone associated with the woman.
The two stood in bleak silence, neither the sort to be totally comfortable in one another's company. They had grown past the initial, obvious dislike, the things that rubbed them the wrong way about the other having taken on a new light, given certain...
perspective they had lacked outside of their service to the Dragons.
"It all seems so petty," Gerold murmured. "Look at the Lord feasting in thanks to his good fortunes, and the smallfolk are celebrating someone who was a stranger naught but a fortnight ago. The gold they've both gained means so little given that if you hadn't stepped in here, they probably would have hatched their own monsters to terrorize folk in the night. As if there aren't enough to slay already." The Dornishman scoffed. An undercurrent of spite hadn't entirely left Darkstar's voice, not even now. These were the types of fools who had judged him unworthy of the same honor as others of his lineage, who couldn't even stare past their own noses to see the shit between their eyes. To them he was just a treacherous Dornishman, and to Dorne he was a compared to a viper, useful in a moment, but trouble at every turn before the basket he nested it was opened. He used to revel in it, but now...?
"I'm not doing all this for them," Denys replied, some of the awkwardness between them dissipating as they desperately latched onto something to talk about, "His Grace seems to know that they won't just go away no matter what banners get hung over King's Landing."
"He's isolated his court away from the leeches," Gerold countered, gesturing vaguely southwards. "I mean, sure as anything they will just come to him, but..."
"I don't think so," Denys countered, "Think back to all his conquests. He takes the strength of the people there and he turns it back around on them, makes them walk in step with him, but he's not fighting them off with a stick, hells, they probably don't know where he even is over half of the time. For all that the true power in the realm resides in Sorcerer's Deep, the Magisters of Tyrosh still wait patiently for audience in the Palace of that city, because they know that he rules there and thus that honors them by extension."
"A polite fiction," Gerold said absently, but he saw the point. "But even if they both know that, they can tell it to everyone else, and that will make others fit to gnash teeth and chew gravel." Denys smiled as Gerold conjured the affront Lords of Westeros would have felt if they weren't so busy scheming or being scared shitless of dragons, of how involved in unbecoming Essosi customs the King had grown. The King little resembled the Magisters of any of the Free Cities, he was too
strange, though it was arguable if that was to his advantage.
If, however, it eroded away all the common and petty arguments people had, that only left histrionic braying about blood magic and dark rites if anyone had further cause to complain. No, the people did not get vanished off, screaming all the while, to stock the King's dungeons for baby soup. So they would likely just fall flat on their faces with the commoners and exasperate all the men and women the King had raised up personally. The other Lords would throw the slander back in their enemies' faces, either out of transparent sycophancy or just to undercut a rival.
"He'll be spending more time knocking their heads together, getting them to cooperate, than he will fighting them," Gerold said, having little respect for most of the men here in the Riverlands, doddering fools or bitter and crusty old men who couldn't let a grudge go, of which each had a dozen of them and was meaning to share them around.
Say one thing about us Dornish, but we will circle wagons in an instant when the time calls for it.
"His Grace is skilled when it comes to getting other people to do things for him," Denys pointed out. Gerold nodded, unconvinced.
The topics of the day, past lingering resentment or the Alchemist's work experimenting with arcane humors, was utterly exhausted by that point. That left the two of them with only the bitter knowledge that Winter was bearing down on them, dying meant you were worse off than being alive even if half the world despised you and cursed your name, and the blatant disrespect people showed their liege had united two unlikely men in resentment. That they should vie for the favor of those who had stood by and asked to be saved after they had all chosen so poorly was a bitter pill to swallow.
For Gerold's own part, he just hated the fact that his hard work would go on to profit Lords like Lychester, and Denys' too. He was starting to like the man, if for no other reason than the fact that he was optimistic enough to make him remember some good had come out of the people they'd saved in the Riverlands.
Killing Hags and sorting out mad spirits had felt...
good, he wasn't after gold or glory, hardly anyone had realized who was truly responsible for either of those deeds. He did it because the King he served
asked him to, and he was honored for it, to be sure, and rewarded plenty, but that was immaterial to the fact that he knew he was needed, even necessary. That was hells of a lot more than he had to his name before.
"Do you think I could have ended up like that fool, Corbray?" Denys turned to him, surprised, a flicker of doubt must have shown on Darkstar's face, a tremble in his voice. "Uriah told me," he explained. "Something about devil worshiping and feeding men to Hell with coin and the lust of blood madness."
"If I've learned anything in these past few months, Ser Dayne, it's that you're an asshole," Denys said, causing Gerold to scowl in anger, though the Crownlander went on to say, "But you're not stupid. Maybe struck by more of the same many a clever man is, but once you've got your head out of your ass, you stop thinking you're too clever by half and most people around you too stupid to understand. I don't think there's any chance of devils getting a hold of you, now."
"But then...?" Darkstar wondered, wondered what the high and mighty Ser Denys Trainer thought of him, who was nothing and no one before he wandered off into his own fairy tale. Simply because he was tired of lying forgotten in the muck. By all rights, Gerold should probably hate the man on principle for that, but part of him wanted to hear otherwise. The core of a man who had been at the end of his rope, contemplating bloody murder at a tourney before hundreds, simply because he had so very little honor left to lose.
Denys was silent for a time, before eventually replying, "Maybe then. There's no point in wondering about what could have been. Maybe in one future you would have just been another devil pawn, or another mad man who thought the world should burn around you before you burned with it, because there was no light or luster to be had, no place for you. Maybe that's our job on his world," Denys said, voice growing stronger and more impassioned, as was his wont when he carried on thus. "To
make a place for people, give them a chance. What's the point of all of this, if not that?" The man pointed at the Keep in the other direction, "Maybe that man will never change, but I bet you thoughts of glory and wealth both will vanish from his mind when Winter comes for us. When it comes for us
all."
A bone-deep chill went through both men, irrational fear stabbing deeply, knowing there were worse things than devils and the conjurers who brought them here.
"Well... then we best be ready, ourselves," Gerold said with more certainty, when they no longer felt eyes on the back of their necks.
He raised his sword. Denys brought his back up as well.