Omake: The Not-So-Gentle Herald
Fifteenth Day of the Eleventh Month, 298 AC
The assemblage of nobles and knights gathered together in that tent did not compose even a tenth of the gathered host's high command... they had learned their lesson in Myr well, after losing so many to long ranged bombardment or... or else flames passing over a dragon's voracious tongue. But enough to consider the matter before them, Kevan thought.
His brother would not have heard of it, but the situation was grim. Encamped not hours away was a force of thirty-eight thousand, pitted against their forty of the Westerlands, twenty of the Reach, about a fifth of that unsteady, green lads, well enough equipped... by local standards. But then few could match the output of the now famous Targaryen mage-forges. Twelve thousand fighting men of their enemy's Black Legions, so-called by loyalists for their perfectly matching, finely crafted blackened plate that would be a High Lord's envy, given to their rank and file by the thousands. A further three thousand men of crossbows, all in mail with added cuirass, and more importantly,
uniform. Blackened plate, etched heraldry, synchronized formation movement. Another few thousand men a'horse, treacherous Knights or well armored sell-swords, light or heavy cavalry.
And their war beasts, Kevan thought,
though fewer in number.
The twenty thousand Dornish spears accompanying them, with the typical Westerosi variance in equipment and level of organization showing in sharp contrast to Viserys Targaryen's own household troops, gathered in less orderly lines, though they appeared competently lead by any indication that their camp was arranged as orderly as their very own. He had thought the standing army of five thousand that Tywin had raised soon after coming into lordship of the Westerlands had been ambitious, but to think there were more groupings of such men making landings elsewhere?
How could it have gotten to the point that the Targaryens could but ask for passage through the Stormlands and it be granted, to allow Dornishmen to trot in their wake happy as they please? Again, Kevan thought, one among many reasons to lend this message some level of credence...
we do not have them so outnumbered, he thought then. Gathered together, they had a disorganized force of disheartened Westermen, Reachmen of dubious loyalty, kept steady only by their fear of Tywin and failure should they fall this day, with their Houses out of order, not buoyed by thoughts of victory close at hand.
And over there, one army, with one purpose. To see his army scattered, and in the best case, returned to Tywin in abject failure. Luck be it that their otherwordly allies could act in accordance with their earlier strategy, for they could not have matched the enemy's outriders otherwise, or ordered their battle-lines to this degree.
"The message... read it again, more clearly. It would do best that you not unman yourself," he told the young Banefort knight, who steadied himself admirably well, though Kevan kept such thoughts to himself. He did not want to believe what the boy saw, and yet... how in the world could one living in this age dare live in ignorance when beset on all sides by enemies straight out of the Age of Heroes?
"The... the creature declared its allegiance to House Targaryen, the white flag of parley tied to one claw. He wishes to meet with the commander of this army." He swallowed roughly. "He said he was... 'the esteemed and glorious, silver tongued and fiery-hearted, the unwavering servant of His Magnificence, Royal Herald of House Targaryen'. It... it said that it would know if I did not relay those words precisely as it had spoken them." He shuddered. "I believed it."
Kevan thought long and hard as the various Lords there in that tent argued and shouted over one another, each begging for more attention than the last, before Kevan swept towards the exit, telling his squire to gather horses. "We go to meet with them."
Another rose to follow, the fiery and intemperate Loras Tyrell. "I shall accompany you."
He thought it not wise for such an impetuous youth to be present at such negotiations, but he could not argue with the lad's skills... he would be one of the few ready and able to match blades with any of the Sorcerer Kings chosen champions and have greater than even odds of surviving the exchange, come to it. Though he took heart that, to his knowledge, no parley had been broken by the Dragon yet, and in all his advantages this day was not likely to be the first. Today or tomorrow, Kevan thought, he expects us to come to him to die on his swords and spears, or else in dragon fire. What difference does it make to be patient and keep his word of honor intact?
They made their way out of their camp towards the middle point of their chosen ground, where the enemy host sat encamped, and waited. After uneasy minutes, just when Kevan thought to turn back, the sky darkened, and someone shouted and pointed above. Kevan raised his visor to gaze upon the one chosen to meet them in horror, though he bled off that feeling, let it slide towards the back of his mind.
Know your duty, Kevan, he thought.
Even should you die here, it will be in service to House Lannister.
The creature's wings flared, sending the horses rearing, and it landed with a soft thump, crushing rocks beneath steel-clawed feet. Three heads snaked above their heads, six pairs of eyes set aglow with ethereal flames, fearsome jaws packed with teeth and molten innards buried in the backs of their throats.
"Who doth approach,
" the right head growled, though the left one interjected quickly, warm, compassionate tones at odds with the hateful growl at the interrupted speaker,
"--
that words may be passed between the servants of our two Houses--
" only for the central head to say mildly,
"--
and their disposition be ascertained?"
"Kevan Lannister, Loras Tyrell, and company," he replied, maintaining his mount, whereas a few of their knights had not. Even Loras seemed unnerved, not by the beast itself, but by their heads' seeming conflicting personalities... and intelligence. He did not think dragons could speak the words of men, but then what else did he not know about such tidings? Clearly this wasn't a normal dragon... after all, it was forged of metal and bound by sorcerous fire, or so the rumors state. Learning that it was actually intelligent wasn't too great a surprise... odds are, Kevan would accept any new wondrous occurrence, so as not to be unreasonably distracted in the course of ongoing events. All the better to serve his brother.
"Bah, and for thou to dance around the subject of this meeting when again the wingless captains bandied about selfsame offers of mercy? Let such frivolties be entertained no longer!" Roared then the right head, sparks flaring from its gaping maw.
"Once more I have come to know of thee, Kevan Lannister, if for thy ransom you will now compound, before thine most assurèd overthrow!"
"Viserys Targaryen has sent you?" Kevan queried instead, causing the most recently outspoken head to growl in affront, though quieted by the chortle of the left-most. The central head spoke up,
"Indeed, for it is by the very word of he who bears the Crown of the Conqueror do we heed most readily," they replied calmly, with an air of cold calculation that neither of the other two heads gave off when they spoke.
He was about to speak again, when Loras finally reined his horse in and drove it closer, flipping his visor upward. "Then you should make haste to bear our former answer back to your master! They can claim what they find on the battlefield, and then
sell my bones back to my father! Good Gods! Why should they mock poor fellows as us so? Let me speak proudly: tell Viserys Targaryen that we are but warriors for the working-day; Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd, with rainy marching in the painful field. There's not a piece of feather in our host--good argument, I hope, for we will not fly--and time has worn us into slovenly shape. But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim! And my armsmen and Knights do tell me, by the next night they'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck the plumed feathers out of Targaryen soldiery helms and put them to better use! If they do this--as, if Gods please, they shall--my ransom then
will soon be levied. Herald, save yourself from further labour, come here
no more for ransom, gentle herald. For they shall have
none, I swear, but these my joints! Which if they have as I will leave 'em them, shall yield them
little..."
A pregnant silence descended upon the gathering men and the steel terror, as Loras Tyrell stared down the three-headed dragon in the liking of their enemy's banner made reality.
"Tell them, Herald," he finished, standing stoutly in his saddle and gazing up at it without fear, and for that Kevan feared the lads lack of sense for all the balls he did carry would see the end of him at last.
Instead, the left-most head spoke before either of the others, voice proud and yet faintly approving, the others of which had descended into just as strange a silence.
"I shall, Loras Tyrell. And so fare thee well--you shall never hear herald any longer."
With a scant few beats of its wings, it had taken flight, nearly sending their mounts into a frenzy again, before it wheeled about and made for the back of their army, where, upon standing up straight in his saddle, Kevan thought he could spy its leaders gathered upon a distant hill, overlooking their gathering. Such thoughts were confirmed when, after the beast did land and speak with them, one of the figures issued to them a jaunty wave, before at last the grouping vanished altogether.
For that, Kevan thought,
I shall let him lead the vanguard, should he be so eager. Though secretly, Kevan did not mind the contents of Loras' tirade overmuch. He would not surrender. Not on this day, nor the next, come to it.
A Lannister always pays his debts.
