The House of Elendil [LOTR/Game of Thrones Crossover]
- Thread starter EricD
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EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XVII
King's Landing
"By order of the Queen Regent, Aratan Isildurion, Captain of the King's Host, is summoned to attend court at the Red Keep by no later than noon tomorrow," Ohtar read aloud from a long parchment scroll in his hands. He snorted a sound of disgust then crumpled the letter in his hands.
"That is a trap if ever I saw one," said Ohtar.
Aratan crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed in thought. The two of them stood in his pavilion, surrounded by walls of coloured canvas. A half-eaten lunch was spread on the table. Aratan was clad only in tunic and trousers, but Ohtar was already in mail and surcoat, sword and dagger at his side.
"You're not seriously thinking of going there, are you?" the scarred old squire asked.
"We still don't know what happened to Ned… Or to his daughters," Aratan replied darkly.
It had been days, nearly a week, since they had last had word of the Lord of Winterfell. The only news that came to the camp of the King's Host was brought in the form of the rumours that swirled wildly up the roads from King's Landing.
Some whispered that Lord Stark had murdered the King and tried to take his throne. Others said that Lord Stark had assaulted and killed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard after Ser Barristan had caught Eddard poisoning the King to death. Others claimed that Lord Stark had abducted the royal children only to be caught by the Queen's men. Some whispered that Lord Stark was dead, others that that he was captive, and still others said he had escaped and would return to the south with thirty thousand bloodthirsty northmen riding wolves. The only thing in common between the fanciful tales was that something had happened in the Red Keep and Ned had been involved, beyond that Aratan and the whole Host knew nothing. It was not a situation he was pleased with, and for days he had stewed in frustrating inactivity, his heart full of turmoil.
"If you go to that keep, you can't be certain whether or not you'll come back out again," Ohtar warned him.
"Ohtar, if Ned or his daughters are in peril, how can I stand by and do nothing?" replied Aratan.
"I'm not saying do nothing lad, I'm saying don't be foolish about this. She summons you to court, then go to court. Go with the Host at your back," Ohtar said.
"Do you think the Host would march for me? They swore to defend the King, not to overthrow him," Aratan shook his head.
"That child may sit the throne but he is no king yet. The Host loves you, and Lord Stark too. If you asked it of them, they would march for you," Ohtar insisted.
"Even if they did Ohtar, we haven't the supplies or the numbers to hold a siege if the goldcloaks barred our way, and a sudden assault on the capital itself would be all the proof the Lannisters need to tar us as traitors to the Realm in the eyes of the other houses. And who could say what the Queen would do to Ned or the girls if we brought an armed host to her door?" replied Aratan, frowning. There was something unpredictable about Cersei Lannister, something volatile. Who could say what a desperate lioness was capable of when cornered?
"This requires more… Subtle means. How many of our kin remain here?" the son of Isildur asked.
"Counting us, there's five. Ingold, Finrod and Baranor stayed behind as well. Your father took the better part of the housecarls, and Mablung took some of us on his errand as well," Ohtar answered.
"Five," Aratan said with a thoughtful frown. "Five men may yet be able to accomplish what a host could not,"
"What do you plan to do?"
I wish Elendur were here. He would know better than I, Aratan thought. He yearned for his brothers dearly in that moment. His missed Elendur's counsel, he missed Ciryon's laughter, he missed his treks with Valandil and the sound of his brothers singing beneath the leaves of Ithilien.
The son of Isildur was silent in thought for a long time, then he spoke.
"Send Ser Klargus to me, and gather up our folk after that. I would speak to them,"
"As you will, lad," Ohtar nodded.
Ser Klargus Monfort was a tall, broad man who, despite being a few inches shorter than Aratan, seemed to fill up the tent with his great bulk when he shouldered his way past the flap. Dark brown eyes were set deep beneath a rocky forehead decorated with bushy grey eyebrows. The eyebrows were the only hair left upon his features, for Ser Klargus had left his face and head alike shaved smooth to the skin. Scars criss-crossed his cheeks and part of his left ear was missing from some old wound taken in battle. He was a battered old hedge-knight, but he brought a deep well of experience in war-making to the Host and the men found a confidence in his size and silence, making him one of the leading captains of the Host. His sigil, a badger brandishing a spear, was worked in black and silver thread upon the breast of his tunic.
"My lord, what is your command?" the old knight asked, clasping his hand upon his chest and bowing his head in the Numenorean fashion. Aratan smiled. Ser Klargus had visited Pelargir in his youth, or so he said, and knew something of the ways of the Dunedain.
"Always straight to the business of the day, eh Ser Klargus?" Aratan said teasingly.
"Nothing is gained by beating around the bush, my lord," Klargus replied.
"I am summoned to attend court in the city by the Queen," he paused for a second, a strange uneasy feeling coming to him as he spoke "Regent. I need you to see to matters here whilst I am away,"
"Of course, my lord. Are we still to move up to the God's Eye?" Ser Klargus asked.
"Make your preparations, but don't march until I've returned. I hope that this errand shan't keep me long," Aratan said.
When Ser Klargus had left, Ohtar poked his head through the tent flap.
"I've got the lads out here, Aratan, waiting for you,"
Stepping out of his tent into the grey light of an overcast day, Aratan saw them standing in a silent line, all in black mail and surcoats just as Ohtar was. They stood still and solemn as statues in stone, hands behind their backs. Isildur's shieldbearer stood to the side with crossed arms. The three Numenoreans had the look of Andunie about them: Pale, somber faces beneath dark locks of hair, and keen grey eyes regarding him quietly.
Every lord of the Eight Kingdoms had his own household guard, their own group of men-at-arms and retainers who, for pay or loyalty or both, defended the lives and honour of his lord and his lord's house. Livery men, some called them, for they wore their lordships' sigils. But Aratan's father was not an Andal, he was Isildur of Numenor, and his ways were older ways. His men were no mere household guard, they were housecarls.
Their lives were sworn to Isildur's, and his life was sworn to theirs. His hall was their home, his food and drink were theirs, and his family was their family. By ancient custom and by oaths and bonds of friendship, he would never leave a field of battle before them nor would they before him. Aratan had been raised amongst these men. He remembered Mablung showing him how to fish in the Sirhun, he recalled how Huor had laughed the first time Aratan had drawn a bow and sent his arrow flying yards from the mark, he remembered Ohtar berating Ciryon when his brother failed to take their exercises at arms seriously. A hundred housecarls were sworn in life and death to Isildur, and there was hardly a man amongst them who Aratan had not shared a cup of wine, not shared laughter, not shared a bond.
"Kinsmen," Aratan said, his gaze scanning their faces. He knew them all well. Ingold was the oldest, a greyhair who had been on the same ship as Aratan's father when their prows had scraped up onto the shores of Westeros. Baranor had the look of a ranger about him, lean and almost as weathered as Mablung. Many a hunt had he accompanied Aratan upon and many times had they carried boar and deer back to Minas Ithil together. Finrod was the youngest, a stocky, well-built man with a merry glint in his eye who, despite being a wrestler of prodigious skill, was marked out by his gentleness and love of things that grew in the earth.
How can I ask them to go with me on this errand? To go into danger of death not on the battlefield, but of daggers in the dark? He thought miserably, wishing he had Elendur's eloquence with words. He slipped easily into the Sindarin tongue, for he knew that none in the camp but his people would overhear what he had to say.
"There is something I must ask of you, my brothers, but I am not my father. No oaths do you owe to me. If you decline to follow me now, no dishonour shall stain you, and neither I nor anyone shall think any worse of you. It is a dangerous task that may lie before me," he told them, voice calm and level, with no exaggeration nor dramatics.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow was cawing out its hungry song. There was the sound of a master-at-arms bellowing commands and the tramping feet of a column of soldiers doing drill. Above the tents and halls, rows of pikes swayed to and fro as the men drilled.
"There has been no word of Lord Stark, nothing. Now I am summoned to court by the Queen and I fear what I may find there. If Ned or his family are in danger, I cannot simply stand aside. I must act. Were I in peril, I know he would do the same for myself and my kin. I must go into the Red Keep and find out what has befallen the Starks. I do not ask you to accompany me, for the risks may be great, I leave that choice to you," Aratan said, looking each of them in the eyes in turn.
The housecarls glanced amongst themselves briefly. Ingold stepped forward. Though there were streaks of silver and grey in his hair, he was still broad-shouldered and corded with muscle. He clapped a weathered hand onto Aratan's shoulder.
"You're the son of our lord, Aratan. No housecarl am I if I do not watch out for you just as I watch out for your father," Ingold said. He turned to the others.
"I go with him,"
Finrod grinned and stepped forward next.
"Good master Ingold, you speak better than I could have!" the younger housecarl said. "I go with you as well, Lord Aratan. No man shall call me coward,"
"My brothers have said all that needs be said. Whatever task you face, Aratan, I will see it done," Baranor said quietly, a hard glint in his eyes but a small smile on his face.
"Good people!" Aratan cried out suddenly, feeling overwhelmed. "You are kinsmen in truth as well as in oath! At hall or upon the field, no better companions could a man ask for!"
Despite himself and despite all the uncertainty that still remain, a wild hope sprung up within him. Aratan reached out and grasped Ingold and Finrod by the shoulders, grinning broadly.
"I shall ready the baggage," Ohtar said, wearing the pleased expression of one who sees something happen exactly as expected.
In the early morning they rose to depart. A chill lay upon the encampment, brought by cold breezes blowing from the north. Fog lay upon the fields all about them. The sentries upon the palisade stood, cloaks wrapped tight about them, unclear forms looming in the haze. The sun, a red ball of fire, flamed out of the thickening dark mists in the east and sent rays of light piercing the gloom.
The horses nickered to each other softly as Aratan and the others walked out of their tents, rubbing sleep from their eyes groggily. Ohtar was already up and about, securing bags upon the six horses that swished their tails and shivered in the cool morning air. Saddle leather creaked and somewhere a bird was singing tentatively.
The housecarls were dark shapes in the morning half-light, for each wore their coat of mail, and each was girt with sword at their sides, and each was wrapped in his grey cloak. Bucklers hung from Baranor and Ingold's belts where the others wore daggers. In the same fashion was Aratan dressed as he stepped forward to join them, snugging a belt around his waist and feeling the familiar weight of mail on his shoulders relieve and spread to his hips. The white tree of Gondor flowered on the chest of each man's surcoat, surmounted by silver stars and the white crescent moon that was for Ithilien. The same sigil was blazoned on the banner Ohtar bore, at the moment wrapped up about the stout spear shaft it was carried upon.
They did not need a command to mount. Each of them sprang up into the saddle at the sight of Aratan coming towards them, then reined their horses around and awaited the son of Isildur. Ohtar rested the banner's staff upon his stirrup. Waverunner, Aratan's courser, looked at his master with patient eyes. He vaulted up into the saddle smoothly, unencumbered despite the mail he wore, and gave the chestnut horse an affectionate slap on the neck.
There was no word to ride away. They did not need it. With the smiles of old friends, they gently nudged their mounts into a trot towards the south gate of the camp. In a column, two by two, they rode through the morning mists, down long lanes of tents and wooden halls. With fair voices, the housecarls began to sing. The camp was awakening, and the soldiers of the King's Host were stepping shivering into the chill air. Yet wherever the housecarls rode, men stopped what they were doing and watched them with wondering faces.
"Truly the Men of Gondor are marvelous folk, as the tales say," some whispered.
For though nobles and knights had been seen by nearly all, none with the lordliness and the presence and the gleaming eyes of Aratan son of Isildur and the housecarls of his father. Wherever they rode, men were heartened at the sight of them and smiled at the sound of their songs, and a few even began to sing songs of their own after the Numenoreans had passed. And some whispered that the housecarls were no mere bodyguards or hired blades but rather lords and princes of Gondor in their own right.
"Good morning Captain! Off to the city?" asked the gate sentry, grinning and leaning on his halberd, when the company rode past him in file, shod hooves thumping on the wooden bridge above the ditch.
"Aye Tomard, a fine morning for a ride it is. I'll be back in a few days! No mischief whilst I am gone!" Aratan called back, turning around in the saddle and grinning back at the sentry.
In the open fields beyond the palisade, they pressed their horses onto a swift canter. Ohtar unfurled the banner and let the white tree fly in the breeze. Soon the sprawling, stinking encampment had disappeared amongst the trees and hills behind them and they rode in high spirits but great haste south and west, following the now familiar road to King's Landing.
Sometimes cantering and sometimes trotting, but always making the greatest speed possible, they passed through sleepy villages and amongst small farmsteads, a wind amongst the wheat. Smallfolk, men and women and babes in arms, watched the passage of the Numenoreans with wide, awed eyes.
The sun was climbing into the sky, burning off the morning fog with its heat, when finally the city appeared before them. It was not King's Landing, vast and filthy as always, that held Aratan's blue-grey eyes. It was the sea. Dark and windswept, Blackwater Bay glinted and gleamed and a faint enticing salt-tang was in the air. Aratan wished for nothing more in that moment than to go to the sea, to hear the songs of the seabirds, to feel the tiller in his hands, and the thrill in his heart steering a ship under full sail soaring upon the waves.
But their road did not lead to the Sea this day. Tearing his eyes away from it, Aratan looked at the Red Keep, which sat on Aegon's High Hill like a hunched beast upon a rock. He frowned at the sight of it.
What awaits us behind those walls and towers? Where are you Ned? He wondered with an unquiet heart.
As the Numenoreans trotted down towards the Old Gate, the massive walls growing nearer with every pace, the company rode amidst the steady trickle of people traveling to King's Landing. Along the dusty road they tramped, hard-faced men and somber women with babes in arms, even whole families traveling by cart or foot. Many tales did they hear before they had even crossed the gate.
"Eight villages in the west 'ave been burned already, and it's only beginnin'…"
"Lord Isildur is ridin' to arrest Lord Lannister hisself!"
"'Ee got cut down I hear. My cousin's kin saw him with an arrow in 'is back,"
"Fool's words that is. Ain't no man alive can lay a hand on Lord Isildur,"
"No man alive maybe, but arrows ain't give a care how highborn yer are,"
"'Ee's 'ard and wicked, and don't hold with our gods. Good riddance before he ruined us all,"
Beneath the shadow of the gaping Old Gate, Aratan rode and brooded upon the tidings he had heard. River-folk they were, by their speech. It did not hearten him. A bored-looked goldcloak snapped up in a rustle of mail rings as he spotted the banner of Isildur's son.
"Make way!" the guard cried out to the crowds within the walls "Make way for Captain Aratan!"
The streets were full of people, refugees and city-dwellers alike, and though the Dunedain rode without speaking they were surrounded by talk. They were a calm island in a sea of rumours and hearsay. Some cried out for Lord Stark's head, saying he had murdered King Robert. Others whispered that Ned and Isildur were in communion with wild old gods and had come with nefarious designs upon the Sept of Baelor. Some said Lord Stark was dead, some said he had escaped, others than he was imprisoned, still others that he was somewhere in the castle plotting his next move. Others still spoke of Isildur in the Riverlands, arresting Tywin Lannister or slaying Gregor Clegane in single combat or being slain in turn, there was no one story to tell.
Then at last they fetched up upon the slopes of Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep awaited them with infinite patience upon its summit. Atop the battlements of its colossal walls, there was a glint of helmets and halberds. The black stag of Baratheon pranced still on its golden field above the gatehouse.
"Many tales are being told of what has happened within," Ohtar remarked quietly. The cobbled road snaked back and forth along the shoulders and slopes of the hill, cutting one way then back again, and the towers peered down upon them the whole way. Aratan could easily imagine the thick fall of arrow and dart upon any assailant up this road.
"Many tales, aye, but how much truth?" he replied.
They did not need to challenge the sentries. With a creaking groan, the portcullis raised up for them in a manner to make one feel expected. His face composed in an expressionless mask, Aratan spurred Waverunner into a trot once more.
The whole bailey clattered with the sounds of their arrival, of shod hooves on cobblestones. They reined their horses to a halt in the centre of the courtyard. All was silence. On the battlements all around them, they saw scattered bands of goldcloaks with spears in hand and armed men in the red cloaks of the Lannisters. Stark grey was nowhere to be seen. Unfriendly eyes looked down at them.
A troop of stablehands took their horses by the reins as soon as they dismounted. The housecarls stood close behind Aratan. Hands rested on the pommels of swords. There was something in the air to raise the hair on a man's neck. Suddenly Waverunner wildly whinnied as he was led away, craning his neck back to peer at his master.
"Go on my friend, I shan't be long!" Aratan called over, but his smile did not reassure the horse and again it whinnied and shied away from the groom leading it. The courser filled the courtyard with commotion ere he was brought to the stables.
Then from the direction of Maegor's Holdfast, came scurrying a herald dressed in the black of mourning. The voluminous empty sleeves of his gardecorps swung like pendulums with his every step. He smiled anxiously at the sight of the Dunedain and wrung his hands together. He looked pallid as a plucked bird.
"My lord," the herald said in a thin voice, bowing with a flourish. "It is very good that you have come, my lord, yes very good, very good indeed, to have arrived so promptly"
"Speak herald, what has happened?"
"Much… Much has happened, my lord, and much there is still to do, yes it is very good you are here," the herald said with a nervous chuckle. He gestured towards the Holdfast. "The Queen has been expecting you, my lord, she awaits, and I'm sure you and your men would very much like a rest and food,"
"Yes, that would be welcome," Aratan paused. He listened intently. At the edge of his hearing he heard something from the great hall. Chanting, sonorous and continuous, voices blending together as one.
"What is that?" he asked. The herald winced as if to apologize.
"The last songs of Ser Barristan Selmy,"
In a great hall filled with incense and hymns, smoke and prayer intertwining in the air together, the great knight Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold lay upon a stone table. His skin was as pale and cold as marble. His face composed peacefully, almost as if he were merely at rest. All in white had he been clad, the white of the Kingsguard, and white was the shield that rested at his feet, and white was the scabbard of the sword clasped upon his breast. Even in death he seemed not to wear the years of his life upon him, for he still had a look of grace and strength in his limbs. Around him circled seven sisters of the silent order, grey-cloaked and grey-veiled, and to the high roofs of the great hall they raised seven hymns to the seven gods, each flowing into the next without ending.
In silence amongst the smoke, Aratan stood and watched without a word. So serene did Ser Barristan look that if Aratan did not know he would have thought him a son of Numenor who had accepted the Gift of Men in peace. Only the stitched-shut wound on his throat marred the tranquil image.
"Great are the tragedies born in treachery," said a fair voice behind him. Aratan turned and there saw Cersei Lannister, and the beautiful golden queen seemed an incongruous sight amidst the hymns of mourning.
Her dress was black perhaps, yet of the finest silks it was fashioned, and upon it motifs of golden lions. A black wimple was about her head and shoulders, giving her an uncharacteristic modesty. From a golden chain on her chest shone an emerald to match her brilliantly green eyes, yet her gaze was fixed sadly upon Ser Barristan.
"Long were his labours in life, Your Grace, just as your husband's were," said Aratan. "The Gift of Men brings to them much-earned and honoured rest,"
"It is no gift to be cut down by a man you thought you could trust," replied Cersei with a sorrowful shake of her head. "He did not deserve this death, nor did my beloved husband. Gods grant them rest,"
Aratan frowned and said nothing yet. His father often said that silence could draw out what words would not. So it was with Cersei Lannister.
"Robert wished to be sent to Storm's End to sleep in the crypts of his family. He would have found eternal rest amongst the Targaryens beneath his dignity," the Queen said, turning to him with a weak smile.
"Your Grace, what happened here? What treachery took place within these walls?" Aratan said, voice stern and urgent. Within the green depths of Cersei's eyes he saw a flicker of triumph and knew that he had her.
"Yes, yes there is much we must discuss," she said. "But I am sure you are weary from the road, will you not join me for a meal?"
"As you wish, my Queen," Aratan said, bowing his head. She turned in a whirl of skirts and left him.
Aratan looked back to Ser Barristan's cold form, laying calm beyond all care or worry. The flowing songs of the silent sisters went on. No close friend had he been to Selmy, yet he knew the knight to be a faithful and loyal man, respected and love by all who knew him, and he felt plunged into a deep well of sorrow by the passing of the great Kingsguard.
Then the son of Isildur remembered a poem, or perhaps a song he had heard long ago and had not been spoken amongst the men of Gondor for many a long year, poetry out of the dark days ere the Edain came to the west. Words that seemed fitted for the sorrow of the passing of good men. And before he knew what he was doing, he found himself chanting softly aloud amidst the hymns. In the Common Tongue, it ran thus:
"Truly I know not
Why my spirit
Fails to darken
Seeing the whole
Earthly life of men
All the world over,
How swiftly they
Flee the stage,
The proud princes.
So this Middle-earth
Day by day
Darkens and falls:
So no man can call
Himself wise, ere he's aged"
Then quietly he raised a closed hand to his forehead, and then brought it to his lips.
"Be at peace, Barristan Selmy," he whispered.
By crimson-cloaked Lannister guards, Aratan and the housecarls were lead to Maegor's Holdfast. All along the walls above them they saw patrols of goldcloaks and more Lannister men. On every tower and every battlement they were seen. Across the courtyard, the iron-shod doors of the Tower of the Hand were flung open and within them Aratan could see nothing stirring. A single guard stood on the steps and glared at them in passing. A deep silence reigned over the Red Keep, broken only by the clatter of boots on stones.
His pale cloak swallowed up in darkness, Ser Mandon Moore stood on the far end of the drawbridge, a lone wraith. The great iron portcullis of Maegor's Holdfast was raised up into the thick walls of the gatehouse. Beneath them, rows of iron spikes stood like shark's teeth. The Kingsguard regarded them with flat, cold eyes.
"Hail, Aratan Isildurion," the knight said a soft voice. "The Queen awaits you in the royal apartments. Your men may dine in the hall,"
Aratan glanced back at the Dunedain following him. Ohtar grimaced, but Baranor nodded.
"Very well," the Captain replied.
Down narrow corridors and up long, winding stone stairs, Aratan was led by a pair of Lannister guards, deep into the heart of the holdfast. Maegor had built this castle within a castle as a last bastion, a final fastness against a foe that had overthrown the rest of the city, and in its narrow arrow slits and immensely thick walls Aratan could see that it would take a determined foe indeed to come against this place in arms.
He was taken to a washing room first, where basins of warm water and many towels awaited him. After he had hauled off the weight of mail and gambeson and washed himself, a fresh tunic and leggings were provided by a serving girl whose eyes lingered for a moment upon Aratan's chest before she flushed red and hurried away.
With surcoat belted around his waist and sword at his side, he finally came to stand before the Queen's door. In plate and mail, crimson cloaks marked with lion sigils, two men-at-arms flanked the doorway. Beside them stood a knight of the Heirguard, his milky-white plate harness marked by stripes and flowing figures of golden yellow. Fingers drummed upon the pommels of swords, eyes watched him keenly. Their rough faces were unshaven and they had the look of tired men about them.
"Your Grace, Captain Aratan has come," one of the Lannister men-at-arms called through the doorway.
"Enter," the voice of Cersei Lannister answered.
The door opened on the royal family's own private dining chamber. It was a small room, lined with tapestries, and windows opening on the east through which the sea-air drifted. In its centre was a long table, covered in plates and silverware. There was laid out fruits and cheeses, loaves of white bread and a roasted chicken which steamed in the air freshly cooked. Flagons of wine were set out as well. And at the end of the table, resting her chin upon a perfect hand with melancholy green eyes staring out at the sea, was the Queen-Regent of the Eight Kingdoms.
Her wimple had disappeared, and the long soft curls of her hair were brushed over one shoulder, golden against the black silk. The black shawl that accompanied her wimple too had disappeared, exposing the soft skin of her neck and collar bone. The lioness' eyes watched his every step towards the table, cautiously, warily.
"My Queen," Aratan said, clasping his fist upon his chest and bowing his head.
"Sit, good Captain. I know there are many things you wish to ask," Cersai replied.
He sat at her side. A servant wordlessly poured him a goblet of wine, whilst another carved off a leg of chicken onto his plate. When they were done and his plate was laden, the Queen had only to glance at them and the servants disappeared behind another door. As the door closed, Aratan glanced around and realized they are alone.
"What happened here, my Queen? All the servants seem struck by fright," Aratan said.
"It was all so sudden… So unexpected," she said, rubbing her forehead and sighing. She met his gaze, eyes deep pools of sadness.
"My husband, my own beloved Robert, he sickened and passed not long after your father departed. It happened so swiftly it seemed, some evil in his blood. And before Robert's body had even been moved from his deathbed, Lord Stark was accusing our own children of… Of," her voice cracked and she broke off, hiding her face in her hands. She trembled as she sobbed. Gently, Aratan placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she managed, brushing away tears with the back of her wrist "A Queen ought not to cry,"
"It is alright, Your Grace, even a queen may feel sorrow," he replied in a soft voice.
"Oh yes, yes Lord Stark has given me many reasons for sorrow. He swore loyalty to him in life, but as soon as Robert was gone he was accusing me of adultery and… And incest," she spat the last word unwillingly. "He called my son, my own Joffrey, a bastard. And when loyal Ser Barristan tried to defend his new King, Stark murdered him,"
"What!? Ned Stark would do such a thing?" Aratan gasped.
"Oh Ned Stark may be known for his honour, but behind those cold eyes there is only ice, like the ice in his frozen heart," Cersei said, voice bitter with contempt. "But it was not he behind all this. The betrayal is deeper even than that. This was the doing of Stannis,"
"Stannis? But why?" said Aratan.
"He always has been jealous of Robert, covetous of the Throne. It was he and Ned Stark, plotting together against my Joffrey, against Robert's flesh and blood! But Renly and Stannis, the cowards, they slipped away in the confusion of the fighting, leaving their own ally here to do their dirty work. Now they're riding to the Stormlands no doubt, to raise war against their own nephew. Ah Stannis Baratheon, what man is more wretched than a kinslayer?"
She looked at him with eyes full of fear and desperation.
"Some of my councillors even whisper that your father was part of this plot, but I know the men of Gondor to be men of honour, men who keep their oaths,"
"My father is no oathbreaker, Your Grace, nor I," Aratan said steadfastly. He hated lies, but he knew the sort of game he needed to play.
"Your king needs your help Aratan… I need your help," she replied, brushing her hand softly against his forearm.
"My help, Your Grace?" he replied. She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. He smelt a waft of her perfume.
"You are a scion of Numenor, a lord of Gondor, and a great warrior. Joffrey will have need of captains such as you," she said, voice soft. "We have need of a new Marshal,"
Aratan stared back at her and blinked.
"Surely my father, the Hand of the King, ought to make such decisions? Does he even know of this treachery?"
"He is far away, Aratan, who knows what ill chance may beset him upon the road? Captured perhaps? Gods forbid," she shook her head. "My son is Robert's heir but he is a boy still, he needs strength to defend him from his uncles. He needs the strength of Gondor. We… I need a strong captain like you to lean upon,"
She leaned forward even closer to him. He felt her breath hot upon his neck. Her emerald eyes were looking up at him. She was still touching his arm. He took her delicate hands in his rough ones, and then placed hers back upon the table in front of her, gently but firmly. The reproach in his eyes said all that needed to be said.
An enormous silence seemed to fill the room afterwards. The food sat untouched.
"Stannis and Renly abandoned Ned after he had sided with them?" Aratan asked at last.
"Yes, truly there is no honour amongst traitors. They must have fled as soon as they saw the fight turn against them," she replied, too quickly.
"What of the Stark girls?" he continued, fearing what answer he might hear.
"I have taken them under my protection. Their father may rot in the dungeon like the traitor he is, but they are innocents," she replied, her voice an imitation of piety.
When the better part of the food before them had been eaten, Aratan finally excused himself from the Queen's presence. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away. Back, back down the narrow corridors and winding stairs, he retraced his steps towards the gate of the holdfast. In the entrance hall, Aratan found Ohtar and the others awaiting him. The heavy bundle of Aratan's rolled up mail and gambeson were carried beneath Ohtar's arm. With nods and without words, they fell in behind him. The bright sun fell upon their faces as they stepped out of the darkness of the gateway.
"What did you learn?" Ohtar asked, slipping again into Elvish-speech to avoid unfriendly ears. Aratan grimaced, looking around the battlements at the goldcloaks and guardsmen that stood all about. On an impulse, he set off towards the Hand's Tower.
"Someone has told the Queen of what we planned, or she guessed herself, I know not how. Something went ill and she was forced to act. Swords were drawn, blood spilled. Ned is a captive in the dungeons, but where his daughters may be I cannot say," Aratan replied, voice low despite knowing he could not be overheard.
"Are they captive as well?" said Finrod. "We cannot leave them imprisoned!"
"They eluded her grasp I suspect, by some cunning they have slipped through her fingers, for she spoke too quickly and too vaguely of their state," Aratan replied. Crossing over beneath another portcullis, they came to the middle bailey of the Red Keep. The Tower of the Hand stabbed towards the sky before them.
"Why the Tower of the Hand, my lord?" Baranor asked.
"If any sign or hint remains of what occurred, my heart tells me it will be there," said Aratan.
The steps leading up to the door of the tower were stained reddish-brown, the unmistakeable stain of blood. Though Aratan felt the unfriendly eyes of the guards on the walls around them, he saw no guard standing by the door, which still hung open. The only people to be seen around the Hand's tower were a few young servant-boys, armed with buckets and brushes, scrubbing away futilely at the bloodstained stones. Their faces were downcast and grim, too grim for their young age Aratan thought, as the Numenoreans walked by.
As they reached the top of the stairs, they heard a scuffle of boots upon stones from within the tower, and the grunts of men carrying a heavy burden. Panting with exertion, two goldcloaks shuffled out from the doorway. Between them they carried the body of a man, mailed and grey-cloaked with a wolf upon his bloody surcoat. Aratan clenched a fist around his sword hilt and forced a lump in his throat down. Despite the ruin that was his face, he recognized the features of Alyn, one of Ned's guardsmen.
"Still cleaning the wolves out of this pit, milord," said one of the goldcloaks, nodding deferentially to Aratan.
"Of course, carry on," Aratan forced himself to say, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
The Tower of the Hand was in ruins. The halls were bare, deserted, and silent as a graveyard. Braziers had been overturned, their cold grey ashes mixed in with spattered bloodstains upon the stone. Doors on either side of them were pitted and marked, leaving long scars from where they had been struck by sword and axe. Some even were hacked open and hung ajar from their hinges. A tapestry, tattered and torn, lay in a heap upon the floor. The smell that hit their faces as they walked in was overwhelmingly the stench of death. There was no one, guard or servant, Lannister or Stark, to be seen. A creeping feeling stole up Aratan's neck, a feeling of walking where many men had perished.
The sounds of their heavy footfalls breaking the silence upon the floor seemed like the violation of a crypt. Wordlessly the Dunedain walked through the barren tower where, not so long ago, they and all their brother housecarls had dwelt in peace. Everywhere there was desolation. In the dining hall, tables were overturned and charred. The walls were blackened as if by fire. Here and there they saw bodies lying limp, hewn and bloody yet they were not soldiers or guardsmen. Even the servants lay butchered in pools of their own dried blood and were yet unburied. Aratan looked at the faces of his father's housecarls and saw grim sorrow.
They came to the end of a long corridor, sunlight streaming through arrow slits. Against the wall lay a woman, slumped, her grey face cold, and a bloody gash across her neck. Even the slitting of her throat was not as ghastly as the cut upon her shoulders which had left her cloven nearly in two. The remains of her starched skirts and wimple were stained red and brown. There was a sickly smell of decay about her.
"That is their Septa!" said Ohtar, sucking a breath in through clenched teeth. "Even the elders were not spared the sword… Aratan, this is not the doing of men. This is orc-work,"
"Nay, the murder of men is orc-work. This is orc-play," said Ingold darkly.
"If even the old were cut down, what hope is there for the young?" Finrod's eyes were downcast, glum. Baranor was staring at the old woman's corpse, his stony jaw set unmoving, and he said nothing.
"Perhaps we search in vain? Perhaps the Stark girls did not escape?" he said, giving voice to the fear Aratan felt.
Suddenly, faintly, at the edge of their hearing, there was a noise. A scraping sound, like something scratching against stone. It was quiet and distant, yet they could hear it clearly for a brief moment. Then all was silence. They stood, listening, waiting. Again there was the sound of scratching, this time it went on longer and then stopped again.
"This way," said Aratan, and he lead the others in the direction of the sound. To the end of the corridor, up a short flight of stairs and then down another corridor running towards the north face of the tower. Gradually the noise grew louder, clearer, more frequent. It reminded Aratan of nothing so much as nails or claws being scraped against rock.
They came to a door, which unlike many of the doors they had seen so far was not hacked off of its hinges. Again there came the scratching noise, more insistently and repeatedly. Aratan exchanged looks with Ohtar. The squire grimaced and opened the iron handle of the heavy door.
It swung open upon a study chamber. Sunlight poured in through a high window. Dust danced in the light, deceptively peaceful despite the slaughter in the tower outside. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there were richly carved tables and desks. At at one end of the room was a tapestry, upon which a keen-eyed hunter bent a bow with arrow nocked towards some unseen mark. All was quiet.
"Have our ears deceived us?" wondered Ingold aloud. Aratan and the housecarls walked in slowly, staring at the musty shelves of books.
Then the scratch came again, as loudly and clearly as they had yet heard. And with it, barely heard, a faint sound like muffled voices. It was coming from the end of the room, behind the wall hanging.
"Whatever it is, it's coming from behind there," said Aratan, approaching the tapestry.
He grabbed the coloured cloth and, with a regretful pang for its beautiful worksmanship, pulled it down. A bare grey wall confronted him, yet behind it he could hear the sounds, nearly imperceptible behind the heavy masonry. Placing his hands flat against the cool stones, he ran his touch lightly along them, feeling for some joint or crack, anything. There was nothing.
Baranor approached. Grimacing, he leaned up against the wall and pressed an ear to it.
"Whatever that noise is, it is coming from behind here," the ranger said.
Then Aratan's finger caught on something. A gap. A small alcove, cunningly cut out and hidden amidst a rougher patch of the stone work. He reached into it. Aratan felt a rusty metal handle within. He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Ohtar, who nodded back at him. With a deep jarring jolt, the handle turned.
Only the lightest of tugs was required, and where once a stone wall stood, now a stone door swung open noiselessly.
Behind was a dank passage, man-high, as dark as a patch of midnight that had never seen the sun. Nothing could be seen within its black depths. The light of the window could only barely penetrate the gloom. What the passage was for or where it ran too could not be guessed. The noises had disappeared.
Then from within the shadows, there came a deep, rolling growl. The sound raised the hairs on the back of Aratan's neck. He set a hand upon his sword hilt and took a step forward into the passage.
In one swift second, a great grey shape lunged out of the blackness. Golden eyes flashed! Fangs white as snow gnashed! Jaws snapped! A snarl to freeze blood tore from the beast's throat. Grey hackles bristled upon the creature's back. The cacophonous sound of its barking filled the halls.
The housecarls stepped back before the wolf, but Aratan was undaunted. Swiftly he drew forth his sword and held it before him, spreading his feet apart.
If wolf it was, it was greater than any other wolf he had ever seen, as big as the largest hunting hound, with longer legs and a fiercer jaw. It bared teeth like daggers. Its eyes shone hungrily.
"Lady! Here!" called a voice from the depths of the passage.
Out of the dark stepped a young child. Her clothes were unwashed and her face dirty, and her hair unkempt and wild. Her eyes were weary, but in her hand was a slender blade and she stepped forward with head held defiantly. But as her gaze met Aratan's, Arya Stark gasped and nearly dropped her sword, fumbling to keep it in her tiny hand. Behind him, the Numenorean heard his kin whisper to each other.
"Sansa! Sansa!" Arya called back in the shadows loudly.
"Bar the door Ohtar, quickly" Aratan said in a low voice. The shield-bearer nodded and grabbed a chair from a nearby table.
Sansa Stark emerged next to her sister. Her dress was ragged and ripped in places, her face pale and dirty. Her eyes were wide and stared in terror at Aratan's drawn sword. Noticing this, he quickly sheathed the blade. Lady relaxed and sat down upon her haunches, but her ears were still pricked up and she watched the men alertly. The girls both looked as if they had not eaten for some days.
Into the gaping silence between them, Sansa curtsied as well as she could and said: "Hail, Ser Aratan,"
Immediately they both rushed upon him. He had never felt as close to the Stark children as his father had been, yet perhaps because he was the first friendly face they had seen after days and nights of terror, Aratan found both Stark girls throwing their arms around him tightly and weeping into his chest. Their thin shoulders shook and heaved and the tears came freely.
"Shh, shh, there there. Fear not, the night has passed," he said, feeling unsure of himself and his words.
For a long moment, he simply stood there and let them cry into his surcoat.
"They're-they're-they're all d-dead!" Arya said at last, choking on her words.
"Who?" asked Ingold.
"Jory… Alyn… Poor Vayon Poole… Septa Mordane… Porther… All of them. Even F-F-F" Sansa sobbed on the last word, unwilling to speak it. "Even Father," she said at last.
"No!" Arya snarled fiercely, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of a hand. "Father's not dead! He can't be! I know he's not!"
Aratan drew the two girls off of him and knelt down to look them both in the eyes in turn. He held them by their shoulders with each hand.
"Sansa, Arya, your father lives," he told them. Sansa's hands flew to her mouth, and their eyes shone with unshed tears of happiness.
"Truly?" Sansa exclaimed. "Can we see him?"
"Can we go to him? Is it over? What has happened" Arya asked in rapid succession.
"He has been taken captive," Aratan replied in a gentle, calm voice. "It is not safe for you in the Red Keep, or for your father. But I promise you, as a man of Gondor and as your father's friend, I will deliver you and him from this place. The Queen shall not have you, I swear it,"
"Noble words my lord, but how are we to do this thing?" asked Baranor with a grimace.
"Aye, I share our kinsman's confusion," said Ohtar, returning from the door. He had wedged a chair against the door handle firmly. "We are alone, and a host of guards shall descend on us the moment we step forth with these girls,"
"What are they saying?" Sansa whispered.
"I don't know, I never learned this much," Arya whispered back.
Aratan sent Finrod to scrounge what he could from the tower's kitchens and larders for a meal for the two girls. Whilst he was gone, the rest fell into debate on their next course of action.
"Perhaps we might find some rope and lower ourselves off the battlements to the beach below?" suggested Ingold.
"Too many unfriendly eyes are watching. We would be spotted, sure as death, and someone would cut the rope and send us plummeting," replied Baranor. Ohtar was scratching at one of his scars on his right cheek.
"A disguise then? We might dress the girls in the garb of servants and send them right out the front gate," the old shieldbearer thought aloud.
"If the whole castle was not so watchful, that might work, but I fear it may not now. We need to remember Eddard as well. We cannot leave him behind or this whole errand will be in vain," said Aratan in a grim voice.
"What are you saying? I can't understand!" protested Arya. She stood with arms crossed, her slender sword thrust through the belt of her dress.
"Arya, don't interrupt," Sansa said. Lady was sitting at Sansa's feet, rubbing her great head against her master's leg.
"Ned must be in the black cells, I can think of no other place where the Queen would send him for accused treason," said Ohtar.
"My father has been labouring long to stop the Lannisters for plunging the land into war, but with Ned held captive the Northmen might give them the war Tywin desires. He must get free of this place," replied Aratan, rubbing his brow. "Even if we could get to him, I cannot think of a way out,"
"Out?" repeated Arya. She had understood that much. She paused for a moment, then a bright look came into her face. "I know a way out!" she exclaimed.
They fell silent and, as one, turned towards the young Stark girl.
"Arya, you know a way out?" Aratan asked. She nodded frantically.
"A secret way?" said Baranor. She nodded again.
"Where?" said Aratan. Arya pointed back into the darkened passage behind them.
"It's down there, you go down this passage, and then down a spiral stair, and down some more, and then you come to a big room full of dragon skulls, that's where I saw them last time, I think one of them was a wizard, but they came from a door on the other side of the dragon skulls, covered by a sort of iron grate, and it goes down another staircase to this stinky water that I thought was a river but really is a sewer, and that comes out on the river outside!" she said in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe.
"Wizard?" repeated Baranor in confusion.
"Dragon skulls?" said Ingold.
"Arya, this is no time for stupid games! This is serious!" said Sansa in a scolding tone.
"This isn't a game! There really is a way out!" Arya said.
"Why didn't you take it before?" asked Ohtar. Arya stared at her feet and put her hands behind her back.
"I didn't want to leave without… Without knowing what happened to my father," she said quietly.
"Arya," said Aratan, looking at the child gravely. "How do you know of this?"
"I found it while chasing cats for Syrio," Arya replied, her voice embarrassed. Syrio Forel, Ned had told Aratan about his daughter's Braavosi swordmaster and his unique methods.
Aratan stared down in the dark depths of the passage. A plan was beginning to form in his head. The more he thought of it, the more foolish and mad it seemed, but it also seemed to be their only chance. He turned around. Ohtar and the other housecarls were looking at him expectantly.
"Baranor, Ned will need to borrow your cloak," Aratan said, and he grinned.
King's Landing
"By order of the Queen Regent, Aratan Isildurion, Captain of the King's Host, is summoned to attend court at the Red Keep by no later than noon tomorrow," Ohtar read aloud from a long parchment scroll in his hands. He snorted a sound of disgust then crumpled the letter in his hands.
"That is a trap if ever I saw one," said Ohtar.
Aratan crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed in thought. The two of them stood in his pavilion, surrounded by walls of coloured canvas. A half-eaten lunch was spread on the table. Aratan was clad only in tunic and trousers, but Ohtar was already in mail and surcoat, sword and dagger at his side.
"You're not seriously thinking of going there, are you?" the scarred old squire asked.
"We still don't know what happened to Ned… Or to his daughters," Aratan replied darkly.
It had been days, nearly a week, since they had last had word of the Lord of Winterfell. The only news that came to the camp of the King's Host was brought in the form of the rumours that swirled wildly up the roads from King's Landing.
Some whispered that Lord Stark had murdered the King and tried to take his throne. Others said that Lord Stark had assaulted and killed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard after Ser Barristan had caught Eddard poisoning the King to death. Others claimed that Lord Stark had abducted the royal children only to be caught by the Queen's men. Some whispered that Lord Stark was dead, others that that he was captive, and still others said he had escaped and would return to the south with thirty thousand bloodthirsty northmen riding wolves. The only thing in common between the fanciful tales was that something had happened in the Red Keep and Ned had been involved, beyond that Aratan and the whole Host knew nothing. It was not a situation he was pleased with, and for days he had stewed in frustrating inactivity, his heart full of turmoil.
"If you go to that keep, you can't be certain whether or not you'll come back out again," Ohtar warned him.
"Ohtar, if Ned or his daughters are in peril, how can I stand by and do nothing?" replied Aratan.
"I'm not saying do nothing lad, I'm saying don't be foolish about this. She summons you to court, then go to court. Go with the Host at your back," Ohtar said.
"Do you think the Host would march for me? They swore to defend the King, not to overthrow him," Aratan shook his head.
"That child may sit the throne but he is no king yet. The Host loves you, and Lord Stark too. If you asked it of them, they would march for you," Ohtar insisted.
"Even if they did Ohtar, we haven't the supplies or the numbers to hold a siege if the goldcloaks barred our way, and a sudden assault on the capital itself would be all the proof the Lannisters need to tar us as traitors to the Realm in the eyes of the other houses. And who could say what the Queen would do to Ned or the girls if we brought an armed host to her door?" replied Aratan, frowning. There was something unpredictable about Cersei Lannister, something volatile. Who could say what a desperate lioness was capable of when cornered?
"This requires more… Subtle means. How many of our kin remain here?" the son of Isildur asked.
"Counting us, there's five. Ingold, Finrod and Baranor stayed behind as well. Your father took the better part of the housecarls, and Mablung took some of us on his errand as well," Ohtar answered.
"Five," Aratan said with a thoughtful frown. "Five men may yet be able to accomplish what a host could not,"
"What do you plan to do?"
I wish Elendur were here. He would know better than I, Aratan thought. He yearned for his brothers dearly in that moment. His missed Elendur's counsel, he missed Ciryon's laughter, he missed his treks with Valandil and the sound of his brothers singing beneath the leaves of Ithilien.
The son of Isildur was silent in thought for a long time, then he spoke.
"Send Ser Klargus to me, and gather up our folk after that. I would speak to them,"
"As you will, lad," Ohtar nodded.
Ser Klargus Monfort was a tall, broad man who, despite being a few inches shorter than Aratan, seemed to fill up the tent with his great bulk when he shouldered his way past the flap. Dark brown eyes were set deep beneath a rocky forehead decorated with bushy grey eyebrows. The eyebrows were the only hair left upon his features, for Ser Klargus had left his face and head alike shaved smooth to the skin. Scars criss-crossed his cheeks and part of his left ear was missing from some old wound taken in battle. He was a battered old hedge-knight, but he brought a deep well of experience in war-making to the Host and the men found a confidence in his size and silence, making him one of the leading captains of the Host. His sigil, a badger brandishing a spear, was worked in black and silver thread upon the breast of his tunic.
"My lord, what is your command?" the old knight asked, clasping his hand upon his chest and bowing his head in the Numenorean fashion. Aratan smiled. Ser Klargus had visited Pelargir in his youth, or so he said, and knew something of the ways of the Dunedain.
"Always straight to the business of the day, eh Ser Klargus?" Aratan said teasingly.
"Nothing is gained by beating around the bush, my lord," Klargus replied.
"I am summoned to attend court in the city by the Queen," he paused for a second, a strange uneasy feeling coming to him as he spoke "Regent. I need you to see to matters here whilst I am away,"
"Of course, my lord. Are we still to move up to the God's Eye?" Ser Klargus asked.
"Make your preparations, but don't march until I've returned. I hope that this errand shan't keep me long," Aratan said.
When Ser Klargus had left, Ohtar poked his head through the tent flap.
"I've got the lads out here, Aratan, waiting for you,"
Stepping out of his tent into the grey light of an overcast day, Aratan saw them standing in a silent line, all in black mail and surcoats just as Ohtar was. They stood still and solemn as statues in stone, hands behind their backs. Isildur's shieldbearer stood to the side with crossed arms. The three Numenoreans had the look of Andunie about them: Pale, somber faces beneath dark locks of hair, and keen grey eyes regarding him quietly.
Every lord of the Eight Kingdoms had his own household guard, their own group of men-at-arms and retainers who, for pay or loyalty or both, defended the lives and honour of his lord and his lord's house. Livery men, some called them, for they wore their lordships' sigils. But Aratan's father was not an Andal, he was Isildur of Numenor, and his ways were older ways. His men were no mere household guard, they were housecarls.
Their lives were sworn to Isildur's, and his life was sworn to theirs. His hall was their home, his food and drink were theirs, and his family was their family. By ancient custom and by oaths and bonds of friendship, he would never leave a field of battle before them nor would they before him. Aratan had been raised amongst these men. He remembered Mablung showing him how to fish in the Sirhun, he recalled how Huor had laughed the first time Aratan had drawn a bow and sent his arrow flying yards from the mark, he remembered Ohtar berating Ciryon when his brother failed to take their exercises at arms seriously. A hundred housecarls were sworn in life and death to Isildur, and there was hardly a man amongst them who Aratan had not shared a cup of wine, not shared laughter, not shared a bond.
"Kinsmen," Aratan said, his gaze scanning their faces. He knew them all well. Ingold was the oldest, a greyhair who had been on the same ship as Aratan's father when their prows had scraped up onto the shores of Westeros. Baranor had the look of a ranger about him, lean and almost as weathered as Mablung. Many a hunt had he accompanied Aratan upon and many times had they carried boar and deer back to Minas Ithil together. Finrod was the youngest, a stocky, well-built man with a merry glint in his eye who, despite being a wrestler of prodigious skill, was marked out by his gentleness and love of things that grew in the earth.
How can I ask them to go with me on this errand? To go into danger of death not on the battlefield, but of daggers in the dark? He thought miserably, wishing he had Elendur's eloquence with words. He slipped easily into the Sindarin tongue, for he knew that none in the camp but his people would overhear what he had to say.
"There is something I must ask of you, my brothers, but I am not my father. No oaths do you owe to me. If you decline to follow me now, no dishonour shall stain you, and neither I nor anyone shall think any worse of you. It is a dangerous task that may lie before me," he told them, voice calm and level, with no exaggeration nor dramatics.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow was cawing out its hungry song. There was the sound of a master-at-arms bellowing commands and the tramping feet of a column of soldiers doing drill. Above the tents and halls, rows of pikes swayed to and fro as the men drilled.
"There has been no word of Lord Stark, nothing. Now I am summoned to court by the Queen and I fear what I may find there. If Ned or his family are in danger, I cannot simply stand aside. I must act. Were I in peril, I know he would do the same for myself and my kin. I must go into the Red Keep and find out what has befallen the Starks. I do not ask you to accompany me, for the risks may be great, I leave that choice to you," Aratan said, looking each of them in the eyes in turn.
The housecarls glanced amongst themselves briefly. Ingold stepped forward. Though there were streaks of silver and grey in his hair, he was still broad-shouldered and corded with muscle. He clapped a weathered hand onto Aratan's shoulder.
"You're the son of our lord, Aratan. No housecarl am I if I do not watch out for you just as I watch out for your father," Ingold said. He turned to the others.
"I go with him,"
Finrod grinned and stepped forward next.
"Good master Ingold, you speak better than I could have!" the younger housecarl said. "I go with you as well, Lord Aratan. No man shall call me coward,"
"My brothers have said all that needs be said. Whatever task you face, Aratan, I will see it done," Baranor said quietly, a hard glint in his eyes but a small smile on his face.
"Good people!" Aratan cried out suddenly, feeling overwhelmed. "You are kinsmen in truth as well as in oath! At hall or upon the field, no better companions could a man ask for!"
Despite himself and despite all the uncertainty that still remain, a wild hope sprung up within him. Aratan reached out and grasped Ingold and Finrod by the shoulders, grinning broadly.
"I shall ready the baggage," Ohtar said, wearing the pleased expression of one who sees something happen exactly as expected.
In the early morning they rose to depart. A chill lay upon the encampment, brought by cold breezes blowing from the north. Fog lay upon the fields all about them. The sentries upon the palisade stood, cloaks wrapped tight about them, unclear forms looming in the haze. The sun, a red ball of fire, flamed out of the thickening dark mists in the east and sent rays of light piercing the gloom.
The horses nickered to each other softly as Aratan and the others walked out of their tents, rubbing sleep from their eyes groggily. Ohtar was already up and about, securing bags upon the six horses that swished their tails and shivered in the cool morning air. Saddle leather creaked and somewhere a bird was singing tentatively.
The housecarls were dark shapes in the morning half-light, for each wore their coat of mail, and each was girt with sword at their sides, and each was wrapped in his grey cloak. Bucklers hung from Baranor and Ingold's belts where the others wore daggers. In the same fashion was Aratan dressed as he stepped forward to join them, snugging a belt around his waist and feeling the familiar weight of mail on his shoulders relieve and spread to his hips. The white tree of Gondor flowered on the chest of each man's surcoat, surmounted by silver stars and the white crescent moon that was for Ithilien. The same sigil was blazoned on the banner Ohtar bore, at the moment wrapped up about the stout spear shaft it was carried upon.
They did not need a command to mount. Each of them sprang up into the saddle at the sight of Aratan coming towards them, then reined their horses around and awaited the son of Isildur. Ohtar rested the banner's staff upon his stirrup. Waverunner, Aratan's courser, looked at his master with patient eyes. He vaulted up into the saddle smoothly, unencumbered despite the mail he wore, and gave the chestnut horse an affectionate slap on the neck.
There was no word to ride away. They did not need it. With the smiles of old friends, they gently nudged their mounts into a trot towards the south gate of the camp. In a column, two by two, they rode through the morning mists, down long lanes of tents and wooden halls. With fair voices, the housecarls began to sing. The camp was awakening, and the soldiers of the King's Host were stepping shivering into the chill air. Yet wherever the housecarls rode, men stopped what they were doing and watched them with wondering faces.
"Truly the Men of Gondor are marvelous folk, as the tales say," some whispered.
For though nobles and knights had been seen by nearly all, none with the lordliness and the presence and the gleaming eyes of Aratan son of Isildur and the housecarls of his father. Wherever they rode, men were heartened at the sight of them and smiled at the sound of their songs, and a few even began to sing songs of their own after the Numenoreans had passed. And some whispered that the housecarls were no mere bodyguards or hired blades but rather lords and princes of Gondor in their own right.
"Good morning Captain! Off to the city?" asked the gate sentry, grinning and leaning on his halberd, when the company rode past him in file, shod hooves thumping on the wooden bridge above the ditch.
"Aye Tomard, a fine morning for a ride it is. I'll be back in a few days! No mischief whilst I am gone!" Aratan called back, turning around in the saddle and grinning back at the sentry.
In the open fields beyond the palisade, they pressed their horses onto a swift canter. Ohtar unfurled the banner and let the white tree fly in the breeze. Soon the sprawling, stinking encampment had disappeared amongst the trees and hills behind them and they rode in high spirits but great haste south and west, following the now familiar road to King's Landing.
Sometimes cantering and sometimes trotting, but always making the greatest speed possible, they passed through sleepy villages and amongst small farmsteads, a wind amongst the wheat. Smallfolk, men and women and babes in arms, watched the passage of the Numenoreans with wide, awed eyes.
The sun was climbing into the sky, burning off the morning fog with its heat, when finally the city appeared before them. It was not King's Landing, vast and filthy as always, that held Aratan's blue-grey eyes. It was the sea. Dark and windswept, Blackwater Bay glinted and gleamed and a faint enticing salt-tang was in the air. Aratan wished for nothing more in that moment than to go to the sea, to hear the songs of the seabirds, to feel the tiller in his hands, and the thrill in his heart steering a ship under full sail soaring upon the waves.
But their road did not lead to the Sea this day. Tearing his eyes away from it, Aratan looked at the Red Keep, which sat on Aegon's High Hill like a hunched beast upon a rock. He frowned at the sight of it.
What awaits us behind those walls and towers? Where are you Ned? He wondered with an unquiet heart.
As the Numenoreans trotted down towards the Old Gate, the massive walls growing nearer with every pace, the company rode amidst the steady trickle of people traveling to King's Landing. Along the dusty road they tramped, hard-faced men and somber women with babes in arms, even whole families traveling by cart or foot. Many tales did they hear before they had even crossed the gate.
"Eight villages in the west 'ave been burned already, and it's only beginnin'…"
"Lord Isildur is ridin' to arrest Lord Lannister hisself!"
"'Ee got cut down I hear. My cousin's kin saw him with an arrow in 'is back,"
"Fool's words that is. Ain't no man alive can lay a hand on Lord Isildur,"
"No man alive maybe, but arrows ain't give a care how highborn yer are,"
"'Ee's 'ard and wicked, and don't hold with our gods. Good riddance before he ruined us all,"
Beneath the shadow of the gaping Old Gate, Aratan rode and brooded upon the tidings he had heard. River-folk they were, by their speech. It did not hearten him. A bored-looked goldcloak snapped up in a rustle of mail rings as he spotted the banner of Isildur's son.
"Make way!" the guard cried out to the crowds within the walls "Make way for Captain Aratan!"
The streets were full of people, refugees and city-dwellers alike, and though the Dunedain rode without speaking they were surrounded by talk. They were a calm island in a sea of rumours and hearsay. Some cried out for Lord Stark's head, saying he had murdered King Robert. Others whispered that Ned and Isildur were in communion with wild old gods and had come with nefarious designs upon the Sept of Baelor. Some said Lord Stark was dead, some said he had escaped, others than he was imprisoned, still others that he was somewhere in the castle plotting his next move. Others still spoke of Isildur in the Riverlands, arresting Tywin Lannister or slaying Gregor Clegane in single combat or being slain in turn, there was no one story to tell.
Then at last they fetched up upon the slopes of Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep awaited them with infinite patience upon its summit. Atop the battlements of its colossal walls, there was a glint of helmets and halberds. The black stag of Baratheon pranced still on its golden field above the gatehouse.
"Many tales are being told of what has happened within," Ohtar remarked quietly. The cobbled road snaked back and forth along the shoulders and slopes of the hill, cutting one way then back again, and the towers peered down upon them the whole way. Aratan could easily imagine the thick fall of arrow and dart upon any assailant up this road.
"Many tales, aye, but how much truth?" he replied.
They did not need to challenge the sentries. With a creaking groan, the portcullis raised up for them in a manner to make one feel expected. His face composed in an expressionless mask, Aratan spurred Waverunner into a trot once more.
The whole bailey clattered with the sounds of their arrival, of shod hooves on cobblestones. They reined their horses to a halt in the centre of the courtyard. All was silence. On the battlements all around them, they saw scattered bands of goldcloaks with spears in hand and armed men in the red cloaks of the Lannisters. Stark grey was nowhere to be seen. Unfriendly eyes looked down at them.
A troop of stablehands took their horses by the reins as soon as they dismounted. The housecarls stood close behind Aratan. Hands rested on the pommels of swords. There was something in the air to raise the hair on a man's neck. Suddenly Waverunner wildly whinnied as he was led away, craning his neck back to peer at his master.
"Go on my friend, I shan't be long!" Aratan called over, but his smile did not reassure the horse and again it whinnied and shied away from the groom leading it. The courser filled the courtyard with commotion ere he was brought to the stables.
Then from the direction of Maegor's Holdfast, came scurrying a herald dressed in the black of mourning. The voluminous empty sleeves of his gardecorps swung like pendulums with his every step. He smiled anxiously at the sight of the Dunedain and wrung his hands together. He looked pallid as a plucked bird.
"My lord," the herald said in a thin voice, bowing with a flourish. "It is very good that you have come, my lord, yes very good, very good indeed, to have arrived so promptly"
"Speak herald, what has happened?"
"Much… Much has happened, my lord, and much there is still to do, yes it is very good you are here," the herald said with a nervous chuckle. He gestured towards the Holdfast. "The Queen has been expecting you, my lord, she awaits, and I'm sure you and your men would very much like a rest and food,"
"Yes, that would be welcome," Aratan paused. He listened intently. At the edge of his hearing he heard something from the great hall. Chanting, sonorous and continuous, voices blending together as one.
"What is that?" he asked. The herald winced as if to apologize.
"The last songs of Ser Barristan Selmy,"
In a great hall filled with incense and hymns, smoke and prayer intertwining in the air together, the great knight Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold lay upon a stone table. His skin was as pale and cold as marble. His face composed peacefully, almost as if he were merely at rest. All in white had he been clad, the white of the Kingsguard, and white was the shield that rested at his feet, and white was the scabbard of the sword clasped upon his breast. Even in death he seemed not to wear the years of his life upon him, for he still had a look of grace and strength in his limbs. Around him circled seven sisters of the silent order, grey-cloaked and grey-veiled, and to the high roofs of the great hall they raised seven hymns to the seven gods, each flowing into the next without ending.
In silence amongst the smoke, Aratan stood and watched without a word. So serene did Ser Barristan look that if Aratan did not know he would have thought him a son of Numenor who had accepted the Gift of Men in peace. Only the stitched-shut wound on his throat marred the tranquil image.
"Great are the tragedies born in treachery," said a fair voice behind him. Aratan turned and there saw Cersei Lannister, and the beautiful golden queen seemed an incongruous sight amidst the hymns of mourning.
Her dress was black perhaps, yet of the finest silks it was fashioned, and upon it motifs of golden lions. A black wimple was about her head and shoulders, giving her an uncharacteristic modesty. From a golden chain on her chest shone an emerald to match her brilliantly green eyes, yet her gaze was fixed sadly upon Ser Barristan.
"Long were his labours in life, Your Grace, just as your husband's were," said Aratan. "The Gift of Men brings to them much-earned and honoured rest,"
"It is no gift to be cut down by a man you thought you could trust," replied Cersei with a sorrowful shake of her head. "He did not deserve this death, nor did my beloved husband. Gods grant them rest,"
Aratan frowned and said nothing yet. His father often said that silence could draw out what words would not. So it was with Cersei Lannister.
"Robert wished to be sent to Storm's End to sleep in the crypts of his family. He would have found eternal rest amongst the Targaryens beneath his dignity," the Queen said, turning to him with a weak smile.
"Your Grace, what happened here? What treachery took place within these walls?" Aratan said, voice stern and urgent. Within the green depths of Cersei's eyes he saw a flicker of triumph and knew that he had her.
"Yes, yes there is much we must discuss," she said. "But I am sure you are weary from the road, will you not join me for a meal?"
"As you wish, my Queen," Aratan said, bowing his head. She turned in a whirl of skirts and left him.
Aratan looked back to Ser Barristan's cold form, laying calm beyond all care or worry. The flowing songs of the silent sisters went on. No close friend had he been to Selmy, yet he knew the knight to be a faithful and loyal man, respected and love by all who knew him, and he felt plunged into a deep well of sorrow by the passing of the great Kingsguard.
Then the son of Isildur remembered a poem, or perhaps a song he had heard long ago and had not been spoken amongst the men of Gondor for many a long year, poetry out of the dark days ere the Edain came to the west. Words that seemed fitted for the sorrow of the passing of good men. And before he knew what he was doing, he found himself chanting softly aloud amidst the hymns. In the Common Tongue, it ran thus:
"Truly I know not
Why my spirit
Fails to darken
Seeing the whole
Earthly life of men
All the world over,
How swiftly they
Flee the stage,
The proud princes.
So this Middle-earth
Day by day
Darkens and falls:
So no man can call
Himself wise, ere he's aged"
Then quietly he raised a closed hand to his forehead, and then brought it to his lips.
"Be at peace, Barristan Selmy," he whispered.
By crimson-cloaked Lannister guards, Aratan and the housecarls were lead to Maegor's Holdfast. All along the walls above them they saw patrols of goldcloaks and more Lannister men. On every tower and every battlement they were seen. Across the courtyard, the iron-shod doors of the Tower of the Hand were flung open and within them Aratan could see nothing stirring. A single guard stood on the steps and glared at them in passing. A deep silence reigned over the Red Keep, broken only by the clatter of boots on stones.
His pale cloak swallowed up in darkness, Ser Mandon Moore stood on the far end of the drawbridge, a lone wraith. The great iron portcullis of Maegor's Holdfast was raised up into the thick walls of the gatehouse. Beneath them, rows of iron spikes stood like shark's teeth. The Kingsguard regarded them with flat, cold eyes.
"Hail, Aratan Isildurion," the knight said a soft voice. "The Queen awaits you in the royal apartments. Your men may dine in the hall,"
Aratan glanced back at the Dunedain following him. Ohtar grimaced, but Baranor nodded.
"Very well," the Captain replied.
Down narrow corridors and up long, winding stone stairs, Aratan was led by a pair of Lannister guards, deep into the heart of the holdfast. Maegor had built this castle within a castle as a last bastion, a final fastness against a foe that had overthrown the rest of the city, and in its narrow arrow slits and immensely thick walls Aratan could see that it would take a determined foe indeed to come against this place in arms.
He was taken to a washing room first, where basins of warm water and many towels awaited him. After he had hauled off the weight of mail and gambeson and washed himself, a fresh tunic and leggings were provided by a serving girl whose eyes lingered for a moment upon Aratan's chest before she flushed red and hurried away.
With surcoat belted around his waist and sword at his side, he finally came to stand before the Queen's door. In plate and mail, crimson cloaks marked with lion sigils, two men-at-arms flanked the doorway. Beside them stood a knight of the Heirguard, his milky-white plate harness marked by stripes and flowing figures of golden yellow. Fingers drummed upon the pommels of swords, eyes watched him keenly. Their rough faces were unshaven and they had the look of tired men about them.
"Your Grace, Captain Aratan has come," one of the Lannister men-at-arms called through the doorway.
"Enter," the voice of Cersei Lannister answered.
The door opened on the royal family's own private dining chamber. It was a small room, lined with tapestries, and windows opening on the east through which the sea-air drifted. In its centre was a long table, covered in plates and silverware. There was laid out fruits and cheeses, loaves of white bread and a roasted chicken which steamed in the air freshly cooked. Flagons of wine were set out as well. And at the end of the table, resting her chin upon a perfect hand with melancholy green eyes staring out at the sea, was the Queen-Regent of the Eight Kingdoms.
Her wimple had disappeared, and the long soft curls of her hair were brushed over one shoulder, golden against the black silk. The black shawl that accompanied her wimple too had disappeared, exposing the soft skin of her neck and collar bone. The lioness' eyes watched his every step towards the table, cautiously, warily.
"My Queen," Aratan said, clasping his fist upon his chest and bowing his head.
"Sit, good Captain. I know there are many things you wish to ask," Cersai replied.
He sat at her side. A servant wordlessly poured him a goblet of wine, whilst another carved off a leg of chicken onto his plate. When they were done and his plate was laden, the Queen had only to glance at them and the servants disappeared behind another door. As the door closed, Aratan glanced around and realized they are alone.
"What happened here, my Queen? All the servants seem struck by fright," Aratan said.
"It was all so sudden… So unexpected," she said, rubbing her forehead and sighing. She met his gaze, eyes deep pools of sadness.
"My husband, my own beloved Robert, he sickened and passed not long after your father departed. It happened so swiftly it seemed, some evil in his blood. And before Robert's body had even been moved from his deathbed, Lord Stark was accusing our own children of… Of," her voice cracked and she broke off, hiding her face in her hands. She trembled as she sobbed. Gently, Aratan placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she managed, brushing away tears with the back of her wrist "A Queen ought not to cry,"
"It is alright, Your Grace, even a queen may feel sorrow," he replied in a soft voice.
"Oh yes, yes Lord Stark has given me many reasons for sorrow. He swore loyalty to him in life, but as soon as Robert was gone he was accusing me of adultery and… And incest," she spat the last word unwillingly. "He called my son, my own Joffrey, a bastard. And when loyal Ser Barristan tried to defend his new King, Stark murdered him,"
"What!? Ned Stark would do such a thing?" Aratan gasped.
"Oh Ned Stark may be known for his honour, but behind those cold eyes there is only ice, like the ice in his frozen heart," Cersei said, voice bitter with contempt. "But it was not he behind all this. The betrayal is deeper even than that. This was the doing of Stannis,"
"Stannis? But why?" said Aratan.
"He always has been jealous of Robert, covetous of the Throne. It was he and Ned Stark, plotting together against my Joffrey, against Robert's flesh and blood! But Renly and Stannis, the cowards, they slipped away in the confusion of the fighting, leaving their own ally here to do their dirty work. Now they're riding to the Stormlands no doubt, to raise war against their own nephew. Ah Stannis Baratheon, what man is more wretched than a kinslayer?"
She looked at him with eyes full of fear and desperation.
"Some of my councillors even whisper that your father was part of this plot, but I know the men of Gondor to be men of honour, men who keep their oaths,"
"My father is no oathbreaker, Your Grace, nor I," Aratan said steadfastly. He hated lies, but he knew the sort of game he needed to play.
"Your king needs your help Aratan… I need your help," she replied, brushing her hand softly against his forearm.
"My help, Your Grace?" he replied. She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. He smelt a waft of her perfume.
"You are a scion of Numenor, a lord of Gondor, and a great warrior. Joffrey will have need of captains such as you," she said, voice soft. "We have need of a new Marshal,"
Aratan stared back at her and blinked.
"Surely my father, the Hand of the King, ought to make such decisions? Does he even know of this treachery?"
"He is far away, Aratan, who knows what ill chance may beset him upon the road? Captured perhaps? Gods forbid," she shook her head. "My son is Robert's heir but he is a boy still, he needs strength to defend him from his uncles. He needs the strength of Gondor. We… I need a strong captain like you to lean upon,"
She leaned forward even closer to him. He felt her breath hot upon his neck. Her emerald eyes were looking up at him. She was still touching his arm. He took her delicate hands in his rough ones, and then placed hers back upon the table in front of her, gently but firmly. The reproach in his eyes said all that needed to be said.
An enormous silence seemed to fill the room afterwards. The food sat untouched.
"Stannis and Renly abandoned Ned after he had sided with them?" Aratan asked at last.
"Yes, truly there is no honour amongst traitors. They must have fled as soon as they saw the fight turn against them," she replied, too quickly.
"What of the Stark girls?" he continued, fearing what answer he might hear.
"I have taken them under my protection. Their father may rot in the dungeon like the traitor he is, but they are innocents," she replied, her voice an imitation of piety.
When the better part of the food before them had been eaten, Aratan finally excused himself from the Queen's presence. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away. Back, back down the narrow corridors and winding stairs, he retraced his steps towards the gate of the holdfast. In the entrance hall, Aratan found Ohtar and the others awaiting him. The heavy bundle of Aratan's rolled up mail and gambeson were carried beneath Ohtar's arm. With nods and without words, they fell in behind him. The bright sun fell upon their faces as they stepped out of the darkness of the gateway.
"What did you learn?" Ohtar asked, slipping again into Elvish-speech to avoid unfriendly ears. Aratan grimaced, looking around the battlements at the goldcloaks and guardsmen that stood all about. On an impulse, he set off towards the Hand's Tower.
"Someone has told the Queen of what we planned, or she guessed herself, I know not how. Something went ill and she was forced to act. Swords were drawn, blood spilled. Ned is a captive in the dungeons, but where his daughters may be I cannot say," Aratan replied, voice low despite knowing he could not be overheard.
"Are they captive as well?" said Finrod. "We cannot leave them imprisoned!"
"They eluded her grasp I suspect, by some cunning they have slipped through her fingers, for she spoke too quickly and too vaguely of their state," Aratan replied. Crossing over beneath another portcullis, they came to the middle bailey of the Red Keep. The Tower of the Hand stabbed towards the sky before them.
"Why the Tower of the Hand, my lord?" Baranor asked.
"If any sign or hint remains of what occurred, my heart tells me it will be there," said Aratan.
The steps leading up to the door of the tower were stained reddish-brown, the unmistakeable stain of blood. Though Aratan felt the unfriendly eyes of the guards on the walls around them, he saw no guard standing by the door, which still hung open. The only people to be seen around the Hand's tower were a few young servant-boys, armed with buckets and brushes, scrubbing away futilely at the bloodstained stones. Their faces were downcast and grim, too grim for their young age Aratan thought, as the Numenoreans walked by.
As they reached the top of the stairs, they heard a scuffle of boots upon stones from within the tower, and the grunts of men carrying a heavy burden. Panting with exertion, two goldcloaks shuffled out from the doorway. Between them they carried the body of a man, mailed and grey-cloaked with a wolf upon his bloody surcoat. Aratan clenched a fist around his sword hilt and forced a lump in his throat down. Despite the ruin that was his face, he recognized the features of Alyn, one of Ned's guardsmen.
"Still cleaning the wolves out of this pit, milord," said one of the goldcloaks, nodding deferentially to Aratan.
"Of course, carry on," Aratan forced himself to say, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
The Tower of the Hand was in ruins. The halls were bare, deserted, and silent as a graveyard. Braziers had been overturned, their cold grey ashes mixed in with spattered bloodstains upon the stone. Doors on either side of them were pitted and marked, leaving long scars from where they had been struck by sword and axe. Some even were hacked open and hung ajar from their hinges. A tapestry, tattered and torn, lay in a heap upon the floor. The smell that hit their faces as they walked in was overwhelmingly the stench of death. There was no one, guard or servant, Lannister or Stark, to be seen. A creeping feeling stole up Aratan's neck, a feeling of walking where many men had perished.
The sounds of their heavy footfalls breaking the silence upon the floor seemed like the violation of a crypt. Wordlessly the Dunedain walked through the barren tower where, not so long ago, they and all their brother housecarls had dwelt in peace. Everywhere there was desolation. In the dining hall, tables were overturned and charred. The walls were blackened as if by fire. Here and there they saw bodies lying limp, hewn and bloody yet they were not soldiers or guardsmen. Even the servants lay butchered in pools of their own dried blood and were yet unburied. Aratan looked at the faces of his father's housecarls and saw grim sorrow.
They came to the end of a long corridor, sunlight streaming through arrow slits. Against the wall lay a woman, slumped, her grey face cold, and a bloody gash across her neck. Even the slitting of her throat was not as ghastly as the cut upon her shoulders which had left her cloven nearly in two. The remains of her starched skirts and wimple were stained red and brown. There was a sickly smell of decay about her.
"That is their Septa!" said Ohtar, sucking a breath in through clenched teeth. "Even the elders were not spared the sword… Aratan, this is not the doing of men. This is orc-work,"
"Nay, the murder of men is orc-work. This is orc-play," said Ingold darkly.
"If even the old were cut down, what hope is there for the young?" Finrod's eyes were downcast, glum. Baranor was staring at the old woman's corpse, his stony jaw set unmoving, and he said nothing.
"Perhaps we search in vain? Perhaps the Stark girls did not escape?" he said, giving voice to the fear Aratan felt.
Suddenly, faintly, at the edge of their hearing, there was a noise. A scraping sound, like something scratching against stone. It was quiet and distant, yet they could hear it clearly for a brief moment. Then all was silence. They stood, listening, waiting. Again there was the sound of scratching, this time it went on longer and then stopped again.
"This way," said Aratan, and he lead the others in the direction of the sound. To the end of the corridor, up a short flight of stairs and then down another corridor running towards the north face of the tower. Gradually the noise grew louder, clearer, more frequent. It reminded Aratan of nothing so much as nails or claws being scraped against rock.
They came to a door, which unlike many of the doors they had seen so far was not hacked off of its hinges. Again there came the scratching noise, more insistently and repeatedly. Aratan exchanged looks with Ohtar. The squire grimaced and opened the iron handle of the heavy door.
It swung open upon a study chamber. Sunlight poured in through a high window. Dust danced in the light, deceptively peaceful despite the slaughter in the tower outside. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there were richly carved tables and desks. At at one end of the room was a tapestry, upon which a keen-eyed hunter bent a bow with arrow nocked towards some unseen mark. All was quiet.
"Have our ears deceived us?" wondered Ingold aloud. Aratan and the housecarls walked in slowly, staring at the musty shelves of books.
Then the scratch came again, as loudly and clearly as they had yet heard. And with it, barely heard, a faint sound like muffled voices. It was coming from the end of the room, behind the wall hanging.
"Whatever it is, it's coming from behind there," said Aratan, approaching the tapestry.
He grabbed the coloured cloth and, with a regretful pang for its beautiful worksmanship, pulled it down. A bare grey wall confronted him, yet behind it he could hear the sounds, nearly imperceptible behind the heavy masonry. Placing his hands flat against the cool stones, he ran his touch lightly along them, feeling for some joint or crack, anything. There was nothing.
Baranor approached. Grimacing, he leaned up against the wall and pressed an ear to it.
"Whatever that noise is, it is coming from behind here," the ranger said.
Then Aratan's finger caught on something. A gap. A small alcove, cunningly cut out and hidden amidst a rougher patch of the stone work. He reached into it. Aratan felt a rusty metal handle within. He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Ohtar, who nodded back at him. With a deep jarring jolt, the handle turned.
Only the lightest of tugs was required, and where once a stone wall stood, now a stone door swung open noiselessly.
Behind was a dank passage, man-high, as dark as a patch of midnight that had never seen the sun. Nothing could be seen within its black depths. The light of the window could only barely penetrate the gloom. What the passage was for or where it ran too could not be guessed. The noises had disappeared.
Then from within the shadows, there came a deep, rolling growl. The sound raised the hairs on the back of Aratan's neck. He set a hand upon his sword hilt and took a step forward into the passage.
In one swift second, a great grey shape lunged out of the blackness. Golden eyes flashed! Fangs white as snow gnashed! Jaws snapped! A snarl to freeze blood tore from the beast's throat. Grey hackles bristled upon the creature's back. The cacophonous sound of its barking filled the halls.
The housecarls stepped back before the wolf, but Aratan was undaunted. Swiftly he drew forth his sword and held it before him, spreading his feet apart.
If wolf it was, it was greater than any other wolf he had ever seen, as big as the largest hunting hound, with longer legs and a fiercer jaw. It bared teeth like daggers. Its eyes shone hungrily.
"Lady! Here!" called a voice from the depths of the passage.
Out of the dark stepped a young child. Her clothes were unwashed and her face dirty, and her hair unkempt and wild. Her eyes were weary, but in her hand was a slender blade and she stepped forward with head held defiantly. But as her gaze met Aratan's, Arya Stark gasped and nearly dropped her sword, fumbling to keep it in her tiny hand. Behind him, the Numenorean heard his kin whisper to each other.
"Sansa! Sansa!" Arya called back in the shadows loudly.
"Bar the door Ohtar, quickly" Aratan said in a low voice. The shield-bearer nodded and grabbed a chair from a nearby table.
Sansa Stark emerged next to her sister. Her dress was ragged and ripped in places, her face pale and dirty. Her eyes were wide and stared in terror at Aratan's drawn sword. Noticing this, he quickly sheathed the blade. Lady relaxed and sat down upon her haunches, but her ears were still pricked up and she watched the men alertly. The girls both looked as if they had not eaten for some days.
Into the gaping silence between them, Sansa curtsied as well as she could and said: "Hail, Ser Aratan,"
Immediately they both rushed upon him. He had never felt as close to the Stark children as his father had been, yet perhaps because he was the first friendly face they had seen after days and nights of terror, Aratan found both Stark girls throwing their arms around him tightly and weeping into his chest. Their thin shoulders shook and heaved and the tears came freely.
"Shh, shh, there there. Fear not, the night has passed," he said, feeling unsure of himself and his words.
For a long moment, he simply stood there and let them cry into his surcoat.
"They're-they're-they're all d-dead!" Arya said at last, choking on her words.
"Who?" asked Ingold.
"Jory… Alyn… Poor Vayon Poole… Septa Mordane… Porther… All of them. Even F-F-F" Sansa sobbed on the last word, unwilling to speak it. "Even Father," she said at last.
"No!" Arya snarled fiercely, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of a hand. "Father's not dead! He can't be! I know he's not!"
Aratan drew the two girls off of him and knelt down to look them both in the eyes in turn. He held them by their shoulders with each hand.
"Sansa, Arya, your father lives," he told them. Sansa's hands flew to her mouth, and their eyes shone with unshed tears of happiness.
"Truly?" Sansa exclaimed. "Can we see him?"
"Can we go to him? Is it over? What has happened" Arya asked in rapid succession.
"He has been taken captive," Aratan replied in a gentle, calm voice. "It is not safe for you in the Red Keep, or for your father. But I promise you, as a man of Gondor and as your father's friend, I will deliver you and him from this place. The Queen shall not have you, I swear it,"
"Noble words my lord, but how are we to do this thing?" asked Baranor with a grimace.
"Aye, I share our kinsman's confusion," said Ohtar, returning from the door. He had wedged a chair against the door handle firmly. "We are alone, and a host of guards shall descend on us the moment we step forth with these girls,"
"What are they saying?" Sansa whispered.
"I don't know, I never learned this much," Arya whispered back.
Aratan sent Finrod to scrounge what he could from the tower's kitchens and larders for a meal for the two girls. Whilst he was gone, the rest fell into debate on their next course of action.
"Perhaps we might find some rope and lower ourselves off the battlements to the beach below?" suggested Ingold.
"Too many unfriendly eyes are watching. We would be spotted, sure as death, and someone would cut the rope and send us plummeting," replied Baranor. Ohtar was scratching at one of his scars on his right cheek.
"A disguise then? We might dress the girls in the garb of servants and send them right out the front gate," the old shieldbearer thought aloud.
"If the whole castle was not so watchful, that might work, but I fear it may not now. We need to remember Eddard as well. We cannot leave him behind or this whole errand will be in vain," said Aratan in a grim voice.
"What are you saying? I can't understand!" protested Arya. She stood with arms crossed, her slender sword thrust through the belt of her dress.
"Arya, don't interrupt," Sansa said. Lady was sitting at Sansa's feet, rubbing her great head against her master's leg.
"Ned must be in the black cells, I can think of no other place where the Queen would send him for accused treason," said Ohtar.
"My father has been labouring long to stop the Lannisters for plunging the land into war, but with Ned held captive the Northmen might give them the war Tywin desires. He must get free of this place," replied Aratan, rubbing his brow. "Even if we could get to him, I cannot think of a way out,"
"Out?" repeated Arya. She had understood that much. She paused for a moment, then a bright look came into her face. "I know a way out!" she exclaimed.
They fell silent and, as one, turned towards the young Stark girl.
"Arya, you know a way out?" Aratan asked. She nodded frantically.
"A secret way?" said Baranor. She nodded again.
"Where?" said Aratan. Arya pointed back into the darkened passage behind them.
"It's down there, you go down this passage, and then down a spiral stair, and down some more, and then you come to a big room full of dragon skulls, that's where I saw them last time, I think one of them was a wizard, but they came from a door on the other side of the dragon skulls, covered by a sort of iron grate, and it goes down another staircase to this stinky water that I thought was a river but really is a sewer, and that comes out on the river outside!" she said in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe.
"Wizard?" repeated Baranor in confusion.
"Dragon skulls?" said Ingold.
"Arya, this is no time for stupid games! This is serious!" said Sansa in a scolding tone.
"This isn't a game! There really is a way out!" Arya said.
"Why didn't you take it before?" asked Ohtar. Arya stared at her feet and put her hands behind her back.
"I didn't want to leave without… Without knowing what happened to my father," she said quietly.
"Arya," said Aratan, looking at the child gravely. "How do you know of this?"
"I found it while chasing cats for Syrio," Arya replied, her voice embarrassed. Syrio Forel, Ned had told Aratan about his daughter's Braavosi swordmaster and his unique methods.
Aratan stared down in the dark depths of the passage. A plan was beginning to form in his head. The more he thought of it, the more foolish and mad it seemed, but it also seemed to be their only chance. He turned around. Ohtar and the other housecarls were looking at him expectantly.
"Baranor, Ned will need to borrow your cloak," Aratan said, and he grinned.
20
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XVIII
The Red Keep
In a squat, heavy-stoned, half-round, grey-faced, ugly tower across the bailey from Maegor's Holdfast lay the dungeons of the Red Keep. There was a forbidding and faintly sinister look about that tower, called by some the Traitor's Walk. No banners fluttered from its spire, no men patrolled its battlements, and even its narrow arrow slits were covered by iron bars. This tower held its secrets deep, and its exterior betrayed nothing of what went on within. The only entrance was a narrow postern at the foot of the tower, facing the holdfast, and barred by a black metal door.
Aratan stood in the courtyard and looked up at the tower, which loomed coldly and indifferently above him. He had donned his hauberk once more. He fingered the hilt of his sword, feeling the tension in the air. Behind him stood Ohtar and the other housecarls.
"Is this truly our plan?" asked Ingold.
"I can think of no other," said Finrod.
"Baranor, have you spied your passage back to the Hand's tower?" said Aratan.
"Aye my lord, if we can get out of there afterwards, I see a way I might make it to the godswood, and cutting through there to the Hand's tower," said Baranor, glancing with sharp eyes at the guards on the walls and other towers surrounding them.
"You will need to pass that way swiftly and unseen once it begins," said Ohtar.
"I was a ranger for many years, just as our kinsmen Mablung. I have my ways," Baranor replied.
A strong wind buffeted them, wrapped their cloaks tight around them, and made the Baratheon and Lannister banners atop the walls snap and flutter.
"As soon as we step within, the Queen will be told. Let us be quick, brothers," said Aratan, and he strode forward towards the dungeon tower. His kinsmen followed behind him. Ingold's buckler clattered against his hauberk and sheathed swordswith each step.
The postern was narrow, only wide enough for a single man to pass through, and it was flanked by two guards, in jerkins of boiled leather and Lannister livery, each leaning upon a halberd topped with a heavy axe blade and wickedly sharp steel spike. They stared at the approaching men of Gondor with the lazy stupidity of cruel men. The taller and broader of the pair scratched at a flea-bitten beard and straightened up to glare at them.
"Who goes there?" the guard demanded, holding his halberd across the door.
"Captain Aratan," said Ohtar, stepping forward of the others and assuming a herald's loud, confident voice. Aratan composed his face in an expression of lordly arrogance and detachment. The guard narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"And what is Captain Aratan's errand in the dungeons today?" said the guard snidely. He spoke with the tone of a man who enjoyed holding his meagre powers over others.
"We are here to question the traitor Lord Stark," replied Ohtar.
"What sort of questions?" asked the guard's companion.
"The Queen's questions, and if you bar my passage for a moment longer you shall answer for it to Her Grace," Aratan said, words commanding in tone.
At the mention of the Queen and the command of Aratan's speech, the pair paled and quickly pulled their halberds back. The taller one quickly stammered: "Of course, of course, milords!" and he bowed his head as they passed him by.
In single file they went through the postern-door and into a narrow, dark passage. It came out in a small entrance hall. The walls and floor were plain grey stone. A shaft of sunlight from a narrow high window lit the room in a gloomy half-darkness. At the other end of the hall was a wooden desk, covered in pieces of parchment and heavy ledgers and books. Behind it stood two more guards flanking an ironbound door, mailed and helmeted, swords and bucklers on their belts. But leaning upon the desk was a slight man standing in a dark grey aketon. In silver thread upon his breast was a badge, a black shield bearing a single silver sword point down. The badge marked him as a knight of the Ironguard.
The Ironguard was one of the Seven Brotherhoods and was formally charged with stewardship of the Iron Throne itself, or so Aratan had always been told. In truth, since the days of Maegor the Cruel, they had been entrusted with less savoury tasks. The King's Justice, the royal executioner, was traditionally selected from amongst their number, and the six other knights of the Brotherhood were given likewise disreputable and even sordid duties. These knights, if knights they even were for many of them had never sworn any vows, were not selected for honour, nor even for skill at arms, but for silence and loyalty. There were reasons why Ser Ilyn Payne served as the Brother-Captain of the Ironguard, despite his muteness. The dungeons of the Red Keep were their domain, and few spoke openly of what the men of the Ironguard did in the name of the Crown within its black depths.
Aratan recognized the Ironguard on duty. His name was Ser Ganelon Lucan, he had ridden in the Hand's tournament, though Aratan had not faced him personally. Ganelon was a pale man, his skin so pale as to be frightful, a contrast with his hair which was black as jet. He wore it short and slicked back on his head, which together with his narrow and pointed face gave him the look of a slippery eel. His eyes too were so dark they appeared black, and he stared at Aratan and the Numenoreans with a look of boredom.
"Hail Ser Ganelon," Aratan said in greeting.
"Hail Captain Aratan," Ganelon replied in a soft voice. "What business brings you here?"
"I have questions for that traitor Stark," said Aratan.
Ser Ganelon drummed his fingers upon the desk and tilted his head. In a quiet voice he said: "Truly? I had not been told that the prisoner would be questioned…"
"I have only recently learned of this treason. He was the Marshal of the Host which I am called upon to command, I must uncover whatever intrigues amongst my lieutenants he has already sewn. The full extent of his treachery must be uncovered" Aratan replied grimly.
"Ah, I see. And how do you plan to do this? The Queen has commanded that no hand be lain upon him," said Ser Ganelon, as if he was regretting the fact.
"We Numenoreans have our ways,"
Ganelon smiled, a joyless curling of the lips, and said: "I have heard the tales. Very well then, if you think you might extract something useful from him, go ahead. He's down in the black cells, ask the gaoler to show you the way,"
"My thanks, good ser," replied Aratan courteously.
Behind the door was a narrow spiral staircase, the ways leading both up and down masked in darkness. Torches burnt upon sconces in the walls. The upper levels of the dungeons were reserved for highborn prisoners and common criminals, the black cells were below ground level.
Seizing a torch, Aratan led his men downwards. He could barely see outside of the flickering orange light of his torch. The stair was very narrow, and as it spiralled down into blackness Aratan hoped he would not find himself having to fight his way out. In such narrow places, a single man could hold back dozens.
They came at last to another door, this one an iron grate. The stair still spiralled downwards further, but no one but the Ironguard would willingly go to the lowest level of the dungeon. The hinges on the grating creaked in protest as Aratan pushed the door open.
The air was dank and chill in the chamber beyond the grate. A burning brazier in the center of the bare stone floor gave a little light in aid to the torches on the walls. On three sides, the walls gave way to bare, dark passages, where the black cells themselves would line.
Aratan glanced behind him. Two more guards flanked the door, and they stared at his men with suspicion and contempt. They were mailed and girt with swords, as their comrades at the entrance had been. The son of Isildur felt a pang of regret. They had the look of plain, simple folk about them. He had been on many battlefields in his life, but never had he enjoyed the killing, and it was always the normal people caught up in the quarrels of lords which he felt most sorry for.
The gaoler sat in a corner, behind another plain wooden desk. He was a heavyset man, with broad shoulders and a thick neck beneath a bald head. Like Ser Ganelon, his desk was covered in books and scrolls, but unlike Ser Ganelon this man had a stench of wine about him, and there were empty flagons and a half-eaten cheese and loaf of bread before him. Next to him was an opened barrel of water, for the guards on duty.
The gaoler stood up slowly, like the half-drunk he was. A ring of keys rattled on his belt.
"How may I serve ye, milord?" he slurred. Aratan grasped the hilt of the dagger at his belt. He glanced backwards and nodded at Baranor. He knew they must act swiftly. They would not have much time once it began.
"I am here to see a prisoner," Aratan replied. The gaoler came out around the desk and approached them. His footsteps were heavy.
"At whose command?" asked the gaoler, the fog of wine clearing from his head. His eyes were clearer now.
It all happened at once, in a second, in the moment between one breath and another. With heavy grip Aratan covered the man's mouth, drawing his dagger and shoving the point up right below the man's chin. The man froze in terror of the sharp steel wavering near his neck.
Behind him, Ohtar and Baranor turned as one, drawing daggers of their own. They were upon the guards without a cry or a sound. Their hands covered noses and mouths, and their blades quickly opened up two throats. Both guards slumped noiselessly, blood seeping down into their mail.
"I wish to see Lord Stark," Aratan whispered to his captive. "Do you know where he is?"
The gaoler nodded stiffly.
Aratan told him: "You will take us to him. You will not make a sound. Your life shall be spared if you do this. If you call out or raise alarums, we may all perish in this place but I swear to you that you shall die with us. Do you understand?"
The gaoler nodded again.
"Lead on,"
With Aratan's dagger prodding him in his back, the unfortunate gaoler led them down a long, dark passage. Their torch cast fleeting light and deep shadows all around them. They passed by row after identical row of heavy iron-bound doors on either side of them. There was not a sound but that of their footsteps against the floor. Some of the cells looked like they have not been opened in a long, long time.
How many of these black cells are occupied? Aratan wondered. How many men have been forgotten in this place?
He did not have long to muse though. Finally the gaoler stopped at one particular cell.
"He-he's in there, milord," the man told them.
"Truth now, that is Lord Stark's cell?" asked Aratan.
"Yes, milord, on my honour," replied the gaoler nervously.
Ohtar pulled open a slat on the cell door and held his torch to it, peering inside.
"Aratan, Ned is here," the squire said.
"Which key is it?" asked Aratan.
"The th-third on me b-belt, milord," was the answer.
"Many thanks, master gaoler," Isildur's son said softly. He cranked back and clubbed the man over the head with the pommel of his dagger. His blow was true and hard and the bald man slumped to the ground, as if all the bones had gone out of his body, unconscious.
"I do not envy the headache he shall have when he awakens, but he led us truly enough," said Finrod. He stooped and took the keys from the gaoler's belt.
Aratan winced at the heavy sound of the key turning within the lock. It echoed within the quiet of the dungeons. The door swung open, its hinges scraping loudly.
Within the black cell, squinting into the torchlight and raising a hand to shade his eyes, sat Lord Eddard Stark.
His skin was pale, his clothes and cloak were tattered and torn in places, and his hair was matted and tangled, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. His eyes, unused to the light after so long in the dark, could not make out his rescuers.
"Now here is an unlikely meeting," Aratan whispered with a smile, stepping into the cell.
"Aratan!" Ned exclaimed in surprise as he recognized him, voice too loud.
"Shh, quietly my friend," urged Aratan, raising a finger to his lips. He crouched down by his sitting friend.
"Go bring Eddard some water and that food on the gaoler's desk," he commanded. Ingold nodded and disappeared down the corridor.
"How are you here? What has happened?" Ned asked in quick succession.
"We're here to bring you out of this place," Aratan replied. "You have many questions, I know, but we have only little time. Your daughters eluded the Queen,"
At these words, Ned's solemn face broke out into a smile of the purest relief and happiness that Aratan had ever seen.
"Where are they? Are they safe?" he asked.
"Yes my friend, your daughter Arya, clever Arya, she hid herself and Sansa in a hidden passage in the Tower of the Hand, where we found them. The Queen summoned me to win my allegiance, but she shall not have it. We need to get you out of here,"
"You're risking your lives for me…" Ned said quietly. "You should have taken my daughters and left. Cersei won't lay a hand upon me, my fear is for what she may do to them,"
"We're taking you and your daughters both out of here. The Queen shall have neither you nor them," Aratan replied in a stern voice.
"Catelyn has Cersei's own brother, Tywin Lannister's son. They have me. Leave me here and get my daughters to safety, they will exchange me for the Imp and make peace," said Ned. In his voice there was a quaver of fear – But not fear for himself.
"And leave Joffrey on the Iron Throne, King in the eyes of all the Realm? Let your son Robb drag the Northmen into war with the Lannisters? We need you to make this peace Ned, need you free, not a captive!" Aratan said, his own voice an urgent, desperate plea. He thought of his father, somewhere in the Riverlands, daring the lion to strike and reveal its true nature.
Eddard's eyes were pensive, lost inside his own thought for a while. When he looked back up, his face was set and grim.
"Very well," the Lord of Winterfell stood up, fists clenched. "What is your plan?"
Ingold returned with the bread and cheese, and a bucket that sloshed with cold water.
"Eat a little, for you strength, and wash your face, you shall need a shave and a haircut,"
Ned wore his hair long around the shoulders in the northern style. After he had a few mouthfuls of food he immersed his head into the bucket of water and washed out the dirt and sweat that had matted his hair together. Ohtar and Aratan set upon him with their daggers, cutting off the dark locks, cropping it short as the Dunedain wore it. It was an inelegant job, but it served well enough.
"His beard as well," Aratan said. With dagger of his own, Finrod cut down the northern lord's beard till Ned was, if not clean shaven, then at least only with some stubble left.
"If this is meant to be a disguise, Aratan, it'll need more than this," said Ned when they had finished, rubbing his shaven jaw where his beard had once been.
"Now your cloak Baranor, and your mail too. Put these on Ned," commanded Aratan. The housecarl unclasped his grey cloak, and then hauled off his mail hauberk and surcoat. Next came the padded gambeson underneath, leaving Baranor clad only in tunic and breeches.
Ned quickly donned Baranor's garb, gambeson and hauberk both, and then swung the cloak around his shoulders and clasped it with the rayed star-shaped broach which all the housecarls of Isildur wore. He bound his surcoat round his wasit with Baranor's belt, sword sheathed on his right and dagger on his left. With his hair cut short, his beard shaved off, his grey eyes set in his lean face, and now clad in the proud and somber garb of the Guard of the Tower of Minas Ithil, Eddard Stark appeared a man of Numenor to any who might not know it was him.
"Never thought I'd bear Isildur's sigil upon my breast," Ned commented, holding out his arms and looking himself over. His fingers brushed over the silver crescent moon above the white tree.
"I daresay you shall be glad for it ere this day is done, and for the likeness of your Stark features to that of Andunie. You make a splendid Dunadan, Ned," replied Aratan, standing with crossed arms. The disguise was not impenetrable, any who knew Eddard personally could see through it, but it would mask his identity well enough to the guards and servants who lay between his cell and the Tower of the Hand, who would hopefully only see him from afar and in passing.
"We must be going, quickly before anyone is sent down to check on our friend the gaoler," urged Ohtar, peering down the passage towards the stairs. They could not guess when someone would come down to relieve the gaoler or the two guardsmen which lay slain.
"Aye, best be off. Where is this hidden passage you spoke of? Where does it lead?" said Ned.
Leaving his cell to its darkness, they walked with long, swift steps back to the main room, where the faces of the slain guards were slowly turning white and cold. Aratan and Ohtar led, followed behind by Ned, Ingold and Finrod, with the unarmoured Baranor bringing up the rear.
"Do you remember when your daughter slipped out of the castle a few weeks past? And she could not be found for the better part of a day?" Aratan whispered, pulling open the iron grated door that led back to the stairway.
"Aye, that I do," said Ned. He moved up behind Aratan in the single file up the spiralling dark stairs.
"That passage is where she and her sister took shelter. It leads to the sewers, and thence to the river, outside of the city. We left your daughters at the entrance to it, we will bring you to them," replied Aratan.
"What of the guards at the entrance? Surely they will guess this ruse when they see Baranor," Ned said questioningly, voice low and urgent.
"Leave that to us," Ingold replied grimly.
Aratan's heart was beating hard within his chest, feeling like it was fit to burst. His hands felt dry and strange. There was no fear as he led Ned into the entrance hall of the dungeon tower. No fear, only an anticipation. It was the same feeling that stirred in him when he sat atop his charger and waited for the heralds to blow their horns at the jousts of the Hand's tournament. The same feeling was always in him before battle or fight or the hunt of some dangerous beast. Neither fear nor anxiety, but a heightened awareness of himself. He felt the weight of the mail on his shoulders and hips, and the feeling of the sword's hilt in his hand, the brushing of his cloak against his legs, the sound of his boot heels against the stones, the breathing of the housecarls behind him.
The hall was gloomy and quiet as before. Ser Ganelon looked up from his ledgers and scrolls, pale face regarding Aratan quizzically as Isildur's son turned towards him. He spotted a footstool sitting by the side of the table. Ganelon's black eyes flicked over Aratan's shoulder and came to rest upon Ned's face. They narrowed for a moment, and then widened in recognition. Ganelon was springing to his feet, he was opening his mouth to cry out, he was setting his hand upon his sword hilt, but Aratan was faster.
The son of Isildur sprang forward. He swept up the wooden stool in his hands and, in one step, whirled it above his head and brought it crashing down upon Ser Ganelon's skull. The stool burst into pieces with the force of the strike. With a strangled cry, the Ironguard knight was sent careening by the blow, falling down first upon the table and then slid to the ground. He lay still and unmoving.
Tossing the pieces of broken wood aside, Aratan turned back to his comrades. One of the guards already lay with opened throat, and Ohtar stood above him, wiping the blood from his dagger. The other double over with a pained grunt, Ingold's knee driven into his groin. The old housecarl swung a mailed fist into the man's face, and he collapsed to the ground with bloody mouth and broken teeth.
"The guards at the door will have heard all this commotion. Finrod, with me," Ohtar barked out, tapping the younger man on the shoulder.
The two of them flanked the entranceway, backs flat against the walls. In their hands, daggers gleamed dully in the half-light.
Surely as Ohtar had said, the door was flung open with a crash. The two guardsmen came running in, halberds in hand. In their haste, they neglected to watch their flanks. Ohtar and Finrod pounced upon them as soon as they entered. The first guard, the taller, broader one, fell with a gasp as the old squire's dagger plunged into the back of his neck. Finrod bludgeoned the other over the head with his pommel, and sent the shorter guard sprawling.
"We might get free of here yet," said Ned, looking around at the dead and unconscious bodies that now littered the hall.
"There's still a long way to go, and little time. Baranor, you go out first. Make sure you stay out of sight!" Aratan said, looking at the ranger sternly. Baranor's part in the plan was always going to be the most difficult and precarious. Slipping from the dungeon to the Tower of the Hand without being seen or caught would be no small feat, even if the whole Keep was not already watchful.
"Worry yourself not, my lord. I shall be at the Hand's own door to greet you!" Baranor laughed lightly.
"Stop talking about it and get on with it," urged Ohtar, sheathing his dagger. "Make haste, damn fool!"
"Farewell for a little while, brothers," Baranor said with a wink, and he quickly disappeared outside and was gone. Aratan silently counted to ten slowly within his head. No alarums were sounded, no bells or horns. They still had a little time.
"Now for the rest of us. Follow behind me as always, stay calm and look straight ahead. If we are very fortunate, the rest of the Keep may not even know what we have done until it is accomplished," Aratan instructed.
"Perhaps, but when has luck ever smiled upon anyone so?" Ohtar grumbled to himself, taking up his usual spot behind and to the right of Aratan.
Aratan said: "Are you ready Ned?"
"Aye," Eddard replied.
Aratan set a hand upon the cool metal of the postern, took a deep breath, and then shoved it open.
Day was waning into evening. It was perhaps the sixth hour past noon, and the shadows in the courtyards of the Red Keep were lengthening and deepening. Never had a walk seemed so long to Aratan son of Isildur than that one. To their left, Maegor's Holdfast stood menacingly. To Aratan, every window and arrow slit seemed full of unfriendly eyes. Every rustle of their mail and crunch of gravel beneath their booth seemed unbearably loud. Every servant and castle worker, saddle-makers and smiths, farriers and gardeners, who looked up and peered at them in passing seemed about to cry out and expose them. Every second, Aratan waited for the cries, for the shower of arrows and crossbow bolts from the battlements, and yet there was nothing.
They came to the winding stairs which led from the lower bailey up to the upper. A wall of red stone and a strong gatehouse divided the two courtyards, so that even a foe who pierced the outer defenses could not come immediately to the holdfast, and might still be swept back with arrow and missile. They passed beneath the raised portcullis. The Tower of the Hand was before them, across another bailey. They were nearly there.
At that moment, the air was rent by the sound Aratan had dreaded. Behind them, a bell from the Traitor's Walk pealed out its loud ring. It rang again and again, and went on. Voices were raising, there were cries and shouts behind them.
"Alarum! Alarum! Alarum!"
Ohtar gritted his teeth. "Fly you fools!"
They ran, breaking out into a sudden sprint. The Tower which once appeared so close now seemed so far away. All around them men were shouting from the walls.
"There! Look there! It's them!"
"After them!"
Arrows and bolts clattered on the cobble-stones about their feet. Aratan felt the air as one passed by his ear with a buzz with an angry hornet.
Baranor appeared at the top of the steps leading to the entrance of the Tower, standing upon the threshold of the doorway. He was gesturing wildly, roaring "Make haste!"
One after another, they ran past the threshold. As Ingold's foot left the doorway, Baranor slammed it shut. There was a bench sitting close by, heavily fashioned of oak. With a heave, Baranor and Finrod plucked it up and with a crash they tossed it down across the doorway, bracing it against the battered timbers.
Baranor sighed. "The whole Keep is roused behind you,"
Ned was shaking his head "That barricade won't hold long once they bring their axes, which way to the passage?"
There was a loud, low bang and the doors shuddered in its hinges, sounding as if someone was ramming his shoulder against it.
"This way! Quickly!" shouted Ohtar.
The small band raced down the halls of the Tower of the Hand, through the desolation and the unburied corpses. As they reached the end of the entrance hall and rounded the corner, they heard a crash behind them. The door had been battered open. Aratan glanced backwards. Goldcloaks and men-at-arms in Lannister livery were dashing after them, swords and halberds and crossbows were in their hands. Their voices were raised as hounds after their quarry.
Like a ship in full sail on the winds of an oncoming storm, they flew down the corridors, boots thumping against the flagstones. Aratan's heart was racing in his chest, his blood rushing in his veins. They leapt up a flight of stairs and turned to the north corridor. Crossbows clattered behind them. Bolts hissed in the air.
Ohtar was the first to the door of the study. He flung it open, and with a crash overturned the table nearby and picked up for another barricade. Finrod and Baranor grabbed the chairs and other furniture in the room.
Arya and Sansa stood, clad in stolen servants' clothes as Aratan had instructed them to be, with unlit torches in their hands. Arya was fumbling with a flint and steel, but dropped it as the Numenoreans poured in. For a moment their father looked at them expectantly, for a moment they did not recognize him with his short hair and shorn beard. The moment passed quickly.
"Father!" the Stark girls exclaimed together, and they rushed into his arms.
Relief, joy and gratitude washed over Eddard's face all at once. "Girls! I thought I'd lost you!"
His daughters' shoulders were shaking, tears coming again at the reunion.
Ohtar was pushing a book case across the closed door. "We've no time! We must go!"
Ned pulled the girls in front of him and looked at them steadily. They wiped the tears from their eyes. "You must be brave now, my daughters. You must be fearless and strong as the wolves you are,"
The door, and the barricade which barred it, shook as someone on the other side struck it. It held fast. Lady growled, grey bristles rising on her back, baring her snow-white fangs.
Baranor grabbed the torch and struck the flint and steel. A shower of sparks lit the rags wrapped around the end of the brand. He sheltered it with a hand and blew upon it and a small flame was kindled. Aratan lit the other torch from the fire. The door shook in its hinges again, still holding fast.
"Through there?" said Ned, eying the gaping, lightless passage that opened in the wall. The banging on the doorway grew louder, the sound of armoured gauntlets ringing against the timbers.
"Haste is more needed than caution, quickly now!" said Aratan, stepping to the threshold and casting his fire's light into the tunnel. Blank, bare walls and a dank floor disappeared into the gloom beyond. The door of the study was rattling and banging continuously now, and the raised voices of their pursuers could be heard on the other side.
They filed into the passage, and when the last of them were within, Aratan seized the iron handle of the stone door and pulled it shut behind him with a deep thud. They were engulfed in utter blackness, the noises from the other side of the wall deafened by the stone. Only the fleeting light of their torches illuminated the passage, else they would have been blinded.
"You know the way, Arya?" Aratan whispered.
"I do! You can follow me!" Arya replied in a small voice.
"Lead on, little one," said Ohtar.
The air was stale and musty beneath the Red Keep, and the shadows were deep and dark as the depths of the sea. Outside of the pool of light cast by their sputtering torches, there was nothingness before them and behind them, all they saw was rough-hewn stone walls and floor and ceiling. Arya went in the lead, walking softly on the balls of her feet, so that she could scarcely be heard. Behind her went Aratan, and Ned, and behind them were Baranor, Finrod and Ingold. Sansa walked in the middle, eyes downcast and face pale, with Lady padding quietly at her side, ears pricked up and golden eyes gleaming. In the rear came Ohtar, watchful and wary for pursuit behind them.
How long they traveled down that dark tunnel, Aratan could not guess. At length, they came to a right turn, and from there an even narrow passage, where the walls brushed against their shoulders and the Numenoreans had to stoop to get through. This hall seemed to run just as long as the previous, until finally it came to a spiralling staircase. Here Aratan paused and let the others pass him by, waiting for Ohtar at the rear.
"Have we eluded our hunters?" he asked in a whisper. Ohtar grimaced.
"Listen," said the squire. The silence was immense. Then, distantly and distinctly, Aratan heard the scrape of armoured boots on stone. Still far off, but it was there and the sound was of many footfalls.
"They found the hidden door," said Aratan.
Ohtar growled: "High praise from the Queen for a traitor's head."
There was a hard gleam in Aratan's eyes, like a distant fire burning.
"I swore they will not have us, and they shall not while I have any strength left in me," he said. At this Ohtar managed a smile
"You sound like your father,"
Down the twisting stairs they went with haste, torches bobbing and spitting sparks. Arya, clad in grey and brown, was a fleeting figure on the edge of their vision before them. The rumour of armour-clad feet was ever-present behind them, though distant, and Lady began to rumble and growl at the sound of it even as they fled before it.
Suddenly Arya stopped and turned. To their right was a patch of fresher stonework, the mortar less aged and cracked, the stones cleaner cut. It looked like a doorway had been walled in, but the job had been lazily done and incomplete, for at the bottom left corner was an open gap, but tiny and confined, and beyond it just more darkness.
"Through here!" said Arya, sidling through the narrow space. It was a tight fit even for her. The mailed Numenoreans looked at each other dubiously.
"Where the child leads, we must follow," said Finrod. With a sigh, he went down on hands and knees and, turning this way and then that, slowly squeezed his way through. There was barely space enough for him to fit, but he made it.
In the same fashion, the others followed. Thin Sansa had no difficulty. With growls and scratching of claws on stone, even Lady the direwolf passed through, though the space was small.
"Let us hope the guards miss this postern," said Ned when he stood up and brushed the dust from Baranor's surcoat.
They found themselves in a wider, more proper hallway on the other side, the stonework finer. There were even sconces in the wall, though without torches or lights. This hall was short, and at its end a heavy, dusty wooden door with an iron ring for a handle.
"Passages within passages, secrets within secrets. Old Maegor the Cruel built many escapes and hiding-holes into this castle," said Ned, shaking his head.
"This comes out in the cellars! And that leads to the room with the monsters," said Arya, running to the door.
Grabbing the ring, she yanked it open with a grunt.
On the other side, standing with torches of their own, two armed men stared back at them with wide eyes. One wore the goldcloak, the other the scarlet of a Lannister livery man.
For a fleeting second, no one spoke.
"Alarum! Alarum" roared the Lannister guard in a loud voice, sweeping out his sword. Finrod sprang forward and was upon him before the word was finished, driving his shoulder into the man's gut and wrapping his arms around him, driving him back bodily.
"Down here! They're here!" cried the goldcloak, turning and grabbing his sword hilt. He was too slow. Lady bounded forth and pounced. She bloodied her muzzle as her fangs tore out his throat. He fell with a half-scream that turned into a gurgle.
Sansa screamed in fright, the sound echoing into distant halls.
The Lannister guard's sword clattered to the ground, and Finrod sent the man himself crashing upon his head with a sudden sweep of his leg.
For another moment, there was no sounds but the direwolf tearing and gnawing at the dead man's flesh. Then from up another set of stairs, a cacophony of voices and clattering armour. Much closer now than the last had been.
"Combing the catacombs for us, I should have known," said Ohtar grimly.
"Hurry, this way!" cried Arya, already running into the gloom.
They ran in dim light amongst crates and barrel smelling of salt pork and smoked fish. Louder behind them grew the sounds of their pursuers and the shouts of the guards. Arya skidded to a halt at a door suddenly, covered in dust and looking long undisturbed. She shoved it open and disappeared onto the other side. As Aratan plunged into the passageway, he heard calls from behind them.
"There they are! Quickly or we'll lose them!"
One after another, they went in single file down a short, constricted hallway, rough stonework hemming them in on either side.
Suddenly the walls fell away and they found themselves standing alone in pitch dark. Above them, they could see the ribs and arches of a vaulted ceiling. A cold chill was in the air, and a sudden feeling like they were not alone. Huge shapes loomed in the shadows, just outside of the firelight. There were the outlines of jagged teeth, still sharp and hungry despite the ages. Black bones gleamed, the reflection of the torches twisting and dancing upon them as if the fire was a living thing.
With a start, Aratan realized that this hall was full of the skulls of dragons. The largest, with horns like spears and teeth like swords, sat at the end of the hall, towering and lording above the lesser drakes all around it. Though long dead there seemed a knowing malice still in those bones, and the empty eye sockets of that skull stared at them malevolently.
"Balerion," said Ohtar with a strange laugh. "Long has it been since last we met, old wyrm. The years have been less kind to you than to me I deem,"
There was no time for reminiscing however, for the rumour of pursuit behind them was drawing near now.
"Where is the door you spoke of Arya?" he said.
"Here! On the other side of the biggest skull!" the girl said, springing nimbly amongst the dead bones.
As they hurried after her, Aratan perceived that they had entered by a side door into a long hall, the main entrance of which was towards the far end and whose doors were rusted and looked long shut and forgotten.
On the other side of Balerion's skull was another door, covered by an iron grating, and on the other side a stairway disappeared downwards. It creaked and protested as they slowly shoved it open, forcing rusty hinges to turn.
Yet Eddard hung back from the rest, and he gazed intently at the faces of Arya and Sansa with a look of grave longing. Then he turned around, and faced back towards the door from where they had come. He stood and listened at the approaching footsteps. Sansa's direwolf, blood staining her muzzle, was growling once more. No foes had entered the hall yet, but by the sound they soon would. His long face was grim, and fierceness shone in his eyes. He set his hand upon the hilts of Baranor's sword and drew it forth, razor edges catching the torchlight.
"Take my daughters and go, I shall hold them back," he said simply.
Arya and Sansa was the first to grasp what he had told them.
"Father, please!" said Sansa, taking him by the hand as if to pull him along with them. Tears were welling in her eyes again.
"No, you have to come with us! You can't stay!" Arya cried out, throwing herself upon her father and wrapping her arms around his waist.
"Go, now! Go! They do not know that you are with us. When they see me, they will stop this hunt and you might yet find your way to Winterfell again," said Ned. With gentle but firm hand he pried them away from him and stepped away. His gaze softened at their pleas. "I am sorry I ever brought you to this place, but leave me and let your father do what he must!"
"Ned, you can't stay! Not after-" Aratan began to protest, but the Lord of Winterfell spoke and cut him off:
"Take my daughters and get you free of this place. They will not harm me, too valuable am I, but I will not have my daughters captive at anyone's hands! Not while I might still save them yet!" In Ned's voice there was the ferocity of a direwolf.
Aratan looked back towards the doorway, and the narrow corridor which led into the hall. Then he remembered the stairway of the dungeons.
In a narrow place, one might hold back many.
Aratan's own sword flashed in the red torchlight as he unsheathed it.
"I will stand by you here, Eddard, though all the hosts of Casterly Rock might beset us,"
Ned asked in a quiet voice "Are you certain? If you are taken they may not put such value upon your life…"
Looking at the son of Isildur's face, Eddard had his answer.
The Numenoreans were staring at Ned and Aratan, struck silent in their own turn. Ned turned towards them.
"Ohtar, you are Isildur's man?" he said.
"Till my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end," said Ohtar.
"Isildur trusts you more than any other, trusts you like his own kin. I beg you Ohtar, will you take my daughters and guide them to safety? Will you return them to Winterfell?"
The scarred shield-bearer looked down at the daughters of Lord Stark, pale and frightened, tears upon their cheeks, still begging their father to come with them though their words were unheeded.
"I will," Ohtar said. "I swear it,"
"Then fly now! Take your companions and go!" Ned said.
"I stay with Aratan," said old Ingold quietly.
Finrod said: "And I,"
Baranor spoke last: "Nor shall I abandon our captain now,"
"No Baranor, go with Ohtar!" Aratan said in a voice of command "You are unarmed and unarmoured, fly now! I command it!"
Baranor stood, and in his gaze there was an agony as he was torn in his heart between the love of his captain and his captain's command. Then at last he turned and as the son of Isildur commanded him ran and fled down the steps and disappeared.
Tears were flowing down Sansa's fair cheeks, and Needle was swishing the air in Arya's hand, but Ohtar plucked them both up in his strong arms and, throwing them over his shoulders, carried them away.
"Father! Father!" came Sansa's cries.
"No! Father! Let me go! Let me go!" Arya's protests echoed in the hall. With a last look at Aratan, Ohtar finally turned and disappeared beyond the door. Lady went running at his heels. The cries of the girls faded into the distance. A rattle of armour was drawing close now.
"They are coming," said Ingold, and in one hand he took up his sword and in the other grasped his iron buckler.
The four men, three Numenoreans and the Northman, walked back towards the side passage. They could hear their foes' clattering steps close by. They were clad all in mail, and they pulled up the coifs of their hauberks about their heads, so that only their eyes were left uncovered. The eyes of the Numenoreans gleamed terribly, and Eddard Stark's gaze was cold as winter night. They threw the torches away, leaving fire burning amongst dragon bones, casting fleeting light and dancing shadows upon the vaults of the ceiling. Then they unclasped their cloaks and they cast them aside. The white tree of Gondor on their breasts was pale in the gloom. Naked swords of steel, cold and sharp, were in their hands.
They flattened themselves up against the walls on either side of the entrance way, Ned and Finrod on the one side and Aratan and Ingold on the other. Aratan breathed in deeply, feeling the weight of his coif on his head. He could hear many heavy footsteps approaching, a rustle of mail shirts, the thud of boots, and the clatter of plate. He took his blade half-sword, one hand on the hilt and the other halfway down the blade. He met Eddard's gaze across the gap. The Lord of Winterfell nodded once.
Every moment they held the foe here was another moment for Ohtar and Baranor, and Sansa and Arya too. In his heart, Aratan felt the agony of failure, for Ned was throwing himself back into chains, but he would not break faith with his friend. He adjusted his grip upon the blade.
These Lannisters shall pay a dear price to take this one captive again Aratan thought grimly.
They heard the door crash open. They heard steps in the passage, many armed men coming, and though narrow that corridor was not long.
A goldcloak was first to appear, running in with torch held in upright hand. He did not see the warriors who waited in ambush. He did not see death till it sprung.
Up leapt Isildur's son! And with one sure stroke, he stabbed and drove his sword beneath the upraised arm which bore the burning brand. The iron rings of the goldcloak's byrnie beneath his armpit burst before his blade, and the blade drank blood greedily. The first foeman fell on his face with a stricken cry.
A second goldcloak knocked forward into the first even as Aratan ran him through, wearing only an arming cap upon his head and aketon on his chest. Ned's borrowed sword swung down in a wide arc, and the stroke was sure, and the guardsman fell with cloven head and face.
In headlong pursuit had the first two goldcloaks been caught, thinking they were hunting down escaped prisoners only. But their comrades had seen their deaths, and were the more prudent for it. Snarling wordless battle-shouts, they poured in with weapons bare, and at the fore came two Lannister livery men, halberds in hand, and by jabs and thrusts they discomfited the Northman and the Numenoreans and drove them back from the passage and amongst the dragon skulls. Scrambling over their friends' corpses, more followed with swords and maces clutched in hand.
Drive them back! Drive them back to the door or we are lost! Aratan thought desperately, and he turned aside one thrust and then another from the halberdier before him. Suddenly, seeing his chance, he caught up the pole-arm by the staff and stepped in close, and he drove his pommel into the face of the Lannister soldier, braining him and sending him crashing down. Struck dumb, the livery man dropped the halberd, and Aratan grabbed it from his falling fingers and, with sword held along its staff, wielded it in both hands.
"To the door!" Aratan shouted, and he threw himself into the tide of foes. In his hands the pole-ax whirled, and with spear-tip and ax-blade and hammer-head and iron-shod staff he stabbed and hacked and bashed and bore back all before him. Behind him, Finrod's eyes burned terribly, and grim Ingold's blade was bloody, and Eddard Stark dealt death with both sword-edges.
Those Lannister men who stood foremost braved the onslaught, for to turn their backs was to die, but those behind were free to fly just as swiftly as they had rushed forward. They did not endure the execution before them, but ran. And to those who fought on, their swords did not avail them, for razor's edge could not bite through coats of mail, the darting head of Aratan's halberd dismayed them and step by step they fell back or were slain.
Like the wave on the shore they had rolled into the hall, and like the wave which is spent they receded back, till none were left living and the others had fled. Aratan stood and rested his pole-arm against his shoulder, panting and breathing hard. They had left the hall littered with corpses, yet he counted only six men slain, and he knew more would come. The light of the torches glowed red and dull orange, and threw shadows which loomed and twisted.
"They will come again, soon," said Aratan.
"I know," said Ned.
"How many times can we do this?" Finrod was staring at the hewn bodies with pale face, but hard eyes.
"Until they are all dead, or we are," said Ingold.
"There will be more, and their knights and men-at-arms have not yet come," Aratan said grimly.
Then Ned cut them off suddenly: "Quiet! Listen!"
From beyond the doorway, they heard voices.
"They are in that hall?" said the first voice, calmer and with the accents of knighthood.
"Aye ser, where the old dragon skulls got left," came the reply, in rougher tones. "It's full of foes milord!"
"Aye, we was running after the prisoner when we were assailed!" said another.
"How many?" asked the calm voice.
"Ten I reckon, at least, from all the slaughter that was at the front!"
"Ten's small; A score!"
"And all mailed! Our swords did naught!"
"A score of mailed men?" laughed the first one "That I doubt. Follow me, we shall pull these rats from their hole,"
Aratan levelled his halberd, and on either side of him Eddard and the housecarls readied their swords.
The hall rang with clattering harness, and forth from the darkness of the passage stepped a knight of the Kingsguard. All in white, his ghostly pale armour covered him head and foot. The white cloak behind him brushed against the stones. Upon his head he wore a bascinet helmet, its pointed visor down, obscuring his features, rendering him an unknown and nameless thing; the faceless and implacable servant of the Crown.
The knight paused before them. Behind him came men-at-arms in crimson Lannister cloaks. In his hand he bore a longsword. Then he raised a white gauntlet to his visor and pulled it up. Behind it there was the drooping eyes and bearded face of Ser Meryn Trant.
"Dunedain," he said. Seeing the white tree on their chests and the fewness of their numbers his lips curled contemptuously.
"Ser Meryn, I did not think to meet you here," said Aratan from behind his coif.
"Isildurion," replied the Kingsguard, recognizing the voice. "Trying to spring your marshal from prison eh? You will hang for this treason,"
"If you have the mettle to take us. Can you endure that test, Ser Meryn?" replied Ned. Gritting his teeth, the Kingsguard slammed his visor back down.
"I hope you provide better sport now than you did upon the lists!" Aratan laughed and he brandished halberd and his sword alongside it.
"Take Stark! Kill the rest!" Ser Meryn snarled, voiced muffled by his helm. "Isildurion is mine,"
Again the hall sounded with shouts and cries. Behind Ser Meryn came armoured men-at-arms and Eddard and the housecarls met them sword to sword and hand to hand. Amongst the skulls of wyrms there was the clang and clash of cut and parry and the crunch of blade on mail rings. The retainers of House Lannister were hard men, they asked for no quarter and gave none in turn, and with swords, maces, and pole-axes the blows they struck were hard-handed.
Charging in like an angry boar, Ser Meryn ran at Aratan with a savage flurry of blows. Turning the staff of his halberd this way and then that, the son of Isildur blocked and parried, but was driven step by step till the gaping maw of Balerion was at his back.
Driving forward the butt-end of the pole-ax, Aratan rang a counter-blow off of Meryn's helm. The Kingsguard staggered back.
There! Aratan thought, gritting his teeth; He thrust the spear-tip forth violently, aiming for the shoulder joint between breastplate and spaulder.
Seizing his blade half-sword, Ser Meryn parried the thrust and caught the halberd by its head. With a cunning twist of his weapon, he yanked the pole-ax from Aratan's hands.
His sword, however, was still left for the son of Isildur to wield.
Seeing his chance, Meryn swung for Aratan's mail-clad head, missing barely as his foe slipped backwards. He threw another cut and missed again. Doggedly Meryn pursued his foe, slashing the air again and again as he tried to connect.
Damn it, even with my coif, without an arming cap I'll be brained and stunned if he hits! Aratan observed, seeing that every swing was aimed for his head.
Aratan reversed his sword, grabbing it by the blade. The hilt, with its steel crossbar and heavy pommel, was held forward. With keen eyes flashing he retreated and waited, watching for his chance, biding his time, dodging one way and then another. His foe was full clad in steel, in plates and mail and scales, and he knew what he needed to do.
Snarling frustration, Trant swung his blade down from above, two-handed, a heavy blow. Swiftly Aratan side-stepped, and the knight over-extended himself. He was exposed. Aratan brought his sword above his head and swung it down for Meryn's helm. The hilt of the sword came crashing down like a hammer.
The murder-stroke rang hard and true off the bascinet. The Kingsguard stumbled, stunned by its force. Before he could recover, Aratan was upon him. The hilt smote him heavily again, and a third time, leaving deep dents in his helm and the knight within struck dumb.
In a clamour of rattling armour, Ser Meryn Trant fell to the ground. Setting his foot upon him, Aratan shoved him onto his back, and kicked open his visor. With both hands on the hilt, he drove his sword down. In a gush of blood, Ser Meryn's face disappeared before the sword tip. Aratan leaned his weight onto the hilt until the knight lay still and dead.
His heart was pounding hard and his limbs were beginning to numb. He looked up from Meryn's corpse and saw the surviving Lannister men-at-arms retreating back to the door, and Eddard opening up the last one's throat. There was a sickening squelch when Aratan yanked his sword free from Ser Meryn's ruined face. He wiped the blood off with the white cloak of the Kingsguard, leaving a dark red stain upon it. Then he sheathed his sword and grabbed the halberd from the ground.
Ingold was panting with exertion, his buckler dented and worn, and his sword covered in gore. There was a far-off stare in Finrod's look. Ned was calmly and coolly staring around at the bodies across the hall. Eleven men lay slain, and none of them bore the badge of the white tree.
"Ser Meryn?" said Eddard when Aratan rejoined them by the side entrance.
"Dead," said Aratan.
"Good," said Ingold.
From the direction of the cellars, they could hear men shouting.
"More are coming," said Finrod.
Eddard's eyes were as ice. "Let them,"
Four more times did the goldcloaks and the men-at-arms of the Lannisters flood into the dragon's hall, and four more times was their flood stemmed and beaten back. They fought until their arms were as lead, their hearts felt fit to burst, even raising their weapons was an agony. They gulped air with great gasps, like drowning men struggling for breath. The floors grew slick with blood, and footing was treacherous amongst the bodies of the dead. Balerion stared down upon the carnage hungrily, and dead men lay across the teeth and jaws of other dragons, as if to be devoured by the dead beasts.
How long can we do this? How long until… Aratan shoved the final thought aside, even as he hacked apart a goldcloak's head with halberd-blade.
Another sally have been driven back. With slumped shoulders, the Numenoreans and the Northman stood amongst the gore and the death they had wrought. The torches were burning low, crackling. There were groans of men wounded who still lay amongst their comrades.
Aratan met Ned's look. The Lord of Winterfell sighed wearily.
Then from the passage's shadows clattered a crossbow!
The dart tore through the air.
Ingold cried out in anger and pain, dropping to one knee, his buckler clattering to the ground. In the right side of his chest the bolt was lodged, his life's blood seeping out around it.
The crossbowman stood at the entrance, and foolishly he scrambled to reload his bow. Roaring like a bear, Ingold charged him down, blade flashing in the firelight. With savage swing he clove the man apart, tearing open an awful wound from shoulder into torso, leaving his sword stuck up to the hilt in the crossbowman's chest. The crossbowman dropped dead, murderous weapon falling from cold fingers.
With one hand clutching at the bolt in his chest, Ingold staggered and then slumped to the ground against the wall.
"Ingold!" Finrod cried out, running to his fellow housecarl's side. With fumbling fingers he pulled back the flap of mail which covered the old man's face. Ingold had paled and his breath was shallow and strained. Aratan and Ned stood over him, ready to guard their fallen companion with sword and pole-ax. The fighting had lulled again and there was silence in the hall.
Finrod set a hand upon the shaft and made to draw it out of the wounded man's chest.
"No!" Ingold protested weakly. "Leave it. I am slain, I can feel it,"
Finrod started to speak: "I can't just-"
"Leave it be, kinsman. For me it is too late," Ingold was staring fixedly at Aratan even as he spoke, as if seeking to imprint this moment in his memory even as death took him.
"Finrod, brother, you must carry a message for me, for I am wounded to the death and cannot do so myself," said Ingold.
"Anything, my brother, anything," replied Finrod, voice hoarse.
"You must return home, Finrod, and when you do… Will you tell our lord that I stood by his son in this place? Will you tell Isildur that Ingold was faithful to the end?" the old man said, sounded weaker and weaker by the word.
Tears were shining in Finrod's eyes. "I will, Ingold, I swear it,"
He spoke no more. So passed Ingold son of Gethron, servant of the House of Isildur, who had been born of Numenor ere its fall.
In silence, Finrod wept over his companion's body. He raised his closed fist to his head, and then to his mouth.
Who am I to deserve such loyalty? Who am I to lead these men to death? Aratan thought, mirroring Finrod's gesture to the fallen Ingold. He shoved his sorrow down. There would be time to mourn later. Their work was not yet done.
For into the hall strode another knight of the Kingsguard, pale and silent as a wraith. His visor was raised, and Ser Mandon Moore's placid eyes stared at them flatly from within the helm. Like Trant before him, he was in full harness, but he had discarded the cloak. In his hand was sword of his own, and behind him came many men, many more than they had fought before.
"Captain Aratan," Ser Mandon said in his soft voice, seeing the sigils on their surcoats. He took in the ghastly scene, the wreckage of death scattered all over the hall. His gaze paused on Ser Meryn's white-clad form laying in the back, a red pool around his head.
"You have slain Ser Meryn?"
"Yes. He gave me no choice," replied Aratan. Ser Mandon nodded, seeming untroubled.
"Your choice is this: Lay down your arms and come with me, or else die. We are too many for you to resist this time," the Kingsguard said. Aratan glanced at Ned and nodded to him.
"But resist we shall," said Eddard. "No willing captives shall you have this day,"
"You choose death?" said Ser Mandon.
Then in the moment, Aratan recalled the tales he heard in his youth, and the stories of the battles of the Edain, and he remembered the words spoken for lost battles and failed hopes, and he spoke them in a voice grim and sharp-edged as a blade: "Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens,"
"So be it," answered Ser Mandon Moore. He lowered his visor and raised his sword. Behind him burst a flood of Lannister crimson and King's Landing gold.
_______________________________________
Evening was lengthening, and the sun was going down in a blinding ball of deep red in the west, casting long red and gold fingers across the darkening sky. The shadows were long in the courtyard of the Red Keep.
Lannister red. Royal red. thought Cersei Lannister. She was Queen-Regent of the Eight Kingdoms, sovereign from Dorne to the Wall. She was supreme. She felt like she was in a dream, she was drifting on air, like a great weight was lifted from her shoulders, free at last of the anxiety and the worry that had consumed her for so long. She felt like the gods had answered her prayers.
Too long had she lived in fear. Too long had she feared her terrible ape of a husband, that drunk Robert Baratheon. Too long had her nights been sleepless for fear of Stannis Baratheon and what he might do to her children if he discovered the truth Cersei had hidden. Too long had she endured Jon Arryn's reproachful looks, and Ned Stark's icy gaze, and Isildur's terrible, piercing, burning eyes. No longer would she fear Robert's rage, or Stannis' justice, or Isildur's inhumanity. Her children were safe at last.
For a moment the dream had almost slipped away, one man had scorched her fingers even as she reached out to offer him a place beside her. Aratan Isildurion, the foolish Captain of the King's Host. Now he was in her power even as his friend Ned Stark was.
Cersei stood at the right hand of her son, King Joffrey, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar, and the Numenoreans, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He was resplendent in gold, from the gold circlet over the curly gold locks of his hair to the golden shoes upon his feet, green eyes flashing clear and proud. Jaime's son. Her son. No Baratheon at all, no scion of that drunk fool Robert, but her son alone.
They stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand looming before them, surrounded by chivalry and bared swords. They were flanked by the Heirguard on the one side and the Kingsguard on the other. In heavy grey plate, with his dog's face helmet donned, the Hound stood by Joffrey, gauntleted hand on sword hilt. Behind them stood the retainers and livery men of House Lannister. Off to the side was Ser Ilyn Payne, mute and dreadful to look upon, clad in his harness of black plate and looking like Death himself.
Three members of their Small Council remained to them, and they too stood and waited outside of the Tower. Varys' plump hands were folded within his drooping sleeves, and his face was pale and sweat-beaded. Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin once more, was smirking as if he knew some private joke. Pycelle's arms were clasped over his long beard.
Cersei watched her men drag Ned Stark out of the Tower of the Hand. His head hung limply. His hair and beard had been cut and he was garbed in the black mail and surcoat of the Gondorians.
Two more came after him, and Cersei grimaced to see Aratan in the hands of her men. He could have been a strong ally, she was willing even to offer herself to him if it would bring Gondor's allegiance, but he would be a valuable captive too.
The three prisoners were left on their knees before the King of the Eight Kingdoms, and they swayed back and forth, breathing and saying nothing. Their eyes were cast down.
"They fought till utter exhaustion, Your Grace," said Ser Mandon Moore, helm held beneath his arm, sword still in hand, his hair plastered to his head by sweat.
"Well done, Ser Mandon," Cersei replied, with a perfect smile.
Joffrey strode forward from his mother's side, arms behind his back, and surveyed the three kneeling men. They did not meet his gaze. He smirked with satisfaction.
"Guards!" he called out. "Return Lord Stark to his chambers. I am sure he is weary from his labours,"
Perfect, Cersei thought, smiling still. She had told Joffrey very carefully and in no uncertain terms of the value that Lord Stark had as a captive. Ned Stark was the key to keeping the North in line. Stark as their prisoner would erase the shame of her idiot brother's capture and allow for peace with honour.
The guards seized Eddard by either shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Surrounded by four men, they led him back towards the dungeons. He turned a frozen stare in Cersei's direction, cold and disdainful. She felt an instinctive chill of fear down her back, but ignored it. He was in her power, completely and utterly.
"Now now," Joffrey said, looking over the two kneeling Numenoreans. "What ought to be done with these traitors?"
Joffrey had a cutting smile almost like Jaime, but there was something different about it. Something less merry, something sicker.
Cersei recognized that smile on her son's face. She knew it well. Cersei loved her children, loved them as neither Jaime nor Robert ever could, but when she saw her son smile that way even she wondered what sort of creature she had birthed. The Queen moved swiftly forward to Joffrey's side.
"My son," she whispered in his ear. "They should be taken prisoner as well,"
"What?" he shot back in a low voice, eyes angry and disgusted, and lip curling petulantly. "They have betrayed me! Their king!"
"So did Lord Stark, but like Stark they have value alive. Kill the other one if you wish, but Aratan is valuable to us,"
"Treason must be punished Mother, he should never have dared defy us!" Joffrey was still whispering, but his voice was growing louder, his tone wilder.
"Lock him away, my son, let his father ransom him, let Isildur know that his son's life is in our hands and he will never dare defy you," Cersei told him. Joff was silent for a moment, nostrils flaring in displeasure.
"Very well," he said at last, grudgingly.
Joffrey stepped away from his mother and said in a loud voice: "Aratan Isildurion!"
The Captain looked up and Cersei drew in a breath despite herself. Amongst the dark blood and the wounds of his face, his piercing eyes gleamed undaunted. He was so like unto his father, though his features were younger and his eyes more blue than grey. His hard stare hit like a blow to the chest, and Cersei wished for nothing more than to turn away from it. She forced herself to meet it. So stern was the son of Isildur's glance that in an instant she felt utterly exposed, helpless, like he had penetrated all her veils and defenses and knew every secret within her mind and heart. And all she could see in his look for her was pity and contempt.
"You have tried to free a man guilty of treason against the Crown, and you have slain many of my men in the doing. Have you anything to say in defense of yourself?" asked Joffrey, loud enough for all in the courtyard to hear, undaunted by the hardness of Aratan's glare.
There was a long moment of silence. The captive did not speak, he just continued to look at them, his eyes set in that unbearable, burning look.
"Well?" said Joffrey, impatiently.
Finally Aratan spoke, voice weary but strong: "What I did, I did not for myself but for the Realm,"
"The Realm?" repeated Joffrey, slowly. His fists were clenching, rage gathering. "The Realm!?"
"I AM the Realm!" he snarled, words echoing about the courtyard.
No one else spoke. The King drew in a deep breath, calming himself. He looked back at his mother. Cersei allowed herself a small smile to reassure him, and nodded.
"You have betrayed your King's trust, Aratan son of Isildur. No Captain of my Host are you fit to be. So long as I am King, treason shall never go unpunished!" Joffrey proclaimed, looking to the knights and soldiers gathered on all sides of them. The castle's servants had gathered in the courtyard, and the pages and squires, the septon, the heralds and courtiers, and all the nobility of the court, all watching the spectacle with pale faces and wide eyes.
"Yet it is said that mercy too is a kingly virtue!" Joff went on, words assured and strong. Cersei felt a wave of relief wash over her. Her son could be so unpredictable, sometimes he worried her.
"Aratan Isildurion, you shall be given to the Night's Watch, and there may you redeem your house's disgrace!"
Just the right command. Cersei thought, pleased with her son's decision. A promise to give Aratan to the Night's Watch let the King appear merciful but not weak, and he could be left in the castle dungeons as their prisoner for as long as they needed him.
"But first," Joffrey added, eyes gleaming. He stepped towards Aratan. Rings gleamed on his hands in the failing light.
"You will pay homage to your King, that all may see you repent for your crime. You, Aratan Isildurion, shall give unto me the kiss of peace,"
Joffrey offered his hand before the son of Isildur's face.
Aratan stared back, defiant. His glare burned like fire and cut like a blade. For a moment Joffrey took a half-step back, recoiling before the Numenorean, but he was willful and kept his hand held out, waiting for the kiss.
The evening breeze was tossing the banners upon the battlements. All eyes were fixed on Aratan and Joffrey, on the Captain and the King.
"You would refuse the mercy of a King?" said Joffrey finally, withdrawing his hand.
Then Aratan spoke again, and his words echoed off the walls and towers of the Red Keep: "Kingship is given to the House of Baratheon only, not to Joffrey son of Jaime!"
Cersei's heart stopped. Her blood felt as icy water.
There was a sound as over hundreds of people gasped in shock. Then a confused murmur ran through the gathered crowd. Cersei looked around desperately. She felt caught, exposed, trapped. She tried to compose her face into a mask, the mask she wore at Robert's feasts, but she could not help it. The fear was welling back up inside her.
Joffrey stepped back again, silent, but his features were contorted with wrath. His knuckles were white, his green eyes had gone wild.
"W-what did you say?" Joffrey said through his teeth. Then he screamed: "What did you say!?"
He looked around wildly, as if he did not know what to do. Aratan did not flinch before the raging boy-king, but stared on with his awful, unblinking, penetrating gaze. Cersei heard whispers behind her. She didn't know what to do.
Her son made the decision for her. He smirked with a bloodthirsty, wrathful glee as he said the words:
"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
The King's Justice drew forth his longsword, three and a half feet of hard-edged heavy steel. At the King's command, he stalked forward. His blank face betrayed neither doubt nor feeling.
Aratan cried out for a third time, and his voice grew great and terrible to hear, a voice that was not his own, that was deeper and more powerful:
"King shall they call thee, Joffrey son of Jaime, and King shall thee be, but False King, craven king over thralls! Thy kingship shall be one of fire and blood! Thou shalt drown the land in death, and be drowned thyself in thy turn! Thou shalt gain thyself a new name, worthy of thy station: The King of Ashes shalt thee be called, for in ashes shalt thou leave thy kingdom, to be scattered by the eastern winds! All shall curse thy name, and curse thy line, and curse thy house, for after you shall come a greater king, terrible and awful in splendour, and so few will be left to stand before him!"
And none who heard these words could help but feel themselves pierce them unto their own hearts and minds. Aratan's eyes no longer stared at anyone, but were far off and remote and seemed to glow with a fire of their own. The King's Justice was bringing up his sword in both hands, but Aratan did not harken it. He was still yelling, his voice awful to hear:
"The black sails! The black sails!"
Somewhere, a horse was screaming in wild terror when Ser Ilyn Payne swung his sword down.
The Red Keep
In a squat, heavy-stoned, half-round, grey-faced, ugly tower across the bailey from Maegor's Holdfast lay the dungeons of the Red Keep. There was a forbidding and faintly sinister look about that tower, called by some the Traitor's Walk. No banners fluttered from its spire, no men patrolled its battlements, and even its narrow arrow slits were covered by iron bars. This tower held its secrets deep, and its exterior betrayed nothing of what went on within. The only entrance was a narrow postern at the foot of the tower, facing the holdfast, and barred by a black metal door.
Aratan stood in the courtyard and looked up at the tower, which loomed coldly and indifferently above him. He had donned his hauberk once more. He fingered the hilt of his sword, feeling the tension in the air. Behind him stood Ohtar and the other housecarls.
"Is this truly our plan?" asked Ingold.
"I can think of no other," said Finrod.
"Baranor, have you spied your passage back to the Hand's tower?" said Aratan.
"Aye my lord, if we can get out of there afterwards, I see a way I might make it to the godswood, and cutting through there to the Hand's tower," said Baranor, glancing with sharp eyes at the guards on the walls and other towers surrounding them.
"You will need to pass that way swiftly and unseen once it begins," said Ohtar.
"I was a ranger for many years, just as our kinsmen Mablung. I have my ways," Baranor replied.
A strong wind buffeted them, wrapped their cloaks tight around them, and made the Baratheon and Lannister banners atop the walls snap and flutter.
"As soon as we step within, the Queen will be told. Let us be quick, brothers," said Aratan, and he strode forward towards the dungeon tower. His kinsmen followed behind him. Ingold's buckler clattered against his hauberk and sheathed swordswith each step.
The postern was narrow, only wide enough for a single man to pass through, and it was flanked by two guards, in jerkins of boiled leather and Lannister livery, each leaning upon a halberd topped with a heavy axe blade and wickedly sharp steel spike. They stared at the approaching men of Gondor with the lazy stupidity of cruel men. The taller and broader of the pair scratched at a flea-bitten beard and straightened up to glare at them.
"Who goes there?" the guard demanded, holding his halberd across the door.
"Captain Aratan," said Ohtar, stepping forward of the others and assuming a herald's loud, confident voice. Aratan composed his face in an expression of lordly arrogance and detachment. The guard narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"And what is Captain Aratan's errand in the dungeons today?" said the guard snidely. He spoke with the tone of a man who enjoyed holding his meagre powers over others.
"We are here to question the traitor Lord Stark," replied Ohtar.
"What sort of questions?" asked the guard's companion.
"The Queen's questions, and if you bar my passage for a moment longer you shall answer for it to Her Grace," Aratan said, words commanding in tone.
At the mention of the Queen and the command of Aratan's speech, the pair paled and quickly pulled their halberds back. The taller one quickly stammered: "Of course, of course, milords!" and he bowed his head as they passed him by.
In single file they went through the postern-door and into a narrow, dark passage. It came out in a small entrance hall. The walls and floor were plain grey stone. A shaft of sunlight from a narrow high window lit the room in a gloomy half-darkness. At the other end of the hall was a wooden desk, covered in pieces of parchment and heavy ledgers and books. Behind it stood two more guards flanking an ironbound door, mailed and helmeted, swords and bucklers on their belts. But leaning upon the desk was a slight man standing in a dark grey aketon. In silver thread upon his breast was a badge, a black shield bearing a single silver sword point down. The badge marked him as a knight of the Ironguard.
The Ironguard was one of the Seven Brotherhoods and was formally charged with stewardship of the Iron Throne itself, or so Aratan had always been told. In truth, since the days of Maegor the Cruel, they had been entrusted with less savoury tasks. The King's Justice, the royal executioner, was traditionally selected from amongst their number, and the six other knights of the Brotherhood were given likewise disreputable and even sordid duties. These knights, if knights they even were for many of them had never sworn any vows, were not selected for honour, nor even for skill at arms, but for silence and loyalty. There were reasons why Ser Ilyn Payne served as the Brother-Captain of the Ironguard, despite his muteness. The dungeons of the Red Keep were their domain, and few spoke openly of what the men of the Ironguard did in the name of the Crown within its black depths.
Aratan recognized the Ironguard on duty. His name was Ser Ganelon Lucan, he had ridden in the Hand's tournament, though Aratan had not faced him personally. Ganelon was a pale man, his skin so pale as to be frightful, a contrast with his hair which was black as jet. He wore it short and slicked back on his head, which together with his narrow and pointed face gave him the look of a slippery eel. His eyes too were so dark they appeared black, and he stared at Aratan and the Numenoreans with a look of boredom.
"Hail Ser Ganelon," Aratan said in greeting.
"Hail Captain Aratan," Ganelon replied in a soft voice. "What business brings you here?"
"I have questions for that traitor Stark," said Aratan.
Ser Ganelon drummed his fingers upon the desk and tilted his head. In a quiet voice he said: "Truly? I had not been told that the prisoner would be questioned…"
"I have only recently learned of this treason. He was the Marshal of the Host which I am called upon to command, I must uncover whatever intrigues amongst my lieutenants he has already sewn. The full extent of his treachery must be uncovered" Aratan replied grimly.
"Ah, I see. And how do you plan to do this? The Queen has commanded that no hand be lain upon him," said Ser Ganelon, as if he was regretting the fact.
"We Numenoreans have our ways,"
Ganelon smiled, a joyless curling of the lips, and said: "I have heard the tales. Very well then, if you think you might extract something useful from him, go ahead. He's down in the black cells, ask the gaoler to show you the way,"
"My thanks, good ser," replied Aratan courteously.
Behind the door was a narrow spiral staircase, the ways leading both up and down masked in darkness. Torches burnt upon sconces in the walls. The upper levels of the dungeons were reserved for highborn prisoners and common criminals, the black cells were below ground level.
Seizing a torch, Aratan led his men downwards. He could barely see outside of the flickering orange light of his torch. The stair was very narrow, and as it spiralled down into blackness Aratan hoped he would not find himself having to fight his way out. In such narrow places, a single man could hold back dozens.
They came at last to another door, this one an iron grate. The stair still spiralled downwards further, but no one but the Ironguard would willingly go to the lowest level of the dungeon. The hinges on the grating creaked in protest as Aratan pushed the door open.
The air was dank and chill in the chamber beyond the grate. A burning brazier in the center of the bare stone floor gave a little light in aid to the torches on the walls. On three sides, the walls gave way to bare, dark passages, where the black cells themselves would line.
Aratan glanced behind him. Two more guards flanked the door, and they stared at his men with suspicion and contempt. They were mailed and girt with swords, as their comrades at the entrance had been. The son of Isildur felt a pang of regret. They had the look of plain, simple folk about them. He had been on many battlefields in his life, but never had he enjoyed the killing, and it was always the normal people caught up in the quarrels of lords which he felt most sorry for.
The gaoler sat in a corner, behind another plain wooden desk. He was a heavyset man, with broad shoulders and a thick neck beneath a bald head. Like Ser Ganelon, his desk was covered in books and scrolls, but unlike Ser Ganelon this man had a stench of wine about him, and there were empty flagons and a half-eaten cheese and loaf of bread before him. Next to him was an opened barrel of water, for the guards on duty.
The gaoler stood up slowly, like the half-drunk he was. A ring of keys rattled on his belt.
"How may I serve ye, milord?" he slurred. Aratan grasped the hilt of the dagger at his belt. He glanced backwards and nodded at Baranor. He knew they must act swiftly. They would not have much time once it began.
"I am here to see a prisoner," Aratan replied. The gaoler came out around the desk and approached them. His footsteps were heavy.
"At whose command?" asked the gaoler, the fog of wine clearing from his head. His eyes were clearer now.
It all happened at once, in a second, in the moment between one breath and another. With heavy grip Aratan covered the man's mouth, drawing his dagger and shoving the point up right below the man's chin. The man froze in terror of the sharp steel wavering near his neck.
Behind him, Ohtar and Baranor turned as one, drawing daggers of their own. They were upon the guards without a cry or a sound. Their hands covered noses and mouths, and their blades quickly opened up two throats. Both guards slumped noiselessly, blood seeping down into their mail.
"I wish to see Lord Stark," Aratan whispered to his captive. "Do you know where he is?"
The gaoler nodded stiffly.
Aratan told him: "You will take us to him. You will not make a sound. Your life shall be spared if you do this. If you call out or raise alarums, we may all perish in this place but I swear to you that you shall die with us. Do you understand?"
The gaoler nodded again.
"Lead on,"
With Aratan's dagger prodding him in his back, the unfortunate gaoler led them down a long, dark passage. Their torch cast fleeting light and deep shadows all around them. They passed by row after identical row of heavy iron-bound doors on either side of them. There was not a sound but that of their footsteps against the floor. Some of the cells looked like they have not been opened in a long, long time.
How many of these black cells are occupied? Aratan wondered. How many men have been forgotten in this place?
He did not have long to muse though. Finally the gaoler stopped at one particular cell.
"He-he's in there, milord," the man told them.
"Truth now, that is Lord Stark's cell?" asked Aratan.
"Yes, milord, on my honour," replied the gaoler nervously.
Ohtar pulled open a slat on the cell door and held his torch to it, peering inside.
"Aratan, Ned is here," the squire said.
"Which key is it?" asked Aratan.
"The th-third on me b-belt, milord," was the answer.
"Many thanks, master gaoler," Isildur's son said softly. He cranked back and clubbed the man over the head with the pommel of his dagger. His blow was true and hard and the bald man slumped to the ground, as if all the bones had gone out of his body, unconscious.
"I do not envy the headache he shall have when he awakens, but he led us truly enough," said Finrod. He stooped and took the keys from the gaoler's belt.
Aratan winced at the heavy sound of the key turning within the lock. It echoed within the quiet of the dungeons. The door swung open, its hinges scraping loudly.
Within the black cell, squinting into the torchlight and raising a hand to shade his eyes, sat Lord Eddard Stark.
His skin was pale, his clothes and cloak were tattered and torn in places, and his hair was matted and tangled, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. His eyes, unused to the light after so long in the dark, could not make out his rescuers.
"Now here is an unlikely meeting," Aratan whispered with a smile, stepping into the cell.
"Aratan!" Ned exclaimed in surprise as he recognized him, voice too loud.
"Shh, quietly my friend," urged Aratan, raising a finger to his lips. He crouched down by his sitting friend.
"Go bring Eddard some water and that food on the gaoler's desk," he commanded. Ingold nodded and disappeared down the corridor.
"How are you here? What has happened?" Ned asked in quick succession.
"We're here to bring you out of this place," Aratan replied. "You have many questions, I know, but we have only little time. Your daughters eluded the Queen,"
At these words, Ned's solemn face broke out into a smile of the purest relief and happiness that Aratan had ever seen.
"Where are they? Are they safe?" he asked.
"Yes my friend, your daughter Arya, clever Arya, she hid herself and Sansa in a hidden passage in the Tower of the Hand, where we found them. The Queen summoned me to win my allegiance, but she shall not have it. We need to get you out of here,"
"You're risking your lives for me…" Ned said quietly. "You should have taken my daughters and left. Cersei won't lay a hand upon me, my fear is for what she may do to them,"
"We're taking you and your daughters both out of here. The Queen shall have neither you nor them," Aratan replied in a stern voice.
"Catelyn has Cersei's own brother, Tywin Lannister's son. They have me. Leave me here and get my daughters to safety, they will exchange me for the Imp and make peace," said Ned. In his voice there was a quaver of fear – But not fear for himself.
"And leave Joffrey on the Iron Throne, King in the eyes of all the Realm? Let your son Robb drag the Northmen into war with the Lannisters? We need you to make this peace Ned, need you free, not a captive!" Aratan said, his own voice an urgent, desperate plea. He thought of his father, somewhere in the Riverlands, daring the lion to strike and reveal its true nature.
Eddard's eyes were pensive, lost inside his own thought for a while. When he looked back up, his face was set and grim.
"Very well," the Lord of Winterfell stood up, fists clenched. "What is your plan?"
Ingold returned with the bread and cheese, and a bucket that sloshed with cold water.
"Eat a little, for you strength, and wash your face, you shall need a shave and a haircut,"
Ned wore his hair long around the shoulders in the northern style. After he had a few mouthfuls of food he immersed his head into the bucket of water and washed out the dirt and sweat that had matted his hair together. Ohtar and Aratan set upon him with their daggers, cutting off the dark locks, cropping it short as the Dunedain wore it. It was an inelegant job, but it served well enough.
"His beard as well," Aratan said. With dagger of his own, Finrod cut down the northern lord's beard till Ned was, if not clean shaven, then at least only with some stubble left.
"If this is meant to be a disguise, Aratan, it'll need more than this," said Ned when they had finished, rubbing his shaven jaw where his beard had once been.
"Now your cloak Baranor, and your mail too. Put these on Ned," commanded Aratan. The housecarl unclasped his grey cloak, and then hauled off his mail hauberk and surcoat. Next came the padded gambeson underneath, leaving Baranor clad only in tunic and breeches.
Ned quickly donned Baranor's garb, gambeson and hauberk both, and then swung the cloak around his shoulders and clasped it with the rayed star-shaped broach which all the housecarls of Isildur wore. He bound his surcoat round his wasit with Baranor's belt, sword sheathed on his right and dagger on his left. With his hair cut short, his beard shaved off, his grey eyes set in his lean face, and now clad in the proud and somber garb of the Guard of the Tower of Minas Ithil, Eddard Stark appeared a man of Numenor to any who might not know it was him.
"Never thought I'd bear Isildur's sigil upon my breast," Ned commented, holding out his arms and looking himself over. His fingers brushed over the silver crescent moon above the white tree.
"I daresay you shall be glad for it ere this day is done, and for the likeness of your Stark features to that of Andunie. You make a splendid Dunadan, Ned," replied Aratan, standing with crossed arms. The disguise was not impenetrable, any who knew Eddard personally could see through it, but it would mask his identity well enough to the guards and servants who lay between his cell and the Tower of the Hand, who would hopefully only see him from afar and in passing.
"We must be going, quickly before anyone is sent down to check on our friend the gaoler," urged Ohtar, peering down the passage towards the stairs. They could not guess when someone would come down to relieve the gaoler or the two guardsmen which lay slain.
"Aye, best be off. Where is this hidden passage you spoke of? Where does it lead?" said Ned.
Leaving his cell to its darkness, they walked with long, swift steps back to the main room, where the faces of the slain guards were slowly turning white and cold. Aratan and Ohtar led, followed behind by Ned, Ingold and Finrod, with the unarmoured Baranor bringing up the rear.
"Do you remember when your daughter slipped out of the castle a few weeks past? And she could not be found for the better part of a day?" Aratan whispered, pulling open the iron grated door that led back to the stairway.
"Aye, that I do," said Ned. He moved up behind Aratan in the single file up the spiralling dark stairs.
"That passage is where she and her sister took shelter. It leads to the sewers, and thence to the river, outside of the city. We left your daughters at the entrance to it, we will bring you to them," replied Aratan.
"What of the guards at the entrance? Surely they will guess this ruse when they see Baranor," Ned said questioningly, voice low and urgent.
"Leave that to us," Ingold replied grimly.
Aratan's heart was beating hard within his chest, feeling like it was fit to burst. His hands felt dry and strange. There was no fear as he led Ned into the entrance hall of the dungeon tower. No fear, only an anticipation. It was the same feeling that stirred in him when he sat atop his charger and waited for the heralds to blow their horns at the jousts of the Hand's tournament. The same feeling was always in him before battle or fight or the hunt of some dangerous beast. Neither fear nor anxiety, but a heightened awareness of himself. He felt the weight of the mail on his shoulders and hips, and the feeling of the sword's hilt in his hand, the brushing of his cloak against his legs, the sound of his boot heels against the stones, the breathing of the housecarls behind him.
The hall was gloomy and quiet as before. Ser Ganelon looked up from his ledgers and scrolls, pale face regarding Aratan quizzically as Isildur's son turned towards him. He spotted a footstool sitting by the side of the table. Ganelon's black eyes flicked over Aratan's shoulder and came to rest upon Ned's face. They narrowed for a moment, and then widened in recognition. Ganelon was springing to his feet, he was opening his mouth to cry out, he was setting his hand upon his sword hilt, but Aratan was faster.
The son of Isildur sprang forward. He swept up the wooden stool in his hands and, in one step, whirled it above his head and brought it crashing down upon Ser Ganelon's skull. The stool burst into pieces with the force of the strike. With a strangled cry, the Ironguard knight was sent careening by the blow, falling down first upon the table and then slid to the ground. He lay still and unmoving.
Tossing the pieces of broken wood aside, Aratan turned back to his comrades. One of the guards already lay with opened throat, and Ohtar stood above him, wiping the blood from his dagger. The other double over with a pained grunt, Ingold's knee driven into his groin. The old housecarl swung a mailed fist into the man's face, and he collapsed to the ground with bloody mouth and broken teeth.
"The guards at the door will have heard all this commotion. Finrod, with me," Ohtar barked out, tapping the younger man on the shoulder.
The two of them flanked the entranceway, backs flat against the walls. In their hands, daggers gleamed dully in the half-light.
Surely as Ohtar had said, the door was flung open with a crash. The two guardsmen came running in, halberds in hand. In their haste, they neglected to watch their flanks. Ohtar and Finrod pounced upon them as soon as they entered. The first guard, the taller, broader one, fell with a gasp as the old squire's dagger plunged into the back of his neck. Finrod bludgeoned the other over the head with his pommel, and sent the shorter guard sprawling.
"We might get free of here yet," said Ned, looking around at the dead and unconscious bodies that now littered the hall.
"There's still a long way to go, and little time. Baranor, you go out first. Make sure you stay out of sight!" Aratan said, looking at the ranger sternly. Baranor's part in the plan was always going to be the most difficult and precarious. Slipping from the dungeon to the Tower of the Hand without being seen or caught would be no small feat, even if the whole Keep was not already watchful.
"Worry yourself not, my lord. I shall be at the Hand's own door to greet you!" Baranor laughed lightly.
"Stop talking about it and get on with it," urged Ohtar, sheathing his dagger. "Make haste, damn fool!"
"Farewell for a little while, brothers," Baranor said with a wink, and he quickly disappeared outside and was gone. Aratan silently counted to ten slowly within his head. No alarums were sounded, no bells or horns. They still had a little time.
"Now for the rest of us. Follow behind me as always, stay calm and look straight ahead. If we are very fortunate, the rest of the Keep may not even know what we have done until it is accomplished," Aratan instructed.
"Perhaps, but when has luck ever smiled upon anyone so?" Ohtar grumbled to himself, taking up his usual spot behind and to the right of Aratan.
Aratan said: "Are you ready Ned?"
"Aye," Eddard replied.
Aratan set a hand upon the cool metal of the postern, took a deep breath, and then shoved it open.
Day was waning into evening. It was perhaps the sixth hour past noon, and the shadows in the courtyards of the Red Keep were lengthening and deepening. Never had a walk seemed so long to Aratan son of Isildur than that one. To their left, Maegor's Holdfast stood menacingly. To Aratan, every window and arrow slit seemed full of unfriendly eyes. Every rustle of their mail and crunch of gravel beneath their booth seemed unbearably loud. Every servant and castle worker, saddle-makers and smiths, farriers and gardeners, who looked up and peered at them in passing seemed about to cry out and expose them. Every second, Aratan waited for the cries, for the shower of arrows and crossbow bolts from the battlements, and yet there was nothing.
They came to the winding stairs which led from the lower bailey up to the upper. A wall of red stone and a strong gatehouse divided the two courtyards, so that even a foe who pierced the outer defenses could not come immediately to the holdfast, and might still be swept back with arrow and missile. They passed beneath the raised portcullis. The Tower of the Hand was before them, across another bailey. They were nearly there.
At that moment, the air was rent by the sound Aratan had dreaded. Behind them, a bell from the Traitor's Walk pealed out its loud ring. It rang again and again, and went on. Voices were raising, there were cries and shouts behind them.
"Alarum! Alarum! Alarum!"
Ohtar gritted his teeth. "Fly you fools!"
They ran, breaking out into a sudden sprint. The Tower which once appeared so close now seemed so far away. All around them men were shouting from the walls.
"There! Look there! It's them!"
"After them!"
Arrows and bolts clattered on the cobble-stones about their feet. Aratan felt the air as one passed by his ear with a buzz with an angry hornet.
Baranor appeared at the top of the steps leading to the entrance of the Tower, standing upon the threshold of the doorway. He was gesturing wildly, roaring "Make haste!"
One after another, they ran past the threshold. As Ingold's foot left the doorway, Baranor slammed it shut. There was a bench sitting close by, heavily fashioned of oak. With a heave, Baranor and Finrod plucked it up and with a crash they tossed it down across the doorway, bracing it against the battered timbers.
Baranor sighed. "The whole Keep is roused behind you,"
Ned was shaking his head "That barricade won't hold long once they bring their axes, which way to the passage?"
There was a loud, low bang and the doors shuddered in its hinges, sounding as if someone was ramming his shoulder against it.
"This way! Quickly!" shouted Ohtar.
The small band raced down the halls of the Tower of the Hand, through the desolation and the unburied corpses. As they reached the end of the entrance hall and rounded the corner, they heard a crash behind them. The door had been battered open. Aratan glanced backwards. Goldcloaks and men-at-arms in Lannister livery were dashing after them, swords and halberds and crossbows were in their hands. Their voices were raised as hounds after their quarry.
Like a ship in full sail on the winds of an oncoming storm, they flew down the corridors, boots thumping against the flagstones. Aratan's heart was racing in his chest, his blood rushing in his veins. They leapt up a flight of stairs and turned to the north corridor. Crossbows clattered behind them. Bolts hissed in the air.
Ohtar was the first to the door of the study. He flung it open, and with a crash overturned the table nearby and picked up for another barricade. Finrod and Baranor grabbed the chairs and other furniture in the room.
Arya and Sansa stood, clad in stolen servants' clothes as Aratan had instructed them to be, with unlit torches in their hands. Arya was fumbling with a flint and steel, but dropped it as the Numenoreans poured in. For a moment their father looked at them expectantly, for a moment they did not recognize him with his short hair and shorn beard. The moment passed quickly.
"Father!" the Stark girls exclaimed together, and they rushed into his arms.
Relief, joy and gratitude washed over Eddard's face all at once. "Girls! I thought I'd lost you!"
His daughters' shoulders were shaking, tears coming again at the reunion.
Ohtar was pushing a book case across the closed door. "We've no time! We must go!"
Ned pulled the girls in front of him and looked at them steadily. They wiped the tears from their eyes. "You must be brave now, my daughters. You must be fearless and strong as the wolves you are,"
The door, and the barricade which barred it, shook as someone on the other side struck it. It held fast. Lady growled, grey bristles rising on her back, baring her snow-white fangs.
Baranor grabbed the torch and struck the flint and steel. A shower of sparks lit the rags wrapped around the end of the brand. He sheltered it with a hand and blew upon it and a small flame was kindled. Aratan lit the other torch from the fire. The door shook in its hinges again, still holding fast.
"Through there?" said Ned, eying the gaping, lightless passage that opened in the wall. The banging on the doorway grew louder, the sound of armoured gauntlets ringing against the timbers.
"Haste is more needed than caution, quickly now!" said Aratan, stepping to the threshold and casting his fire's light into the tunnel. Blank, bare walls and a dank floor disappeared into the gloom beyond. The door of the study was rattling and banging continuously now, and the raised voices of their pursuers could be heard on the other side.
They filed into the passage, and when the last of them were within, Aratan seized the iron handle of the stone door and pulled it shut behind him with a deep thud. They were engulfed in utter blackness, the noises from the other side of the wall deafened by the stone. Only the fleeting light of their torches illuminated the passage, else they would have been blinded.
"You know the way, Arya?" Aratan whispered.
"I do! You can follow me!" Arya replied in a small voice.
"Lead on, little one," said Ohtar.
The air was stale and musty beneath the Red Keep, and the shadows were deep and dark as the depths of the sea. Outside of the pool of light cast by their sputtering torches, there was nothingness before them and behind them, all they saw was rough-hewn stone walls and floor and ceiling. Arya went in the lead, walking softly on the balls of her feet, so that she could scarcely be heard. Behind her went Aratan, and Ned, and behind them were Baranor, Finrod and Ingold. Sansa walked in the middle, eyes downcast and face pale, with Lady padding quietly at her side, ears pricked up and golden eyes gleaming. In the rear came Ohtar, watchful and wary for pursuit behind them.
How long they traveled down that dark tunnel, Aratan could not guess. At length, they came to a right turn, and from there an even narrow passage, where the walls brushed against their shoulders and the Numenoreans had to stoop to get through. This hall seemed to run just as long as the previous, until finally it came to a spiralling staircase. Here Aratan paused and let the others pass him by, waiting for Ohtar at the rear.
"Have we eluded our hunters?" he asked in a whisper. Ohtar grimaced.
"Listen," said the squire. The silence was immense. Then, distantly and distinctly, Aratan heard the scrape of armoured boots on stone. Still far off, but it was there and the sound was of many footfalls.
"They found the hidden door," said Aratan.
Ohtar growled: "High praise from the Queen for a traitor's head."
There was a hard gleam in Aratan's eyes, like a distant fire burning.
"I swore they will not have us, and they shall not while I have any strength left in me," he said. At this Ohtar managed a smile
"You sound like your father,"
Down the twisting stairs they went with haste, torches bobbing and spitting sparks. Arya, clad in grey and brown, was a fleeting figure on the edge of their vision before them. The rumour of armour-clad feet was ever-present behind them, though distant, and Lady began to rumble and growl at the sound of it even as they fled before it.
Suddenly Arya stopped and turned. To their right was a patch of fresher stonework, the mortar less aged and cracked, the stones cleaner cut. It looked like a doorway had been walled in, but the job had been lazily done and incomplete, for at the bottom left corner was an open gap, but tiny and confined, and beyond it just more darkness.
"Through here!" said Arya, sidling through the narrow space. It was a tight fit even for her. The mailed Numenoreans looked at each other dubiously.
"Where the child leads, we must follow," said Finrod. With a sigh, he went down on hands and knees and, turning this way and then that, slowly squeezed his way through. There was barely space enough for him to fit, but he made it.
In the same fashion, the others followed. Thin Sansa had no difficulty. With growls and scratching of claws on stone, even Lady the direwolf passed through, though the space was small.
"Let us hope the guards miss this postern," said Ned when he stood up and brushed the dust from Baranor's surcoat.
They found themselves in a wider, more proper hallway on the other side, the stonework finer. There were even sconces in the wall, though without torches or lights. This hall was short, and at its end a heavy, dusty wooden door with an iron ring for a handle.
"Passages within passages, secrets within secrets. Old Maegor the Cruel built many escapes and hiding-holes into this castle," said Ned, shaking his head.
"This comes out in the cellars! And that leads to the room with the monsters," said Arya, running to the door.
Grabbing the ring, she yanked it open with a grunt.
On the other side, standing with torches of their own, two armed men stared back at them with wide eyes. One wore the goldcloak, the other the scarlet of a Lannister livery man.
For a fleeting second, no one spoke.
"Alarum! Alarum" roared the Lannister guard in a loud voice, sweeping out his sword. Finrod sprang forward and was upon him before the word was finished, driving his shoulder into the man's gut and wrapping his arms around him, driving him back bodily.
"Down here! They're here!" cried the goldcloak, turning and grabbing his sword hilt. He was too slow. Lady bounded forth and pounced. She bloodied her muzzle as her fangs tore out his throat. He fell with a half-scream that turned into a gurgle.
Sansa screamed in fright, the sound echoing into distant halls.
The Lannister guard's sword clattered to the ground, and Finrod sent the man himself crashing upon his head with a sudden sweep of his leg.
For another moment, there was no sounds but the direwolf tearing and gnawing at the dead man's flesh. Then from up another set of stairs, a cacophony of voices and clattering armour. Much closer now than the last had been.
"Combing the catacombs for us, I should have known," said Ohtar grimly.
"Hurry, this way!" cried Arya, already running into the gloom.
They ran in dim light amongst crates and barrel smelling of salt pork and smoked fish. Louder behind them grew the sounds of their pursuers and the shouts of the guards. Arya skidded to a halt at a door suddenly, covered in dust and looking long undisturbed. She shoved it open and disappeared onto the other side. As Aratan plunged into the passageway, he heard calls from behind them.
"There they are! Quickly or we'll lose them!"
One after another, they went in single file down a short, constricted hallway, rough stonework hemming them in on either side.
Suddenly the walls fell away and they found themselves standing alone in pitch dark. Above them, they could see the ribs and arches of a vaulted ceiling. A cold chill was in the air, and a sudden feeling like they were not alone. Huge shapes loomed in the shadows, just outside of the firelight. There were the outlines of jagged teeth, still sharp and hungry despite the ages. Black bones gleamed, the reflection of the torches twisting and dancing upon them as if the fire was a living thing.
With a start, Aratan realized that this hall was full of the skulls of dragons. The largest, with horns like spears and teeth like swords, sat at the end of the hall, towering and lording above the lesser drakes all around it. Though long dead there seemed a knowing malice still in those bones, and the empty eye sockets of that skull stared at them malevolently.
"Balerion," said Ohtar with a strange laugh. "Long has it been since last we met, old wyrm. The years have been less kind to you than to me I deem,"
There was no time for reminiscing however, for the rumour of pursuit behind them was drawing near now.
"Where is the door you spoke of Arya?" he said.
"Here! On the other side of the biggest skull!" the girl said, springing nimbly amongst the dead bones.
As they hurried after her, Aratan perceived that they had entered by a side door into a long hall, the main entrance of which was towards the far end and whose doors were rusted and looked long shut and forgotten.
On the other side of Balerion's skull was another door, covered by an iron grating, and on the other side a stairway disappeared downwards. It creaked and protested as they slowly shoved it open, forcing rusty hinges to turn.
Yet Eddard hung back from the rest, and he gazed intently at the faces of Arya and Sansa with a look of grave longing. Then he turned around, and faced back towards the door from where they had come. He stood and listened at the approaching footsteps. Sansa's direwolf, blood staining her muzzle, was growling once more. No foes had entered the hall yet, but by the sound they soon would. His long face was grim, and fierceness shone in his eyes. He set his hand upon the hilts of Baranor's sword and drew it forth, razor edges catching the torchlight.
"Take my daughters and go, I shall hold them back," he said simply.
Arya and Sansa was the first to grasp what he had told them.
"Father, please!" said Sansa, taking him by the hand as if to pull him along with them. Tears were welling in her eyes again.
"No, you have to come with us! You can't stay!" Arya cried out, throwing herself upon her father and wrapping her arms around his waist.
"Go, now! Go! They do not know that you are with us. When they see me, they will stop this hunt and you might yet find your way to Winterfell again," said Ned. With gentle but firm hand he pried them away from him and stepped away. His gaze softened at their pleas. "I am sorry I ever brought you to this place, but leave me and let your father do what he must!"
"Ned, you can't stay! Not after-" Aratan began to protest, but the Lord of Winterfell spoke and cut him off:
"Take my daughters and get you free of this place. They will not harm me, too valuable am I, but I will not have my daughters captive at anyone's hands! Not while I might still save them yet!" In Ned's voice there was the ferocity of a direwolf.
Aratan looked back towards the doorway, and the narrow corridor which led into the hall. Then he remembered the stairway of the dungeons.
In a narrow place, one might hold back many.
Aratan's own sword flashed in the red torchlight as he unsheathed it.
"I will stand by you here, Eddard, though all the hosts of Casterly Rock might beset us,"
Ned asked in a quiet voice "Are you certain? If you are taken they may not put such value upon your life…"
Looking at the son of Isildur's face, Eddard had his answer.
The Numenoreans were staring at Ned and Aratan, struck silent in their own turn. Ned turned towards them.
"Ohtar, you are Isildur's man?" he said.
"Till my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end," said Ohtar.
"Isildur trusts you more than any other, trusts you like his own kin. I beg you Ohtar, will you take my daughters and guide them to safety? Will you return them to Winterfell?"
The scarred shield-bearer looked down at the daughters of Lord Stark, pale and frightened, tears upon their cheeks, still begging their father to come with them though their words were unheeded.
"I will," Ohtar said. "I swear it,"
"Then fly now! Take your companions and go!" Ned said.
"I stay with Aratan," said old Ingold quietly.
Finrod said: "And I,"
Baranor spoke last: "Nor shall I abandon our captain now,"
"No Baranor, go with Ohtar!" Aratan said in a voice of command "You are unarmed and unarmoured, fly now! I command it!"
Baranor stood, and in his gaze there was an agony as he was torn in his heart between the love of his captain and his captain's command. Then at last he turned and as the son of Isildur commanded him ran and fled down the steps and disappeared.
Tears were flowing down Sansa's fair cheeks, and Needle was swishing the air in Arya's hand, but Ohtar plucked them both up in his strong arms and, throwing them over his shoulders, carried them away.
"Father! Father!" came Sansa's cries.
"No! Father! Let me go! Let me go!" Arya's protests echoed in the hall. With a last look at Aratan, Ohtar finally turned and disappeared beyond the door. Lady went running at his heels. The cries of the girls faded into the distance. A rattle of armour was drawing close now.
"They are coming," said Ingold, and in one hand he took up his sword and in the other grasped his iron buckler.
The four men, three Numenoreans and the Northman, walked back towards the side passage. They could hear their foes' clattering steps close by. They were clad all in mail, and they pulled up the coifs of their hauberks about their heads, so that only their eyes were left uncovered. The eyes of the Numenoreans gleamed terribly, and Eddard Stark's gaze was cold as winter night. They threw the torches away, leaving fire burning amongst dragon bones, casting fleeting light and dancing shadows upon the vaults of the ceiling. Then they unclasped their cloaks and they cast them aside. The white tree of Gondor on their breasts was pale in the gloom. Naked swords of steel, cold and sharp, were in their hands.
They flattened themselves up against the walls on either side of the entrance way, Ned and Finrod on the one side and Aratan and Ingold on the other. Aratan breathed in deeply, feeling the weight of his coif on his head. He could hear many heavy footsteps approaching, a rustle of mail shirts, the thud of boots, and the clatter of plate. He took his blade half-sword, one hand on the hilt and the other halfway down the blade. He met Eddard's gaze across the gap. The Lord of Winterfell nodded once.
Every moment they held the foe here was another moment for Ohtar and Baranor, and Sansa and Arya too. In his heart, Aratan felt the agony of failure, for Ned was throwing himself back into chains, but he would not break faith with his friend. He adjusted his grip upon the blade.
These Lannisters shall pay a dear price to take this one captive again Aratan thought grimly.
They heard the door crash open. They heard steps in the passage, many armed men coming, and though narrow that corridor was not long.
A goldcloak was first to appear, running in with torch held in upright hand. He did not see the warriors who waited in ambush. He did not see death till it sprung.
Up leapt Isildur's son! And with one sure stroke, he stabbed and drove his sword beneath the upraised arm which bore the burning brand. The iron rings of the goldcloak's byrnie beneath his armpit burst before his blade, and the blade drank blood greedily. The first foeman fell on his face with a stricken cry.
A second goldcloak knocked forward into the first even as Aratan ran him through, wearing only an arming cap upon his head and aketon on his chest. Ned's borrowed sword swung down in a wide arc, and the stroke was sure, and the guardsman fell with cloven head and face.
In headlong pursuit had the first two goldcloaks been caught, thinking they were hunting down escaped prisoners only. But their comrades had seen their deaths, and were the more prudent for it. Snarling wordless battle-shouts, they poured in with weapons bare, and at the fore came two Lannister livery men, halberds in hand, and by jabs and thrusts they discomfited the Northman and the Numenoreans and drove them back from the passage and amongst the dragon skulls. Scrambling over their friends' corpses, more followed with swords and maces clutched in hand.
Drive them back! Drive them back to the door or we are lost! Aratan thought desperately, and he turned aside one thrust and then another from the halberdier before him. Suddenly, seeing his chance, he caught up the pole-arm by the staff and stepped in close, and he drove his pommel into the face of the Lannister soldier, braining him and sending him crashing down. Struck dumb, the livery man dropped the halberd, and Aratan grabbed it from his falling fingers and, with sword held along its staff, wielded it in both hands.
"To the door!" Aratan shouted, and he threw himself into the tide of foes. In his hands the pole-ax whirled, and with spear-tip and ax-blade and hammer-head and iron-shod staff he stabbed and hacked and bashed and bore back all before him. Behind him, Finrod's eyes burned terribly, and grim Ingold's blade was bloody, and Eddard Stark dealt death with both sword-edges.
Those Lannister men who stood foremost braved the onslaught, for to turn their backs was to die, but those behind were free to fly just as swiftly as they had rushed forward. They did not endure the execution before them, but ran. And to those who fought on, their swords did not avail them, for razor's edge could not bite through coats of mail, the darting head of Aratan's halberd dismayed them and step by step they fell back or were slain.
Like the wave on the shore they had rolled into the hall, and like the wave which is spent they receded back, till none were left living and the others had fled. Aratan stood and rested his pole-arm against his shoulder, panting and breathing hard. They had left the hall littered with corpses, yet he counted only six men slain, and he knew more would come. The light of the torches glowed red and dull orange, and threw shadows which loomed and twisted.
"They will come again, soon," said Aratan.
"I know," said Ned.
"How many times can we do this?" Finrod was staring at the hewn bodies with pale face, but hard eyes.
"Until they are all dead, or we are," said Ingold.
"There will be more, and their knights and men-at-arms have not yet come," Aratan said grimly.
Then Ned cut them off suddenly: "Quiet! Listen!"
From beyond the doorway, they heard voices.
"They are in that hall?" said the first voice, calmer and with the accents of knighthood.
"Aye ser, where the old dragon skulls got left," came the reply, in rougher tones. "It's full of foes milord!"
"Aye, we was running after the prisoner when we were assailed!" said another.
"How many?" asked the calm voice.
"Ten I reckon, at least, from all the slaughter that was at the front!"
"Ten's small; A score!"
"And all mailed! Our swords did naught!"
"A score of mailed men?" laughed the first one "That I doubt. Follow me, we shall pull these rats from their hole,"
Aratan levelled his halberd, and on either side of him Eddard and the housecarls readied their swords.
The hall rang with clattering harness, and forth from the darkness of the passage stepped a knight of the Kingsguard. All in white, his ghostly pale armour covered him head and foot. The white cloak behind him brushed against the stones. Upon his head he wore a bascinet helmet, its pointed visor down, obscuring his features, rendering him an unknown and nameless thing; the faceless and implacable servant of the Crown.
The knight paused before them. Behind him came men-at-arms in crimson Lannister cloaks. In his hand he bore a longsword. Then he raised a white gauntlet to his visor and pulled it up. Behind it there was the drooping eyes and bearded face of Ser Meryn Trant.
"Dunedain," he said. Seeing the white tree on their chests and the fewness of their numbers his lips curled contemptuously.
"Ser Meryn, I did not think to meet you here," said Aratan from behind his coif.
"Isildurion," replied the Kingsguard, recognizing the voice. "Trying to spring your marshal from prison eh? You will hang for this treason,"
"If you have the mettle to take us. Can you endure that test, Ser Meryn?" replied Ned. Gritting his teeth, the Kingsguard slammed his visor back down.
"I hope you provide better sport now than you did upon the lists!" Aratan laughed and he brandished halberd and his sword alongside it.
"Take Stark! Kill the rest!" Ser Meryn snarled, voiced muffled by his helm. "Isildurion is mine,"
Again the hall sounded with shouts and cries. Behind Ser Meryn came armoured men-at-arms and Eddard and the housecarls met them sword to sword and hand to hand. Amongst the skulls of wyrms there was the clang and clash of cut and parry and the crunch of blade on mail rings. The retainers of House Lannister were hard men, they asked for no quarter and gave none in turn, and with swords, maces, and pole-axes the blows they struck were hard-handed.
Charging in like an angry boar, Ser Meryn ran at Aratan with a savage flurry of blows. Turning the staff of his halberd this way and then that, the son of Isildur blocked and parried, but was driven step by step till the gaping maw of Balerion was at his back.
Driving forward the butt-end of the pole-ax, Aratan rang a counter-blow off of Meryn's helm. The Kingsguard staggered back.
There! Aratan thought, gritting his teeth; He thrust the spear-tip forth violently, aiming for the shoulder joint between breastplate and spaulder.
Seizing his blade half-sword, Ser Meryn parried the thrust and caught the halberd by its head. With a cunning twist of his weapon, he yanked the pole-ax from Aratan's hands.
His sword, however, was still left for the son of Isildur to wield.
Seeing his chance, Meryn swung for Aratan's mail-clad head, missing barely as his foe slipped backwards. He threw another cut and missed again. Doggedly Meryn pursued his foe, slashing the air again and again as he tried to connect.
Damn it, even with my coif, without an arming cap I'll be brained and stunned if he hits! Aratan observed, seeing that every swing was aimed for his head.
Aratan reversed his sword, grabbing it by the blade. The hilt, with its steel crossbar and heavy pommel, was held forward. With keen eyes flashing he retreated and waited, watching for his chance, biding his time, dodging one way and then another. His foe was full clad in steel, in plates and mail and scales, and he knew what he needed to do.
Snarling frustration, Trant swung his blade down from above, two-handed, a heavy blow. Swiftly Aratan side-stepped, and the knight over-extended himself. He was exposed. Aratan brought his sword above his head and swung it down for Meryn's helm. The hilt of the sword came crashing down like a hammer.
The murder-stroke rang hard and true off the bascinet. The Kingsguard stumbled, stunned by its force. Before he could recover, Aratan was upon him. The hilt smote him heavily again, and a third time, leaving deep dents in his helm and the knight within struck dumb.
In a clamour of rattling armour, Ser Meryn Trant fell to the ground. Setting his foot upon him, Aratan shoved him onto his back, and kicked open his visor. With both hands on the hilt, he drove his sword down. In a gush of blood, Ser Meryn's face disappeared before the sword tip. Aratan leaned his weight onto the hilt until the knight lay still and dead.
His heart was pounding hard and his limbs were beginning to numb. He looked up from Meryn's corpse and saw the surviving Lannister men-at-arms retreating back to the door, and Eddard opening up the last one's throat. There was a sickening squelch when Aratan yanked his sword free from Ser Meryn's ruined face. He wiped the blood off with the white cloak of the Kingsguard, leaving a dark red stain upon it. Then he sheathed his sword and grabbed the halberd from the ground.
Ingold was panting with exertion, his buckler dented and worn, and his sword covered in gore. There was a far-off stare in Finrod's look. Ned was calmly and coolly staring around at the bodies across the hall. Eleven men lay slain, and none of them bore the badge of the white tree.
"Ser Meryn?" said Eddard when Aratan rejoined them by the side entrance.
"Dead," said Aratan.
"Good," said Ingold.
From the direction of the cellars, they could hear men shouting.
"More are coming," said Finrod.
Eddard's eyes were as ice. "Let them,"
Four more times did the goldcloaks and the men-at-arms of the Lannisters flood into the dragon's hall, and four more times was their flood stemmed and beaten back. They fought until their arms were as lead, their hearts felt fit to burst, even raising their weapons was an agony. They gulped air with great gasps, like drowning men struggling for breath. The floors grew slick with blood, and footing was treacherous amongst the bodies of the dead. Balerion stared down upon the carnage hungrily, and dead men lay across the teeth and jaws of other dragons, as if to be devoured by the dead beasts.
How long can we do this? How long until… Aratan shoved the final thought aside, even as he hacked apart a goldcloak's head with halberd-blade.
Another sally have been driven back. With slumped shoulders, the Numenoreans and the Northman stood amongst the gore and the death they had wrought. The torches were burning low, crackling. There were groans of men wounded who still lay amongst their comrades.
Aratan met Ned's look. The Lord of Winterfell sighed wearily.
Then from the passage's shadows clattered a crossbow!
The dart tore through the air.
Ingold cried out in anger and pain, dropping to one knee, his buckler clattering to the ground. In the right side of his chest the bolt was lodged, his life's blood seeping out around it.
The crossbowman stood at the entrance, and foolishly he scrambled to reload his bow. Roaring like a bear, Ingold charged him down, blade flashing in the firelight. With savage swing he clove the man apart, tearing open an awful wound from shoulder into torso, leaving his sword stuck up to the hilt in the crossbowman's chest. The crossbowman dropped dead, murderous weapon falling from cold fingers.
With one hand clutching at the bolt in his chest, Ingold staggered and then slumped to the ground against the wall.
"Ingold!" Finrod cried out, running to his fellow housecarl's side. With fumbling fingers he pulled back the flap of mail which covered the old man's face. Ingold had paled and his breath was shallow and strained. Aratan and Ned stood over him, ready to guard their fallen companion with sword and pole-ax. The fighting had lulled again and there was silence in the hall.
Finrod set a hand upon the shaft and made to draw it out of the wounded man's chest.
"No!" Ingold protested weakly. "Leave it. I am slain, I can feel it,"
Finrod started to speak: "I can't just-"
"Leave it be, kinsman. For me it is too late," Ingold was staring fixedly at Aratan even as he spoke, as if seeking to imprint this moment in his memory even as death took him.
"Finrod, brother, you must carry a message for me, for I am wounded to the death and cannot do so myself," said Ingold.
"Anything, my brother, anything," replied Finrod, voice hoarse.
"You must return home, Finrod, and when you do… Will you tell our lord that I stood by his son in this place? Will you tell Isildur that Ingold was faithful to the end?" the old man said, sounded weaker and weaker by the word.
Tears were shining in Finrod's eyes. "I will, Ingold, I swear it,"
He spoke no more. So passed Ingold son of Gethron, servant of the House of Isildur, who had been born of Numenor ere its fall.
In silence, Finrod wept over his companion's body. He raised his closed fist to his head, and then to his mouth.
Who am I to deserve such loyalty? Who am I to lead these men to death? Aratan thought, mirroring Finrod's gesture to the fallen Ingold. He shoved his sorrow down. There would be time to mourn later. Their work was not yet done.
For into the hall strode another knight of the Kingsguard, pale and silent as a wraith. His visor was raised, and Ser Mandon Moore's placid eyes stared at them flatly from within the helm. Like Trant before him, he was in full harness, but he had discarded the cloak. In his hand was sword of his own, and behind him came many men, many more than they had fought before.
"Captain Aratan," Ser Mandon said in his soft voice, seeing the sigils on their surcoats. He took in the ghastly scene, the wreckage of death scattered all over the hall. His gaze paused on Ser Meryn's white-clad form laying in the back, a red pool around his head.
"You have slain Ser Meryn?"
"Yes. He gave me no choice," replied Aratan. Ser Mandon nodded, seeming untroubled.
"Your choice is this: Lay down your arms and come with me, or else die. We are too many for you to resist this time," the Kingsguard said. Aratan glanced at Ned and nodded to him.
"But resist we shall," said Eddard. "No willing captives shall you have this day,"
"You choose death?" said Ser Mandon.
Then in the moment, Aratan recalled the tales he heard in his youth, and the stories of the battles of the Edain, and he remembered the words spoken for lost battles and failed hopes, and he spoke them in a voice grim and sharp-edged as a blade: "Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens,"
"So be it," answered Ser Mandon Moore. He lowered his visor and raised his sword. Behind him burst a flood of Lannister crimson and King's Landing gold.
_______________________________________
Evening was lengthening, and the sun was going down in a blinding ball of deep red in the west, casting long red and gold fingers across the darkening sky. The shadows were long in the courtyard of the Red Keep.
Lannister red. Royal red. thought Cersei Lannister. She was Queen-Regent of the Eight Kingdoms, sovereign from Dorne to the Wall. She was supreme. She felt like she was in a dream, she was drifting on air, like a great weight was lifted from her shoulders, free at last of the anxiety and the worry that had consumed her for so long. She felt like the gods had answered her prayers.
Too long had she lived in fear. Too long had she feared her terrible ape of a husband, that drunk Robert Baratheon. Too long had her nights been sleepless for fear of Stannis Baratheon and what he might do to her children if he discovered the truth Cersei had hidden. Too long had she endured Jon Arryn's reproachful looks, and Ned Stark's icy gaze, and Isildur's terrible, piercing, burning eyes. No longer would she fear Robert's rage, or Stannis' justice, or Isildur's inhumanity. Her children were safe at last.
For a moment the dream had almost slipped away, one man had scorched her fingers even as she reached out to offer him a place beside her. Aratan Isildurion, the foolish Captain of the King's Host. Now he was in her power even as his friend Ned Stark was.
Cersei stood at the right hand of her son, King Joffrey, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar, and the Numenoreans, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He was resplendent in gold, from the gold circlet over the curly gold locks of his hair to the golden shoes upon his feet, green eyes flashing clear and proud. Jaime's son. Her son. No Baratheon at all, no scion of that drunk fool Robert, but her son alone.
They stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand looming before them, surrounded by chivalry and bared swords. They were flanked by the Heirguard on the one side and the Kingsguard on the other. In heavy grey plate, with his dog's face helmet donned, the Hound stood by Joffrey, gauntleted hand on sword hilt. Behind them stood the retainers and livery men of House Lannister. Off to the side was Ser Ilyn Payne, mute and dreadful to look upon, clad in his harness of black plate and looking like Death himself.
Three members of their Small Council remained to them, and they too stood and waited outside of the Tower. Varys' plump hands were folded within his drooping sleeves, and his face was pale and sweat-beaded. Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin once more, was smirking as if he knew some private joke. Pycelle's arms were clasped over his long beard.
Cersei watched her men drag Ned Stark out of the Tower of the Hand. His head hung limply. His hair and beard had been cut and he was garbed in the black mail and surcoat of the Gondorians.
Two more came after him, and Cersei grimaced to see Aratan in the hands of her men. He could have been a strong ally, she was willing even to offer herself to him if it would bring Gondor's allegiance, but he would be a valuable captive too.
The three prisoners were left on their knees before the King of the Eight Kingdoms, and they swayed back and forth, breathing and saying nothing. Their eyes were cast down.
"They fought till utter exhaustion, Your Grace," said Ser Mandon Moore, helm held beneath his arm, sword still in hand, his hair plastered to his head by sweat.
"Well done, Ser Mandon," Cersei replied, with a perfect smile.
Joffrey strode forward from his mother's side, arms behind his back, and surveyed the three kneeling men. They did not meet his gaze. He smirked with satisfaction.
"Guards!" he called out. "Return Lord Stark to his chambers. I am sure he is weary from his labours,"
Perfect, Cersei thought, smiling still. She had told Joffrey very carefully and in no uncertain terms of the value that Lord Stark had as a captive. Ned Stark was the key to keeping the North in line. Stark as their prisoner would erase the shame of her idiot brother's capture and allow for peace with honour.
The guards seized Eddard by either shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Surrounded by four men, they led him back towards the dungeons. He turned a frozen stare in Cersei's direction, cold and disdainful. She felt an instinctive chill of fear down her back, but ignored it. He was in her power, completely and utterly.
"Now now," Joffrey said, looking over the two kneeling Numenoreans. "What ought to be done with these traitors?"
Joffrey had a cutting smile almost like Jaime, but there was something different about it. Something less merry, something sicker.
Cersei recognized that smile on her son's face. She knew it well. Cersei loved her children, loved them as neither Jaime nor Robert ever could, but when she saw her son smile that way even she wondered what sort of creature she had birthed. The Queen moved swiftly forward to Joffrey's side.
"My son," she whispered in his ear. "They should be taken prisoner as well,"
"What?" he shot back in a low voice, eyes angry and disgusted, and lip curling petulantly. "They have betrayed me! Their king!"
"So did Lord Stark, but like Stark they have value alive. Kill the other one if you wish, but Aratan is valuable to us,"
"Treason must be punished Mother, he should never have dared defy us!" Joffrey was still whispering, but his voice was growing louder, his tone wilder.
"Lock him away, my son, let his father ransom him, let Isildur know that his son's life is in our hands and he will never dare defy you," Cersei told him. Joff was silent for a moment, nostrils flaring in displeasure.
"Very well," he said at last, grudgingly.
Joffrey stepped away from his mother and said in a loud voice: "Aratan Isildurion!"
The Captain looked up and Cersei drew in a breath despite herself. Amongst the dark blood and the wounds of his face, his piercing eyes gleamed undaunted. He was so like unto his father, though his features were younger and his eyes more blue than grey. His hard stare hit like a blow to the chest, and Cersei wished for nothing more than to turn away from it. She forced herself to meet it. So stern was the son of Isildur's glance that in an instant she felt utterly exposed, helpless, like he had penetrated all her veils and defenses and knew every secret within her mind and heart. And all she could see in his look for her was pity and contempt.
"You have tried to free a man guilty of treason against the Crown, and you have slain many of my men in the doing. Have you anything to say in defense of yourself?" asked Joffrey, loud enough for all in the courtyard to hear, undaunted by the hardness of Aratan's glare.
There was a long moment of silence. The captive did not speak, he just continued to look at them, his eyes set in that unbearable, burning look.
"Well?" said Joffrey, impatiently.
Finally Aratan spoke, voice weary but strong: "What I did, I did not for myself but for the Realm,"
"The Realm?" repeated Joffrey, slowly. His fists were clenching, rage gathering. "The Realm!?"
"I AM the Realm!" he snarled, words echoing about the courtyard.
No one else spoke. The King drew in a deep breath, calming himself. He looked back at his mother. Cersei allowed herself a small smile to reassure him, and nodded.
"You have betrayed your King's trust, Aratan son of Isildur. No Captain of my Host are you fit to be. So long as I am King, treason shall never go unpunished!" Joffrey proclaimed, looking to the knights and soldiers gathered on all sides of them. The castle's servants had gathered in the courtyard, and the pages and squires, the septon, the heralds and courtiers, and all the nobility of the court, all watching the spectacle with pale faces and wide eyes.
"Yet it is said that mercy too is a kingly virtue!" Joff went on, words assured and strong. Cersei felt a wave of relief wash over her. Her son could be so unpredictable, sometimes he worried her.
"Aratan Isildurion, you shall be given to the Night's Watch, and there may you redeem your house's disgrace!"
Just the right command. Cersei thought, pleased with her son's decision. A promise to give Aratan to the Night's Watch let the King appear merciful but not weak, and he could be left in the castle dungeons as their prisoner for as long as they needed him.
"But first," Joffrey added, eyes gleaming. He stepped towards Aratan. Rings gleamed on his hands in the failing light.
"You will pay homage to your King, that all may see you repent for your crime. You, Aratan Isildurion, shall give unto me the kiss of peace,"
Joffrey offered his hand before the son of Isildur's face.
Aratan stared back, defiant. His glare burned like fire and cut like a blade. For a moment Joffrey took a half-step back, recoiling before the Numenorean, but he was willful and kept his hand held out, waiting for the kiss.
The evening breeze was tossing the banners upon the battlements. All eyes were fixed on Aratan and Joffrey, on the Captain and the King.
"You would refuse the mercy of a King?" said Joffrey finally, withdrawing his hand.
Then Aratan spoke again, and his words echoed off the walls and towers of the Red Keep: "Kingship is given to the House of Baratheon only, not to Joffrey son of Jaime!"
Cersei's heart stopped. Her blood felt as icy water.
There was a sound as over hundreds of people gasped in shock. Then a confused murmur ran through the gathered crowd. Cersei looked around desperately. She felt caught, exposed, trapped. She tried to compose her face into a mask, the mask she wore at Robert's feasts, but she could not help it. The fear was welling back up inside her.
Joffrey stepped back again, silent, but his features were contorted with wrath. His knuckles were white, his green eyes had gone wild.
"W-what did you say?" Joffrey said through his teeth. Then he screamed: "What did you say!?"
He looked around wildly, as if he did not know what to do. Aratan did not flinch before the raging boy-king, but stared on with his awful, unblinking, penetrating gaze. Cersei heard whispers behind her. She didn't know what to do.
Her son made the decision for her. He smirked with a bloodthirsty, wrathful glee as he said the words:
"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
The King's Justice drew forth his longsword, three and a half feet of hard-edged heavy steel. At the King's command, he stalked forward. His blank face betrayed neither doubt nor feeling.
Aratan cried out for a third time, and his voice grew great and terrible to hear, a voice that was not his own, that was deeper and more powerful:
"King shall they call thee, Joffrey son of Jaime, and King shall thee be, but False King, craven king over thralls! Thy kingship shall be one of fire and blood! Thou shalt drown the land in death, and be drowned thyself in thy turn! Thou shalt gain thyself a new name, worthy of thy station: The King of Ashes shalt thee be called, for in ashes shalt thou leave thy kingdom, to be scattered by the eastern winds! All shall curse thy name, and curse thy line, and curse thy house, for after you shall come a greater king, terrible and awful in splendour, and so few will be left to stand before him!"
And none who heard these words could help but feel themselves pierce them unto their own hearts and minds. Aratan's eyes no longer stared at anyone, but were far off and remote and seemed to glow with a fire of their own. The King's Justice was bringing up his sword in both hands, but Aratan did not harken it. He was still yelling, his voice awful to hear:
"The black sails! The black sails!"
Somewhere, a horse was screaming in wild terror when Ser Ilyn Payne swung his sword down.
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- Location
- West Michigan
In just three scenes - four if we go back and count the defeat of the khalasar - canon is obliterated. This is why I read fanfiction.
(fuck Meryn Trant)
(fuck Meryn Trant)
- Location
- SMS Odette II
It's been a long time coming, but EricD is finally free to knock over a lot of dominoes he's been carefully moving into place.
- Location
- The Grey City, South America
With Isildur's attitude towards attacks against his family and Elendil rage at the death of his grandson the Numenorean Kingdom in Exile will fight the Lannisters to the death, there will be no truce and no mercy given, except if Umbar appears right in the middle of this clusterfuck 
21
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XIX
The Marches of the Westerlands
The ruins of Wendish Town were full of stench and death when Gendry and the others emerged blinking into the morning sunlight from the cellars of the still-standing sept.
Carrion-fowl swarmed over the wreck of the battle, the butcher-beaks of crows and rooks and ravens picking at faces, eyes, and open wounds. They filled the town with a hungry cacophony. In the distance, there was the sound of two wolves snarling and squabbling over a carcass.
Everywhere there were dead men. They were scattered here and there, some slumped against walls, others face down on the streets. Some stared up at Gendry with features pale and unseeing eyes still open wide, bloodless lips slightly apart. Others were so hewn and bloody they were not recognizable as men, limbs lost in the fury of battle and faces turned to bloody pulp, horrors of gore and bone. Everywhere Gendry looked there was death, and the smell of it was enough to shake his knees.
He felt bile burn his throat. His stomach revolted. Gendry doubled over, clinging to the wall of the sept for support, emptying his insides all over the step.
"There, there lad, it's alright. You made it through," said a strong but shaken voice, feeling a hand upon his shoulder. Gendry wiped away the vomit with his sleeve. He looked up and saw Lord Dondarrion standing there. The Lightning Lord looked out over the scenes of slaughter with face ashen and grey.
"Lord of Light preserve us," said Thoros of Myr in a solemn whisper, coming to stand next to Dondarrion.
It had been Thoros and Dondarrion who had led the charge into the sept during the battle. Gendry didn't remember much, just a swirling nightmare of steel that seemed to last an eternity. He remembered Thoros pulling him from the fight, screaming they needed men to take the sept. They had burst in the doors, and there had been a band of Clegane's men, and there had been a fight.
I killed two men yesterday Gendry thought in a daze. It seemed unreal, like a dream or a nightmare. No, they had been real, living, breathing men with hot blood rushing in their veins. One had sought to dispatch Lord Isildur when he had fallen from his horse, and Gendry shoved his short sword through the man's back. The other was in the sept, he had rushed Gendry with a mace and received a desperate stab in the throat. That man had gurgled horribly as he fell.
Why did I kill them? Who were they? Why did they wish to kill me? He wondered. Gendry's hands were shaking, a cold feeling had crept from his scalp down his back. He felt like he could not breathe. He felt like he was not in his own body. Gendry put his hand on the hilt of his short sword, gripping the leather handle tightly, and the shaking stopped for a moment.
The others had killed the crossbowmen in the sept's bell tower, but the fight outside went ill. Lord Dondarrion had wished to charge back out, but Thoros had seen that the fight was lost and so convinced him to take shelter in the cellars. Long hours had they waited in the dark, amongst musty tomes and scrolls, unknowing and uncertain of what was going on above.
Gendry looked back at the cellar door and saw the other survivors stepping up the ladder. The young bowman Anguy's face was pale despite its freckles. His longbow was grasped tightly in hand and his quiver had scant few arrows left. There was a distant, unseeing stare in his face.
Behind him came two men-at-arms in the Dondarrion livery, bearing streaks of lightning on their breasts. Though their surcoats were hacked and cut in many places, their mail and harness beneath was still sound. One was named Alain FitzUrse, a pale Stormlander with a powerful chest and broad shoulders, long arms like a bear's paws, and his face ruddy in complexion with bright blue eyes. His companion was Hugh Ballieul, a short man with a thickset neck and heavily muscled limbs. Both were girt with swords at their sides, but Alain leaned upon a pole-ax as tall as he was, and Hugh carried a war hammer. In the Stormland fashion, their hair was cropped short, with the back of the head shaved to the scalp and the rest only little longer.
They had ridden out of King's Landing with their Lord Dondarrion, and Lord Isildur, and a hundred and fifty other men. Now six remained. Gendry felt his stomach churning as if he was about to be sick again. He forced the feeling down.
Gods, they don't look bothered by this at all, he thought in shame as he looked at Dondarrion and his men-at-arms. They and Thoros had a grim look about them, but did not seem like they were about to be sick, not like Gendry and Anguy.
"What are we do to do?" Thoros asked Dondarrion.
"We must see if any of the others survived," replied the Lightning Lord in a leader's voice. His eyes had the same distant stare that Anguy had but somehow he seemed assured of himself despite this.
The cellar had two doors. One was the trapdoor on the floor of the sept, from which they had entered to take refuge. The other was the exterior door, which led up to the surface from a short wooden staircase. It was this exterior door they now exited by, clambering up into a grassy yard that lay behind the sept. There was a garden there, where green and growing things had been befouled by blood and the fragrant smell of flowers was overpowered by the smell of death that lay like a heavy cloak upon Wendish Town.
Anguy nocked an arrow to his longbow and crept up to the corner of the sept. A carven statue of the Maiden looked down from a niche above his head. The young man peered around the corner, and then indicated for the others to follow with a jerk of his head.
Gendry kept his hand tight on his short sword and followed silently behind Thoros. The Lord of Blackhaven and the red priest both had hands upon their blades' hilts, against any Clegane men that may have been left behind to garrison the town. Alain and Hugh brought up the rear.
The rear and side streets to the sept had been bad, but the town square on the other side was worst of all. Here the fighting had been longest and fiercest, and here was where Isildur's company and the marauders of Gregor Clegane lay entwined together.
Gendry remembered the first man he had ever seen killed. It had been years ago, when he was a much younger apprentice, perhaps Little Arryk's age or younger. There had been some young man, a rich merchant's heir by the look of it, all fine clothes and gold rings, who had strutted up and down the Street of Steel like a peacock in plumage. His sword and buckler had swashed and rattled together with his every step, loudly announcing his presence to all about them. That young man had run into another young man, with whom he had some quarrel. Sharp words were spoken. Sharp steel was drawn. Sword and buckler rang and clashed in the streets. Tobho Mott had sent his apprentices inside, so they might not see, but Gendry had peered out of a window anyways, unable to tear his eyes away. It had been over almost as quickly as it started. One of the fighters was laying in the street clutching at his innards. The other had fallen with head and face hacked apart.
The image of that poor man grabbing at his stomach, bloody fingers futilely trying to hold his insides from spilling out, had been burned into Gendry's nightmares for months.
This was worse. The sun was shining above and the skies were clear, but Gendry felt he had wandered into a waking nightmare.
The bodies lay over each other so thick one could not step without trodding upon a fallen friend or foe. Amongst them there were pools of blood, severed limbs, coils of entrails, and horrid, staring, cold dead faces. A smell of corruption and bloated bodies hung in the air overwhelmingly. From sept's step to the doors of the houses that lined the common, the corpses covered every inch. The square had been turned into a fen of death.
In the very centre of it all, apart from the others, there lay tall men in raiment of black and silver, and coats of black mail. Winged helms had fallen from proud heads. In their hands were broken swords and shivered spears and cloven shields. Dead hands still clutched at the flagstaff that bore their banner: A black field with a white tree, and seven silver stars set about a crescent moon. There lay the Dunedain of Gondor, proud men of the Sea who fought to the last. There lay Cirion the Captain and his kinsmen all about him. Around the Dunedain, the slain wearing Clegane livery were heaped in mounds.
Yet there was a lone figure there amongst the wreckage and the death, a solitary man sitting upon his knees. Gendry recognized the black surcoat and black mail of a housecarl of Lord Isildur. His helm was cast aside and his coif pushed back, leaving his head bare. He was no corpse nor ghostly wraith but a living man. He was bent over, and his shoulders were shaking.
"Hail friend!" said Lord Dondarrion loudly, picking his way amongst the dead and the rest following behind him. The Dunadan was turned away from them.
Gendry tried not to look at the faces of the battle-slain. They were cold and awful to look upon, and he forced his gaze to focus on their fellow survivor who still had not turned to acknowledge them.
"My heart is gladdened to see another of our company alive beyond hope. We had not thought that any others made it through the battle," Dondarrion went on.
Drawing closer, they heard the man chanting in a soft voice. His song was simple, yet in it Gendry could hear a deep sorrow beyond words. The Dunadan raised his voice and none who heard it could not feel its melancholy.
"The halls decay,
their lords lie
deprived of joy,
the whole band has fallen,
the proud ones, by the wall
War took off some
carried them on their way,
one, the bird took off
across the deep sea,
one, the gray wolf
shared a meal with death,"
As the last word faded away, the man's shoulders ceased to shake and he raised himself up to his feet. The Dunadan turned around to face them. His fair was fair, but graven with sadness and spattered with mud and blood. His eyes, a greenish-grey, were full of mourning.
"Lord Dondarrion," the Dunadan said in a hoarse voice. "You live?"
"Aye, thanks to a priest who had not my pride, I still live," Dondarrion replied. "You are one of Isildur's men, by your livery? What is your name, friend?"
"Beregond," said the Dunadan, he looked down and then around him as if he were a man lost. "I am called Beregond,"
A crow was cawing hungrily somewhere in the distance.
"What happened here, Beregond?" asked Alain FitzUrse, fingering his pole-ax and looking at the fallen around them. The cold faces of the Dunedain were strangely fair even in death.
"There were few of us, and many foes," said Beregond quietly. "Our Captain fell. My brothers were slain, and… and my Lord was taken," There were quiet tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away with a mailed sleeve.
"Taken?" asked Thoros.
"Yes, not killed but taken. A prisoner. I was felled and stunned in the fight by an ax-handle, I saw them drag my Lord away when I awoke. I had to lay still, to let them think I was dead," replied Beregond. In his voice there was a tone of shame.
"Lord Isildur lives…" Lord Dondarrion said, looking to the west where the outlines of the mountains stood in the distance and foothills marched beneath their towering heads.
"Yet a captive of Gregor Clegane? It might have been better if he had died in battle," Thoros said sadly.
"Nay, they will not lay a hand on him. He is too valuable to their designs, I would guess," said Dondarrion.
"The eldest son and heir of Elendil Kingmaker, he would be a great prize for old Tywin Lannister," added Hugh Ballieul.
Alain said: "Lord Isildur would bring a kingly ransom,"
Beregond looked back and forth amongst all of them, grimacing as if in disgust.
"Ransom? You think it is for ransom that the son of Elendil was taken captive?" he shook his head. "No, he will be a hostage, a guarantor of Gondor's good will, surety that Gondor will let the Lannisters do as they please in their quarrels with the House of Tully,"
Suddenly, Gendry felt very small and very alone, surrounded in this village by highborn fighting men. He was an armourer's apprentice, the narrow streets of King's Landing was all he had ever known, and now he stood amongst the slain of battle and listened to men speak of things larger and greater than armourer's apprentices were meant to stray into. What did he know of hostages and ransoms and the quarrels of the mighty? He felt like a city dog that had somehow wandered unnoticed into a pack of wolves.
Questions filled his head. What was the argument between the Tullys and the Lannisters? What was Gondor's stake? Why did Lord Lannister wish to capture Lord Isildur? Why had Ser Gregor been burning the Riverlands? Why had Ser Gregor's men attacked them on sight? He wished to ask so many things, yet he could not will his mouth to open whilst Lord Dondarrion and Beregond spoke.
He was used to standing silently and awaiting orders, such had been the way of things at the smithy. Yet never had he in his life felt so aware of the lowness of his birth or the roughness of his speech. He flexed his hands, and rocked onto the balls of his feet, wishing he had some task to throw himself into. He glanced down all the side streets of the village, feeling exposed.
"How can you know that Beregond?" asked Thoros.
"I have fought enough wars in these southlands to know its ways," replied the housecarl. "And I overheard them as they dragged my lord off. The Troll ordered a messenger to ride to Lord Lannister and tell him of my lord's captivity,"
Beregond's shoulders were slumped and he hung his head, the look of a shamed and dishonoured man.
"Sixty years I have served in my lord's household. A lifetime as your folk reckon it. I swore to serve until death take me or my lord release me or the world end. I live, my oaths still hold, the world still turns, I am free, yet my lord is in chains," Beregond spoke softly, voice cracking with the weight of emotion.
"We have failed then, and Clegane goes unpunished once more" said Thoros wearily, sadly. "May the Lord damn him,"
Dondarrion said nothing, staring with hard eyes at the mountains in the western distance. The carrion-birds cawed loudly all around them.
Beregond spoke at last, looking up with hard-edged despair upon his face: "…No. I shall not give Lord Isildur up as lost. Whilst arms are still left to me, and life and strength to wield them, I will not abandon him,"
"You mean to go after Clegane?" asked Hugh Ballieul, in a shocked voice.
"I am a housecarl," said Beregond.
"I'll go with you," a voice said, and Gendry was surprised to find it was his own.
Confused eyes turned to him. The Lord Dondarrion and his men-at-arms, the red priest Thoros, Anguy the Bowman and Beregond the Numenorean, all gazes fixated upon Gendry. He felt suddenly awkward and alone. By instinct, he lowered his eyes.
"What is your name, my friend?" asked Beregond, voice not unkind.
"Gendry, milord," Gendry said. His accent sounded coarse and unrefined in this company.
"You wear the badge of the King's Host," Beregond noted, glancing at Gendry's faded red gambeson and the crowned stag in black thread upon his chest.
"Aye, and I'm no highborn to know anything about all this business of lords and armies," Gendry replied, finding his words as he spoke. "But Lord Isildur, he was a good man, and having come all this way for him, well, I won't just up and leave him, if you follow me,"
Beregond nodded gravely. "Plain speech, but fairer to my ears for its virtue,"
The housecarl turned towards Thoros and Dondarrion and said: "Here is high worth, found unlooked for,"
Lord Dondarrion smiled, teeth standing out brightly against the blood and stains of battle still upon his face.
"The boy put into simple words what hung upon my mind already," he said. Now Thoros laughed.
"Mad, mad, mad, all of you. So mad I would be mad not to follow," the red priest grinned. "Vengeance may be the Lord's alone, but He never said we can't help it along,"
Anguy leaned upon his longbow, casting sharp eyes all around the battlefield around them. He grimaced.
"A lot of good lads died in this fight. Good friends. I reckon I still have an argument to settle with Gregor Clegane and his boys," the archer said, spitting onto the ground.
Alain and Hugh glanced at one another. They said nothing, for no more words needed to be said.
Beregond looked around, peering at each man's face in turn. He was silent for a long moment, and then said in a soft voice: "High worth, found unlooked for,"
The housecarl looked down again at one of the slain that laid at his feet. So many Numenoreans lay dead, the white tree on their surcoats stained with grime and blood. He grimaced.
"Before we depart," Beregond said. "…Will you help me bury my kin? I would not leave them here to be defiled by the birds and the dogs,"
Lord Dondarrion nodded solemnly.
Outside of Wendish Town, they found a clear meadow beneath the eaves of the nearby woods, where they could hear the burbling waters of the Red Fork in the distance. A breeze rustled the leaves, and the stench of the dead which filled the town was less overpowering outside of it. It was a peaceful spot, and there Beregond chose to build his brothers' cairn.
They laboured at first with knife blades and boots and hands, but after a time Anguy broke a few pickets off the fence of a nearby abandoned house, which made for easier digging. They laboured on beneath the baking sun, and perspiration ran down Gendry's face and neck, and for a time he lost himself in toil and the sting of sweat in his eyes, and thought not of armies and war. Work had always brought peace to his mind. He missed his smithy. He missed his family.
"My lord!" cried Alain all of a sudden. He seized his pole-ax from the tree he had set it against. The men sprung up from their work, jolted into nervous energy from the hot lull of the afternoon. Some had stripped to the waist, having set aside mail and gambesons to dig, yet each man still had a weapon in hand. Gendry's hand closed around the grip of his short sword, the weight and feeling of it already familiar to him.
One by one, or in twos and threes, people were drifting out of the trees, walking as if lost in dreams, returning to the smoke and desolation of Wendish Town. Their faces were death-pale, and for a moment Gendry thought these were restless ghosts of the murdered. Yet here were no wraiths but living men, women and children.
"The villagers," Anguy whispered. "Gods," he swore.
Many were walking out of the forests, yet few, far too few, to fill all the empty houses and buildings of the burnt town. Gendry tried not to think of what had befallen the others. Those who still lived said nothing to Lord Dondarrion or the others as they passed them by. They just glanced up briefly, eyes barely acknowledging them. They could have been wights shambling out of graves.
Without word or command, without a leader or a headman, the villagers started dragging dead men out of their streets and homes.
Suddenly a man was walking towards them, stalking with a dark look about him. Gendry froze, unsure of the man's intent, tightening the grip on his blade. There was a wooden shovel in the man's hand, heavy enough to smash a skull open. He was tall for a peasant, and his lined face was darkened and smeared with dirt and grime. His eyes had a stare in them, distant and yet piercing. The peasant stopped before Gendry and fixed him with that awful look. No one spoke.
Then he shoved his shovel into Gendry's chest and walked away wordlessly.
After a while, they had dig a long, shallow pit in the ground, broad enough for five men to lay in shoulder by shoulder, and long enough for many rows.
Carrying them by arms and legs, they bore the Numenoreans to the pit. There was no white linen to clad them in, nor water to wash them, and so they went to their grave armed and bloody from battle. Silent and somber, Beregond lay each of his brothers into the pit himself. He looked into each face, fair and cold, as he laid them down into the ground. Upon their chests he set their swords. They lined the edges of the burial pit with scarred shields and broken spears. When at last the task was done, the Numenorean housecarls lay in their burial pit, each with a brother and a kinsman to either side. There was peace on their faces, despite their wounds.
At the corner of a tilled field, the village farmer had piled up the stones they had removed from it. From there they took rocks and piled them up over the pit, and the Dunedain disappeared beneath them.
The sunlight was beginning to wane and there was a familiar ache in Gendry's shoulders and back when he stepped back from setting the last stone upon the cairn of the housecarls. The rocks were piled high, tightly against one another, so that no creeping thing or carrion-bird would defile those who lay within.
Beregond the Numenorean stood before the grave of his brethren, and though his face showed nothing Gendry could see in his eyes a sorrow beyond speech.
How long can Numenoreans live? He wondered. How many years had Beregond been a housecarl? How many lifetimes had he been a companion and kinsman to those they had buried?
Beregond silently raised a closed fist to his forehead, and then brought it to his lips.
"You have my thanks," the Numenorean said. The men looked to one another, unsure whom the housecarl was addressing.
"Your brothers would have done the same for us," said Lord Dondarrion.
"Mi-milords?" stammered the voice of an old man. Turning, the company saw a white-haired, stout old villager standing with his hat in his hands. Behind him stood a crowd of others, men and women and young children, all with the same dreadful unfixed look in their eyes as the man before. Something about that look made the hairs on the back of Gendry's neck stand on end.
"We, uh, did some talking, milords, me and the others like. Talked it over. All… All of this," the old man said, sweeping his arm back towards Wendish Town.
"Talked what over?" asked Thoros of Myr.
"We decided, milords, on account of all these dreadful happenings, the least we could do is, uh, bury yer lads," the old man finished.
"Yer fallen can rest beside ours. We'll lay 'em down," said a younger man from within the crowd.
"And I did some asking around too. The ones what did this to us and to you, they went north, if ye still mean to fight with 'em" said the old villager, pointing off towards a distant marching line of foothills.
"I do. My quarrel with Clegane stands unsettled," replied. Beregond.
"Good people, we have nothing with which we can repay such magnificent kindness as this," Lord Dondarrion said.
"Kill them, milords. Kill them all," came a small voice within the crowd.
Their need for haste was great, and so Beregond, Lord Dondarrion, Thoros, and the Dondarrion men-at-arms, set aside their armour. Mail and harness both they gave into the keeping of a village elder, who swore he would return it to them if they ever came back this way.
"Clegane's men may be orcs, yet I saw them carry off some of their wounded, so if we are fortunate their haste may not be over-great," said Beregond, and he strapped his sword belt around the waist of his gambeson as he did.
"Even if we are to catch them, what good are seven against hundreds?" asked Anguy, who leaned upon his bow-stave and watched the men-at-arms strip off their armour. "I wouldn't wager on padded jacks against crossbows and lances,"
Gendry looked down at his own gambeson, the heavy coat of faded red with the black stag over the breast. Here and there it bore small cuts and scratches, glancing blows taken in battle. He wouldn't like his chances against a long sword or a pike wearing such protection, but it was better than nothing.
"Mail shan't save you from twenty men either, but a moonless night may," replied Beregond.
The horses had fled, or had been killed in battle, and the villagers had no replacements to offer. Yet in the saddle bags and other baggage which remained amongst the wreck of battle, they found skins for water, and some food untainted by blood. From the villagers they acquired a few small sacks, and they loaded these down with as much as they could carry lightly of food, water and blankets. What they couldn't carry they gave to the people of Wendish Town, for they would need it more.
"Oi, what's your name friend?" asked Hugh Ballieul, approaching Gendry as he tied off the end of his pack, having filled it with hardtack and water skins. The man-at-arms' war hammer was passed through his belt opposite his sword, and in either hand he carried a crossbow.
"Gendry, milord," said Gendry, straightening up and lowering his eyes.
"Knock off that 'milord' shite, I'm just a fightin' man. Lord Dondarrion's the lord. You know how to handle one of these Gendry?" Hugh gestured with one of the crossbows.
"Aye, I'd wager I can," the armourer's apprentice replied. Hugh Ballieul held it out and Gendry took the weapon in his hands. It was much like the crossbows that he had seen in the King's Host. A heavy wooden stock, set with short wooden prongs at one end, and a stirrup to hold with your foot when you spanned the string back. He remembered Hengist breathing down his neck when he had last handled one of them, a kick in his shoulders like a mule and then the arrow buried to the feathers in a wooden post fifty paces away.
"Good. Useful and deadly, these. Alain's too stubborn and proud to carry one, my head ain't quite so far up my arse. Find some bolts for yourself too, friend, and keep the string dry," said Hugh. He tossed the heavy bowstring to Gendry and then strode off to find arrows of his own.
Gendry turned the crossbow over in his hands. Master Mott's smithy seemed a lifetime ago.
Gods, what would Master Mott think of me now? Or old Holman? Gendry thought, Holman's words coming to his mind: "Concern yourself not with the affairs of high lords my lad, for they are proud and quick to anger"
Yet here he was, picking away across a bloody battlefield to collect bolts for his belt, up to his neck in the feuds of princes. He wondered idly whether he had gone mad. How Lann or Tomas would laugh at him if they saw this.
Gendry knelt and with a grimace drew an arrow from a corpse's shoulder. The head was broken off. He tossed it away, feeling a creeping guilt for disturbing the dead.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"What do you owe an old bastard like Isildur?" he could nearly hear his friends saying to him. "High lord like that ain't never done anything for the likes of you,"
They had not seen what Gendry had seen though. He'd seen murder by one lord and kindness by another. They had not seen faces of people fleeing burnt homes and villages. They had not seen Isildur, the Hand of the King, giving gold and silver to a lowborn family with his own hand to ease their troubles. They had not seen the compassion in Isildur's eyes, nor heard the regret in his voice when he made amends for his wrongs that night amongst the trees. They had not seen the righteous intensity of Isildur's purpose, when he spoke of saving the Realm from war. They had not seen Isildur charging into battle like a storm, to save a handful of men others would have left for dead. Gendry had, and having seen it he couldn't imagine ever feeling like a decent man again if he left Lord Isildur to captivity in the hands of the Lannisters.
The trail of Clegane's warband was easy to find, for it began at the edge of Wendish Town, and it was broad and obvious with the marks of many hoof prints and footfalls. When Gendry had filled a quiver with bolts, it was there that he met the others, all with packs shouldered and weapons in hand.
"Now," said Beregond, setting his hands upon his belt. "Who amongst us is the wise to the ways of wood and field, and can read the language of trails?"
The Westerosi looked amongst themselves and then back to the Numenorean.
"Aren't you Gondorians supposed to know such things?" asked Thoros of Myr.
"Many of my brothers are canny in the field indeed, but I was never a ranger as they were, and I have not their skill," replied Beregond. Anguy sighed.
"Well I've done some tracking, deer and boar and the like for lords' hunting parties. I reckon I can follow this," said the archer.
"You stay with me at the front then, good bowman, and the rest shall follow," said Beregond with a grim smile. Then, without warning, he took off at a run and sprang away, light footed over the trampled grass as the stag running in the forest.
It took the others a moment to realize the pursuit had begun, and then like a pack of hounds upon the call of the hunting-horn they burst into the chase.
Wendish Town soon disappeared behind as they left its fields and plunged in the surrounding forest, where tree limbs whipped at them and the brush grasped at their clothes. Still they ran, with untiring Beregond ever in the lead and the lean Anguy loping at his side, and Gendry behind them, and Dondarrion and his men all together in the middle, with Thoros of Myr panting in the rear.
The trail narrowed through the woods, for here Ser Gregor's men could only go in narrow column, and they followed it west and then turning north. They ran, as the sun faded behind western mountains, as Gendry's lungs burnt and his legs protested, as sweat burnt in their eyes, as the light failed them and Beregond became only a flitting grey form on the edge of sight, as the stars began to shine, as all noise seemed to fade but the puffing and heavy breathing of seven men, they ran on and on. The moon rose, casting pale light through the trees. Insects hummed and buzzed.
As exhausted mariners from a shipwreck fetch up upon an island shore and cling to it in relief, so the company came to a hill and heaved themselves up its steep flanks, thighs aching with every step. The night was clear and cold, and in the light of moon and stars Gendry could see the country north of them opening up into meadows dotted with clumps of trees, where hills rolled amidst the valleys of small streams tumbling down from the mountains to their west.
Gendry's heart beat as if a drum was pounding within his chest. He set his crossbow down and leaned against his knees, gulping air like a drowning man. He had never run so far or so hard in his life. Every muscle screamed agony at him. He cursed the heavy gambeson he wore, and the short sword banging at his side, and the straps of his pack digging into his shoulders. It was dark, but from the ragged breathing of the others they were doing no better. Even Beregond the Numenorean stood, hands upon his head, breathing deep.
"Rest here a little while," the housecarl said. "We will have many more leagues to go to catch our foe,"
"What hope is there of that? He on horse and we on foot? May as well try to outrun a hawk upon the wing!" said Alain FitzUrse, leaning on his pole-ax heavily.
"Gregor's lads will stop for the night, and drink themselves stupid into the wee hours, mark my words," said Thoros.
Beregond replied: "Aye, and if we keep this pace we may yet close with them,"
Alain shook his head. "We keep this pace up and we may kill ourselves before we reach them,"
"Alain," said Lord Dondarrion sternly. "Best get some rest while you can then,"
They ate a few bites of what food they had. The quadruple baked biscuits was more of a chewing exercise than a meal, and they washed the dry stuff down with eager sips from their water skins. Gendry longed for a good hot bowl of stew, and a mug of beer to wash it down, and then a cold dip in a river. As it was, all they could do was find a place to spread their bedrolls.
Beneath the crest of the hill was a sheltered hollow, with the roots of an old birch encircling it on either side. It was wide enough for all of them to fit in, out of the night winds. With a thick bed of moss in the bottom of the hollow, it was not uncomfortable. Beregond bent over a small pile of sticks and leaves with flint and steel and soon had a tiny blaze going.
"Do not build the fire too large, we should leave here at dawn," the housecarl said. He had a long-stemmed wooden pipe in his hand, and was stuffing it with dried leaves taken from a leather wallet he carried beneath his gambeson on a string around his neck. He took a burning twig and lit the pipe. The Numenorean's head was soon wreathed in pipe smoke, and he sat back against the tree and blew rings of it from his mouth. His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Gendry hauled off his stinking gambeson and bunched it up next to his pack and weapons to pillow his head. Alain was to his left, and to his right Anguy was already snoring. The young archer had somehow already found sleep, though Gendry could not guess how. The armourer's apprentice pulled the thin blanket of itchy wool up to his chin. Somewhere an insect was chirping and an owl hooted in the distance. The fire crackled and then there was the soft sound of Beregond's voice singing in the tongue of Gondor. It sounded sad to Gendry's ears as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, yet beautiful, somehow suited to the night and the moon and the stars.
He awoke to every joint in his body feeling tied up in aching knots. The sky above was a dark blue, lightening in the east as the stars went out before the coming sun. The others were snoring on either side of him, still lost to sleep. Anguy's mouth was a gaping hole. Gendry rubbed his eyes, his mouth feeling dry as old leather. He slowly sat up.
Beregond was awake, standing and looking off to the north. He was already dressed and armed, with his hand on his sword pommel and grey cloak over his shoulders.
"You awake," Beregond said in a soft voice, glancing over his shoulder at Gendry.
"Yea… Did you sleep at all?" Gendry asked. The housecarl did not look as if he had even taken his gambeson off.
"What I needed, yes. We have many miles to go today," Beregond replied.
"Gods," Gendry's legs protested as he forced himself to his feet and stretched, joints cracking with the movement. Every movement ached.
Beregond said "You are weary?"
Gendry smiled a little "We ain't all Gondorish, some of us get tired,"
From his pack, Beregond produced a small flask, only a little larger than a man's hand. He uncorked it and handed it to Gendry.
"Take a sip, a very small one," said the Numenorean.
Gendry wafted the bottle under his nose and smelled it. A strange, spiced aroma drifted up. He put it to his lips and took a tiny sip. The liquid within was warm, tasting nothing like he had ever drank before, and burning a little as it went down. He felt a warmth spread from his throat down to his stomach, and from there to every limb. Suddenly there was a change in him. The knots untied themselves in Gendry's muscles, the weight was gone from his limbs. He felt fresh and restored as if he had just sprang from a deeply restful sleep.
"I feel-Wow, I feel…" Gendry stammered, unsure of what had just happened. "Was that Magic?"
Beregond laughed, as if at a child asking if clouds were made of honey and air, then he took the vial back. "Magic? Nay, there is no more sorcery in it than mead! Nor any special power save the virtues of its ingredients and the skill of the maker. We take restoring draughts such as this on all such long journeys in my homeland,"
"I feel as if I could run for days, for leagues," Gendry said, flexing his hands and stretching out his shoulders.
"So you shall today, our quarry is far off yet" replied Beregond, glancing at the long miles left to the north. There was no sign of Gregor Clegane or his men.
The others arose one by one, on aching knees and stiff backs, each man moaning his complaints. One by one, Beregond gave everyone a tiny sip from his flash of Numenorean draught. Just as with Gendry, each of them felt immediately refreshed. Anguy bounced on the balls of his feet, and Alain and Hugh cracked their necks, all looking like runners about to take their marks.
"That's some drink you got there Beregond," said Thoros, lowering it from his lips and returning it to the Numenorean. He too looked completely renewed, as limber and ready as a racehorse.
"We shall have to ration it, but I think it can yet serve us for a few more days," said Beregond, tucking it away into the leather wallet around his neck, which he then shoved underneath his gambeson.
The air of morning was cool and crisp, and a golden dawn in the east spread its rays through the green of the trees. Each leaf and blade of grass was silvered with dew. Perhaps there was some special power in Beregond's drink, for Gendry felt surprisingly light of heart as he rolled up his blankets, slung his pack on this shoulders and picked up his crossbow. He felt fit to burst out into a song, though he could think of nothing suitable to sing for such a morning.
They passed now into the hilly flanks of the Westerlands, through a land of foothills and wooded valleys, where brooks babbled on stony beds down towards the Riverlands. Stands of oak and birch and rowan crowned most of the hills, and in the valleys were the deep shades of beech trees. The birds were singing, reckoning not on the matters of men and lords, but singing their simple joys.
The company ran from dawn till dusk, ever following the broad trampled trail of Clegane's warband. Even when the sun sank behind the mountains, they ran on late into the night, long after the effects of the Numenorean drink had passed away and their every limb felt as lead once more. Another restless night passed, and an early morning where they were restored by another small sip of the draught. Restored enough for another day's running at least.
A heavy air seemed to lay over the marches between the lands of the Lannisters and the Tullys. Few things stirred but the tentative singing of the birds and the rustling of the wind amongst the leaves. Before them, the grey, dim slopes of the mountains slowly grew larger and closer. There was a hot stillness in the air, as if a sudden summer storm was about to break in fury upon all the lands to north and south and east and west.
Gendry's whole world became the trail ahead of him and behind, and all he knew was the pounding in his chest, the sweat crawling down his neck and burning in his eyes, the straps digging into his shoulders and the wooden weight of the crossbow in his hands. For all the long running hours of the days there were few words spoken amongst them, only heaving breaths and grunts of pain and weariness. They went on in single file as hunting dogs do, some pressing ahead in the pack and others falling behind, but Beregond was always in the lead and Anguy with him tracking their prey.
The trail of Clegane was plain, for his company trampled down a wide swath of undergrowth with its passing. There were other signs too. Here and there they saw farmsteads and tiny hamlets, some were smoking and charred as Wendish Town, yet others stood standing and pristine. They saw no people however, never any people. On the grassy sides of hills, sheep wandered without the shepherd. They passed by barns where cattle lowed for an absent milkmaid. Gendry was glad they did not linger in the villages that had known Clegane.
On the fifth day since their chase began, they came upon a campsite in the early hours of the afternoon. They had found many such places before, where their quarry had stopped for a night to drink and revel, leaving a pasture or a meadow littered with burnt-out fires, crusts of hard-bread picked at by crows, broken shoes, discarded clothes, and other such detritus. Yet this one was different, for one of the fire pits was still faintly smoking as they approached it.
"Still warm," Anguy murmured, squatting down and placing a hand upon the rocks which lined the hearth while the others watched.
"By the Gods, are we gaining on them?" Alain panted, leaning down against his knees and wiping sweat from his brow.
"They were here last night, I would guess," Anguy said, standing up and leaning on his bow-stave.
Beregond nodded "A day ahead of us then,"
"They're riding slower than I would have guessed," said Thoros.
"Clegane isn't driving the pace. They're taking their time, enjoying a summer's ride with their prize in tow," replied Beric Dondarrion.
The Numenorean smiled grimly. "As the lion goes slowly to its stricken prey, vaunting over it, thinking itself immortal,"
"But what do we do when we catch the lion?" asked Gendry. The others looked amongst themselves and grimaced. The fewness of their numbers was all too obvious to all. Beregond looked at Gendry, and as the armourer's apprentice met his gaze he saw an eager light in the eyes of the housecarl.
"Press on," he said, and sprang away once more, nimble as a fish leaping from water. Once more, like hounds upon the horn, the rest of the hunters followed.
The Marches of the Westerlands
The ruins of Wendish Town were full of stench and death when Gendry and the others emerged blinking into the morning sunlight from the cellars of the still-standing sept.
Carrion-fowl swarmed over the wreck of the battle, the butcher-beaks of crows and rooks and ravens picking at faces, eyes, and open wounds. They filled the town with a hungry cacophony. In the distance, there was the sound of two wolves snarling and squabbling over a carcass.
Everywhere there were dead men. They were scattered here and there, some slumped against walls, others face down on the streets. Some stared up at Gendry with features pale and unseeing eyes still open wide, bloodless lips slightly apart. Others were so hewn and bloody they were not recognizable as men, limbs lost in the fury of battle and faces turned to bloody pulp, horrors of gore and bone. Everywhere Gendry looked there was death, and the smell of it was enough to shake his knees.
He felt bile burn his throat. His stomach revolted. Gendry doubled over, clinging to the wall of the sept for support, emptying his insides all over the step.
"There, there lad, it's alright. You made it through," said a strong but shaken voice, feeling a hand upon his shoulder. Gendry wiped away the vomit with his sleeve. He looked up and saw Lord Dondarrion standing there. The Lightning Lord looked out over the scenes of slaughter with face ashen and grey.
"Lord of Light preserve us," said Thoros of Myr in a solemn whisper, coming to stand next to Dondarrion.
It had been Thoros and Dondarrion who had led the charge into the sept during the battle. Gendry didn't remember much, just a swirling nightmare of steel that seemed to last an eternity. He remembered Thoros pulling him from the fight, screaming they needed men to take the sept. They had burst in the doors, and there had been a band of Clegane's men, and there had been a fight.
I killed two men yesterday Gendry thought in a daze. It seemed unreal, like a dream or a nightmare. No, they had been real, living, breathing men with hot blood rushing in their veins. One had sought to dispatch Lord Isildur when he had fallen from his horse, and Gendry shoved his short sword through the man's back. The other was in the sept, he had rushed Gendry with a mace and received a desperate stab in the throat. That man had gurgled horribly as he fell.
Why did I kill them? Who were they? Why did they wish to kill me? He wondered. Gendry's hands were shaking, a cold feeling had crept from his scalp down his back. He felt like he could not breathe. He felt like he was not in his own body. Gendry put his hand on the hilt of his short sword, gripping the leather handle tightly, and the shaking stopped for a moment.
The others had killed the crossbowmen in the sept's bell tower, but the fight outside went ill. Lord Dondarrion had wished to charge back out, but Thoros had seen that the fight was lost and so convinced him to take shelter in the cellars. Long hours had they waited in the dark, amongst musty tomes and scrolls, unknowing and uncertain of what was going on above.
Gendry looked back at the cellar door and saw the other survivors stepping up the ladder. The young bowman Anguy's face was pale despite its freckles. His longbow was grasped tightly in hand and his quiver had scant few arrows left. There was a distant, unseeing stare in his face.
Behind him came two men-at-arms in the Dondarrion livery, bearing streaks of lightning on their breasts. Though their surcoats were hacked and cut in many places, their mail and harness beneath was still sound. One was named Alain FitzUrse, a pale Stormlander with a powerful chest and broad shoulders, long arms like a bear's paws, and his face ruddy in complexion with bright blue eyes. His companion was Hugh Ballieul, a short man with a thickset neck and heavily muscled limbs. Both were girt with swords at their sides, but Alain leaned upon a pole-ax as tall as he was, and Hugh carried a war hammer. In the Stormland fashion, their hair was cropped short, with the back of the head shaved to the scalp and the rest only little longer.
They had ridden out of King's Landing with their Lord Dondarrion, and Lord Isildur, and a hundred and fifty other men. Now six remained. Gendry felt his stomach churning as if he was about to be sick again. He forced the feeling down.
Gods, they don't look bothered by this at all, he thought in shame as he looked at Dondarrion and his men-at-arms. They and Thoros had a grim look about them, but did not seem like they were about to be sick, not like Gendry and Anguy.
"What are we do to do?" Thoros asked Dondarrion.
"We must see if any of the others survived," replied the Lightning Lord in a leader's voice. His eyes had the same distant stare that Anguy had but somehow he seemed assured of himself despite this.
The cellar had two doors. One was the trapdoor on the floor of the sept, from which they had entered to take refuge. The other was the exterior door, which led up to the surface from a short wooden staircase. It was this exterior door they now exited by, clambering up into a grassy yard that lay behind the sept. There was a garden there, where green and growing things had been befouled by blood and the fragrant smell of flowers was overpowered by the smell of death that lay like a heavy cloak upon Wendish Town.
Anguy nocked an arrow to his longbow and crept up to the corner of the sept. A carven statue of the Maiden looked down from a niche above his head. The young man peered around the corner, and then indicated for the others to follow with a jerk of his head.
Gendry kept his hand tight on his short sword and followed silently behind Thoros. The Lord of Blackhaven and the red priest both had hands upon their blades' hilts, against any Clegane men that may have been left behind to garrison the town. Alain and Hugh brought up the rear.
The rear and side streets to the sept had been bad, but the town square on the other side was worst of all. Here the fighting had been longest and fiercest, and here was where Isildur's company and the marauders of Gregor Clegane lay entwined together.
Gendry remembered the first man he had ever seen killed. It had been years ago, when he was a much younger apprentice, perhaps Little Arryk's age or younger. There had been some young man, a rich merchant's heir by the look of it, all fine clothes and gold rings, who had strutted up and down the Street of Steel like a peacock in plumage. His sword and buckler had swashed and rattled together with his every step, loudly announcing his presence to all about them. That young man had run into another young man, with whom he had some quarrel. Sharp words were spoken. Sharp steel was drawn. Sword and buckler rang and clashed in the streets. Tobho Mott had sent his apprentices inside, so they might not see, but Gendry had peered out of a window anyways, unable to tear his eyes away. It had been over almost as quickly as it started. One of the fighters was laying in the street clutching at his innards. The other had fallen with head and face hacked apart.
The image of that poor man grabbing at his stomach, bloody fingers futilely trying to hold his insides from spilling out, had been burned into Gendry's nightmares for months.
This was worse. The sun was shining above and the skies were clear, but Gendry felt he had wandered into a waking nightmare.
The bodies lay over each other so thick one could not step without trodding upon a fallen friend or foe. Amongst them there were pools of blood, severed limbs, coils of entrails, and horrid, staring, cold dead faces. A smell of corruption and bloated bodies hung in the air overwhelmingly. From sept's step to the doors of the houses that lined the common, the corpses covered every inch. The square had been turned into a fen of death.
In the very centre of it all, apart from the others, there lay tall men in raiment of black and silver, and coats of black mail. Winged helms had fallen from proud heads. In their hands were broken swords and shivered spears and cloven shields. Dead hands still clutched at the flagstaff that bore their banner: A black field with a white tree, and seven silver stars set about a crescent moon. There lay the Dunedain of Gondor, proud men of the Sea who fought to the last. There lay Cirion the Captain and his kinsmen all about him. Around the Dunedain, the slain wearing Clegane livery were heaped in mounds.
Yet there was a lone figure there amongst the wreckage and the death, a solitary man sitting upon his knees. Gendry recognized the black surcoat and black mail of a housecarl of Lord Isildur. His helm was cast aside and his coif pushed back, leaving his head bare. He was no corpse nor ghostly wraith but a living man. He was bent over, and his shoulders were shaking.
"Hail friend!" said Lord Dondarrion loudly, picking his way amongst the dead and the rest following behind him. The Dunadan was turned away from them.
Gendry tried not to look at the faces of the battle-slain. They were cold and awful to look upon, and he forced his gaze to focus on their fellow survivor who still had not turned to acknowledge them.
"My heart is gladdened to see another of our company alive beyond hope. We had not thought that any others made it through the battle," Dondarrion went on.
Drawing closer, they heard the man chanting in a soft voice. His song was simple, yet in it Gendry could hear a deep sorrow beyond words. The Dunadan raised his voice and none who heard it could not feel its melancholy.
"The halls decay,
their lords lie
deprived of joy,
the whole band has fallen,
the proud ones, by the wall
War took off some
carried them on their way,
one, the bird took off
across the deep sea,
one, the gray wolf
shared a meal with death,"
As the last word faded away, the man's shoulders ceased to shake and he raised himself up to his feet. The Dunadan turned around to face them. His fair was fair, but graven with sadness and spattered with mud and blood. His eyes, a greenish-grey, were full of mourning.
"Lord Dondarrion," the Dunadan said in a hoarse voice. "You live?"
"Aye, thanks to a priest who had not my pride, I still live," Dondarrion replied. "You are one of Isildur's men, by your livery? What is your name, friend?"
"Beregond," said the Dunadan, he looked down and then around him as if he were a man lost. "I am called Beregond,"
A crow was cawing hungrily somewhere in the distance.
"What happened here, Beregond?" asked Alain FitzUrse, fingering his pole-ax and looking at the fallen around them. The cold faces of the Dunedain were strangely fair even in death.
"There were few of us, and many foes," said Beregond quietly. "Our Captain fell. My brothers were slain, and… and my Lord was taken," There were quiet tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away with a mailed sleeve.
"Taken?" asked Thoros.
"Yes, not killed but taken. A prisoner. I was felled and stunned in the fight by an ax-handle, I saw them drag my Lord away when I awoke. I had to lay still, to let them think I was dead," replied Beregond. In his voice there was a tone of shame.
"Lord Isildur lives…" Lord Dondarrion said, looking to the west where the outlines of the mountains stood in the distance and foothills marched beneath their towering heads.
"Yet a captive of Gregor Clegane? It might have been better if he had died in battle," Thoros said sadly.
"Nay, they will not lay a hand on him. He is too valuable to their designs, I would guess," said Dondarrion.
"The eldest son and heir of Elendil Kingmaker, he would be a great prize for old Tywin Lannister," added Hugh Ballieul.
Alain said: "Lord Isildur would bring a kingly ransom,"
Beregond looked back and forth amongst all of them, grimacing as if in disgust.
"Ransom? You think it is for ransom that the son of Elendil was taken captive?" he shook his head. "No, he will be a hostage, a guarantor of Gondor's good will, surety that Gondor will let the Lannisters do as they please in their quarrels with the House of Tully,"
Suddenly, Gendry felt very small and very alone, surrounded in this village by highborn fighting men. He was an armourer's apprentice, the narrow streets of King's Landing was all he had ever known, and now he stood amongst the slain of battle and listened to men speak of things larger and greater than armourer's apprentices were meant to stray into. What did he know of hostages and ransoms and the quarrels of the mighty? He felt like a city dog that had somehow wandered unnoticed into a pack of wolves.
Questions filled his head. What was the argument between the Tullys and the Lannisters? What was Gondor's stake? Why did Lord Lannister wish to capture Lord Isildur? Why had Ser Gregor been burning the Riverlands? Why had Ser Gregor's men attacked them on sight? He wished to ask so many things, yet he could not will his mouth to open whilst Lord Dondarrion and Beregond spoke.
He was used to standing silently and awaiting orders, such had been the way of things at the smithy. Yet never had he in his life felt so aware of the lowness of his birth or the roughness of his speech. He flexed his hands, and rocked onto the balls of his feet, wishing he had some task to throw himself into. He glanced down all the side streets of the village, feeling exposed.
"How can you know that Beregond?" asked Thoros.
"I have fought enough wars in these southlands to know its ways," replied the housecarl. "And I overheard them as they dragged my lord off. The Troll ordered a messenger to ride to Lord Lannister and tell him of my lord's captivity,"
Beregond's shoulders were slumped and he hung his head, the look of a shamed and dishonoured man.
"Sixty years I have served in my lord's household. A lifetime as your folk reckon it. I swore to serve until death take me or my lord release me or the world end. I live, my oaths still hold, the world still turns, I am free, yet my lord is in chains," Beregond spoke softly, voice cracking with the weight of emotion.
"We have failed then, and Clegane goes unpunished once more" said Thoros wearily, sadly. "May the Lord damn him,"
Dondarrion said nothing, staring with hard eyes at the mountains in the western distance. The carrion-birds cawed loudly all around them.
Beregond spoke at last, looking up with hard-edged despair upon his face: "…No. I shall not give Lord Isildur up as lost. Whilst arms are still left to me, and life and strength to wield them, I will not abandon him,"
"You mean to go after Clegane?" asked Hugh Ballieul, in a shocked voice.
"I am a housecarl," said Beregond.
"I'll go with you," a voice said, and Gendry was surprised to find it was his own.
Confused eyes turned to him. The Lord Dondarrion and his men-at-arms, the red priest Thoros, Anguy the Bowman and Beregond the Numenorean, all gazes fixated upon Gendry. He felt suddenly awkward and alone. By instinct, he lowered his eyes.
"What is your name, my friend?" asked Beregond, voice not unkind.
"Gendry, milord," Gendry said. His accent sounded coarse and unrefined in this company.
"You wear the badge of the King's Host," Beregond noted, glancing at Gendry's faded red gambeson and the crowned stag in black thread upon his chest.
"Aye, and I'm no highborn to know anything about all this business of lords and armies," Gendry replied, finding his words as he spoke. "But Lord Isildur, he was a good man, and having come all this way for him, well, I won't just up and leave him, if you follow me,"
Beregond nodded gravely. "Plain speech, but fairer to my ears for its virtue,"
The housecarl turned towards Thoros and Dondarrion and said: "Here is high worth, found unlooked for,"
Lord Dondarrion smiled, teeth standing out brightly against the blood and stains of battle still upon his face.
"The boy put into simple words what hung upon my mind already," he said. Now Thoros laughed.
"Mad, mad, mad, all of you. So mad I would be mad not to follow," the red priest grinned. "Vengeance may be the Lord's alone, but He never said we can't help it along,"
Anguy leaned upon his longbow, casting sharp eyes all around the battlefield around them. He grimaced.
"A lot of good lads died in this fight. Good friends. I reckon I still have an argument to settle with Gregor Clegane and his boys," the archer said, spitting onto the ground.
Alain and Hugh glanced at one another. They said nothing, for no more words needed to be said.
Beregond looked around, peering at each man's face in turn. He was silent for a long moment, and then said in a soft voice: "High worth, found unlooked for,"
The housecarl looked down again at one of the slain that laid at his feet. So many Numenoreans lay dead, the white tree on their surcoats stained with grime and blood. He grimaced.
"Before we depart," Beregond said. "…Will you help me bury my kin? I would not leave them here to be defiled by the birds and the dogs,"
Lord Dondarrion nodded solemnly.
Outside of Wendish Town, they found a clear meadow beneath the eaves of the nearby woods, where they could hear the burbling waters of the Red Fork in the distance. A breeze rustled the leaves, and the stench of the dead which filled the town was less overpowering outside of it. It was a peaceful spot, and there Beregond chose to build his brothers' cairn.
They laboured at first with knife blades and boots and hands, but after a time Anguy broke a few pickets off the fence of a nearby abandoned house, which made for easier digging. They laboured on beneath the baking sun, and perspiration ran down Gendry's face and neck, and for a time he lost himself in toil and the sting of sweat in his eyes, and thought not of armies and war. Work had always brought peace to his mind. He missed his smithy. He missed his family.
"My lord!" cried Alain all of a sudden. He seized his pole-ax from the tree he had set it against. The men sprung up from their work, jolted into nervous energy from the hot lull of the afternoon. Some had stripped to the waist, having set aside mail and gambesons to dig, yet each man still had a weapon in hand. Gendry's hand closed around the grip of his short sword, the weight and feeling of it already familiar to him.
One by one, or in twos and threes, people were drifting out of the trees, walking as if lost in dreams, returning to the smoke and desolation of Wendish Town. Their faces were death-pale, and for a moment Gendry thought these were restless ghosts of the murdered. Yet here were no wraiths but living men, women and children.
"The villagers," Anguy whispered. "Gods," he swore.
Many were walking out of the forests, yet few, far too few, to fill all the empty houses and buildings of the burnt town. Gendry tried not to think of what had befallen the others. Those who still lived said nothing to Lord Dondarrion or the others as they passed them by. They just glanced up briefly, eyes barely acknowledging them. They could have been wights shambling out of graves.
Without word or command, without a leader or a headman, the villagers started dragging dead men out of their streets and homes.
Suddenly a man was walking towards them, stalking with a dark look about him. Gendry froze, unsure of the man's intent, tightening the grip on his blade. There was a wooden shovel in the man's hand, heavy enough to smash a skull open. He was tall for a peasant, and his lined face was darkened and smeared with dirt and grime. His eyes had a stare in them, distant and yet piercing. The peasant stopped before Gendry and fixed him with that awful look. No one spoke.
Then he shoved his shovel into Gendry's chest and walked away wordlessly.
After a while, they had dig a long, shallow pit in the ground, broad enough for five men to lay in shoulder by shoulder, and long enough for many rows.
Carrying them by arms and legs, they bore the Numenoreans to the pit. There was no white linen to clad them in, nor water to wash them, and so they went to their grave armed and bloody from battle. Silent and somber, Beregond lay each of his brothers into the pit himself. He looked into each face, fair and cold, as he laid them down into the ground. Upon their chests he set their swords. They lined the edges of the burial pit with scarred shields and broken spears. When at last the task was done, the Numenorean housecarls lay in their burial pit, each with a brother and a kinsman to either side. There was peace on their faces, despite their wounds.
At the corner of a tilled field, the village farmer had piled up the stones they had removed from it. From there they took rocks and piled them up over the pit, and the Dunedain disappeared beneath them.
The sunlight was beginning to wane and there was a familiar ache in Gendry's shoulders and back when he stepped back from setting the last stone upon the cairn of the housecarls. The rocks were piled high, tightly against one another, so that no creeping thing or carrion-bird would defile those who lay within.
Beregond the Numenorean stood before the grave of his brethren, and though his face showed nothing Gendry could see in his eyes a sorrow beyond speech.
How long can Numenoreans live? He wondered. How many years had Beregond been a housecarl? How many lifetimes had he been a companion and kinsman to those they had buried?
Beregond silently raised a closed fist to his forehead, and then brought it to his lips.
"You have my thanks," the Numenorean said. The men looked to one another, unsure whom the housecarl was addressing.
"Your brothers would have done the same for us," said Lord Dondarrion.
"Mi-milords?" stammered the voice of an old man. Turning, the company saw a white-haired, stout old villager standing with his hat in his hands. Behind him stood a crowd of others, men and women and young children, all with the same dreadful unfixed look in their eyes as the man before. Something about that look made the hairs on the back of Gendry's neck stand on end.
"We, uh, did some talking, milords, me and the others like. Talked it over. All… All of this," the old man said, sweeping his arm back towards Wendish Town.
"Talked what over?" asked Thoros of Myr.
"We decided, milords, on account of all these dreadful happenings, the least we could do is, uh, bury yer lads," the old man finished.
"Yer fallen can rest beside ours. We'll lay 'em down," said a younger man from within the crowd.
"And I did some asking around too. The ones what did this to us and to you, they went north, if ye still mean to fight with 'em" said the old villager, pointing off towards a distant marching line of foothills.
"I do. My quarrel with Clegane stands unsettled," replied. Beregond.
"Good people, we have nothing with which we can repay such magnificent kindness as this," Lord Dondarrion said.
"Kill them, milords. Kill them all," came a small voice within the crowd.
Their need for haste was great, and so Beregond, Lord Dondarrion, Thoros, and the Dondarrion men-at-arms, set aside their armour. Mail and harness both they gave into the keeping of a village elder, who swore he would return it to them if they ever came back this way.
"Clegane's men may be orcs, yet I saw them carry off some of their wounded, so if we are fortunate their haste may not be over-great," said Beregond, and he strapped his sword belt around the waist of his gambeson as he did.
"Even if we are to catch them, what good are seven against hundreds?" asked Anguy, who leaned upon his bow-stave and watched the men-at-arms strip off their armour. "I wouldn't wager on padded jacks against crossbows and lances,"
Gendry looked down at his own gambeson, the heavy coat of faded red with the black stag over the breast. Here and there it bore small cuts and scratches, glancing blows taken in battle. He wouldn't like his chances against a long sword or a pike wearing such protection, but it was better than nothing.
"Mail shan't save you from twenty men either, but a moonless night may," replied Beregond.
The horses had fled, or had been killed in battle, and the villagers had no replacements to offer. Yet in the saddle bags and other baggage which remained amongst the wreck of battle, they found skins for water, and some food untainted by blood. From the villagers they acquired a few small sacks, and they loaded these down with as much as they could carry lightly of food, water and blankets. What they couldn't carry they gave to the people of Wendish Town, for they would need it more.
"Oi, what's your name friend?" asked Hugh Ballieul, approaching Gendry as he tied off the end of his pack, having filled it with hardtack and water skins. The man-at-arms' war hammer was passed through his belt opposite his sword, and in either hand he carried a crossbow.
"Gendry, milord," said Gendry, straightening up and lowering his eyes.
"Knock off that 'milord' shite, I'm just a fightin' man. Lord Dondarrion's the lord. You know how to handle one of these Gendry?" Hugh gestured with one of the crossbows.
"Aye, I'd wager I can," the armourer's apprentice replied. Hugh Ballieul held it out and Gendry took the weapon in his hands. It was much like the crossbows that he had seen in the King's Host. A heavy wooden stock, set with short wooden prongs at one end, and a stirrup to hold with your foot when you spanned the string back. He remembered Hengist breathing down his neck when he had last handled one of them, a kick in his shoulders like a mule and then the arrow buried to the feathers in a wooden post fifty paces away.
"Good. Useful and deadly, these. Alain's too stubborn and proud to carry one, my head ain't quite so far up my arse. Find some bolts for yourself too, friend, and keep the string dry," said Hugh. He tossed the heavy bowstring to Gendry and then strode off to find arrows of his own.
Gendry turned the crossbow over in his hands. Master Mott's smithy seemed a lifetime ago.
Gods, what would Master Mott think of me now? Or old Holman? Gendry thought, Holman's words coming to his mind: "Concern yourself not with the affairs of high lords my lad, for they are proud and quick to anger"
Yet here he was, picking away across a bloody battlefield to collect bolts for his belt, up to his neck in the feuds of princes. He wondered idly whether he had gone mad. How Lann or Tomas would laugh at him if they saw this.
Gendry knelt and with a grimace drew an arrow from a corpse's shoulder. The head was broken off. He tossed it away, feeling a creeping guilt for disturbing the dead.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"What do you owe an old bastard like Isildur?" he could nearly hear his friends saying to him. "High lord like that ain't never done anything for the likes of you,"
They had not seen what Gendry had seen though. He'd seen murder by one lord and kindness by another. They had not seen faces of people fleeing burnt homes and villages. They had not seen Isildur, the Hand of the King, giving gold and silver to a lowborn family with his own hand to ease their troubles. They had not seen the compassion in Isildur's eyes, nor heard the regret in his voice when he made amends for his wrongs that night amongst the trees. They had not seen the righteous intensity of Isildur's purpose, when he spoke of saving the Realm from war. They had not seen Isildur charging into battle like a storm, to save a handful of men others would have left for dead. Gendry had, and having seen it he couldn't imagine ever feeling like a decent man again if he left Lord Isildur to captivity in the hands of the Lannisters.
The trail of Clegane's warband was easy to find, for it began at the edge of Wendish Town, and it was broad and obvious with the marks of many hoof prints and footfalls. When Gendry had filled a quiver with bolts, it was there that he met the others, all with packs shouldered and weapons in hand.
"Now," said Beregond, setting his hands upon his belt. "Who amongst us is the wise to the ways of wood and field, and can read the language of trails?"
The Westerosi looked amongst themselves and then back to the Numenorean.
"Aren't you Gondorians supposed to know such things?" asked Thoros of Myr.
"Many of my brothers are canny in the field indeed, but I was never a ranger as they were, and I have not their skill," replied Beregond. Anguy sighed.
"Well I've done some tracking, deer and boar and the like for lords' hunting parties. I reckon I can follow this," said the archer.
"You stay with me at the front then, good bowman, and the rest shall follow," said Beregond with a grim smile. Then, without warning, he took off at a run and sprang away, light footed over the trampled grass as the stag running in the forest.
It took the others a moment to realize the pursuit had begun, and then like a pack of hounds upon the call of the hunting-horn they burst into the chase.
Wendish Town soon disappeared behind as they left its fields and plunged in the surrounding forest, where tree limbs whipped at them and the brush grasped at their clothes. Still they ran, with untiring Beregond ever in the lead and the lean Anguy loping at his side, and Gendry behind them, and Dondarrion and his men all together in the middle, with Thoros of Myr panting in the rear.
The trail narrowed through the woods, for here Ser Gregor's men could only go in narrow column, and they followed it west and then turning north. They ran, as the sun faded behind western mountains, as Gendry's lungs burnt and his legs protested, as sweat burnt in their eyes, as the light failed them and Beregond became only a flitting grey form on the edge of sight, as the stars began to shine, as all noise seemed to fade but the puffing and heavy breathing of seven men, they ran on and on. The moon rose, casting pale light through the trees. Insects hummed and buzzed.
As exhausted mariners from a shipwreck fetch up upon an island shore and cling to it in relief, so the company came to a hill and heaved themselves up its steep flanks, thighs aching with every step. The night was clear and cold, and in the light of moon and stars Gendry could see the country north of them opening up into meadows dotted with clumps of trees, where hills rolled amidst the valleys of small streams tumbling down from the mountains to their west.
Gendry's heart beat as if a drum was pounding within his chest. He set his crossbow down and leaned against his knees, gulping air like a drowning man. He had never run so far or so hard in his life. Every muscle screamed agony at him. He cursed the heavy gambeson he wore, and the short sword banging at his side, and the straps of his pack digging into his shoulders. It was dark, but from the ragged breathing of the others they were doing no better. Even Beregond the Numenorean stood, hands upon his head, breathing deep.
"Rest here a little while," the housecarl said. "We will have many more leagues to go to catch our foe,"
"What hope is there of that? He on horse and we on foot? May as well try to outrun a hawk upon the wing!" said Alain FitzUrse, leaning on his pole-ax heavily.
"Gregor's lads will stop for the night, and drink themselves stupid into the wee hours, mark my words," said Thoros.
Beregond replied: "Aye, and if we keep this pace we may yet close with them,"
Alain shook his head. "We keep this pace up and we may kill ourselves before we reach them,"
"Alain," said Lord Dondarrion sternly. "Best get some rest while you can then,"
They ate a few bites of what food they had. The quadruple baked biscuits was more of a chewing exercise than a meal, and they washed the dry stuff down with eager sips from their water skins. Gendry longed for a good hot bowl of stew, and a mug of beer to wash it down, and then a cold dip in a river. As it was, all they could do was find a place to spread their bedrolls.
Beneath the crest of the hill was a sheltered hollow, with the roots of an old birch encircling it on either side. It was wide enough for all of them to fit in, out of the night winds. With a thick bed of moss in the bottom of the hollow, it was not uncomfortable. Beregond bent over a small pile of sticks and leaves with flint and steel and soon had a tiny blaze going.
"Do not build the fire too large, we should leave here at dawn," the housecarl said. He had a long-stemmed wooden pipe in his hand, and was stuffing it with dried leaves taken from a leather wallet he carried beneath his gambeson on a string around his neck. He took a burning twig and lit the pipe. The Numenorean's head was soon wreathed in pipe smoke, and he sat back against the tree and blew rings of it from his mouth. His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Gendry hauled off his stinking gambeson and bunched it up next to his pack and weapons to pillow his head. Alain was to his left, and to his right Anguy was already snoring. The young archer had somehow already found sleep, though Gendry could not guess how. The armourer's apprentice pulled the thin blanket of itchy wool up to his chin. Somewhere an insect was chirping and an owl hooted in the distance. The fire crackled and then there was the soft sound of Beregond's voice singing in the tongue of Gondor. It sounded sad to Gendry's ears as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, yet beautiful, somehow suited to the night and the moon and the stars.
He awoke to every joint in his body feeling tied up in aching knots. The sky above was a dark blue, lightening in the east as the stars went out before the coming sun. The others were snoring on either side of him, still lost to sleep. Anguy's mouth was a gaping hole. Gendry rubbed his eyes, his mouth feeling dry as old leather. He slowly sat up.
Beregond was awake, standing and looking off to the north. He was already dressed and armed, with his hand on his sword pommel and grey cloak over his shoulders.
"You awake," Beregond said in a soft voice, glancing over his shoulder at Gendry.
"Yea… Did you sleep at all?" Gendry asked. The housecarl did not look as if he had even taken his gambeson off.
"What I needed, yes. We have many miles to go today," Beregond replied.
"Gods," Gendry's legs protested as he forced himself to his feet and stretched, joints cracking with the movement. Every movement ached.
Beregond said "You are weary?"
Gendry smiled a little "We ain't all Gondorish, some of us get tired,"
From his pack, Beregond produced a small flask, only a little larger than a man's hand. He uncorked it and handed it to Gendry.
"Take a sip, a very small one," said the Numenorean.
Gendry wafted the bottle under his nose and smelled it. A strange, spiced aroma drifted up. He put it to his lips and took a tiny sip. The liquid within was warm, tasting nothing like he had ever drank before, and burning a little as it went down. He felt a warmth spread from his throat down to his stomach, and from there to every limb. Suddenly there was a change in him. The knots untied themselves in Gendry's muscles, the weight was gone from his limbs. He felt fresh and restored as if he had just sprang from a deeply restful sleep.
"I feel-Wow, I feel…" Gendry stammered, unsure of what had just happened. "Was that Magic?"
Beregond laughed, as if at a child asking if clouds were made of honey and air, then he took the vial back. "Magic? Nay, there is no more sorcery in it than mead! Nor any special power save the virtues of its ingredients and the skill of the maker. We take restoring draughts such as this on all such long journeys in my homeland,"
"I feel as if I could run for days, for leagues," Gendry said, flexing his hands and stretching out his shoulders.
"So you shall today, our quarry is far off yet" replied Beregond, glancing at the long miles left to the north. There was no sign of Gregor Clegane or his men.
The others arose one by one, on aching knees and stiff backs, each man moaning his complaints. One by one, Beregond gave everyone a tiny sip from his flash of Numenorean draught. Just as with Gendry, each of them felt immediately refreshed. Anguy bounced on the balls of his feet, and Alain and Hugh cracked their necks, all looking like runners about to take their marks.
"That's some drink you got there Beregond," said Thoros, lowering it from his lips and returning it to the Numenorean. He too looked completely renewed, as limber and ready as a racehorse.
"We shall have to ration it, but I think it can yet serve us for a few more days," said Beregond, tucking it away into the leather wallet around his neck, which he then shoved underneath his gambeson.
The air of morning was cool and crisp, and a golden dawn in the east spread its rays through the green of the trees. Each leaf and blade of grass was silvered with dew. Perhaps there was some special power in Beregond's drink, for Gendry felt surprisingly light of heart as he rolled up his blankets, slung his pack on this shoulders and picked up his crossbow. He felt fit to burst out into a song, though he could think of nothing suitable to sing for such a morning.
They passed now into the hilly flanks of the Westerlands, through a land of foothills and wooded valleys, where brooks babbled on stony beds down towards the Riverlands. Stands of oak and birch and rowan crowned most of the hills, and in the valleys were the deep shades of beech trees. The birds were singing, reckoning not on the matters of men and lords, but singing their simple joys.
The company ran from dawn till dusk, ever following the broad trampled trail of Clegane's warband. Even when the sun sank behind the mountains, they ran on late into the night, long after the effects of the Numenorean drink had passed away and their every limb felt as lead once more. Another restless night passed, and an early morning where they were restored by another small sip of the draught. Restored enough for another day's running at least.
A heavy air seemed to lay over the marches between the lands of the Lannisters and the Tullys. Few things stirred but the tentative singing of the birds and the rustling of the wind amongst the leaves. Before them, the grey, dim slopes of the mountains slowly grew larger and closer. There was a hot stillness in the air, as if a sudden summer storm was about to break in fury upon all the lands to north and south and east and west.
Gendry's whole world became the trail ahead of him and behind, and all he knew was the pounding in his chest, the sweat crawling down his neck and burning in his eyes, the straps digging into his shoulders and the wooden weight of the crossbow in his hands. For all the long running hours of the days there were few words spoken amongst them, only heaving breaths and grunts of pain and weariness. They went on in single file as hunting dogs do, some pressing ahead in the pack and others falling behind, but Beregond was always in the lead and Anguy with him tracking their prey.
The trail of Clegane was plain, for his company trampled down a wide swath of undergrowth with its passing. There were other signs too. Here and there they saw farmsteads and tiny hamlets, some were smoking and charred as Wendish Town, yet others stood standing and pristine. They saw no people however, never any people. On the grassy sides of hills, sheep wandered without the shepherd. They passed by barns where cattle lowed for an absent milkmaid. Gendry was glad they did not linger in the villages that had known Clegane.
On the fifth day since their chase began, they came upon a campsite in the early hours of the afternoon. They had found many such places before, where their quarry had stopped for a night to drink and revel, leaving a pasture or a meadow littered with burnt-out fires, crusts of hard-bread picked at by crows, broken shoes, discarded clothes, and other such detritus. Yet this one was different, for one of the fire pits was still faintly smoking as they approached it.
"Still warm," Anguy murmured, squatting down and placing a hand upon the rocks which lined the hearth while the others watched.
"By the Gods, are we gaining on them?" Alain panted, leaning down against his knees and wiping sweat from his brow.
"They were here last night, I would guess," Anguy said, standing up and leaning on his bow-stave.
Beregond nodded "A day ahead of us then,"
"They're riding slower than I would have guessed," said Thoros.
"Clegane isn't driving the pace. They're taking their time, enjoying a summer's ride with their prize in tow," replied Beric Dondarrion.
The Numenorean smiled grimly. "As the lion goes slowly to its stricken prey, vaunting over it, thinking itself immortal,"
"But what do we do when we catch the lion?" asked Gendry. The others looked amongst themselves and grimaced. The fewness of their numbers was all too obvious to all. Beregond looked at Gendry, and as the armourer's apprentice met his gaze he saw an eager light in the eyes of the housecarl.
"Press on," he said, and sprang away once more, nimble as a fish leaping from water. Once more, like hounds upon the horn, the rest of the hunters followed.
22
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XX
The Marches of the Westerlands
The night air was cool, and many fires crackled amongst the laughter and songs of two hundred drunken men-at-arms. The meat of a stolen sheep sizzled as it cooked. Somewhere a man was grunting and a woman moaned. Somewhere else, a stringed instrument and a flute were being played. Horses nickered to each other in the dim light of the moon. With head hanging, Isildur son of Elendil sat tied to a tree, arms bond by hairy ropes, all the sounds of Ser Gregor Clegane's warband behind him.
Isildur raised his eyes upwards as far as he could and searched for Earendil's Star in the sky. His search was in vain. He could not see it from where he had been tied up for the night. It made him feel abandoned.
He closed his eyes, but once again the visions came. He saw Ser Gregor's knife plunging into Cirion's throat again, the Troll casting aside his captain like a child tosses away a broken plaything. He saw his housecarls, men of old Numenor and new Gondor alike, laying slaughtered in the square of Wendish Town. Even Fleetfoot, faithful friend to the end, had been killed for his master's folly. He saw the faces of that family fleeing Clegane's burning, the people he had failed to do justice for. He saw the faces of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom and all the others he had led to death. There was Gendry's face as well, that poor young armourer's lad who Isildur had stolen from a good life and led him to murder as a farmer leads a cow to the butchery.
"Curse me for a fool," Isildur muttered, beating his head against the tree he sat against. Dishonour was his, while he had left half his housecarls and a hundred others buried by nothing save the open sky.
We swore oaths. That I would not leave a battlefield before them, nor they before me. They remain there, and I am here Isildur thought, with the deepest shame.
Above the sounds of the camp, a horrible laugh boomed. The Troll That Walked In the Sun seldom laughed, yet when some cruel thing had been done that Ser Gregor found amusing, his mirth thundered as a crashing waterfall.
Clegane Isildur gritted his teeth. Would that I were free of these bonds and had Narsil in hand.
For a moment, Isildur strained and struggled and sought by strength alone to break the bonds that keep him there. They creaked and stretched, but did not snap. The son of Elendil drew in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. His father's voice seemed to echo in Isildur's ears.
"We are only men, of short life and little strength in the circles of the world. Do not trouble your mind on things beyond you, but shepherd your strength for when it is needed," Elendil had said once. That had been a long time ago, when the skies of Numenor were first tainted by the black smoke of the Temple.
Isildur breathed in deeply again. No matter what, no matter what calamity or disaster faced them, Elendil had never quailed or despaired. Even when Numenor had been swallowed by churning waves, his father's face had been still and clear, and the inner fire set within him by the All-Father shone there as if there were no tempest at all. Isildur wished he had even a hint of that virtue today, one not near so dark and with greater hopes.
Wrath will do you no good now he reminded himself. Rest and watch and wait. Some chance may yet present itself.
Behind him, there was a crunching of twigs and brush underfoot. The heavy footsteps of a man deep in his drink. Isildur pushed himself up against the tree and sat straight, looking ahead with steady grey eyes.
"Ah, now if it ain't Lord Isildur hisself, son of Elendil Kingmaker," said a cold, slurred voice. A lean, lanky man in a brown aketon and leggings swaggered in front of Isildur's tree. Wine sloshed in a skin he held in loose fingers. A dagger was thrust through his belt. His face was round, his nose a knob from many breakings, and long curling sideburns growing down his cheeks. Isildur recognized this one: His name was Ulrich. Clegane's men called him Ulrich the Gentle, jesting about his supposed gentleness with young women, and some young men.
Ulrich leaned down upon one knee and stared at Isildur. His eyes were a watery blue.
"These accommodations to your liking, milordship?" Ulrich said, chuckling at himself. "Though p'haps you'd prefer to be sleeping with your boys back in Wendish Town?"
Isildur said nothing, he just looked into Ulrich with a gaze sharp-edged as a knife. For a moment, the drunk was struck wordless and his mouth worked in the air like it was trying to find his voice again. Finally Ulrich tore his gaze away, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head.
"Ah, Seven Hells burn ya," Ulrich swore, flailing with a hand blindly. The back side of his closed fist struck Isildur's face. His cheek and lip stung from the blow.
Opening his eyes again, Ulrich seemed to take confidence from the blow. "Heh, not so high and mighty now all tied up are ya? Just a man like the rest of us,"
He stood up and savagely drove the tip of his boot into Isildur's side with a hard kick. Elendil's son hissed through his teeth but did not cry out. Ulrich took a long swig from his wine skin.
"It's funny ya know, when you came charging in I thought we was dead for sure. You and all those Gondorish of yours, all yelling like the Warrior, cutting down our lads like they were children. Friends of mine, you know. I thought we was all dead for sure," Ulrich said darkly. He cranked back an arm and cracked Isildur a blow across the face. Still Isildur sat in silence, enduring the pain without a noise.
Ulrich smiled, a cold and cruel thing. "Oh yes, I had friends in that fight same as you. Owain, Fredar, Arnulf. Friends you killed,"
Suddenly Ulrich's forearm was under Isildur's throat, pushing his weight against him. The hard bark of the tree scraped against Isildur's back through his clothes. He struggled for breath, the air stinking of wine from the drunk's closeness.
"Gregor says we's supposed to return you to Lord Tywin, alive and unspoiled. Ain't suppose to be any fun with you," Ulrich said softly. Steel whispered against leather, and the tip of Ulrich's dagger was grazing along Isildur's nose.
Ulrich's voice was hissing in Isildur's ear now. "Ain't right, if you ask me. You and yours kill more than half of our men, a lot of good lads, a lot of my friends, and we're supposed to just carry you to Tywin fucking Lannister gentle as a nursemaid carrying a babe,"
"Is that justice!?" Ulrich backed away, voice louder now, arms spread wide with the dagger in one hand and his wineskin in the other. He took a long swig and then spat it out into Isildur's face.
"ULRICH!" came the booming voice of Ser Gregor Clegane, out of sight.
The drunk swore under his breath. The Troll lumbered into view, hand set upon the pommel of the huge sword slung at his side. Clegane's face was brutish, with a heavy sloping brow and a thick chin covered by a wiry black beard. Dark, dull brown eyes stared at Ulrich impassively.
"Milord," Ulrich said, touching his forehead with the knuckle of his finger.
"Get back to the others Ulrich," said Ser Gregor.
Ulrich the Gentle shot Isildur a dark, murderous look, and then bowed his head to his lord and staggered away. The Troll stood and watched him go, and then turned his gaze down to Isildur. The son of Elendil met it with his own defiant iron-grey eyes.
"When I deliver you up to my lord, I expect you shall express your gratitude to Lord Tywin," said Gregor Clegane, voice a deep rumble. The fabric of his gambeson was stretched tight over his enormous shoulders and limbs like the trunks of young trees.
"Gratitude will not be the first thing on my lips when I meet Lord Tywin," Isildur spat.
Clegane knelt down to look Isildur in the face. "If it were not for Lord Tywin's orders, mark my words you would not be traveling in such safety and comfort,"
Behind him, Isildur heard the men roaring with laughter raucously over something. The woman's moans had become screaming, though whether it was pleasure or fear was hard to tell.
Gregor Clegane smiled. "Do you hear that squealing? You must. There are those amongst my men who would treat you with the same tenderness they would give a fair lady. They have a whole list of things they would gladly visit upon you, Isildur, for what you did to us,"
"So be grateful, son of Elendil. Be grateful that Lord Tywin needs you alive and unspoiled, my friend" the Troll finished, standing up once more.
He made to walk away, but paused a second, just on the edge of Isildur's sight. Clegane's voice came again as a low growl, bear-like and moody.
"You cut down many of my best men. If Lord Tywin did not need you, I would crush your skull right here,"
When Ser Gregor's footsteps had faded away into the noise of the camp, Isildur rested his head back against the bark of the tree. He slowly released his fists, which he had clenched so tight his nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. He breathed out slowly, then began to recite names to himself:
"Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom, Gendry Robertion…"
The names of his housecarls were seared into his memory like the names of his own family. Cirion, Magor, Anborn, Beregond. They were men he had grown up with in the days of Numenor, men who had helped him build Minas Ithil, who had helped raise his own sons. They were more than guards, they were his own kin, of his own household. He could no more forget them than forget the faces of his sons.
The Westerosi were not his housecarls though. They were not sworn to him, they had volunteered to help him on his errand, volunteered to help see justice done. For that, Isildur had led them to death. He did not want to forget a single name or a single face. He would not let himself forget, not until he could see Gregor Clegane with an arrow in his throat.
Isildur's mind kept returning and returning again to Robert's son, Gendry. He had had every reason in the world to despise Isildur, every reason to refuse to help. Isildur had taken him from a good home and a good family, and thrust the poor boy into the battles and schemes of lords and noble houses. He wished he hadn't. Gendry had done nothing to deserve the hardships of a royal bastard, proof of a queen's infidelity. He did not deserve to need to carry such a burden.
Why didn't he run? I told him to run Isildur thought. Perhaps he was like his father, running was not in Gendry's blood. In his mind, he saw the short sword bursting from the man's chest again, and Gendry's burning blue eyes and thick black hair appearing amidst the storm of battle. The boy saved Isildur's life, and in return Isildur had led him into a massacre.
Robert had chosen Isildur to be Hand of the King, but Isildur felt he had proven an ill choice and an ill chooser himself. Yet perhaps not all would come to ruin. For as the night grew quiet and the soldiers fell to drunken slumber, Isildur was left awake, and as he saw there he found wrath and shame draining from him and he began to think clearly on his circumstances.
Gregor Clegane, Lord Tywin Lannister's own bannerman, had been caught marauding in the Riverlands, and had assaulted the Hand of the King and the King's own banner. He had done this at Lord Tywin's own command, so Isildur judged by the fact that he was being taken to Tywin as a captive.
So Tywin does mean to make war on the Crown… he pondered.
Isildur was still alive, and uninjured. His captors could not harm him because of his value, and they still had a journey of some days left before they reached the mountains of the Westerlands. He was alive and he was the Hand of the King. The King needed to be warned.
If I can get to Ned and Robert, this crime could not stand. They have assaulted the King's own Hand.
Robert may not have recovered from his injuries yet, but at his command Isildur and Ned could lead an army into the West to bring the Lannisters to heel. The King's Host could march, with the armies of Gondor and the Starks, Tullys and Baratheons at its side.
How I wish the people could be spared further bloodletting, but these Lannister plots cannot be borne.
He thought of the fires of armies consuming yet more towns, more villages, more farmer's fields. He thought of the death and the suffering that would march behind the soldiers' tramping feet and come thundering beneath the hooves of the men-at-arms. Isildur knew well the horrors to come, but Tywin Lannister had already drawn the sword of war. What could Isildur do except draw his own?
First I must be free of this captivity.
If it was within his power, he could not allow himself to be taken into Tywin Lannister's dungeons. He could not allow himself to become a mere bargaining chip for Lannister ambitions. He had to get free somehow.
Gregor Clegane may have been a brute and a murderer, but he was no fool. Isildur's hands were bound behind his back, his torso tied to a tree trunk, and ropes looped tightly around his ankles. He had struggled in vain against the rough, unyielding cords for some time, but they were knotted well and firmly. No matter how he twisted or turned his body, they would not loosen. At length, Isildur stopped and lay still, and then closed his eyes and rested while he could.
The Wave came to him again that night, but it was not a cold, dead Numenor he found himself in. The skies were blue above him, and full of the songs of birds he had not heard in many a long year. The air was warm, not chill as Gondor's was but warm as the sun and the sea and the sands of the beaches. An ocean-scent of salt drifted about him, and he heard the music of the waves. The hills were green, and covered in trees. Isildur looked behind him, and there stood holy Meneltarma, mantled in purple in the distance, rising as a pillar towards the heavens. He looked about him and found he was in the broad streets of Romenna, paved in white stone, and to all sides there were people. His people, the Numenoreans.
Their faces were serene, and their voices fair. Their towers were proud once more, and their houses filled with happiness. The streets rang with songs and the sound of laughing children. Here merchants hawked their wares, and there a baker set out steaming loaves, and a fishmonger strung up his catch. In the havens, Isildur saw the white sails of the greatest mariners of Middle-earth, and the ships' prows were in the manner of swans and seabirds. All the roofs seemed wrought of gold, and the doors gleamed silver. Trees bloomed along the avenues of Romenna, and flowers fell all about him. He looked this way and that, and there was no sign of the Temple of the Enemy. No black smoke fouled the skies over Numenor. Here was Westernesse in the days of its wisdom and its joy, restored as it was of old.
Then Isildur saw an old man walking down the street towards him, back straight with dignity despite the white of his beard and the black cane he leaned upon. He was cloaked in grey, and his tunic was black, and his shoulders seemed to carry the majesty of high office, a magnate of the realm. The old man looked to be a man of pride and rank, yet his grey eyes gleamed with mirth as children across the road before him, and no sword did he wear, no armed guard flanked him. Isildur recognized him: Amandil, his grandsire.
"Grandfather," he said, reaching out a hand. Suddenly Amandil seemed to see him, as if Isildur had sprung up from the ground before him. Fear stole across his face, and he recoiled and stepped back.
"Who art thou that goeth about this peaceful shore in such warlike fashion?" Amandil demanded, face pale. Isildur felt the iron weight of mail upon his shoulders. He looked at the hand he reached out. It was covered in dark blood.
Isildur said "I am Isildur son of Elendil, thy grandson,"
"Thou art comest before me, blood-drenched as a murderer and clad in garb of war and thou sayest you are my Isildur? My sweet grandson? Nay, he is a boy, you are a man and a slayer of men. Thou art not he,"
"No, no truly I am Isildur son of Elendil, born of Andunie!" said Isildur, in growing desperation. He looked down and saw he was all in dark, rusted mail, soaked with blood and mud and gore. His very presence in Romenna seemed a violation of the place.
"Liar, a man of Westernesse fears no foes and carries no arms! What evils hast thou done this day?" Amandil demanded, eyes smouldering dangerously. The sky was darkening above them, thunderheads growing and casting their shadows over Romenna.
"Grandfather, it is I, Isildur!" Isildur replied. He found he had a sword in his hand, the blade red and wet.
"I am the King's Counsellor, and not cowed by thy harness nor deceived by thy words! Begone! Or confess to thy crimes!" Amandil's voice grew loud, and deep, and terrible. Behind his shoulder, Isildur saw the seas begin to swell.
"No, grandfather!" Isildur pleaded, the sword clattering to the white stones and staining them with a streak of red.
"Killer! Slayer! Murderer!"
The wave came then, swift, cold and dark and overwhelming. In one moment, in a cry of helplessness, Isildur and Amandil and all Numenor were drowned beneath the wrathful waters.
The son of Elendil awoke with a boot suddenly digging into his side painfully. Even cruelly yanked from sleep with a kick, he would not cry out and only hissed through his teeth.
"Hiss all you like, one day before too long I'll have your scream, my lord," said the low, hateful voice of Ulrich the Gentle in his ear, and then there was the crunching sound of Ulrich trampling down the undergrowth back to the camp.
The world was damp and dim as the morning light gathered in the east before the dawn, the sky lightening to herald the sun. Dew glistened and silvered every leaf and blade of grass, and birds sang tentatively to each other. Isildur felt a shudder of cold run through his body. He breathed deeply of the fresh air. It was another day, perhaps a chance for escape would come.
The camp was rousing itself from sleep, slowly and with a great deal of its men still groggy and stinking of wine. After he had been fed, Isildur sat and waited. The sun crept higher in the sky, drying out the morning dew, and a fly insistently buzzed about Isildur's ear. Behind him he could hear conversations of men, laughter, the crackling of cooking fires, the nickering of horses, yet there was not the slightest sound of haste or hurry in any of it. The men seemed more preoccupied with their morning meals than with the errands of war they had been assembled for.
It was quite late in the morning when the warband was finally ready for its march. A strong guard of men-at-arms, clad in their gambesons and girt with swords and daggers, came over to Isildur's tree while another of the men untied his bounds. The armed men were to be his guard of honour. The son of Elendil smiled mirthlessly. Here was the famed chivalry of Westeros. These men would burn and rape and murder as they willed across the Riverlands, yet because Isildur was a lord and the son of a great lord he would be unbound and unharmed in their presence. He would be given a horse and would be 'free' within his captivity, although he was unarmed and so to flee would be death.
Isildur rubbed his wrists and worked his sore joints as he walked towards the waiting band of fighting men from the edge of the encampment. The horses were saddled and pawing the ground. Clegane's men stared at him with hard, discontent eyes. They fingered the pommels of daggers or the staves of pole-arms. He was flanked on either side by men-at-arms with hands on sword hilts. Before him, Ser Gregor Clegane stood next to his enormous black courser, clad in aketon and riding leggings.
"My lord Isildur," Ser Gregor greeted with a mocking bow "I pray you spent your night restfully,"
Isildur said nothing. His eyes gleamed, hard and dark, as he passed Ser Gregor by. Despite the lingering coolness of the morning air, a single bead of sweat rolled down Clegane's head at the passing of the Son of Elendil. The Troll clenched and unclenched his hands and then wiped his brow when Isildur turned his back to him.
Behind Clegane's horse, there was a brown rouncey, one of Ser Gregor's own horses, that was given to Isildur. It was saddled and bridled, with another armed man holding the reins. Setting his hands upon the saddle, he swung himself up smoothly. To left and right, his honour guard did the same. All around him, leather creaked and shifted and horses stepped and tossed their heads as the whole company mounted. At the head of the column, Ser Gregor shouted the command and swung his hand forward, and the hundreds of hooves rumbled and churned up the grass as they rode away.
Their course bore them north and west, yet there was little speed or urgency about it. The company rode through the border marches of the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Foothills marched away towards the gray and purple mountains which loomed closer and closer, and the music of small streams running over rocky beds was heard along the many valleys and ridges. Long ridges covered in trees and pastureland rose in gradual undulations like the slow swells of the sea. It was a fair hill country of beech and rowan, and here and there were villages or single farms. Villages which swore loyalty to the Riverlords still. Ser Gregor's men wore the smiles of wolves.
The village before them was a small, nameless place when they rode out of the trees and looked down into the valley. A handful modest houses crowded around a crude sept. Sheep and goats bleated on the side of the hill, and Isildur saw the distant, tiny figures of people moving to and fro in the village. There was cruel laughter amongst the raiders behind him, and he heard the sliding whisper of steel on leather, the rattle of men pulling on mail shirts, the creak of harness as others tightened straps on armour or helmets.
"What a little shithole," Isildur heard one of the raiders say.
"Aye, but I bet you the septon of a little shithole like this has some stash buried in his yard. They all do," another answered.
"Keep your gold, I mean to find meself a girl today. 'Aven't 'ad one since Wendish Town," said a third.
"Ain't no whores in a town like this Philip,"
"Nah, 'ust girls who don't know they be whores yet," Philip replied, and his companions laughed.
Isildur's grip on his reins tightened. He glanced to either side. He was escorted by Ser Gregor's own men-at-arms, and a dozen sets of eyes were upon him, and a dozen swords surrounded him. He was unarmed and could make no move. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
Sword edges gleamed, lance points caught the sun and twinkled, the horses snorted and their hooves pawed the ground. Ser Gregor Clegane watched his men with a bored, bemused smile. He had ridden next to Isildur all day, towering above all and speaking nary a word to anyone.
"Men!" he said in a loud voice. "This village swears loyalty to the Riverlords. Burn it and take all you can find!"
Suddenly there was a cacophony of hoots and howls, and neighing horses, and the thundering of hooves. As the pack of wolves descends suddenly from snowy hills in the depths of winter to sow death amongst the herds and flocks of men, so did Ser Gregor's raiders spring out of the forest and pour down the hillside.
Soon the valley was filled with screams and fire.
Orc-men, in their orc-play Isildur thought bitterly, and said nothing.
By the time Ser Gregor was able to regain control of his men, the village was naught but a burnt-out husk, filled with death. Much of the day had been wasted in looting and wanton acts of depravity. The septon hung from the steeple of his sept. Here and there lay the bloodied bodies of men and children, hewn apart. The raiders were burdened down with what rude wealth they could extract from this village: Pigs, goats, a few modest sacks of coin, bags of grain, even the clothes and boots of the villagers. The jeweled and gold-inlaid leather cover torn off the sept's worship-book made a particular prize.
A cool, pale evening was closing in now, and dark clouds from the south foretold a moonless night to come. A biting wind pawed and grabbed at Isildur's cloak, and fanned the burning thatch of rooves till they blazed like a forge fire. The screams were gone now, now the village was silent as a crypt. Only the crackling of the flames was heard.
"Well done my brave boys, well done. Went through the bastards like an arrow through a goose," Ser Gregor said as his men filed past him back to their horses. He sat upon his huge black stallion, hunkered over the saddle horn. The men returned his praise with laughter and smiles, clapping each other on the back.
The dark of night lay heavily upon the hills, and the moon and stars above were shrouded by veils of thick cloud, when the company finally halted for the night. Clegane ordered the halt in a clearing atop a hill, a meadow of grasses and low shrubs and bushes perhaps once used for pastureland. The men spread out across the field, each seeking a comfortable spot to unroll their bedding for the night, while some quickly kindled a blazing fire, and others set to slaughtering some of the animals they took in their raid for an evening meal. Soon wine skins were being passed from hand to hand, and coarse voices were raised in slurred song.
Isildur found himself tied to another tree for the evening, a gnarled old elm.
The son of Elendil rested his head against the tree's rough bark. The Star of Earendil was nowhere to be seen this night. The ground was cold, but dry. His seat was at the edge of the clearing, right where the hill began to slope down, and in the distance his Numenorean eyes could pick out the shapes of other hills and valleys rolling away into the distance, indistinct in the dark gloom. A cold wind was rustling in the boughs of the trees, with a sound like the forest was whispering to him. Far off, he could see the dull red glow of the burning village they had left behind, like a baleful eye staring at him out of the night.
Is that what these fools think war is? He thought. They put unarmed old men and screaming babes to the sword and think themselves great warriors.
The leaves of nearby trees were edged with a faint red light from the distant flames. The same light caught and reflected in Isildur's grey eyes, till it seemed like his eyes themselves had a fire deep within them.
They will learn what war truly is, they shall see its true face, and the lesson shall be hard.
Isildur thought of the people of Sherrer, begging him for justice. He thought of Ban and Tasie and Cailan, fleeing the ruin of their homes. He thought of Beric Dondarrion, and Thoros of Myr, and Little Thom, and Gendry, following him on his errand and dying for it. He thought of his housecarls, his own kinsmen, bleeding in the streets of Wendish Town. He thought of the Lannisters, of all their wealth, and all their power, and the vastness of their hosts, and all the blood that stained the hands of Tywin Lannister.
In Numenor ere its fall, princes and magnates from the colonies would visit to pay homage to the King of Numenor. They were tall and hard, skin burnt deep by sun and wind, swaggering about the court in crude finery. At the banquet-table, they would boast of their victories over the wild-men of the hills of Middle-earth, and they would tell tales of how many villages they had put to the sword, how many lands they had subjugated to the glory of Numenor. They thought themselves great and puissant captains and lords of men, and Ar-Pharazon had smiled upon them as he had once been amongst them.
It went ill for them in the end. Isildur remembered, with a grim smile.
With the sound of drunken revelry and song at his back, and the sight of burning homes before him, Isildur sat and brooded upon war. In his mind, he conjured up great visions of armies and fleets, of armaments and campaigns. He envisioned the White Fleet sailing down the coastlines of Westeros, and the wasting of the Westerlands, and the fall of Lannisport and Casterly Rock. He saw the Westerland armies trapped between the King's Host before them and the hosts of Gondor behind. He saw the Lannisters in chains, and Robert sitting in judgment before them. The war would be swift and terrible, death flowing freely amongst the falling leaves of a bitter autumn.
The All-Father may not cast them down, but the hand of Gondor shall suffice. My hand!
Then a shiver ran through Isildur as the cold wind stole down his neck and back, and the shadow passed from his thought. The vision retreated from his sight, and he was Isildur once more, just a mortal man, small and alone in the wilds of Westeros.
The night wore on, and the sounds of the company grew quiet till there was only the noises of sleeping men, and the whickering of horses. Isildur's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the cold and the discomfort he almost felt sleep coming for him. That was when he was jolted into wakefulness by the clear, loud crack of a twig snapping under a heavy tread behind him.
"Milord Isildur," hissed the low voice of Ulrich the Gentle in Isildur's right ear. "Our talk was left unfinished last night,"
Isildur's eyes were accustomed to the darkness by now, and he could see the hunched outline of Ulrich stepping around the tree and into his sight, kneeling before him.
"I thought I'd wait till the others slept, so we could talk more freely, you and I," said Ulrich.
"I have naught to say to the likes of you," replied Isildur. "Men do not speak to orcs,"
There was the slither of steel against leather, and Isildur knew that Ulrich had drawn his dagger. He felt the cold graze of the dagger's edge against his cheek.
"If my fathers were a little higher, or yours a little lower, you wouldn't dare talk down to me. Not when yer the prisoner and I have the dagger," said Ulrich. His voice was not slurred by wine this night, but was low, cold and hateful.
"Ser Gregor says we ain't to spoil you before handing ye over to Lord Tywin, but I know ways to have my fun with you that they'll never know about," Ulrich went on. The tip of his dagger scraped slowly over Isildur's chin, down his throat.
In that moment, the clouds broke and a shaft of bright moonlight fell upon them. The iron blade of the dagger gleamed dully. The trees became clear, jagged silhouettes around them. Ulrich smiled coldly.
There was a hiss in the air, and a wet thud, and Ulrich gasped suddenly. A dark, wet arrowhead projected from his throat. His hand grasped at his throat, his eyes went wide and wild, disbelieving, and then with a strangled cry he fell.
"Fucking Hells!" came a hoarse whisper from the trees.
"Damn you Anguy, you nearly hit him!"
"Bastard had a dagger!"
Out of the brush came the shapes of men, hooded and cloaked, crouched low and moving as silently as haste would allow. In the moonlight, they looked like dark, shapeless shadows quickly stealing through the swaying grasses.
"Just our luck, that bastard's croak will have woken the whole lot of them," said one of the voices, drawing closer. It sounded familiar.
"Nay, they drunk themselves stupid, just like I said they would," replied another, sounding more familiar yet.
"Who goes there?" Isildur said, loudly as he could without raising the alarm.
"Friends, my lord," said a voice with the sound of Gondor in it. Isildur's heart leapt in his chest at the familiar noise.
The cloaked men stole in close to Isildur. He heard a blade drawing and the sound of sawing at his bounds. The closest of them pulled back his cloak, and the moonlight fell on a face Isildur knew.
"Beregond!" Isildur said.
"My lord," replied the housecarl, bowing his head. "Forgive my absence, we came as swiftly as we could,"
"There is nothing to forgive, good Beregond!" Isildur replied, feeling the ropes slacken as they were cut.
"Are you hurt, my lord?" asked the housecarl.
"Only my pride. Oh, loyal Beregond, it is good to see you! How many of the others have come?"
Beregond did not answer, and the silence told Isildur what he already knew. The pain in his heart that had dulled away to a faint throb stabbed fresh again. Isildur steeled himself. There would be time for mourning to come. Now they had work to do.
"We shall talk later," Isildur said, grasping his housecarl by the shoulder. "How many men did you bring?"
The last of the ropes were cut and Isildur sprang to his feet. He was sore, and hungry, but blood was pounding in his veins and he was free again.
"We are seven, my lord, but we have a plan,"
Isildur turned and looked at the clearing behind him. Clegane's camp stretched across the meadow. In the moonlight, they saw two hundred men sleeping amongst weapons and saddle bags, and scattered wine skins. The faint reddish embers of their cooking-fires still glowed. Here and there there were the looming shapes of tents and pavilions. They heard the sounds of steady snoring.
"Drunk themselves stupid, true to fashion," said one of Beregond's men, crouching by Isildur's shoulder. "It's good to see you well Lord Isildur,"
He glanced down and beneath the hood spotted the bearded, smiling face of Thoros of Myr.
"Lord Beric is up that ways, preparing my little surprise for our friends. I am quite proud of it, I must say. Some of my best work, given the circumstances" Thoros pointed off to the eastern edge of the clearing, on their right. The pasture was just beneath the crest of a hill, and sloped gently upwards from south to north, surrounded by trees and brush.
"Of course it's easy to make such things work when the grass is as dry as this," Thoros commented.
"Anguy, give the signal," whispered Beregond.
The young archer set his longbow against the tree, and then put both hands to his mouth and made three owl-hoots. Three came in answer from the eastern side. The archer seized the bow again and nocked an arrow. Another of them produced a crossbow from within his cloak and set a bolt on it. They both aimed into the camp.
"When we charge, remember to yell 'Riverrun'" said Beregond, slowly and quietly drawing his sword. The cold steel gleamed in the moonlight. Then a veil of dark clouds fell over the face of the moon again and put them into utter blackness.
"Five shots each, just like we said," Anguy murmured to the crossbowman.
Out of the darkness, they saw three lights spring up on the east, small but fierce. The lights moved into the pasture quickly, and Isildur perceived that they were torches in the hands of cloaked men. The three of them thrust their burning brands into the dry grass at their feet, and began to drag them along in a line. Suddenly the grass was burning, starting slowly, but getting quicker and fiercer and brighter with each moment. At first there were three small fires, growing as they consumed grass and deadfall around them, but soon they became one fire, sweeping as fast as a running man towards the camp, sending up thick, acrid smoke, and the sound of roaring and crackling. Soon the whole clearing was filled with the flickering orange and red light of a wild grassfire.
"ALARUM! ALARUM! ALARUM!" yelled one of the cloaked men with the torches, voice echoing across the hillside.
Still besotted with drink, Clegane's raiders awoke to the grassfire's heat on their faces.
"Fire! Fire!" came wild shouts from the awakening soldiers.
"Now!" roared Beregond.
With deft hand and sharp eye, Anguy began loosing arrows into the confused mass of foes, as they struggled out of their bedrolls. The crossbow rattled as its bolt ripped through the air. The distance was short, and the missiles flew flat and true and unerring. Screams of pain and fear rent the night air. From the east, another crossbow rattled and more missiles poured into the camp. There were shouts of confusion. Drunk men-at-arms were tripping over each other as they groped for weapons to meet the sudden attack. A few of Clegane's men were futilely slapping at the grassfire with their cloaks.
"CHARGE!" bellowed the powerful voice of Beric Dondarrion. "FOR RIVERRUN!"
Through the flames leapt the Lord of Blackhaven, bare sword turning in the air above his head, and he shouted again.
"COME ON LADS, WE HAVE 'EM SLEEPING!"
Immediately there was a great sound of crashing and stamping in the underwood, as if of many men charging, and there were raised voices.
"RIVERRUN!"
"REMEMBER SHERRER!"
Then Isildur saw the trick, and smiled and laughed, and stood and cried out as if to a strong company at his back.
"HA! HERE WE FIND THEM! UP NOW AND SLAY ALL!"
Arrows and bolts were tearing through the air, Gregor's men were shouting, the fire was roaring, and into the confusion and the chaos charged Isildur, Beregond, Beric Dondarrion and all the others. Bare swords flashed in the firelight. They roared and bellowed as they came on, from south and east, shouting the name of Riverrun. Clegane's warband stood stricken, addled by wine, confusion reigning, their comrades crying out in pain as missiles buried themselves in bare flesh, their horses screaming, the heat of the flames on their faces, and now suddenly they were assailed by fighting men with steel in hand, shouting the war-cries of the Riverlords. A chorus of fearful voices rose above the clamour.
"The rivermen! The rivermen are upon us!"
"Flee for your lives lads!"
"Run! Run!"
Beric and Beregond and Thoros and their companions only cut down two or three, yet soon the whole band of Gregor Clegane's raiders was fleeing before their faces, as if charged by a whole army. Order disappeared. Fear took the once brave Clegane men-at-arms, and they turned and fled, abandoning their camp and their companions both. They scattered in all directions into the hills and forests, howling fearfully as they went.
"Alain, Hugh, get the horses! Quickly!" Beric Dondarrion commanded, then he brandished his sword and ran roaring towards the ragged line of fleeing Clegane troops.
Two of the hooded men quickly ran off towards the picket line where the horses of the warband had been tied for the evening. The horses were panicked, some were neighing, others screaming.
Isildur's eyes were on the ground, scanning amongst the baggage and detritus of the camp for something he could not leave behind.
"I must find Narsil," he said to Beregond. The housecarl nodded his understanding.
"Milord," said the crossbowman "Is this your blade?"
Isildur turned and behind him the young crossbowman stood holding a sheathed sword, hilt first towards him. By the steel crossbar and the engraved pommel, Isildur knew it to be Narsil. It must have been plucked from amongst the loot and piled weapons of the encampment.
"You have my thanks, friend" Isildur said, taking the blade. The light of the fire flashed into the shadows of the hood, and for a moment Isildur had a glimpse of a familiar face and dark blue eyes.
"…Gendry?" he said, but the young man was interrupted even as he opened his mouth to respond.
"ISILDUR!"
Ser Gregor Clegane was not as easily taken by shock and surprise as his men were. His wits were not dulled by drink or sleep. Even if the whole hosts of the Tullys had fallen upon his company then and there, he was not one to flee. He stood with his back to the spreading fires, clad only in gambeson, longsword in hand. His form was an immense, dark silhouette against the raging flames. He saw through the ruse, he saw the fewness of their attackers' true numbers, and he saw his prisoner escaping, slipping through Tywin Lannister's claws even as the Lion reached out to grasp him.
Nor was he alone. A few of the boldest and the most cunning of his own men-at-arms had stood by their lord, and now they took their stand to either side of the Troll. One bore a pole-ax, another a mace, and a third readied a sword and buckler.
Anguy's bow creaked as he drew back an arrow and trained it on Ser Gregor. Clegane was unarmoured, not even clad in his gambeson, and Anguy's aim was sure. Gendry whirled on him and quickly spanned and loaded his crossbow.
"I shall deal with Clegane," said Isildur in a hard voice. In one smooth motion he drew forth Narsil. A pale white light shone from its edges. Though he was weary and hunger gnawed at his stomach, the feeling of Narsil's hilt in his hand gave Isildur fresh strength. He stepped forward boldly.
Anguy's bowstring sung, and the pole-ax clattered to the ground, its wielder grasping at the dart in his eye. Gendry's crossbow rattled, but the bolt went wide above the heads of the foes. Then with wordless shouts of hate and fury, the foemen came rushing on, and Gregor Clegane foremost amongst them.
Beregond and Thoros met the Clegane men-at-arms with bared blades in hand, and soon the camp was filled with the clang of steel on steel. Isildur paid no heed. He met the Troll alone.
From the ground, Gregor seized a burning spear and cast it at Isildur, who swiftly stepped to the side as the missile passed him. Then the Troll was upon him, swinging a savage cut for his head. Up came Narsil, parrying the blow, and Isildur met Gregor strength for strength. The son of Elendil bore into Clegane with his shoulder and beat him bodily back with a kick. Razor-edges whirled and turned in the air, clashing in binds which lasted mere moments. Both were unarmoured. Death swung in every stroke. Cuts became thrusts became cuts again as they strove and fought against each other back and forth.
A tent blazed suddenly as the tongues of flame licked and consumed it, and collapsing it forced Isildur and Clegane apart. They circled each other, glaring past their sword blades and the fiery conflagration. The heat struck their faces like a dragon's breath. They stepped to the side into open ground, yet unburning, and then rushed together once more. The clash of their blades rang above the crackling of the fires.
Gritting his teeth, Isildur cut and slashed and struck again and again and again. Narsil whirled and turned above his head, and beside his body, and beneath his arms, striking for Clegane first from this angle, then that, then a third. Back, back, back was driven Ser Gregor Clegane, step by step, parrying in every direction.
Suddenly then Isildur brought his sword low. He saw his chance. His ancient blade swept up as Gregor brought his arms up for the stroke.
Narsil's edge bit deep, drinking blood, cleaving flesh and sinew and muscle.
Ser Gregor Clegane howled in pain, his right arm spurting dark blood beneath the elbow. His sword-hand lay upon the ground, cloven from his body by Narsil's cut. With a final snarl, Clegane tried to finish his blow one-handed, swinging for Isildur's head with all his rage behind his longsword.
Narsil was faster, and swiftly it whirled around and its razor-edge bit and sunk deep a second time.
Clegane's head rolled from his shoulders, and his body slumped to the cold ground. The Troll was dead.
For Cirion Isildur thought. There had been no trial, no sentence, but justice had been done, and Gregor Clegane had perished for his crimes at last.
Beregond ran up to Isildur, breathing hard, face grim. His blade was red with blood.
"My lord, we have to go now!" the housecarl said frantically. "Alain and Hugh have the horses ready, but Clegane's warband is regaining their wits,"
In the distance, they heard shouts and the rattle of arms and the tramping of many feet through the brush.
"Aye, lead on Beregond," replied Isildur.
Eight of the company's strongest horses awaited them by the picket-line, saddled already. The others were already mounted, reins in hand, waiting. They heard the calls of many men. Arrows and stones whistled through the night. They heard captains shouting commands, Clegane's lieutenants barking for order. In the brush there was a great crashing and clamour as men of company returned to their camp, weapons in hand, wild-eyed and looking for blood.
Isildur swung up into the saddle of the largest steed. He set his heels into the horse's flanks and it sprang away down the hillside. Beregond and the others followed. The cold night air stung their eyes, and the ground soared away beneath them, and they disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
The Marches of the Westerlands
The night air was cool, and many fires crackled amongst the laughter and songs of two hundred drunken men-at-arms. The meat of a stolen sheep sizzled as it cooked. Somewhere a man was grunting and a woman moaned. Somewhere else, a stringed instrument and a flute were being played. Horses nickered to each other in the dim light of the moon. With head hanging, Isildur son of Elendil sat tied to a tree, arms bond by hairy ropes, all the sounds of Ser Gregor Clegane's warband behind him.
Isildur raised his eyes upwards as far as he could and searched for Earendil's Star in the sky. His search was in vain. He could not see it from where he had been tied up for the night. It made him feel abandoned.
He closed his eyes, but once again the visions came. He saw Ser Gregor's knife plunging into Cirion's throat again, the Troll casting aside his captain like a child tosses away a broken plaything. He saw his housecarls, men of old Numenor and new Gondor alike, laying slaughtered in the square of Wendish Town. Even Fleetfoot, faithful friend to the end, had been killed for his master's folly. He saw the faces of that family fleeing Clegane's burning, the people he had failed to do justice for. He saw the faces of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom and all the others he had led to death. There was Gendry's face as well, that poor young armourer's lad who Isildur had stolen from a good life and led him to murder as a farmer leads a cow to the butchery.
"Curse me for a fool," Isildur muttered, beating his head against the tree he sat against. Dishonour was his, while he had left half his housecarls and a hundred others buried by nothing save the open sky.
We swore oaths. That I would not leave a battlefield before them, nor they before me. They remain there, and I am here Isildur thought, with the deepest shame.
Above the sounds of the camp, a horrible laugh boomed. The Troll That Walked In the Sun seldom laughed, yet when some cruel thing had been done that Ser Gregor found amusing, his mirth thundered as a crashing waterfall.
Clegane Isildur gritted his teeth. Would that I were free of these bonds and had Narsil in hand.
For a moment, Isildur strained and struggled and sought by strength alone to break the bonds that keep him there. They creaked and stretched, but did not snap. The son of Elendil drew in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. His father's voice seemed to echo in Isildur's ears.
"We are only men, of short life and little strength in the circles of the world. Do not trouble your mind on things beyond you, but shepherd your strength for when it is needed," Elendil had said once. That had been a long time ago, when the skies of Numenor were first tainted by the black smoke of the Temple.
Isildur breathed in deeply again. No matter what, no matter what calamity or disaster faced them, Elendil had never quailed or despaired. Even when Numenor had been swallowed by churning waves, his father's face had been still and clear, and the inner fire set within him by the All-Father shone there as if there were no tempest at all. Isildur wished he had even a hint of that virtue today, one not near so dark and with greater hopes.
Wrath will do you no good now he reminded himself. Rest and watch and wait. Some chance may yet present itself.
Behind him, there was a crunching of twigs and brush underfoot. The heavy footsteps of a man deep in his drink. Isildur pushed himself up against the tree and sat straight, looking ahead with steady grey eyes.
"Ah, now if it ain't Lord Isildur hisself, son of Elendil Kingmaker," said a cold, slurred voice. A lean, lanky man in a brown aketon and leggings swaggered in front of Isildur's tree. Wine sloshed in a skin he held in loose fingers. A dagger was thrust through his belt. His face was round, his nose a knob from many breakings, and long curling sideburns growing down his cheeks. Isildur recognized this one: His name was Ulrich. Clegane's men called him Ulrich the Gentle, jesting about his supposed gentleness with young women, and some young men.
Ulrich leaned down upon one knee and stared at Isildur. His eyes were a watery blue.
"These accommodations to your liking, milordship?" Ulrich said, chuckling at himself. "Though p'haps you'd prefer to be sleeping with your boys back in Wendish Town?"
Isildur said nothing, he just looked into Ulrich with a gaze sharp-edged as a knife. For a moment, the drunk was struck wordless and his mouth worked in the air like it was trying to find his voice again. Finally Ulrich tore his gaze away, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head.
"Ah, Seven Hells burn ya," Ulrich swore, flailing with a hand blindly. The back side of his closed fist struck Isildur's face. His cheek and lip stung from the blow.
Opening his eyes again, Ulrich seemed to take confidence from the blow. "Heh, not so high and mighty now all tied up are ya? Just a man like the rest of us,"
He stood up and savagely drove the tip of his boot into Isildur's side with a hard kick. Elendil's son hissed through his teeth but did not cry out. Ulrich took a long swig from his wine skin.
"It's funny ya know, when you came charging in I thought we was dead for sure. You and all those Gondorish of yours, all yelling like the Warrior, cutting down our lads like they were children. Friends of mine, you know. I thought we was all dead for sure," Ulrich said darkly. He cranked back an arm and cracked Isildur a blow across the face. Still Isildur sat in silence, enduring the pain without a noise.
Ulrich smiled, a cold and cruel thing. "Oh yes, I had friends in that fight same as you. Owain, Fredar, Arnulf. Friends you killed,"
Suddenly Ulrich's forearm was under Isildur's throat, pushing his weight against him. The hard bark of the tree scraped against Isildur's back through his clothes. He struggled for breath, the air stinking of wine from the drunk's closeness.
"Gregor says we's supposed to return you to Lord Tywin, alive and unspoiled. Ain't suppose to be any fun with you," Ulrich said softly. Steel whispered against leather, and the tip of Ulrich's dagger was grazing along Isildur's nose.
Ulrich's voice was hissing in Isildur's ear now. "Ain't right, if you ask me. You and yours kill more than half of our men, a lot of good lads, a lot of my friends, and we're supposed to just carry you to Tywin fucking Lannister gentle as a nursemaid carrying a babe,"
"Is that justice!?" Ulrich backed away, voice louder now, arms spread wide with the dagger in one hand and his wineskin in the other. He took a long swig and then spat it out into Isildur's face.
"ULRICH!" came the booming voice of Ser Gregor Clegane, out of sight.
The drunk swore under his breath. The Troll lumbered into view, hand set upon the pommel of the huge sword slung at his side. Clegane's face was brutish, with a heavy sloping brow and a thick chin covered by a wiry black beard. Dark, dull brown eyes stared at Ulrich impassively.
"Milord," Ulrich said, touching his forehead with the knuckle of his finger.
"Get back to the others Ulrich," said Ser Gregor.
Ulrich the Gentle shot Isildur a dark, murderous look, and then bowed his head to his lord and staggered away. The Troll stood and watched him go, and then turned his gaze down to Isildur. The son of Elendil met it with his own defiant iron-grey eyes.
"When I deliver you up to my lord, I expect you shall express your gratitude to Lord Tywin," said Gregor Clegane, voice a deep rumble. The fabric of his gambeson was stretched tight over his enormous shoulders and limbs like the trunks of young trees.
"Gratitude will not be the first thing on my lips when I meet Lord Tywin," Isildur spat.
Clegane knelt down to look Isildur in the face. "If it were not for Lord Tywin's orders, mark my words you would not be traveling in such safety and comfort,"
Behind him, Isildur heard the men roaring with laughter raucously over something. The woman's moans had become screaming, though whether it was pleasure or fear was hard to tell.
Gregor Clegane smiled. "Do you hear that squealing? You must. There are those amongst my men who would treat you with the same tenderness they would give a fair lady. They have a whole list of things they would gladly visit upon you, Isildur, for what you did to us,"
"So be grateful, son of Elendil. Be grateful that Lord Tywin needs you alive and unspoiled, my friend" the Troll finished, standing up once more.
He made to walk away, but paused a second, just on the edge of Isildur's sight. Clegane's voice came again as a low growl, bear-like and moody.
"You cut down many of my best men. If Lord Tywin did not need you, I would crush your skull right here,"
When Ser Gregor's footsteps had faded away into the noise of the camp, Isildur rested his head back against the bark of the tree. He slowly released his fists, which he had clenched so tight his nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. He breathed out slowly, then began to recite names to himself:
"Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom, Gendry Robertion…"
The names of his housecarls were seared into his memory like the names of his own family. Cirion, Magor, Anborn, Beregond. They were men he had grown up with in the days of Numenor, men who had helped him build Minas Ithil, who had helped raise his own sons. They were more than guards, they were his own kin, of his own household. He could no more forget them than forget the faces of his sons.
The Westerosi were not his housecarls though. They were not sworn to him, they had volunteered to help him on his errand, volunteered to help see justice done. For that, Isildur had led them to death. He did not want to forget a single name or a single face. He would not let himself forget, not until he could see Gregor Clegane with an arrow in his throat.
Isildur's mind kept returning and returning again to Robert's son, Gendry. He had had every reason in the world to despise Isildur, every reason to refuse to help. Isildur had taken him from a good home and a good family, and thrust the poor boy into the battles and schemes of lords and noble houses. He wished he hadn't. Gendry had done nothing to deserve the hardships of a royal bastard, proof of a queen's infidelity. He did not deserve to need to carry such a burden.
Why didn't he run? I told him to run Isildur thought. Perhaps he was like his father, running was not in Gendry's blood. In his mind, he saw the short sword bursting from the man's chest again, and Gendry's burning blue eyes and thick black hair appearing amidst the storm of battle. The boy saved Isildur's life, and in return Isildur had led him into a massacre.
Robert had chosen Isildur to be Hand of the King, but Isildur felt he had proven an ill choice and an ill chooser himself. Yet perhaps not all would come to ruin. For as the night grew quiet and the soldiers fell to drunken slumber, Isildur was left awake, and as he saw there he found wrath and shame draining from him and he began to think clearly on his circumstances.
Gregor Clegane, Lord Tywin Lannister's own bannerman, had been caught marauding in the Riverlands, and had assaulted the Hand of the King and the King's own banner. He had done this at Lord Tywin's own command, so Isildur judged by the fact that he was being taken to Tywin as a captive.
So Tywin does mean to make war on the Crown… he pondered.
Isildur was still alive, and uninjured. His captors could not harm him because of his value, and they still had a journey of some days left before they reached the mountains of the Westerlands. He was alive and he was the Hand of the King. The King needed to be warned.
If I can get to Ned and Robert, this crime could not stand. They have assaulted the King's own Hand.
Robert may not have recovered from his injuries yet, but at his command Isildur and Ned could lead an army into the West to bring the Lannisters to heel. The King's Host could march, with the armies of Gondor and the Starks, Tullys and Baratheons at its side.
How I wish the people could be spared further bloodletting, but these Lannister plots cannot be borne.
He thought of the fires of armies consuming yet more towns, more villages, more farmer's fields. He thought of the death and the suffering that would march behind the soldiers' tramping feet and come thundering beneath the hooves of the men-at-arms. Isildur knew well the horrors to come, but Tywin Lannister had already drawn the sword of war. What could Isildur do except draw his own?
First I must be free of this captivity.
If it was within his power, he could not allow himself to be taken into Tywin Lannister's dungeons. He could not allow himself to become a mere bargaining chip for Lannister ambitions. He had to get free somehow.
Gregor Clegane may have been a brute and a murderer, but he was no fool. Isildur's hands were bound behind his back, his torso tied to a tree trunk, and ropes looped tightly around his ankles. He had struggled in vain against the rough, unyielding cords for some time, but they were knotted well and firmly. No matter how he twisted or turned his body, they would not loosen. At length, Isildur stopped and lay still, and then closed his eyes and rested while he could.
The Wave came to him again that night, but it was not a cold, dead Numenor he found himself in. The skies were blue above him, and full of the songs of birds he had not heard in many a long year. The air was warm, not chill as Gondor's was but warm as the sun and the sea and the sands of the beaches. An ocean-scent of salt drifted about him, and he heard the music of the waves. The hills were green, and covered in trees. Isildur looked behind him, and there stood holy Meneltarma, mantled in purple in the distance, rising as a pillar towards the heavens. He looked about him and found he was in the broad streets of Romenna, paved in white stone, and to all sides there were people. His people, the Numenoreans.
Their faces were serene, and their voices fair. Their towers were proud once more, and their houses filled with happiness. The streets rang with songs and the sound of laughing children. Here merchants hawked their wares, and there a baker set out steaming loaves, and a fishmonger strung up his catch. In the havens, Isildur saw the white sails of the greatest mariners of Middle-earth, and the ships' prows were in the manner of swans and seabirds. All the roofs seemed wrought of gold, and the doors gleamed silver. Trees bloomed along the avenues of Romenna, and flowers fell all about him. He looked this way and that, and there was no sign of the Temple of the Enemy. No black smoke fouled the skies over Numenor. Here was Westernesse in the days of its wisdom and its joy, restored as it was of old.
Then Isildur saw an old man walking down the street towards him, back straight with dignity despite the white of his beard and the black cane he leaned upon. He was cloaked in grey, and his tunic was black, and his shoulders seemed to carry the majesty of high office, a magnate of the realm. The old man looked to be a man of pride and rank, yet his grey eyes gleamed with mirth as children across the road before him, and no sword did he wear, no armed guard flanked him. Isildur recognized him: Amandil, his grandsire.
"Grandfather," he said, reaching out a hand. Suddenly Amandil seemed to see him, as if Isildur had sprung up from the ground before him. Fear stole across his face, and he recoiled and stepped back.
"Who art thou that goeth about this peaceful shore in such warlike fashion?" Amandil demanded, face pale. Isildur felt the iron weight of mail upon his shoulders. He looked at the hand he reached out. It was covered in dark blood.
Isildur said "I am Isildur son of Elendil, thy grandson,"
"Thou art comest before me, blood-drenched as a murderer and clad in garb of war and thou sayest you are my Isildur? My sweet grandson? Nay, he is a boy, you are a man and a slayer of men. Thou art not he,"
"No, no truly I am Isildur son of Elendil, born of Andunie!" said Isildur, in growing desperation. He looked down and saw he was all in dark, rusted mail, soaked with blood and mud and gore. His very presence in Romenna seemed a violation of the place.
"Liar, a man of Westernesse fears no foes and carries no arms! What evils hast thou done this day?" Amandil demanded, eyes smouldering dangerously. The sky was darkening above them, thunderheads growing and casting their shadows over Romenna.
"Grandfather, it is I, Isildur!" Isildur replied. He found he had a sword in his hand, the blade red and wet.
"I am the King's Counsellor, and not cowed by thy harness nor deceived by thy words! Begone! Or confess to thy crimes!" Amandil's voice grew loud, and deep, and terrible. Behind his shoulder, Isildur saw the seas begin to swell.
"No, grandfather!" Isildur pleaded, the sword clattering to the white stones and staining them with a streak of red.
"Killer! Slayer! Murderer!"
The wave came then, swift, cold and dark and overwhelming. In one moment, in a cry of helplessness, Isildur and Amandil and all Numenor were drowned beneath the wrathful waters.
The son of Elendil awoke with a boot suddenly digging into his side painfully. Even cruelly yanked from sleep with a kick, he would not cry out and only hissed through his teeth.
"Hiss all you like, one day before too long I'll have your scream, my lord," said the low, hateful voice of Ulrich the Gentle in his ear, and then there was the crunching sound of Ulrich trampling down the undergrowth back to the camp.
The world was damp and dim as the morning light gathered in the east before the dawn, the sky lightening to herald the sun. Dew glistened and silvered every leaf and blade of grass, and birds sang tentatively to each other. Isildur felt a shudder of cold run through his body. He breathed deeply of the fresh air. It was another day, perhaps a chance for escape would come.
The camp was rousing itself from sleep, slowly and with a great deal of its men still groggy and stinking of wine. After he had been fed, Isildur sat and waited. The sun crept higher in the sky, drying out the morning dew, and a fly insistently buzzed about Isildur's ear. Behind him he could hear conversations of men, laughter, the crackling of cooking fires, the nickering of horses, yet there was not the slightest sound of haste or hurry in any of it. The men seemed more preoccupied with their morning meals than with the errands of war they had been assembled for.
It was quite late in the morning when the warband was finally ready for its march. A strong guard of men-at-arms, clad in their gambesons and girt with swords and daggers, came over to Isildur's tree while another of the men untied his bounds. The armed men were to be his guard of honour. The son of Elendil smiled mirthlessly. Here was the famed chivalry of Westeros. These men would burn and rape and murder as they willed across the Riverlands, yet because Isildur was a lord and the son of a great lord he would be unbound and unharmed in their presence. He would be given a horse and would be 'free' within his captivity, although he was unarmed and so to flee would be death.
Isildur rubbed his wrists and worked his sore joints as he walked towards the waiting band of fighting men from the edge of the encampment. The horses were saddled and pawing the ground. Clegane's men stared at him with hard, discontent eyes. They fingered the pommels of daggers or the staves of pole-arms. He was flanked on either side by men-at-arms with hands on sword hilts. Before him, Ser Gregor Clegane stood next to his enormous black courser, clad in aketon and riding leggings.
"My lord Isildur," Ser Gregor greeted with a mocking bow "I pray you spent your night restfully,"
Isildur said nothing. His eyes gleamed, hard and dark, as he passed Ser Gregor by. Despite the lingering coolness of the morning air, a single bead of sweat rolled down Clegane's head at the passing of the Son of Elendil. The Troll clenched and unclenched his hands and then wiped his brow when Isildur turned his back to him.
Behind Clegane's horse, there was a brown rouncey, one of Ser Gregor's own horses, that was given to Isildur. It was saddled and bridled, with another armed man holding the reins. Setting his hands upon the saddle, he swung himself up smoothly. To left and right, his honour guard did the same. All around him, leather creaked and shifted and horses stepped and tossed their heads as the whole company mounted. At the head of the column, Ser Gregor shouted the command and swung his hand forward, and the hundreds of hooves rumbled and churned up the grass as they rode away.
Their course bore them north and west, yet there was little speed or urgency about it. The company rode through the border marches of the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Foothills marched away towards the gray and purple mountains which loomed closer and closer, and the music of small streams running over rocky beds was heard along the many valleys and ridges. Long ridges covered in trees and pastureland rose in gradual undulations like the slow swells of the sea. It was a fair hill country of beech and rowan, and here and there were villages or single farms. Villages which swore loyalty to the Riverlords still. Ser Gregor's men wore the smiles of wolves.
The village before them was a small, nameless place when they rode out of the trees and looked down into the valley. A handful modest houses crowded around a crude sept. Sheep and goats bleated on the side of the hill, and Isildur saw the distant, tiny figures of people moving to and fro in the village. There was cruel laughter amongst the raiders behind him, and he heard the sliding whisper of steel on leather, the rattle of men pulling on mail shirts, the creak of harness as others tightened straps on armour or helmets.
"What a little shithole," Isildur heard one of the raiders say.
"Aye, but I bet you the septon of a little shithole like this has some stash buried in his yard. They all do," another answered.
"Keep your gold, I mean to find meself a girl today. 'Aven't 'ad one since Wendish Town," said a third.
"Ain't no whores in a town like this Philip,"
"Nah, 'ust girls who don't know they be whores yet," Philip replied, and his companions laughed.
Isildur's grip on his reins tightened. He glanced to either side. He was escorted by Ser Gregor's own men-at-arms, and a dozen sets of eyes were upon him, and a dozen swords surrounded him. He was unarmed and could make no move. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
Sword edges gleamed, lance points caught the sun and twinkled, the horses snorted and their hooves pawed the ground. Ser Gregor Clegane watched his men with a bored, bemused smile. He had ridden next to Isildur all day, towering above all and speaking nary a word to anyone.
"Men!" he said in a loud voice. "This village swears loyalty to the Riverlords. Burn it and take all you can find!"
Suddenly there was a cacophony of hoots and howls, and neighing horses, and the thundering of hooves. As the pack of wolves descends suddenly from snowy hills in the depths of winter to sow death amongst the herds and flocks of men, so did Ser Gregor's raiders spring out of the forest and pour down the hillside.
Soon the valley was filled with screams and fire.
Orc-men, in their orc-play Isildur thought bitterly, and said nothing.
By the time Ser Gregor was able to regain control of his men, the village was naught but a burnt-out husk, filled with death. Much of the day had been wasted in looting and wanton acts of depravity. The septon hung from the steeple of his sept. Here and there lay the bloodied bodies of men and children, hewn apart. The raiders were burdened down with what rude wealth they could extract from this village: Pigs, goats, a few modest sacks of coin, bags of grain, even the clothes and boots of the villagers. The jeweled and gold-inlaid leather cover torn off the sept's worship-book made a particular prize.
A cool, pale evening was closing in now, and dark clouds from the south foretold a moonless night to come. A biting wind pawed and grabbed at Isildur's cloak, and fanned the burning thatch of rooves till they blazed like a forge fire. The screams were gone now, now the village was silent as a crypt. Only the crackling of the flames was heard.
"Well done my brave boys, well done. Went through the bastards like an arrow through a goose," Ser Gregor said as his men filed past him back to their horses. He sat upon his huge black stallion, hunkered over the saddle horn. The men returned his praise with laughter and smiles, clapping each other on the back.
The dark of night lay heavily upon the hills, and the moon and stars above were shrouded by veils of thick cloud, when the company finally halted for the night. Clegane ordered the halt in a clearing atop a hill, a meadow of grasses and low shrubs and bushes perhaps once used for pastureland. The men spread out across the field, each seeking a comfortable spot to unroll their bedding for the night, while some quickly kindled a blazing fire, and others set to slaughtering some of the animals they took in their raid for an evening meal. Soon wine skins were being passed from hand to hand, and coarse voices were raised in slurred song.
Isildur found himself tied to another tree for the evening, a gnarled old elm.
The son of Elendil rested his head against the tree's rough bark. The Star of Earendil was nowhere to be seen this night. The ground was cold, but dry. His seat was at the edge of the clearing, right where the hill began to slope down, and in the distance his Numenorean eyes could pick out the shapes of other hills and valleys rolling away into the distance, indistinct in the dark gloom. A cold wind was rustling in the boughs of the trees, with a sound like the forest was whispering to him. Far off, he could see the dull red glow of the burning village they had left behind, like a baleful eye staring at him out of the night.
Is that what these fools think war is? He thought. They put unarmed old men and screaming babes to the sword and think themselves great warriors.
The leaves of nearby trees were edged with a faint red light from the distant flames. The same light caught and reflected in Isildur's grey eyes, till it seemed like his eyes themselves had a fire deep within them.
They will learn what war truly is, they shall see its true face, and the lesson shall be hard.
Isildur thought of the people of Sherrer, begging him for justice. He thought of Ban and Tasie and Cailan, fleeing the ruin of their homes. He thought of Beric Dondarrion, and Thoros of Myr, and Little Thom, and Gendry, following him on his errand and dying for it. He thought of his housecarls, his own kinsmen, bleeding in the streets of Wendish Town. He thought of the Lannisters, of all their wealth, and all their power, and the vastness of their hosts, and all the blood that stained the hands of Tywin Lannister.
In Numenor ere its fall, princes and magnates from the colonies would visit to pay homage to the King of Numenor. They were tall and hard, skin burnt deep by sun and wind, swaggering about the court in crude finery. At the banquet-table, they would boast of their victories over the wild-men of the hills of Middle-earth, and they would tell tales of how many villages they had put to the sword, how many lands they had subjugated to the glory of Numenor. They thought themselves great and puissant captains and lords of men, and Ar-Pharazon had smiled upon them as he had once been amongst them.
It went ill for them in the end. Isildur remembered, with a grim smile.
With the sound of drunken revelry and song at his back, and the sight of burning homes before him, Isildur sat and brooded upon war. In his mind, he conjured up great visions of armies and fleets, of armaments and campaigns. He envisioned the White Fleet sailing down the coastlines of Westeros, and the wasting of the Westerlands, and the fall of Lannisport and Casterly Rock. He saw the Westerland armies trapped between the King's Host before them and the hosts of Gondor behind. He saw the Lannisters in chains, and Robert sitting in judgment before them. The war would be swift and terrible, death flowing freely amongst the falling leaves of a bitter autumn.
The All-Father may not cast them down, but the hand of Gondor shall suffice. My hand!
Then a shiver ran through Isildur as the cold wind stole down his neck and back, and the shadow passed from his thought. The vision retreated from his sight, and he was Isildur once more, just a mortal man, small and alone in the wilds of Westeros.
The night wore on, and the sounds of the company grew quiet till there was only the noises of sleeping men, and the whickering of horses. Isildur's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the cold and the discomfort he almost felt sleep coming for him. That was when he was jolted into wakefulness by the clear, loud crack of a twig snapping under a heavy tread behind him.
"Milord Isildur," hissed the low voice of Ulrich the Gentle in Isildur's right ear. "Our talk was left unfinished last night,"
Isildur's eyes were accustomed to the darkness by now, and he could see the hunched outline of Ulrich stepping around the tree and into his sight, kneeling before him.
"I thought I'd wait till the others slept, so we could talk more freely, you and I," said Ulrich.
"I have naught to say to the likes of you," replied Isildur. "Men do not speak to orcs,"
There was the slither of steel against leather, and Isildur knew that Ulrich had drawn his dagger. He felt the cold graze of the dagger's edge against his cheek.
"If my fathers were a little higher, or yours a little lower, you wouldn't dare talk down to me. Not when yer the prisoner and I have the dagger," said Ulrich. His voice was not slurred by wine this night, but was low, cold and hateful.
"Ser Gregor says we ain't to spoil you before handing ye over to Lord Tywin, but I know ways to have my fun with you that they'll never know about," Ulrich went on. The tip of his dagger scraped slowly over Isildur's chin, down his throat.
In that moment, the clouds broke and a shaft of bright moonlight fell upon them. The iron blade of the dagger gleamed dully. The trees became clear, jagged silhouettes around them. Ulrich smiled coldly.
There was a hiss in the air, and a wet thud, and Ulrich gasped suddenly. A dark, wet arrowhead projected from his throat. His hand grasped at his throat, his eyes went wide and wild, disbelieving, and then with a strangled cry he fell.
"Fucking Hells!" came a hoarse whisper from the trees.
"Damn you Anguy, you nearly hit him!"
"Bastard had a dagger!"
Out of the brush came the shapes of men, hooded and cloaked, crouched low and moving as silently as haste would allow. In the moonlight, they looked like dark, shapeless shadows quickly stealing through the swaying grasses.
"Just our luck, that bastard's croak will have woken the whole lot of them," said one of the voices, drawing closer. It sounded familiar.
"Nay, they drunk themselves stupid, just like I said they would," replied another, sounding more familiar yet.
"Who goes there?" Isildur said, loudly as he could without raising the alarm.
"Friends, my lord," said a voice with the sound of Gondor in it. Isildur's heart leapt in his chest at the familiar noise.
The cloaked men stole in close to Isildur. He heard a blade drawing and the sound of sawing at his bounds. The closest of them pulled back his cloak, and the moonlight fell on a face Isildur knew.
"Beregond!" Isildur said.
"My lord," replied the housecarl, bowing his head. "Forgive my absence, we came as swiftly as we could,"
"There is nothing to forgive, good Beregond!" Isildur replied, feeling the ropes slacken as they were cut.
"Are you hurt, my lord?" asked the housecarl.
"Only my pride. Oh, loyal Beregond, it is good to see you! How many of the others have come?"
Beregond did not answer, and the silence told Isildur what he already knew. The pain in his heart that had dulled away to a faint throb stabbed fresh again. Isildur steeled himself. There would be time for mourning to come. Now they had work to do.
"We shall talk later," Isildur said, grasping his housecarl by the shoulder. "How many men did you bring?"
The last of the ropes were cut and Isildur sprang to his feet. He was sore, and hungry, but blood was pounding in his veins and he was free again.
"We are seven, my lord, but we have a plan,"
Isildur turned and looked at the clearing behind him. Clegane's camp stretched across the meadow. In the moonlight, they saw two hundred men sleeping amongst weapons and saddle bags, and scattered wine skins. The faint reddish embers of their cooking-fires still glowed. Here and there there were the looming shapes of tents and pavilions. They heard the sounds of steady snoring.
"Drunk themselves stupid, true to fashion," said one of Beregond's men, crouching by Isildur's shoulder. "It's good to see you well Lord Isildur,"
He glanced down and beneath the hood spotted the bearded, smiling face of Thoros of Myr.
"Lord Beric is up that ways, preparing my little surprise for our friends. I am quite proud of it, I must say. Some of my best work, given the circumstances" Thoros pointed off to the eastern edge of the clearing, on their right. The pasture was just beneath the crest of a hill, and sloped gently upwards from south to north, surrounded by trees and brush.
"Of course it's easy to make such things work when the grass is as dry as this," Thoros commented.
"Anguy, give the signal," whispered Beregond.
The young archer set his longbow against the tree, and then put both hands to his mouth and made three owl-hoots. Three came in answer from the eastern side. The archer seized the bow again and nocked an arrow. Another of them produced a crossbow from within his cloak and set a bolt on it. They both aimed into the camp.
"When we charge, remember to yell 'Riverrun'" said Beregond, slowly and quietly drawing his sword. The cold steel gleamed in the moonlight. Then a veil of dark clouds fell over the face of the moon again and put them into utter blackness.
"Five shots each, just like we said," Anguy murmured to the crossbowman.
Out of the darkness, they saw three lights spring up on the east, small but fierce. The lights moved into the pasture quickly, and Isildur perceived that they were torches in the hands of cloaked men. The three of them thrust their burning brands into the dry grass at their feet, and began to drag them along in a line. Suddenly the grass was burning, starting slowly, but getting quicker and fiercer and brighter with each moment. At first there were three small fires, growing as they consumed grass and deadfall around them, but soon they became one fire, sweeping as fast as a running man towards the camp, sending up thick, acrid smoke, and the sound of roaring and crackling. Soon the whole clearing was filled with the flickering orange and red light of a wild grassfire.
"ALARUM! ALARUM! ALARUM!" yelled one of the cloaked men with the torches, voice echoing across the hillside.
Still besotted with drink, Clegane's raiders awoke to the grassfire's heat on their faces.
"Fire! Fire!" came wild shouts from the awakening soldiers.
"Now!" roared Beregond.
With deft hand and sharp eye, Anguy began loosing arrows into the confused mass of foes, as they struggled out of their bedrolls. The crossbow rattled as its bolt ripped through the air. The distance was short, and the missiles flew flat and true and unerring. Screams of pain and fear rent the night air. From the east, another crossbow rattled and more missiles poured into the camp. There were shouts of confusion. Drunk men-at-arms were tripping over each other as they groped for weapons to meet the sudden attack. A few of Clegane's men were futilely slapping at the grassfire with their cloaks.
"CHARGE!" bellowed the powerful voice of Beric Dondarrion. "FOR RIVERRUN!"
Through the flames leapt the Lord of Blackhaven, bare sword turning in the air above his head, and he shouted again.
"COME ON LADS, WE HAVE 'EM SLEEPING!"
Immediately there was a great sound of crashing and stamping in the underwood, as if of many men charging, and there were raised voices.
"RIVERRUN!"
"REMEMBER SHERRER!"
Then Isildur saw the trick, and smiled and laughed, and stood and cried out as if to a strong company at his back.
"HA! HERE WE FIND THEM! UP NOW AND SLAY ALL!"
Arrows and bolts were tearing through the air, Gregor's men were shouting, the fire was roaring, and into the confusion and the chaos charged Isildur, Beregond, Beric Dondarrion and all the others. Bare swords flashed in the firelight. They roared and bellowed as they came on, from south and east, shouting the name of Riverrun. Clegane's warband stood stricken, addled by wine, confusion reigning, their comrades crying out in pain as missiles buried themselves in bare flesh, their horses screaming, the heat of the flames on their faces, and now suddenly they were assailed by fighting men with steel in hand, shouting the war-cries of the Riverlords. A chorus of fearful voices rose above the clamour.
"The rivermen! The rivermen are upon us!"
"Flee for your lives lads!"
"Run! Run!"
Beric and Beregond and Thoros and their companions only cut down two or three, yet soon the whole band of Gregor Clegane's raiders was fleeing before their faces, as if charged by a whole army. Order disappeared. Fear took the once brave Clegane men-at-arms, and they turned and fled, abandoning their camp and their companions both. They scattered in all directions into the hills and forests, howling fearfully as they went.
"Alain, Hugh, get the horses! Quickly!" Beric Dondarrion commanded, then he brandished his sword and ran roaring towards the ragged line of fleeing Clegane troops.
Two of the hooded men quickly ran off towards the picket line where the horses of the warband had been tied for the evening. The horses were panicked, some were neighing, others screaming.
Isildur's eyes were on the ground, scanning amongst the baggage and detritus of the camp for something he could not leave behind.
"I must find Narsil," he said to Beregond. The housecarl nodded his understanding.
"Milord," said the crossbowman "Is this your blade?"
Isildur turned and behind him the young crossbowman stood holding a sheathed sword, hilt first towards him. By the steel crossbar and the engraved pommel, Isildur knew it to be Narsil. It must have been plucked from amongst the loot and piled weapons of the encampment.
"You have my thanks, friend" Isildur said, taking the blade. The light of the fire flashed into the shadows of the hood, and for a moment Isildur had a glimpse of a familiar face and dark blue eyes.
"…Gendry?" he said, but the young man was interrupted even as he opened his mouth to respond.
"ISILDUR!"
Ser Gregor Clegane was not as easily taken by shock and surprise as his men were. His wits were not dulled by drink or sleep. Even if the whole hosts of the Tullys had fallen upon his company then and there, he was not one to flee. He stood with his back to the spreading fires, clad only in gambeson, longsword in hand. His form was an immense, dark silhouette against the raging flames. He saw through the ruse, he saw the fewness of their attackers' true numbers, and he saw his prisoner escaping, slipping through Tywin Lannister's claws even as the Lion reached out to grasp him.
Nor was he alone. A few of the boldest and the most cunning of his own men-at-arms had stood by their lord, and now they took their stand to either side of the Troll. One bore a pole-ax, another a mace, and a third readied a sword and buckler.
Anguy's bow creaked as he drew back an arrow and trained it on Ser Gregor. Clegane was unarmoured, not even clad in his gambeson, and Anguy's aim was sure. Gendry whirled on him and quickly spanned and loaded his crossbow.
"I shall deal with Clegane," said Isildur in a hard voice. In one smooth motion he drew forth Narsil. A pale white light shone from its edges. Though he was weary and hunger gnawed at his stomach, the feeling of Narsil's hilt in his hand gave Isildur fresh strength. He stepped forward boldly.
Anguy's bowstring sung, and the pole-ax clattered to the ground, its wielder grasping at the dart in his eye. Gendry's crossbow rattled, but the bolt went wide above the heads of the foes. Then with wordless shouts of hate and fury, the foemen came rushing on, and Gregor Clegane foremost amongst them.
Beregond and Thoros met the Clegane men-at-arms with bared blades in hand, and soon the camp was filled with the clang of steel on steel. Isildur paid no heed. He met the Troll alone.
From the ground, Gregor seized a burning spear and cast it at Isildur, who swiftly stepped to the side as the missile passed him. Then the Troll was upon him, swinging a savage cut for his head. Up came Narsil, parrying the blow, and Isildur met Gregor strength for strength. The son of Elendil bore into Clegane with his shoulder and beat him bodily back with a kick. Razor-edges whirled and turned in the air, clashing in binds which lasted mere moments. Both were unarmoured. Death swung in every stroke. Cuts became thrusts became cuts again as they strove and fought against each other back and forth.
A tent blazed suddenly as the tongues of flame licked and consumed it, and collapsing it forced Isildur and Clegane apart. They circled each other, glaring past their sword blades and the fiery conflagration. The heat struck their faces like a dragon's breath. They stepped to the side into open ground, yet unburning, and then rushed together once more. The clash of their blades rang above the crackling of the fires.
Gritting his teeth, Isildur cut and slashed and struck again and again and again. Narsil whirled and turned above his head, and beside his body, and beneath his arms, striking for Clegane first from this angle, then that, then a third. Back, back, back was driven Ser Gregor Clegane, step by step, parrying in every direction.
Suddenly then Isildur brought his sword low. He saw his chance. His ancient blade swept up as Gregor brought his arms up for the stroke.
Narsil's edge bit deep, drinking blood, cleaving flesh and sinew and muscle.
Ser Gregor Clegane howled in pain, his right arm spurting dark blood beneath the elbow. His sword-hand lay upon the ground, cloven from his body by Narsil's cut. With a final snarl, Clegane tried to finish his blow one-handed, swinging for Isildur's head with all his rage behind his longsword.
Narsil was faster, and swiftly it whirled around and its razor-edge bit and sunk deep a second time.
Clegane's head rolled from his shoulders, and his body slumped to the cold ground. The Troll was dead.
For Cirion Isildur thought. There had been no trial, no sentence, but justice had been done, and Gregor Clegane had perished for his crimes at last.
Beregond ran up to Isildur, breathing hard, face grim. His blade was red with blood.
"My lord, we have to go now!" the housecarl said frantically. "Alain and Hugh have the horses ready, but Clegane's warband is regaining their wits,"
In the distance, they heard shouts and the rattle of arms and the tramping of many feet through the brush.
"Aye, lead on Beregond," replied Isildur.
Eight of the company's strongest horses awaited them by the picket-line, saddled already. The others were already mounted, reins in hand, waiting. They heard the calls of many men. Arrows and stones whistled through the night. They heard captains shouting commands, Clegane's lieutenants barking for order. In the brush there was a great crashing and clamour as men of company returned to their camp, weapons in hand, wild-eyed and looking for blood.
Isildur swung up into the saddle of the largest steed. He set his heels into the horse's flanks and it sprang away down the hillside. Beregond and the others followed. The cold night air stung their eyes, and the ground soared away beneath them, and they disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
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yingyang590
East of eerie, North of normal, West of weird
As well written as always, are you still updating the SB thread?
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
I started a new one in fact.
- Location
- Wherever the Beautiful Game takes me
Hallelujah! It lives again! And The Troll that walks in Daylight is vanquished! Hurrah! @EricD good to see it continuing, was it difficult to write this latest chapter? It took a long time, or had you planned it out beforehand? Also, threadmarking would be a better way of allowing people to read the book/series.
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
No more difficult than is usual. Most of my chapters are somewhat challenging for me to write, and this was no exception. The length since the last chapter can be attributed to real life taking up one's time, as it does.
- Location
- Wherever the Beautiful Game takes me
Understandable. Also, a long time ago you gave a green light to an idea/rip off I had from your own fanfic... I'm wondering if that's still okayed? The idea was Numenoreans again, but in the South about Starfall and Oldtown.
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
As I've said before, I can hardly forbid others from using my concepts when I am myself writing a fanfiction. An acknowledgement is all I ask for.
- Location
- Wherever the Beautiful Game takes me
That's mighty kind of you
And don't worry about the acknowledgement... I'm very aware that the idea only came into being because of this fic.
23
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XXI
Minas Anor
Light streamed through the windows of Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. From the airs outside was borne the sound of the sea crashing on stone. The Tower of Anarion stood high over a rocky bay, where ever was heard the music of the waves. High and fair that stronghold was, and it could be seen by all who lived round it for many miles, for it was shaped and formed of gleaming white stone that caught the sun. Black were the banners that flapped above it, bearing the white tree and the silver stars, and above them the golden sun of the House of Anarion.
Far beneath the Tower was the sound of great working, and the chopping of many axes, and the sawing of wood. Ships were being built there, many ships. Their keels lined the stony beaches, and with their ribs and skeletons laid bare they looked like the bones of great whales. Amongst the clamour came the sounds of singing, for the Dunedain took a joy in shipbuilding, and it was merry work for them. Yet amongst their voices was the sounds of Northmen's voices and Northern songs, as the Westerosi laboured alongside the Numenoreans who were at once their tutors and their friends.
In the courtyards and squares of Minas Anor, there was a ringing of metal hammered, metal worked, and metal clashing on metal. Forge-fires roared as the bellows worked. New sword-blades glowed red and orange. Men drilled and sparred with spear and shield, in pairs or companies, and some strove with each other in the wrestling-ring. Yet also there was the sound of laughter, and the speech of merry voices, rising from the archery-range that lay just outside the outer walls. There the Dunedain gathered at their leisure, and their bow-strings sang and the air whistled with the sound of black arrows. Now and again there was added to the chorus the roll of horse hooves, as a Numenorean would gallop down the range, shooting his bow as he went.
Across the bay, high upon a stony hill, where the sea-winds grabbed and pulled at clothes and cloaks, and the sea-birds cried their endless songs, looking out over the gleaming citadel and the grey beaches, stood Anarion son of Elendil. His fair face was drawn, as if he carried a heavy burden.
"What tidings do you bring me, Master Tolomei?" he asked to his companion, for he was not alone.
Two horses grazed not far off. Had any wished to eavesdrop upon Anarion, they would have found it hard above the howling winds and the sounds of the gulls.
The Lord of Minas Anor's guest was a Braavosi. His skin was olive and his black hair was a mess of curls. He was not fat, but his hands were small and soft, with the rounded shoulders of a scribe. Rings adored each finger, and he nervously turned them as he spoke. His name was Tolomei Meichios, keyholder of the Iron Bank.
"So little is spoken now in Braavos. Once we were the crossroads of the world, yet little news reaches us now, save from Westeros and the other Free Cities, and that you know already," said Master Tolomei. His face was pale, as if fearful of his own words.
"The squabbling of rats over an iron trinket is no news to me," said Anarion. He set a hand upon the hilt of his sword and looked out to the sea, and to the building of the ships below. The waves were hissing against the sheer rocky cliffs that lined the bay. Winds wrapped his grey cloak tight against him.
"Ah, but at least you know there are rats, my lord. We in Braavos, we do not know what lurks in the shadows. Even the Iron Bank is not all-knowing," replied Tolomei, wringing his hands.
Anarion asked "Surely there are rumours?"
"Rumours, oh yes, oh there are the rumours. Black sails and red eyes. Sailor's stories,"
"I would trust a mariner over a merchant, in matters of the seas,"
"The mariners know no more than the merchants in Braavos these days," Tolomei rubbed his brow. "Foreign ships come less and less to our harbours,"
"Many are the ill chances upon the seas. Pirates, storms," said Anarion, though his voice betrayed that he doubted such things were the explanation.
"But such a long string of ill luck? That is uncanny, unheard of in my time," replied Tolomei.
Anarion said "Has the Iron Bank sought any news? Your arm is long and your eyes are not blind,"
"We may as well be blindfolded," said Tolomei. Both were quiet for a long moment, the Braavosi huddling within his finery against the chill wind, the Dunadan unmoved and staring at him with keen grey eyes.
Tolomei spoke at last, in a slow voice. "We haven't heard from Qarth in months… We have not seen a ship from the Jade Sea in a year. Our sailors fear the southern seas and the southern shores. No word has returned from Ghis… It is as if the lights are going out all over the east,"
"A shadow falling," said Anarion. "My sight too has been shrouded as of late, I cannot see as far as I once did. It is as if I am wrestling some creature of smoke and mist, and I cannot grasp it, however hard I try. Something is stirring though, I feel the warning in my heart,"
They rode back to Minas Anor around the bay, and above the rocky cliffs and beaches the rolling green lands of Anorien stretched away into the moorlands. Here and there, stout stone homesteads and farmhouses dotted the lands all around the Citadel. There were fields of swaying wheat and barley, turnips, legumes and potatoes. Cattle grazed upon clover, which the Numenoreans sowed for pasturelands. Herdsmen napped beneath rowan trees. As they drew closer to the immense, jet-black outer walls of the Tower, they heard excited shouts and laughter. A band of young Dunedain on horseback were riding hard, jumping farmer's fences as they went, whooping with joy.
"Seldom have I seen a people in these western lands with a greater love for their horses," said Tolomei.
"A man of Numenor knows three great joys, Master Tolomei. A good horse beneath him, a good shot with his bow, and the feeling of a ship's till in his hands when the wind is in his sails," replied Anarion.
The huge steel gates of the Tower were opened before them, and they rode at a swift trot down the cobbled main road which bent and turned and wound its way up the hill. Minas Anor was not a great city like Annuminas or Osgiliath, but the narrow alleys between its many houses of stone thronged with the busy folk of Anarion.
The Citadel rose atop the summit of the hill, gleaming in the sun like silver and pearl. The banners of the House of Anarion floated in the breeze, five hundred feet above the fields below. A watchman atop that lofty tower could see for miles over the moors, stretching away into the faint blue horizon till they were lost in sight behind grey northern mists, or turn his gaze to the sea and observe far off distant white sails of passing ships flying across the dark waters.
At the gates they dismounted, and their horses were led away. In black livery and mail, Anarion's guards saluted as they passed.
"I have read the letter from your Sealord. When you depart once more, will you carry my reply to him?" asked Anarion, while they passed beneath the gate.
"Of course my lord, it would be my honour," replied Tolomei.
The courtyard was paved of stone, but swards of green grass surrounded it, and a fountain of clear water burbled in its center.
Anarion said "Where shall you be traveling when you leave us?"
"To Oldtown I expect, and then to King's Landing. The Bank has business in the south before I may return to Braavos," said Tolomei. He smiled helplessly. "The Iron Bank must have its due,"
"Do not hurry yourself, good master Tolomei. Stay here a few days with us, rest and refresh yourself, it would honour us," replied Anarion, smiling and setting a large hand on the Braavosi's narrow shoulder.
"I have heard it said that the Dunedain are fair spoken and courteous to travelers and to strangers, and I see now truly that it is not said in vain," Tolomei said, bowing his head.
Standing before the entrance to the great hall was a tall Dunadan, broad of shoulder and long-limbed, mailed in black and cloaked in grey, with a long sword sheathed at his side and a long spear in his hand. Keen blue eyes regarded them from within a lofty helm, adorned with seabird wings. He was Halbarad son of Inglor, door-warden of Minas Anor and captain of the housecarls of Anarion.
"Hail my lord," Halbarad greeted, raising a hand. He smiled through a short, well-trimmed beard. Behind him was the door, two huge pieces of oak, banded by iron, richly carved in likenesses of forests and leaves and running beasts.
"Hail to you Halbarad," Anarion said, and he began to undo his belt "Master Tolomei shall bless us with his company for a few days yet,"
The Lord of Minas Anor took his sheathed sword and handed it to the door-warden. Tolomei immediately handed over a long dagger he wore thrust through his belt. Carefully, Halbarad placed both in a niche next to the door.
"Guests are always welcome amongst us, Master Tolomei," said Halbarad with a nod, leaning against his spear-shaft.
Anarion ordered a room prepared for his guest, and commanded that there be wine and music and song in the great hall that night to honour the good Braavosi. He left Tolomei in the care of his Steward, Amlaith son of Belemir, an old Numenorean of silver hair but still straight-backed despite his age. With promises to see him and speak further at the hall that evening, Anarion left Tolomei and disappeared down the corridors of the citadel.
Near the centre of the Tower, hidden from view by walls and bastions, there was a garden, a cloister filled the scent of flowers and grass and the soft sounds of water. There grew a weirwood tree. It was surrounded by trim grass and well-tended gardens, yet it remained gnarled and wizened and aged as the hills themselves. Upon the green grass it dropped its blood-red leaves, and the red eyes of the carven face upon its trunk stared knowingly at all who passed it. Anarion had found that weirwood growing alone at the summit of the hill where he had chosen to raise his tower, many years ago, and it had seemed a part of the land, rooted in its very bones. He would not cut it down, though the citadel grew and flourished and spread out all around it. It was unlike the White Tree which came out of Numenor, for its power was wilder, more fell somehow, but Anarion would suffer no harm to come of it, and it was watered and tended by his folk with a wary respect.
Sitting in the cloister, not far off from the weirwood, Anarion found his son Meneldil. He was sitting on a stool, with a table before him, sketching on a piece of parchment. He approached silently behind, and observed Meneldil tracing with a sure hand a design for a soaring tower of great height. Meneldil had the eye and hand of a draughtsman who knew well his trade.
"A new tower, my son?" Anarion asked.
"For the havens at Annuminas," Meneldil replied "Ecthelion requested it of me. It needs to have great height, and a belfry at the top, for they shall mount mighty bells there to warn mariners of the approaching shore in the fog or the mists,"
Anarion said "And perhaps warn our folk of the coming of foes,"
Meneldil put down his quill and turned to look at his father. "You spoke to the usurer?"
"Master Tolomei's words have not eased my fears," Anarion replied.
"He is a moneylender, Father. I would not put much trust in their words," said Meneldil
The Lord of Minas Anor grimaced. "They have their uses, distasteful though they may be. They are canny past what you might guess. Greed and fear and cunning keeps their eyes open and their ears to the ground,"
Meneldil rose from his seat, and together father and son slowly walked round the gardens, speaking softly to one another, and they headed to the covered walkway that surrounded the cloister.
"For all that they are short-sighted if they have nothing to tell us," said Meneldil.
"The lack of tidings is news itself. Already the Shadow seems to have fallen upon Qarth, Ghis, perhaps as far as the Jade Sea," responded Anarion.
"To cut off dealings between Braavos and the far east, that would take the work of a mighty fleet labouring endlessly. They would have to scour the seas far and wide. There would be blood," mused Meneldil.
Anarion's voice was dark and troubled. "Oceans of blood,"
"If Qarth has indeed fallen under this Shadow, then we must consider the Jade Sea fallen as well… And Ghis?" Meneldil paused a while in thought. "That is a line along the southern shores of Essos, but is it a line that is marching east or west?"
"West," said Anarion. "I cannot explain it, nor reason why, but I know this Shadow is coming west,"
"How could it be the King's Men? They fell, you told me. They were cast down by His wrath. The waters consumed them,"
"I do not know, my son. The red eye was always the sigil of the Enemy and his cult. The King's ships always had black sails in those days, blackened by soot at first, but later black by the King's command"
"It could not be Ar-Pharazon, he set foot on the Uttermost West, nor could it be the Enemy. They both perished with Numenor itself,"
They both heard the sound of a light step upon the stone stairs that wound down to the cloister from its north end. Looking up, they saw a tall woman gracefully descend to the covered walkway. Even centuries since he met her, the sight of Morwen still brought a thrill to Anarion's heart.
Her eyes a sharp green-gray and they seemed to glimmer with an elf-light in them, her hair was a long mass of thick black, and her face round and beautiful. To look upon her, she seemed gentle as a mother, lively as a maiden and proud as a queen.
At the sight of her husband and her son, the Lady of Minas Anor's eyes lit up in a smile.
"Ah, now what are you two debating this time? Is it the wandering of the stars or the curious customs of the wildmen? Is it a Monday or a Tuesday?" Morwen teased lightly.
The sound of her voice, light and fair as music, seemed to lift a heavy burden from Anarion's shoulders. All he could manage was a smile of his own.
"Now, well I know that look," said Morwen, brows furrowing. "You spoke with the moneylender, what he told you troubles you?"
"Much troubles me, my lady. Worry yourself not with my burdens," said Anarion. His wife frowned sternly.
"A household run thus is a shameful thing," she answered. "If they burden you, they burden us all,"
"The moneylender has brought no tidings to Father," Meneldil said. The heir of Anarion leaned against the stone banister, locking eyes with the weirwood tree. "He said that Braavos hears little from the far east, and that the sailors are frightened of the southern seas,"
Anarion's voice was grim: "Tolomei said that the lights are going out all over the east. I fear that our days shall grow dark soon,"
"Before the winter?" asked Morwen. Anarion shook his head.
The Lord of Minas Anor spoke; "After it, I deem. I do not know the hour when the storm shall break, but it shall be when we are weak,"
Morwen rested her head in a pale hand, eyes full of thought.
"Ill was the chance that led the southmen to strife," she said after a silent moment. "What word has there been from Isildur your brother? Will the House of Lannister make their war?"
"When last I turned my Stone to King's Landing and he was there to answer, he meant to ride into the Riverlands, seeking Gregor Clegane to deliver justice," said Anarion. "Tywin has set his liegemen loose upon the marches with fire and steel, and Isildur rides with the King's Banner. He will lay the choice before Tywin,"
"Bold is Isildur our kinsman, and true of heart, but unless his counsels are subtler than I guess, I fear this will fan war's flames, not extinguish them, worsen the wound rather than heal it," Meneldil tore his eyes from the cold red stare of the weirwood and turned to his mother and father with a pensive face.
Morwen spoke, and her voice was musical no more: "War. Brother felling brother, father against son, friend baring steel against friend, lord and servant torn asunder, and when a worse foe yet waits. Anarion, my lord, my love, this war would be a black evil if it comes to pass,"
The three were silent, and in the moment they almost seemed to hear far-off but clearly the blowing of horns, and the shouting of warriors, and the rumble of hooves. A vision swam up before their eyes of shadowy hosts with bright swords and spearpoints gleaming like the stars, and the cold leaves of autumn stained by the blood of men. Then it was gone, and they were in the gardens of Minas Anor once more, and the sun shone upon grass and flowers
"Your voice is soft and sad, my lady, yet wisdom dwells still in it," Anarion's voice broke the quiet. "I must think upon this. But come now, there is a guest, and we should put aside these troubles, lest we be ill hosts. The Braavosi expects food and good cheer while he is amongst us, and he shall have it!"
Food and good cheer there was. As the sun disappeared in a blaze of gold behind the western seas, the fires were kindled in the mead-hall of Minas Anor. The great hall was a place of courtly function, of judgement, counsel and law, and so when Anarion had built his Tower he had constructed, behind the great hall and on the upper western slopes of his hill, a mead-hall, a place of merriment and feasts. It was long and low, with a high peaked roof, and though built all of white stone it was wrought much in the fashion of the halls of the Edain of old. Inside there were long tables and benches, a floor of fresh rushes, walls that hung with tapestries and storied webs, and hearths that burned with crackling fires along either wall.
Servants laid out plates and vessels of silver and copper upon the tables, and then led the feasters in. Hither came the housecarls of Anarion, sixty strong, led by their Captain, Halbarad. All were Numenoreans, tall, broad-shouldered and keen-eyed, and many were the scars that they bore on faces and hands. No swords did they carry, for Anarion permitted none within his halls. Amongst them was Amlaith the Steward, and Angon the Keeper of the Horses, Borlas the Smith and Minastan the Scribe, and all their wives and children about them.
There was not Dunedain alone in Anarion's halls, for present was Maester Dunstan, a small Westerosi man of middle age, whose maester's chain swung low to his waist, and whose brown eyes were lively with laughter. There were Northmen too, the lords of the nearest holdfasts, and the reeves of the closer villages, and their wives and children too, and unlike the Numenoreans they wore their hair long and spoke the Common Tongue more than the Elven-tongue, but their songs were joyful, and they drank merrily together with the Dunedain.
At the high table at the end of the hall sat Anarion in a high-backed carven chair, and his wife Morwen sat at his right, her hand in his. To his left was Meneldil, laughing at some jest of his sister Miriel, who had her mother's hair and her father's eyes. Beyond them sat bluff, stocky Earendur, Miriel's husband, and his elder sons Earnur and Ostoher, the three mariners appearing as if they had been chipped out of the cliffs above the sea. The younger ones, Valacar and Vanimelde, were chasing each other about the pillars of the hall and through the legs of their elders. Anarion felt a tug at his tunic sleeve, and looking down he saw his youngest grandchild, little Yavien, a girl of only four years. She raised her arms to her grandfather. Smiling, he reached down and plucked her in his strong hands and placed her on his lap.
"Ah my sweet summer-child," Morwen said, ruffling the girl's hair. "How fair you are tonight, one might mistake you for an elf-maid!"
"Thank you Grandmother," Yavien said in a small, polite voice.
Food was brought before them: Meats and cheeses, mounds of vegetables, and warm, fresh loaves. Wines, ales and meads flowed in rivers. As the food was laid out, the Dunedain rose as one and turned and faced the western end of the hall, bowing their heads for a moment of silence. Then the feast truly began. The whole company ate and drank to their fill, and they spoke and sang of many things as the night wore on.
When all had eaten to their content, and Tolomei Meichios had been toasted by the company many times, and many laughs were had, the hall grew silent and the fires grew low and dim, then Anarion called for his harp. He took the tall, richly carven instrument and set it before him, and then plucked a single golden note upon it. When it had quivered into silence, he plucked another, and a third, and then he filled the hall with the melodious sounds of his playing, and he raised his voice in a song of his own. The words were slow, and they seemed to live as a part of the music, or the music was a part of the words. To Tolomei, it was like no song he had ever heard. Fair upon his ears, yet bearing a sadness that struck him to the heart but could not understand.
The moon and stars were veiled that night, as the Lord of Minas Anor walked his silent halls. His guest had retired, and the feast was ended. His lady and his family had gone to their rest as well, yet he remained restless. He passed down corridors and across halls with nearly noiseless steps. Ever inwards and upwards he walked through his citadel, till at last he found himself standing before a dark, iron-bound door. On the other side lay the stairs of the great tower, the highest point of Minas Anor.
"The hour is late to be out of bed, my lord," said someone behind him. Anarion turned, and there saw Maester Dunstan standing in a circle of flickering torchlight. The fire cast an orange glow upon the white stones of the hall.
"You go to look into the Stone?" the maester asked.
"I cannot see with the eyes of ravens, Dunstan," Anarion replied. "If we are to have any warning of what is to come, I will see it in the Stone,"
Maester Dunstan stood beside his lord. He was a small man even amongst the Westerosi, fine boned and lean, and his maester's chain looked too heavy for him. He drew forth one of its links, forged of a smoky dark metal.
"This link is of Valyrian steel. Few maesters carry it anymore. It signifies the study of magic. All that I learned of magic is that it is perilous to men's minds, and souls,"
"This is not sorcery, Dunstan. The Stone is of elf-make, ancient beyond reckoning," said Anarion.
"Why trust something that you can conjure?" said Dunstan. "You spoke to the Braavosi to seek news my lord. That is sounder counsel than turning always to this stone for knowledge. How many hours of the night have you spent in that tower? How can you even be sure of what a stone tells you? What if it merely makes you relive old nightmares best forgotten?"
Anarion's grey eyes flashed dangerously in the torchlight, and his voice was low and hard.
"Dunstan, you are of Westeros, and you are a man of the south. Were I to dismiss you tonight, you could find the country you call home, where your tongue is spoken, and the people know you. From whence I came there is no returning. All that we have built in Gondor is but a fair echo of what Numenor was in the days of its joy. There was beauty and music and content such as Westeros has never known. It was taken from us, for our own people fell to depths darker and crueler than anything you can imagine. I will never forgive, Dunstan, and I will never forget,"
The little Westerosi master sighed, running a hand upon his short-haired scalp.
"There is no certainty that it is these King's Men who cast their hand across the east. Realms have ever risen and fallen like the winter wheat," he said.
The son of Elendil said: "This is something different. If this is what I fear it to be, then war and pain shall be unleashed yet unheard of within the circles of the world,"
Dunstan grimaced: "You were borne here upon the western winds, my lord, and yet you set your gaze upon the east. Are you not giving shape to your own fears? If these things are the doing of your old enemies, would they not come from the west? Yet all that is to the west is the sea. Your own folk charted it, the Sunset Seas are vast and endless. How could these King's Men land in Essos when the Dunedain came from the west? And if they are in Essos, they are far away my lord, across mountains and seas,"
Anarion set his hand upon the door: "I came here across many leagues of the sea. None know the whale-roads as the sons of Numenor do,"
The long staircase of the tower wound ever upwards, higher and higher, and through arrow-slits Anarion caught glimpses of fields and hills covered in night, and of the houses of Minas Anor far below, twinkling with faint lights. At last he came to a small chamber, high in the spire, with an open window that faced upon the west. The sea-waters stretched out into a horizon that seemed to meld with the night sky, waves restlessly heaving and sighing against rock.
The chamber was bare, save for a pedestal of stone set in its very centre. There sat the Seeing Stone, a perfect sphere of dark glass, or crystal. Anarion walked around it, setting his back to the western window and facing east, then he set his hands upon it and cast his eyes into its black depths.
He was soaring above Minas Anor, and the citadel below was small and remote. He looked out over the lands of Gondor, a rocky, rugged land of heath, moor and pine forest, crossed by cold rivers, studded with foothills and low mountains. He felt the draw of the other Stones. To the south there was Annuminas, where his father sat and pondered upon the quarrels of magnates. Anarion did not seek his father's words tonight. He felt the other Stones too: Pelargir, Osgiliath, Fornost, Orthanc, he could look into any of them and speak with their lords, but did not. Further south still, he could feel the Ithil-stone, and for a moment he longed for his brother's voice and laugh, but that was not his purpose.
He turned his gaze eastwards, and soared over the lands of the Starks. Away to the north he saw the Wall, pale ice gleaming in the moonlight. The tempestuous waters of the Narrow Sea he crossed in a fleeting moment, and spotted beneath him the western coasts of Essos, dotted with Free Cities like the jewels upon a belt. Over plains and rivers, and mountains and forests, he looked ever further eastwards. Away to the south he caught glimpse of the foul vapors and impenetrable fumes of the Smoking Seas, where once gleaming Valyria sat in its pride and power.
It was to the southern shores of Essos that Anarion's eye was drawn that night. For there his gaze was shrouded. A veil lay upon the lands, and where once he could gaze clearly across Ghis to Qarth and the Gates of the Jade Sea, now his vision shimmered and shifted and he could not see clearly. He tried to focus, but the southern shores were like a mirage in the desert, now fading, now flickering, now rising and falling. This veil of illusion covered a vast swath of the southern shores and the southern seas, and beyond it to the farther and wilder lands of the East he could not see. Anarion set his will upon the veil, and strove and wrestled with it, but the harder he assailed it the more his vision darkened. It was as if black smoke was rising from within the palantir itself.
He looked beneath him. There was the bay of the slavers, and he could see stepped pyramids rising from ancient cities. Ships criss-crossed the bay, bearing their cargoes of groaning thralls. After a moment of thought he recalled their names: Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. To the north was the vast steppes of Dothrak, where the horse-nomads rode and thundered. Neither had yet to fall under the veil. Where would the hammer-stroke fall?
Long into the night, in secret thoughts and inner counsels, Anarion dwelt upon the east, and upon the shadow that lay upon his mind, and upon the veil across his sight. He remembered the King's Men, and the smoke above the Black Temple, and all that the smoke meant. He remembered the awful power of Ar-Pharazon, whose hand lay upon Middle-earth with an iron grip of dominion even as the Deceiver whispered in his ear, and of the sudden and bloody wars by which the Golden King of Kings had extended his sovereignty. He thought of the limitless might of Numenor of the Kings, towering up in her royal splendour and delving down in her deep, secret, profound fear.
The western skies outside his window were streaked gold and pink and blue by the coming of dawn. On the horizon he saw a speck of white. His keen eyes spotted there a cog ship of Gondor, white-hulled and white-sailed, with the star of Earendil upon her banners, and the prow carven as an eagle's head. A wind was at her back, and she sped across the waters, bow rising free in bursts of silver spray, sails under full press. In Westernesse of old, the very majesty and power of the Kings had floated upon the wooden hulls of their ships. Somewhere inside himself, Anarion knew that all that Gondor was and all that Gondor meant and all that Gondor could be rested upon her ships. Distant, frail, storm-beaten, but the only shield that Gondor and all Westeros would ever have.
Minas Anor
Light streamed through the windows of Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. From the airs outside was borne the sound of the sea crashing on stone. The Tower of Anarion stood high over a rocky bay, where ever was heard the music of the waves. High and fair that stronghold was, and it could be seen by all who lived round it for many miles, for it was shaped and formed of gleaming white stone that caught the sun. Black were the banners that flapped above it, bearing the white tree and the silver stars, and above them the golden sun of the House of Anarion.
Far beneath the Tower was the sound of great working, and the chopping of many axes, and the sawing of wood. Ships were being built there, many ships. Their keels lined the stony beaches, and with their ribs and skeletons laid bare they looked like the bones of great whales. Amongst the clamour came the sounds of singing, for the Dunedain took a joy in shipbuilding, and it was merry work for them. Yet amongst their voices was the sounds of Northmen's voices and Northern songs, as the Westerosi laboured alongside the Numenoreans who were at once their tutors and their friends.
In the courtyards and squares of Minas Anor, there was a ringing of metal hammered, metal worked, and metal clashing on metal. Forge-fires roared as the bellows worked. New sword-blades glowed red and orange. Men drilled and sparred with spear and shield, in pairs or companies, and some strove with each other in the wrestling-ring. Yet also there was the sound of laughter, and the speech of merry voices, rising from the archery-range that lay just outside the outer walls. There the Dunedain gathered at their leisure, and their bow-strings sang and the air whistled with the sound of black arrows. Now and again there was added to the chorus the roll of horse hooves, as a Numenorean would gallop down the range, shooting his bow as he went.
Across the bay, high upon a stony hill, where the sea-winds grabbed and pulled at clothes and cloaks, and the sea-birds cried their endless songs, looking out over the gleaming citadel and the grey beaches, stood Anarion son of Elendil. His fair face was drawn, as if he carried a heavy burden.
"What tidings do you bring me, Master Tolomei?" he asked to his companion, for he was not alone.
Two horses grazed not far off. Had any wished to eavesdrop upon Anarion, they would have found it hard above the howling winds and the sounds of the gulls.
The Lord of Minas Anor's guest was a Braavosi. His skin was olive and his black hair was a mess of curls. He was not fat, but his hands were small and soft, with the rounded shoulders of a scribe. Rings adored each finger, and he nervously turned them as he spoke. His name was Tolomei Meichios, keyholder of the Iron Bank.
"So little is spoken now in Braavos. Once we were the crossroads of the world, yet little news reaches us now, save from Westeros and the other Free Cities, and that you know already," said Master Tolomei. His face was pale, as if fearful of his own words.
"The squabbling of rats over an iron trinket is no news to me," said Anarion. He set a hand upon the hilt of his sword and looked out to the sea, and to the building of the ships below. The waves were hissing against the sheer rocky cliffs that lined the bay. Winds wrapped his grey cloak tight against him.
"Ah, but at least you know there are rats, my lord. We in Braavos, we do not know what lurks in the shadows. Even the Iron Bank is not all-knowing," replied Tolomei, wringing his hands.
Anarion asked "Surely there are rumours?"
"Rumours, oh yes, oh there are the rumours. Black sails and red eyes. Sailor's stories,"
"I would trust a mariner over a merchant, in matters of the seas,"
"The mariners know no more than the merchants in Braavos these days," Tolomei rubbed his brow. "Foreign ships come less and less to our harbours,"
"Many are the ill chances upon the seas. Pirates, storms," said Anarion, though his voice betrayed that he doubted such things were the explanation.
"But such a long string of ill luck? That is uncanny, unheard of in my time," replied Tolomei.
Anarion said "Has the Iron Bank sought any news? Your arm is long and your eyes are not blind,"
"We may as well be blindfolded," said Tolomei. Both were quiet for a long moment, the Braavosi huddling within his finery against the chill wind, the Dunadan unmoved and staring at him with keen grey eyes.
Tolomei spoke at last, in a slow voice. "We haven't heard from Qarth in months… We have not seen a ship from the Jade Sea in a year. Our sailors fear the southern seas and the southern shores. No word has returned from Ghis… It is as if the lights are going out all over the east,"
"A shadow falling," said Anarion. "My sight too has been shrouded as of late, I cannot see as far as I once did. It is as if I am wrestling some creature of smoke and mist, and I cannot grasp it, however hard I try. Something is stirring though, I feel the warning in my heart,"
They rode back to Minas Anor around the bay, and above the rocky cliffs and beaches the rolling green lands of Anorien stretched away into the moorlands. Here and there, stout stone homesteads and farmhouses dotted the lands all around the Citadel. There were fields of swaying wheat and barley, turnips, legumes and potatoes. Cattle grazed upon clover, which the Numenoreans sowed for pasturelands. Herdsmen napped beneath rowan trees. As they drew closer to the immense, jet-black outer walls of the Tower, they heard excited shouts and laughter. A band of young Dunedain on horseback were riding hard, jumping farmer's fences as they went, whooping with joy.
"Seldom have I seen a people in these western lands with a greater love for their horses," said Tolomei.
"A man of Numenor knows three great joys, Master Tolomei. A good horse beneath him, a good shot with his bow, and the feeling of a ship's till in his hands when the wind is in his sails," replied Anarion.
The huge steel gates of the Tower were opened before them, and they rode at a swift trot down the cobbled main road which bent and turned and wound its way up the hill. Minas Anor was not a great city like Annuminas or Osgiliath, but the narrow alleys between its many houses of stone thronged with the busy folk of Anarion.
The Citadel rose atop the summit of the hill, gleaming in the sun like silver and pearl. The banners of the House of Anarion floated in the breeze, five hundred feet above the fields below. A watchman atop that lofty tower could see for miles over the moors, stretching away into the faint blue horizon till they were lost in sight behind grey northern mists, or turn his gaze to the sea and observe far off distant white sails of passing ships flying across the dark waters.
At the gates they dismounted, and their horses were led away. In black livery and mail, Anarion's guards saluted as they passed.
"I have read the letter from your Sealord. When you depart once more, will you carry my reply to him?" asked Anarion, while they passed beneath the gate.
"Of course my lord, it would be my honour," replied Tolomei.
The courtyard was paved of stone, but swards of green grass surrounded it, and a fountain of clear water burbled in its center.
Anarion said "Where shall you be traveling when you leave us?"
"To Oldtown I expect, and then to King's Landing. The Bank has business in the south before I may return to Braavos," said Tolomei. He smiled helplessly. "The Iron Bank must have its due,"
"Do not hurry yourself, good master Tolomei. Stay here a few days with us, rest and refresh yourself, it would honour us," replied Anarion, smiling and setting a large hand on the Braavosi's narrow shoulder.
"I have heard it said that the Dunedain are fair spoken and courteous to travelers and to strangers, and I see now truly that it is not said in vain," Tolomei said, bowing his head.
Standing before the entrance to the great hall was a tall Dunadan, broad of shoulder and long-limbed, mailed in black and cloaked in grey, with a long sword sheathed at his side and a long spear in his hand. Keen blue eyes regarded them from within a lofty helm, adorned with seabird wings. He was Halbarad son of Inglor, door-warden of Minas Anor and captain of the housecarls of Anarion.
"Hail my lord," Halbarad greeted, raising a hand. He smiled through a short, well-trimmed beard. Behind him was the door, two huge pieces of oak, banded by iron, richly carved in likenesses of forests and leaves and running beasts.
"Hail to you Halbarad," Anarion said, and he began to undo his belt "Master Tolomei shall bless us with his company for a few days yet,"
The Lord of Minas Anor took his sheathed sword and handed it to the door-warden. Tolomei immediately handed over a long dagger he wore thrust through his belt. Carefully, Halbarad placed both in a niche next to the door.
"Guests are always welcome amongst us, Master Tolomei," said Halbarad with a nod, leaning against his spear-shaft.
Anarion ordered a room prepared for his guest, and commanded that there be wine and music and song in the great hall that night to honour the good Braavosi. He left Tolomei in the care of his Steward, Amlaith son of Belemir, an old Numenorean of silver hair but still straight-backed despite his age. With promises to see him and speak further at the hall that evening, Anarion left Tolomei and disappeared down the corridors of the citadel.
Near the centre of the Tower, hidden from view by walls and bastions, there was a garden, a cloister filled the scent of flowers and grass and the soft sounds of water. There grew a weirwood tree. It was surrounded by trim grass and well-tended gardens, yet it remained gnarled and wizened and aged as the hills themselves. Upon the green grass it dropped its blood-red leaves, and the red eyes of the carven face upon its trunk stared knowingly at all who passed it. Anarion had found that weirwood growing alone at the summit of the hill where he had chosen to raise his tower, many years ago, and it had seemed a part of the land, rooted in its very bones. He would not cut it down, though the citadel grew and flourished and spread out all around it. It was unlike the White Tree which came out of Numenor, for its power was wilder, more fell somehow, but Anarion would suffer no harm to come of it, and it was watered and tended by his folk with a wary respect.
Sitting in the cloister, not far off from the weirwood, Anarion found his son Meneldil. He was sitting on a stool, with a table before him, sketching on a piece of parchment. He approached silently behind, and observed Meneldil tracing with a sure hand a design for a soaring tower of great height. Meneldil had the eye and hand of a draughtsman who knew well his trade.
"A new tower, my son?" Anarion asked.
"For the havens at Annuminas," Meneldil replied "Ecthelion requested it of me. It needs to have great height, and a belfry at the top, for they shall mount mighty bells there to warn mariners of the approaching shore in the fog or the mists,"
Anarion said "And perhaps warn our folk of the coming of foes,"
Meneldil put down his quill and turned to look at his father. "You spoke to the usurer?"
"Master Tolomei's words have not eased my fears," Anarion replied.
"He is a moneylender, Father. I would not put much trust in their words," said Meneldil
The Lord of Minas Anor grimaced. "They have their uses, distasteful though they may be. They are canny past what you might guess. Greed and fear and cunning keeps their eyes open and their ears to the ground,"
Meneldil rose from his seat, and together father and son slowly walked round the gardens, speaking softly to one another, and they headed to the covered walkway that surrounded the cloister.
"For all that they are short-sighted if they have nothing to tell us," said Meneldil.
"The lack of tidings is news itself. Already the Shadow seems to have fallen upon Qarth, Ghis, perhaps as far as the Jade Sea," responded Anarion.
"To cut off dealings between Braavos and the far east, that would take the work of a mighty fleet labouring endlessly. They would have to scour the seas far and wide. There would be blood," mused Meneldil.
Anarion's voice was dark and troubled. "Oceans of blood,"
"If Qarth has indeed fallen under this Shadow, then we must consider the Jade Sea fallen as well… And Ghis?" Meneldil paused a while in thought. "That is a line along the southern shores of Essos, but is it a line that is marching east or west?"
"West," said Anarion. "I cannot explain it, nor reason why, but I know this Shadow is coming west,"
"How could it be the King's Men? They fell, you told me. They were cast down by His wrath. The waters consumed them,"
"I do not know, my son. The red eye was always the sigil of the Enemy and his cult. The King's ships always had black sails in those days, blackened by soot at first, but later black by the King's command"
"It could not be Ar-Pharazon, he set foot on the Uttermost West, nor could it be the Enemy. They both perished with Numenor itself,"
They both heard the sound of a light step upon the stone stairs that wound down to the cloister from its north end. Looking up, they saw a tall woman gracefully descend to the covered walkway. Even centuries since he met her, the sight of Morwen still brought a thrill to Anarion's heart.
Her eyes a sharp green-gray and they seemed to glimmer with an elf-light in them, her hair was a long mass of thick black, and her face round and beautiful. To look upon her, she seemed gentle as a mother, lively as a maiden and proud as a queen.
At the sight of her husband and her son, the Lady of Minas Anor's eyes lit up in a smile.
"Ah, now what are you two debating this time? Is it the wandering of the stars or the curious customs of the wildmen? Is it a Monday or a Tuesday?" Morwen teased lightly.
The sound of her voice, light and fair as music, seemed to lift a heavy burden from Anarion's shoulders. All he could manage was a smile of his own.
"Now, well I know that look," said Morwen, brows furrowing. "You spoke with the moneylender, what he told you troubles you?"
"Much troubles me, my lady. Worry yourself not with my burdens," said Anarion. His wife frowned sternly.
"A household run thus is a shameful thing," she answered. "If they burden you, they burden us all,"
"The moneylender has brought no tidings to Father," Meneldil said. The heir of Anarion leaned against the stone banister, locking eyes with the weirwood tree. "He said that Braavos hears little from the far east, and that the sailors are frightened of the southern seas,"
Anarion's voice was grim: "Tolomei said that the lights are going out all over the east. I fear that our days shall grow dark soon,"
"Before the winter?" asked Morwen. Anarion shook his head.
The Lord of Minas Anor spoke; "After it, I deem. I do not know the hour when the storm shall break, but it shall be when we are weak,"
Morwen rested her head in a pale hand, eyes full of thought.
"Ill was the chance that led the southmen to strife," she said after a silent moment. "What word has there been from Isildur your brother? Will the House of Lannister make their war?"
"When last I turned my Stone to King's Landing and he was there to answer, he meant to ride into the Riverlands, seeking Gregor Clegane to deliver justice," said Anarion. "Tywin has set his liegemen loose upon the marches with fire and steel, and Isildur rides with the King's Banner. He will lay the choice before Tywin,"
"Bold is Isildur our kinsman, and true of heart, but unless his counsels are subtler than I guess, I fear this will fan war's flames, not extinguish them, worsen the wound rather than heal it," Meneldil tore his eyes from the cold red stare of the weirwood and turned to his mother and father with a pensive face.
Morwen spoke, and her voice was musical no more: "War. Brother felling brother, father against son, friend baring steel against friend, lord and servant torn asunder, and when a worse foe yet waits. Anarion, my lord, my love, this war would be a black evil if it comes to pass,"
The three were silent, and in the moment they almost seemed to hear far-off but clearly the blowing of horns, and the shouting of warriors, and the rumble of hooves. A vision swam up before their eyes of shadowy hosts with bright swords and spearpoints gleaming like the stars, and the cold leaves of autumn stained by the blood of men. Then it was gone, and they were in the gardens of Minas Anor once more, and the sun shone upon grass and flowers
"Your voice is soft and sad, my lady, yet wisdom dwells still in it," Anarion's voice broke the quiet. "I must think upon this. But come now, there is a guest, and we should put aside these troubles, lest we be ill hosts. The Braavosi expects food and good cheer while he is amongst us, and he shall have it!"
Food and good cheer there was. As the sun disappeared in a blaze of gold behind the western seas, the fires were kindled in the mead-hall of Minas Anor. The great hall was a place of courtly function, of judgement, counsel and law, and so when Anarion had built his Tower he had constructed, behind the great hall and on the upper western slopes of his hill, a mead-hall, a place of merriment and feasts. It was long and low, with a high peaked roof, and though built all of white stone it was wrought much in the fashion of the halls of the Edain of old. Inside there were long tables and benches, a floor of fresh rushes, walls that hung with tapestries and storied webs, and hearths that burned with crackling fires along either wall.
Servants laid out plates and vessels of silver and copper upon the tables, and then led the feasters in. Hither came the housecarls of Anarion, sixty strong, led by their Captain, Halbarad. All were Numenoreans, tall, broad-shouldered and keen-eyed, and many were the scars that they bore on faces and hands. No swords did they carry, for Anarion permitted none within his halls. Amongst them was Amlaith the Steward, and Angon the Keeper of the Horses, Borlas the Smith and Minastan the Scribe, and all their wives and children about them.
There was not Dunedain alone in Anarion's halls, for present was Maester Dunstan, a small Westerosi man of middle age, whose maester's chain swung low to his waist, and whose brown eyes were lively with laughter. There were Northmen too, the lords of the nearest holdfasts, and the reeves of the closer villages, and their wives and children too, and unlike the Numenoreans they wore their hair long and spoke the Common Tongue more than the Elven-tongue, but their songs were joyful, and they drank merrily together with the Dunedain.
At the high table at the end of the hall sat Anarion in a high-backed carven chair, and his wife Morwen sat at his right, her hand in his. To his left was Meneldil, laughing at some jest of his sister Miriel, who had her mother's hair and her father's eyes. Beyond them sat bluff, stocky Earendur, Miriel's husband, and his elder sons Earnur and Ostoher, the three mariners appearing as if they had been chipped out of the cliffs above the sea. The younger ones, Valacar and Vanimelde, were chasing each other about the pillars of the hall and through the legs of their elders. Anarion felt a tug at his tunic sleeve, and looking down he saw his youngest grandchild, little Yavien, a girl of only four years. She raised her arms to her grandfather. Smiling, he reached down and plucked her in his strong hands and placed her on his lap.
"Ah my sweet summer-child," Morwen said, ruffling the girl's hair. "How fair you are tonight, one might mistake you for an elf-maid!"
"Thank you Grandmother," Yavien said in a small, polite voice.
Food was brought before them: Meats and cheeses, mounds of vegetables, and warm, fresh loaves. Wines, ales and meads flowed in rivers. As the food was laid out, the Dunedain rose as one and turned and faced the western end of the hall, bowing their heads for a moment of silence. Then the feast truly began. The whole company ate and drank to their fill, and they spoke and sang of many things as the night wore on.
When all had eaten to their content, and Tolomei Meichios had been toasted by the company many times, and many laughs were had, the hall grew silent and the fires grew low and dim, then Anarion called for his harp. He took the tall, richly carven instrument and set it before him, and then plucked a single golden note upon it. When it had quivered into silence, he plucked another, and a third, and then he filled the hall with the melodious sounds of his playing, and he raised his voice in a song of his own. The words were slow, and they seemed to live as a part of the music, or the music was a part of the words. To Tolomei, it was like no song he had ever heard. Fair upon his ears, yet bearing a sadness that struck him to the heart but could not understand.
The moon and stars were veiled that night, as the Lord of Minas Anor walked his silent halls. His guest had retired, and the feast was ended. His lady and his family had gone to their rest as well, yet he remained restless. He passed down corridors and across halls with nearly noiseless steps. Ever inwards and upwards he walked through his citadel, till at last he found himself standing before a dark, iron-bound door. On the other side lay the stairs of the great tower, the highest point of Minas Anor.
"The hour is late to be out of bed, my lord," said someone behind him. Anarion turned, and there saw Maester Dunstan standing in a circle of flickering torchlight. The fire cast an orange glow upon the white stones of the hall.
"You go to look into the Stone?" the maester asked.
"I cannot see with the eyes of ravens, Dunstan," Anarion replied. "If we are to have any warning of what is to come, I will see it in the Stone,"
Maester Dunstan stood beside his lord. He was a small man even amongst the Westerosi, fine boned and lean, and his maester's chain looked too heavy for him. He drew forth one of its links, forged of a smoky dark metal.
"This link is of Valyrian steel. Few maesters carry it anymore. It signifies the study of magic. All that I learned of magic is that it is perilous to men's minds, and souls,"
"This is not sorcery, Dunstan. The Stone is of elf-make, ancient beyond reckoning," said Anarion.
"Why trust something that you can conjure?" said Dunstan. "You spoke to the Braavosi to seek news my lord. That is sounder counsel than turning always to this stone for knowledge. How many hours of the night have you spent in that tower? How can you even be sure of what a stone tells you? What if it merely makes you relive old nightmares best forgotten?"
Anarion's grey eyes flashed dangerously in the torchlight, and his voice was low and hard.
"Dunstan, you are of Westeros, and you are a man of the south. Were I to dismiss you tonight, you could find the country you call home, where your tongue is spoken, and the people know you. From whence I came there is no returning. All that we have built in Gondor is but a fair echo of what Numenor was in the days of its joy. There was beauty and music and content such as Westeros has never known. It was taken from us, for our own people fell to depths darker and crueler than anything you can imagine. I will never forgive, Dunstan, and I will never forget,"
The little Westerosi master sighed, running a hand upon his short-haired scalp.
"There is no certainty that it is these King's Men who cast their hand across the east. Realms have ever risen and fallen like the winter wheat," he said.
The son of Elendil said: "This is something different. If this is what I fear it to be, then war and pain shall be unleashed yet unheard of within the circles of the world,"
Dunstan grimaced: "You were borne here upon the western winds, my lord, and yet you set your gaze upon the east. Are you not giving shape to your own fears? If these things are the doing of your old enemies, would they not come from the west? Yet all that is to the west is the sea. Your own folk charted it, the Sunset Seas are vast and endless. How could these King's Men land in Essos when the Dunedain came from the west? And if they are in Essos, they are far away my lord, across mountains and seas,"
Anarion set his hand upon the door: "I came here across many leagues of the sea. None know the whale-roads as the sons of Numenor do,"
The long staircase of the tower wound ever upwards, higher and higher, and through arrow-slits Anarion caught glimpses of fields and hills covered in night, and of the houses of Minas Anor far below, twinkling with faint lights. At last he came to a small chamber, high in the spire, with an open window that faced upon the west. The sea-waters stretched out into a horizon that seemed to meld with the night sky, waves restlessly heaving and sighing against rock.
The chamber was bare, save for a pedestal of stone set in its very centre. There sat the Seeing Stone, a perfect sphere of dark glass, or crystal. Anarion walked around it, setting his back to the western window and facing east, then he set his hands upon it and cast his eyes into its black depths.
He was soaring above Minas Anor, and the citadel below was small and remote. He looked out over the lands of Gondor, a rocky, rugged land of heath, moor and pine forest, crossed by cold rivers, studded with foothills and low mountains. He felt the draw of the other Stones. To the south there was Annuminas, where his father sat and pondered upon the quarrels of magnates. Anarion did not seek his father's words tonight. He felt the other Stones too: Pelargir, Osgiliath, Fornost, Orthanc, he could look into any of them and speak with their lords, but did not. Further south still, he could feel the Ithil-stone, and for a moment he longed for his brother's voice and laugh, but that was not his purpose.
He turned his gaze eastwards, and soared over the lands of the Starks. Away to the north he saw the Wall, pale ice gleaming in the moonlight. The tempestuous waters of the Narrow Sea he crossed in a fleeting moment, and spotted beneath him the western coasts of Essos, dotted with Free Cities like the jewels upon a belt. Over plains and rivers, and mountains and forests, he looked ever further eastwards. Away to the south he caught glimpse of the foul vapors and impenetrable fumes of the Smoking Seas, where once gleaming Valyria sat in its pride and power.
It was to the southern shores of Essos that Anarion's eye was drawn that night. For there his gaze was shrouded. A veil lay upon the lands, and where once he could gaze clearly across Ghis to Qarth and the Gates of the Jade Sea, now his vision shimmered and shifted and he could not see clearly. He tried to focus, but the southern shores were like a mirage in the desert, now fading, now flickering, now rising and falling. This veil of illusion covered a vast swath of the southern shores and the southern seas, and beyond it to the farther and wilder lands of the East he could not see. Anarion set his will upon the veil, and strove and wrestled with it, but the harder he assailed it the more his vision darkened. It was as if black smoke was rising from within the palantir itself.
He looked beneath him. There was the bay of the slavers, and he could see stepped pyramids rising from ancient cities. Ships criss-crossed the bay, bearing their cargoes of groaning thralls. After a moment of thought he recalled their names: Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. To the north was the vast steppes of Dothrak, where the horse-nomads rode and thundered. Neither had yet to fall under the veil. Where would the hammer-stroke fall?
Long into the night, in secret thoughts and inner counsels, Anarion dwelt upon the east, and upon the shadow that lay upon his mind, and upon the veil across his sight. He remembered the King's Men, and the smoke above the Black Temple, and all that the smoke meant. He remembered the awful power of Ar-Pharazon, whose hand lay upon Middle-earth with an iron grip of dominion even as the Deceiver whispered in his ear, and of the sudden and bloody wars by which the Golden King of Kings had extended his sovereignty. He thought of the limitless might of Numenor of the Kings, towering up in her royal splendour and delving down in her deep, secret, profound fear.
The western skies outside his window were streaked gold and pink and blue by the coming of dawn. On the horizon he saw a speck of white. His keen eyes spotted there a cog ship of Gondor, white-hulled and white-sailed, with the star of Earendil upon her banners, and the prow carven as an eagle's head. A wind was at her back, and she sped across the waters, bow rising free in bursts of silver spray, sails under full press. In Westernesse of old, the very majesty and power of the Kings had floated upon the wooden hulls of their ships. Somewhere inside himself, Anarion knew that all that Gondor was and all that Gondor meant and all that Gondor could be rested upon her ships. Distant, frail, storm-beaten, but the only shield that Gondor and all Westeros would ever have.
- Location
- Wherever the Beautiful Game takes me
So beautiful... It's good to get a glimpse of Gondor at last as well You've said before this is not a fix fic and we can see that.... But you're not gonna be as brutal as GRRM right? Cause he's just... Well I hope your going to give us a happy ending of some sort
You've said before this is not a fix fic and we can see that.... But you're not gonna be as brutal as GRRM right? Cause he's just... Well I hope your going to give us a happy ending of some sort
24
EricD
Coeur d’Acier
Chapter XXII
The Skahazadhan
The great river Skahazadhan is broad and meandering, slow and full of silt. It wanders, tranquil and serene, through the dusty, arid hills of Lhazar. Far swifter was the river of men and horses which flowed in their rapid onset along its valley.
To the beat of the kettle drums, the men of Umbar marched, or rode their tall horses. Even afoot they towered over the Ghiscari that filled the bulk of the host, and over the strange tribesmen of distant lands whose tongues were as the singing of birds and the hooting of beasts. It was they who drove the pace, and by harsh words and the cracking of whips the lesser men were driven till their feet blistered and bled. With great swiftness, the host passed down the valley of the Skahazadhan towards distant sandstone mountains.
"Ghiscari," Daenerys heard one of the Black Numenoreans say, riding beside her cart one day. The man was much as other Umbarians: Golden-haired, fair-faced, blue-eyed. He spat upon the ground in disgust.
"They call themselves the iron legions, these thralls," remarked one of his companions. They were all tall, well-mounted upon strong horses, cloaked in purple and girt with swords.
"They are fit to stand and die, but a little stroll like this and they are unmanned. They complain like children," said another.
"A Ghiscari told me his folk once ruled vast dominions. I hardly believe it," said the first.
Daenerys Targaryen was beginning to know well the accents of Umbar. She had never seen the city, nor heard rumour of it, she knew nothing of its people or its laws or its Great King, but she knew already that these were a mighty people, self-assured of their power such as she had never seen even amongst the Dothraki.
The first days had been the worst. She had walked as if trapped in a nightmare since the death of her moon and stars, her Drogo. She saw his face when she awoke, and heard his voice in her dreams. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him lying in the dust, his braid cut and his body hacked and hewn. Many nights, she had wept. Doreah and Irri had been left to her by Belzagar's command, and though she would not speak to them for days they would sit with her in the nights, and listen to her weeping, and rub her back and speak gentle words. That still would not stave off the awful dreams that scourged her nights and haunted her days.
Belzagar, the Captain of Umbar, was the image of princely courtesy. Not a hand was laid upon Daenerys or her handmaidens, not a cruel word or unkind look was ever aimed at them. They rode in the best and smoothest-driving wagons in the army, they were well-clothed in Umbar's finery, and every night they ate from Belzagar's table in Belzagar's own pavilion. His words were always gentle, and he carved Daenerys's meat with his own knife, laying it upon her plate with warmth in his eyes.
Many times she thought of taking her own life. Her hand would linger upon the knife laid upon her plate for cutting her meat. The edge was enough. Then Rhaego would give a kick into her ribs or stomach, she felt his life inside her, and she would set the knife down. When she was returned to her own tent, the firelight would gleam and flicker upon her dragon eggs.
The days passed, becoming weeks. The pain subdued from a sharp anguish to a constant throbbing ache. The mountains grew closer, looming up in the west in front of them, towering brown and grey.
She watched the men of Umbar constantly, observing and learning. She grew to note their tongue, full of strange syllables and harsh tones. A word stood out, with which the Black Numenoreans seemed to use to call themselves: Adunaim.
The Adunaim camped apart from the Ghiscari and the other levies of their host. They were a small part, a little over two thousand in a host of twenty thousand, yet Daenerys understood that this was the true, hard backbone of Belzagar's army. The Ghiscari were a trained militia, who marched in step and shouldered their shields upon the order, but they were amateurs in the end. The tribesmen were a wild and strange bunch, armed and armoured in countless ways and combinations. Some were short and bow-legged, faces flat and creased by wind and sun, dressed all in silk and furs and leather, and they shot their bows from horseback in the manner of the Dothraki. Others were swaggering bronze-skinned men with tall shields and heavy javelins, who wore shirts of scales and carried long knives at their sides. Others still wore long heavy beards of black curls, even in the heat of Lhazar, and their spears were scarcely as tall as a man with a heavy shaft as wide as a man's wrist and wicked broad points of steel, their swords were short and broad, and their shields were round and painted in bright swirls. The host of Belzagar was less than half the size of the khalasar, but far more nations and peoples and tongues were represented here.
The Adunaim were the true professionals though. Daenerys knew little of war and soldiers, but even her untrained eye could note it. They rode the swiftest and in the best order, their men quarreled and fought with each other the least, a captain's orders were obeyed quicker and with less question than in any other people of the army. When they pitched camp, the tents and pavilions of the Adunaim went up first, their meals were cooking the fastest, and the men busied themselves with useful tasks. The archers set to oiling their steelbows and mail hauberks, or making new bow strings, or patching their own clothes. The knights brushed their own horses down, and sharpened their own lances.
They rose first in the mornings, were formed for the march earliest, and set off earlier and at a quicker step. Every Adunaim, archer and man-at-arms alike, was mounted. The knights even had multiple horses. It was they who set the pace, dragging the Ghiscari and all the others behind them on dragging feet. It was their voices that snarled when others would lull and lag behind. The Black Numenoreans stared down with lofty contempt at their servant army.
Every night, Belzagar would hold court with his officers and chieftains. Daenerys watched him carefully. To those captains who had done well in the battle, he would shower with words of praise and gold rings for their fingers and arms. Some were his own, others Daenerys knew were stolen from the Dothraki who had stolen them themselves. Those with whom Belzagar was not pleased, however, would receive naught but silence, and the silence was noted. Men would whisper in the dark corners of the pavilion even as their comrades were praised and given rich gifts. Sometimes a man would receive a ring from the Captain of Umbar one night, only to be slain in a duel the next day. Daenerys never saw it amongst the Adunaim, but the chieftains of the vassals bickered and squabbled without end.
Day by day, mile by mile and league by league, the hosts leaped across the plains and hills of Lhazar, driving hard and fast for the mountains. Though foraging parties rode off each day, not a single village or town was burnt, not a single home looted or despoiled. Haste, Daenerys guessed, was Belzagar's object, and he pursued it unswervingly.
One day, as Daenerys rode in her cart, surrounded on all sides by purple-cloaked knights of Umbar as she ever was, Belzagar came and rode next to her. His retinue came up in a roll of heavy hooves, and his banners flapped in the breeze above their heads. The Captain of Umbar bowed in the saddle with perfect courtesy, and smiled a warm smile of straight, white teeth.
"Hail, and good day to you, my fair Princess," he said.
"Captain Belzagar," Dany replied, finding herself smiling in return even as her stomach turned over in revulsion.
"The barbarians call those mountains the Khyzai, or perhaps the pass is the Khyzai? Ah, such strange tongues these people have," Belzagar said, pointing at the mountains that now stood huge and close before them. The Skahazadhan flowed into the mountains, carving out a deep, steep-sided valley as it disappeared into the distance.
"And what is on the other side of the mountains?" Daenerys asked. She wanted to know where she was being taken.
"The city of Meereen, my Princess. A trifling town, truly, but it has the blessing of sitting upon the sea,"
She frowned. "The sea? That is where you are taking us?"
Belzagar said with a laugh, "All roads shall lead to Umbar in time, even the whale-road. To see the sea again is a joy to every man of Umbar, for the Numenoreans are people of the sea,"
"The sea is fair indeed, it has been long since I have seen it," said Dany. Belzagar gazed at her, and his glance was piercing and knowing, and she felt laid bare before it, but suddenly he seemed to see her and his mouth hung slack and awe came upon his face.
"Fair the sea is, but fairer still are the eyes with which you gaze upon it, my Princess," the Captain said, bowing his head. "So fair a line as yours, it is little wonder lesser men were over-awed by the House of Targaryen for so long. It is said that your forefathers ruled over great wyrms with but the force of their will. Mighty men were they indeed if that is true,"
Despite herself, Dany smiled and felt a pride in her bloodline. "Mighty men they were indeed. Aegon the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms riding upon Balerion, a dragon so great they say his teeth were as swords and his claws spears, and the shock of his tail a thunderbolt,"
Captain Belzagar nodded. "The world was full of wonders, not so long ago,"
The Captain of Umbar spoke again, voice a languid drawl "I have seen your brother in Umbar, my Princess, in the court of the Great King,"
"You have seen Viserys?" Daenerys exclaimed, feeling as if suddenly struck by lightning. Viserys had disappeared months ago in Vaes Dothrak. She had thought he had abandoned her, and when there was no word she hardened her heart to her lost brother.
"Prince Viserys, yes," Belzagar said, smiling again. "The Great King has taken him to his side and made him as a prince of his own house, and he is honoured amongst the Numenoreans,"
"And to what do we owe your King's charity?" replied Dany. All her life she and Viserys had traveled the Free Cities, from the houses of one magister or merchant-prince to another. All her life, she had watched powerful men laugh and mock her brother, the Beggar-King. If she had learned anything, it was that great lords rarely feel any charity, and never offer aid without expecting payment of some kind.
She wondered what promises had drawn Viserys into Umbar's nets, and what purpose Ar-Azulakhor sought them out for.
"None in Umbar have a more generous spirit, a deeper reservoir of kindness, a more profound sympathy, than our Great King," said the Captain.
"Our heralds found your brother a captive of barbarians, and spirited him away knowing that it would not be the Great King's will that a King of Westeros roll in the muck of a Dothraki camp,"
"You know nothing of them," Daenerys said, voice quiet but steely. Belzagar laughed, a musical, rolling laugh that was taken up as if in chorus by the other men-at-arms of Umbar all around them.
"I know how they die, my Princess,"
The Khyzai mountains soon loomed up on either side of them, and still they followed the Skahazadhan as it cut its way through sandstone for many, many days. The canyons and walls of the mountains rang with the sounds of marching feet, and rattling arms, and the clatter of horse hooves on stone, and the roll of wains. The air grew thinner and colder, and the Skahazadhan became swifter and narrower, hemmed in either side by sheer rock.
At night, Daenerys would lay in her pavilion and listen to the distant howling of wild and lonely things in the high places. She found herself laying with her dragon eggs clutched in her hands. When she held the eggs, Rhaego would kick and stretch, and though it pained her body, her heart was gladdened to feel him so fierce within her stomach. Dany held the eggs close and remembered the khalasar, and the young warriors of her khas, and Jorah and Thorongil, and Drogo. She yearned for his hand, strong but gentle, upon her face, and for his voice. She held the eggs tighter, and her tears glinted upon their scales.
The days blended together, one into another, and still their journey went on. The mountains grew higher and craggy, and the Skahazadhan became a deep, swift-flowing, treacherous onset as it passed running over stone. Men, and some horses too, were killed some days as they bent over to take water and slipped and were lost. Though the pass became narrow and treacherous in some places with fallen rocks and sharp-edged stone, still Belzagar drove the pace on mercilessly.
Doreah came to Dany's tent one evening. The girl was Lysene, fair-haired and soft-skinned, and she looked suited for the long kirtle and gown of rich blue she had been clad in. Her clothes were make of Umbar, light and tightly woven and set with stones, but it was a gift from the mistress of one of the vassal-chieftains who traveled with the host. Despite the finery, Doreah looked thin and weak, and her face had a pallor. The journey had been hard upon her.
"Khaleesi," Doreah said, bowing low. "I'm sorry to trouble you,"
"No, it's fine Doreah, what is it?" replied Dany.
"It's just… Khaleesi, do you know where they are taking us?" Dany's tent was well-furnished, and Doreah sat upon a low stool across from her Khaleesi.
"This Umbar," the handmaiden went on. "I grew up in Lys and I know the names of every Free City, and of the Slaver-cities too. From men in the pleasure houses have even heard of Qarth and other far places, but I have never heard of Umbar, Khaleesi,"
"Nor I, until that… That herald came to Drogo," Daenerys said, shuddering. She still remembered how pale Thorongil's face had been when the Mouth of Umbar had strode into the tent of Drogo.
"So where is it then? And who are these people?" Suddenly Doreah remembered her station, and she dropped her eyes. "Forgive me Khaleesi, I am becoming too bold,"
Dany's hand grazed the Lysene girl's shoulder. "Do not apologize, dear Doreah. I know you are frightened, I feel that fear too,"
"Irri is scared as well," said Doreah. "She told me that to overcome Khal Drogo in battle upon the open field, these men must be terrible and utterly without fear,"
"They are Numenoreans, so Captain Belzagar said," replied Dany. "But these are not men of Gondor, or they are nothing like anything I have heard of the men of Gondor. There is no city of Umbar in Gondor, and Gondor is ruled by the Iron Throne, not by a Great King,"
The handmaiden grimaced. "But what do Numenoreans want with you, Khaleesi? Why did they attack us?"
"I don't know," Dany said. "Viserys is in Umbar too, according to Belzagar. He claims it is out of the generosity of their King's heart, but I have traveled in many courts and seen many magnates, and somehow I doubt this King's kindness,"
Outside, they heard a clash of metal against metal. In the distance, two soldiers were swaggering swords and bucklers together, and men were laughing and cheering them on.
Daenerys spoke at last, "In Pentos, Illyrio wanted to place my brother on the Iron Throne again. He claimed to be a loyalist, though he was no Westerosi. I always feared that he sought to place a crown on my brother's head merely to rule through him. This so-called Great King, I fear his ambitions are the same,"
"To rule Westeros through your brother?" Doreah asked.
"Yes, to put a puppet on the Iron Throne. What I don't understand though is that these Numenoreans, they seem to have great power and force of arms. If rule of Westeros is their ambition, why do they need Viserys? Or me?"
Doreah's eyes flicked past Dany's shoulder. The light of the brazier flickered and gleamed upon the scales of the dragon-eggs, black and green and pale white.
"Do you… Do you think it has something to do with the eggs?" the handmaiden asked slowly.
"My eggs? What would the King of Umbar want with them?" Dany, turning and glancing at them. Illyrio had told her at her wedding that the ages had turned them to stone, despite their beauty and the strange warmth she sometimes felt from within them.
"I can't say Khaleesi, but I just know they mean you ill," replied Doreah, glancing out the tent flap where the noise of swords and bucklers was growing louder and swifter. "Something in their eyes chills my blood,"
They passed through the Khzai, marching swift as a wind through the high and narrow places. They kept to the north bank of the Skahazadhan, now a cold torrent which roared and rushed. The provisions in the baggage train were growing thin, and Daenerys began to see Belzagar's single-minded intent upon bringing his host across the mountains and to the shores of the sea. His courtesies remained, elaborate and princely as ever, but he nary spoke of anything but the sea, and the city of Umbar. Returning to Umbar pressed upon his mind above all other things.
Five days after Doreah shared her fears with Dany, they broke through the mountains and descended out of them into a wide and bare land. The land was red and arid, the hills dotted with gnarled trees and shrubs. The sky above was a clear and vivid blue, cloudless, and the sun beat down oppressively. The host left the mountains behind them and drove west and a little south, stirring up huge clouds of red dust by their hooves and tramping feet.
As they came down out of the hills, Daenerys began to notice something terribly wrong about this bare, dry land. In the distance she saw villages, yet no people. Herds of goats bleated without their goatherds. Yet no one was to be seen, large or small, near or far. Soon, however, she wished she didn't know where the people had gone. For at every tree at every crossroad they passed, people were hung. Men, women, children, babes barely out of their mother's arms, hung from the neck by ropes from every branch and knot. They swayed in the breeze, their faces cold and dreadful to look upon. At every tree, the Adunaim chattered in their own tongue and laughed as if remembering past joys. Dany kept her eyes forward and tried not to look at the faces, but unable to tear her mind away from them. They passed hundreds of such trees of the dead.
Amidst the smells of men and animals that follow every army, suddenly Daenerys caught a whiff of something else. Elusive, barely noticeable, but a definite change in the air. A tang of salt and water that she had not felt since Pentos. She could smell the sea.
The faces of the Numenoreans grew eager, and they pressed the pace on with greater speed. Their horses grew agitated, snorting and neighing as if they sensed their riders' excitement. Then in a roll of hooves, Belzagar and his whole retinue broke from the column and galloped away in a cloud of dust, disappearing over a low ridge before them. He was followed by more Adunaim, in ones and twos and small groups. The Ghiscari led the other vassals up the road that crossed the ridge, eyes down, following as obedient dogs follow their master. From her cart, Daenerys heard many Numenorean voices raise to the skies, chanting a single word.
"Azra! Azra! Azra!"
As her cart crested the ridge, Dany saw the sea beneath her, gleaming and fair, and she heard the music of the waves hissing against the distant shore. Then she saw the ships. The masts of the ships were as the Forest of Qohor, and they stretched as far she could see. There were ships of every size and description, beyond count. They seemed numberless as the stars of the sky or the sands of the desert. She saw light galleys, slim and deadly, bronze-prowed. She saw heavy galleasses and dromunds of great length and draught and many oars. There were tall cogs and hulks and carracks, heavy-timbered and bluff-bowed, towering above the lesser ships. Yet every ship, no matter what size or type, carried black sails.
Dany's gaze traveled inland from the vast fleet, and she saw there the city of Meereen stretched beneath her, proudest and strongest of the Slaver-cities. The city was besieged. Fires burned within her walls, and she was ringed with foes on all sides. Meereen was surrounded with a ring of armed camps, and trenches jutting at strange, sharp angles formed a continuous circle around her. The pyramids of Meereen stood amidst clouds of dark, billowing smoke, shrouding their ancient peaks. Her many-coloured walls were darkened by smoke-stains. The gates were smashed open and lay ajar.
For the first time in her life, Daenerys heard the most unmistakable and terrible sound in all the warring of men: The chorus of screams, the endless sounds of terror, pain and suffering that rises with a sacked city. Meereen was falling.
All this, Dany saw in a single instant. Without a word being said, she knew it was the work of Umbar. The skies themselves were darkened by the burning of the city, and the smoke clouding round the pyramids was lit from beneath with an eerie red glow of fierce fires.
The host of Belzagar streamed down the hills in serried companies, row on row, banners flying, with the Adunaim leading. Surrounded by the knights, Daenerys's cart was brought with them in the van. The Numenoreans were still crying out in many fair voices.
"Azra! Azra!"
The cart-driver was a man of Umbar, with a thick blond beard and long, thick limbs. He had driven the horses of Dany's wain for miles and miles and spoken nary a word to her or her handmaidens riding on the benches behind him. Now he glanced over his shoulder at his cargo.
"The Sea," he said gruffly. "They are calling the name of the Sea in our tongue,"
Belzagar led them to the largest of the siege camps, a vast town of canvas tents and pavilions of many colours and shapes. It was surrounded by a deep ditch, and a high palisade of sharpened stakes, and above its wooden gate fluttered the banner of Umbar: Half crimson red, half deep blue, with a golden star in the middle. The gate was flung open for them, and they passed inside. The tents stretched in long, straight, orderly rows on either side of the main road.
Above the gates of the camp, two stakes were set, with boards nailed to them to form a cross. Daenerys saw two men strung up upon these crosses, nails through their hands and feet, harsh thongs of leather round their wrists and ankles. The men were dressed in robes of fine silk, stained by dried blood, and upon their brows they wore crowns of heavy gold. Huge gashes had been torn in their bodies, and their rips were splayed open, flies buzzing in their exposed innards. Their faces were contorted horribly, as if they still screamed even in death. The sight was enough to chill Dany's blood, and even as she tore her eyes away she could still see it in her mind.
All around them, the besiegers watched the newcomers march into their camp. There was Numenoreans there, fair-haired and sharp-eyed, and amongst them more Ghiscari legionnaires, leaning upon shields and pikes. Dany saw many strange emblems and heraldry on the banners that flew everywhere, the standards of distant tribes and nations: A black raven on the wing, a she-wolf suckling twin children, a legged serpent roaring at a red sun, a golden sun bursting on a field of purple. There was another device too, that stared at Dany wherever she looked: A pure black field, bearing upon a single, lidless, red eye.
There were men and weapons of every shape and every kind in the camp, and they muttered in languages unlike any she had heard before. The camp was silent but for the marching of Belzagar's host filing in, and the rumble of their wains.
The soldiers' faces were hard and drawn, and their eyes had a hollow stare in them. They were smoke-stained, and splattered with mud and what looked like dried blood. Their knuckles were white upon pike-shafts and sword hilts. Men looked at Dany and her handmaidens and licked their lips, their hard eyes staring right through her. The whole camp seemed to have stopped its business to watch the newcomers.
Captain Belzagar reined his horse in at the central square of the camp, a huge space of hard-trampled dirt. The army continued to file past him, but Dany's cart was drawn up behind the Captain's bodyguards. She heard Belzagar speaking to a Numenorean in burnished armour and purple cloak on foot, who was obviously a man of some station. They exchanged words in their harsh, guttural tongue, and then Daenerys saw Belzagar's face suddenly twist in anger.
A dust cloud was moving swiftly on the plain between the camp and the burning siege. Drawing closer, it became a small band of horsemen at a hard gallop. Above their heads flew the golden star of Umbar. As the gates were opened for the riders, a cry went up within the camp, and soon the air was roaring with voices.
Where once the soldiers were silent and morose, now they cheered, cheered, cheered wildly. Helmets were tossed into the air, pikes and halberds were shaken, swords and ax-handles were beaten against shields, feet stamped the ground, and Daenerys felt in her stomach the roar of thirty thousand men shouting aloud a single name.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
Daenerys watched the horsemen ride towards her. At their forefront went a man, a prince taller and broader of shoulder than the others, and he was mounted on a black stallion taller and more powerfully built than any Dany had ever seen, yet the beast went as calmly as the meekest mare for its rider. The prince wore mail of black rings beneath the brightly burnished plates of his harness, and his helm was high-crested and adorned with feathers, but his features were concealed beneath a mask. The mask was of silver and steel, and its face sneered with an expression of contempt and cold command. His cloak was long and purple, streaming down his horse's haunches.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
On every side, the soldiers chanted, roaring the name endlessly, and they shook their banners in the air. They cast the harpy standards of Meereen to the ground before him, and he trod them into the dust.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
The riders halted in the square, and Dany saw that these too were men of Umbar, but unlike the proud princelings that rode with Belzagar, these men bore scars of battle upon their harnesses, and their faces too had the hollow, distant, piercing stare of their soldiers. They too were stained with smoke and blood. They were fresh from the city.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
The great captain held in his hand a mace, golden and red in colour, and he raised it above his head. The voices of the soldiers cheered longest and loudest as he did, but when the mace was lowered silence fell, sudden and complete.
Belzagar's face had been composed to his usual noble serenity, and he swung down out of his saddle smoothly. His own men and the soldiers of the camp watched his every move, thousands of faces and eyes following him. Before the great man, Belzagar bowed his head and then went down on one knee and laid his sword and mace on the ground before him.
"Hail, my Lord Imrazor son of Ibal!" Belzagar shouted in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
The man stayed in the saddle, and he reached up and removed his mask and helm. Imrazor son of Ibal's face was pale and stern, clean-shaven but marked here and there with old scars, and his gold-bronze hair was cropped short. His eyes were a pale blue, and as they gazed at Belzagar Dany thought they looked strangely sad.
"Hail Belzagar son of Aglahad," Imrazor said in a soft voice. He too dismounted, and beckoned Belzagar to stand. The great captain took his servant by the shoulder and they walked together towards Daenerys.
Every moment since Drogo had fallen and the khalasar had shattered, Dany had felt fear. She had walked as if in a nightmare. She feared for herself, for her son, for her brother, even for her handmaidens. Now as Imrazor and Belzagar approached her, she felt the fear fall away, replaced only a calmness. She could feel the eyes of the soldiers upon her, she could smell the burning city and hear its screams in the distance, but all she felt was a calm emptiness inside. She stood up to meet the captains of Umbar on her feet.
"Belzagar, it appears your little errand was a success," said Imrazor, crossing his hands behind his back and looking up at Dany.
"Yes my lord, we met the barbarians in the field and put them to flight, breaking the power of the proud Drogo such that the very name of Umbar shall be the terror of the Dothraki Sea!" Belzagar said, voice a proud boast.
Imrazor's lips curved in half a faint smile, "A deed worthy of your fathers,"
Dany did not miss the flash of anger in Belzagar's eyes, but she ignored it and her voice broke in between them: "I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, daughter of Aerys"
Imrazor bowed his head. "It is an honour, my Princess. I am Imrazor son of Ibal, High Captain of the King's Ships,"
With his own hand, Imrazor helped Dany and her handmaidens down from the cart.
"I am told, my Princess, that you were a captive of the horse tribes," said Imrazor as he set her down. He was the tallest man Dany had ever seen. He went on, "I am told you carved yourself out a place at their king's side,"
Despite herself, Dany couldn't help but smile at memories of better times, a fairer place, where she was a queen and not a captive. "Yes, I was the Khaleesi of Drogo, greatest of the Dothraki khals,"
"A high and valiant chieftain, if what men say is true," said Imrazor.
"The tales do not tell half the truth," replied Dany. She found herself remembering Drogo's gentle words, his touch, and then she saw in her mind him falling into the dirt with shorn braid once again, and her throat tightened. It was hard to breathe. She forced the feeling down and composed her face into the mask of Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of the Eight Kingdoms.
Imrazor's eyes were melancholy, but still they had a knowing and piercing look of a Numenorean in them.
"I am certain your journey has wearied you my Princess. Rest and put your mind at ease this night, you are my own guest in my camp," the High Captain said, bowing his head once more.
Meereen burned long and fierce, and it lit up the night sky with a red, angry glow. Through the drifting smoke, the great harpy atop the tallest pyramid was occasionally glimpsed, flashing bright from the flames below. The sounds that carried from the city to the camp of Imrazor were awful to the ears, and though she tried her hardest Dany could not ignore them.
Imrazor's pavilion was largest of all the tents of the siege camp, yet its inside was sparse and simply furnished. Just as Belzagar had done, Imrazor feasted his lieutenants that night, and Daenerys sat upon his right hand. The silent Captain of the Ships filled her goblet himself, and carved her meat for her, and ensured she and her handmaidens had the choicest portions of each dish set before them. Then Imrazor began to call forth his men:
"Horatius!" Imrazor called out, filling the tent with his powerful voice. Cheers and applause went up from the seated officers, and men banged their fists on tables. A man arose, bronze of skin with a bowl of black hair upon his head. A long dagger was thrust through his belt, and in black thread the image of twin children suckled by a wolf was borne upon his doublet. This Horatius bowed before the Captain of Umbar. Imrazor rose from his seat and clapped a hand upon Horatius's shoulder, clasping his hand forearm to forearm.
"I am told you led the escalade that first raised our banners upon the towers of Meereen this day," said Imrazor. Horatius smiled and muttered something in a tongue unknown to Dany.
"Nothing so befits the warrior as humility, but my friend valour such as yours is worthy of men's songs," As he spoke, Imrazor pressed a heavy arm-ring of silver chased with gold into Horatius's hand. The lieutenant bowed before his Captain and returned to his seat.
Imrazor spoke again: "Georg! Come forth Georg!"
The man who stood up to the cheers of his comrades was one of the strangest dressed Dany had ever seen. His doublet was tight across his chest, the arms puffed and covered with slash marks here and there, and all of it a dizzying, eye-sore myriad of particolour: Red, black, yellow. His hose were tight below the knee, yet became huge baggy pantaloons above. His blond beard was braided and forked, and his moustaches waxed into sharp upturned points. The soldier bowed low from the waist.
"The gates of Meereen might never have been opened to us had it not been for you and your men, the Great King surely is in your debt," Imrazor said, clasping his forearm with one hand and with the other giving him a heavy ring of red-gold with a fiery ruby set in its band.
Long into the deepening night, Imrazor honoured his captains and lieutenants, and to each officer had had a ring, or a crown, or a length of silver chain, and to each he had words of praise. There was no whispering in the corners of Imrazor's tent, here all men cheered each other's successes, and all men drank each other's honour in their cups. The only music of the feast were the distant cries of the Meereenese.
"Belzagar! Aglahad's son!" Imrazor said at last, beckoning for Belzagar to come and sit at his left hand. Belzagar, dressed in finery fit for a king, bowed low to Imrazor, who wore only a tunic of plain white over woolen trousers. Daenerys did not miss the flash of discontent behind Belzagar's mask of deference.
Belzagar said, "I am at your service, great Imrazor, Captain of Ships and Hosts,"
"Speak plainly Belzagar, this is not the Great King's court," said Imrazor. He gave to Belzagar a slim circlet of white gold, with a white stone set upon its brow. "This shall not be the first award your service shall merit, I deem,"
The lesser captain narrowed his eyes. "The praise of the Great King shall be all the award a servant needs,"
"I hope that day shall come soon, but alas your prowess is needed here yet," said Imrazor. From within his tunic he brought forth a piece of parchment, folded neatly, with a broken wax seal upon it.
"My orders were to bring the Princess to her brother's side in Umbar," Belzagar replied.
Imrazor's voice was regretful. "An errand-galley came from Umbar whilst our siege lay here. I have been recalled to the City,"
Daenerys saw Belzagar tighten his fist upon the table, but his face remained unchanged. "The Princess shall have the pleasure of traveling upon your ship then,"
"Yes, though I confess an old soldier makes for poor company!" Imrazor laughed, turning towards Daenerys.
"And what is to be my duties?" asked Belzagar.
"Meereen has fallen. She and all our new provinces must be governed, the unruly wills of her people must be brought to heel, a task which falls to you," said the High Captain.
"I am honoured above my station," said Belzagar. His words were affable, but his nostrils flared.
"You are honoured in accordance with your skill, my friend," said Imrazor warmly, clapping Belzagar on the back. "Truth told, I am loath to leave this task undone, or for another to finish, but the Great King has called and I answer,"
Belzagar had the eyes of a hunting hawk as he stared at the High Captain. "Send my regards to the Court, and tell the Great King that in this and in all things I remain his most loyal servant. With Melkor's aid, I pray my strength proves equal to lordship,"
The dawn rose over a Meereen that still smoked and stank of death. From the forecastle of Imrazor's ship Huan, a huge carrack that towered like a castle upon the waves, Daenerys looked back at the shore as it slipped away. Heedless of death and the wars of men, seabirds were crying their mournful songs. The Numenoreans, agile in the rigging as fish in the water, were smoothly and swiftly lowering the vast black sails of Huan. The ship had three masts that stood tall as the tallest trees, and their sails were like a patch of midnight against the light blue sky of the morning. Far, far above the heads of Dany and the crew, the golden star of Umbar looked down, and next to it upon a field of black was the lidless red eye. She felt its gaze follow her, though it was nothing but dyed cloth.
The anchors splashed and broke the surface whilst the mariners tacked their sails to catch the breeze. Passing through and brooding above the lesser galleys and cogs, the Huan turned her head and came away, slowly gathering speed as she went. The Numenorean sailors sang in their strange tongue as they worked aboard their ship, and their voices were fair and light-hearted. Meereen sent a pillar of smoke and ashes high up into the sky, as if the whole city was a funeral pyre.
Daenerys glanced back up the deck. Imrazor was standing at the aftcastle, purple cloak billowing about him. He was watching her, or perhaps looking past her to Meereen and the camps of his armies, and his eyes were pensive.
She looked back to the shore, farther and farther away with each passing moment. She had found a life amongst the Dothraki, a home of a sort. All her life, she had been a prisoner. A prisoner of her brother, of men like Illyrio, of fear. The Dothraki had let her feel freedom, power even. She knew what her place was at Drogo's side, and knew that when he was gone she would have a place of dignity and honour in Vaes Dothrak amongst the dosh khaleen. One day had robbed her of it all. That life seemed to be retreating behind her just as the shore did. The chains were closing in, tighter and harder.
Her hand brushed against the bulge of her stomach, and she felt a fierce kick from within.
Rhaego, she thought. The Stallion That Mounts The World. One day, the Great King of Umbar will kneel to you. One day you will avenge your father. One day Umbar will burn.
Daenerys grasped the gunnel as a large wave made the deck pitch and roll. It had been many years since she had been aboard a ship, and never a ship as large as this.
Somewhere over the measureless miles of the sea, Umbar was waiting. The Great King was waiting. Her brother was waiting.
The Skahazadhan
The great river Skahazadhan is broad and meandering, slow and full of silt. It wanders, tranquil and serene, through the dusty, arid hills of Lhazar. Far swifter was the river of men and horses which flowed in their rapid onset along its valley.
To the beat of the kettle drums, the men of Umbar marched, or rode their tall horses. Even afoot they towered over the Ghiscari that filled the bulk of the host, and over the strange tribesmen of distant lands whose tongues were as the singing of birds and the hooting of beasts. It was they who drove the pace, and by harsh words and the cracking of whips the lesser men were driven till their feet blistered and bled. With great swiftness, the host passed down the valley of the Skahazadhan towards distant sandstone mountains.
"Ghiscari," Daenerys heard one of the Black Numenoreans say, riding beside her cart one day. The man was much as other Umbarians: Golden-haired, fair-faced, blue-eyed. He spat upon the ground in disgust.
"They call themselves the iron legions, these thralls," remarked one of his companions. They were all tall, well-mounted upon strong horses, cloaked in purple and girt with swords.
"They are fit to stand and die, but a little stroll like this and they are unmanned. They complain like children," said another.
"A Ghiscari told me his folk once ruled vast dominions. I hardly believe it," said the first.
Daenerys Targaryen was beginning to know well the accents of Umbar. She had never seen the city, nor heard rumour of it, she knew nothing of its people or its laws or its Great King, but she knew already that these were a mighty people, self-assured of their power such as she had never seen even amongst the Dothraki.
The first days had been the worst. She had walked as if trapped in a nightmare since the death of her moon and stars, her Drogo. She saw his face when she awoke, and heard his voice in her dreams. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him lying in the dust, his braid cut and his body hacked and hewn. Many nights, she had wept. Doreah and Irri had been left to her by Belzagar's command, and though she would not speak to them for days they would sit with her in the nights, and listen to her weeping, and rub her back and speak gentle words. That still would not stave off the awful dreams that scourged her nights and haunted her days.
Belzagar, the Captain of Umbar, was the image of princely courtesy. Not a hand was laid upon Daenerys or her handmaidens, not a cruel word or unkind look was ever aimed at them. They rode in the best and smoothest-driving wagons in the army, they were well-clothed in Umbar's finery, and every night they ate from Belzagar's table in Belzagar's own pavilion. His words were always gentle, and he carved Daenerys's meat with his own knife, laying it upon her plate with warmth in his eyes.
Many times she thought of taking her own life. Her hand would linger upon the knife laid upon her plate for cutting her meat. The edge was enough. Then Rhaego would give a kick into her ribs or stomach, she felt his life inside her, and she would set the knife down. When she was returned to her own tent, the firelight would gleam and flicker upon her dragon eggs.
The days passed, becoming weeks. The pain subdued from a sharp anguish to a constant throbbing ache. The mountains grew closer, looming up in the west in front of them, towering brown and grey.
She watched the men of Umbar constantly, observing and learning. She grew to note their tongue, full of strange syllables and harsh tones. A word stood out, with which the Black Numenoreans seemed to use to call themselves: Adunaim.
The Adunaim camped apart from the Ghiscari and the other levies of their host. They were a small part, a little over two thousand in a host of twenty thousand, yet Daenerys understood that this was the true, hard backbone of Belzagar's army. The Ghiscari were a trained militia, who marched in step and shouldered their shields upon the order, but they were amateurs in the end. The tribesmen were a wild and strange bunch, armed and armoured in countless ways and combinations. Some were short and bow-legged, faces flat and creased by wind and sun, dressed all in silk and furs and leather, and they shot their bows from horseback in the manner of the Dothraki. Others were swaggering bronze-skinned men with tall shields and heavy javelins, who wore shirts of scales and carried long knives at their sides. Others still wore long heavy beards of black curls, even in the heat of Lhazar, and their spears were scarcely as tall as a man with a heavy shaft as wide as a man's wrist and wicked broad points of steel, their swords were short and broad, and their shields were round and painted in bright swirls. The host of Belzagar was less than half the size of the khalasar, but far more nations and peoples and tongues were represented here.
The Adunaim were the true professionals though. Daenerys knew little of war and soldiers, but even her untrained eye could note it. They rode the swiftest and in the best order, their men quarreled and fought with each other the least, a captain's orders were obeyed quicker and with less question than in any other people of the army. When they pitched camp, the tents and pavilions of the Adunaim went up first, their meals were cooking the fastest, and the men busied themselves with useful tasks. The archers set to oiling their steelbows and mail hauberks, or making new bow strings, or patching their own clothes. The knights brushed their own horses down, and sharpened their own lances.
They rose first in the mornings, were formed for the march earliest, and set off earlier and at a quicker step. Every Adunaim, archer and man-at-arms alike, was mounted. The knights even had multiple horses. It was they who set the pace, dragging the Ghiscari and all the others behind them on dragging feet. It was their voices that snarled when others would lull and lag behind. The Black Numenoreans stared down with lofty contempt at their servant army.
Every night, Belzagar would hold court with his officers and chieftains. Daenerys watched him carefully. To those captains who had done well in the battle, he would shower with words of praise and gold rings for their fingers and arms. Some were his own, others Daenerys knew were stolen from the Dothraki who had stolen them themselves. Those with whom Belzagar was not pleased, however, would receive naught but silence, and the silence was noted. Men would whisper in the dark corners of the pavilion even as their comrades were praised and given rich gifts. Sometimes a man would receive a ring from the Captain of Umbar one night, only to be slain in a duel the next day. Daenerys never saw it amongst the Adunaim, but the chieftains of the vassals bickered and squabbled without end.
Day by day, mile by mile and league by league, the hosts leaped across the plains and hills of Lhazar, driving hard and fast for the mountains. Though foraging parties rode off each day, not a single village or town was burnt, not a single home looted or despoiled. Haste, Daenerys guessed, was Belzagar's object, and he pursued it unswervingly.
One day, as Daenerys rode in her cart, surrounded on all sides by purple-cloaked knights of Umbar as she ever was, Belzagar came and rode next to her. His retinue came up in a roll of heavy hooves, and his banners flapped in the breeze above their heads. The Captain of Umbar bowed in the saddle with perfect courtesy, and smiled a warm smile of straight, white teeth.
"Hail, and good day to you, my fair Princess," he said.
"Captain Belzagar," Dany replied, finding herself smiling in return even as her stomach turned over in revulsion.
"The barbarians call those mountains the Khyzai, or perhaps the pass is the Khyzai? Ah, such strange tongues these people have," Belzagar said, pointing at the mountains that now stood huge and close before them. The Skahazadhan flowed into the mountains, carving out a deep, steep-sided valley as it disappeared into the distance.
"And what is on the other side of the mountains?" Daenerys asked. She wanted to know where she was being taken.
"The city of Meereen, my Princess. A trifling town, truly, but it has the blessing of sitting upon the sea,"
She frowned. "The sea? That is where you are taking us?"
Belzagar said with a laugh, "All roads shall lead to Umbar in time, even the whale-road. To see the sea again is a joy to every man of Umbar, for the Numenoreans are people of the sea,"
"The sea is fair indeed, it has been long since I have seen it," said Dany. Belzagar gazed at her, and his glance was piercing and knowing, and she felt laid bare before it, but suddenly he seemed to see her and his mouth hung slack and awe came upon his face.
"Fair the sea is, but fairer still are the eyes with which you gaze upon it, my Princess," the Captain said, bowing his head. "So fair a line as yours, it is little wonder lesser men were over-awed by the House of Targaryen for so long. It is said that your forefathers ruled over great wyrms with but the force of their will. Mighty men were they indeed if that is true,"
Despite herself, Dany smiled and felt a pride in her bloodline. "Mighty men they were indeed. Aegon the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms riding upon Balerion, a dragon so great they say his teeth were as swords and his claws spears, and the shock of his tail a thunderbolt,"
Captain Belzagar nodded. "The world was full of wonders, not so long ago,"
The Captain of Umbar spoke again, voice a languid drawl "I have seen your brother in Umbar, my Princess, in the court of the Great King,"
"You have seen Viserys?" Daenerys exclaimed, feeling as if suddenly struck by lightning. Viserys had disappeared months ago in Vaes Dothrak. She had thought he had abandoned her, and when there was no word she hardened her heart to her lost brother.
"Prince Viserys, yes," Belzagar said, smiling again. "The Great King has taken him to his side and made him as a prince of his own house, and he is honoured amongst the Numenoreans,"
"And to what do we owe your King's charity?" replied Dany. All her life she and Viserys had traveled the Free Cities, from the houses of one magister or merchant-prince to another. All her life, she had watched powerful men laugh and mock her brother, the Beggar-King. If she had learned anything, it was that great lords rarely feel any charity, and never offer aid without expecting payment of some kind.
She wondered what promises had drawn Viserys into Umbar's nets, and what purpose Ar-Azulakhor sought them out for.
"None in Umbar have a more generous spirit, a deeper reservoir of kindness, a more profound sympathy, than our Great King," said the Captain.
"Our heralds found your brother a captive of barbarians, and spirited him away knowing that it would not be the Great King's will that a King of Westeros roll in the muck of a Dothraki camp,"
"You know nothing of them," Daenerys said, voice quiet but steely. Belzagar laughed, a musical, rolling laugh that was taken up as if in chorus by the other men-at-arms of Umbar all around them.
"I know how they die, my Princess,"
The Khyzai mountains soon loomed up on either side of them, and still they followed the Skahazadhan as it cut its way through sandstone for many, many days. The canyons and walls of the mountains rang with the sounds of marching feet, and rattling arms, and the clatter of horse hooves on stone, and the roll of wains. The air grew thinner and colder, and the Skahazadhan became swifter and narrower, hemmed in either side by sheer rock.
At night, Daenerys would lay in her pavilion and listen to the distant howling of wild and lonely things in the high places. She found herself laying with her dragon eggs clutched in her hands. When she held the eggs, Rhaego would kick and stretch, and though it pained her body, her heart was gladdened to feel him so fierce within her stomach. Dany held the eggs close and remembered the khalasar, and the young warriors of her khas, and Jorah and Thorongil, and Drogo. She yearned for his hand, strong but gentle, upon her face, and for his voice. She held the eggs tighter, and her tears glinted upon their scales.
The days blended together, one into another, and still their journey went on. The mountains grew higher and craggy, and the Skahazadhan became a deep, swift-flowing, treacherous onset as it passed running over stone. Men, and some horses too, were killed some days as they bent over to take water and slipped and were lost. Though the pass became narrow and treacherous in some places with fallen rocks and sharp-edged stone, still Belzagar drove the pace on mercilessly.
Doreah came to Dany's tent one evening. The girl was Lysene, fair-haired and soft-skinned, and she looked suited for the long kirtle and gown of rich blue she had been clad in. Her clothes were make of Umbar, light and tightly woven and set with stones, but it was a gift from the mistress of one of the vassal-chieftains who traveled with the host. Despite the finery, Doreah looked thin and weak, and her face had a pallor. The journey had been hard upon her.
"Khaleesi," Doreah said, bowing low. "I'm sorry to trouble you,"
"No, it's fine Doreah, what is it?" replied Dany.
"It's just… Khaleesi, do you know where they are taking us?" Dany's tent was well-furnished, and Doreah sat upon a low stool across from her Khaleesi.
"This Umbar," the handmaiden went on. "I grew up in Lys and I know the names of every Free City, and of the Slaver-cities too. From men in the pleasure houses have even heard of Qarth and other far places, but I have never heard of Umbar, Khaleesi,"
"Nor I, until that… That herald came to Drogo," Daenerys said, shuddering. She still remembered how pale Thorongil's face had been when the Mouth of Umbar had strode into the tent of Drogo.
"So where is it then? And who are these people?" Suddenly Doreah remembered her station, and she dropped her eyes. "Forgive me Khaleesi, I am becoming too bold,"
Dany's hand grazed the Lysene girl's shoulder. "Do not apologize, dear Doreah. I know you are frightened, I feel that fear too,"
"Irri is scared as well," said Doreah. "She told me that to overcome Khal Drogo in battle upon the open field, these men must be terrible and utterly without fear,"
"They are Numenoreans, so Captain Belzagar said," replied Dany. "But these are not men of Gondor, or they are nothing like anything I have heard of the men of Gondor. There is no city of Umbar in Gondor, and Gondor is ruled by the Iron Throne, not by a Great King,"
The handmaiden grimaced. "But what do Numenoreans want with you, Khaleesi? Why did they attack us?"
"I don't know," Dany said. "Viserys is in Umbar too, according to Belzagar. He claims it is out of the generosity of their King's heart, but I have traveled in many courts and seen many magnates, and somehow I doubt this King's kindness,"
Outside, they heard a clash of metal against metal. In the distance, two soldiers were swaggering swords and bucklers together, and men were laughing and cheering them on.
Daenerys spoke at last, "In Pentos, Illyrio wanted to place my brother on the Iron Throne again. He claimed to be a loyalist, though he was no Westerosi. I always feared that he sought to place a crown on my brother's head merely to rule through him. This so-called Great King, I fear his ambitions are the same,"
"To rule Westeros through your brother?" Doreah asked.
"Yes, to put a puppet on the Iron Throne. What I don't understand though is that these Numenoreans, they seem to have great power and force of arms. If rule of Westeros is their ambition, why do they need Viserys? Or me?"
Doreah's eyes flicked past Dany's shoulder. The light of the brazier flickered and gleamed upon the scales of the dragon-eggs, black and green and pale white.
"Do you… Do you think it has something to do with the eggs?" the handmaiden asked slowly.
"My eggs? What would the King of Umbar want with them?" Dany, turning and glancing at them. Illyrio had told her at her wedding that the ages had turned them to stone, despite their beauty and the strange warmth she sometimes felt from within them.
"I can't say Khaleesi, but I just know they mean you ill," replied Doreah, glancing out the tent flap where the noise of swords and bucklers was growing louder and swifter. "Something in their eyes chills my blood,"
They passed through the Khzai, marching swift as a wind through the high and narrow places. They kept to the north bank of the Skahazadhan, now a cold torrent which roared and rushed. The provisions in the baggage train were growing thin, and Daenerys began to see Belzagar's single-minded intent upon bringing his host across the mountains and to the shores of the sea. His courtesies remained, elaborate and princely as ever, but he nary spoke of anything but the sea, and the city of Umbar. Returning to Umbar pressed upon his mind above all other things.
Five days after Doreah shared her fears with Dany, they broke through the mountains and descended out of them into a wide and bare land. The land was red and arid, the hills dotted with gnarled trees and shrubs. The sky above was a clear and vivid blue, cloudless, and the sun beat down oppressively. The host left the mountains behind them and drove west and a little south, stirring up huge clouds of red dust by their hooves and tramping feet.
As they came down out of the hills, Daenerys began to notice something terribly wrong about this bare, dry land. In the distance she saw villages, yet no people. Herds of goats bleated without their goatherds. Yet no one was to be seen, large or small, near or far. Soon, however, she wished she didn't know where the people had gone. For at every tree at every crossroad they passed, people were hung. Men, women, children, babes barely out of their mother's arms, hung from the neck by ropes from every branch and knot. They swayed in the breeze, their faces cold and dreadful to look upon. At every tree, the Adunaim chattered in their own tongue and laughed as if remembering past joys. Dany kept her eyes forward and tried not to look at the faces, but unable to tear her mind away from them. They passed hundreds of such trees of the dead.
Amidst the smells of men and animals that follow every army, suddenly Daenerys caught a whiff of something else. Elusive, barely noticeable, but a definite change in the air. A tang of salt and water that she had not felt since Pentos. She could smell the sea.
The faces of the Numenoreans grew eager, and they pressed the pace on with greater speed. Their horses grew agitated, snorting and neighing as if they sensed their riders' excitement. Then in a roll of hooves, Belzagar and his whole retinue broke from the column and galloped away in a cloud of dust, disappearing over a low ridge before them. He was followed by more Adunaim, in ones and twos and small groups. The Ghiscari led the other vassals up the road that crossed the ridge, eyes down, following as obedient dogs follow their master. From her cart, Daenerys heard many Numenorean voices raise to the skies, chanting a single word.
"Azra! Azra! Azra!"
As her cart crested the ridge, Dany saw the sea beneath her, gleaming and fair, and she heard the music of the waves hissing against the distant shore. Then she saw the ships. The masts of the ships were as the Forest of Qohor, and they stretched as far she could see. There were ships of every size and description, beyond count. They seemed numberless as the stars of the sky or the sands of the desert. She saw light galleys, slim and deadly, bronze-prowed. She saw heavy galleasses and dromunds of great length and draught and many oars. There were tall cogs and hulks and carracks, heavy-timbered and bluff-bowed, towering above the lesser ships. Yet every ship, no matter what size or type, carried black sails.
Dany's gaze traveled inland from the vast fleet, and she saw there the city of Meereen stretched beneath her, proudest and strongest of the Slaver-cities. The city was besieged. Fires burned within her walls, and she was ringed with foes on all sides. Meereen was surrounded with a ring of armed camps, and trenches jutting at strange, sharp angles formed a continuous circle around her. The pyramids of Meereen stood amidst clouds of dark, billowing smoke, shrouding their ancient peaks. Her many-coloured walls were darkened by smoke-stains. The gates were smashed open and lay ajar.
For the first time in her life, Daenerys heard the most unmistakable and terrible sound in all the warring of men: The chorus of screams, the endless sounds of terror, pain and suffering that rises with a sacked city. Meereen was falling.
All this, Dany saw in a single instant. Without a word being said, she knew it was the work of Umbar. The skies themselves were darkened by the burning of the city, and the smoke clouding round the pyramids was lit from beneath with an eerie red glow of fierce fires.
The host of Belzagar streamed down the hills in serried companies, row on row, banners flying, with the Adunaim leading. Surrounded by the knights, Daenerys's cart was brought with them in the van. The Numenoreans were still crying out in many fair voices.
"Azra! Azra!"
The cart-driver was a man of Umbar, with a thick blond beard and long, thick limbs. He had driven the horses of Dany's wain for miles and miles and spoken nary a word to her or her handmaidens riding on the benches behind him. Now he glanced over his shoulder at his cargo.
"The Sea," he said gruffly. "They are calling the name of the Sea in our tongue,"
Belzagar led them to the largest of the siege camps, a vast town of canvas tents and pavilions of many colours and shapes. It was surrounded by a deep ditch, and a high palisade of sharpened stakes, and above its wooden gate fluttered the banner of Umbar: Half crimson red, half deep blue, with a golden star in the middle. The gate was flung open for them, and they passed inside. The tents stretched in long, straight, orderly rows on either side of the main road.
Above the gates of the camp, two stakes were set, with boards nailed to them to form a cross. Daenerys saw two men strung up upon these crosses, nails through their hands and feet, harsh thongs of leather round their wrists and ankles. The men were dressed in robes of fine silk, stained by dried blood, and upon their brows they wore crowns of heavy gold. Huge gashes had been torn in their bodies, and their rips were splayed open, flies buzzing in their exposed innards. Their faces were contorted horribly, as if they still screamed even in death. The sight was enough to chill Dany's blood, and even as she tore her eyes away she could still see it in her mind.
All around them, the besiegers watched the newcomers march into their camp. There was Numenoreans there, fair-haired and sharp-eyed, and amongst them more Ghiscari legionnaires, leaning upon shields and pikes. Dany saw many strange emblems and heraldry on the banners that flew everywhere, the standards of distant tribes and nations: A black raven on the wing, a she-wolf suckling twin children, a legged serpent roaring at a red sun, a golden sun bursting on a field of purple. There was another device too, that stared at Dany wherever she looked: A pure black field, bearing upon a single, lidless, red eye.
There were men and weapons of every shape and every kind in the camp, and they muttered in languages unlike any she had heard before. The camp was silent but for the marching of Belzagar's host filing in, and the rumble of their wains.
The soldiers' faces were hard and drawn, and their eyes had a hollow stare in them. They were smoke-stained, and splattered with mud and what looked like dried blood. Their knuckles were white upon pike-shafts and sword hilts. Men looked at Dany and her handmaidens and licked their lips, their hard eyes staring right through her. The whole camp seemed to have stopped its business to watch the newcomers.
Captain Belzagar reined his horse in at the central square of the camp, a huge space of hard-trampled dirt. The army continued to file past him, but Dany's cart was drawn up behind the Captain's bodyguards. She heard Belzagar speaking to a Numenorean in burnished armour and purple cloak on foot, who was obviously a man of some station. They exchanged words in their harsh, guttural tongue, and then Daenerys saw Belzagar's face suddenly twist in anger.
A dust cloud was moving swiftly on the plain between the camp and the burning siege. Drawing closer, it became a small band of horsemen at a hard gallop. Above their heads flew the golden star of Umbar. As the gates were opened for the riders, a cry went up within the camp, and soon the air was roaring with voices.
Where once the soldiers were silent and morose, now they cheered, cheered, cheered wildly. Helmets were tossed into the air, pikes and halberds were shaken, swords and ax-handles were beaten against shields, feet stamped the ground, and Daenerys felt in her stomach the roar of thirty thousand men shouting aloud a single name.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
Daenerys watched the horsemen ride towards her. At their forefront went a man, a prince taller and broader of shoulder than the others, and he was mounted on a black stallion taller and more powerfully built than any Dany had ever seen, yet the beast went as calmly as the meekest mare for its rider. The prince wore mail of black rings beneath the brightly burnished plates of his harness, and his helm was high-crested and adorned with feathers, but his features were concealed beneath a mask. The mask was of silver and steel, and its face sneered with an expression of contempt and cold command. His cloak was long and purple, streaming down his horse's haunches.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
On every side, the soldiers chanted, roaring the name endlessly, and they shook their banners in the air. They cast the harpy standards of Meereen to the ground before him, and he trod them into the dust.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
The riders halted in the square, and Dany saw that these too were men of Umbar, but unlike the proud princelings that rode with Belzagar, these men bore scars of battle upon their harnesses, and their faces too had the hollow, distant, piercing stare of their soldiers. They too were stained with smoke and blood. They were fresh from the city.
"IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR! IMRAZOR!"
The great captain held in his hand a mace, golden and red in colour, and he raised it above his head. The voices of the soldiers cheered longest and loudest as he did, but when the mace was lowered silence fell, sudden and complete.
Belzagar's face had been composed to his usual noble serenity, and he swung down out of his saddle smoothly. His own men and the soldiers of the camp watched his every move, thousands of faces and eyes following him. Before the great man, Belzagar bowed his head and then went down on one knee and laid his sword and mace on the ground before him.
"Hail, my Lord Imrazor son of Ibal!" Belzagar shouted in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
The man stayed in the saddle, and he reached up and removed his mask and helm. Imrazor son of Ibal's face was pale and stern, clean-shaven but marked here and there with old scars, and his gold-bronze hair was cropped short. His eyes were a pale blue, and as they gazed at Belzagar Dany thought they looked strangely sad.
"Hail Belzagar son of Aglahad," Imrazor said in a soft voice. He too dismounted, and beckoned Belzagar to stand. The great captain took his servant by the shoulder and they walked together towards Daenerys.
Every moment since Drogo had fallen and the khalasar had shattered, Dany had felt fear. She had walked as if in a nightmare. She feared for herself, for her son, for her brother, even for her handmaidens. Now as Imrazor and Belzagar approached her, she felt the fear fall away, replaced only a calmness. She could feel the eyes of the soldiers upon her, she could smell the burning city and hear its screams in the distance, but all she felt was a calm emptiness inside. She stood up to meet the captains of Umbar on her feet.
"Belzagar, it appears your little errand was a success," said Imrazor, crossing his hands behind his back and looking up at Dany.
"Yes my lord, we met the barbarians in the field and put them to flight, breaking the power of the proud Drogo such that the very name of Umbar shall be the terror of the Dothraki Sea!" Belzagar said, voice a proud boast.
Imrazor's lips curved in half a faint smile, "A deed worthy of your fathers,"
Dany did not miss the flash of anger in Belzagar's eyes, but she ignored it and her voice broke in between them: "I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, daughter of Aerys"
Imrazor bowed his head. "It is an honour, my Princess. I am Imrazor son of Ibal, High Captain of the King's Ships,"
With his own hand, Imrazor helped Dany and her handmaidens down from the cart.
"I am told, my Princess, that you were a captive of the horse tribes," said Imrazor as he set her down. He was the tallest man Dany had ever seen. He went on, "I am told you carved yourself out a place at their king's side,"
Despite herself, Dany couldn't help but smile at memories of better times, a fairer place, where she was a queen and not a captive. "Yes, I was the Khaleesi of Drogo, greatest of the Dothraki khals,"
"A high and valiant chieftain, if what men say is true," said Imrazor.
"The tales do not tell half the truth," replied Dany. She found herself remembering Drogo's gentle words, his touch, and then she saw in her mind him falling into the dirt with shorn braid once again, and her throat tightened. It was hard to breathe. She forced the feeling down and composed her face into the mask of Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of the Eight Kingdoms.
Imrazor's eyes were melancholy, but still they had a knowing and piercing look of a Numenorean in them.
"I am certain your journey has wearied you my Princess. Rest and put your mind at ease this night, you are my own guest in my camp," the High Captain said, bowing his head once more.
Meereen burned long and fierce, and it lit up the night sky with a red, angry glow. Through the drifting smoke, the great harpy atop the tallest pyramid was occasionally glimpsed, flashing bright from the flames below. The sounds that carried from the city to the camp of Imrazor were awful to the ears, and though she tried her hardest Dany could not ignore them.
Imrazor's pavilion was largest of all the tents of the siege camp, yet its inside was sparse and simply furnished. Just as Belzagar had done, Imrazor feasted his lieutenants that night, and Daenerys sat upon his right hand. The silent Captain of the Ships filled her goblet himself, and carved her meat for her, and ensured she and her handmaidens had the choicest portions of each dish set before them. Then Imrazor began to call forth his men:
"Horatius!" Imrazor called out, filling the tent with his powerful voice. Cheers and applause went up from the seated officers, and men banged their fists on tables. A man arose, bronze of skin with a bowl of black hair upon his head. A long dagger was thrust through his belt, and in black thread the image of twin children suckled by a wolf was borne upon his doublet. This Horatius bowed before the Captain of Umbar. Imrazor rose from his seat and clapped a hand upon Horatius's shoulder, clasping his hand forearm to forearm.
"I am told you led the escalade that first raised our banners upon the towers of Meereen this day," said Imrazor. Horatius smiled and muttered something in a tongue unknown to Dany.
"Nothing so befits the warrior as humility, but my friend valour such as yours is worthy of men's songs," As he spoke, Imrazor pressed a heavy arm-ring of silver chased with gold into Horatius's hand. The lieutenant bowed before his Captain and returned to his seat.
Imrazor spoke again: "Georg! Come forth Georg!"
The man who stood up to the cheers of his comrades was one of the strangest dressed Dany had ever seen. His doublet was tight across his chest, the arms puffed and covered with slash marks here and there, and all of it a dizzying, eye-sore myriad of particolour: Red, black, yellow. His hose were tight below the knee, yet became huge baggy pantaloons above. His blond beard was braided and forked, and his moustaches waxed into sharp upturned points. The soldier bowed low from the waist.
"The gates of Meereen might never have been opened to us had it not been for you and your men, the Great King surely is in your debt," Imrazor said, clasping his forearm with one hand and with the other giving him a heavy ring of red-gold with a fiery ruby set in its band.
Long into the deepening night, Imrazor honoured his captains and lieutenants, and to each officer had had a ring, or a crown, or a length of silver chain, and to each he had words of praise. There was no whispering in the corners of Imrazor's tent, here all men cheered each other's successes, and all men drank each other's honour in their cups. The only music of the feast were the distant cries of the Meereenese.
"Belzagar! Aglahad's son!" Imrazor said at last, beckoning for Belzagar to come and sit at his left hand. Belzagar, dressed in finery fit for a king, bowed low to Imrazor, who wore only a tunic of plain white over woolen trousers. Daenerys did not miss the flash of discontent behind Belzagar's mask of deference.
Belzagar said, "I am at your service, great Imrazor, Captain of Ships and Hosts,"
"Speak plainly Belzagar, this is not the Great King's court," said Imrazor. He gave to Belzagar a slim circlet of white gold, with a white stone set upon its brow. "This shall not be the first award your service shall merit, I deem,"
The lesser captain narrowed his eyes. "The praise of the Great King shall be all the award a servant needs,"
"I hope that day shall come soon, but alas your prowess is needed here yet," said Imrazor. From within his tunic he brought forth a piece of parchment, folded neatly, with a broken wax seal upon it.
"My orders were to bring the Princess to her brother's side in Umbar," Belzagar replied.
Imrazor's voice was regretful. "An errand-galley came from Umbar whilst our siege lay here. I have been recalled to the City,"
Daenerys saw Belzagar tighten his fist upon the table, but his face remained unchanged. "The Princess shall have the pleasure of traveling upon your ship then,"
"Yes, though I confess an old soldier makes for poor company!" Imrazor laughed, turning towards Daenerys.
"And what is to be my duties?" asked Belzagar.
"Meereen has fallen. She and all our new provinces must be governed, the unruly wills of her people must be brought to heel, a task which falls to you," said the High Captain.
"I am honoured above my station," said Belzagar. His words were affable, but his nostrils flared.
"You are honoured in accordance with your skill, my friend," said Imrazor warmly, clapping Belzagar on the back. "Truth told, I am loath to leave this task undone, or for another to finish, but the Great King has called and I answer,"
Belzagar had the eyes of a hunting hawk as he stared at the High Captain. "Send my regards to the Court, and tell the Great King that in this and in all things I remain his most loyal servant. With Melkor's aid, I pray my strength proves equal to lordship,"
The dawn rose over a Meereen that still smoked and stank of death. From the forecastle of Imrazor's ship Huan, a huge carrack that towered like a castle upon the waves, Daenerys looked back at the shore as it slipped away. Heedless of death and the wars of men, seabirds were crying their mournful songs. The Numenoreans, agile in the rigging as fish in the water, were smoothly and swiftly lowering the vast black sails of Huan. The ship had three masts that stood tall as the tallest trees, and their sails were like a patch of midnight against the light blue sky of the morning. Far, far above the heads of Dany and the crew, the golden star of Umbar looked down, and next to it upon a field of black was the lidless red eye. She felt its gaze follow her, though it was nothing but dyed cloth.
The anchors splashed and broke the surface whilst the mariners tacked their sails to catch the breeze. Passing through and brooding above the lesser galleys and cogs, the Huan turned her head and came away, slowly gathering speed as she went. The Numenorean sailors sang in their strange tongue as they worked aboard their ship, and their voices were fair and light-hearted. Meereen sent a pillar of smoke and ashes high up into the sky, as if the whole city was a funeral pyre.
Daenerys glanced back up the deck. Imrazor was standing at the aftcastle, purple cloak billowing about him. He was watching her, or perhaps looking past her to Meereen and the camps of his armies, and his eyes were pensive.
She looked back to the shore, farther and farther away with each passing moment. She had found a life amongst the Dothraki, a home of a sort. All her life, she had been a prisoner. A prisoner of her brother, of men like Illyrio, of fear. The Dothraki had let her feel freedom, power even. She knew what her place was at Drogo's side, and knew that when he was gone she would have a place of dignity and honour in Vaes Dothrak amongst the dosh khaleen. One day had robbed her of it all. That life seemed to be retreating behind her just as the shore did. The chains were closing in, tighter and harder.
Her hand brushed against the bulge of her stomach, and she felt a fierce kick from within.
Rhaego, she thought. The Stallion That Mounts The World. One day, the Great King of Umbar will kneel to you. One day you will avenge your father. One day Umbar will burn.
Daenerys grasped the gunnel as a large wave made the deck pitch and roll. It had been many years since she had been aboard a ship, and never a ship as large as this.
Somewhere over the measureless miles of the sea, Umbar was waiting. The Great King was waiting. Her brother was waiting.
- Location
- Tel'aran'rhiod
If Umbar ever burns it certainly won't be because of Daenerys or her kid, they just can't stack up to pure Numenoreans
Not unless said kid brings a lot of Dragons. Though if that were to happen it would likely take a generation or two.