Chapter 74: Dorne XII
Late 162 AC
Warning: contains torture
It had not been three weeks after the disaster at Skyreach when Ormond had been sent by his lord to bring ruin upon their enemy. Far to the south and east he had gone initially, gathering men and supplies as best they could, all the while keeping an eye out for bandits, rebels and enemy armies marching into Qorgyle lands. Yet of these, few ever appeared, and those that did were dealt a harsh reminder of the desert's unforgiving nature. Ambushes, poisoned supplies left in slightly inconspicuous places, false retreats and forcing them to go without sleep, they'd done everything but foul wells.
No true Dornishman would sink that low even in times like these, especially if they expected to face no consequences for such barbarity. The further south they traversed, the more issues they ran into. Villages that should have been friendly rebuffed them, sometimes with words and other times with shows of force. Towns that should have been hostile welcomed them and, surprisingly, did not poison them all in their sleep. Wells flowed cleanly for any who drew from them, and yet more than once did they find a well whose waters were somehow tainted by the same sulfurous waters the Brimstone bore out to sea. Supplies were hard to come by, as raiding parties carried off whatever they could from villages near the Qorgyle borders, and recovering men lost to sickness, battle or desertion was a costly affair.
Yet still they pressed on, ambushing whatever parties could not be identified as friendly, and this far into Dorne, every coming group could belong to any number of Dornish lords or alliances. Their purpose could as easily mirror his lord's goals in all ways but one, and that singular difference could lead to battle where before it might have been overlooked. Truly, the land was tearing itself apart, and it hurt Ormond's soul to know that for some reason, the unity of the Dornish against any outsiders had been so greatly crippled.
According to his lord, accounting for whichever factions had arisen in the wake of Lord Martell's death were… tricky. Some were public and brash about their goals, others secretive and deceptive, seeming to switch sides as readily as the shifting of sand. Be they for or against the Martells as princes of Dorne, or for or against the Targaryens ruling Dorne from afar, it was a dangerous gambit to say it in the open unless among known allies. He had seen more than one man wind up with a dagger in his side or something 'extra' in his drink for voicing his support for one cause or another in a new town or village.
Weeks had turned into months, and all the while their tasks by Lord Qorgyle had slowly changed, not by his own word, but by the situations they increasingly found themselves in. Finding shelter this deep in the interior was a struggle, and supplies nearly ran dry more times than he could count. Were it not for their sand steeds and the number of villages not yet plundered, they would have surely had to turn back to friendlier lands.
If only they had acquired the camels from Essos like Lord Tyrell was currently attempting to import, courtesy of word they had received from Prince Baelor's eastern campaign on the successes of some Essosi sellswords that brought over the beasts. It wasn't as if the strange creatures wouldn't be useful, but for their cause, they needed the swiftness of their sand steeds. That, and from what he had overheard, camels often caused unease or even unrest among horses when drawing close enough to one. Apparently, they smelled something awful, so better the flowery Reachmen purchase and attempt to use them than giving up more and more sand steeds to replace their thirsty Reach horses.
Ormond bit back a curse from his lips, already cracked from the abundant dry heat this far from the coast. He'd long forgotten exactly whose lands he and his men were in, so many had begun to blur together, but it was likely the Ullers or some vassal house of theirs. Unfortunately, just as was House Uller, their vassals too were the enemy, ones that stood in the way of Lord Qorgyle and his allies. Dornish who did not wish to see the Targaryens rule were united in purpose he had been told, secreting away gold and weapons for years while the distant Targaryens thought them firmly beneath their boot. Yet word had spread of the death of the foolish Arthur Martell, the one to lose them the war, the one to have ordered all to bend the knee and submit, rather than fight on in the wilds as many no doubt would have done. Rivalries and divisions had opened among the Dornish formerly sworn to rise in revolt against their tyrants, and now blood spilled across the sands as it had not done in ages.
Unsurprising, as the Martells had long grown soft in Sunspear, not knowing the struggles nor strengths of their fellow Dornish so far from the cooler, greener coasts. Here in the wilds, where wells were worth more than gold and the sun tried to bake you alive from sunup until sundown, only the scrappiest, wiliest, and most determined survived. Yet the small oasis village they had come across, one that was to be their sanctuary before moving on, was not as welcoming as it should have been as Ormond's comrades wearily rode into it.
"I don't like the look of this place," Ormond muttered, eyes darting from house to house, their occupants nowhere to be seen. Bleached sandstone was all that greeted them, the few palm trees and desert plants around the wells and oasis being the only signs of life. Night was not yet upon them, but already he could feel the air cooling as the sun dipped lower and lower towards the horizon. "Where are the smallfolk?"
One of his fellows, Ferris, scratched at the long stubble upon his chin, flecks of sand falling from it. "Perhaps they've fled to the nearest walled town for refuge from the raids? Wouldn't be the first ones to do so, given how often the raids apparently are across Dorne."
"Aye, but usually there's codgers or stubborn folk that stay behind to look after things, usually the wells or wells. Never enough to prevent us from taking what we need, but always there to pester us like desert flies," Ormond replied, motioning to several of his men. "Search the houses and storages, see to where the smallfolk may have gone and if they left behind any supplies."
"At least we'll have a roof over our heads tonight," Ferris said as they dismounted, their sand steeds already looking to the troughs from which well water usually flowed. Two of his men manned the buckets and, in short order, began to draw clean water from deep within the earth, much to the delight of the rest of them, all tired, dusty, and ready to settle in for the night. "I'm tired of picking scorpions out from my bedroll."
"Be thankful they aren't the red ones to the north," Ormond muttered before taking a long swig of water, the last from his waterskin before immediately refilling it from the well. "At least the last group we ambushed left us enough supplies to reach this village."
"How courteous of them," Ferris added with a dark chuckle. "Never thought I'd see the day that sellswords would be moving about in Lord Ullers' lands, nor would I expect them to have as many fine trinkets as they did. I wonder if he hired them to protect his lands while he was away?"
"No telling what the Ullers are up to, half are half-mad and the other half are worse, as they say. Lord Qorgyle didn't say why that lord marched east, but he sent us to find evidence that will help Governor Tyrell with the campaign in the west. The fighting is getting worse they say and given the number of villages we've stripped of excess supplies, won't be long before this entire area is useless to our lord's enemies should they try and make a move towards Sandstone."
"Ullers may be half-mad or worse, but even they can't eat sand," Ferris said. "Think our lord will send another band if the sellswords are more numerous than expected?"
"Can't say for certain, but he'll want us back as soon as we've turned any routes from the east into barren stretches," Ormond replied. "That, or we find anything valuable enough to cut our mission short and return as quickly as possible. He gave us a great deal of leeway to make sure the Tyrell lord stays happy."
"Bah, that flower wasn't meant for these lands, and it shows. Calls a meeting of lords together and somehow gets near half the lords, heirs, or kin of the Dornish houses killed in one night, himself almost among them from what I heard. Would have made our lives so much easier if it had just been him."
"Did they ever find out who started it all? You've a better ear for that sort of gossip."
Ferris shook his head. "There's as many rumors as to who started it as there are dead Dornish from that night. The Tyrells did it, the Martells, the Ullers, the Targaryens, the Yronwoods, hells there's even talk about different Essosi having a hand in it."
"Bugger it all, we might never know. Wonder if-,"
"Captain Ormond!" a voice cried out, the lot of them turning to see one of the forward scouts running to him. The boy was perhaps the stringiest and youngest among them, but no better man to sneak about undetected.
"Yes? What is it?"
"The smallfolk, we… we've found them."
Ormond did not like that tone, and after following the lad, liked the revelation even less. A shallow depression amongst the dunes, perhaps half a hundred yards away from the village outskirts, was slowly filling with drifting sand, as they always did. Yet even the ever-shifting sands this far had not yet covered the grisly scene between its dunes. The smallfolk had never truly left their village, their blood having long dried as sand moved to bury them. Men and women, young and old, all were lying together in a haphazard pile, with more likely beneath their fellows than they could see. Empty eyes looked any which way, flies and other small skittering creatures already partaking in their bloated bodies, not yet dry from the wicked heat.
"They've not been dead long, a few days perhaps," Ferris muttered, biting back a curse. They'd come across bodies before, usually lone travelers caught between villages or the remains of some scuffle between bandits or other raiding parties, but for a whole village…
"The bastards we've been tracking did this," Ormond said. "Best we get ourselves some food and a good night's rest, lest we not have the strength to find them and make them answer for this atrocity."
It took days to find them, time having been lost ensuring the proper burial of the smallfolk and the seizure of the village's stores, at least what little they had managed to find that hadn't been previously looted or fouled by pest or enemy action. Still, sneaking up on them had been surprisingly easy, as while these sellswords knew well how to travel in deserts and take unaware smallfolk by surprise, they had not quite thought to put out as many sentries as they should.
The battle was fierce but quick, the sellswords routing almost as soon as they were nigh surrounded and near half of their number had fallen in the sudden onslaught of arrows and riders. However, the thought of treating them as any sort of 'fair' had long left the hearts of Ormond's men, as well as his own. He had never known the people in that village, had never met one alive, but they were fellow Dornish. Smallfolk under an enemy lord were no less the same as smallfolk under their own lord in these lands, something the lords of the more northerly kingdoms could learn to emulate. Now, with the fear of unrestricted raiding having been scared out of them by unspeakable acts years before by the… former Wyls, they sought to return to raiding as it was amongst their kin.
Take what the smallfolk could spare without forcing them into starvation. Deny your enemy the means to supply himself without driving a wedge between his subjects and his warlike desires. Drain his strength before he can even strike and win a war without any major battles in which the sands ran red with the blood of too many men. Dorne could ill afford wars like those of the Reach, where untold thousands who perished could be so easily replaced in a generation or two with untold thousands more.
"Who hired you?" Ormond asked as the latest prisoner of theirs was shoved face first into the ground, his Westerosi was almost too thick to understand. This was likely not helped by the muffled crunch he heard when the man landed. Still, the cool night air had done little to temper the heat in their hearts, and even now, Ormond was waiting to hear the cries of men being subjected to time-honored methods of Dornish torture by his fellows. For information, or for revenge, it did not matter.
"Fhack yew," the man grunted out, blowing an uncomfortable amount of bloodied sand from a broken nose. More blood flew when Ormond's foot connected with his chest, his wheezing fit forming frothy blood at the corners of his mouth.
"I asked you a question," Ormond said. "Who hired you? The Ullers? We know your captain is dead, sellsword, don't be in such a haste to join him."
The man grunted, eyes blazing with anger, seeming to weigh his options amidst his rage. Then, an unusual calm seemed to settle over him, and while his rage remained, his control grew, and he gave a weary sigh. "We came o'er with the lot o' them, but no, t'weren't Ullers who hired us," he finally muttered.
"Martells? Santagars? Yronwoods?"
"T'weren't no fhackin Dornish either, or any other West'rosi ya lot o' spoiled n' daft bastards," the man barked, a harsh laugh accompanying his harsher coughs, as cries of torture began to sound from this likewise abandoned village, or at least, one that had been truly abandoned before this beast's ilk had come. "We's came 'cause the gold was good 'nuff fer what we were bein' paid ta do. Would shame our mothers to know whats we did, but t'weren't nothin' worth more ta us than what we's gots out of it. Besides, you Dornish make it so easy, thinkin' yer all so burden'd by them dragons comin' in and stoppin' ya from doin what ya feel like, all while ya don't know the meanin' o' the word."
"We're fighting so that Dorne is not torn asunder, filth," Ferris said. "Whether or not the dragons rule or the Martells do is up to our lord, not us."
"Bah, fahckin' Dornish, always up fer fightin' a losin' battle, aren't ya? Thinkin' ya got it so bad under that Iron Throne that ya gotta bite the hand that was offered, when from what I hears, they been treatin' ya righter than ya deserve. More food, roads, treatin' smallfolk better than some lords treat their own kin, no tariffs, helpin you's rebuild a war ya had a hand in buildin' up to fer gods' sake, and this is how ya repay 'em? Draggin' their boys from their kingdoms to their deaths in yer sandy shithole, all fer the sake o' yer pride?"
"Tell that to the countless smallfolk you have butchered, filth. We, nor would any other be here, were it not for the weakness of our former prince, nor for the inability for higher lords to keep the peace. A peace you have broken in the worst of ways by slaughtering those who had no hand in this."
"T'was in our contract ta loot n' kill, nothin' personal, unlike what y'all get up ta the moment it looks like yer plans fail. Tryin' ta kill a king durin' a parley? Killin' yer own and blamin' it on us or 'yer enemy'? Fightin' like a pack o' dogs over some scrappy bones dropped from the master's table?"
Ormond bit back a retort. It had been a sore point in Lord Tyrells doomed meeting of the… former Lord Ladybright attempting to kill the Targaryen king after surrendering. Apparently had his head near taken off by one shot from the prince's bow as soon as the dagger came out, or so the latest story went. "We do not kill our own to place blame on our enemies, sellsword."
"We's didn't kill near half the villages ya think we did, was beaten to it by someone else."
"You lie! We have been following your handiwork for days sellsword, you would dare accuse our kin of committing these acts?"
"I tells ya what I knows, but if it weren't ya that did it, and t'weren't us, then ya gots bigger problems. Yet rather'an get yer facts straight, ya accuse us to throw yer own guilt aside. Shoulda just rebuilt, but no, you's get up in arms whene'er yer lord feels slighted o'er some stupid shite after losin' yer war. Ya get the chance ta join the Iron Throne, free as the day you's was born, not needin' ta fear a master's gaze. Ya get a chance ta trade, move 'round yer whole stinkin' seven kingdoms, not havin' ta worry 'bout some blood feud draggin' ya from yer homes ta die against Dothraki screamers or marchin' inta the Disputed Lands like yer father before ya, an his father 'fore him. You's get a chance at peace after a quick coupl'a fights, a chance ta make yerselv's better than before, and now you's killin' each other worse than we did!"
"What would you know of Westeros, let alone Dorne, sellsword scum?" Ferris ground out. "You're from Essos, for Seven's sake!"
The man spat at the ground, bloody clots staining the sands. "Nuff ta know I'd have killt ten of yer stinkin' villages with mah bare hands ta have the chance to live anywheres but where I was! I's came from nothin', in some nowhere village in the Disputed Lands. Food was always scarce with e'ery battle goin' on 'tween the Three Daughters, raids n' counterraids and more, so I's was sold as soon as I's learned ta walk so the rest o' my family didn't starve. Battle slave I was called, made ta fight in whiche'er company my highborn master was paid fer and whatever fightin' pits he felt like. Dumb luck saw me freed fer a time and I's tried ta find work, was a field hand fer awhile, but debts grew faster than ma family did, and 'fore ya know it, they's was gonna take me son away, as they did me. So yes, I's signed on this fight I had no part in, all so's me sweet little boy and his mum could be free o' our debt."
"You will earn no sympathy from us for what you did, scum. You do realize we won't be letting you leave here alive, right, sellsword?"
The nameless man darkly chuckled. "Don't matter nohow, knew in me gut t'was a one-way trip, was why I signed on in the firs' place, like a lotta of the boys you's killin' right now. We's lasted long as we's could ta makes sure theys didn't turn 'round on their contract. Essosi like us, we's big on contracts ya see, the kind where breakin' 'em is as good as shoutin' from the rooftops you's as trustworthy as a bridge made o' salt. Me boy and his ma, they's were on a ship ta yer Stormlands before I's set sail for this dry shithole with every scrap o' coin I could hide. Can only hope they's made it ta this 'Lowhill' place I's and the boys heard about, probly found work already, makin' a better life fer themselv's than I ever could." He straightened, looking the two of them in the eye. "So kills me if ya wants, or torture me first if you's have the balls fer it. I've killt worse than the lotta ya puts together, and I's glad ta die here rather than where I's was born."
The fucker had the gall to look pleased as Ormond's dagger slashed open his throat, sending more dark blood across the sands as the two turned away in disgust. "What about their luggage?" Ormond asked, as more and more of the prisoners were given their just due.
"From what the men have said, the contract that fucker spoke of is in there, along with some… other scrolls," Ferris said, glancing back at the cooling corpse, a smile still on his face even in the throes of death. "What are we to do?"
"We end our raiding, we've done enough as it is," Ormond muttered, rubbing his face. "We need to get these documents, whatever they are, to Lord Qorgyle with all due swiftness, before the other sellswords learn we're in the area and just wiped out one of their smaller companies."
"Was wondering why there were so few men in this group of sellswords, but makes sense now I suppose. Don't need an army to just go around destroying villages like a bunch of cowards."
"I'm not going to tempt fate with an answer to that," Ormond muttered. "Best we leave with dawn's early light."
"What of the survivors?"
"There will be none when we leave."
Ormond awoke, his head throbbing and his body aching something fierce. Yet as he opened his eyes with a wince, crusted shut with something, he made to move but found he could not. The sand beneath shifted as he moved against the ropes, their corded strength keeping him in place against the large wagon wheel he had been secured to. What… why was he secured to a wheel?
"Ormond?" a voice croaked out, and to his right, the captain saw Ferris bound as he was, the cart bearing the two of them nestled amongst unpacked supplies. Crates, barrels, sacks, they were in some kind of quartermaster's enclave. The rocky face of some small escarpment stood to their… west he thought, but the rest remained as rolling dunes of sand and errant pillars of rock, worn nearly smooth by wind and sand. Scattered tents dotted this barren valley, whilst the largest ones clustered together, sheltered from wind along the larger rock face.
There was something… familiar about this barren valley of stone and sand. "Ferris? What… what happened?"
Ferris, bleeding from a sand-encrusted wound upon his head, looked blearily to him. "Do you not recall last night?"
"We… we were near Qorgyle lands, we…"
"We were set upon, Ormond, set upon by sellswords and parties under Uller vassals. We did our job too well, they must have been watching the border and looking for any further incursions after the raiding we did all those months ago."
Suffering from the results of their own success, a bitter irony indeed. No wonder this land seemed to stir a memory, they had likely moved through here on their way into Uller territory months before. "Where is everyone else?"
"I don't know, I can only see you and whatever surrounds us." The sun, beating down upon them, roasted at his wounds, cuts along his body aching from sand no doubt worming its way into them. "I think some got away, but I don't know for certain, the chaos was too much to take in. I… I thought you dead, I saw that mace strike your helmet and you dropped from your steed before it ran off."
"Well, then what are we to do?" Ormond asked, more to himself than his companion. "We are near enough our lord's lands that… surely someone will have raised the alarm of such a large host being so near?"
"We can only hope," Ferris said, only for the words to die in his throat as approaching footsteps, though muffled by sand, were joined by a set of voices. Dornish brogue, to be sure, but from further east than their own. T'was subtle to non-Dornish, but Ormond could tell the difference, even with blood dripping across his vision.
"Raiders," one said, his colors putting him as an Uller captain. "Funny we should find you after all this time, when here we thought you'd come from across the border, and not in our own lands. T'was luck, really, that we managed to spot your coming before you realized where we were."
That was the fullest extent of anything nice they had to say, for not long after, the knives and other tools came out. Sometimes they asked questions, usually about movements of men and supplies in Qorgyle lands. Other times it was of their thoughts on the war, and if they were truly on the same side or not. Ormond said he did not care who ruled or from where, he only did as his lord bid.
This was… not well received.
The men liked to alternate between him and Ferris, taking a little piece here, cutting a little mark there, never enough to kill them, but more than enough to make them suffer. Earlobes were the first to go, both of Ormond's cut off while Ferris had one torn off instead. Their noses were sliced through, the nostrils split where they met the face and left to flap. Honestly, having the middle of his nose cut hurt worse, as it itched something fierce from wind-driven sand.
The days passed by, their food being a pottage thickened by heat and whatever refuse they deigned to feed them. Water was rarer still, yet their questions never ceased. They came for the fingers next, starting from the smallest, and Ormond passed out from the pain by the time they had reached his tall finger. By the time he awoke, there was some meat in his pottage, but he never received an answer what they came from. His hunger was too great to listen to the suspicious disgust in his belly. Toes soon followed, and when some were gone, they returned to their faces, liking to take little pieces here or there when they weren't simple beating them senseless.
Ormond had lost track of the days by now, remembering them only by what he had lost. Ten beatings, five toes and three fingers ago, was it, when they had taken his earlobes? That had to have been soon after they had captured him, yes. The heat from the sun, despite the modest shade provided by the cart at certain times, did little to help ease his suffering. Blistered and peeling skin smelled awful where ragged, unwashed clothes did not cover his body. Ferris looked ever worse for wear, having said something that lost him several teeth.
The hallucinations had set in not long after the fingers were gone. He could hear voices, of friends and family, even that of his lord at times, but the one that came back to him the most was of that sellsword he'd killed. Unforgiving the desert was, and yet the man had not begged for his life in the face of certain death. He'd not even found out the man's name before taking his life, and now here he was, in an even worse situation, with death as much a certainty as further mutilation was. Every day the voices grew louder whenever the sun dipped lower in the sky, today being no different. Cries of battle, like the ones he had participated in time and time again, fighting and raiding and seeing to the will of his lord. Hands, rough and calloused, gripped him as the voices grew still, the calm of coming sleep taking him before he could understand just what was being said, just as it had been every time before. Ferris hadn't said anything for a few hours now.
Ormond opened his eyes at the feeling of ice upon his skin, burning with its touch. Yet when he tried to wince, he found himself bound, not against the wheel of a wagon, but in a bed. A bed, under a ceiling of stone, somewhere not out in the dunes. Had he finally died, feeling the freezing touch of the Stranger?
Yet his bleary eyes did not deceive him this time, for a maester was tending to him. No, not a maester, one of those medics that Lord Tyrell had loaned Lord Qorgyle. Why was he here? Where… where was here?
The man removed the wet cloth, not ice, from Ormond's head. "Good, you are awake, I was worried we would lose you as well," he said, his accent that of a Stormlander. "I will fetch Lord Qorgyle."
Ormond struggled to determine where he was after the man left. The sandstone bricks cast his room into a cool darkness, the only light that of a distant opening in the wall, likely a window. Colors swam in his vision as his eyes tried to make sense of the colors of the room, of the shade of sandstone, but it was too much for him, and he slumped back into his bed. This was too much to take in, his senses were disjointed, his body ached as if he'd been burnt alive, his hands trembled beneath his bindings as thoughts of terror began to well up inside him.
The door opened, and his lord appeared with the Stormlander in tow. "Captain Ormond, it is good to see you awake. I was worried you might have perished as many others did. I have Medic Jack to thank for your revival, and the supplies we have kept here in Sandstone."
"M… my lord," Ormond muttered, his cracked lips suddenly wet with blood as he spoke. "Wh… what happened?"
"Our forces, mine and those of Lord Tyrell, were able to fall upon the men who had taken you and the survivors of your party prisoner," his lord said, yet dressed as if he were about to march out to battle. These days, t'was safer to wear at least some armor unless in the most trusted of company. "One of your party had managed to escape your battle to inform us beforehand, though I regret that it took us as long as it did to arrive and free you."
Ah, the scrappy kid. Good, at least some had escaped before the torture began.
"I am afraid, however," Lord Qorgyle said, his tone sounding sincere, "that a good number of your fellows have perished from their captivity at the hands of the rebels and their allies."
"F… Ferris?"
"I am afraid he passed away from his wounds," the medic named Jack said sadly, again by his bedside, mixing a large poultice of some kind. "Infection, you see, from the dust and sand in his wounds. I have been thus far able to clear out any infection in your own, but only time will tell if you shall survive."
Survive? Ormond glanced down at his hand, seeing the missing fingers, their stumps covered by clean bandages. Yes, he was alive, but no longer whole, and never again would he be.
"We have found documents in their supplies, captain, some of which are their own, but as some of the survivors have put it, they have several they took from your possession," Lord Qorgyle said. "Where did you come by these?"
As the medic applied the poultices, their soothing cool touch easing the burning sensation across his sunbaked skin, Ormond told his lord everything he could remember. The dead smallfolk and empty villages, the parties they had slaughtered, the sellswords they have tortured for information… everything leading up to the battle. His torture he could not repeat, the mere thought leaving him a trembling mess, much to his shame. His lord, however, seemed to not care for his weakness, giving him an understanding look before turning to the medic.
"Medic Jack, ensure he recovers as best he can. He will need his strength to travel north, to better show the lords of the Reach just what it is we are up against."
"My… my lord?" Ormond asked. Was he being-?"
"No, captain, you are not being dismissed from my service," the Dornishman said. "Your injuries are severe, but they have been inflicted upon you in loyal service to your lord, and I am not one to leave such loyalty unrewarded. Upon recovery, I intend for you to journey north, all the way to Nightsong."
Nightsong? In the Marches? "W… why my lord?"
"You have earned yourself a reprieve from any sort of battle, Ormond. I would have you instead be one of my representatives to our allies to the north, so that they may know the barbarity we are trying to overcome here in Dorne. With luck, the sight of what they have done to you, as well as your own words, will spur some to advocate for more supplies and support to be sent our way. Seven knows we need all the help we can get, what with the troubles in the southeast and far west dividing Dorne like a carcass amongst vultures." He paused for a moment, looking over Ormond with a thoughtful expression, before shaking his head. "Your raids will be explained away as my actions to secure our flanks, but if any ask, be sure to let them know of the atrocities you came across. Given your injuries, I doubt many will simply dismiss your claims."
That… that was a relief. For a quiet moment, Ormond feared his lord would see him 'die of his wounds' as some did to tie up loose ends. That he had been sent to raid as he had was always in the back of his mind, worrying about retribution that could come of it, but knowing his lord could turn it to their advantage eased that slightly. His story was not one to be told of positively, but if his lord deemed him necessary enough to waste such supplies and expertise on saving, then by the Seven as his witness, he would see to this plan with all his effort.
Lord Qorgyle departed without another word as Medic Jack tended further to his wounds. Whatever this paste was, it eased the pain in his limbs, save for the digits that were now missing. "Captain," the medic said abruptly. "I trust you will not attempt to leave bedrest before I deem you fit to travel, correct? Or eat more than I have had served for you?"
"Yes, but why?"
The medic shrugged. "The same as it was for some men who overindulged on rich food after we had freed them. Died of burst bellies, having taken in too much too soon after living off such lean rations and the starvation they suffered in captivity."
"I… I see," Ormond said, leaning further into his bed. "Has… has there been any news?" He had been gone for so long, in such isolated areas, they'd even found villages that were unaware a revolt, let alone civil war, had broken out.
"Of what?"
"Of the war, of those that… tortured me."
"Whichever Dornish or sellswords that have survived the battle against Lord Qorgyle are currently in the dungeons here at Sandstone," Jack said. "Not that there are many, but with the black brothers visiting from the north, we shall soon have them off our hands, I think. As for the war? Not much I have heard, save for rumors and whatever reports the lords have deigned to share."
"Rumors?"
"Aye, some are saying the smallfolk in lesser houses are beginning to rise in revolt. Refusing to send their sons and brothers to fight, denying shelter to errant war parties, that sort of thing. Come to think of it, they seem to be primarily coming from the lands of lords that have risen against the Iron Throne and House Martell alike."
"Oh, well… that is good?"
Jack shook his head as the last of the poultice was spread on Ormond's horrid burns from the sun. "This will mean just further bloodshed and famine, captain. That is never a good sign. No house is being left untouched by this revolt, nor the civil war. I can only hope we will see the peaceful end of this soon, lest I need to treat more men like you for much of the same injuries."