Chapter 72: Stormlanders XXII
Late 162 AC
The first rays of day came early in these lands, often lacking the clouds to keep the sky darker further into the morning. Royce Baratheon had always been more of a morning person, preferring to rise early than to stay up late, save for when in the company of his wife. Gods how he missed her and home, the heat and dryness of a dusty Dornish summer utterly unbearable for one as accustomed to a land as comparatively cool and wet as Storm's End. His sons were growing, with one off to foster with Lord Tarth, and his daughters yet remained friendly with Myriah Martell in their studies. Soon though, the suitors would come, and the offers of marriage, far sooner than he would like.
Shaking his mind from idyllic thoughts, he spoke. "Your scouts?" he asked the man approaching him, one of the few Dornish lords who had yet to prove even the slightest bit treacherous against their cause. The man did not even attempt to pursue what he had heard others call 'malicious compliance', being honest and dutiful no matter his task. Then again, seeing the prince blow out the throat of an assassin with an arrow years ago might have put any such thoughts in a shallow grave.
"As honest of men as I have, as their livelihoods depend on being, well dependable," Lord Jordayne said. "The village ahead of us is the stronghold the marauders have been using to launch raids, although calling it as such is a stretch. More of their hole, as a robber's, but with more men on horseback and armed with swords."
"Were the Stormlands suffering from such peril, no doubt some of our own would act this way," Lord Selmy said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Such is the way of war, where the weak-willed will prey upon others. Yet it is beyond the pale for situations such as this to be as frequent as they have become."
"A civil war is no less problematic when large armies are the ones clashing. Banditry has always been more of an issue for Dorne than for other realms, if only because of brigands finding ways of clinging to the fringes of a land. In the Reach, I doubt they could hide so easily as in, say, the Westerlands or the far North, where vast tracts of land will more easily hide them."
"I understand the plight of people at war, Lord Jordayne, but even you must admit this is far beyond what we were expecting. Bands of Dornish, raiding from village strongholds they have taken over as a base of operations? Normally I would assume they would make their own sequestered hole from which to attack. Yet from what we have heard from a few survivors who managed to flee other such situations, how these men have brutalized those under their 'protection'… it reeks of evil."
"Hence why we are here, Lord Baratheon," Lord Jordayne said. "With this group shattered or scattered, we will no longer need to bear the brunt of attacks on messengers, caravans or refugees. I can only hope that the prince's plan will work as he says it will."
"I have faith in the prince and trust in his methods, unorthodox as they may sometimes be," Royce replied. "It is why I sent so many of our men with him to scout around the far end of the enemy encampment, to ensure that there would be nothing to aid them in escape. Now, see to your men, we attack soon."
With nods of affirmation from his lords, Royce watched them depart to their men, ignoring the unease in his stomach that always seemed to come about whenever battle was to be had. He had ignored it before, when fighting in the Stormlands against raiders. He had felt it again the first time he had marched into Dorne, under the orders of his king to conquer. Now? Now he felt it for the fact this was not just a skirmish to repel raiders, or to conquer a realm for a king, but to put to end a conflict whose toll would not be known for years to come. Far be it from him to doubt his king, but some not-so-small part of his heart was more than willing to let the Dornish devastate one another for years before sweeping in to clean up whoever was left.
Grunting as he donned his helmet, he looked back to his men, their mood tense and more than a little impatient. The lot of them were already armed and armored for the fight, yet it was not until the banners were raised before the men moved out, so much had they been drilled in the first war. After all, they could not afford to take chances with this battle lest a mindless charge scare off their quarry, for even if they heavily outnumbered the enemy in every engagement thus far, it had taken them a great while to find this base at cost of coin, supplies, and more than a few good men. The approach to the village lay in the shadows between two hills, one easily twice the size of the other, with a small stream winding through it that eventually emptied into the Yronwater. The village, whose name he couldn't care to recall, had made orchards along the stream and terraced farms along the shallower slopes, though the steepest portions were such that to climb one, he'd have to be damn near crawling on all fours.
Instead, the primary means of approaching the village lay along a dusty ancient path, unfit to be called a road and barely different from the nearby jagged rocks that had been worn down by dust and wind. The plan was simple, for the cavalry to take the hill, and for the men to approach in a column where the path allowed, with as many men with shields at the front as possible. By all accounts, the marauders rarely had bowmen when raiding, but for all they knew the bastards just didn't use them all that often on caravans. After all, getting more arrows, let alone fresh supplies, would always be a chore in these lands, hence why more than one of their supply caravans had been raided for whatever they carried.
The fact that more than one of those caravans had been protected by Dornish, who had been set upon regardless, truly showed what these people were capable of.
With a signal from Lord Jordayne's frontmost scouts, the column of men began marching forward at as brisk a pace he dared have them, lest they tire before battle even began. Lord Baratheon nodded to his flagbearer, on whom many eyes were drawn and awaiting their orders. With a snap, the sigil of a stag rose above the lines of men, the horsemen began their climb up the hill, many of the larger steeds carrying with them two riders, the second with a crossbow. While he had no real mounted bowmen with him, save for those under Lord Jordayne and what few Dornish lords they had managed to secure during their march, he had seen their effectiveness before when it came to moving quickly about a battlefield. That, and Baelor had advocated for using horses to quickly move archers to somewhere advantageous, even if it reduced the horse's speed to bear two riders.
In this heat, there was no chance for full plate on either side, instead relying much on the tactics of the Dornish themselves to avoid injury in battle. Whatever armor could be reforged, at great cost to the grumbling of more than a few lords, served to rearm men with far lighter steel than plate, and the light cloaks meant to keep the sun from the wearer had turned their men into a sea of varying colors, though they remained constantly tinged by the dust and dirt that seemed to blow on the lightest of breezes.
As with the other lords in this fight, something learned the hard way in the earlier battles in Dorne, Lord Baratheon personally held back as the first sounds of battle reached him, moving in with the second and third 'waves' of the columns following close behind the first. With his shield raised at the ready, in case of straw arrows from friend or foe alike, he and the resulting columns came upon the battle already ending, to his relieved disappointment. Men in dirtied robes and cloaks were jumping onto whatever sand steeds they could, sending them into a frenzy as they made a mad dash in the opposite direction. From on high, the occasional crossbow bolt sunk into ground, horse, or rider, all the while whoever could not reach one of the steeds was slain or beaten into submission. Sprays of blood arced over the sides of houses amidst the screams of fighting and dying men, and from the few windows Royce saw the frightened faces of smallfolk peering. Any house from which an arrow flew was stormed, doors being knocked in by the heft of the larger soldiers.
The smallfolk were screaming as one of the houses was stormed, from which a half naked man tried to flee through a window, dragging with him a sword. He made it perhaps fifteen paces before a crossbow bolt buried itself in his chest, and he fell to the ground. All around, other men were dragged kicking and screaming, or in some cases, still and heavily bleeding, from the other homes, with more than one being kicked where they lay by an angry smallfolk.
As the dust settled, and the last of what could only be the marauders fled, died, or were subdued, he dismounted from his horse, handing off the fine beast to his squire, a Buckler teen. The village was secured, and already the men were going from house to house, barn to barn, extracting whatever smallfolk remained and searching to ensure no marauders were hiding. Of the smallfolk, there seemed to be much the same as before, in other villages most affected by this war. The old men and women stood guardedly around the young women, with the children and babes even further encircled protectively. The lack of young men was not unexpected, as they could have been already fighting for their lord, had died in the last war, or had been driven to find work elsewhere.
As the sun rose higher, and the heat baked at them, Royce was relieved that someone had remembered to bring up the water wagons. Fighting marauders was thirsty work, and as the medics tended to the wounded in whatever shaded homes could be found, more went to the wells to ensure some marauder had not fouled it with a dead animal, as one had at the previous village. "Lord Dondarrion," he said, turning to the lord in question, his light cloak splattered with some blood, but appearing otherwise unharmed. "See to the men and ensure that we find somewhere out of this fuckin' sun to eat and rest. We will convene after sorting out these smallfolk and ensuring this threat has been dealt with."
"Mercy!" a voice cried, and Royce turned to see a woman, worn older than she should be from a rough life in these hinterlands, struggling to reach for a young man restrained by two soldiers. "Mercy, he's just a boy, he's my only boy!"
"Back off, woman," a captain retorted, shoving her away and into the arms of another, "or we'll sort you out too!"
"Captain!" Royce barked, approaching with guards in tow, followed by several other lords, some of whom were barking orders to their men to continue searching the smallfolk for weapons. "What's the matter here?"
"My lord, we found this one," one of the soldiers said, jerking back the struggling youth, whose face already bore a swollen black eye, "hiding in one of the barns behind a stack of crates. Tried to make a run for it, but we got him before he could grab a blade."
"I wasn't going for a blade, I was trying to get away!" the youth replied, followed by a creative curse about the soldier's mother and a randy ram. This earned him a punch to the gut, doubling him over as the old woman shrieked.
"He was hiding from those fiends!" she cried, still struggling, albeit futilely, against the man holding her back. "They were dragging off every boy old enough to swing a sword, and I couldn't let them take him like they did his uncle."
"Explain yourself, woman, I have little time for fanciful tales when it's this fuckin' hot out," Lord Swann said, and whilst the tone was not the politest, the heat rapidly frayed any sensibilities Royce was feeling.
Wringing herself from the soldier's grip, and readjusting her shawl, her weathered face rather bravely glared directly into his. "When they came, some o' the men were taken by their words. Grandeur, spoils of war, riches to be had, all while serving Dorne. Bah!" she hissed, and likely would have spit were it not for the heat. "Servin' Dorne is no way ta live when you got mouths to feed, milord. Our village ain't seen the roughest o' the war, but we've lost boys to its call. Those we lost we grieved, and those that came back went back ta the orchards and wells. Tis the way it's always been, milord, but when these pieces of filth," she added, pointing to a dead marauder, his lifeblood already congealing on the dry, dusty ground, "came here, they convinced enough of us that they meant no harm."
"I take it this did not turn out to be the truth?" Royce asked.
"Bah! T'weren't nothin' but the sweet lies o' serpents from under the rocky holes they crawled out from. Only a cursed womb could spawn the likes o' those, for what they did ta us. First it was the recruitin', getting our men and boys to help them on their raids against the 'enemy'. Were never satisfied with how many went with 'em, and gave no answer for if they didn't come back from fightin' 'the enemy'. Weren't no enemy until they were here, especially after they started helpin' themselves ta our sisters and daughters once the other men were gone or not comin' back. Married, widowed, not o' age, didn't matter ta most o' them. We tried ta keep 'em away from the others by keepin' 'em plied with drink, but that can only do so much. Anyone that said anythin' they didn't like was threatened or beaten bloody. A few that kept doin' so wound up dead."
"Assuming she's telling the truth, it would seem our marauders were not quite so much operating from this village, so much as they were occupying it," Lord Swann said. "That would explain those few smallfolk we found whose tales brought us here, likely braved the lands just to find help."
"On the Seven, what I tells ya is true, milords," the woman said. "My son Albin here, he just came home after findin' work in one o' the nearby towns. Had ta sneak him in one night so theys didn't find him, and I kept him hidden in one o' the barns they never used, bringin' him food and water when I could sneak away."
"If that is true, then he has done no wrong," Royce said. "Yet I cannot simply let him go on your word, woman. We have already faced stories like yours before, of women covering for bandits and marauders by simply claiming them to be kin that did nothing wrong. He will be treated as fairly as a suspected bandit can be, woman, but don't get your hopes up."
"Milord, please, he's my only boy, there'll be nobody else left ta look after the blood oranges," she pleaded, bowing low with pleading eyes. "I can't lose him too, not after I lost his pa and older brother ta King Daeron's war."
"We all lost people in the king's war, ma'am," Lord Selmy said. "Yet their deaths were not in vain, at least to us who sought to ensure that peace remained as the kingdom was brought into the fold. Yet men like these are the reason we are here again, instead of with our families and in our own beds."
"Then end this by bringin' justice ta the mongrels that don't care fer kith or kin, only themselves. Me boy ain't one of 'em, I swears it on the Seven."
"That remains to be seen," Lord Selmy said, before motioning to the growing crowd of smallfolk. "Return to your people, we will sort this out."
Royce said nothing as the woman could do nothing but return, supported by another woman, herself just as wizened and rough from this land. Turning to the gathered troops, he spied the surviving marauders being rounded up, completely restrained, and pushed towards the open center of the village. Good, the men were getting more experienced with this, and the sooner they could finish this, the sooner they could move on to the next region. Tedious, grating, but thus far successful at reducing or eliminating the problems of the lands they pacified.
"My lord," a voice called, and he turned to find a runner bearing the sigil of one of the lords who had served under Baelor's plan.
"Yes, soldier? Where is the prince?"
"He is returning, but is seeing to the men first, we've had a few injuries, but no deaths thus far."
Likely due to the medics from House Wytch. Those men and women were as much lifesavers as they had been during the war. "What of the marauders? Did any escape?"
"Not with their lives, my lord," the man said, motioning behind him. "Whoever's still breathing is being brought up to join their fellows.
Indeed, the long lines of soldiers escorted every man who had not yet dropped dead. Dozens of them were prostrated alongside their fellows before him, numbering perhaps a handful shy of half a hundred. Near every man seemed to have Dornish ancestry in him, judging from the swarthiness of their skin, but there were more than a few whose hair and eyes did not match their fellows. This piqued his interest, and as men began to interrogate the prisoners, often with flying fists, he approached a select few of the seemingly non-Dornish.
"You, bandit," Royce said, standing before a particularly dirtied one. "Where do you hail from?"
The man's only response was to spit at his feet, thankfully missing them, and curse Royce's lady mother for birthing him. This earned him a sharp kick to the ribs, driving him into the dirt and doubling him over in a midst of harsh coughs.
Royce said nothing and moved to the next in line. "You, where do you hail from?"
The man, a deep gash across his face causing a heavily bloodied nose, glanced over at his heaving comrade and squared his shoulders. "Essos, but I'm half Dornish, from my father's side," he said, nasal thick with congealing blood. "Not that it's likely to matter, but Salty to be specific, since my dad married me mum after spending some time in Braavos."
"Braavosi, eh?" Royce asked, rubbing his chin in thought. The accent was passably Dornish, as thick as it was, but there was some truth to that Braavosi burr. "What brings you across the Narrow Sea, and in the company of these… fine gentlemen?"
The bloodied man shrugged, appearing resigned to the fate that awaited him. "Thought to make some coin sailing as me pa did, but I was approached by some men lookin' to hire sellswords. I ain't much with a sword, but I know a spear thanks to me pa, and had a better head for sums over fightin' anyway. Someone needed to keep an eye on the supplies and fairly dole out whatever loot was brought back."
"These men, who were they? Where did you meet them?"
"Judgin' from their speech, Essosi for sure, probably from one o' the Three Daughters. As for where? I'll tells ya if I don't hang."
"Now listen here you-," one of the guards said, only to stop as Royce raised his hand.
"Bring him to the far side of the village for now, I will deal with him and those like him later," Lord Baratheon said. "Be sure to make him comfortable, we wouldn't want this little desert jay flying off before he's sung his song."
As the man was dragged off, Royce turned the moment a rousing cheer arose from the far side of the village. The last of the new prisoners were herded amongst their fellows as more soldiers appeared, some supporting those more grievously wounded than the rest. These bloodied and haphazardly bandaged men were set upon immediately by the numerous medics loaned from House Wytch, immediately directing them to be brought to the 'triage' tents the small group of engineers had already set up alongside the primary manse of the village. From among the throng of dusty men a figure appeared, helmet under one arm and unmistakable silver braids shining brightly in the sun. A true picture of a war prince, stoic face smudged with sweat-soaked dust and yet appearing no less royal for it.
Royce thought it a damn shame he did not have a sister or daughter of proper age to wed the prince, lest he would have petitioned for such a match years before, so that Baelor would wed them rather than his own sister Daena. Yet with things as they were, the best he could hope for would be that one of his daughters would marry a son of Baelor's, or the reverse if the gods were feeling stingy. As it was, he knew that other lords were rather upset by the king's proclamation of the betrothal and were he able to bottle and sell the salt from the angry tears of the realm's maidens, Royce knew he'd be the richest man alive. When he had spoken of this to his mother before he'd departed for war once more, she'd found it rather humorous. Fitting, given the known proclivities of the prince's grandfather, and yet Royce saw none of the same wanton desires of Daemon Targaryen in his foster son, thank the Seven and Old Gods alike.
"My prince," he said with a grin, clasping his free arm. "I take it your flanking worked, and the scouts have proven themselves?"
"As they have before, so they did this day, Lord Baratheon," Baelor replied. "And yes, the plan worked perfectly, for none escaped that came our way and lived to tell of it. How goes the processing of our prisoners? Many more survived than I would have thought."
"From the ones that haven't died yet, we've been trying to determine the same information as we did the last groups of marauders we fell upon. Their origins, who they are, if any are of noble stock and thus fit for a ransom, that sort of thing. However, from what I've been told, and what will no doubt come to light the longer we ask, we've been receiving some… dark reports from the smallfolk as to the actions of these men."
"Dark?" Baelor asked, his stoic face taking on an upset furrowing of his brow. "As in…"
"It's much the same as we've found in other places, my prince. Smallfolk claiming of these marauders terrorizing and brutalizing those that often cannot defend themselves. Best you asked the smallfolk in question yourself, my prince, to better have their testimonies aid in dispensing the most just outcome."
"I see. I will speak with the smallfolk, my lord, see to it that those who can be spared set to escorting the supplies from our camp to the village. I believe we shall be here at least a day, perhaps two, before this is all sorted out."
Royce did find his foster son's emphasis on thoroughness to be a tad grating at times, given how he and most of the Stormlords simply wished to hang the marauders and be off again, but the prince was as much in charge of this side of the war as he himself was. That, and being thorough when there were no real armies potentially bearing down on you did make things much less stressful. His men certainly appreciated not needing to erect significant defensive measures every night.
The distant screams of the marauders being 'politely asked' interrogated had finally ceased as Royce sipped his brandy. Supper and the following discourse of the day had finished, leaving only Lord Baratheon and the select few of his inner circle to enjoy a good drink as night finally approached amidst the cooling of the day. Among them, the prince sat quietly, staring into the distance as he nursed his drink.
You stand accused of innumerable crimes against the people of this village, Dorne, and thus the Iron Throne, for every village and kingdom in the Seven Kingdoms is under his most just protection.
The oratory skills of his foster son had improved greatly since the trial against the hedge nights years before, every word drawing the eye of the gathered smallfolk, soldiers, and prisoners alike.
Whilst war may make beasts of men, you and your ilk have broken the vows of fealty given by your rightful lords and ladies to my brother, King Daeron, First of His Name. You are to be judged for your crimes by the laws of these lands and those of the Iron Throne on behalf of the smallfolk assembled here, upon whom you have visited nothing but suffering.
Royce had watched, silently, as jeers from soldiers and smallfolk alike washed over the prisoners. More and more stories had come from the smallfolk of their treatment at the hands of these devils, and all that they had lost for it. Albin's mother was not the first to try and hide a son from their recruitment, but she was the only to have successfully done so before they had arrived. The others had been found out days before and, well… the rather fresh graves were a good indicator as to the outcome.
Should any man of noble blood be amongst you, step forth, as per the rights afforded by the Crown.
It had been hard ignoring the angry muttering that emerged like a den of hissing snakes from the crowds, as none would wish to see a man guilty of some of the accused be let off for simply being some Dornish lord's whelp. The few men that stepped forward, stripped down to the barest of cloth scraps and bereft of anything else, were more learned than their counterparts, claimants to names based on their bastardry, or as supposed distant unlanded kin of Dornish houses.
Blackmont.
Santagar.
Dalt.
Wells.
More than one claimed relation to a greater house than there whilst others claimed the heritage of lesser houses, most barely noteworthy as anything but a landed knight. The rest? No doubt former levies destitute from war, bandits seeking greater plunder, or errant mercenaries recruited to serve as raiders for lords in other lands. More than one of his personal prisoners, set aside from the rest, were of the last group, and had earned the most hate from the smallfolk.
"My prince," Lord Selmy said, causing Royce to stir from his thoughts of earlier that day. "When you offered the noble-blooded men the choice of taking the Black, why did you also offer them the choice of imprisonment and ransom? Surely it would either be the Black or death for these sorts?"
Royce nodded, as the Black brothers that had been with the army during the war had returned once word of a civil war in Dorne had spread across Westeros. They were always looking for men to fill their ranks these days, as by most recent accounts they were not quite what they had been during the reign of the Conciliator.
"That was my initial plan, Lord Selmy," Baelor said, his voice tinged with a subtle sorrow, yet firm as he turned to the lord. "Yet after speaking with the smallfolk that I had, and what the captains reported to me from their findings around the village, I thought an offer of imprisonment to be a fair alternative."
"The smallfolk didn't seem to think so, my prince," the lord said. "I was sure there would have been a riot had you not disclosed to whom they would be sent."
"I'll admit, it was satisfying to see that Santagar bastard start pleading for the Black after you said all prisoners would be sent to Castle Wyl," Royce said, his foster son's gaze drawn to him instead. "Especially once we made it know that Lord Wytch is overseeing the castle and its prisoners." Strange, how a man so far from them, and so insignificant not even ten full years before, would be such a threat to the Dornish. Had he really done so much to become such a specter in their minds? Or had years of tales twisting between telling's and their imaginations conjured him into a frightful demon, the likes of which were attributed far, far more than they were capable of?
"It has produced us results thus far, and far be it from me to leave a faithful and diligent lord without something to do," Prince Baelor replied, sipping his drink. "The smallfolk did not seem to mind once I told them what awaited those men. After we are done here, we are to move on to the next region and see to finding and putting down more of these revolts. The nearest lords have pledged themselves to our cause, but we must proceed with caution, lest we fall into a trap."
"While also settling any of their prickly disputes before we can determine a region as secure. Prince Baelor, please excuse my curiosity, but… why did you personally execute that one marauder, after all the others had been hanged or beheaded?" Lord Jordayne asked. The fact he was here had already earned grumbles from more than a few Stormlords, but Royce was quick to acknowledge he had aided them as required and had ensured his lands did not rise in revolt against the Iron Throne or House Martell. Having a bastion of safe lands in a vast expanse of hostile territory was a gods-send this far from the old Wyl lands, their primary seat of strength. He would need to placate those vassals though, just to be sure none bore a grudge from it.
"I take it you did not hear of his crime?" the prince asked.
"Nay, my prince, I did not witness much of the trials, I was seeing to my men and setting my scouts to serve as the first watch of the night."
Baelor looked grim as his gaze flickered out to the distance, looking to the grim bonfire far from the nearest water source. A great pyre of oil and bodies, the marauders who had died or had been sentenced and executed then and there. It had taken some time to bring up the wood and oil needed to ensure it would light, but once it had, it was burning brightly in the encroaching night, sending a sickly smell into the area around it, almost like roasted pork but not quite right. "The fresh graves, in which the marauders had buried their most recent victims? One was a little girl, no older than my sister Elaena. The man in question, some bastard from a southern Dornish house… apparently, he had a taste for girls her age. He did not take kindly to her rejection and not long ago managed to find her alone. What he did… it is something we've seen before, Lord Jordayne, but never with someone so young."
"… I see," Lord Jordayne said. "That was why he was burnt at the stake?"
The prince finished his drink, his features harsh at the memory. "The only to burn amongst his fellows, yes, and I can only hope his cries of agony helped soothe the ache in the breast of that girl's mother. If we had been quicker, a week earlier, then she would still be alive."
"That week's delay was from forces outside our control, my prince," Royce said. "Between securing our supply lines, clearing out bandit nests and dealing with other marauders, that we have traversed this deep into Dorne is by all accounts miraculous. Our original prospects would have put us just reaching the Yronwater weeks ago."
"Yet there is so much more to do, so much more to accomplish before we can see to the end of this debacle," Baelor replied. "Lord Yronwood continues to delay departing his castle with an army that has been forming, eating through supplies with incredible pace. Pirates have been seen off the coasts, no doubt taking advantage of both the absence of our fleets blockading Dorne during the war and the lack of a Dornish navy. There are rumors of sellswords roaming the land disguised as Dornish, serving whichever lord will pay them the most to not raid their lands whilst raiding others."
"Not to mention the scattered news coming from the western side of the kingdom, of villages razed, crops burnt, and manses put to torch or torn down," Royce said. "There is no unified front as there was years before, for very few lords following the same cause are close enough to support one another. For all that we have managed to combat and reclaim, the west remains a disaster, and we have not yet reclaimed the entirety of the east. To the south, Lord Nymor Martell holds sway over several surrounding lords, but several more have risen in revolt and are using the land to pen him in and prevent us from reclaiming Sunspear by land." With the Oakenfist still assembling a fleet to retake the Grenblood, there was no telling if they would arrive to find allies or yet another set of defenders to halt their reclamation.
"It is not my place to cast doubt onto loyalties, my lords, but I remain unconvinced of Lord Yronwood's methods," Lord Jordayne said. "He is cunning, more than some might expect, but for the life of me I cannot understand what he might be doing. He has sent men to deal with marauders and bandits, kept caravan roads clear and safe, and has ensured that we retain a direct route to the old Wyl lands. Yet he holds his men back, where they are no longer needed in such numbers."
"No doubt wishing to conserve what he has, much as he did when you both surrendered after the Battle for the Gates," Lord Selmy said. "In addition to Yronwood securing our flanks, there is no news from Sunspear if Lord Martell is against or in support of the Iron Throne's continued rule. Is he unable to send word to us? Or is he not willing to declare unless he deigns it in his favor for one side over the other?"
"My uncle was not to declare for supporting any side unless my father told him to, my lords," Royce's least favorite guest said, if only because of their shared history, and even if by chance they were now allies, he would not forget the troubles in the Marches. Hence why the man always had no less than four guards around him, even when using the privy. "My father did not tell us why we were to be at Skyreach, only that he wanted to rally Dorne to prevent us from splintering apart and going for one another's throats like a pack of starving dogs."
Lord Jordayne shook his head. "As we can all see, Lewyn Sand, that clearly did not go to plan."
The former raider nodded with a sigh, his eyepatch a dark blot on a worn and weary face. "I still do not know where the crossbow bolts came from, nor whom else was a target, as the banquet descended into madness and my father bid us to flee. Yet when it was clear he wasn't going to make it, he told me to flee, to find someone who would need to know of what happened."
"You then came to us," Prince Baelor said, looking at the man with clear dislike. "To the very people who took your eye after you caused them so much trouble."
"I regret my past actions, my prince, but I have paid for them with a burden I cannot shed until I breathe my last," Lewyn said meekly. "Yet that my uncle has not declared for or against the Iron Throne, Lord Jordayne, is not a good sign. If he is besieged by enemy forces, then it is imperative we break that siege, and yet we cannot do so before the lands around Sunspear have been reclaimed and pacified."
"Indeed, hence why we are making our way towards Sunspear as we speak, with Lord Yronwood pledging an army to relieve ours should we require it," Lord Selmy said. "He is even summoning his vassals, last I heard, to begin assembling such a force as it is. We can only hope that the force Lord Velaryon is assembling will be enough to reclaim the Greenblood as he did during the war."
"Hence my apprehension, my lords, that with how limited our options are, that some might turn to other means," Lord Jordayne said. "Lord Yronwood knows, as we all do, that Sunspear and the lands around it are key to securing the last vestiges of eastern and southern Dorne, including the mouth of the Greenblood. With Lord Velaryon's current absence, there is no telling how many Essosi sellswords and supplies might be shipped into Sunspear and the keeps along the Greenblood, or to other keeps that have risen in revolt. We could find allies holding out against a siege, or we could find an array of defenses meant to bleed us dry, just as the desert will if we are not careful."
"Why would Lord Yronwood seek to undermine this campaign, if that is indeed what he is doing, my lord?" the prince asked. "He has kept to his fealty to my brother the king thus far, and has shown courage in securing the lands between the Tor and the Gates of Dorne."
"It is likely his ambitions, my prince, a dream to reclaim what was lost to his house and perhaps enact a bit of revenge at last. Long has Dorne known of the old claim of the Yronwoods to the title of Bloodroyal, signifying their dominion over Dorne before the coming of the Andals. King of the Greenbelt, of Redmarch, of the Dornish, all of these and more were once that of the last true Yronwood king, and no doubt the libraries and stories in the keep of Yronwood keep that memory and tradition alive. No doubt he would seek to become ruler of Dorne again, even if it were to remain under the authority of the Iron Throne to achieve that dream."
"So, he is loyal to my brother for what our king could grant him with his continued show of loyalty and adherence to his oaths," Baelor replied. "He could be simply being cautious, or he could be seeking the Lord Paramountship of Dorne, as a means of returning to the Bloodroyal moniker. That would explain his zeal in finding and rooting out bandits and marauders, as well as retaining as much of his forces as possible. Should other lords be more devastated by the conflict, there would be none left with the power to challenge his mantle, especially House Martell, a house that has been reduced to naught but three legitimate members."
"Hence why I came to you, Prince Baelor," Lewyn added. "I feared he might have me suffer an 'accident' if I were to go to him, since in the worst of cases, I could be legitimized to make up for the loss of my cousins, a situation I am glad cannot occur."
"Yet if Lord Martell is indeed for us but trapped by hostile lands surrounding him and pirates possibly preventing ships from sending messengers to friendly ports, that would put a damper in Lord Yronwood's plans," Lord Jordayne said. "He could make a case for being the clearly more successful lord under the Iron Throne and petition to become the new Lord Paramount, of which the title is yet unassigned mind you. However, given his most recent influx of men, I worry he will make a move to ensure that the Martells are no longer an issue, should he believe himself to be close to achieving such a goal."
"You think he would have the Martell line wiped out?" Royce asked, not liking where this was going. Was Jordayne sowing discord between them, or were his fears genuine? The Martell heir Myriah was safely ensconced in Storm's End and was currently taking well to her studies, as befitting a highborn noble lady. Young Maron was in Stormhall, far from any potential source of conflict and was the spare besides.
"I would rather it not be, Lord Baratheon. House Nymeros Martell is what united Dorne after we splintered for generations of petty kingdoms following a disputed election to High Kingship. Three major houses were wiped out in that civil war, and I dread to think what houses may be wiped out in this, should it go on for as long as those did."
"How long was that war?" Royce asked.
"As far as the records put it, a full generation, nigh on twenty years."
"Fuck's sake, we could be looking at twenty years of this shit?" Lord Selmy grumbled.
"If only Dorne were involved, then perhaps," the prince offered. "Yet no less than two external kingdoms, not ravaged by war, are being assembled to put this revolt down, and by extension, end this civil war as quickly as possible. The Martell heirs are safe and secure in the Stormlands, and while we have heard no word from Nymor Martell, he does not wish for his house to perish either."
They sat in silence, Royce pondering these ideas. He would need to keep a closer eye on Yronwood, but also on Jordayne, for while the former was clearly willing to do a great deal to reclaim lost glory for his house, he knew the latter had a secondary reason for wishing to keep the Martells as the primary lords of Dorne. Yet he dare not say it in front his Lord Selmy, nor his foster son, both of whom soon cited the need for sleep, lest this knowledge get out. Bidding them goodbye, and after sending Lewyn Sand to bed with his guards, Royce motioned for Lord Jordayne to stay behind.
"Lord Jordayne, while I applaud you for your loyalty to your former Prince of Dorne, I cannot in good faith leave something unsaid between us, as that is unbecoming of allies in this conflict."
"Then speak, Lord Baratheon. What troubles you?"
"Not so much as troubles me as gives greater context between us of what is also occurring. King Daeron is a confidant of mine, as I fostered his brother and heir for years on end in a positive manner. I know of the letter you sent him, seeking to have Lord Martell become the Lord Paramount of Dorne once the civil war has finished."
Lord Jordayne's gaze gave nothing away, save for a hint of acceptance. "The Martells were once vassals of the Jordaynes, only for the tides of history to turn against us and the Tor became subservient to the Yronwoods. It was suitably ironic, then, that eventually a house that was once our vassals would one day become the ruler of Dorne. We would seek to continue their rule, for as I said before, they united our lands from pretty squabbles, even if in name only in some years."
"Yet the fact that you petitioned that you're your youngest daughter be betrothed to Maron Martell? She would not become the lady of Sunspear should Myriah resume her place as heir."
He did not seem upset that he had been caught, or perhaps simply held his emotions in greater check. e did not seem upset that he had been caught"It is an insurance, Lord Baratheon. Make no mistake, I am loyal to the Martells and Iron Throne alike, for there need not be a division between the two. Should our king see fit to allow Dorne to retain its laws of inheritance, then Myriah shall become Princess of Dorne, and my daughter hopefully one of her confidants, perhaps even a friend in time. Yet should the king retract that style of inheritance…"
"Then you stand to become the goodfather of the next Lord Paramount of Dorne, and would wield an inordinate amount of power and influence in Dorne for at least a generation," Royce surmised. Clever, as expected of the Dornish, yet not so near as deceitful as he'd have believed. The man's principles were clear that either situation would work in the favor of his house, and yet… "So then… what of Lord Yronwood?"
"I have men tracking some of his movements, but none within his inner circles, for discovery would be a greater risk to my house than it would be worth," the Dornishman said. "The Tor is strong, but not as strong as she has been in the past, and especially not in comparison to how strong Yronwood remains. I fear for House Martell not just for the future of my house, nor for Yronwood's potential plans, but also for the future of Dorne. Any new house to assume Lord Paramountship would undoubtedly face a greater battle keeping the land united than a Martell, if only from the tradition of their rule. Yronwood already has more rivals than the Martells do, and I do not believe their seat to be the best for the future of our lands."
"Be that as it may, there is one thing you have slightly overlooked, Lord Jordayne," Royce said, keeping his grin small. The man's loyalty was good and all, but now it was exploitable beyond merely ensuring he would support them in this civil war.
"Oh?"
"Do remember that Maron Martell is under the care of Lord Wytch, of whom I have heard he has grown rather fond of, even calling him 'father' at times. I shudder to think of what my most… unusual vassal has been teaching the boy, and how he would feel if he believed the lad were being taken advantage of. There's no telling what he might do to the people who would be a bad influence on such an impressionable young boy."
The slight paling of Lord Jordayne's face was worth three good nights of rest.
Royce added, as if an afterthought, "oh, not to mention how good of a friend Lord Wytch is with my foster son, the prince, even teaching him a great deal. Of what? I haven't the faintest idea, but the prince holds him in high regard all the same."
The man considered this, hopefully without a typically Dornish plot coming to mind to see his ambitions bear fruit. "I… see, my lord. I will be sure to keep that in mind."
Good to see the man knew his place. "Goodnight, Lord Jordayne, we will embark in the morning for our next target, hopefully a town this time. I could use some sleep in a place with better food than what we've packed."