At dawn, another raven flew for the capital. The day before, we had already written of our victory and sent word of those who had fallen and those who had survived.
But today the raven carried orders — the fleet under the command of Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne was to depart the capital, sail to Storm's End, take on men there, and then set forth to reclaim the Arbor.
Mace had lost a son, yet I judged that battle, with vengeance close at hand, would make it easier for him to bury his grief.
The days that followed were filled with duties, ceaseless bustle, and matters of every sort and gravity.
More than two hundred men received their knightly spurs, and we held a feast in their honour. Vast heaps of spoils, horses, armour, and weapons had to be gathered, sorted, stored, or sent onward to King's Landing. Much of it we gifted away then and there upon the field.
The surviving Dothraki — more than fifteen hundred of them taken captive — were stripped of their horses and mounts, then placed under guard. Separately from them were held more than one thousand seven hundred Unsullied.
Despite our colossal losses, after the Battle of Cloverfield few men still managed to preserve any respect for the Dothraki as warriors. The Unsullied earned a touch more approval, yet not a single knight or lord continued to think them invincible.
Perhaps across the narrow sea, in Essos, they had indeed stood above all others. But here, amidst the realities of fine armour, heavy infantry, and disciplined organisation, they plainly fell short of the deadliest soldiers in the world.
We never did find Grey Worm. He had worn the same armour as every other Unsullied, and amidst the slaughter the battlefield had become, amidst that endless sea of corpses, there was neither anyone willing nor any reason to search for him. Perhaps he survived. Daario Naharis's fate remained unknown as well. And fuck them both...
Missandei had been taken captive by Randyll Tarly — I purchased her from him. A girl who spoke several tongues, knew the customs of many cities, and possessed a keen understanding of the countless cultures of Essos could yet prove useful to me.
The girl was pleasant enough to look upon, perhaps even pretty, but she stirred no interest in me beyond that of practicality. On her knees, she begged me to allow her to tend to the wounded Daenerys, and after giving the matter some thought, I permitted it.
Men dug vast long trenches and buried the fallen. There were so many dead that the Battle of Cloverfield had already begun to be called one of the bloodiest battles in the history of Westeros.
On the eighth day, envoys from Dorne arrived. They were led by Lord Anders Yronwood, who for some reason had not taken part in the Battle of Cloverfield. The man was the second most powerful lord in Dorne after Doran Martell himself.
Doran could not come in person, but he sent a decree granting all authority to his eldest son, Quentyn.
The Fowlers — the third most powerful house in Dorne — were represented by Lord Franklyn.
There upon Cloverfield, beneath the blare of trumpets and the gaze of a thousand knights and lords, all the proud and unbowed lords of Dorne bent the knee and spoke the words of fealty.
I watched the faces of the Dornish — arrogant, commanding, stern— and understood how difficult it was for them to utter such vows. Especially after one of the greatest defeats in Dornish history.
It was an extraordinary, fateful moment: proud Dorne acknowledging its defeat and affirming its subordinate place at last. Historians and maesters would write books of this battle and of this very hour, while bards would make songs of it.
Dorne, like the other rebellious regions before it, escaped at much the same price — one million golden dragons in reparations, oaths of fealty, and hostages in the persons of Yronwood and Martell. The Dornish lords promised to gather the gold within a moon's turn and personally deliver it to the capital. That arrangement suited us all well enough.
The Unsullied themselves, the Dothraki, and the few surviving sellswords swore solemn vows that never again in their lives would they raise arms against the King of Westeros or his men.
We saved the most amusing matter for the very end. Jaime Lannister himself announced it.
"The captive Dothraki and Unsullied are hereby placed under the care of Dorne, which shall be responsible for determining their future fate. Upon pain of death, these people are forbidden from leaving Dorne or remaining anywhere else within the lands of Westeros."
One should have seen the looks upon the faces of the Dornish lords.
"Your Grace, but what are we to do with them?" Anders Yronwood tried to reason with me.
"You invited Daenerys Targaryen to Westeros, and she brought her armies with her. You fed them before, so now you may continue feeding them," I said with a shrug, making it plain this was no concern of the Crown. "We have no wish to see the savage customs of the Dothraki take root in Westeros, and certainly no desire to see them dilute Andal blood."
Aye, everyone understood well enough that with Winter approaching, no one had need of so many extra mouths to feed. Especially mouths so ravenous—and so violent.
(End of Chapter)
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