They found Morgan Byrch in the arms of his brother.
The youngest of the three Byrch brothers had been one of the first knights to counter Selwyn Tarth's flanking maneuver, flying back from the slaughter field of the front to save the infantry. He'd been unhorsed in the brief but fierce fight in the flank, but he'd continued to fight on foot. It had taken a dirk in the gap in his armor under the armpit to take him down, but even then he'd buried his battleaxe into the skull of the man that killed him. His brother had found them there, the Tarth knight's hand still on the dagger in Morgan's side and Morgan's hand still on the axe buried in his killer's forehead.
Balman Byrch had lost his own mount to a levy spear, remaining in the vicinity of the Stormlander lines for the battle, but he had seen his baby brother race back to the infantry. When Morgan didn't come back, Balman had gone to find him.
Aelor wished it had been someone else who had come across the young knight, if only for Balman's sake.
The middle Byrch was openly crying, caring not a whit if other men saw him as he cradled his brother's lifeless body. Lord Cleyton stood stony faced a few feet away. The eldest hadn't had the relationship with his youngest brother that Balman had, but Aelor knew the man was suffering.
The Dragon Prince stood beside Ser Barristan and Alaric, watching the heart wrenching scene in front of him with his helm in his hands. "It's my fault."
Barristan Selmy shook his head. "Men die in war, Your Grace, friends and foes alike."
"I rushed in like a fool and had my flank turned. If Selwyn Tarth hadn't have been outnumbered two to one, we'd all be dead now."
Ser Barristan's voice turned firm. "This is not the time for self-pity, Your Grace. We were outmaneuvered, but their losses are far greater than our own."
"The important ones got away."
"We annihilated hundreds of Robert Baratheon's men. That was our goal in marching here, and we achieved it. Yes we were outflanked, but we learn from that and we move on."
Aelor was quiet a long moment before clapping his mentor on the shoulder. "Thank you, my friend." Aelor turned away from the harrowing scene in front of him, unable to bear Balman's tears any longer. If that was Rhaegar, would I do the same? Would he for me?
Aelor didn't know the answer, and that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
Renfred rode up then, dismounting a different horse than the one he'd rode at the start of the battle. "The castle opened her gates as soon as the battle ended. It was manned only by a skeleton garrison with no sign of Lord Musgood or his family. They never intended to hold out."
Aelor nodded, taking the waterskin his friend offered and taking a long drink, only then realizing how thirsty he had been. "Their entire goal once we arrived was to hold us up just long enough to get the nobles and most important knights back on the galleys. It worked. What are our losses?"
The Lord of Hollard Hall grimaced. "Close to six hundred of the infantry including the wounded. Less than half of that for the knights." He gestured towards the bawling Balman. "Morgan?"
Aelor only nodded, unable to voice the confirmation. Rykker cursed under his breath before continuing his report. "We're not yet sure of their infantry numbers other than that almost of all those who had been on the field are dead or captured. They couldn't have been more than two and a half thousand, if that. There was two hundred knights thereabouts in their flanking force. All are dead."
Aelor shook his head in disgust. "They took more than three times their number to the grave with them as well as running off half my levies. An impressive feat I'll admit, even if it was against me. We give them each proper burials."
Rykker nodded. "Of course Your Grace."
"I'll need a count of how many men I have left. I'll have Ser Barristan send out a few parties to return my panicked levies; the ones they can find anyway. We rest at Drakesgrave tonight. Move the camp up."
Rykker bowed his head. "It will be done." The big man remounted before smacking his breastplate. "Strong shield."
Aelor returned the gesture. "Stronger sword."
Renfred hesitated just a moment longer. "All men must die, Aelor. Such is life." Rykker turned his horse and galloped away before the prince could think of anything to respond with.
"Alaric," the dragonlord said while summoning the Langward lad with his hand, his squire stepping up from where he had dutifully been waiting. The boy's shaggy black hair was soaked with sweat and Aelor could see his hands trembling with the retreating adrenaline in his veins, but Alaric had managed to hold on to his lunch this time, and he stood tall and straight. Aelor handed him the waterskin, and Langward drank gratefully. "You did well."
Alaric shrugged once he lowered the waterskin from his lips. "You told me to stay with you, Your Grace."
The prince grinned for the first time that day. "Aye, that I did. You ride well, and you're good with a lance."
The squire responded as all young men did to praise, his chest puffing out as he tried to fight back a smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"I'll see if Ser Barristan will assist with your swordsmanship training, and I'll get you a set of proper armor as soon as I can, on two conditions."
"Your Grace?"
"You keep both me and yourself alive long enough for me to fulfill that promise."
Alaric grinned. "Of course, Your Grace."
The Dragon of Duskendale nodded. "Good. Now go and assist Lord Rykker in moving the camp. I'll be reviewing the castle."
Both of them swung onto their respective animals. Alaric had only just sped away when the sound of someone calling his name captured his attention. Aelor turned his stallion around—shit he was getting attached to the beast—and saw a messenger weaving through the mass of bodies both dead and living.
"Prince Aelor!" the man called again before pulling his lathered, exhausted looking horse to a stop beside the dragonlord. "News from your scouts. Robert Baratheon is marching."
She missed Aelor.
Elia Martell knew the Seven had to frown upon her for that. It was Rhaegar she was supposed to miss, the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne and father to her children. But all Elia felt when she thought of her husband was anger and heartbreak, so instead she thought of his younger brother.
They'd received word from the Stormlands, both from messengers sent by the Dragon of Duskendale and from Varys and his spiderweb of knowledge. Aelor had scattered a Stormlord host at Bronzegate, capturing Lord Buckler and various other nobles and knights. He'd slaughtered another at Drakesgrave on the shore of the Narrow Sea, though Lord Selwyn Tarth and his advisors had eluded capture. Elia hoped her goodbrother kept himself alive, for he seemed to be the only hope for the Targaryen dynasty. While she was a Martell, her children were dragonlords, and their safety and wellbeing were the most important things in the world to her. Right now, it seemed that safety and wellbeing rested on Aelor Targaryen's shoulders.
They'd received word from elsewhere as well. Her youngest brother Oberyn was currently in the Boneway, having been ordered by Aelor to prevent Baratheon from avoiding him by fleeing through Dorne. Elia knew her hyperactive brother would be chafing from both being ordered and from missing the combat taking place, but she knew he would follow the Lord of Duskendale's command.
Oberyn and Aelor had struck an odd friendship, the Red Viper much more fond of the second Targaryen than the first. Elia had once worried that Oberyn craved a more…intimate relationship with the son of Aerys—she was fully aware of some of her brother's taste—and had worried about how Aelor would react should her brother try something, but Oberyn seemed to understand Aelor was as straight as an arrow and their friendship was just that.
The Dragon of Duskendale had also been correct about Hoster Tully's intentions, it seemed. Varys spies had reported that the Riverlander had managed to marry not only his supposedly grief-stricken eldest Catelyn to her dead betrothed's brother Eddard Stark, but also his youngest to the elderly Jon Arryn of the Vale. The three regions were amassing at Riverrun, their presence a constant dagger pointed at King's Landing.
A dagger pointed at her children.
Robert Baratheon was the only wild card. The last word from the Dragon of Duskendale was that Baratheon was moving towards Storm's End, and that Aelor was taking back to the field to meet him. Mace Tyrell was moving the main body of his force to try and pin the Stag between the Rose and Dragon while his vassal Randyll Tarly was moving his vanguard to close down the Kingsroad to King's Landing, but even Varys wasn't sure just where the rebellious Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was.
Well, Elia supposed he wasn't the only wild card. No one knew where Rhaegar and his three Kingsguard were.
For not the first time, Elia was grateful for the constant presence of Ser Manfred Darke. He was as mean as he was ugly, and neither the overly sensual Talana Vaith or gorgeous Ashara Dayne had been able to flirt so much as a smile out of the squat knight. It was abundantly clear, however, that he was as loyal a man as ever lived. Aelor had ordered him to protect the royal family—at least,most of it—at all costs, and protect the royal family he would.
Of course, no one on earth could protect the Queen. Rhaella Targaryen was pregnant again after three living children and eight who didn't survive infancy, her belly already beginning to swell. Elia believed that unborn child and young, eccentric Viserys were the only thing keeping the haunted woman alive. It had disturbed Elia to no end when she'd first married Rhaegar and heard her goodmother's desperate pleas for help on the occasions Aerys took his "rights" as her husband. It infuriated her that Rhaegar did nothing while his mother suffered so, but she'd soon learned that no one could. Not the Kingsguard, not Rhaegar, not even Aelor, who had always been more hot tempered and challenging of his father's eccentrics. No one raised a finger to the King.
"Princess," sounded the breaking stone Manfred Darker used for a voice. "A letter for you."
Elia smiled at the broad man. "Thank you, Ser Manfred."
He extended the letter in one hand before opening his other, revealing a tiny doll. "This," the big knight said, clearly uncomfortable holding something so small in his huge hands, "came with it."
Elia couldn't help but giggle at the sight of the monstrous man holding a doll. Her mirth grew even more when the man blushed.
Talana and Ashara would be devastated when they learned a doll had managed a feat neither of their feminine wiles could.
The Dornish Princess ended the man's silent suffering and took the proffered doll and parchment, breaking the seal bearing the warring dragons of Aelor. Ah, just who I was thinking of. The Prince's writing was physically narrow but emotionally broad, able to convey a broad range of emotions with mere words if he so chose. Rhaegar was the true poet of course, able to bend words into marvelous arrangements. His poetry and singing was, in truth, what she had loved most about him. But while Aelor couldn't carry a tune, his writing, despite being only half as poetic as his brother's, certainly reminded her of Rhaegar.
Elia,
This may come as a surprise to you, but I have a new doll for your daughter.
I found it in the chambers I commandeered at Drakesgrave. I suppose it belonged to one of the Musgood girls, but it belongs to Rhaenys Targaryen now. Call it dishonorable thievery if you will, but I'm sure your daughter won't see it that way.
I know Ser Manfred has you well taken care of, but I worry for you and your children's safety, as well as my mother and Viserys. Keep Aegon and Rhaenys close to you. This war is the greatest threat to the Targaryen dynasty since Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel, and I fear more lives will be lost during its course than even the Redgrass Field claimed. I beg you to remember that Ser Manfred is your bodyguard; please, for the sake of the Seven, let him guard you.
I killed a boy today. He was a squire, no older than thirteen. It wasn't even a true battle, just a skirmish trying to throw me off of Robert Baratheon's true force. He thrust a spear at me, hoping to gain fame as the slayer of the Dragon of Duskendale I suppose. Before I even knew what I was doing, I cut his throat. A boy, one not even old enough to have felt a woman's touch. Now all he'll ever feel is the embrace of cold clay.
I didn't feel a damn thing after I killed him. No remorse, no sadness for the death of one so young. That is what terrifies me.
Give my niece and nephew a hug from me. I pray that I'll be able to do it myself someday soon. And I pray that the Aelor Targaryen that returns to King's Landing, if one even does, is at least a tiny bit similar to the same one that left.
Aelor
Elia didn't know whether to smile at his gift or frown at his words. Aelor's care for his niece and nephew had always been touching, and it didn't surprise her at all that Aelor would even use a war to find more dolls for Rhaenys' already impressive collection. Then again, his statements about feeling changed worried her. Elia knew men changed in war, but this…this seemed something more.
Elia didn't want Aelor to turn away from the good man he was at heart. The Seven knew there weren't many of those around, especially in positions of power.
The Dornishwoman presented the doll to her daughter, a lump forming in her throat at her delighted squeals. Elia pulled her into a hug, the lump growing larger as Rhaenys threw her tiny arms around her mother's neck.
It had been a long time since Elia Martell gave in to the need to cry. The urge had been with her for months now, but she had never given in.
But when the first tear cut a trail down her coppery cheek, she just couldn't stop the dozens that followed.