"…Prince Aelor…"
The Northmen had those they called Dreamwalkers; Greenseers, wargs and mystics, they were both honored and reviled. As a boy, the second son of Aerys had often wondered what it was like to be one, to live in the eyes of another while maintaining one's own conscious.
Whatever it was like, it sure as hell wasn't like this.
He kept hearing his bloody name, which was particularly annoying since all he wanted was to sleep. Something kept shaking him as well, which just increased his annoyance. Mumbled voices, soft hands and the sound of pen on parchment would occasionally infiltrate his blissful unconsciousness, and with each interruption he grew more and more angry, desperate to stay in this dream world.
The real world held nothing but pain and bitterness anymore, while his dreams held her.
He'd been sixteen when he first saw her, stepping off the sleek Dornish ship at the docks of King's Landing, an orange billowed dress waving in the wind. She was surrounded by dozens of other Dornishmen, among them her savage-looking brother, but all Aelor had seen was her. She'd been the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on.
He'd been fighting the Brotherhood with Barristan Selmy when Rhaenys had been born, though heavens knew he'd have preferred to be with her. Aelor knew as well as anyone how inappropriate it would have been, but even at a young age Aelor didn't much care for propriety. When he'd finally returned after the Brotherhoods fall he'd been utterly in awe of the small, olive-skinned baby in her arms, never feeling a stronger sense of joy than when he'd first held the babe, even as his brother pulled her mother into an embrace.
Aelor had been there for Aegon. None of them knew it of course, that daft code of what was appropriate and inappropriate keeping him from the birthing chamber itself, but he'd been there. He'd waited, from her first cries to Aegon's, mere feet away in the hidden corridors of the Red Keep, a wall of stone between them. He'd felt terror unlike any other when he'd heard the maester's and midwives frantically working to stop her bleeding after the now-King had been born, and relief of equal potency when they finally had. He had very nearly decided to knock the wall down, though the Seven knew he'd have been useless even if he'd been in there.
In hindsight, Aelor wondered just how he'd remained oblivious to the fact that he was hopelessly in love with her for so long. He was certainly—and painfully—aware of it now.
"Prince Aelor." This voice was louder, and combined with the hand firmly shaking his shoulder chased away the fuzzy nowhere of unconsciousness.
And with it fled Elia.
Aelor Targaryen blinked his eyes against the sudden light, a sudden pain in the back of his head making him squint and curse in pain. "So you're finally awake," spoke the smooth tones of who could only be Oberyn Martell. Aelor squinted his eyes, the disorientation slowly wearing off. As his vision cleared, he realized he was in a tent laid out on a cot—presumably his.
Ellaria Sand leaned back, sharp eyes watching his movements. "It is about time you woke."
With a pained groan Aelor slowly sat up, hand going to the point of pain on the back of his scalp, realizing that his head was bandaged. Ellaria placed a precautionary hand on his chest, steadying him as a wave of dizziness overtook him for a moment.
The Red Viper of Dorne leaned forward from his slouching position in a chair. "I'd be careful, Targaryen; you have quite the knot on the back of your silver head."
Aelor grunted as he felt around the sizeable knot, absently patting Ellaria's arm with his other hand to thank her for her assistance. "What the hell happened?"
Oberyn's tone became much more vicious. "Tywin Lannister happened."
Alaric Langward's voice came from the other side of Aelor's tent. The Prince Regent looked to see the young knight stretched out on his own cot, his right leg a bloody mess of red bandages both below and above the knee. "Spikes, Your Grace; pits of them, at the foot of the hills leading out of the mountains of the Golden Tooth."
Oberyn's voice dripped with his distaste. "The bastards threw bridges of woven branches over them, heavy enough to support a man but not a two-thousand pound warhorse with a knight atop it. They covered the bridges with rocks and soil, and we were moving too fast towards their flank to notice the odd look of the ground before it was too late."
Aelor cursed mightily, rage at the Lannisters making his blood boil and his head ache. He remembered it now, the memories flashing back to him in a rush. They'd poured from the hills like flame from the maw of a dragon, thundering towards the Lannister formations side even as Randyll Tarly's infantry marched on their front. Aelor had never felt rage of the same caliber before, the sight of the Lion banner driving him into a frenzy he could only sate with killing. Warrior had been particularly worked up, bellowing the stallions customary battle cries as they near on flew towards the Lannister lines.
Alaric had been on his right, Brightsmile his left, until suddenly they hadn't been. He supposed it was sheer luck or the work of the Seven that Warrior avoided the first of the traps, though he highly doubted it was the latter what with the genocide he planned nightly. Aelor had grown familiar with the shrill shriek of dying horses, though one never grew used to the gut-wrenching sound. Even so, the cacophony of bellows and animal screams as coursers and destriers fell, their unprotected bellies impaled on spikes of iron and fire-hardened wood, was scarring, and the dragonlord knew he'd never forget its terrible sound for the rest of his life, however long or short it may be. The horrific scene had been compounded as the second lines of knights, unable to slow their mounts in time, fell into the same traps, crushing those underneath and driving the poor men and mounts of the first line further onto the spikes.
Words couldn't describe it, for there were none awful enough.
His great behemoth of a horse had been all that saved him. Warrior was smarter than most men the Prince knew, bringing his massive frame to a stop inches before he stomped headlong onto another trap, rearing up. While that had saved them both from crashing headlong onto near certain death, Aelor had been completely unprepared for it, vaulting off of the stallions back upside-down.
It had all went black then.
Aelor cursed again under his breath. "How many lived?"
"Of our flanking force? Roughly two thirds. They rained arrows down on us as soon as we hit the pits."
Alaric grunted. "Suffice it to say our attack stalled."
Aelor glanced at his former squire's leg. "How bad is it?"
The Langward knight's voice turned somewhat bitter, taking the Prince aback. He'd never heard anything approaching anger in Alaric's voice before. "Two spikes drove through the flesh. It twisted oddly and broke."
Ellaria spoke for the first time, ignoring Aelor's attempt to wave her away and dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth. "We don't know if it will heal properly or not, but there is always a chance, Alaric." She turned to stare at him, seeming a lifetime older than him even though in truth there was only a couple of years between the two. "Do not lose hope."
Alaric looked to the ground, jaw set, though he nodded. "Yes my lady."
Aelor cursed himself for a fool. "I should have known there would be a trap." A sudden thought occurred to him, bringing his blood back to a boil instantly. "Did Lefford—"
"No," Prince Oberyn cut him off with a shake of his head. "I had the same thought, but Lord Leo knew nothing. His stallion ran into a pit as well, though the other knights and horses below him let him escape with only a few bruises and a blow to the head similar to yours."
Aelor looked out the flap of his tent, seeing Casterly Rock, the fortress literally carved inside a small mountain, in the distance. "What is our situation?"
Oberyn stood, pouring two chalices of wine and handing one to both Aelor and Alaric before retrieving another two for himself and Ellaria. "Brightsmile," the Prince of Dorne said as he worked, "is crippled; one leg was crushed by another knight's courser after his own mount was spiked. They had to amputate it at the knee, and there is a still a chance he might not pull through. The Kingsguard knight is alive and well, his inabilities to properly ride making his courser pull up well before the pits."
"He braved the volleys of arrows to carry you back to safety, Your Grace," Alaric put in. "He then came back for me, pulling a dead knight off of me as easy as moving a saddle before lifting me off of the spikes." The freshly wounded boy looked down. "I didn't think he even liked me."
"Manfred doesn't like anyone, not even me," Aelor told his young friend. "But somewhere beneath the layers of hate and violence is a good man."
"Tarly and the Northmen saved the day," Oberyn continued on, undeterred. "Your chief general committed his reserves to cover our own men while the Wolves broke their left with a savage charge. Some big fellow, half a giant with a voice like a warhorn, led them."
"Jon Umber," Alaric filled in for the Prince of Dorne.
"In any case, Lannister was more than prepared for us. He used his own reserves to cover their retreat. Tywin, his best men and most of his lords seemed to have pulled back to Casterly Rock, while the rest made it into Lannisport and managed to close the gates, dealing a heavy toll with archers from their walls before Tarly called off the attacks. Their casualties were overall light."
Aelor nodded, blood nearly singing with the need to cut Lannister throats. "Did Warrior survive?"
The Red Viper snorted. "Of course he did; it would take more than a few spikes and Tywin Lannister to kill that horse. Your Tully squire is caring for him at this very moment, and is still quite vexed you didn't allow him to join the charge." Oberyn looked Aelor in the eyes intently. "I'll gladly pay any price you want to breed that stallion to a sand steed mare. The foal will either be utterly useless or utterly unstoppable."
Aelor grunted, taking a sip of his own wine, head throbbing. "We'll negotiate later, and you'll regret offering any price I want. Are siege weapons being built?"
Oberyn nodded, taking a gulp of his own, Ellaria finally finishing fussing over Aelor and Alaric and returning to her normal position in Oberyn's lap. "Yes, catapults, trebuchets and siege towers. Tarly has sent messengers to the Ironborn with orders to blockade Casterly Rock and the Lannisport docks, though they have already sunk every galley once moored there."
Aelor nodded again. "Our special gift?"
"Currently in Oxcross, heading this way come nightfall. They'll be here long before we have the capacity to implement them."
The Prince of the Iron Throne hadn't taken his eyes off of Casterly Rock. "Excellent. I want outriders to check every crevasse surrounding the Rock; there is bound to be a few unknown tunnels for just such an occasion. Patrols, randomized and often so the Lannisters have a limited chance of sneaking through. We'll handle Lannisport first and then focus on the Rock."
Aelor began to move to get off of the cot, but Ellaria Sand was instantly shoving him back down. "No no. You need to remain abed for a while longer."
Oberyn stood. "I will bring Tarly and the ugly white cloak back with me, as well as a few other advisors. We must be cautious, as much as I detest the sheer thought. A lion is never more deadly than when cornered."
Oberyn turned to exit the tent, throwing one more comment over his shoulder as he moved like a panther out into the maze of tents and bodies. "He certainly proved it today."