Part II
Chapter 21: Stormlanders XI
Early 155 AC
The day was a deceptively cheerful one, with only a light breeze and no clouds in any direction. Yet it was one tinged with resignation and anger all the same, for they had come across another cluster of burnt farmsteads, their smallfolk like so many others robbed and beaten, if not killed or worse. Lord Baratheon, with Lords Dondarrion and Selmy beside him, gazed upon the open grasslands in silence as Lords Wytch and Wysp moved in with their men to check the village, with Lords Windhill, Galewood and Greycairn flanking wide to the north and south, just in case it were another ambush.
"I've lost so many out here, it's hard to keep track," Lord Dondarrion sighed. "There's going to be smallfolk discovering lost villages for years to come, perhaps even decades into the future. It will take at least a generation for my smallfolk to even begin to recover from this."
"If you are lacking in food, speak with Lord Wytch," Lord Baratheon said, motioning to the banner ahead of them. A curious thing, to see two men atop a horse, only for the rear fellow, with yew bow in hand, to drop off and form up with his fellows once within range of the ransacked village. "He has been producing more food in his lands these past few years than they've seen in the last twenty. I am sure he would sell it to you for a good price."
"So, the rumors are true, then?" Lord Selmy asked. "Lord Wytch has turned his lands into a breadbasket of its own?"
"Aye, like a smaller version of the Reach, only with good Stormlander blood ruling instead of foppish Reachmen," Lord Baratheon replied with a grunt. "Never seen so much food produced in such a small domain. Were it not for the outcry from his neighbors and the other lords, I'd be interested in granting him more land to see what he could do with it. He has certainly repaid the investment my mother made in raising his father several times over thus far." A rising star indeed, for a house so young, but it would take time to see if such a rise were to last, or to be reversed by ill fortunes or choices.
"Were it not for my second son already having married, seeking a betrothal with one of his sisters would be an excellent means of securing such a new supply of grain," Lord Dondarrion said. "Alas, I shall have to seek him out on the matter as a transaction of business, rather than potential familial ties."
"My second son is not yet betrothed," Lord Selmy mused, as the vanguard advanced further into the village. "I will need to speak with Lord Wytch on the matter after we set up camp."
A wave of a banner ahead of them signaled all clear, a worthy precaution after a previous failed ambush by Dornish stragglers had seen Lord Dondarrion nearly killed. With nary another word, Lord Baratheon and his Marcher Lords rode forward, their men following them into the burnt village. All around, the other lord secured the area, setting up whatever defenses their carts still carried, mostly sharpened stakes at this point. They would be leaving come morning, so no need to dig trenches for this place. Given the landscape, it would be an untenable defense anyway.
"Lords Wysp, Wytch," Lord Baratheon called, the men riding back to him from their men.
"My lord," the pair replied as they dismounted.
"Damages?" Such a question was sadly all too common these days. If these Dornish fiends had been on foot, they would have caught them some time ago, but as these Dornish were always ahorse on those devilish sand steeds, they always seemed at least one step ahead of him and his vassals.
"Right this way, my lord," Lord Wysp said.
The smallfolk as he soon discovered had been herded into one of the barns, the village's primary granary it would seem, one built partially into the side of the hill. The survivors, a good portion of the village this time, had practically fallen to their knees in thanks for their lords' arrival. The raiders, they said, must have known how close they were, as rather than steal everything they had attempted to set it all alight, the barn containing them included. By the grace of the gods, due to the rain the night before, the thick thatched roof had been too wet to set aflame. Most of the other buildings had not fared as well, burnt from the inside out and left as charred ruins.
As it were, the smallfolk were directed by Lord Dondarrion to move east, away from the region the raiders continued to plunder and attack. Few had much of anything left to take with them, and it pained Lord Baratheon to see his people in such a state. Yet what could be done other than to send them away from this perilous area? Leaving them here invited starvation or worse, a return from the raiders to finish what they had attempted.
As his lords tended to their men, Royce Baratheon moved towards the main encampment being set up, his guards staying close. More than one Stormlord in the past had been taken by a Dornish blade or poisoned arrow in a place he had thought safe, and they were taking no chances with their liege. There, amidst a deal of men breaking apart the remnants of the smallfolk homes for usable pieces, and a group of them digging a latrine a good way from the well, stood Lords Wytch and Windhill. As they intermittently barked orders and directed their men at their tasks, they seemed to be deep in discussion, one they ceased as soon as they saw his approach.
"My lords," he said.
"Lord Baratheon," the pair replied.
"How go the latrines?"
"Should be done within the hour, my lord, as will the defenses," Lord Windhill said. "No nighttime raid on our camp with those stakes in place, even with the ruins they've no real place to run through the camp."
"A sad situation that we must erect such defenses in our own lands but catching these Dornish fiends is like chasing smoke. Even when it is just in your grip, it slips through your fingers with nothing to show for it."
"We're salvaging what we can from the smallfolk structures, good timbers and the like for stakes or wagon repairs," Lord Wytch said, motioning to his men as they tore down a nearly collapsed cottage. "There's never much to go with in such an aftermath, but we can still find what we need."
"If only we could have been here before the damned Dornish burnt it. We've been chasing them like a hound after a hare yet cannot find them, let alone engage in fair and honest battle."
"Given their history, my lord, they likely have eyes on us at all times," Lord Windhill said. "Use of a Myrish far-eye out in this terrain would most certainly aid in preventing us from sneaking up on them. An expensive tool to be sure, but these bandits, they seem too organized to simply be rabble."
"Whoever leads them is a clever bandit, likely an experienced one."
"I should hope my fear is not the case, but it may not be a bandit leading this group, my lord," Lord Wytch said.
"What do you mean?"
"A Myrish far-eye, while not entirely outside the realm of possibility, would likely only be in the possession of someone of political importance or significant influence. They are not cheap, and whilst bandit kings might be able to have one, this far from their borders would increase the risk of it being damaged. Only someone with enough prestige, an influential family or a great deal of coin could hope to have one to be used this far from Dornish soil."
"A fair assumption, Lord Wytch," Windhill said. "However, if this is indeed the case, then we are not dealing with an unusually-cunning bandit posse."
"We may be dealing with noble-funded raiders, perhaps even led by Dornish lords or their kin," Lord Baratheon finished. He had thought of this possibility and dismissed it earlier on, but after such a lack of progress for such a length of time, any option at this point was on the table. If he could not protect his lords from Dornish bandits this far into the Stormlands, then perhaps some might doubt his ability to protect his lords at all?
"If that is the case, then we must change our ways," Lord Wytch said, a pondering look upon his grim face. "They expect us to chase them in a large group, but we have far too many supplies with us to maintain good speed. If we were to separate from our supply lines, they could burn it all, leaving us stranded far enough that we might not make it to the nearest well or stream for water."
The Dornish Marches were indeed vast, and perhaps the sparsest lands in the Stormlands. Out here, to be cut off from water was as much a death sentence as it would be in the Dornish deserts themselves. "What do you suggest, my lords?" Lord Baratheon asked. "At this point in this venture, I am open to fresh ideas. What we are doing is not working, but we cannot simply call for the entirety of the Stormlands to come to our aid just yet."
"I suggest we split off, or give the appearance of it," the younger lord said. "One or two of our groups, perhaps myself and another, split off, making a great show of doing so. Any Dornish raider will drool like a dog at the chance to kill Stormlanders separated from the main host. However, we maintain this façade whilst we prepare a trap, one that can be sprung at any moment, requiring little more than an hour of preparation so as to avoid suspicions."
"A trap?" Lord Windhill said, nodding as a small smile. "We Stormlords are not known for our deviousness, but in times like these, perhaps to defeat one's enemy, one must think like one's enemy. It is something they are least likely to expect from our kind, given how we have been operating these past moons. They may even believe our hosts to be separating due to disagreements between lords."
"What would you have in mind?" Lord Baratheon asked.
"Any lord who chooses the terrain in a battle already has an advantage over his opponent, who must then react rather than prepare. Dondarrion and Selmy scouts, men more knowledgeable of these lands than you or me, would be invaluable in this. If we choose where the enemy will attack, we will have a greater degree of control on how they attack, and thus have a greater understanding of how to remove any advantage they think they have."
"We draw them in, thinking they are taking us unawares, when we have been preparing for this exact moment. I approve Lord Wytch, please continue."
"After the battlefield has been chosen, we must do everything in our power to ensure every advantage must be gained, or barring that, every advantage the enemy has it taken from them. We have stronger horses, but theirs are far swifter and less likely to tire. We have no good archers on horseback, and although likely not the professionals of a noble house, theirs are likely still good shots. Yet we know they likely have little armor, given their speed these past months, and they likely carry their supplies with them, being so far from Dornish lands."
Many assumptions, but given the long history between the kingdoms, one any Stormlander could make with a good deal of accuracy. "How do we use this to our advantage?"
"I believe I understand what Lord Wytch is saying," Lord Windhill said. "Take away their horses, and they are stranded. Dornish sand steeds are indeed swift and possess great endurance, but they are frail compared to our horses. A few shots from our bows, or a sword or lance strike, and they are more likely to be incapacitated or killed than our own horses. If they are indeed carrying their supplies, which all evidence points to being the case, then losing even one or two horses for the group could greatly impede their ability to strike fast and flee. If by the grace of the gods one or two horses carry most of their waterskins, and is injured or lost without them having time to regain those waterskins…"
"Then they cannot stray as far from water again, thus limiting their range of attack even whilst on the move," Lord Baratheon finished. While some might find it distasteful to target a man's horse and not the man himself, these were Dornish. No Stormlander or Reachmen would find fault in this strategy, given what had transpired thus far. Were it a genuine war, then perhaps some might decry such practices, but these were raiders; no mercy would be shown to such reprobates.
"In addition, should we capture, disable, or kill their horses, then we stand a chance of gaining prisoners. Whilst any man might think themselves stronger than coercion, there are many ways a man might be… persuaded to part with information."
"Torture," Windhill said flatly.
"If it comes to it," Lord Wytch said. "Given what these men have done to the smallfolk of this region, would any Stormlander balk at returning the favor?"
"Nay, my lords, they would not," Lord Baratheon replied. "Many would expect it, in all honesty."
"However, for these traps to work, I will need as many supplies as can be gleaned from the remaining structures of this village. For this, I will need as much iron nails or bits as can be found, and the use of your mobile smithy. With your permission, my lord paramount?"
"Indeed, Lord Wytch. For the time being, do what you can, we shall speak more during our supper."
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The great barn was the feasting hall for that night, and Lord Selmy was unusually anxious. The nerves of every man had been slowly but surely fraying in this time so far out in the Marches, always discovering Dornish atrocities but never being able to catch the slippery serpents. They had suffered few losses, but had no real victory to celebrate, no real achievement to take pride in accomplishing. Were this to go on for too long, many might decide this endeavor to be impossible and go home, leaving him and Dondarrion alone in this endeavor.
The high table was one of relative merriment, though still subdued. The knowledge that the barn they ate in had almost been burned to the ground with the village's smallfolk within put a damper on things. Still, Lord Baratheon had announced that they would be trying something new, something to break this endless stalemate in this conflict. Each lord had been given a separate assignment, often intersecting with another. Most lords were swinging either north or south to serve as screens for Lord Baratheon. Lords Wytch and Windhill would move as a separate force far ahead of Lord Baratheon's to serve as a distraction for the Dornish, hopefully drawing them into a fight with a perceived smaller force, or barring that force them to move elsewhere. They were to be aided by some of his own scouts, as well as those of Lord Dondarrion. It was risky, to utilize his men with a young lord, even with Lord Windhill leading the effort.
There was doubt in his mind this was entirely the older lord's idea. Lord Wytch was a rising star amongst lords, quick to lend aid and already proven in his efficiency in which he would make or break camp. The men of other lords had occasionally grumbled at how easy Wytch men seemed to rise with the morning, many breaking camp before even partaking in breaking their fast, thus leaving them more time to do whatever else they wished. He was also patient and had already sent for enough grain to feed a good portion of the smallfolk Lord Dondarrion had been forced to send further from the conflict.
The young lord, having just finished a deep conversation with Lord Galewood, the last portions of which he overheard talk of 'purchasing the additional pine tar from your sawmills', turned to him, a small decanter of his 'Wytch brandy' glimmering in the light of the torches. He had tried some before, it reminded him of Reach brandy but a good deal stronger.
"Lord Selmy, a pleasure," the young lord said, giving a short bow. "What is it you wished to speak with me about?"
"The men I will send with you, they know these lands better than any, barring Dondarrion's perhaps," he replied. "The details were to be left between the cooperating lords, so I must ask, what is your intent with them? They are good, stalwart fellows, ones I would not wish to see brought to harm unless absolutely necessary."
"If you worry about them being used as bait, my lord, fear not, that is neither mine nor Lord Windhill's intention," the young lord said. "We need men who know the terrain as well as the birds and beasts that dwell in these grasslands. If we are to surprise the Dornish in any meaningful way, we must take advantage of this knowledge, and lure them into a situation from which they cannot simply ride away, as they have been. They will be of great aid in the battle, should it come, but they shall not be left friendless upon the field, this I swear."
"Good, good, my lord," Lord Selmy replied. "That eases my burdens somewhat, a welcome relief out in these lands. However, there was something else I wished to speak with you about."
"Yes?"
"My second son, Addam, is growing close enough to the age to start finding matches for him. Whilst my firstborn Borros is already wed, and thus set to inherit, he has not yet been able to produce a son with his wife, instead having two daughters thus far."
"So as a precaution, just in case issues arise in which your son cannot give you a grandson, you wish to wed your second son to serve as his heir, as the laws of the Marches often disinherit women from the line of succession."
"Indeed. Some portions of the Stormlands pay no attention to the heir so long as they are legitimate, and others prefer the son over the daughter, or in this case, the uncle over the daughter. Addam is only nearing his tenth year, but it is near time I began considering betrothals for him."
"You are interested in arranging one for him and one of my sisters? Arenna just celebrated her eighth nameday and will likely box my ears once I return home for missing it this year."
They shared a chuckle at that. "Indeed, though not without good reason. For a house so young, yours has done a surprising amount of growth in this past decade, even more so these past four years. The power bloc of the Dornish Marches has always been an insular one, as we are the first and last lines of defense against Dornish aggression. This means it is our lands, our smallfolk, our livelihoods that usually the first to feel their wrath or suffer their banditry."
Lord Wytch nodded. "As we have seen thus far. What would you wish to secure with this betrothal and eventual union? There is more to it than merely securing your line."
A smart boy, a good ally to have in this. "Your lands have begun to produce an astonishing amount of food, more than enough to feed your smallfolk."
"Aye, and given the rates of farmland expansion and investment my maester and I have been calculating, that will continue to increase for some time. Barring severe setbacks such as weather events or war, we will most likely be exporting food to the western portion of the Stormlands within two years' time, and the rest of it within the decade."
"I would see a greater portion of your exports reach my lands, to aid in alleviating the stresses brought about by these raiders, both now and after they have been dealt with. Our lands, while fertile enough, are often unsuitable for farming. Combating the insidiously ever-growing grasses and the frequent dry seasons, growing crops has proven a long struggle this far away from the rainier eastern lands."
"As I have seen," Lord Wytch said. "Yet they would be ideal for grazing great herds of sheep and cattle. I have been looking to increase the amount of pasturage in my lands, but I am slowed by both my need for more farmland, and for my wish to not strip the land of its potentiality for future development. Your lands, and the Marches by and by, have such vast swaths of grass that such an issue would be minimal for you."
"Indeed, my lord. What say you to my proposition?"
"A good one, one I find no faults in, save that we are currently busy with a far greater task," the boy said. "I would very much like to continue this conversation after we have defeated these raiders, my lord. I have long been thankful for the shield the Dornish Marches provide for my lands, and would be gladly tied to one of their number. I'd feared I'd have to look outside of the Stormlands to find my sisters a good match, but with a son of house as storied as Selmy? That is far better than I had been expecting this early."
"Then we shall speak again, after this plan to defeat these bastards is put into place," Lord Selmy replied. "Until then, Lord Wytch, and good luck to you."
"Until then, and good luck to you as well," he replied.
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Dorne I
It had been weeks since they had raided that village and the Stormlanders arrived, their sentries spying their forward scouts long before the rest of the fools could catch up with them. Screening the ponderous host was simple, their sand steeds being far swifter than the enemy and far less likely to be seen in the tall grasses of the Marches. Even if they did not know the land as well, they scouted constantly, and thus knew more than enough on how to avoid their enemy.
Lewyn surveyed the distant dust kicked up from the passing Stormlander host, his uncle's far-eye serving well to peer about their numbers whilst he remained hidden, prone atop a grassy knoll, his horse low and behind him. He had drawn the short straw once again to scout the enemy, but as always, they failed to notice him. Be it their foolish disdain for using scouts here in the grasslands that sat upon swift steeds, rather than the strong but slower ones they usually did, or their inability to think past their next batch of ale, he knew not. What he did know, was that this newest ploy by them would likely be their undoing. As the day grew short and evening slowly began to approach, riding hard but keeping low, the swaying taller grasses easily masking his movements, he followed the path he had remembered, far and ahead of the split Stormlander host.
The sentries saw him far sooner than he did them, but that was to be expected. Cannot be good sentries if the enemies see you before you see them. Recognizing him as a lone rider heading straight towards them, along with his raised arm, was the only thing that prevented them from filling him with arrows, as they had the occasional Stormlord scout these past moons.
Passing by with a wave, he rode into camp, though calling it such was a bit much. Despite being a band of near eighty men, they rarely left evidence of their passing, perhaps cooled cooking fires or flat spots where they had lain upon the grasses to sleep. All around men meandered about, tending to their horses, joking, eating, swapping stories of the raids, practicing with their swords, it was the atmosphere of a bandit camp, but without the banditry lifestyle, like passing around women or copious amounts of drink. They had that sort of fun when they were overrunning and pillaging these villages, and usually in that order.
"Lewyn, report," a voice said, and as he dismounted, he spied their leader. Alfrid was not the most experienced amongst them, nor the most intelligent, but he was the best with a sword, and the financer of their operation. Rumors amongst the others circulated him being a bastard cousin of the current Martell or one of the other Rhoynish-blooded men, as he did not carry the looks of the Stony Dornish. Some said he was trying to make a name for himself to try and usurp his cousins whoever they may be, others said he was betrothed but needed to whet his blade first to prove his willingness to his future goodfather, and some said he merely liked raiding the Stormlanders. As such, outside of these, a myriad of smaller everchanging rumors flitted about whenever he wasn't around. Some included him having always been just a smarter bandit king, the vengeful lovechild of a Stormlander merchant and some whore, or even the exiled son of some distant Stormlord seeking revenge the only way he could.
Still, they tended to keep most of these less-than-savory rumors quiet around the man. While the undisputed leader of their band, he was also prone to bouts of anger and at times, a need for glory, giving credence to some of those same rumors.
"Alfrid, there's been a development. The Stormlords have split off into different groups, likely to try and box us in. Were we not so far ahead of them, as per your plans, they might have succeeded."
"In spreading out, they are no longer a solid block with which to avoid, but vines stretching out for sun, thus leaving their smaller hosts open to attack," the man said with a smile. "Their banners?"
"Galewood, Greycairn and another are as one group, with the Baratheon banners amongst the Dondarrion and Selmy ones. There is the strange one riding with the Windhill banners, one we've yet to determine." All scouts had seen the white spearpoint upon the alternating red and blue, but none of them knew who bore such a sigil.
"Likely a newer house, or perhaps one from further east, as this is only the westernmost houses, but it matters not. Which is the smallest group?"
"The Windhill one. Them and their unusual ally appear to be middling lords, given their numbers, but not proper Marcher ones I'd wager. They must be poorer, for a good portion of them ride two men to a horse."
"Then they shall be our first victims." Alfrid turned to the others, the camp growing a tad quiet. "What do you say, men? Tired of burning farmhouses and stealing from smallfolk? Ready to put some Stormlanders in the ground where they belong?"
A chorus of cheers came from the men. Long they had waited to put steel into the bellies of men who knew how to fight back, even if they would never get the chance to do so. Lewyn echoed their sentiment, heady with excitement at the prospect of a good ambush. Killing smallfolk was easy, and the burning of their granaries a time-honored Dornish tradition, but nothing excited them more than a good raid on a lord. There was no telling what riches they might glean from this attack. These bumbling Stormlords would never know what hit them.
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He awoke with a start, cold water dripping from his face. Gods, what the hell? Where was he?
"This one's alive, my lord."
"Good," a voice said, a boy's, but with an edge that belied a hardness reserved for men. "Throw him in with the others."
"There's no room, my lord."
"Throw him in anyway. This is a prison, not a tavern."
Blinking away the water in his eyes, Lewyn looked around. Where was he? Why was it so bright now? The last thing he remembered was riding towards the Stormland encampment, their cooking fires the only light outside of a sliver of a moon high above…
Roughly, whoever was carrying him threw him into an enclosed cage, the wooden bars looking impossibly large in his muddied vision. He felt not mud, but bodies, and was immediately shoved off whosever knee just wedged itself into his side.
"Lewyn?" a voice asked, as his senses fully returned to him.
"Doran? Is that you?"
"By the gods, man, I thought you dead too." One of the men he rode with, a fellow with a rather pale streak through his otherwise dark hair, helped right him as best he could. Whilst not bound, their cage was cramped, too short to stand in and covered in a great deal of mud and trodden blades of grass. It was also solid, like a great set of trees high in the mountains, their roots deep within the ground, so there was no chance they'd be able to remove it.
Looking around, mud and dried blood gracing all of them, he grimaced. No less than thirty men were stuffed into a cage that should hardly seat more than twenty with room for each man to stretch. Most were lying upon one another in some form, so cramped was it, while all around them, the sounds of a camp rumbled.
Men marched by, some of them jeering, others spitting or giving them a silent stare of hatred. The cooking fires smelled delicious, of freshly baked bread and roasted meats, and his stomach rumbled as some walked by with steaming plates. Their banners, what were they? Oh, yes, Windhill and Wytch, they were everywhere, from the livery upon the soldiers to the insignias upon crates stacked in parked carts. Barrels of water and ale seated cheerful comrades, whilst off to their side, a great pile of swords, clothes, saddles and their remaining supplies were sorted by what had to be the quartermasters of this camp. Even worse than all this, was the sight of their horses. Most that he could see were tied off to posts, some of them being tended to by knights and their squires, cleaning wounds or feeding the beasts. Others he saw dead, being butchered for their meat by camp cooks. So that was what the roasting meat was…
"What the hells happened?" he asked, finding his voice. He roamed his hands over his body, but found little more than his undershirt and pants. Every other shred of clothing or light armor they'd removed. Gods, they'd even removed his boots, which meant they'd also found his dagger. All the others around him appeared much the same, some nursing clearly broken limbs, others with nasty cuts or ugly bruises mottling their bodies.
"Fuckin' Stormlords," one spat, his arm in a makeshift sling. Edgar, he believed the man's name was. "They knew we was coming. Somehow or another they knew we'd attack!"
"No way in hells did they know, they never knew where we were before," another man muttered, earning a few agreeing grumbles from some. "These fuckers wouldn't see a storm moving in if they couldn't hear it miles out."
"Then how in the hells did they know when we'd strike?"
"We didn't," the hard voice from before said. Turning, Lewyn found a rather tall man, nay, boy, standing before them, a pair of likewise burly men by his side. Since when did boys get so big?
"Who the hell are you?"
"Lord Casper of House Wytch," the boy lord replied. "Now, you lot sure have a great deal to answer for. Burning villages, pillaging granaries, bereaving smallfolk, being Dornish, attacking lords and their retinues… your list of crimes goes on, but I haven't all day to mention them all."
"How the fuck did you know we were coming?" the one called Edgar spat again.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid? I just said we didn't. There was no way of telling which direction you were going to come from, or when, or even how, be it by foot or by horse. However, thanks to a little ingenuity, and a good deal of preparation, we were able to force you to choose."
"What?" Doran asked, his perplexed look mirrored by a great deal of others.
"Well, you see," Lord Wytch said, drawing up a stool offered by one of his guards. "You Dornish are remarkably effective at what you do. Raiding, I get it, it is in your blood, and you have been doing it for an awfully long time, especially against the Stormlands. However, in that time, you've no doubt relied on what works, and became a bit complacent in how you did things. I realized this and took advantage of it as best I could."
"Get on with it, Stormfucker, your words bore us," Edgar muttered.
Waving his guards away from skewering the bandaged man with their spears, Lord Wytch simply smiled. "I chose the terrain ad simple prepared accordingly. I knew you would be watching us, your ability to scamper away was indicative enough that your scouts were far more prepared than our own. So, then I, shall we say, put on a show. All our usual preparations, they were all an act, done so explicitly to fool you. Suffice to say, you did not pay enough attention to all of us, and you paid for it. Now, we are all going to have a nice chat, to find what few fellows of yours escaped. Give me the answers I want, and you'll suffer less for it."
"And if we don't?"
Lord Wytch shook his head. "Pray it doesn't come to that."
"We ain't telling you shit, storm boy," Edgar muttered, most of their cage echoing the sentiment.
"I see," Lord Wytch said. "Well, then I leave you with a choice."
Many looked up at him, Lewyn among them, confused. Any other Stormlord might have just killed them right there, so what was this boy's game?
"What?" he asked.
"You will all choose who gets to go first for my questions. Failure to oblige to this simple rule will result in no food until you have selected your candidate, and I must say, for being a bit sweeter than venison, your sand steeds are rather tasty. If there is a volunteer, he will have his wounds tended to, be fed and watered, and given more comfortable accommodations. You have one hour to make your decisions. After that, I won't ask again until tomorrow."
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Smallfolk II
Cleaning up the bodies had been the worst of it, really, and not the battle itself, as Edric had first expected. For him lying in wait was no more terrifying than knowing the Dornish were out there, but instead was more annoying. More than once he had whispered, hoping they would at least show up, and perhaps moments after he had said that, or an hour later, they had, riding in out of the grasses towards their camp. As soon as the sound of approaching hooves had thundered, sentries threw their torches upon the oil-soaked grass bundles they had been drying for days at that point, bathing the area in a bright light.
The first Dornish to fall had run straight into the open swath of the little iron picks Lord Wytch had the men scatter about, many of them only as tall as the short blades of grass yet still longer than a man's finger. No matter which way they were dropped, they always landed with a sharp point up, and that was only the first trap. Cries of alarm, some real and others feigned as planned, sounded in the sudden not-as-dark night, sending the other parts of the plan into action. Lord Wytch had drilled them every day until this point, so for once, everything went as planned. The tall grasses along the slope were where he and his fellows had hidden, in alcoves dug into the sides of the hill and covered with a great amount of flattened grass. From these they emerged, firing their arrows as fast as they could into the dark forms before them. They did not target the men, for doing so risked missing and hitting their fellows directly across the way. Instead, the arrows went straight for the horses, a good number of them falling with that first volley, their panicked screams drowning out those of their riders.
Then, from all sides, the men at arms, armed with pikes, sword and whatever else they had on hand, for no man was unarmored or unarmed that night, rushed forth, mimicking his archer brethren in targeting the horses. Dornish thrown from their saddles were stabbed or beaten without mercy, as the confusion amongst their ranks drove some further into the camp and into the rows of spiked barricades or further shots from bows. Some were lassoed from their mounts, knocked senseless upon hitting the ground, only to be tied up as fast as possible by burly Stormlanders.
That less than a dozen had escaped from the entire group was a testament to the speed of their steeds, but even these were not unscratched. Some he saw were trailing blood, and the morning after proved this, as a few dead horses or men were found not far from camp. As for the rest, the men at arms slaughtered well over half the group that had survived the ambush. Even now, the bodies were being collected, as per Lord Wytch's orders, far from camp, to be 'disposed of' as he saw fit in the coming days. The crows and vultures had shown up that morning, already circling and landing amongst the bodies. Out here in the grasslands, corpses tended to be seen rather quickly by such birds.
After finishing his meal, Edric found Berric was counting his arrows again. He had noticed his brother had started doing that after the night battle, usually whenever he thought him not looking. Grandfather told him some men went strange when battles finished, and he prayed to the Seven that this was a mere passing affliction. If it continued, it might grow into something worse for all he knew.
"Berric," he said.
His brother, after a moment's pause, looked up. "Edric," he replied, setting the quiver aside. "You done eating already?"
"I still ate slower than you did," he replied, sitting down. "Lord Wytch said we're not to be moving out for a bit now, and that the other lords should be here soon enough. Couple of days, perhaps? Messengers move faster than hosts, especially without raiders to worry about."
"Aye, they do," his brother muttered, leaning against the crate he called his resting spot. Most of the other bowmen were still divvying up the Dornish arrows, having lost a fair few of their own to missing horses or breaking in various ways. "How many you think there were?"
Edric shrugged. "No way of knowing, it was dark and we've no idea how many got away. None of the smallfolk from the villages could give us a good number other than 'more than sixty' at the best of times. Overheard some say there were about thirty dead on the ground, most in the 'killzone' as Lord Wytch put it, with a few stragglers found here or there. No telling how many might be dying of their wounds out in the grasses right now."
"Serves the bastards right, for all the hurt and ruin they've caused. How many do you think we got?"
"I think I got three for sure, maybe a fourth one, but like I said, 'twas dark. Whether they were horses or Dornish, doesn't matter, so long as we got 'em. You?"
"Think I got that many as well. Ma won't believe we managed to outfox some Dornish so well."
"You mean Meredyth won't believe we outfoxed some Dornish?"
His brother blushed slightly at that. "Well, only if she wants to hear the story…"
A muffled cry sounded nearby, and while his brother turned to look towards Lord Wytch's tent, Edric merely sighed. "I saw them dragging a Dornishman in there."
"What for?"
"What else? To find out where the rest of his fellows are."
"The survivors, or where they've been setting up camp?"
"The former, most likely. We have only rarely found a good camp of their, remember? Not like they were still there by the time we found it, though."
"Well, whatever Lord Wytch is doing to that bastard in there, I hope it hurts. I've seen too many raped women and charred ruins of homes for my liking."
Edric leaned back, flopping onto the bedroll he had laid out before their meal. "If this is over, we won't be seeing such things anymore, brother, and I'll be damn grateful for that. Going to the market with ma in Lowhill sounds good right about now."
A/N: well, I managed to stay away for three weeks, rather than a month or two. Oh well. As it is, we're back, and some progress has been made. I've also made the decision to start a Patreon, but we'll get to that at a later time. For now, comments and critiques are the lifeblood of this story, as are discussions. As for my earlier troubles writing this story, it has somewhat resolved itself, as the laptop I was using instead of my PC has finally kicked the bucket. Thankfully, I always transfer files between them after I make major changes, so I've not lost any documents in the aftermath. It was an old laptop anyway, so no real loss.
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Abramus5250
Nov 15, 2020
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