Chapter 7
A week had passed since the Great Trial by Fire, the aftereffects of which could still be observed in the Great Temple. She crouched down and touched one of the various cracks that sprang out of the great platform. The ground had torn itself apart.
Repairs were being carried out as the Gret Flame burned in the centre as it always had, yet a sense of unease and anger had enveloped her ever since. Benerro, the High Priest, stood ahead, praying as he had been for the weeks since the Trial, along with many a red Priest, for they had found their fate renewed after feeling the presence of their Lord and Saviour.
Yet he stopped as he glanced at her and descended the stairs slowly, knowing already why she was there.
He came down and stood face to face against her as she looked him in the eye.
"Where is he?" she asked. He didn't shift as she repeated the question.
"Where R'hllor wished him to be," came the answer, same as always, and her lips thinned as she spoke up.
"Benerro, tell me where is the Prince. I have to talk to him, and I must know what happened," she implored. After the Trial, as the Prince had remained unburnt in the Great Flame, the Prince had been taken away by Benerro's men as per their God's calling, at least according to him. Her own visions in the pyre had been tumultuous, and she had found herself lost.
"You already know what happened," he replied.
"But the fire didn't burn him. The Trial didn't conclude," she reiterated heatedly, her own belief in him being the Promised Prince strengthened by that display.
"It did, and your Prince failed, it is time you accept that," he spoke heatedly, and Melisandre's lips thinned as her gaze lowered. Yet she refused to believe so.
"Yet I see that you remain unconvinced," he suddenly began making her head snap towards his face.
"So, I shall indulge you and let you seek the truth for yourself," he began as he turned away from her and began to ascend the stairs once more, stopping momentarily to glance back at her and speak up.
"Your Prince is in Meeren. Leave now, and you might be able to see him alive before the pits devour him."
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DAEMON TARGARYEN
The Sun had set long ago, as Daemon, along with his retinue of around a thousand men, nested in between the forests surrounding the King's road. There were no fires and no sounds, and the men were quiet as a whisper as they sat there, ready to pounce on the enemy infront.
The Lannister forces were setting up camp around half a hundred yards away from them. The five thousand under the command of Amory Lorch had stopped their march for the day, about half a day's ride away from the capital.
They were tired, he could tell, the men seemed to have been riding hard for days now, and they seemed to be resting themselves for the battle they believed they would be having tomorrow. A battle in which they seemed rather confident of their victory if their joyous mood was anything to go by.
And he wished to take advantage of that already another group of five hundred men under the command of Morro was moving towards the Lannister men's back, cutting off their retreat, and the rest of the fifteen hundred men were a few yards infront quiet, and discreet, waiting for his signal.
They were quiet, their armours light and thin, for they had to move without alerting the enemy.
So, he sat there atop a tree, looking through the shroud of darkness with a narrowed gaze as he waited for the enemy to let down their defence. The thrill of the battle stilled his senses, it was something he had noticed about himself, a gift of sorts, one that had served him well in his life till now.
And as he lowered the far eye, he pocketed it and began to descend down the tree, and as he landed, he found one of his commanders waiting for him down there, a young boy who had become a man under his own gaze.
"The men are ready. We await your signal, your grace," said Byron, his voice a whisper as he knelt down on one knee.
"Good, I will lead the attack myself, Morro's men will be in position soon. Make sure to kill their horses first. None of them escapes." He commanded.
"Not a single one," he added resolutely, and Byron looked up, the burnt mark under his eye a reminder of the shared past of many of his followers stood out.
He began to tread through the forests as young Byron, with his curly hair and dark brown eyes, made to follow, their steps a whisper into the bleak night as they walked towards the enemy camp.
"How were the men? Did they give you any trouble?" he questioned, for while he was young, Byron was one of his most powerful followers. They had first met in pits back at Meeren early into his time there. As a young slave, he was punished by his master by being sent to die in those pits, until Daemon decided to step in and save him, as he had for thousands of others.
"They were a bit troubled. None of them were used to being so quiet and discreet, but we managed to keep them in line," he answered. It was as he had expected. The men from Westeros weren't used to this form of warfare. They thought of battle as a source of glory, where men draped in armor clashed loudly, as songs were sung around them.
And maybe the war was that for them. Yet this was also war. A war of patience. A battle of wits and opportunities, for this was one.
The moon today was obscured fully, its light nothing but a small sliver in the darkness of the night.
He came to a halt yards away from the Lannister camp, his eyes looking over the men keeping the perimeter, and he let the tension leave his body as he reached for his blade, a powerful thrum racing through him as he gripped its hilt, the blade fighting him, yet its defiance was curbed as his will overpowered it.
Byron stepped back and raised his hand as a dozen or so men appeared out of the shadows, bows in hand, arrows docked, strings pulled as Byron raised his hand, halting them.
And then he heard it. The sound of a small whistle as he broke out into a stride, his steps quiet and small as Byron brought down his hand.
SCHWING! SCHWING! SCHWING!
A dozen or so arrows were let loose, and suddenly, the Lannister men began to fall down, and then before their friends could shout or scream, they found themselves troubled by the sound of a thousand marching men.
"ATTACK!" he shouted as he swung his own blade at the neck of one of the Red Cloaks, cutting it straight off. The red gem in his sword gleamed under the shower of blood, fuelling him as he blurred past men, like a shadow, coming to a halt only to be showered red in blood and guts as screams of men behind filled the darkness.
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AMORY LORCH-The commander of the Lannister vanguard
Amory Lorch was leading the five thousand men of the army towards the capital. The man salivated at the thought of all the glory that awaited him once he and his men were to enter the city. There had been no army in sight as they rode towards the capital, and why would there be? The Targaryen host had been decimated at the Trident.
The city would fall and he would earn much glory and riches from his lord for his services. The man rejoiced in his treasures even before he was to get them as he drowned the cup if Arbor Gold, when suddenly he felt the ground shake as the sound of shouting and shrieks filled the air.
His heart sunk as he lept out of the tent, his feet wobbled because of his drunkenness, and as he stepped out, he found men running about, trying to arm themselves as the sound of metal clashing filled the air.
"WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!" "IT'S AN AMBUSH!" the men screamed as Lorch himself began to shout.
"RETREAT! FOR A LINE AND RETREAT!" he shouted as his eyes latched onto a blur of a figure cutting through his men. The darkness of the night obscured much, yet the raging fire from the tent infront was enough to illuminate him.
His face had a mask on it, his sword with the red ruby in its hilt gleamed in the darkness as he cut through man after man, moving as if a blur, and as the last of the men was felled, he saw him look up, his eyes latching onto his form through the raging pyre.
And for the first time in his time, Lorch felt fear grip him as he locked eyes with this demon.
'Was this how others felt when he stood over them?' the thought cycled through his head.
"You must be the commander here," the voice came out as the demon walked towards him, and Lorch began to step back, his body gripped with fear and rudderless even though a torrent of fire stood between them.
Yet it didn't stop him as he walked into the fire, which danced around him, seemingly enraged at the man, who seemed to care none for it as he walked through it without a scratch, or scream.
He was in a trance, unable to move as the demon walked out of the fire and walked towards him, and he felt himself stumble back.
"What are you?" he gasped out as screams filled the air, screams of his men.
"I am your death," and with that, he saw him move again, or was it himself, as he felt the world flip on the side and on. That was until the light began to fade from his eyes as he realized what had happened.
And the last thing he saw was the red stone in that sword gleam as it was dyed in his own blood.
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ELIA MARTELL
The Dornish Princess had spent the last whole night praying to the Seven above as Daemon left with barely three thousand men for war. It was a contrast to what she had felt Rhaegar had ridden out, despite him being her lord husband she had found it difficult to find it in her heart to pray for him as she had that night.
Perhaps it was desperation or something else. Yet nonetheless, she had spent the whole night in the sept, on her knees infront of the Seven, praying for the safe return of Daemon. Minutes had turned into hours, as she sat there until she had found herself broken out of her reverie by the sound of a servant coming in.
"My lady, you need to come out," and her heart thrummed at those words as she opened her eyes and found the Sun up in the sky, the candles from the night long extinguished, as the rays from the Sun illuminated the Sept through the ornate windows.
She tried to stand, yet it took much strength to do so. The servant upon seeing it, came forward and gently helped her up, she didn't ask her what had happened, as she was led out of the sept with shaky steps.
The sept had been made to block the sounds from the outside, and as she walked out of the sept, she was greeted by the loud cheer of the city. The people roared loudly, shaking the very foundations of the city as she walked the men she had watched leave return, to much cheer and fanfare.
And at the helm rode him, Daemon. The metallic mask obscured his face, but his once black armor was now a dark scarlet. His men, the ones that had come with him from across the Sea, rode with him, and unlike the men of the continent that cheered and roared at their victory, the Prince and his men walked without much elation and joy.
He came to a halt infront of her, as he jumped off his horse. Lord Velaryon stepped forward, the old potley man had a relieved smile on his face as he gave his new King a bow.
"The Gods have blessed you, my Prince. You have won," he greeted Daemon, whose eyes tightened a bit at those words.
"We won, because we knew better, the Gods had little to do with it," and the words were uttered as a whisper, yet it did reach her ears as the Prince walked past the man with a small nod.
"There is no time to rest on our laurels," Prince began.
"This was one battle. We still have a war to win. Meet me in the solar," he said, walking past her and the rest of the guards.
Leaving behind a pool of blood with every step and she feared just how much of it was his own.
000
~Two Days Later~
The Lannister main host reached the place of interest, and the smell was the first thing that came. A rancid and foul smell wafted through the air, full of the taste of blood, shit and metal. Kevan Lannister had ridden ahead, and the old lord had seen many a battle in his youth, and even for him, it took effort to keep his stomach from turning itself out at the sight infront.
This was not a battlefield. It was a graveyard, for thousands of bodies littered the ground, the blood had dyed the earth red, and it was yet moist and damp to walk on. Many of them had been piled up as a wall, all five thousand of them.
This was unexpected. The host, led by Lorch and his men, had been decimated. Absolutely decimated. Kevan Lannister wasn't the only one affected. Many of the young knights had barfed out their meals, and others looked away from the spectacle.
Yet not Tywin, the liege lords of the Westernland sat there atop his horse, his Gold and Red armor shone in the Sun as his eyes darted from one pile to another that stood in their path.
It had been his plan to send forward Lorch and his men, and that was the only plan he knew of. Even now, Kevan has remained oblivious to the thoughts of his lord and brother. They didn't even know which side they were on, for despite sending this host, they had yet to raise either the Stag or the Three headed Targaryen banner.
"Kevan, with me," Tywin's cold voice broke him out of his trance. He followed his brother, who turned away from his horse and began to ride back towards the camp.
"And bury the dead to clear the path."
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