The sunset over the desert was breathtaking. The western sky looked like a dye of gold and purple, clouds blooming in vibrant red hues that tinted the Greenblood River. The sands shifted from gold to orange, then to a deepening purple, as shadows spread like rivulets of blood across the landscape.
But Edmure Tully had no heart to admire the beauty.
The heir to Riverrun was in a pitiful state—his auburn hair was tangled and matted, likely unwashed for days. His armor was stained with streaks of dried blood and covered in dents and slashes. His left arm was injured and wrapped in layer upon layer of white cloth, yet blood still seeped through.
He sat by the Greenblood River, staring numbly at the sand. Edmure could hardly believe things had taken such a disastrous turn.
The Iron Throne's second army had initially progressed smoothly. Under Lord Tywin Lannister's command, they marched south along the Boneway, taking Ironwood Castle, after which Dorne's eastern forces quickly crumbled, unable to mount any organized resistance.
Though small raids continued, they were mere nuisances, and Tywin's army pressed forward with confidence. They cut through every obstacle in their path, until finally they reached Sunspear.
Victory was within their grasp—until everything unraveled in a single, devastating turn.
Without warning, the Westerlands forces retreated. Not only that, but before leaving, they set fire to the combined Riverlands, Vale, and Stormlands armies' food supplies.
In the dead of night, chaos erupted in the camps as fires spread. It was fortunate that the Dornish forces did not seize the chance to strike, or the combined armies would have disintegrated completely.
Even without a Dornish attack, the situation was dire enough. Panic and distrust took root among the noble houses, and arguments erupted, accusations and curses flying between lords. Edmure Tully, never known for his firmness or authority, found himself unable to quell the discord—even among his own Riverlands bannermen, let alone those of the Vale or the Stormlands.
Leadership had splintered as well. The Vale's general, Bronze Yohn, had perished at Skyreach, and Renly Baratheon, the commander from the Stormlands, had been inside Sunspear on a diplomatic mission when the crisis struck.
The noblemen quarreled through the night, some demanding immediate withdrawal, others insisting on staying put or chasing down the Westerlands forces. A few, out of sheer desperation, suggested an all-out assault on Sunspear to seize its supplies.
The one thing everyone agreed on, however, was a unified hatred of Tywin Lannister.
They argued until afternoon the next day, finally deciding to withdraw. But as they attempted to retrace their steps, they were shocked to discover that every city and stronghold along their route had already been retaken by the Dornish.
Tywin's forces had cut off their retreat with ruthless precision.
Every lord cursed the "Old Lion," swearing vengeance on House Lannister. But vengeance would be a far-off hope if they couldn't make it out of the desert alive.
With no supplies and a crumbling morale, and lacking a unifying leader, the combined forces of the three regions began to fall apart. Constantly harried by Dornish skirmishers, the fragmented armies spiraled into chaos. On the seventh day of their retreat, the alliance of three armies completely fractured, each noble seeking their own way to survive.
Edmure had started with nearly two thousand men from Riverrun, but as they struggled across the desert, he watched his ranks dwindle. Men lost their way, fled, or fell into Dornish ambushes. By the time he could no longer keep his forces intact, he was left with fewer than two hundred ragged survivors.
In a desperate move, he abandoned his infantry and tried to escape with fifty riders. Even then, they couldn't shake off their pursuers.
The Dornishmen tracked them like vipers lurking in the sands, striking unexpectedly from the shadows.
"Lord Edmure!" Ser Enger came running up to him with an urgent report. "Our scouts have spotted the Arbor fleet upriver!"
"Are you sure?" Edmure's eyes lit up with hope as he sprang to his feet. "How far?"
"Just five miles upstream. They're flying the purple grape banners."
"Good! We leave immediately!"
Escape by land seemed nearly impossible, making the appearance of the Arbor fleet on the river their one salvation.
The knights mounted up, following the Greenblood eastward. The sun had fully set, but the moon had yet to rise.
Edmure led them at a brisk pace, filled with a desperate hope. He swore to himself that he'd never set foot in Dorne again. And as for House Lannister, he would make them pay.
A hot, dry wind picked up, carrying sand that stung their faces. The riders wrapped their cloaks around their heads, pressing onward with difficulty.
Finally, they saw the ship on the Greenblood, with the Arbor's purple grape banner fluttering in the night air.
For the first time, the men of the Riverlands looked upon the Arbor banner with joy.
They began calling out, waving the Tully trout banner, even lighting torches in the hope of catching the crew's attention.
The Arbor ship noticed them and turned in their direction, approaching the shore.
Edmure watched it draw nearer, feeling relief flood through him. He even started thinking about the wine that awaited him on the ship. Surely, no Arbor vessel would be without wine.
Yes, if they made it out of this hell alive, he'd buy a hundred casks of Arbor Gold for Riverrun's cellars.
"My lord, something doesn't feel right," Ser Enger's tense voice interrupted Edmure's thoughts.
"What do you mean?"
"The ship—it doesn't look quite like one of the Arbor's."
"Are you certain?"
Ser Enger examined it closely, and his face paled as he shouted, "No! This isn't the Arbor's design! It's a trap!"
Panic jolted through Edmure, who hastily mounted his horse and ordered a retreat from the river.
But it was too late.
The ship, realizing it had been discovered, sounded a horn, and Dornishmen began emerging from the sands.
Edmure spurred his horse desperately, but after days of hard riding with little feed, the animals were exhausted, moving at a pitiful pace.
"Surrender your weapons, and you'll be spared!" the Dornishmen called.
Ignoring them, Edmure clung to his last shred of hope, urging his mount onward.
Ahead, he saw a leafless tree beside an abandoned poleboat, overturned like a makeshift shelter.
As he neared it, the boat's door swung open, and seven or eight Dornishmen armed with long axes leapt out, blocking his path.
"Surrender your weapons, and you'll be spared!"
Edmure dug his heels into his horse, only for it to scream in pain as an axe cleaved its leg.
Blood sprayed the sand as Edmure was thrown from the saddle, tumbling to the ground. When he finally stopped rolling, a Dornishman was there, pressing a curved blade to his throat.
It's over, he thought, strangely relieved.
"Edmure Tully?" The Dornishman seemed to recognize him.
"Yes," Edmure managed to reply, panting. "I demand prisoner's rights."
"You'll have them," the Dornishman said, hauling him to his feet and leading him back to the river.
The "Arbor" ship had docked, and it was now clear that its crew was entirely Dornish.
Edmure was taken aboard, where he came face-to-face with an unexpected figure.
"Prince Doran?"
"Lord Edmure," Prince Doran greeted him from a wheelchair, with a towering figure wielding a long-handled axe standing behind him.
"I'm honored you'd personally come to capture me."
"This entire operation was under my command."
"Congratulations," Edmure said bitterly. "You've achieved a great victory, paid for with the blood of the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands."
"Not that much blood, actually," Doran replied with a calm tone.
"What do you mean?"
Doran gestured toward the shore, where Dornishmen were rounding up captured Riverlands soldiers.
"I gave strict orders not to kill anyone who surrendered. I now have nearly sixty thousand prisoners from the three regions."
Edmure's eyes lit up. If Prince Doran's numbers were true, the losses weren't as catastrophic as he'd feared—most of the army had survived as prisoners.
"Thank you for your mercy," Edmure said, softening his tone. "The Riverlands will gladly pay whatever ransom is needed to secure their freedom."
But Prince Doran shook his head. "I never said I intended to let you all go."
"What do you mean?" Edmure narrowed his eyes. "Are you holding us hostage?"
"I'm simply securing the best terms for Dorne."
"Hah! You mean auctioning us off to the highest bidder."
Doran merely smiled, neither confirming nor denying, before shifting the topic.
"There's one pressing issue I need your help with."
"What issue?"
"Food."
Edmure quickly understood. "You can't feed all these prisoners, can you?"
"Exactly," Doran nodded. "So if you don't want to see your comrades starve, you'll help me secure supplies quickly."
"Then let me return to Riverrun—I can arrange provisions in the Riverlands."
"Riverrun is too far," Doran replied. "I need you to go to the Reach and secure supplies there."
"The Reach?" Edmure frowned. "Fine, but only if you give me enough coin to make the purchase."
Doran shrugged. "I have no coin to spare—only a bargaining chip."
"What kind of bargaining chip?"
"Ser Loras Tyrell."
Edmure scoffed. "The third son of the Highgarden lord won't be enough to ransom sixty thousand men."
"You won't know until you try," Doran answered, a look of quiet confidence on his face.
"Alright," Edmure said, considering. "I'll make the journey on your behalf."
"Thank you."
Edmure looked warily at the Dornish prince. "Aren't you worried I'll just run off once I'm free?"
Doran's expression remained calm. "You're welcome to try—if you're prepared to be known as the man who abandoned the Riverlands' army."
Edmure met Doran's steady gaze, and in that moment, he understood that Doran had already won.
(End of Chapter)