Chapter 38: Stormlanders XVIII

Mid 157 AC

The embers of the ruined homes and barns still smoldered as their men warily rode into the village, the smell of death and destruction hanging in the air as a foul malaise. The scouts had reported no recent sign of the enemy, but precautions were taken all the same. The chosen vanguard, a mixture of Swann and Dondarrion men, moved through the village and the surrounding hills, ensuring nothing lay in wait for their lords. Among them, heirs or second sons of good Stormland houses experienced their first taste of command, seeking not glory but experience and the strengthening of one's stomach to the foul deeds they all-too-readily came across.

With the flanks and village's remains secured, the men made ready the area of their lords, moving bodies and debris out of the way, lest a sudden ambush see them trapped by narrow confines. Many a gathered man held a hard face at the sight of the dead men and women, yet many more faces fell at the sight of the fallen smallfolk's children, their bodies crushed beyond recognition and their remains desecrated with wounds not meant for quick deaths. Not a sound came from them, save for grunts of exertion, but more than one breathed heavily, restraining himself from raging or cursing.

As the lagging foot arrived, many a man did not hold back, but softly cried or raged at the sight. Whilst likely not kin of theirs, these smallfolk among their more active levies knew the price of war amongst their people. Yet to see such wanton slaughter and destruction, it made many tremble in anger, the kind that seeped into a man's bones and would not leave him for the rest of his days. These ruins and corpses could have been their homes and families, had the Dornish tread near there, and still could be if that force moved further into the Stormlands without opposition. Many a man with flagging morale found it redoubled at this knowledge, and so threw himself into a greater frenzy of activity, if only to keep his mind from such dreadful thoughts.

With as much reverence as could be spared, the levies gathered the bloodied and muddied bodies they could find into piles, far from the village's center. There, they soaked them in oil from their supply trains and covered them with whatever remnant timbers could be scavenged from that silent grave of a village. There were not many to be found, but whatever had not burned completely was torn from the collapsed structures. When all was said and done, one of the holier knights among them, nearly a septon in all but name, softly cried prayers to the Seven for their departed souls as the pyres were lit. The baleful light cast the entire area in an eerie glow, the smoke billowing high into the evening sky as the rest of camp was set up with grim determination.

Within the eerily quiet stronghouse, Lord Baratheon held back a sigh as he seated himself at the only remaining table in the village, repurposed for the meeting of his gathered lords. Dondarrion, Selmy, Swann and others were here, comprising the initial might of the Marcher lords as the rest of their levies gathered near the border. It was not the force that should have been gathered, as that would have been two moons more of men marching from more eastern distant lords, but the incursion of their hated desert foes had seen to ruining that plan.

"As the closest settlement to Dondarrion Lands, this is the first village in Wytch lands we know to have been attacked, using the same methods as what the last eight villages suffered in the Marches," he rumbled, his eyes stormy and upon the men gathered before him. "They continue to follow the Wytchroad and make better time than even we expected, and we have ridden hard just to be a day's march behind them. We've no indication of them sweeping south into Windhall lands, but if that holds true remains to be seen. Lord Dondarrion?"

"We have sent word with our fastest scouts, my lord, riding the same Dornish sand steeds that were captured during the raid years before," the lord of Blackhaven replied. "Lord Wytch was warned weeks ago of their approach, and his last raven before our departure put him at combining his forces with Lords Greycairn, Wysp, Galewood and others in Lowhill, with more coming from the east to their aid. If they arrive before these Dornish splinter or seek to return this way, then they should be evenly matched in numbers, and should the devils be delayed, then even more shall arrive to join their fellow Stormlords."

"Of the Dornish themselves?"

"Their numbers remain much the same as they were upon their initial invasion, my lord. Our estimates put them at near two thousand to our own four thousand, all either mounted or upon mounts they have taken from these villages as pack animals. Even if they are not meant for fast riding, their entire force can move faster than a force with infantry and will be less tired if pressed into a battle."

"If Lord Wytch was warned weeks ago, then why was this village caught unawares? I was under the impression that he had developed watchtowers in his lands to spy approaching riders," Lord Swann remarked, one of the few gathered lords who had not met the young noble in question.

"I suspect he did not think to have them in this region of his lands, as his troubles had previously come from his eastern border. Being on the periphery of his western lands, I do not doubt the young lord wished to have such measures put in place in every village, as he does his stronghouses, but the changing of the seasons and its location likely limited what could be done this far west, and when," Lord Selmy replied. "Add to that the damnable Dornish are using the banners from whatever scouts they have killed, and it is no surprise that these smallfolk were caught outside of their stronghouse. With luck, any further settlements and smallfolk will not fall for such tricks, should Lord Wytch's scouts, as well as our own, skirt the enemy and reach them in time to warn them."

It was an old tactic, to sneak into enemy lands and encampments under false identity to wreak havoc or sow discord, but one that most lords scoffed at, considering it dishonorable and deceitful unless the circumstances were most dire. Lord Baratheon was furious that such lowlifes would stoop to such means of using this tactic against smallfolk of all people. Killing scouts was one thing, as any smart commander sought to blind an enemy of his approach or withdrawal, and the same was to be said for surprising an enemy force. To use the banners of dead scouts to steal into villages and lock the smallfolk from safety, and then wholesale slaughter them? It was a miracle his army found out it was occurring at all, with the only witnesses to this tactic, a young boy and girl, also being the only survivors from one of the earliest burned settlements in the Marches. Nothing but corpses had been found in any of the following villages afterwards.

"But where are Lord Wytch's scouts? Ever since his lack of them before the battle against the late Lord Craggner, I've heard tales of his riders constantly moving through his lands, even in peacetime. Surely the advent of war would allow them to not only send word to imperiled villages, but also to constantly harass these devils?"

"No doubt, but our own scouts have been killed or injured by the Dornish and their mounted bowmen before, so I suspect many of his near the border suffered similar fates if they were unable to warn this village," Lord Dondarrion replied. "How else do you think they acquired the sigils of my house to use against these smallfolk? Add to that the losses our own scouts have taken, and I would not be surprised if they eventually try to use his own sigils to pull the same tricks. Most smallfolk only recognize banners of their lords and perhaps those of their lord's neighbor, so what reason would they have to suspect foul play from a Stormland sigil?"

"Has not Lord Wytch been training his own mounted bowmen? Could he not counter these forces with his own?" Lord Swann replied.

Lord Dondarrion shook his head. "Aye, he has them, but they've been training for around four years now, last I spoke with the man. There are Dornish bowmen among that army who have been training on horseback for thrice that or more, and even if they were somehow equal in skill, his own men would be horribly outnumbered in any fight."

"Yet why specifically Lord Wytch's lands?" Lord Caron of Nightsong asked, the youngest of the gathered lords. Royce recalled that the man's father had abdicated to spend his days in service at the Wall. "These Dornish move as if they have a vendetta against the young lord."

"They just might," Lord Selmy replied. "It was Lord Wytch who ambushed their first raid years back and impaled the dead along the border as a warning. Every remaining survivor, save for two, was sent back without their eyes."

"I thought those tales were… exaggerations," the younger lord replied.

"No, and it is entirely possible they drive towards these lands for revenge. One of their number, a bastard Wyl we are to believe, managed to escape the ambush. If he survived, he would no doubt be more than willing to rile up his fellow Dornish with exaggerated tales of what Lord Wytch did. Yet I fear it is much more than that, dangerously so," Lord Dondarrion said. "Currently, Lord Wytch exports more grain to the Marches than any other Stormland house does or I suspect even can. The prices are fair when compared to our Reachmen neighbors, and although some of my merchants complain of the falling prices of grain and vegetables, you'll never find an ill word among the smallfolk when it comes to the young lord. Not to mention his herds of beef and dairy, all of whom he sells at good price rather than nearly extorting us like the Reachmen do."

"So that is their true purpose, then," Lord Swann added. "To not only destroy that which might support us through our march into Dorne, but also the lands which would send us our supplies once our king's invasion takes place. If his lands are in enough disarray as to not be able to support the lands behind our forces, then we must move slower, or potentially not at all once we reach the border. A slower march means the enemy has more time to prepare, and potentially ambush our men."

"As they did for Orys Baratheon in the First Dornish War," Lord Baratheon sighed. "With their additional slaughter of whatever cattle and sheep they find, the Dornish continue to reduce our ability to wage war on their lands. Even with pack animals and mounts for every man, they are unlikely to slow down unless we somehow strike at their baggage train. What is the likelihood of reaching them before they can escape our grasp?"

"Assuming they stay as one group? Within two weeks, my lord, given that their movements give no indication of knowing the area beyond what they can scout for themselves. Any maps of the lands near and of House Wytch are sorely out of date, especially in the latter's case."

"Your forces along the Dornish border?"

"Our gathering levies, as well as whatever men several nearby Reach lords have managed to muster, have been able to close the border as best we can, around six thousand strong as of the last report. Other than our own men, they are the only major force preventing the damnable Dornish host from swinging back and returning to the sands from whence they came."

"What of our young king, and his Crownlander forces? How close does he draw? Has he heard of our situation?"

"The ravens that last flew put it as him knowing, but there have been issues with the travel and mustering of his lords and their men. My lord, I fear they are yet weeks away, if not more. Everything indicates they are making as good of pace they can, but they are more infantry than not, and thus slower than what could we wish for."

Lord Baratheon sighed again, his frustration mounting. His central and eastern lords still gathered, the enemy was wiping out villages and supplies as they went, reinforcements from his king were too far to be of any good, and their current supplies would begin to run low if they were unable to force the damnable sand devils to battle or away from a friendly village. The situation was growing poorer by the day and would only grow worse if things did not change in their favor.

Dismissing his lords, he poured himself a drink from his decanter, the burn of the whiskey soothing some of the ache in his heart. Lord Paramounts that failed to protect their vassals and upkeep the oaths sworn tended not to maintain loyalty amongst the ranks for long, something he and thus his house could not afford. His family had fallen far in the aftermath of the Dance, and he remained the only living Baratheon of the male line. His lady wife was pregnant with their second child, but that babe would not be born for moons yet. If it were a boy, then his line would be tenuously secure, as his own birth had done after his father's death, but if it were another girl…

He did not wish to let such dark thoughts distract him, not when there was a war to be fought. Leaving the tent, he spied the white cloak of Ser Thorne, standing beside a pair of burly men; sworn shields of the prince, now heir to the Iron Throne, at least until Daeron married and had sons of his own. A Crownlander and a Stormlander, he believed, and approaching them, he found them standing in silence, as they often did these days.

Prince Baelor stood apart from them, somberly watching the funeral pyre burn before them, his silver hair softly shining in its light.

"Ser Thorne," Royce said with a nod to the whitecloak.

"Lord Baratheon," the man replied.

"Though not the first I've thought of it, I'm surprised our young king didn't keep you by his side after his ascension to the throne. One would have thought keeping a Kingsguard with a prince, despite now having his own sworn shields, would be a waste of your talents."

"Some might say, but the king does not," the man replied. "Our prince is precious to his brother, as well as his current heir, and must be protected with those the king trusts."

They stood in silence, the eerie glow of the funeral pyres beginning to dim as the bodies of the smallfolk turned to ash and dust. Every village before had been like this, reduced to naught but embers and memory with their passing. In time, if not resettled, these places would be forgotten entirely, and the lands reverted to the wilderness from whence they came.

"How is he?" Royce asked after finishing his whiskey. Though technically still his foster son, and now his squire of all things, he gave the prince far more freedom than most might their own charges. As he had seen these past few years, the prince was at his best when he was given the space to learn, but still held to the duties and expectations of his station. It kept the boy focused on his tasks at hand, all while giving him the freedom to find the inner strength to accomplish his young goals.

"Does he not speak with you?"

"Aye, he does, of a great many things. The reports he receives from Prince's Point, his progress in the training yard, his thoughts on his studies, thoughts on expanding Stormland harbors and roads where possible with Wytchstone…"

"But?"

"He speaks nothing of this, and when I try and bring it up, he either asks to be dismissed to finish a task I had given him earlier, or simply does not speak of it, regardless of what I have to say. I fear for him, he's become like a son to me, or perhaps a younger brother," Royce sighed, knowing he didn't yet have the former, and would never the latter. "Despite his enthusiasm with the axe and bow, I fear he is yet too gentle a soul for this sort of thing. He will take to it as he is expected, no doubt, but it will be harder for him than for other boys his age." Most boys bragged of going to war and the honors they'd earn, but few made mention of the bloodier, fouler things they would see or commit during those times. Baelor did not brag, remaining focused on his tasks and duties as a proper prince should instead.

"He often has poor dreams for days after finding a village in such a state," Ser Thorne replied after some time. "Either his sleep is interrupted on occasion by waking in surprise, or his dreams carry terrible images of this war that do not invite true rest. He recovers soon after, but I fear for him should we find too many villages in such a state too quickly."

"Yet he must come to accept that this is a part of war, as it is always the smallfolk who are the first to suffer at the hands of invaders. It would not do well for my family or the prince's newfound reputation to be offput by the carnage war brings. We will have our vengeance upon these Dornish, once we bring them to battle, and let none say that Prince Baelor will shy away from his duty when the time comes."

"The best revenge, foster father," Baelor suddenly said, an odd note to his voice as he turned to them, "is not to be like your enemy." Clearly, their conversation had not gone unnoticed by the young Targaryen.

"The actions of these Dornish are the worst we have seen in generations, my prince. Not since after the loss of the Riverlands by my ancestor Arrec Durrandon have the Dornish attacked us as such," Royce countered. "We will return in kind what they have done to us, as we have since the unification of Dorne. It would do well for the men to remind their foes of the price of such actions."

"But my lord, the smallfolk who have died here shall not have died only for more smallfolk, whose innocence is equal, to suffer the same fate," the prince said, a fire in his eyes Lord Baratheon had come to know as both encouraging and unpredictable. "The Dornish who commit these, these… atrocities, are not one and the same as those who dwell in Dorne, else that realm would have never been unified if this were the cruelty every lord faced in its centuries of unity. What of the smallfolk who tend to the orchards, the fields, ply the rivers and move across the sands? What have they done to earn our ire, once my brother begins his march into Dorne? Why should we heap upon the Dornish smallfolk the same murder and destruction the Stormland smallfolk have suffered?"

Though he was a fast learner, the prince was yet a boy, and that was clear in his response, as naïve as it was. "They have supported the raiders these past centuries, and sent the support for this army, be it by man, beast or supplies. Though they did not let the arrow fly, or swing the sword, they are just as guilty as those that do. One day, my foster son, you shall understand the necessity of bringing the war to those who support our enemies. It is the way of things."

The prince turned back to the dying pyre in silence.

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The faces of the relieved smallfolk upon finding themselves amid Stormlords and their forces conflicted Erich deeply. His father, he knew, had been keen on increasing the strength and power of their house years ago, but how and why he had never said. Cairnfell had seen great losses of many men at arms in the last days of that storied Dornish raid years ago, and it was well known that Lord Greycairn had spent a great deal of his coffers to replenish the ranks of the men he had lost. The new mounted men at arms had not been cheap to outfit and train, Erich had seen the ledgers himself, but they would be worth the investment, especially under their combined command.

The strength of their adversarial house in Lord Wytch was something his father only spoke of behind closed doors. They were not quite rivals, such as the Blackwoods and Brackens, but an ongoing competition for influence in their region of the Stormlands was something that Lord Greycairn was adamant he gained the lead in. That the smallfolk of his family's competitor were dying was a boon to their eventual cause, as it reduced the power of House Wytch, but that was just the thing. Smallfolk, good Stormlander stock, were dying to these Dornish marauders. No good Stormlord would voice these events as being advantageous, at least not in public, lest he wanted to lose any friends or allies he had.

He kept these thoughts to himself as he emerged from his tent, the dying light of the sun replaced by cooking fires and torches across their camp. Sheltered in a small valley, their perimeter had been secured by the men of Lords Galewood and the young Lord Wysp, the former having experience against Dornish night raids and the latter the men to ensure none snuck through. The only danger, for now, was the sentires raising the alarm for approaching smallfolk refugees headed further into the interior, likely towards Lowhill. They'd encountered more than a few already, usually some unnamed village that saw safety far from the border, carrying with them whatever they could.

Whether they would stay in Lowhill or return to their homes, come the defeat of the Dornish host, remained to be seen.

He found Hugh sitting beside a cooking fire, steaming bowls of beef stew resting in his hands.

"Brother," he said, sitting beside him.

"Erich," the younger son replied, offering him a bowl. That father had brought them both along spoke highly of them, as Erich knew he was better with the lance than his brother, and only a smidge better with the sword. Most other lords might have left at least one son behind, but not their father. The glory they would earn in smashing these Dornish would go a long way for securing their house's prestige and influence in these lands, so he said. It would also make the prospect of good betrothals that much more likely.

"Father say anything before the meeting?" Despite being his heirs, they were not privy to a gathering of lords, even if they were older than some of them.

"Just to be careful. Eyes and ears everywhere, you see."

"Of course," Erich sighed, savoring the flavor of the salty beef. It was a rare treat at home compared to pork or mutton, but Lord Wytch had been gracious enough to bring enough for stews to last for weeks. "He would be the one to see dangers in the middle of a camp of Stormlords surrounded by their soldiers. We're nowhere near the Dornish yet, so why worry?"

"Likely because those Dornish have been slaughtering anyone they catch unawares. There's a reason those smallfolk we've seen have been fleeing east, rather than trying to sit it out in their stronghouses. Lot of good those will do if the smallfolk try and hide in there for weeks on end, or just leave at the first sign of trouble."

Erich scoffed. First sign of trouble? Better to leave behind some supplies when moving towards safety than stay and possibly die. "If he's so worried, then why did he bring us along? Only mother remains back at Cairnfell, and she's probably worried sick already."

Hugh shrugged. "Ever since we lost Maris to that sickness last spring, she's been adamant we do not leave home. Her and father had some harsh words before we left."

"Sneaking around the keep again?"

Hugh shrugged. "Didn't have to when they were yelling that loud. Besides, we're among Stormlanders, a good three thousand strong last I heard. The Dornish are supposed to have, what, half that? What harm can they do against such numbers and good steel?"

"Father always said the sand devils are as devious as they are slippery. They've no reason to invade but to pillage and ensure our march to their lands is that much harsher for us. I'm sure they'll think of something to make our lives hell before we can put them down."

"Well, at least Lord Wytch and his men serve as good guides, and by the gods, these roads, they're better than I thought! No real dust, they don't turn to mud, and we're making good time, even father said so."

Their combined forces had marched out from Lowhill near a week prior, following the great white roads to the southwest, making straight for where the Dornish had crossed into Lord Wytch's lands. Early on, numerous scouts and outriders had been sent on the fastest horses possible as soon as word reached of their coming, but only time would tell how effective such actions were, as none had yet returned. Their father didn't believe it would be in time, as likely did some of the other lords, but they said nothing of the matter. It was ill to speak poorly of a lord's actions to save smallfolk however he could, especially since the ravens had mentioned the Dornish were erasing Marcher villages before they had entered Wytch lands.

"Flavor Hollow is the nearest village, more of a small town really I guess," Erich said. "Father believes we shall bring our forces to bear there against the desert devils. We've better knowledge of the lands than their scouts can ever glean, and it is likely their next target."

"Hopefully, we can capture a few lords, the ransom alone could be worth an entire year's harvest," Hugh muttered, finishing his stew. "That is, if we don't just slaughter them to the last man, as father did in the Marches."

Erich grunted. "Aye. Well, best get some sleep then. We've a few day's ride until we get there, and I'd rather not be tired if I have to slice some Dornish apart unexpectedly."

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Lord Galewood moved quietly through the camp, lost in thought as his guards flanked him, ever alert for potential threats. The meeting had gone as well as could be expected, with different lords calling for different methods of approaching and engaging the Dornish in battle. Some called for an ambush, an unlikely tactic given how many were atop horses. Others called for trapping them against a feature of the land that would negate their horses, such as a gully, a forest, or even the distant 'reservoir' that Lord Wytch had created. The remainder wished to simply meet them in battle and use their superior numbers against the Dornish, regardless of their mobility upon horseback.

Along with Lord Wytch, Galewood was of the second mindset, a trap against something that rendered their horses either a nonentity, or potentially a liability to their entire force. If met in Flavor Hollow, then then the buildings would be an advantage to their footmen, and a hindrance to any horses. Shooting them full of arrows, or dismounting them in some other way, would slow the Dornish aplenty, perhaps even halting them enough for their Lord Paramount to join up with them. Yet if met on the outskirts, or on an open field, they stood to be flanked, perhaps even surrounded despite their superior numbers.

What to do, what to do. So many options, so many ways things could go wrong. It was enough to make a man drink as if his life depended upon it.

"We are two mariners, our ship's sole survivors…"

Without warning, a voice drifted across the camp, accompanied by the quick strumming of a Stormland guitar. Letting his concerns fall by the wayside, lest they give him a restless sleep, and more than a bit curious, Lord Galewood approached, finding himself amongst others, Stormlords and men at arms alike, gathered around one of the larger fires. Alone sat Lord Wytch, an empty decanter of brandy beside him, and a dreadfully calm expression on his face as he sang.

"I guess we have some time to kill…"

Even as he told his tale, a song that Galewood had never heard before, the firelight cast its shadow over Casper with flickering shades. The boy lord did not look well. The news of the Dornish crossing into the Stormlands in force had affected everyone terribly, as they had not done so in generations besides a raid or two. Now, they had not only come through the Marches, but were well within the lands, Lord Wytch's lands to be precise.

"But I remember you, and I will relay to you…"

The young lord had taken the news of the desolation of the Marches hard, and they all knew the bastards were likely doing the same to his own smallfolk. While Greycairn might secretly find this advantageous, Galewood thought differently. This was a threat to them, for Lord Wytch's lands would soon have readily made fields open for more smallfolk to move in and establish themselves. The homes might need rebuilding, but word of such open space would soon draw smallfolk to move from lands near Lord Wytch's own, of this he was certain. It was harder to establish good farmland and pastures than a small village itself, as it took years for the soil to be right and grasses to be good.

"Spending all your money on the whores and hounds…"

Lord Wytch smirked slightly, an unsettling thing in the low light as he regaled them with his song. News had reached them of the tactics the Dornish were using against the smallfolk they slaughtered, and although the other lords had not taken note, Galewood had seen a look enter the young man's Valyrian eyes upon hearing the news.

"And so she took you in, her sheets still warm with him…"

A darkness that bordered on pure malevolence. He'd rarely seen such a look in a man, not since the Dance itself, when visiting justice upon murderers and rapers in the aftermath of a battle. Yet even those paled in comparison, as if there was something behind those eyes, some kind of… darkness, that he dared not dwell on.

"Leaving my mother a poor consumptive wretch…"

Still, the boy was clearly distraught, even with the… unnatural look to his eyes. It was his lands that were now being ravaged by an unexpected incursion, his smallfolk that were likely to be dying. The lords had pledged to aid him in ridding the lands of this army, but they could not agree on who to lead them. Hence, for the time being, a council of sorts, with Lord Wytch serving as their guide and the means of replenishing their supplies. It worked well, a bit too well for Galewood, as the other lords were beginning to experience just how much ahead of their own lands Lord Wytch's had become.

"And my poor mother lost her mind…"

The fields, the stores, the roads, these could be easily explained away as the young lord investing as much into his lands as he could. The contented nature of the smallfolk, their health, the availability of goods for merchants and smallfolk alike, these too could be, somewhat, waved away as part and parcel of such investments. Yet Galewood could see things the other lords either did not or made no mention of. The number of bandages available, the purest alcohol and tools for treating wounds, men accompanying them that were trained to put up barricades, dig latrines and set up their tents as quickly as possible…

"I took her hand as she dying cried…"

Lord Wytch was prepared not just for war, but an invasion. He had the roads to supply an army quickly, the stronghouses in settlements to protect smallfolk, serve as a local garrison if need be and hold a great deal of supplies, more food than he knew what to do with, connections with nearby lords whose power and prestige could only help his grow…

"Clawing at the ceiling of his grave…"

Galewood was startled by this realization. Had the lord known there would be war with Dorne? None of this could have been accomplished in the few short years since the last raid. This would have been years, perhaps even a decade in the making. The plows, the seed drill, that horse harness, all means of increasing his supply of food far beyond what his lands might normally produce. The roads, the trade, the growth of his towns and consolidation of his people into smaller, more productive, more controllable, more defensive areas…

"Among the urchins in the street…"

Not to mention the drilling of his levies. Two weekends a month for years? Excessive for smallfolk, and yet the men that marched with them were almost comparable to the men at arms some of the other lords fielded from their personal retinues. They set up camp quick, were good with their weapons, and were meant to be the first and foremost men the Dornish would fight. The men at arms, the knights with massive swords, those mounted bowmen of his, all of these were to support his levies, many of whom were far better armed and armored than smallfolk had any right to be.

"To keep their septry nice and neat…"

Oh, what a fool he had been, to have been in on the plot with Craggner! If he had known the lad was capable of this sort of divining, of seeing the needs to fight, nay, win a war before it had even started, then what hope had they had against him? Did he have spies within their midst feeding him all the information he needed? He could have joined this lad, as Lord Windhall had done, and prospered even more for it. Yet here he was, just he and Greycairn, the last of the conspirators, bound to never tell a single soul about what they had done, not even their own kin, for it would bring them into the fold, and the danger therein. Luckily, the boy didn't know anything about that, else he and his heir, asleep in his tent, would be in grave danger.

Then Lord Wytch, almost imperceptibly, looked at him amongst the gathered onlookers, his Valyrian eyes seeming darker than before.

"But never once in the employ of these holy men…"

The smallest of smiles, teeth shining like that of a predator, flickered across Casper's face, and a spike of icy fear trailed down Galewood's spine.

"Did I ever once turn my mind from the thought… of revenge…"

Oh gods… no....