45 Chapter 46: Stormlanders XIX

Mid-Late 157 AC

(Warning: this chapter contains dark elements centered around rape.)

The march into Dorne proper had gone well, far better than it had for his ancestor Orys. The goat paths through the Boneway, charted by countless before them and thoroughly scouted by King Daeron, had served their purpose, and in bypassing that first major obstacle, the entire eastern third of Dorne lay before them. Villages and towns before them were quickly overrun, the former lacking any walls and the latter having too few to mount a defense against their combined forces. Some even lay abandoned before their march towards the first castle to be seized, their occupants have fled the retribution of an army who had witnessed the devastation of the Dornish host in the southern Stormlands.

A retribution it would have been, were it not for the efforts of the prince of the realm.

Baelor had been molded by his time pursuing the Dornish, and by the conflagration he had created to end their wretched lives. Many Dornish kneeled before the 'Fyrestorm' when they entered a new village or town, as even amid a war of conquest, news spread quickly. Some stories put Baelor as spewing fire from his mouth, a dragon reborn, destroying the Dornish where they stood. Others put him as wielding the flames from his hands, whirling rings of fire cascading like geysers from his fiery soul, scorching those who dared to defy the will of the Seven. A few even had Baelor setting his sword aflame and personally killing every Dornish in vengeance for their destruction in the Stormlands, streaking across the battlefield as a wrathful whirlwind of death.

Royce knew better than to put stock in such tales when he had seen the results for himself. Baelor breathed no fire, nor sprouted it from his hands, nor slew every last Dornish with sword in hand. The truth of the matter was more mundane, and thus all the worse for the young lad to bear, for the prince had confided in precisely two others as to the truth behind his actions: Lord Wytch, and Royce himself. It had entirely been by accident, a freak gust of wind and dust in his eyes leading to the fire, not divine justice, or princely retribution. Royce suspected that while King Daeron did not know the full truth, the young king had an inkling there was more to the stories, given his actions in the campaign thus far. Daeron reveled in his brother's deeds, ensuring the prestige of House Targaryen would only continue to grow in the wake of the war's progression.

Despite all of this, of the death and destruction Baelor had witnessed in the Stormlands, and the regret Royce knew he felt, the lad's newfound fame was a force in the army only the king could match. When Daeron approached a settlement, token resistance was offered in polite delays before surrendering to the might of his forces. Wherever Baelor went, local lords begged for his mercy, asking not to be burnt alive for the transgressions of their Dornish kin. When the king appeared, leaderless levies and soldiers alike surrendered their posts with minimal resistance, not wishing to share in the fate of their fallen fellows. When news came of the approach of the 'Fyrestorm', lowborn and landed gentry alike would fall to their knees before the prince as they rode by, begging for their families to be spared the ravages of war, of rape and plunder and murder.

It was the aura of respect that Baelor had earned that saw the Stormlander contingent defer to his wishes on such matters, many of these proclamations encouraged by Royce himself. Most other lords and their men, be they Crownlanders or the Reachmen among them, paid lip service to these rules, but tended not to care much. Murder, rape and looting were common in times of war, no matter the participants, but something about Baelor had changed the minds of the Stormlander host. Even the marcher lords, whose lands had suffered the most, held a great deal of restraint when dealing with the Dornish suddenly under their nominal authority.

It was not smiles and good cheer, nor would it be for a great while, as only time would ease such tensions. There were still fights, 'finding' supplies, and the occasional beating of troublesome smallfolk, yet for now, any small victory for securing a peace was still a victory.

Now, on the outskirts of Castle Wyl, whose acting lady had refused to surrender, Royce watched from the safety of their camp as ladders were built and siege engines were assembled. A great many sentries and patrols, tasked with ensuring no sorties or escapes were attempted, lay scattered about the area, armed and ready for anything. At the table afforded to them for a private dinner, a request to the king on his own part, Royce glanced at Baelor, across from him, slowly picking at his food. When he did not oversee the camps with his sworn swords and ensure the supplies were unloaded in good order, his foster-son had taken to spending most of his time in his private quarters, away from the men. Many thought him to be praying, as he did at least once a day in full view of the men. Royce knew there was more to it than that, and intended to find out why his foster-son was going through so many of their administrative supplies as well.

"My prince," he began, glancing towards Ser Thorne, the Kingsguard silent as a statue as the evening drew closer. "I wish to speak with you of something."

"Yes?" Baelor replied.

"Your personal time in your own tent is of little importance to me, simply because that is your own business, and I respect that you need time to yourself, given the… events in the lands of my vassals. However, that brings into question why you spend so much time secluded. I hardly see you when you are not tending to your duties as my page."

"I… have a great deal on my mind, my lord," was the boy's reply. Simple, truthful, but Lord Baratheon knew something was different. There was a haunted look he saw on occasion, when the prince likely thought nobody was looking.

He was a prince of the realm. Somebody was always looking.

"Are you working on something? I've not assigned you a large task in some time, not since the Dornish host first crossed the border, and your uncle made it clear that your Kingswood project was to be discontinued."

There it was. A slight wince, barely noticeable, but little escaped Royce's eyes when he looked for it. That would explain why the boy needed so much ink and whatever fresh parchment the Dornish had 'offered' their newfound conquerors.

"Yes, foster-father, I have an… idea, not for the Kingswood, but one that I have been looking to discuss with my brother. But I also pray every morning, and every evening to the Seven for guidance. Reciting their hymns is a balm upon my soul, especially in such a hot and dry land that my brother seeks to conquer."

Hard to argue with that, the army already stank without access to water from their already infrequent bathing. Washing in a small tributary of the Wyl had been a wondrous feeling days prior. "I understand why you feel that way, my prince, but that reminds me of another matter. In our march through these lands, the smallfolk have groveled at your very feet, begging for forgiveness for the crimes of their kin. Men and women alike beg that their families be spared from the rights of conquest, of plunder gained for men marching far from home to fight and die for their lords."

"The right to seek recompense for services rendered do not give just cause for men to act like animals," the prince said. "The spoils of war should not be tainted with slaughter and rape."

"Idealistic, but not exactly feasible when men's blood runs hot, my prince. Many men would call it unjust to deny them their rights to gain from war. Smallfolk levies carry only whichever weapons they can scrounge up or buy for themselves, as most cannot legally own one during peacetime. A great many lords pay their levies a pittance, reserving most of their funds for their own men at arms and knights, or whatever sellswords they can rally to their banners. Some more magnanimous lords may pay their smallfolk a good wage for marching off to war, but for many, if there is no plunder, then they risk death for no genuine gain whatsoever."

"The rights of men at war are tolerated, not enforced, especially when this conquest also has the potential to destroy these lands for generations to come."

"They will recover, as most lands do after such fighting."

"They will not recover peacefully if we don't act accordingly, foster father. In our march thus far, I have read the ledgers of these lands, courtesy of thankful lords and ladies whose manses and keeps we have seized so far, my lord," Baelor said, motioning to his sworn swords. Without a word, Balon the Buckler retrieved a satchel and gave it to his prince.

"Is this what you have been working on?" Royce asked.

"A portion of it is, for the longer I am here, and the longer I read into these lands, I feel a greater understanding of our situation," Baelor continued, pulling out parchment bound between two sheets of leather. "In here is a compilation of the finances of the Wyl lands we have already taken, and the lands of their immediate lesser lords, of which there are less than other lands. It would seem the Wyls did not wish to be usurped, and kept whatever lords under their thumbs as nonthreatening as possible."

Annoyed by Baelor's immediacy in trying to justify his naivety, and yet intrigued, Royce accepted and looked through the numbers. The handwriting of the locals, much like the speech of the Dornish, was near incomprehensible to him, but he could deduce enough to conclude his own opinion. "Most Wyl vassals rely on importing food more often than not, and even Wyls themselves have had to," he replied. "What of it? The Marches previously imported from the Reach, and I suspect the North has in the past even more than ourselves." No doubt, when under Dornish control in the past, much food from the Marches was sent to the Wyls and other Dornish lords. No wonder such a breadbasket compared to Dorne itself was fought over so frequently.

"The Dornish can barely feed themselves in a good year with the fertile lands they control, foster-father, but they still do," the prince said. "However, much of their land is dedicated not to wheat and other grains, or even vegetables, but to what they sell. One cannot live off olives, oranges, lemons, and peppers. These, and much more, are sold in Essos for a great markup, sometimes many times what the cost might have been to grow them in an entire season. According to the ledgers of their vassals, the Wyls have likely only existed as major lords because they derive great wealth from such trade. Sitting at the mouth of their namesake river has only helped them in this regard."

"So through trade, they earn greater wealth than they should. No wonder the stores we have seen were so comparably empty to our own stocks. How does this tie into this war?"

"I have an idea as to how," the prince said. "That same wealth trickles directly into the pockets of the smallfolk that work the orchards, clear the fields, and tend to the irrigation canals. The smallfolk depend on the coin they make from selling that which they cannot grow to sustain themselves. In these lands, this makes them dependent on the protection of the Wyls, as awful a house as they are, for what options do they have? Their lords would not allow them to grow cheaper wheat in place of expensive spices and exotic fruits, save for what little they can to maintain a steady, if small, supply for bread. If they decided to leave, where do they have to go? Many of the surrounding lands cannot support a sudden influx of mouths to feed, for the farmland is not there to shoulder such a new burden. They would have little food to take with them, and the desert is a terrible obstacle to attempt to surmount, even for an army. For a gaggle of ill-prepared smallfolk, departing Wyl lands for greener pastures could likely kill them as easily as bandits."

"So they are stuck, and must grow the olives that keep their lords rich and themselves fed, using their wages to buy what they cannot grow. Again, why does this concern you?"

Baelor sighed. "I have made promises of protection because, foster-father, if these lands are plundered, or Seven forbid put to the torch, there is no telling the trouble we will have. I spoke with the Dornish in Cas-… Lord Wytch's lands, on the orchards they worked and of the wines they made. Good vineyards and better orchards take years to establish and earn coin from. That was in good lands, mind you. Here, in Dorne? Even longer, for every well to be used must be guarded, both to ensure that none may use it for themselves and so that the lords need only a single resource to control enough to keep the smallfolk in line. So, if the orchards here were to be destroyed, or these other cash crops damaged…"

"Then the smallfolk would lose access to what little coin they have, and famine would rear its ugly head quickly," Royce replied. "Then again, if we keep these orchards in good condition, the Dornish will have the means of secretly supplying the coin for rebellions. Your brother and I have spoken of this before."

"But Daeron doesn't know the opportunity he has with this war, to not only win it, but keep this kingdom under the Iron Throne, something the Conqueror likely never understood," Baelor said, pointedly stabbing the ledger with his finger, his passions rising to the surface. "Dorne has no navy, we all know this, and thus can be blockaded for however long my brother wishes. In times of peace, they import grain from wherever they can, be it us, or Essos. Now, with war stopping all trade in southern Westeros, they can only turn to Essos."

"Which, being blockaded, can send them no grain, not unless war is declared and the Triarchy unite against us, an unlikely event in any case. As such, a famine could occur even if the Dornish supplied all their own food, for the other armies on the march will not be so kind as ours in their plundering." Lord Baratheon sat in silence, pondering the prince's argument. It was sound, as losing access to available coin and food had caused untold rebellions across Westeros in the past. Yet, there was something in the prince's eyes, a fire that he knew from when he had overseen the construction of 'Prince's Point' near Storm's End. "I know that look, Baelor. What are you proposing?"

"The war will cost gold, men, and supplies. The burden of men falls upon the lords in our armies, and the supplies upon their lands and smallfolk. But the gold? They will want recompense, both for their men and for their own coffers. This, my brother has decreed, will fall upon the Dornish to pay back, smallfolk and lords alike."

"That will not go over well, especially with the Dornish smallfolk suffering as they undoubtedly will."

"Which is why I need your support, foster-father. My brother respects you for raising me as you have and will more readily listen to those he considers friends of the Targaryens than not. The gold the Dornish make selling these crops has made this a rich kingdom, but a fragile one. A severe drought or sudden floods could destroy countless fields, but whereas the Reach, Stormlands or Riverlands can simply pull crops from one area to shore up another, given the sheer amount of farmland, Dorne simply cannot afford to. Discounting their overall disunity between most houses compared to other kingdoms, they are upon the barest edge of a knife even in good years, and if, say, the east suffered from a great storm, the west or south could not aid them without putting themselves in greater risk to suffer from a similar event. So, if parts of the country are ravaged too greatly by war, my lord, famine and revolts are sure to follow in that region."

"Which your ancestor learned well the difficulty in putting down, even with the aid of dragons," Royce said. It was a source of pride for him, that the prince was so willing to invest his time into learning whatever means could be used for the kingdoms. It showed he cared for the lords sworn to his family, and while not yet a man, Baelor already had the respect and admiration of more lords than the boy realized. "What do you have in mind?"

"The cost upon the lords will undoubtedly lead to unrest and revolts, either outright or quietly supported. Should we shift the burden onto the already precariously surviving smallfolk, the rebelling lords will have all the supplies and manpower they need to extend this war for years, or barring that, instigate rebellions as often as they wish. So… we shift the burden to the lords that resisted the most, or continue to cause the most trouble, and leave the smallfolk be, thus depriving the lords of men and supplies more thoroughly than any blockade. That way, if the lords should raise their taxes to fund such ventures, their own smallfolk will be the ones turn against them, and not us."

"The war will be expensive. It may take years for this to be accomplished, years longer than Dornish may be willing to pay or your brother's vassals be willing to wait."

"I know, but I've discussed the beginnings of this idea with my brother. Lords that fall in line shall face far lighter burdens than those that fight to a bitter end, and such burdens will end sooner the more they stay in line. The less that is destroyed, the more can be put to funding the coffers of our loyal lords, and the quicker such debts will be repaid. Daeron has even gone so far as to say such burdens will be lighter still if successful marriages are accomplished to tie non-Dornish houses together, to further dissuade future conflict. The smallfolk, regardless, will still be depending on the gold made from the orchards, spices and vineyards they tend. So, not only do we have a tax on the Dornish lords themselves, we have a portion of every sold cash crop go to lords as compensation for their aid in this war, once trade with Essos is allowed once again."

"Reduced coin returning to smallfolk pockets will still drive them into the arms of banditry and rebelling lords," Lord Baratheon countered.

"Which is why we cut out the means of them purchasing grain from those we do not want them to. Instead, we sell our own grain, at a greatly reduced cost, to the smallfolk in the lands that most quickly bent the knee and integrated under my brother's rule," Baelor said. "The coin earned from a portion of cash crop sales will more than make up the difference for however much grain is needed to keep the Dornish smallfolk content."

"That will be a huge amount of not only grain, but other crops as well."

"Dorne's population, by maesterly estimates, is between one and a half or two million strong. Just to feed them enough grain for, say, a year, would require between seven hundred thousand and one million tons of wheat. However, as you said, it need not all be grain, and with every lord in every kingdom contributing even a small amount, it will more than likely flood their markets enough to crash the prices of whatever they can grow themselves."

"Do not expect the North or the Iron Islands to give out any food. They struggle enough as it is to feed their people. The Vale as well, perhaps, come to think of it."

"I know, which is why something else will be required of them, perhaps men to garrison forts and help ensure the peace."

"An idea to be pursued later, but that still leaves my earlier points. With so much food available, why would that not simply allow for greater rebellions to take place? We would be feeding our own enemies."

"There will be greater resistance in every corner of Dorne if we continue to destroy the very means by which many keep their families fed. However, with such plentiful food available, most smallfolk would not dare risk causing such a bounty to be taken away in such uncertain times, which we will make clear is what will occur should they cause problems. If it is made known that any rebellions will cause shortages of food, what kind of man would risk the food of his children to supply rebels he has never met? What woman would not turn in a conspiracy so that her babes will not go hungry? Should smallfolk and their lords keep to my brother's laws and accept him as their king, then they will receive such just rewards for doing so, such as cheaper grain to adjust for any loss of wages."

"So we reward those who toe the line and keep the peace, smallfolk and lord alike, while taxing only the lords that cause trouble, and if the troublesome raise their taxes to fund rebellion, their own smallfolk will turn against them to maintain access to our imported food," Lord Baratheon said, nodding slightly. "The longer we do this, the more the fighting spirit of the Dornish will die down, and they will slowly begin to more thoroughly unite under the Iron Throne. It has… merit, my prince, but the war must be won before such grandiose plans can be put into place. After all, who would oversee such a massive task?"

"I… I don't know," Baelor said, that inner fire flickering out as he slumped back in his seat. "A great group of men would be needed from every kingdom, each with an authority stemming from Daeron and their liege lords, but who to pick for such positions? Would they even be safe in Dorne, even in pacified regions, from errant rebels and supposed bandits? Every single one could be a target if things do not go well."

"Well, perhaps that is a discussion for a later date," Royce said. "For now, it is time for us to sleep, and perhaps, with a peaceful slumber, we might find solutions for the problems of tomorrow as well as today."

Gods damn it all, he knew something was going to go wrong with Baelor's proclamations. Wylgrove, a town directly downstream from Castle Wyl, was surrounded by irrigated groves of olive trees and had surrendered after a pointedly delayed deliberation by the town's mayor. The king's portion of the army dwelt in its walls, the rest camping outside it, and the smallfolk were expected to carry on as best they could in such times, tending to the small canals and whatever else was left for work. They tended to keep to themselves, and by order of their lords, most of the men did as well.

Before him, in chains, was a rather ugly hedge knight, what armor he wore scuffed from the struggle between him and the Buckler men that had seized him and stripped him of his weapons. Among the gathering of lords and heirs were other hedge knights, many of whom had witnessed the arrest or come to see what the trouble was. Gathered across from them in an equally sizeable crowd stood local Dornish lords and Wylgrove's mayor.

The tension between the two groups was palpable, a sickly sour taste on the air. Any such trial would normally be quick, but Daeron was taking his time… for some reason. This was dangerous.

Lord Buckler of Bronzegate, along with his son and heir, arrived by Royce's side.

"Is he a man under your banner?"

The older man shook his head. "Nay, Lord Baratheon, he is not, unfortunately. I'd have already dealt with the mess, but our king wishes to make clear his word follows the law, and thus the law is also his word."

"Theatrics, a mummer's farce," Royce said, wiping the sweat from his brow. Even under the appropriated parasols of several Dornish manses, the sweltering heat of the late morning was already becoming uncomfortable. How in the hells did the sand devils tolerate greater heat further inland? "A show of force to no doubt cow the locals."

"Or remind the men that the words of the prince are to be second only to the king," Lord Buckler said, motioning to the large seat upon which Daeron sat. Prince Baelor stood close, whispering with his kingly brother, whose expressions ranged from mildly annoyed to kingly concern.

"What exactly happened?" Royce asked, and as if the Seven deigned to answer, a crier appeared before the crowd, unrolling a scroll in the process.

"Ser Hubert, you stand accused of rape, of a young maiden tending to the orchards three nights previously," he cried, earning hisses of anger from the Dornish and whispers from the other lords. "How do you plead before the king?"

"I deny any wrongdoing," the one called Hubert said with a fierce scowl. Royce glanced to his foster son, whose expression had suddenly hardened into steely anger.

Interesting.

"A simple innocent or guilty will suffice, ser," King Daeron called, his commanding voice bringing silence to both crowds. When the king speaks, you are silent.

"Innocent," Hubert replied. Baelor's hand twitched towards his sword, but the prince said nothing.

"So you claim, but it will be before the gods that you are judged," the king said, motioning to the Dornish crowd. "Bring forth the witness."

Royce suppressed a grimace. The king already knew of the charges? What kind of game was he playing at, making this such a spectacle? Just cut the bastard's cock off and be done with it, this was a war court, not the Red Keep.

A pair of young men bore a stretcher between them, upon which lay a young woman, likely only a few years older than the king himself. Pretty, though her nose was bandaged, there were bruises along her neck, and given the state of her legs, unlikely to walk for some time. The poor thing looked like a wounded doe, eyes darting around, unable to run yet clearly wishing not to be there.

"Your name?" the king asked as her litter was set upon a pair of braces.

"W-Wylla, your g-grace," the young woman stammered.

"Wylla, you accuse Ser Hubert of the crime of rape," the king said. "By what evidence do you support this claim?"

"The evidence of her wounds!" one of the young men cried, earning more hisses from the Dornish crowd, and angry mutters from the army's lords.

"Silence, boy," one of the Kingsguard replied. Oakheart, was it? "The king asked Wylla, not you."

"Please f-forgive my c-cousin, King Daeron," young Wylla said. "He m-means no disrespect, but he and I are c-close. However, he is r-right," she said, weakly gesturing to herself. "I offer my b-body as evidence of his c-crime."

"T'was no crime, your grace," Hubert interjected, much to Royce's growing disgust. "She's just angry I paid her like the cheap whore she is."

"Silence!" Baelor suddenly cried, shocking a great deal of the crowd into silence. At Daeron's questioning glance, he cleared his throat. "It is not your turn to speak, ser, and I suggest you remember that."

"Ten coppers," Wylla said, lips peeling back in a pained grimace. "Ten c-coppers he threw t-to me when he finished. I be no whore, dragon king, b-but he d-didn't care." Her cousin removed a bag from his pouch and handed it to the crier.

After perusing its contents, he turned to the king. "Indeed, ten coppers, your grace."

"So you claim you are no whore," King Daeron said. "What proof do you have?"

Wylla slapped her cousin before he could speak, weak as her strike was. "All m-my life, the orchards w-were my chores. The c-canals always need to b-be kept clear of debris. I w-was tending to them as a-always when he c-came upon me."

Royce watched Baelor as the young woman told, in needlessly gruesome yet angering detail, of how she rejected the hedge knight's advances repeatedly, up until he shoved her to the ground and committed the deed. The prince had a look on his face Royce had never seen before, but it was hard to say just what it was. Meanwhile, Hubert looked ready to shout again, but a mere glance from the king ensured his silence.

More witnesses were brought forward. Other knights, hedge or otherwise, who had spoken with Hubert before and heard of his conquests. Some sentries who had overheard his bragging of not only young Wylla, but how 'good' it had felt to 'put a tartish Dornishwoman in her place' some nights before. Several field workers who had come across the sobbing woman after Hubert had departed, including an older man who had overseen Wylla's work since she could first follow her mother tending to the irrigation canals.

"Ser Hubert, your defense?" King Daeron asked. To Royce's growing anger, the king sounded bored by all this. Was he expecting outlandish claims or some other spectacle?

"T'was no crime of mine, she's just whining I was a little rough," the hedge knight said, to much whispering from both gathered crowds. "Didn't seem to be too upset when I had her on her back. Besides, consider it justice, for what happened to the Stormlands from their devil kin."

Angry shouts from the Dornish crowd drowned out whatever else the man said, and it took a great deal of brandishing swords from the guards just to settle them back down. However, a voice rang out, whose tone silenced the entire gathering.

"How dare you," Baelor said. "Vengeance for the Stormlands? Is that your claim? That you forced yourself upon this woman in the name of the men, women and children that died?"

"Yes, my prince," Hubert said simply.

"You claim that by raping this woman, you achieve some sort of justice for what happened there? That this absolves you of such horrendous sin, in trying to counter what the smallfolk of my brother's throne suffered?"

"She's just a Dornishwoman, my prince," the man replied, a bit unsure of himself.

"Just a Dornishwoman? By the right of conquest, my brother, your king, is now her king as well. Any attack upon a man, woman or child under the protection of the Iron Throne, no matter their kingdom, violates the laws of men and gods, the very same laws my brother is obligated to uphold."

"They've not sworn themselves-,"

"Every lord at our back has surrendered, thus swearing themselves," King Daeron replied. "Men are fickle, but the laws cannot afford to be. Every Reachman, Northmen, Dornishman, and all others that dwell in the lands sworn to my family are beholden to me, but also under my protection."

"My king, you can't be serious! She's just a whore, it was justice for-,"

"YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE!" Baelor roared, a chill crawling up Royce's spine. He had never heard the prince shout like that, and judging from the king's shocked expression, neither had he. "I saw the devastation left behind by the bastards that drive into our lands. I rode past the burnt husks of barns and homes, of the slain livestock left to rot in the fields. I peered into wells into which the corpses of children had been thrown. I watched the remains of ravaged women and tortured men be burnt in great piles and came upon the desecrated remains of more smallfolk slain without care or thought! Do not tell me it was justice, for what part did Wylla play in that? She was not on the battlefield, hacking at fleeing smallfolk, nor was she burning every field, farmhouse and cottage in her wake!"

"She's Dornish, she supported them, my prince! It was justice!"

"The only justice for those animals has already been delivered upon them, by the hands of gods and men alike!" Baelor cried, hand gripping the pommel of his undrawn sword. Ser Thorne quickly moved to his side, but the prince steeled himself. "It was Lord Wytch and his neighbors that broke their army in the Stormlands, actions that you were not a part of! It was he who slew the last remnants of those monsters in the skins of men and saw to their destruction at the hands of the Seven!"

"But my prince-,"

"And it was I who saw their final destruction! With Fire and Blood, I destroyed the last of those monsters! I delivered unto them the judgement of the gods and left nothing but charred corpses in my wake!" Baelor cried as Ser Thorne placed a hand on his shoulder. "I saw to the justice demanded by the Stormlanders, and by the Seven, I will see to your judgement for your crimes as well!"

"I did nothing wrong!" Ser Hubert cried, frantically looking at everyone but the prince. "I… I demand a trial by combat!"

"So be it!" King Daeron cried, motioning to Ser Thorne, who leaned down and whispered to the prince. With a guiding hand, Baelor was led back to the king, his breathing ragged, and though he turned away, Royce noticed the tears welling in his eyes. "Will you name a champion, ser knight?"

"I will fight for myself, my king!" Hubert cried. "I will show to men and gods alike that what I did was no crime!"

"Then who shall face him on behalf of the girl?" Lord Buckler whispered to Royce.

"I shall fight for young Wylla, my king," a voice said. As one, the crowd looked to see Ser Thorne move in front of Baelor, shielding him from view. "On behalf of my prince, I shall see justice done."

In stunned silence, the crowds parted as a circle was formed. Ser Hubert, with some trepidation, was dressed for battle, all while the Kingsguard stood silent. Many other lords and Dornishman arrived, swelling the numbers of both crowds, and fierce whispers sounded like shifting sands as the final preparations were made. Yet after all that buildup, after all the shouts and curses and the outrageous behavior of the prince, the fight itself was… a bit of a letdown in Royce's opinion, nothing the bards would sing songs of. Ser Hubert crossed swords with Thorne once, twice, and after the third clash, lost his sword hand in a savage strike. Then, without a word, or even allowing the man to beg for mercy, Ser Thorne thrust his white sword through the hedge knight's throat, and the gurgling man fell to the ground in a wash of red sand.

"Bless the Seven, for they have seen fit to answer our calls for justice," King Daeron said as a pair of men began to drag the dead rapist away. "See to it that his arms and armor fetch a good price, and that the victim's family receive recompense for his crime. Wylla, you may leave, for justice has been delivered."

"B-Bless you and your house, K-King Daeron," the woman blubbered before dissolving into silent sobs as her cousins took her away, much of the Dornish crowd dispersing with them.

Royce approached his king, noticing that Baelor was off to the side, silent as the proceedings finished and Ser Thorne rejoined him. "My king, while it may not be my place to doubt your goals for this war," he began, before glancing back at the prince. "What was this? The man should have been decocked or just sent to the Wall. Why all this pageantry?"

"Because, Lord Baratheon, with this action, we have struck down two birds with a single stone," King Daeron replied. "My brother has long made proclamations that your Stormlords have been following rather well, which I must congratulate you on, by chance. It would be hard for any kingdom to treat the Dornish smallfolk as well as they have, especially after their lords and kinfolk so devastated the southern Stormlands. My Reach and Crownland lords, on the other hand, held no qualms in acting as they saw fit… until now, that is."

"What are you getting at, my king?" Royce asked.

"Come now, Lord Baratheon, I know you are a smart man, you raised my brother into the dragon most never thought he could be," Daeron said with a smile. "Now that the other lords have seen what happens to those that treat the Dornish as a means to expel their anger, or abuse as they wish, word will spread of the consequences. Men will know that I, Kind Daeron, First of His Name, will not tolerate those who can lawlessly pillage and abuse those they wish under some guise of justified slaughter or supposed revenge. Those that fall under the Iron Throne, even former enemies of House Targaryen, will be treated justly, and word of this will no doubt spread to the Dornish not yet under heel."

"Ensuring your current lords do not give the Dornish additional cause to hate us, and so that the Dornish are more willing to accept your rule, once the war is won," Royce said. Impressive, but this would only get them so far, and he felt that his king already knew this. "So then, what happens now?"

"Now? We continue the siege of Castle Wyl and prepare for the rest of our campaign. In the meantime, ensure my brother is taken care of, Lord Baratheon. I fear the morning's heat and the troubles of this… pageantry have stressed him so."