Chapter 40: SI POV XII

Mid 157 AC

The trail was yet fresh when we'd left Flavor Hollow, but it was not the clearest of trails. The Dornish had done well to keep their men more spread out, preventing the ground from being too trampled into a path of muddied hoofprints and broken grasses before they'd joined together on the Wytchroad.

My road.

One of many I'd had built that was sadly living up to its purpose in this case.

I had never considered the Dornish coming into the Stormlands at the onset of the war, especially this far. I'd never thought of anything more than stronghouses to protect my western flanks, as I was to soon have familial ties there as well as my trade and honor-bound deals with the Marcher lords. I'd failed to prepare for this possibility as much as I could have, and now where was I?

Tracking the bastards that were pillaging my lands, slaughtering my smallfolk whom I had sworn to protect, and using my own improvements against me! That Durrandon rage haze constantly ebbed at my mind, willing me to focus it on something, anything, to exert my frustrations and wrath. Yet there was little I could do with it now, save for biting back a curse as we came over a rise, another empty valley stretching before us, shallow and wide. The grasses here were too short to hide an upright enemy, but nevertheless long enough to impede a full gallop.

"Where in the hells are they?" Lord Galewood asked, mirroring the thoughts of the other lords. We were near the center of our cavalry, our men spread out before each of us like the sides of a star with seven points, looser than I would have liked. Greycairn had said it would be easier for a portion to break off like a spearpoint to attack an enemy without compromising the rest, a point the others agreed with. I, on the other hand, was unsure of its usage out here, as I somewhat recalled wedge and diamond formations in history for cavalry, but never something like this. My guess? Some combination of those with allusions to religion, specifically the Seven. So long as it worked, I couldn't bitch much about it. After all, Greycairn and a select few older lords had been in battles during the Dance. I'd faced bandits and then raiders, be they Craggner or Dornish, but never an army before, and thus had to let the more experienced men take point on this.

Hence my reluctance to carry with me my wife's ancestral weapon. The Whirlwind lay not at the ready on my side, but in its travelling case safe in my camp under constant guard and within a padlocked chest. I had reasoned my lance and sword, along with my shield, should be enough for this task, yet even being prepared for battle as I was, it rankled me knowing full well they would underestimate these Dornish no matter how armed we were. Most Westerosi seemed incapable of understanding that their enemy could develop the means of counteracting their specific method of attack. The whole world appeared to follow this same mindset, seeing as none of the peoples ravaged by the Dothraki seemed to attempt some means of counteracting unarmored light cavalry in any meaningful way. Hells, the times the Riverlands were invaded by the Reach, why not spam pikemen? Knights can't do shit against long pikes with the frontal charges they seem to favor, the English found that out well enough. Or was it the Italians?

"We could split up to cover more ground," the young Lord Wysp suggested. He was near my age and yet seemed so young to my eyes, filled with an unpleasantly obvious desire to prove himself to his older, more experienced neighbors. That would get him killed if he wasn't careful. Unlike the others, I rather liked him as my neighbor, and I'd promised his father on his deathbed my secret feud with House Wysp died with him, a promise I still held to.

"A possible solution were we in more favorable lands, or if we were fighting men on foot, rather than horse," I replied. "If we had the numbers to send many a group out to hunt for these Dornish, then I would agree. Yet I fear our total cavalry number less than their own, even with their losses in Flavor Hollow. If we were to split up, it would be easy for us to be cut off from one another, to be picked apart piece by piece at their leisure. I wouldn't take long after encircling one group to destroy or incapacitate them before the others could come to their aid. Should we not find them unawares, our combined force remains a deterrent for an assault."

"Bah! Killing a lord or his sons, rather than take them captive? Even these Dornish would not go that far, it would go against all sensibilities of war," Greycairn scoffed. "I say we move apart and sound the horns if we find the bastards."

"Yet they've annihilated smallfolk in ways we've not seen before," Lord Wysp countered. "Never before have I heard of them so deliberately infiltrating and killing any settlement they can find. Pillaging, rape, and murder I know to be truths of war, even if I have never seen them myself, but to destroy smallfolk so thoroughly? Not even the Targaryens did that in their conquests, destroying the fighting men alone and sparing those they sought to rule."

"Yet these Dornish do not seek conquest, my lord," Lord Galewood replied. "They seek to deprive Lord Baratheon and our king of the means of supplying their army through the Boneway and into Dorne. With no supplies behind them, they've to scrounge what they can from the desert hills and whatever towns they take. Those barren lands will not support such an army as the one King Daeron leads this way."

"Hence our need to find them now and bring them to action, rather than allow their continued plunder and destruction," Lord Wysp said. "What say you, Lord Wytch?"

"Best we stick together," I replied, as a pair of our scouts appeared over the horizon, moving swiftly through the grasses. One bore Dondarrion banners, one of the men the lord had sent to warn us of the Dornish approach, the other wearing my own sigil. I recognized both, yet I'd forgotten their names….

"My lords, we've found two camps, on either side of a winding ridge, surrounded by tall grasses," the first replied. "There are pack horses there, tethered, and the camp seems asleep. Tents, open cots, its all there, and there are no signs of Stormland banners among them. It's the Dornish for sure."

"Any sentries?" Greycairn asked, as murmurs of excitement spread through the ranks.

"Several in the outskirts, but they appear tired, from what we could see, not moving from their positions, my lord. They may be outright asleep like the rest."

"Such sloppiness, or perhaps overconfidence, only a Dornishman could be so careless in enemy lands. Are the camps of proper size for this force?" Galewood asked.

"Aye, it would seem so," the second scout replied. "There seem to be enough missing tents and horses to account for the men that attacked Flavor Hollow this morning."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Galewood cried, rallying his banner and his heir Erich. "Should we savage their camp whilst they sleep, even if they escape, they shall be a threat no more! Few steeds, fewer supplies, and with nowhere to turn for aid, they will surely starve in these lands!"

"Should we not proceeed with caution? There are two camps, but Lord Wytch and I agreed we mustn't split up," Lord Wysp replied.

"Bah, the worries of boys! Let men of war handle this matter!" Greycairn replied, turning to the other lords, most of them nothing more than landed knights whose names I had completely forgotten. "Men, half of you with Galewood and his heir! The rest, with me! Today, we finish these bastards once and for all!"

My shouts of protest were drowned by cheers and the thundering of their hooves as they rode off, breaking from formation into several wedges, running up and over the hills to our right and left, swords drawn and banners flapping in their wake. Our remaining men turned to us, many with expectant or nervous looks gracing their faces. To sit tight was to be relatively safe, but leave our allies to potential traps, and no man among us would be willing to let that happen. As much as I hated them for being involved in my father's death, those idiots were more useful to me alive than dead.

"Wait!" I cried to Lord Wysp, who seemed about to rally his own men to follow one of the groups. "With me, my lord. We straddle the ridge and give aid to our fellows should any Dornish that may appear." That an unexpected trap might lay before the others was left unsaid, and that these 'men of war' did not think to keep forces in reserve confused me. Were they that desperate for glory?

Lord Wysp gave me a curt nod. "Agreed. Men, with me, to the ridge!" the younger man cried, my own shout mirroring his. With lances at the ready, we took to the middle, coming over the rise, the view on either side bare to us, and what a sight it was.

Amidst the mild chaos of the attack on the camp, the tents and bedrolls were trampled, only to reveal no occupants in either, and the sentries were tumbled down by charging horses to reveal stacks of grasses, shoved into armor, held aloft by thin stakes. Growing dread filled me as I saw pack horses trample anything in their path in a panic as the two Stormlander groups continued their 'attack', and then all hell broke loose, for from the grasses emerged a flurry of arrows on all sides, sending many a man and horse screaming to the ground. Long spears and lances emerged as well, bore by men on foot and riders bearing a variety of sigils, Dornish sigils at that. Many more rode around, cutting off the way whence my allies had come, and as one, the two rings descended upon their surrounded and surprised victims.

An ambush much like my own, without any caltrops thank the gods, yet it was one I'd failed to fully realize before it was too late. A split decision was all I could make to salvage this approaching catastrophe. "Lord Wysp, aid Lord Greycairn, break the Dornish ring so they may return to us! All will be lost if we are overwhelmed!" I cried, turning to my men. "Men, to me! We ride for Lord Galewood's host! Dread Our Wrath!"

With resounding cries, our forces split, my own riding down towards the men on our right. Lances out, the slope of the ridge giving way to flatter ground near the enemy 'camp', the encircling Dornish barely had time to react before we slammed into their lines like a thunderclap of steel and horses. My lance broke immediately, spearing a tanned rider from his horse and into another, the pair falling under the trampling hooves of the ensuing bloody melee. Swords flashed as I drew my own, narrowly missing a skewering blow from a man on foot, his clothed helm cracking open in a fountain of gore as I returned the blow.

All around me, the screams echoed, arrows whizzing past our heads as men and mount were savaged in this chaotic mess. Another Dornishman atop his horse tried to slice open my arm, but I raised my shield on instinct. The blow stung even under my armor, almost as if it were a hammer, but I returned it with a sharp blow of my shield, so close were we, and he fell from his mount amidst the carnage. Amidst the chaos of battle, I still heard his screams ended with a sickening crunch of his head beneath a hoof.

My shield was struck by two arrows mere moments later, the points pricking my arm through the wood, but otherwise doing little harm. A wide arc of my sword cut the arm of a man trying to stab one of my household knights through the helm, the arm and sword it was carrying falling to the ground in a spurt of crimson ichor. All around us, the battle raged, and the Durrandon battle haze filled me in earnest, my strikes becoming harder, the enemy seeming slower, and the battle seeming muter somehow. I was in my element, slashing and hacking and stabbing away at any man I knew not to be friend. One dismounted man grabbed at my leg, trying to pull me from my mount, and was rewarded with my sword piercing his chest. Yet he grabbed onto the sword with gloved hands as he fell, and despite my best efforts my sword went with him. Fuck!

"Fall back!" I roared as one of my Wytchmen took an arrow to the chest, his life saved solely by the armor he wore. My household guard, never far from my side, converged as we made to leave this mess, trampling any enemy beneath their horses as they did so. With a nod, the first Wytchman brought a horn to his lips. I felt something strike me in the chest, my shield occupied with blocking an overeager spear, whose owner one of my men swiftly decapitated, but I paid my chest no mind as the harsh blow sounded even over the chaotic mess. The long, keening cry stopped amidst a sputtering sound, and I turned to see an arrow sticking from his throat, whereupon he slumped forward onto his horse without a sound. I grabbed his reigns, so close was he, and I could hear the gurgling of his throat as he struggled to breathe. I thanked the gods he had done so, for though the Dornish seemed to be falling back, my men and the remnants of Galewood's force turned tail and charged back to the top of the ridge with me. Bellows of anger and arrows followed our retreat, striking a man on occasion, or worse, a horse, sending it into a frenzy or falling to the ground.

A glance behind us chilled me to the core. The Dornish were surrounding our fallen men, stabbing some where they lay screaming. One or two had tried to rise to flee, but I saw them quickly tackled, and rope brought to their struggling forms. Yet amidst the chaos of our retreat, I tore my gaze away as guilt welled in my belly, willing that their deaths be swift, lest the survivors experience this new 'Dornish hospitality' my smallfolk had suffered from.

We reached the top of the ridge, primarily out of range of those Dornish bows, and saw Lord Wysp returning with fewer man than I had, and most seemed far the worse for wear. That the boy lord had managed to break the Dornish and return with this many still gave me a glint of hope. "How many?" I shouted.

"Far more than we should have, and we will lose more if we stay here, but my lord, you are injured as well!" the boy lord cried, and I looked down to see an arrow sticking from my chest. I felt the barest of pain, for I could see a portion of the arrowhead yet sticking from my armor and did not even see blood yet coming from my 'wound'. With a grunt, I snapped off the shaft as close as I could to the base and tossed it aside, the Durrandon haze still flowing through me.

"Forget my wound, we must fall back to Flavor Hollow," I cried, noting the bloodier mess that Lord Wysp's group comprised. "If we stay out here, they will encircle us again, and bring us to ruin!"

"You heard the lord!" my fellow Stormlord cried, as the Dornish behind us reformed and grabbed new mounts. "Back to Flavor Hollow, with all due haste!"

"My lord, what of the wounded?" one of the landed knights cried.

"Grab their reigns if you must, or haul them onto your horse if it will not make it, but haste we must make! The longer we stay, the more time the Dornish have to come at us again! Now fall back, back to Flavor Hollow!" Lord Wysp cried. Needing no further urging, the lot of us, bloodied, wounded, and with fewer men than we had set out with, followed our own trail back as best we could.

We made it perhaps halfway there by the time the first Dornish outriders caught up with us. Arrows flew from their recurve bows, striking both man and horse at random. Some men fell from their horses, trampled by their fellows, or left behind in the mulched grasses. Others fell with their mounts, man and beast alike tumbling in a flurry of armor and flesh. One man I saw somehow leap from his horse as it was struck and stumbling, landing on the back of another horse, the latter's rider helping him secure his hold onto the saddle.

"Raiders!" I cried, my contingent of lightly armored men somehow still relatively in one piece. "Peel away and hammer their flanks! Return once they have fallen back!"

With cries of acknowledgement, they split to our sides, falling off and away from our main group. With horses near as fast as those of the Dornish, it did not take them long to return fire and begin thinning the ranks of our pursuers. Glancing back, I saw a Dornish rider or steed fall here or there, tumbling as our own men had. Apparently, they hadn't even considered our men to know of bowmanship on horseback. If only I'd managed to train more of them for this conflict, but amidst screams of horse and men, I knew it was pointless to fret, as we were not yet safe. Our charge across the grasslands continued, with fewer arrows coming our way, until at last none fell near our retreating forms. I risked a glance behind us and, to my great relief, saw our pursuers fall back, but I knew that was only momentary. More would eventually join them, more than my raiders could handle no matter their arrows, and we would be butchered from behind until the Dornish ran out of arrows or we arrived at our destination.

The itching in my chest began to grow with every few breaths, but that must have just been the tip of that arrowhead lodged against my skin, so I ignored it as best I could. I had more than enough armor to stop one such arrow, that it even touched my skin was as good as irrelevant now, for as we crested the last hill, I let out a sigh I hadn't known I was holding. Flavor Hollow lay before us, and even from here, I could see the defensive preparations my men had made around a good portion of the large village. Horns were sounded as our banners were seen, and as my raiders joined our group once more, men rushed to the forefront of the defenses, makeshift pikes and bows at the ready. I turned again to see the Dornish retreating over a distant hill, and I smiled. We had made it.

My smile fell once everyone began to dismount and the extent of our losses became apparent.

A quick headcount put my losses, as well as Lord Wysp's, as relatively light. Mayhap a dozen or two men were missing between the two of us, with far more of them bearing wounds, most rather superficial, but some severe. The other groups had not fared so well, with some of the landed knights missing entirely, their banners absent save for a rider or two. As my medics and any uninjured footmen arrived to aid us, pride swelled in my chest at the sight of my medics already bearing stretchers. I'd not even needed to give the order to haul off the critically wounded first, the men instead unloading them from their mounts when needed, and carrying them off to the triage tents, some stripping off armor on the way. Gods, they'd turned out so much better than I'd hoped, a bright spot of progress in this bleak war.

Dismounting, I found myself suddenly in the company of the other lords, or the ones that had managed to return from the disastrous battle. Lord Greycairn, to my displeasure, seemed unharmed save for dents in his armor, but Lord Galewood sported a nasty cut across his sword arm, which hung limply at his side. His heir was in direr straits, lying injured on one of the stretchers as he was carried off. No less that three arrow shafts, all broken, stuck from the young man's chest, and he seemed paler than he should be.

"Worry not my lord, my medics will see to him with all due haste," I said, trying to shake him from his trance. "They were trained by maester and barbers alike, to handle everything from sickness to battlefield wounds. Come, we must plan for a counterattack, the Dornish will surely return to finish the job if they find us unprepared."

"Aye, that they will," Galewood muttered, worried gaze trailing after his son. "He should have been left behind, but I insisted, and he relented. How else was he to learn of war save for by my side?"

I said nothing as we retreated to one of the larger tents, circumstances dictating an absence of decorum for the time being. With the enemy likely to arrive at any time, we couldn't afford to delay preparing defenses or tending to our wounds, or even grab something to eat just yet. Galewood's men began to aid in removing his armor, as did my own, but the look the man gave me mirrored the guilt I had felt during our retreat. Would his heir survive?

"My son, Erich, was he taken by your men to the tents?" Greycairn gruffly asked, cutting into my thoughts.

"Not that I know of, but in the chaos of our return, surely he could have escaped our notice. The more grievously injured were taken first, but there are means of treating those with lesser injuries just as quickly. Did you see him after we rejoined amidst the battle?" I did not want to call it a retreat, but every man knew it had been one. Yet we all knew if I hadn't held back with Lord Wysp, it might have been a massacre.

"Aye, but I lost sight of him as the Dornish hounded our heels. I must find him before I speak with my other son Hugh."

"After we discuss matters of more importance, my lord," Lord Wysp said, seeming to have aged ten years since we spoke before our ill-fated attack.

Greycairn's face went a slight shade of purple, rage building. "More important than my son and heir?!"

"Yes, for if we do not prepare, then none of us will survive the Dornish reprisal," the boy lord said, steel in his spine as well as on his hip. The battle had hardened him well. "They will seek to encircle us, but time is not on their side. Should they seek to try and starve us out, Lord Baratheon's host will surely fall upon them. Last we heard, they were a mere day away from us, were they not?"

"Aye, so a direct assault it will be, lest they try and slip away," I said. "It would be best for them to flee, but the way back into Dorne is surely inaccessible to them, and these men are relentless in their pillaging. I would not put it past them to try and slaughter us before they flee to their strongholds, even if many a man is along the border now. In their surely wounded state, it would be harder for their army to slip by, even with paths only they likely know of."

"Then if they're running, why bother?" Greycairn asked. "My heir is missing, I must find him!"

Anger coursed in my chest amidst the growing itch. The audacity! "If you will not send your own men to look for him, we will find your son after our camp is secured! We cannot risk the Dornish coming upon us ill-prepared, my lord, lest all is lost!"

"What would you know of loss, boy, my men were butchered while you and yours held back like a pack of craven children!"

My two steps towards the man made his attendants flinch back, as I ignored the growing itch. "Craven, my lord? What of my father? My smallfolk? My men under my command? Do not speak to me of loss, Lord Greycairn! Your idiocy slew your men and those with them as surely as the Dornish spears and arrows did, just as it did during the raid years before! Lord Wysp and I are the only reason the lot of you aren't dead or experiencing 'Dornish hospitality' at this very moment!"

The man grumbled, grinding his teeth, but was stopped when Galewood, with his sword arm wrapped in fresh linen, swiftly clasped his shoulder. "My fellow lord speaks with his heart, not his mind, my lord. I beg forgiveness, he only worries for the fate of his heir, much as I do."

Gritting my own teeth and holding back a biting retort, I nodded amidst a flare of pain behind my eyes. "He will be found, but we must ensure the rest of us do not suffer as the fallen have. All must aid in preparing the defenses as best they can. We've the foundation for it, thanks to my men, but now we must build upon it as best we can."

Galewood nodded, before giving Lord Greycairn a glare before he could respond.

"Yes, I agree," the man finally ground out. "I shall see to my men that it is done."

"I as well," Lords Wysps and Galewood added.

"Very well, my men will show yours what needs to be done, and where," I said, my stomach beginning to ache. The battle had left a sour taste, and the dread in my belly was only worsened by the knowledge we were in terrible danger. No, not sour, something… sicklier. Then without warning or control, I retched, something vile spewing from my mouth, the taste of it reminding me of the smell of rotted fish and unclean water. Looking down amidst sudden spots in my vision, I saw the ground beneath me was covered in a sickly white goo, like that of long-curdled milk.

I hacked again as my men rushed to my side amidst cries from my fellow lords, and try as I might to give orders, another bout of the sickly mucus to come from somewhere in my throat, spraying my armor with the stuff. The others around me were hit by the smell and audibly retched, Lord Galewood vomiting as he stumbled backwards. Amidst more shouting and men suddenly pulling at me, the smell filled my senses like nothing I'd ever known, and then I felt myself falling into darkness.

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No sickly aftertaste remained when I awoke, but the tent I was in was devoid of any of my men. None of my medics, nor their tools, nor even my armor remained. No guards stood by my bedside, not even those of my household guard. Save for the light of a nearby candle, everything outside the tent was an oily darkness, and I could feel a stiff breeze hammering away at my woolen sanctuary. It was odd, to be so naked and completely undisturbed by it. Finding the strength to rise from my cot, I gingerly picked up the candleholder and held aloft my only light before I exited my sanctuary.

A decision I immediately regretted, for the light of the candle was extinguished by a blast of wind, and my tent disappeared, not within reach even as I turned to feel for it. In that darkness, I could only faintly feel the ground beneath me amidst the salty spray of wind, but it did not feel like solid earth. No, it was more… creaking wood?

"What the…" I whispered, my voice somehow carrying above the buffeting winds. I was not on land, but aboard a ship, rocking against unseen waves yet perfectly still to my senses. Where in the hells was I?

Even as I thought this, lightning flashed across the sky, the arcs moving far slower than they had any right to do, sharply contrasting their light against the gloom around me. Indeed, I was aboard a ship, nestled amidst rolling waves of deepest green. Though somewhat clear, there was no bottom beneath me, but shapes moved underneath the waves. Some seemed reptilian, others like fish, and others yet bore a resemblance to men, but were not, their features too unclear to entirely discern. Dread filled me at these, as that same dread that filled almost all when faced with the depths by which no man could survive, waters in which the unknown was more terrifying than anything one could imagine. Then, as if responding to my thoughts, a large shape, misshapen even when compared to the others, moved nearer the water's surface, and from it's breach came a great fount of foam, white and frothy and splattering all over the side of the ship. Some even founds its way onto me, and as I moved away, whatever had fallen back onto the water seemed greasy, leaving a slick across the surface of the rolling waves.

The winds grew harsher, and the ship rocked more as the foam seemed to move across it, some back into the water, but more, to my shock and dismay, seemed to inch itself towards me. Turning to move away, another bright light shone, gingerly spreading above me, and illuminating the area more than before. High above, silhouetted against the slowly arcing strands of lightning, a great pair of wings slowly flapped, the source of the wind perhaps? Not a dragon's, I immediately noticed in my somewhat delirious state, but those of some great winged beast, each feather being longer than I was tall, with talons that could have crushed Stormhall beneath their grip. The crowned head was cast in gloom, save for a pair of piercing blue eyes, which shone in their own baleful light upon my exposed form.

Which only now, I realized, was becoming more and more covered in the sickly white foam slicked from the breach of the watery denizen. I tried to wipe it away, but it clung to me, stubbornly, and even seemed to move back into place from where my hands pushed it aside. Some even seemed to be spreading, like a slowly growing moss made of sickening fishy smell and rancid water. It was putrid and foul, and filled me with a great sense of unknowable, unquestionable disgust.

"It is not so easily removed, the taint of such corruption, even on one such as you," a voice boomed from above.

I looked back above as more lightning arced across the sky, and I saw for the first time the face of the creature flying above me. A great face of a woman, wreathed in feathers and sharing features far too avian to be a mere coincidence. They seemed harsh, vicious, as of those belonging to something living upon the very fringes of existence, where the cruelty of life's struggle intermingled with the harsh reality of suffering brought about by the follies of man. Yet the eyes, those stark blue eyes, bore a kindness in them I could not have expected, one that almost seemed familial.

"Who are you?" I thought, yet somehow still heard my voice whisper across the winds.

"Any born of the storm would know me, had others not turned them from my embrace," it, or I should say she, replied with a harsh cry. "I stood watch over the lands of wind and rain, storm and flood, long before the first of the First Men dwelt upon its rocky shores and amidst its mountainous forests. I flew these skies long before the Singers drew their first breath and called me by the name the world has long forgotten. Of our family, only my daughter's name is yet known by her descendants among the First Men."

None of that answered my question, in fact bringing me more in the process, but I said nothing, as the weight of the foam upon my body seemed to increase. I struggled against it, but my body, when it responded, seemed to weaken with every passing moment. "Why am I here?" I asked, finally falling to one knee as the stuff dragged me down, my urgency growing as my strength failed. How could it be this heavy for something that seemed so immaterial?

"You are here for reasons we do not know, One From Beyond Sight," she replied, a flap of her great wings scattering more lightning from her form, as if she were generating some of it herself. "Wearing the skin of our kin, and carving a place in this world, it is not something we can merely overlook… though your intentions appear to be unmalicious for one so out of place, unlike others that have come before you. For this, your existence is tolerated by my husband and the others. Yet it is within our interests that this… interference continues, for the skeins of fate have turned in our favor for the first time in eons."

"Our interest? Who else is there?" I cried, as the sickly, creeping foam tried to enter my mouth.

"It matters little, for the magic of the world fades, and with it, our connection," she replied. "Our time grows short, and this connection will fade entirely if the correct steps are not taken, young abomination. Awaken, and grasp the weapon of 'your' Durrandon ancestors, the one your wife and unborn child sent with you. You will know what to do then, and only then."

"Wife? Unborn-?" I tried to cry, but the foam covered my face, and amidst my muffled scream, I felt it pull me over the railing of the ship, and into the dark green waters tumbling beneath me.

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I awoke with a start, followed by a hacking cough that sounded entirely too wet. Globs of white spittle flew from my mouth as I looked around. I was back in my tent upon my cot, surrounded by my medics and my household guard. My head was heavy, my arms more so, and the skin upon my chest felt as if it were burning.

"My lord, it is good you have awoken," one of my medics said, but the look upon his face was anything but gladdened. If anything, he seemed… resigned at the sight of me. The world around us was dark, with only the barest light showing from the west. After sunset? I had fallen into darkness before midday! "The men will have need of orders, for scouts have reported the approach of the remaining enemy. They will be upon us shortly."

I couldn't even give a damn about that anymore, as my focus was elsewhere. "What… happened?" I gurgled, trying to look down. Upon my chest, from a central point, thick white foam seemed to pulse under my skin, oozing from the small hole where the arrowhead, now removed, had pierced my skin. I could feel the tendrils of the stuff moving under me, slowly, methodical, and unrelenting in the pain coursing through me.

"Poison, my lord, from a Dornish arrow," my chief medic replied. "We've no idea of its origin, as none of our notes indicate what it is. A few others have succumbed to its terrifying effects already, my lord, all from men that fought beside you and Lord Galewood. Yet… nothing we have attempted to apply to it seems to do any good, for it seems to react harshly to anything we try, and we thought to save our supplies for those that will need them, should we survive the coming battle."

"Aye, that's good, save those you can… but I take it I'm dying." It's hard to underestimate the dread I felt, or how my earlier worries seemed to fade at this news, especially as none made to correct me. My delirious dream seemed distant now, almost all of it already gone, save for a… desire to hold onto the Whirlwind.

"Indeed, my lord," the medic replied, sorrowfully, as they bowed their heads. "I am sorry, my lord, we have done all we could. Shall we bring a letter, for your will? All of us shall see it done by your word."

"Yes, hurry, I feel… cold," I replied, before turning to the captain of my guard. "Bring me the Whirlwind," I choked out, arms growing limp. "In my pack, my wife sent it, as luck. I would hold it as her husband for once, rather than die without it."

Hours later, yet perhaps only a few minutes in truth, a scribe returned with a large parchment. My will would need great thought, as I had already put much of it to paper, but the final words would need to be careful. If Mylenda had a son, he would inherit all we had. A daughter would inherit my lands, but not my wife's, and she would need to seek a new husband.

The thought of that kindled my embers of rage. She was my wife!

In a smooth case of solid hickory and lined with ancient velvet, the captain of my guard presented me with the ancient weapon of House Windhill, and thus that of the Durrandons as well. With great effort, I somehow reach up and grasped it, my fingers closing around the ancient handle for the first time in my life.

I screamed as light filled my vision, and everything disappeared with a great crack of thunder.