Chapter 64

Want to read ahead of the chapters here? Consider supporting me and get access to up 15+ advanced chapters: patreón.com/theliarspath

xxxx

Daemon I

The midday sun was a scorching beacon high in the cloudless sky, and the mountain wind blew hot and gritty on Ser Daemon's face. He and his men waited on a narrow alley between two weathered wooden houses, so that they wouldn't be seen by anyone one approaching through the main road.

The village they were hiding in was small enough it could be called a hamlet, tucked on the western foothills of the Red Mountains. To the south, the ruined castle of Vulture's Roost had once made this settlement a thriving market town, but that had been hundreds of years ago, and when they came to move the peasants away from the village two days before, barely twenty families boarded the river barges that would take them to their new life at Wyl, their pockets a few silver stags heavier.

Across the street, another group of ten dornishmen stood beneath a great awning of woven grass that leaned against the side of the biggest building in the village, the Dying Mountain Inn. Before he left, the owner had said the name was supposed to be a jest on the dwindling status of the village, but Prince Oberyn had taken one look at the letters scrawned over the doors of the inn and decided to take it for himself.

He gave the man a pouch full of gold for his trouble, and for his sense of humor.

There were another four spots along the road where knights and men-at-arms hid, sixty men in total, and another forty crossbowmen lurked on the second stories of every shop and shack in the village. On the streets themselves, Manwoody and Wyl guards were dressed as peasants and farmers going about their days—a few men had even donned dresses and skirts to pass themselves off as women.

The prince and his daughters did their own waiting inside the inn itself. Daemon glanced over to the large building. He could see Prince Oberyn through the gaping window, lounging on a chair overlooking the main street with a glass of wine in one hand and his spear resting lazily across his lap. Obara and Nymeria stood around their father, the two pacing restlessly along the common room.

Nym's sharp eyes caught him watching from across the street and she gave him a small wave. Daemon forced a smile on his face. Nym was as loyal to her family as it gets, but she wasn't good with her wine. In a drunken night back at Wyl, she'd revealed to him Prince Doran's plan for Arianne. Though it was all speculation on his part, a marriage to this cousin of theirs, Princess Elia's Aegon, seemed the most logical conclusion. If he was truly who he said he was, that is. Daemon had drowned himself in wine and pretended he'd never heard it, but he was sure Arianne would be glad to hear it. It was his job as her shield to protect her, even from her own father's plans.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, Daemon shoved the thought of marriages out of his mind and turned back to look at his men one last time. They were all dressed in tan cloaks over dulled plate and ringmail, so as to not shine in the sunlight. They poked and prodded one another, telling tall tales of women and wine and war.

The only one not sharing the good humor was Ser Osmund Kettleblack. He was resting against the side of the house, mouth opened and gulping for air, fanning himself with a thin slab of wood. The hot and dry weather was the norm for all dornishmen, but the kingsguard had been cooking under his gear since they left the chilled underground halls of Castle Wyl. Sweat poured out of him in waves, and his pale white skin had turned red as a blood orange.

Ser Daemon cleared his throat and spat out a gob of saliva and sand onto the dirt road. "Ser Osmund," he said, putting on his best smile. "One last drink before they come?" He pulled out his wineskin, took a swig, and offered it to the knight. "Can't fight or fuck without some good wine beforehand myself."

Daemon had made sure to befriend the kingsguard during their weeklong stay at Wyl. They'd drank together plenty of times, and it was no surprise when Osmund gave him a grateful smile and reached for the wineskin.

"My thanks, ser," he said, then drank deeply from the wineskin, sealing his fate before the battle even started. The poison inside would never kill a man his size, but it would dull his senses and ebb at his strength. By the time the fighting started in earnest, he would hardly have the awareness to duck under a child's sword slash.

When Kettleblack turned back to his fanning, Daemon took a sourleaf from his pocket and slipped into his mouth. He had no intention of sharing the man's misshapen.

xxxxx

Daemon knew it was time when Prince Oberyn stood from his chair. He peeked around the house, looking at the nearest bend on the road north of the village, and a few moments later, a cloud of dust formed on the horizon.

He looked back at his group. "Up and at 'em, boys." The men snapped salutes and quickly pushed themselves to their feet. Some started saying prayers, others took their cocks out right then and there and started to piss. Each man had their own pre-battle rituals.

Spotting the glint of steel shining from one of the squire swords, Daemon frowned. "Lorne," he hissed, then pointed it out to the lad, who hurriedly covered it with his thin woolen cloak.

He nodded firmly and turned back to face the road. The prince would abide by no failures this day.

Two days ago, before they settled down on the village, Daemon had asked Oberyn how he knew the Mountain and his men would stop here, even when they were supposed to be stamping out banditry in the area. The Martell Prince had simply told him, "The best way to set a hound off your trail is to lay a juicy steak out to him," and left it at that.

Now he knew. The Mountain wouldn't pass up the opportunity for plunder and rapine when he could easily blame the bandit problem.

Soon Daemon could hear the pounding of hooves against the earth approaching the village, and the wooden houses around them began to shake on their foundations. The guards-turned-peasants put on their show, running to their houses, yelling and calling out for the gods.

Casting a final glance around the house, he caught a clear sight of the incoming men. There were some fifty of them, all ahorse, wearing a mixture of ringmail and boiled leather. At their front, the biggest man he'd even seen covered from head to toe in midnight black armor rode atop a beast of a stallion. He knew it could be no one other than Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that rides.

Daemon Sand took a deep breath and unhooked his spear from his back. It was time to repay the shedding of Dornish blood.