The squires managed to scrounge up several chairs and benches. I sat down and stretched out my legs wearily. The wind snapped at the royal banner overhead. The sun shone straight into my eyes. I closed them and savored the pleasant, caressing warmth upon my face.
A delightful coolness drifted from the waters of the Blueburn. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted there — for them, nothing had happened at all, and life continued as it always had.
Jaime had gone off somewhere, but half an hour later he returned with a prize. His knights escorted two bound youths forward. They forced them to their knees before me.
I recognized neither of them. One was thickset and broad, short-legged, with a high brow, square jaw, and wide nose. He stared at me with open defiance.
His companion wore much the same expression — a tall, handsome, muscular youth with copper sunlight in his hair. One of his eyes had the slightest cast.
Both had been wounded, though not severely. And judging by their splendid armor, they were clearly men of very high birth.
"The shorter one is Quentyn Martell. The other, the taller one, is Cletus Yronwood," Jaime introduced them, and a murmur passed among the surrounding knights.
"Is this truly so?" I looked at the Lord Commander in disbelief.
"It is indeed." He grinned broadly, almost boyishly. "You understand what this means, don't you?"
"This is the end of the war, Jaime!" I still could scarcely believe that the heirs of the two most powerful houses in Dorne sat captive before me. "Raise them. These men are too noble to kneel, even before a king."
I stepped closer and looked from one to the other.
"Swear that you will make no attempt to flee, that you will neither attack me nor any of my men, and you shall be unbound, tended, fed, given drink, and treated with all due respect."
The young men exchanged glances. I could see the stubbornness and courage in them. Yet the frenzy of battle had passed, and they had fully grasped and accepted their new condition.
"I swear by the Seven that I shall do no harm to the king or his men, nor attempt escape," Martell said first.
"I swear the same," Yronwood echoed after him.
"We shall speak again, sers," I promised them. "For now, I ask only that you accept my hospitality."
The youths were led away. Naturally, no one intended to trust them entirely at their word. They would be watched and guarded closely. But a king must occasionally display magnanimity and mercy.
***
There was no war council that evening.
Had young Martell and Yronwood not fallen into our hands, Dorne would have remained a difficult problem indeed. Perhaps we would never have managed to subdue it at all. The Dornish would simply have shut themselves behind their mountain passes and resumed the sort of guerrilla war they always waged under such circumstances.
But now we possessed an extraordinary advantage. That very evening, ravens flew toward Yronwood and Sunspear bearing news of the captives.
Our detachments scattered in every direction to hunt down the surviving Dothraki — roughly three thousand had escaped. It was also necessary to track down and capture scattered warriors who had survived and slipped away from the battlefield.
Randyll Tarly announced staggering numbers. More than seventeen thousand of our own men had perished, while the enemy had lost over twenty-five thousand. Truly, Cloverfield had gathered a rich harvest. And though the battle had not been a Pyrrhic victory for us, such losses could not be taken lightly.
That evening, a feast was held, to which the most prominent Dornishmen were invited. In Westeros, such customs were commonplace— more than that, they were considered a mark of proper conduct. If the war had been fought for victory rather than annihilation, surviving foes were forgiven and seated at the victor's table, where men praised one another's valor and spoke of the twists and turns of the battle now ended.
I bore no personal hatred toward the younger Martell, and Yronwood was little more than a secondary figure in all this.
The servants laid out one great long table.
On my right sat Jaime, and on my left Randyll Tarly. Beyond them were seated the lords and hedge knights who had distinguished themselves in battle.
At the far end of the table sat the Dornishmen — Quentyn Martell, Cletus Yronwood, Franklin Fowler, known as the Old Hawk, Lord of Skyreach and Warden of the Prince's Pass. The man was no longer young, physically exhausted, and swathed in countless bandages from his wounds. Beside him sat Mors Manwoody, who after his father's death had become the new head of House Manwoody and lord of Kingsgrave.
Around them gathered the lesser Dornish lords and knights — men of less influence and lesser birth.
Dany was absent from the feast. Her situation was… complicated. Worse still, she felt poorly, and after Marwyn the Mage's treatment she drifted in and out of fevered delirium.
Well, yes — falling from a dragon, being caught amid wildfire, and suffering numerous injuries would do no favors even to a Targaryen.
"To the end of the war," Jaime Lannister offered the first toast.
"To the end of the war," Franklin Fowler answered, extending his golden goblet.
We drank, then practically fell upon the food. Everyone's appetite was monstrous. After some time, Tarly proposed another toast — to the fallen. Again, everyone drank, and again justice was done to the meal.
The dishes themselves were neither exotic nor refined. Simple fare for a war camp — roasted meat and game, fish, great quantities of bread and vegetables, and even greater quantities of ale and wine.
The servants could scarcely keep pace replacing platters emptied with astonishing speed. After the third toast, the first joke was heard at the table. Someone recalled some absurd mishap from the battle…
The battle was over. Countless men had died. But we still lived!
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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