Chapter 51: Chapter 44: Learning from Mistakes
"Glory is secondary to necessity."
Everyone had their place in war. There was the battlefield, of course, for those who were young and strong, but an army needed more than just men to hold spears. It needed men to drive the oxen who pulled the baggage train. It needed cooks to feed the men. It needed armorers to keep everyone's arms and armor in working order. It needed grooms to tend to the horses.
And besides soldiers, an army needed scouts. Outriders.
And what greater outrider was there than a dragon?
An irritated growl rumbled through our frame as we soared through the sky, watching the horizon for anything even resembling a Fowler army. Oh, and would you look at that: nothing to see. Not even outriders, just endless fields of grass, reeds, flowers, as far as the eye could see.
What we did was important, was vital to the success of the campaign. It would not do for the army to be caught unaware a second time. They were already greatly diminished, having lost most of the unskilled peasant levies. And we had yet to find the main Fowler host.
Our work was essential, but that did not make it any less dull to soar just below the clouds, enjoying admittedly stunning vistas while on the lookout for anything that could be mistaken for an enemy force.
And the occasional settlement, like that village beside a small stream. A tributary, technically, if we remembered our terminology correctly. Something that would need a delegation to inform them of their fate as a new vassal to the glorious King Yorick Yronwood and their new rights and responsibilities.
Circling back around, we saw the Yronwood host had ground to a halt, the baggage train that restricted the speed of the march having been consolidated into a great square, the soldiery gathered around it. Well, the sun was starting to get low, and setting up camp in the dark was hardly optimal.
It was heartening to see the king was competent at managing his host. The baggage train was never left vulnerable, and scouts were deployed. There was plenty of food in the baggage train to discourage foraging. Water is easily accessible on the march.
Now, if only he had managed to not lose nearly half of his host before ever meeting the enemy in open battle.
We began our descent to the camp, flying lazy circles as we savored the feeling of flight just a little moment longer, roaring challenges that went unanswered. There was freedom in the air, chained by purpose though we were. There was a power that none in Dorne could threaten. But on the ground, once separate, we were vulnerable.
But even the mightiest creatures needed their rest.
Slowly, ever so slowly, our circles came lower and lower. As gentle as a warning as we could give. Our earlier challenges had clearly been heard, and the people of the host had paid attention. A spot on the outskirts of the camp, our normal spot, had been vacated, allowing for an easy landing.
"Ser! Ser!" Once my feet touched the ground, I was swarmed by a group of overeager children. Oh, they had their purpose in the host- as helpers, primarily. Assistants, not soldiers. At least, that was my hope. They were owed a peaceful childhood, not a first decade filled with trauma. "Did you see anything?"
"Only the beauty of Dorne as far as the eye can see," I answered, freeing my head from the stifling confines of the helmet and padded cap beneath. Behind me, the Cannibal gave an annoyed rumble. No doubt he just wanted to rest. Well, who was I gainsay a dragon? "Not a soldier in sight."
Excited chatter began to blend together as each of the dozens of children bombarded me with their own questions. What was flying like? How much could I see from up above? What is the dragon's name? Can I come flying? Are you going to keep us safe?
Answering all the questions at once was a bit tricky, as each answer spawned another dozen questions, but it kept the kids happy. It appeared that even after a week, the novelty of a dragon in the camp had yet to wear off. Or they remembered the dragon helping keep the host safe. Funny how that seemed to get people to think positively of you.
Besides, it was nice seeing people who were happy to see me.
I made my way to the large pavilion that dominated the center of the camp. Exactly the center, in fact, the carts of the baggage train having been arranged in a square around the massive silken construction. The first time, I had been impressed, but I had grown used to the odd display of competence in the sea of idiocy.
Unfortunately, that same competence had put the Cannibal's landing spot as far from the horses as was possible. It had been a reasonable choice, really. I still remembered what happened when a horse was spooked by the scent of a passing dragon from the tourney at Duskendale, but it was still an inconvenience.
Past sentries both alert and bored I walked, past armorers fixing spears and mail, past washerwomen advertising their ability to… remove stains from bedrolls. Their presence was important to morale, or so I was told, but it still motivated me to move faster.
After a few minutes of strategically answering shouts of greeting from passing soldiers, and ignoring greetings from the less savory elements of the host, as children began to split off and go their separate ways, I arrived at the sand-colored pavilion at the heart of the camp. A pair of knights in livery I did not recognize stood on either side of the entrance, but they did not stop me from entering.
"… no foraging, son." Whatever the topic of conversation had been, I had entered right in the middle of it. King Yronwood, still crowned and clad in the armor and surcoat bearing his coat of arms, stood at the far side of a long table. "These people are to be my subjects. They may dislike me now, they will grow to hate me if I steal what little they have."
"Father, if they do not love you, why waste your time?" The dark-haired knight asked, tugging at the beard that lined his jaw. "Take their grain and move on."
"Ah, Bright Prince!" King Yronwood noticed my entrance, ignoring the lord whose idiocy would only inspire rebellion. As I neared the large table which dominated the center of the pavilion, displaying a map of the area, I took note of the carved wooden figures were positioned across it, representing the armies and where they were assumed to be. "Something to report?"
"House Fowler has yet to bring their forces to meet us," I informed him. "There is a village on a tributary nearby, however. They may be willing to trade for supplies."
"Dunny-on-the-Sands," King Yronwood confirmed. "It marks the halfway point between Yronwood and Skyreach. We're making good time. Only another week until we reach the enemy."
Practically an eternity.
And then moving on to the holdings of House Dayne, even further away, across much harsher terrain.
Another eternity until I could return home to Maegelle and the children.
Were it not for the ox-drawn baggage train, I had little doubt we could make it there sooner. Alas, it appeared the standard Westerosi method for moving supplies was creeping caravans of ox-drawn carts. There had to be a better way, a faster way. There had to be.
But if not… well, I could manage. I would have to. I had volunteered to jump into this mess, and I would see it through.
"We were just discussing it, Vaegon," the other prince in the room mentioned. As the future King Yronwood, he was always at his father's side. And as a devoted Stoney Dornishman, he was more than a little fond of the raiding tactics his ancestors had used for centuries. "Their ilk has already used tactics reserved for outsiders against their fellow Dornishmen. Best to pay them back in kind."
"Ah yes, that most heinous tactic: taking advantage of deserting forces and attacking in broad daylight," I commented. "No, better to send some riders and inform them of the good news. Buy some of their grain and fish and keep the host moving."
"They burned their granaries in the last three villages," the prince corrected. Were scorched-earth policies not standard for Dornish warfare? Good to know. "What makes you think this one will be any different?"
"Then trying to forage will be a wasted endeavor," I shot back.
"Enough," the king interrupted the familiar argument before it could get out of hand. "You both raise good points. I will think on it. You may return to your duties, the both of you."
We both left the tent without another word.
"You're getting soft," the prince of Yronwood commented once we were back beneath the scorching sun of Dorne.
"It's called being a reasonable man," I said in turn, not missing a step. Better to be soft than to let my rage melt another castle with all the families inside.
"Yes, the reasonable House Targaryen," he said sagely, "Famed throughout Westeros for producing reasonable men, reasonably burning kingdoms atop their reasonable steeds."
"Bold words from the man who wants to burn villages in search of nonexistent grain," I answered, earning a chuckle from the man as we made our way to the training area to waste a few hours.
Yes, we might disagree on some fundamental principles on how to conduct a campaign, but that did not make us enemies. Odd how easy that could be.
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