Capítulo 25: POV - Dacey
She rubbed the fingers of her right hand on the firm ashwood of the spear as she rode, absently tracing the smooth interwoven patterns nature paced inside. It was a pleasant distraction on a bright cool day after a night of war and burial. Not that fighting was all bad; there were the great battles, the planning and outthinking your enemy, the satisfaction of knowing that you were saving lives.
"War has its uses, but it would be better without all of the killing."
Dacey Mormont looked over her shoulder at the hamlet for a moment as it faded in her wake, and then turned back with a slight shudder. It was good to get out of there. The wailing of women, the tears of old men, there was only so many horror stories you could listen to. No matter how hardened your heart is.
Her mare kept to its same walk-trot-canter cycle as the rest of the group, a scouting party Rogers had organized to screen the Lannister army, moved away from the beaches and towards the thin forest interior. The feel of the beasts great muscles between her thighs were like coils of living steel, longing to burst forth and run. There were no horses on Bear Island, but she had learned to ride during the long journey from the North. She rather liked the beasts.
They'd needed less than an hour to clear the open country and reach the forests to the southeast, only the occasional vine and creeper-grown mound showing where a burnt-out farmhouse had once stood. It was so very different from her family's island, covered in old gnarled oaks, tall pines, flowering thorn-bushes, moss-covered grey stones. But here the so-called forest was mostly a thin spattering of thorntrees, which grow spines and have short, hard braches, with thick bushes and ferns filling in the rest of the empty space.
She noticed something odd of the corner of her eye, a small movement in the thickets that shouldn't be. A moment leter a streak of white blurred out of it.
"A rabbit breaking cover as we pass? And not paying any attention to us? Rabbits on this island are not very wary, but they are not that brave. It was running from something. Or somebody."
Nobody honest should be here; too close to the hamlet before the ravagers Islanders arrived, too isolated now. Her eyes probed the land and she emptied her mind and the patterns show themselves.
To her east was weeds and grass that rose stirrup high or better, a newer growth rank tall through last year's dead brown stalks. Leaves and clusters of yellow flowers dotted the ground. Late bloomers pushed past their forlorn in crimson and blue; darting swarms of insects hovered around the blossoms. Patches of brilliantly green reeds waved amid the buzz of gnats.
An abandoned cart sat near a tree, a mound of berry vines growing along the curve of the wheels and the shape of the bed. Patches of wood left along the top showed the touch of man. Small fringes of saplings, young trees as tall as her own six feet or higher, spread their thin green branches out like an open hand. The leaves fluttered like the banners of a conquering army, with black and silver blooms in the shade beneath.
More small animals ran across their path. Birds speed overhead; she spied dark-faced tyrants and white-bridled finchs flying in swooping curves, and all of them moving north-to-south.
She made a sharp clicking sound with her tounge. Nearby, Steven Rogers turned in the saddle. His dark brows went up as her hand moved, pointing at the animals and the way they came. Then the eyes narrowed, brilliantly blue shooting out like a beam of light breaking a forest canopy.
"Can you hear anything strange that way?" Dacey mouthed, knowing he could read her lips. "North?"
Rogers square-jawed head turned, shoulder-length yellow-blond hair brushing his back. After a moment he slowly nodded. He mouthed back to her, "A dozen men, maybe more. Shadowing us." He smiled at her and added, "Good job."
Their two horses reined aside, both were smart and could tell something was a little unusual. Their nostrils flared and ears swiveling in the search for danger. Dacey kept her eyes busy, while Rogers closed his and took off the helmet to rest on his saddlebow, frowning in concentration.
Even with apprehension growing like a weed in her chest, she smiled a little. Rogers was special to her, a sworn sword and friend, and had been since they met when Prince Robb came south to Harrenhal late last year. She was five years his junior, but in many ways she seemed older than he. And after a few months she was included in the Steve's Commandos, whom even the North and Riverlands concede are best warriors in Westeros. Plus he was just fun, interesting, to be around.
But there was no denying that he was a man out of touch with the world. "Self-dramatizing" was the way her mother had put it.
An example would be his armor. It was good black leather; cuirass, shoulder armor pauldrons with neck guard, gauntlets on each arm, pants, belt and boots. It was all high quality and purchased in Riverrun, just like her own, with steel protection hidden under the animal skin. But unlike the red tunic we and the other Commandos wore with ours, his was white-trimmed blue with a golden eagle, its wings outstretched, clutching arrows in one talon and olive branches in the other.
"Not to mention the helmet."
Unlike everyone else's simple bowl-shaped with nose-guard leather helmet, Steve's was long and covered the entire head with slits for the eyes and mouth, a long curved projection protected the neck and cheeks, and looked a lot like the drawings she had seen of Old Valyrian (Corinthian) armor. The same eagle on his tunic was carved into the helmet, and when asked he said it was the bird of his people. A guardian animal.
It was all very impressive, even more so than the thick blue armor he left at Harrenhal, but it was also a little unsettling. The Old Gods often enjoyed to take the form of a beast from the forest, and like the Direwolf they were not to be invoked lightly. They had an affinity to show up in the Aspect you called upon.
After a moment Rogers looked up at her and quietly said, "Ten and eight. Mostly in light armor. I can hear the jingling of mail on a few. I think they were with the group we smashed last night, sent to Faircastle to let them know what happened. So why are they still here?"
"It only takes one man to deliver a message." Dacey thought aloud. "Perhaps the rest turned back, and after seeing what happened they wanted to get a little revenge."
"No," Steve said, his eyes casually scanning beyond the trees. "They sound better trained than that. They aren't in a hurry to engage us."
The rest of the Commandos had moved on another few hundred yards, and had stopped look back at them. She expected many of them to be smiling, maybe at the sight of seeing two whom spend so much time together spending a little more, but if they had been their smiles died as Rogers held up a hand and waved them back.
"Should we head back to the Hamlet?" Dacey said thoughtfully, "Grab a few dozen men and hunt them down?"
Her commander shook his head, "No. We can handle them." Then he suddenly smiled, "I think I will go see who's trying to hunt us."
Steve reached for the sword in its saddle-sheath, and Dacey smiled again. The blade was a gift from King Eddard, as long and as sharp as his Valyrian steel greatsword but made from traditional steel, given to him after they were returned to Winterfell. It is incredibly heavy; impossible for a normal warrior to wield, but he holds it like it was made from feathers. The steel was cold blue, the hilt tinged with gold, with an eagle head pommel. She only spared a glance at his shield, his real shield, hidden inside a false one and strapped to his back.
Before he could lift his blade he stopped, became perfectly still, and after a moment said, "They aren't after us. They are after them."
The She-Bear turned her head, following her Commanders eyes, and spotted people darting though the woods. They were running, stumbling, and looking over their shoulders. Six adults women, three children over the backs. They were staggering with fatigue, sweat funneling down the sand and filth on their faces in spite of the cool day, their chests heaving. The children cried, but their mouths were clamped tight in fear. They and the adults were ragged, bleeding scratches from the thickets adding to the other much larger and older gashes.
Her eyes met Steven's.
"Well, this is why the Commandos make an oath." She said, thinking back to the day she bent her knee and said the words of loyalty. To the day she decided she wanted this man.
Steven half-grinned, half-laughed, "Yes 'Protect the helpless' seems to apply."
His eyes went wide, "Okay, I can hear the Islanders moving on them. These people must have fled from as far away as Faircastle."
She nodded, flicked her mount into motion, galloping with her head bent low over the beasts neck.
The refugees looked up; maybe they heard the sound of the hooves. They cried out in helpless despair and stopped in their tracks as she rode towards them. The other Commandos fell in with her, Steve on her right and the others behind with arrows drawn.
Rather than calling out to them, reassuring the women and children, she and the other riders sped past them. Trying to talk to them would be useless, they'd been beaten into mindlessness by fear and exhaustion. It would take hours to get anything coherent. She fought down a surge of anger; one of the children was the same age as her youngest sister, and they were being hunted.
As they crested the hill, bringing the Islanders into view, Dacey snarled and threw her spear…
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