Capítulo 32: Prince of Fawns
Across the vast fields crowning a shallow slope rose the seat of House Rosby. I had expected more from the wealthy Gyles who had connections all over the Crownlands, but what laid before us was a red stone keep surrounded by a village of huts made of daub-and-wattle with not so much a defensive ditch let alone a wall. Such a village would be easy pickings and it was only luck his holdfast was close to King's Landing and away from the fighting.
Until now.
From what the smallfolk claimed, Lord Gyle's horses were better dressed than most knights, and he had no problem flaunting his wealth. The man, if memory served, had a nasty case of the sniffles which would ultimately end him. That was unfortunate, and especially for House Rosby for his lordship had married twice but sired no children, leaving his vast inheritance in doubt. Such extensive coffers would be more than enough to silence my legionaries, but it wasn't his gold I wanted. He had something much more valuable.
Several days passed since the ambush on the Kingsroad where we defeated the assembled Lannister loyalists in the Crownlands, and our advance south had gone smoothly. My legion couldn't crush them all, however. Many Crownlanders managed to make a run for it so our light cavalry spent their days hunting the remaining soldiers and found fewer of them every time. But despite their valiant efforts, a great many survivors had managed to reassemble at Duskendale. I'd doubts they would risk battle again after losing their leaders and being given a bloody nose by the Fifth, but it was agreed we couldn't risk leaving an exposed rear where they could regroup and strike when we weren't prepared. To deal with them, I left Dalabhar with four hundred men to watch Duskendale and hopefully confine the bastards inside the walls.
Until this point, Rosby hadn't been touched by the War of the Five Kings and a Queen (as the men were calling it now) but that was about to change. Due to the Rose Road being closed by the Tyrells and the Riverlands being on fire, King's Landing was supplied almost exclusively by Lord Gyles and Lady Tanda Stokeworth for their lands were far enough away from the fighting to be untouched by war yet close enough to supply the capital. Rest assured; both were making a killing because nothing said profit like jacking up the price of grain and extracting what little silver the denizens of King's Landing had in order to fill the empty bellies of their children.
In no way had I been helping with the smallfolks problem, only exacerbating it.
Rosby proved to be a rich bounty and my riders struck at convoys destined for the capital. Emulating the Black Prince, we performed a little chevauchee but not enough to destroy the productivity of the land for when Daenerys finally sat her throne. Legionaries burnt and pillaged the surrounding villages which boasted the men's already considerable morale. Despite his wealth, Gyles wasn't a cunning man and to try and end our raiding he had sent his household troops and hastily assembled levies to track down our outriders. He was unsuccessful and his impromptu army found themselves walking headfirst into a trap. Their host of three hundred men was surrounded and it was less a battle than savage butchery.
Those who survived this skirmish were sharply questioned by Lyra in the burnt-out husk of a barn who – thanks to me showing her the beauty of waterboarding – soon had them sprouting whatever we needed to know. Torture wasn't a reliable source of information and enhanced interrogation was superior but still had faults. But if multiple prisoners who'd been separated started singing the same tune, you could make an accurate guess they were telling the truth. So began the questions. "How many men are still in Rosby? How many gold cloaks did the Imp send? Who were the recent arrivals from King's Landing?" They were asked politely at first and if they refused to cooperate or their answers weren't good enough, they were strapped to the table, had their faces covered, then began the pouring. Everyone was surprised how much a little water could do, and Haldon commented that this proved to be a more humane system of interrogation than ripping out a prisoner's nails or using rats as was the Westerosi custom.
Due to our perilous position near King's Landing, we could ill afford to waste time should Tyrion grow aware of our intentions and launch a counterattack. Before launching our deep raid into Lannister controlled lands, the Fifth had removed all heraldry to look like bandits taking advantage of the war. To further sell the image – and for more practical reasons – we had foraged the countryside and set fire to outlying villages away from the actual target to make it all the harder for the Westerosi to know what was going on. Such a strategy also caused an unintended side effect we were quick to take advantage of. Like any pragmatic invader during a refugee crisis, I had sellswords dress as villagers displaced by the war and join the hordes steered towards Rosby.
Letting a few days pass so the fifth column inside the walls had a chance to prepare, the legion enclosed the castle and prepared for a siege. Men felled trees and set to work creating ladders, entrenched fortifications, and manned scorpions to fire at anyone daring to raise their head above the battlements. Crossbows were the weapons for this kind of battle, and the bigger the better to Vaquo's utter joy. Bowmen, however, were better at downing the ravens forming the linchpin to Westerosi military communications. I had given the brawny Summer Islander named Tall Taraq orders, saying, "The maester will try to send a raven to King's Landing. Watch that tower over there and should you see anything flap, I want it downed. Not a single raven can afford to reach King's Landing." My fears were never realised for every raven sent out was shot and soon the maester's tower grew silent.
Then we settled in for the wait that characterised a siege.
I was with Vaquo when the news was brought. I'd been looking through his sketches where he had grown inspired by the war wagons and decided to create some medieval 'tanks' he declared would revolutionise the battlefield. He was not wrong, but his also lacked engines, making them little more than movable forts. Having quite the obsessive personality, Vaquo had dozens of blueprints and lovingly described each and every one. The first two made the most sense. They were little different from the war wagons the Golden Company already fielded, though his had a small tower at the front for either a polybolos or a large flamethrower – the latter carriage carrying a massive tank of wildfire in its back instead of crossbowmen. The rest were . . . well, not good. All too big and cumbersome and otherwise completely impractical. They were the medieval equivalent of the Maus tank.
Before I could slowly ween him off before he abandoned everything else, a serjeant burst into the tent and between laboured breaths rushed out, "My prince, the gates! Rosby! They're open!"
It took me a second to process what he said before rushing out and leaving a confused Vaquo behind.
Despite being atop a shallow slope, Rosby wasn't the most secure castle in the world, and Lord Gyles had evidently saved coin by not paying upkeep for the defences. But even still, it would have been impossible for the Fifth to take the castle by storm. Our infiltrators were the only chance we had, so once the gates were open, we threw caution to the wind and ran.
Slowed by the incline and the village circling the fortifications, we weren't even halfway when archers began raining down arrows. Men dropped around me, and we had to have lost a dozen before reaching the gatehouse to meet the corpses of the garrison and all our infiltrators save one who holding the gate by his lonesome.
When the warhorn let out its deep billowy cry, we had already flooded in and swords were soon ringing in half a dozen places. Thanks to killing most of the men in the ambush, the battle was soon over and the courtyard was littered with bodies. Some, I noted, wore the heavy dyed cloaks of the King's Landing city watch. I am correct, I grinned. "Force open those doors. Let's see what glories await us inside."
Three men stepped forward with two-handed axes and brought their strength down upon the doors of the castle proper before stepping back when others brought forth a makeshift ram crafted the previous night. Within a few hits, the doors flung open and the Dragonguard formed the vanguard flooding into the great hall, dispatching with ease the makeshift phalanx formed by the few remaining gold cloaks. When the fighting was done, I strode in with Ser Barristan and examined the devastation.
"Maro, deal with the maester. You lot, go through the keep and kitchens and roust everyone you can find. Don't kill anyone unless they fight back and do not kill any children. I will have your heads if you do. Bring everyone here. You and Joden, go and clear the bodies. I cannot stand the sight of them." And no point scaring the kid. Approaching the lord's throne, I ran a hand across the smoothed oak. This is the first castle I have taken. My lips curled into a grin at the thought. I didn't know how big my casualty tally was, but it seemed irrelevant considering our victory. Perhaps a hundred, maybe more. I didn't have long to think on it for Haldon appeared and I grinned at him. "As you know, you're to take charge of the rookery. Perchance there are a raven or two left. If there are, I hope you send a message to Maidenpool. Tell them we have a prized prisoner in our procession."
Haldon looked at me puzzled. "What prized prisoner?"
He found out soon enough.
As I was studying the lush tapestries on the walls, the castle's household was brought forward and forced to their knees before me. Those assembled were young serving girls and pages, grooms and stablehands and washerwomen, old serving men and men-at-arms, even here and there a gold cloak. Then there was sickly Lord Gyles who looked positively terrified as I approached, and more so when he coughed blood onto me. A Dragonguard stepped forward, looking ready to punish the lord before I lifted a hand to stop him.
"Lord Gyles is a sickly man, and clearly in great pain. He did not mean to cough on me, I am sure, and no harm had come to me. Who every got hurt by some spit?" My eyes then turned to a Kingsguard knight who looked to have been in haste to strip his armour, but the legionaries who dragged him into the hall had thrown a white cloak on the ground before him. "Is this him?" I asked Ser Barristan Selmy. "Ser Boros Blount?"
The former-Lord Commander gave a shallow nod, looking like he was about to kill Boros with his bare hands if he could. Turning back around, I looked down on the kneeling man with the broken face. Even without the blood streaming down his busted nose, Blount was an ugly guy with a flat face and jowls that did their best to cover his pale-eyes.
"A knight of the Kingsguard? Truly?" I laughed, a shallow sound that carried no humour. "What is this before you, ser? Why do you not wear the cloak?"
One sellsword sniggered. "This honourable Kingsguard, Prince Aegon, we found trying to remove his armour. Was in a hurry to get away. When we surrounded him, he pissed himself and collapsed onto his knees, promising he'll give us the prince should we spare his life. I've met women with more courage."
Boros' rage flared yet he seemed smart enough to keep his mouth closed.
"Boros the Belly," I sighed disapprovingly, "you give the Kingsguard a bad name and it's already got a dismal reputation no thanks to you. Not the first time you betrayed your charge is it? You'd been escorting Tommen down the Rose Road when Bywater and his gold cloaks leapt out of the bushes and you yielded up the prince. Didn't you? A true valiant protector stands before us, lads. The Kingsguard are meant to die in the defence of the king and royal family, yet you threw the boy at us and begged for your own miserable life. Ser Barristan, what do you think should be done with him?"
"Is what you say true, Prince Aegon? A true Kingsguard would never put himself above the king or the person he was ordered to protect. Ser Boros betrayed his oath and the white cloak and deserves to be punished. I will deal with him personally, my prince, if it pleases you."
Away from the eyes of the children. Nodding, I said, "Take him to the dungeons. He deserves the darkest, wettest cell available." It took a few sellswords to drag him, even after smashing his face with the butt of a sword to cease his struggling. After that display, I turned around to the boys who were trembling in fear, scrutinising their young faces, inspecting each one in turn. "Which one of you is Tommen of the House Baratheon?"
There was silence before a sellsword pointed to a plump boy with dark-brown hair that failed to disguise his emerald green eyes and pale-blond roots. He wore a dark cloak and his pages raiment was rustic green and mud brown, and not at all the garb a prince of the realm would wear. He had been crying and his nose was shiny with snot. "When we surrounded the Belly, we found the boy hiding under the bed. He was crying and claimed to be the son of some hedgeknight. The Belly said he was Prince Tommen Baratheon."
Dye or die. Like myself. I smiled warmly at the young prince, softening my voice. "Is this correct?"
The boy nodded to my boots, his lips trembling. "I-I am Tommen Baratheon, brother of the king."
"False king," Rolly declared to the nodding of my men and the occasional "Aye."
I lifted my hand to silence my valiant Duck. "Your brother Joffrey is a false pretender but that matters not. You will be coming with us."
"Y-you . . .are you a Targaryen?"
"Blackfyre." I smiled warmly to put the poor kid at ease. It clearly didn't work, and I didn't exactly cut the most heroic figure in my black armour. "No need to fear. These are the same colours as the Nights Watch, and they protect the realm do they not? No one here will harm you. Girl, you find the prince some warm clothes. Now."
"Where are you taking me . . . can I bring Rosie?"
"Rosie?"
"My fawn," the boy pursed his lips. "The knights were going hunting and they brought back one for me. I . . . I used to have one before . . . before Joffy . . ." his voice trailed off and became a whimper.
The prince got himself a little Bambi. The animal of his heraldry, just like the Starks and myself. "If the young prince desires he may bring his fawn with him to Maidenpool." The prince of fawns looked up and I put on my friendliest smile. "You'll need to keep a watch over her yourself, however. Duck, please escort Tommen to his chambers. He is to pack for the journey north and see that he does." As Duck escorted the prince to his chambers, I turned to my assembled officers. "You are free to loot the castle as you deserve a reward. But no rape. I'll not allow the reputation of my conquest be tarnished because your men decide to stick their prick somewhere it doesn't belong. Oh, and you will be punished personally if it's one of your men as well. Got it? Good."
It turned out my warning wasn't enough because when night came, I found myself in the godswood before a line of legionaries while others were tying a rope around a massive oak tree.
Walking back and forth, I inspected the lot of them as they were forced to their knees, my gaze sweeping over the criminals who disobeyed my orders in their lust and saw only fear in their eyes. I never wanted this to happen in the first place and while I could accept certain things like thievery and murder under certain circumstances, rape was something that crossed the line, so I couldn't help but feel darkly satisfied with putting my own men to the sword, or the noose in this case. Among their number, Duck informed me were the group who'd been harassing Arya Stark during the ride from Pentos. That was a while ago and I mused they'd only get worse. It ended up they did for they'd taken turns gang raping a mother and her two daughters only to be discovered when other legionaries had stormed the house to steal the family silver.
Now they glared at me.
"Military tribunals were organised between your officers and sentences have been given," I declared, "And for the crimes of rape and dereliction of duty, you are all condemned to death." Where your payment and plunder will be given to the victims in question, after I take a percentage of course.
There were a few cries of dismay and D'hllor tried to stand up either to take me out or make a run for it, but Qarro smashed him in the back of the head with the butt of his sword. All were given the chance to confess their sins to a priest and most did so. The threesome was the first to be hanged and I performed my duty by personally kicking away the log beneath their feet and subjecting them to slow strangulation for the height of the branches wasn't enough to snap their necks like a twig.
Returning to the castle I wasn't in the mood for the feast we were throwing.
Barristan urged we remain in Rosby so our healers could treat the wounded and allow the men a chance to recover – which was a sentiment echoed by all my officers – and I found myself outnumbered and forced to concede. Totally at our mercy, the household servants brought out rows of trestle tables so those of high standing and who had distinguished themselves could feast in luxury. But due to the small size of the great hall, the men were crowded shoulder to shoulder like sardines on the benches as serving girls flowed between them, serving drinks and occasionally getting molested by rowdy sellswords.
"Targaryen! Blackfyre!" the legionaries howled, thundering their tankards at my entrance. I smiled but I wasn't feeling up for a feast. We had won a massive victory, won three successive battles and captured Cersei's youngest son who was Joffrey's heir. So why did I feel so empty?
I took a seat at the high table with Septa Lemore on my right side and Haldon on my left. Lord Gyles wasn't attending the feast for he was under house arrest, but Tommen Baratheon was with us and looked like a dear trapped in the headlights when he saw the sellswords staring and throwing taunts his way. I expected him to cry but was pleasantly surprised when Tommen put on a strong face, and Septa Lemore proved to be a saint by steering his attention away and onto his pet fawn. Lemore did have a way with children.
After a serving girl filled my cup, I stood up and all eyes turned to me. "Men of the Fifth Legion – the legion of the dragon – we have won a splendid victory this day. The war may be far from won, but this is only the start in the path of taking the Iron Throne. As legate and prince of Westeros, I would like to thank all you have done in Her Grace's service. Clearly the gods are looking down upon us this day, but we should take a moment in this revelry to remember those whose lives have been lost. Both here and the ambush on the Kingsroad. Good men who deserve their names remembered in the annals of history. Now, men, enjoy your rightful spoils and the bounty of Rosby. Joyous be this victory and a hundred more." I lifted my cup up high, "For House Targaryen and Queen Daenerys!"
"FOR THE DRAGONS! FOR HOUSE BLACKFYRE AND THE DRAGON OF THE EAST!" the men roared back at me, pewter tankards, clay and silver cups clashing together.
I took a sip. Instead of wine I drank only water. It was still warm from where it'd been boiled, and it filled my chest with warm fingers that spread throughout my body.
As Rosby was a wealthy lordship and its lands were fertile, courses were brought out one after the other. It might not have been the biggest I've had nor the fanciest, but after consuming legionary rations, this was a feast worthy of a king. But unlike a king, I didn't indulge myself, instead letting the men have extra rations for their service.
There were great legs of aurochs roasted with leeks and mushrooms and cloves. Plates filled to the brim with mutton and venison, pies of fish and lamb, crusted bacon and savoury roasted duck, boar flavoured with spices and peppers coating its crispy shell. There were goose and pigeon and capon, beef-and-barley stew, carrot and mushroom soup. Despite Rosby not being on the coast, the larders were loaded with plenty of seafood and many of the men felt particular love for the bounties of the sea: fish in salt and seaweed, crabs, mussels, clams and herring, cog and salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and cakes and oat biscuits, turnips and peas and beets (which Tommen despised), beans and squash and onions. All of it was washed down with priceless wine stored in the bottom of Rosby's extensive cellars, and the men couldn't have enough.
Bards sang songs about dragons and kings and famous battles. Despite doing their best to impress me for coin and offers of patronage, they found themselves wanting. Instead, they found luck with the men who were eager for merriment in their drunken haze. Singing and harp and fiddle, horn and drum were drowned out beneath the tide of talk and laughter, the clashing of cups, the snarling of hounds beneath the tables, and the occasional fist fight. A surprising number of the Fifth Legion was musical, and Lysandro the Bard headed a great many legionaries playing their own songs with or without the bards so we had a battle of the bands. They sang rowdy tunes not appropriate for a young prince or anyone with musical taste. There wasn't much room to dance but a brave few tried. Roland the Bold climbed atop a table and made a declaration to the world that he would be the one to bring Tywin's head to the queen himself for a kiss and a white cloak. He had slayed two guardsmen after storming the walls and I might have believed his boast if he didn't have one foot in his food when he said it.
In the back of the hall, Serpent Squad sat at one of the tables, their numbers refilled but only containing three of its original members left. There was Damon with his lover sitting on his lap, both snogging between sharing a cup or him feeding her morsels of food from his knife. Qarro was wresting with a slender man with a bushy mop of bright red hair, then Rickard who was passed out in a puddle of his own sick. The rest of their number were playing games of dice between a lot of drinking.
I wanted to go down there. To join in on the laughter and the celebrations I felt were missing from the high table. But I couldn't. After becoming an officer, I had no time to spend with the regular soldiers I had grown used to and even if I did, it wasn't my place. Not anymore.
Such is the burden of command. The Conqueror said a king should never sit easy and I didn't. Not even when I sat celebrating our victory. Battle was exhilarating in the heat of the moment. I could still remember the pounding of drums, the shouts of men at each other, the adrenaline flowing through my body and the feeling of balancing on the very edge of life and death.
So it was no great surprise that when the high came to an end, it was followed by an agonising low. When all the excitement had died down, the realisation turned everything that had brought me ecstasy into ash in my mouth. It wasn't improved when Haldon brought me reports of the aftermath where my mood worsened with every injury and death of those under my command. Being a leader could be glorious and should you put your mind in the right place, felt like a game of chess. But it was also painful and dispassionate, and a sad thing to count the tallies of your ever-shrinking host.
...
Morning bell wouldn't be sounding for another hour, I suspected as I crawled out of my tent. Despite being granted certain privileges like a silken pavilion as large as a house, my humble abode was no larger than any other legionaries, made of rough canvas bleached white from the sun and strained from recent rain. Standing up, I stretched and let out a yawn, eyes scanning the camp that sprawled out over the hills like a field of white mushrooms. Fires smoked, surrounded by watchmen with spears and crossbows, their forms black shadows against the rising sun.
Most of the men were still asleep and no doubt cuddling their loot be it silken garbs, silverware, or sacks of coin. Sellswords did have the unique skill of knowing where all the valuables were hidden. I took the opportunity to walk around the camp and speak with each of the sentries, laughing at their jokes and asking if they had seen anything. The last thing we needed were the Lannisters throwing an army against us. We needed to make as much distance between ourselves and King's Landing as possible.
Soon enough, the rest of the camp awoke. After breaking my fast on a bowl of gruel, bread and cheese, two eggs and a black sausage Lyra made eating look very phallic, I went with Haldon to inspect the legion's food supply. Thankfully there was no fear of running out any time soon. We had restocked at Rosby and grabbed extra carriages to transport as many supplies as we could to the rest of the army. This is what Dalabhar would be doing under normal circumstances, but he wasn't here so I needed to shoulder the burden and Haldon was busy telling me what he'd already sorted. What we had 'requisitioned' were sacks of oats and wheat and barley, barrels of coarse ground flour, onions and garlic, bags of carrots and parsnips, turnips and wheels of cheese, casks of salt beef, salt pork and salt mutton, and salt cod, and more salt to make sure they lasted. Then there were casks of apples and pears, dried peas, dried figs, bags of nuts and jars packed with oil and olives that were sealed with wax. In short, there was a lot of food and our column was slowed drastically as a result.
While I was counting the number of provisions, Haldon Halfmaester wrote it down so we could give Blackheart an accurate count. I was halfway through counting a barrel of cabbages when Ser Robert Knolles walked over and bowed his head. "Legate—Your Grace, I report our sentries have sighted Adjutant Dalabhar and what remains of his force . . ."
Turning around, I met the knight's gaze which he averted. "What remains of his force?" My voice hardened then. "What happened?"
The Red knight swallowed and licked his thin scarred lips. "Prince Aegon . . . Dalabhar—he . . ."
I frowned. "Spit it out man. Is he dead?" I felt cold hands twist my guts at the thought.
Knolles shook his head. "He's alive, my prince. I'll show you to him."
We found the column staggering back to the encampment and leading the way wasn't Dalabhar as I'd hoped, but instead Ser John Harpenden who had a nasty gash across his forehead. All the men were battered and bruised and in low spirits. Not the faces of those who had won a victory. There weren't even half the men I had sent to Duskendale.
Running a hand through my hair, I swore. How many men do I have now? Maybe a thousand and a half left if I was lucky, and that was me rounding up generously. I walked over to Harpenden, not too fast and not too slow. I needed to ensure an aura of normalcy and professionalism even if I wanted to run over and shake the answers out of him. I didn't even run when he fell off his horse and was helped up by a pair of legionaries.
"What happened?" was all I asked.
Between staggered breaths John told me they invested Duskendale as was asked. Unfortunately they hadn't the manpower to fully encircle the town so all they could do was keep a watch on the gates and ride out to meet whoever rode out. Outnumbered, the legionaries were put on the defensive and when the frontline was on the verge of crumbling, Dalabhar reorganised the cavalry and struck at the rear to hopefully put the Lannister loyalists to rout. That wasn't what happened. His force was surrounded and fenced in by spearmen. Despite being outnumbered three-to-one, he and the others managed to fight their way out but at a high cost.
"What happened to him?" I demanded, trying my best to keep my voice level.
"Adjutant was wounded by a knight bearing the colours of House Stokeworth. Our commander fought like a demon. We all knew he was a victor of a hundred fights in the death pits of Slaver's Bay, but we had seldom seen him fight and never like that. His blade whistled left and right, drawing blood with every cut, each one going through mail like they were clad in parchment in place of steel. But even with all his skill, they outnumbered him and did not lack for courage, and some had lived long enough to strike blows of their own. When the Adjutant had slain the knight, he was at the cusp of death but managed to rally the men. After we got away, we were forced to amputate his hand. It has been troubling him."
"Does Adjutant Dalabhar need a healer?"
"We fear it may be too late."
It took all my willpower to not strangle the man. Instead I yelled at Lyra who was watching the column approach and together we found him at the back of the column and struggling to remain upright on his horse. The behemoth was swaying in the saddle, looking like he would collapse any moment. I coughed at the sickly smell corrupting the air and the black wings buzzing around them. Dalabhar had stripped from his heavy mail and in its place was a thin tunic and makeshift cast that failed to hide his hand or lack thereof. The cauterisation had been haphazardous and didn't seem to do much telling from the rot climbing up his arm. The smell of pus and decay. It was a sickening scent.
Eyes flickering, he noticed me after a moment and smiled a thin smile. "Legate," he said weakly, no doubt trying to play it off like nothing was amiss, even when one of the fat black flies landed on his forehead. "I apologise for my—I have lost the use of a hand as you can see."
You'll be lucky if it's only the hand. "Ser Harpenden claims you lost your shield and decided to grab your opponent's sword. What foolishness made you do it?"
"Better to lose a finger than my neck."
Despite the seriousness, I couldn't help but smile awkwardly even if it was more for his comfort. "You might feel bad now . . . but not for long. Not with Lyra treating you. What do you say to that?"
"Can I write my will now?"
It took several of us to pull Adjutant off his horse and half carry, half drag the man to the tents after Dalabhar's legs buckled beneath him. His skin burned beneath our fingers and he clearly didn't like being touched for the Summer Islander did his best to throw us off but thankfully his struggles didn't last long. While we fought to get him where he needed to go, Lyra floated behind, her face creased deep in concentration.
Inside the medical tent we found a spare cot not used by our injured from Rosby and lowered Dalabhar down atop it. What little space we had left was soon taken up by those who fought alongside him. It was stifling under the heavy canvas from all the sick bodies and the sweat smelling substances the physicians had all over the place because miasma theory was a thing. It all made me want to throw up.
Shoving through the assembled legionaries, Lyra looked over Dalabhar before going straight to work, pulling out a basin of steaming water and washing her hands with it. At least the medical professionals here did that at least, which was more I could say for doctors throughout medieval Europe. Lyra was grimacing though, and it seemed she was using all her willpower to stop from shaking. "Everyone here, it's crowded enough without you taking up valuable space. Leave. You too, Aegon. I don't think you want to see this."
"I'll stay," I refused, but the others were quick to follow her request. I remained rooted to the ground as Lyra stripped Dalabhar of his clothes to get unfettered access. Lyra shot me warning glances, but I refused to heed them, and she soon turned her whole attention to her patient, occasionally muttering a curse or a prayer beneath her breath. Then Lyra pulled out a knife as dark as night out of nowhere and began cutting the bandages.
"He is hot," I commented, staring at Dalabhar's dark skin where sweat formed droplets.
"I'm aware. I am treating him," Lyra muttered, slicing through the roughspun that had dried hard as rock. When the bandages opened, a foul sweet scent filled the tent, overwhelming the fragrances hanging from the ceiling. It was so thick, so sickly, that I coughed and spattered and stepped back, feeling like I was about to throw up all over the wound and make it worse. What had been his right hand was now a stump crusted with foul blood and white puss, black and glistening with corruption.
My response was a simple, "Fuck."
"Does it look bad?" Dalabhar asked with a tone of nonchalance as black blood seeped slow and thick. Whoever cauterised the wound didn't do a thorough enough job.
"I'll kill them. Whoever amputated this deserves a slow and painful death," Lyra growled. "Didn't even bother to apply medicine!" She stared at it before rushing around, filling a bowl of water and sweetening it with jars of oil and crushed leaves.
In the corner of my eyes I saw Lemore and Haldon enter the tent and halt a few steps away. Lemore made a sign and whispered a prayer while Haldon bluntly said, "I'm afraid to say he's as good as dead."
I ran a hand through my hair before glaring at the failed student of the Citadel. "We could amputate the whole arm. Maybe the blood poisoning hasn't got that far."
"You will not amputate," Dalabhar growled, using the hand that existed to grasp his infected arm. "I would sooner die than have the one arm. Milk of the Poppy. Now!"
Haldon cut open a poppy and Dalabhar didn't wait before snatching the plant and sucking the milk straight from the source, coughing as he forced the thick sickly substance down. One of the useful side effects of opium was that he was quickly knocked unconscious despite all the pain he was in. Now Lyra and Haldon could operate as they saw fit, and Dalabhar was completely at their mercy.
With the lines in his face deepening, Haldon said, "Tis a bad idea, Your Grace." He traced a path up the arm, following the veins, "You see this? The infections already travelled far and mayhaps moved beyond the limb. There's no certainty further amputation will do a thing. I've had experience with such wounds from my time in the Company. Should one require an amputation, we need to apply hot tar and potions quickly. It's a risky operation and the chance of death is high. If we fail to operate in time, death is a certainty and this time, well, I am sorry, Aegon, but we need to prioritise those who have the best chance of living. There are others here we have a hope of saving."
"He can't die," I hissed, balling my fists. "You will not let him die. Do what you can. I demand it."
The Halfmaester's eyes softened. "I'm afraid to say that even for all my skills, such a thing is beyond my power. Even the authority of princes and dragons doesn't extend that far. All we can do now is ease his suffering."
"And give him a quick end," Lyra grimaced after a moment. Septa Lemore stared at her, shocked, but said nothing. Lyra stared at Dalabhar, her shoulders deflating. "All we can do now is ease the dark road before him. So that he might pass painlessly into the next life. Say the words, Prince Aegon, and he will be gone by morning."
I frowned. "No. Treat him and make sure he lives. We need him."
The Rhoynish mage stared back at me with eyes as black as night. "Using natural medicine, I am unable. With magic however . . ."
Septa Lemore shook her head. "No. Aegon. Do not do it. I know you trust her . . . but do not use sorcery. It's not right."
"Magic is a sword without a hilt," Lyra said in support of the septa. "It will cut you and there is no guarantee. I urge against it." Her eyes flickered somewhat, her body slacking momentarily before she straightened as tall as she could. "He is already dead and any action I perform will not bring Dalabhar back as he was. He'll return as something else. Something other. I'm sorry. The most we can is give him a merciful end. It is cleaner than whatever I can do for him . . . and I know he'll prefer it."
Undead. I stared at my adjutant, my officer, my friend.
As if knowing my thoughts, Lyra's face softened in a way I had never seen before. "He's my friend to."
"His death will be slow," Haldon informed, making a move to clean and apply a new dressing to the wound despite his earlier words. "He's a large man so it'll take longer, and should the shortest time be the most merciful, I would estimate he'll be gone in a week if he's lucky. When a wound is this bad, few make it, and those who do will be crippled. I do not want to do it, but I suggest we give the gift of mercy. If he were here sooner . . ."
The gift of mercy. The gift of death. All their faces, be it halfmaester, witch and septa, agreed even without saying anything. I looked once more at Dalabhar who was shivering in his sleep, looking like he was in a bad dream. The wound was gangrenous. It was a slow death. A death I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy.
Taking a deep breath, I relented. "When he wakes, give Dalabhar the choice. He's a good man and I'll not murder him. But should he take the offer, make sure he doesn't suffer."
Lyra took my shoulder and squeezed. "I'll find some sweetsleep. It'll make his passing easier."
I didn't respond to her words, instead only watch Dalabhar's chest rise and fall. It's my fault. It's my fault this happened. If I didn't . . . I drew a breath and tightened my posture. I did what I needed to do. He's just another tally now. Another body to be counted. We had been fortunate in this war so perhaps it was fate I would lose something in return. Dalabhar was a good man, a talented soldier and a brilliant second-in-command. A true friend. If I look back I am lost, as Daenerys says. A king rules over vast graveyards of friend and foe alike.
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