บท 106: Town of tents
Edgar didn't fall asleep until almost dawn. The Martells were kind enough to allow a servant to run his errands, as he will not be allowed out of that room until the trial. The servant is not part of Sunspear's servants, he is one of Lord Fowler's, so Edgar could at least trust him to follow his orders to the letter and not sabotage him.
Harrold Fowler is an honest and honorable man, a knight through and through. Lord Yronwood met him when he was still a boy, they became friends as squires and he could always rely on his support, as long as his intentions were honest. Something that Harrold never doubted, until now. But even now Edgar trusted the honor of his friend.
Obtaining witnesses for his defense is easier than one would expect, having those witnesses say what he wants is what is difficult. They can't be men whose loyalty was earned or bought, that would be too obvious and the Golden Viper would use it against him. The word of a knight or noble is worth a hundred times more than that of a servant, but the word of a servant who is not part of his household...
When he woke up his whole body was stiff and tense, hardly resting in the few hours he slept. Servants brought him a bowl of porridge, some bananas, and a jug of sweetened milk. He ate at the table, the witness list parchment in front of him. A while later, after eating, he went through all the names on the list. Some of them were there just to buy him time, men who lived far enough away to put off the trial as long as possible.
`Seven days, that's all the time I have to counter the viper's plans.`
Edgar stared out the window with his teeth so clenched they began to grind. His family had him worried. His wife and children were unaware of his plans but they could still be used against him. Dorna is cunning enough to manipulate them into saying things ambiguous enough to paint him in a bad light.
He grimaced and picked up another sheet of parchment.
"Dear Lord Gargalen, I am writing in-" he murmured as he wrote the letter.
Lord Tremond Gargalen is someone who values the safety of children more than anything, he earned his fame during the last Blackfyre war when he did not allow any youth under the age of 16 to be conscripted into his army. He is also known to patronize at least a dozen orphanages on his land and a few more in other parts of Dorne. Edgar also knows that Lord Gargalen despises anyone who manipulates a child for his benefit. He lost his parents when he was still a child and was the victim of many selfish and ambitious regents, the mistreatment included several assassination attempts from which he barely made it out alive. He still has a nasty scar on the neck of one of them, from his jaw down to his chest.
After finishing writing all his letters, he lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling with a somber expression.
"Now I can only wait."
***
Sunlight stretched across the horizon, red and orange rays blending perfectly with the sand dunes.
Doran was riding his trusty steed Rocinante, only two guards with him. His friend and protector, Ser Lothar, was absent. The prince settled into his saddle and gazed at the views in front of him, just a few kilometers from the city.
`This is insane, just a few weeks ago this was an empty wasteland. Only sand and some snake or scorpion hidden among the dunes and now-`
"Halt! State your purpose!" One of his guards yelled at a hooded horseman who was galloping at high speed towards him. Both guards stepped ahead of him and pointed their spears at the rider.
"Stop or you will face our spears!" Valen, one of his guards, was about to march to intercept the rider who is now only a few meters away.
"Valen! Stop!" Doran recognized the hooded rider's horse and moved towards him.
"My prince-" the guard protests with urgency in his voice.
"It's Trevor." Doran smiles broadly, and tapping Rocinante's sides with his heels, the steed begins to trot toward Trevor Martell, Doran's distant cousin and trusted friend.
"It's been a while since we last saw each other, cousin!" Trevor jumps off his horse and throws off his cape, his golden-silver curls framing his face and his lilac eyes shining with joy.
Doran dismounts from his steed and gives his cousin a quick hug.
"Yes, quite a while. I didn't expect to see you here today, Trevor."
"Uncle Trystanne finished the field training earlier." Trevor Martell joined the army voluntarily and had been training fervently for several weeks under the watchful eye of Trystanne Dayne. About ten days ago Trevor and two hundred other recruits were sent out to practice combat simulations in the desert. Groups of a hundred against a hundred, taking part in a mini war with blunt weapons to prepare them for what is to come.
"I hope Father hasn't been too hard on you." jokes Doran.
Trevor lets out a loud laugh and smacks him cheerfully on the back.
"Hard? No, the Morning Star wasn't hard. He was a demon straight out of the Seven Hells! From sunrise to sunset, forced marches for hours without a break to even piss, random combat simulations that left me with darker skin than the most pure blood salty Dornishmen, and more!"
Trevor doesn't seem remotely upset by the intense training, he looks very proud and satisfied.
"You'll see, Doran, when those damn Essosi come to our kingdom we'll squash them like cockroaches!"
Doran smiles at Trevor's confidence, the joy and effusiveness of his cousin lifts his spirits and for the second time in several days the remorse for Ormond Yronwood` situation (as well as the worry for the dreadful news he just received this morning) disappears from his mind.
"Come on cousin, let me show you around the camp."
Trevor leads him to what could only be called a tent town. Thousands of tents, some for sleeping, others containing everything from food stalls to open-air smithies, all occupy several acres of land on the outskirts of town. Between them are training grounds, the prince sees soldiers training with a wide variety of weapons, from swords and spears, to a type of weapon rare in the other Kingdoms, the Sword-whip. A weapon that is as dangerous to the adversary as it is to the user, seven thin, sharp and very flexible metal blades attached to a leather hilt. Each blade sharp enough to cut through tanned leather.
Doran shudders when he remembers when he himself tried to use that weapon, luckily the practice version is blunt or he would have accidentally killed himself, the bruises lasted weeks and his teacher didn't even allow him to use ointments to alleviate them.
("If you are stupid enough to sneakily use a weapon that requires more years of training than time you have been in this world, you will suffer the consequences of your stupidity, each bruise serving as a reminder of your arrogance and foolishness.")
Arron Martell was always a tough but fair teacher.
`Best to stick to weapons I am familiar with.`
Trevor reads him like an open book and smirks.
"Reminiscing the past, huh?" The laughter is clear in his voice.
Doran hits him in the arm and returns the jest.
"Hmm, I also remember when a certain someone entered a tourney barely knowing how to ride a horse."
"Hey! I was five! And I did know how to ride."
"Ponies, not horses. And the armor you 'borrowed'-" Doran laughs at the memory of his cousin in stolen armor from a squire twice his size, the breastplate reached to his knees and Trevor had to lace the gauntlets with rope so that they do not fall out of his arms because of how big they were.
Trevor tried to suppress a laugh but soon joined Doran.
Both cousins were interrupted by the arrival of Trystanne Dayne.
"What is so funny?"
"Trevor's first tourney."
"His first tourney? Wasn't that last year? What's so funny about it?"
"No, not that. The FIRST." Doran accentuates the word. The Morning Sword widens his eyes with realization and lets out a laugh.
"Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing. Today is Tease Trevor day."
"No, Trev. That's not today, it's everyday." Doran looks at him mischievously.
Before Trevor can answer, Trystanne places a hand on his shoulder.
"Trevor, if I remember correctly you should be practicing sword fighting with your squad in a bit. Doran's visit is no excuse to delay your training."
"Aye commander!" Trevor says goodbye to his cousin and runs away.
Father and son are silent for a moment.
"Son, let's go to my tent to talk."
During the walk through the camp Trystanne tells him about the preparations of the army. From recruit training to supply logistics, Doran marveled at everything it takes to prepare an army for war. The prince had already learned this in his lessons, but it is one thing to read it in a book and another thing to witness it in real life.
As they passed the section of the camp where dozens of blacksmiths practiced his trade, Trystanne had to raise his voice to be heard over the metal song, a loud, rhythmic and severe song.
Doran recognizes some of the blacksmiths, men he's worked with on various projects, and greets them briefly.
"I didn't expect to see you at camp today, son." Trystanne looks at him with a raised eyebrow, already knowing that this is not an idle visit. These days none of them have time for such things.
Doran looks around his father's tent, a white tarp separates the tent into two sections. One of them has a desk, a table with several chairs, some shelves and mannequins with Trystanne's armors. The other section only has a cot, a chest and a wooden tub. There are no decorations, just the bare minimum to fulfill its purpose. Just as Doran expected from his father, a simple and practical man.
"A letter arrived before dawn." The prince takes out the letter and hands it to his father.
Trystanne looks at his son's somber expression and already has a premonition of what he will read on the parchment.
"They took Tyrosh less than a moon ago. We already knew their fleets were moving towards Myr, but Lys- -that was very unexpected. They already have the Disputed Lands under their control." The Morning Sword winces. "Is too soon, our fleet is not ready. We barely have forty warships ready for combat!"
"It gets worse." Doran says grimly. "Jacaerys suspects the Stepstones will be taken before my nameday."
"That leaves us with a moon, two at best before war reach us."
Doran sighs and nods.
"That is the Band of the Nine, we still don't know what Daemon Blackfyre plans to do."
The laughs from just an hour ago seem so far away, once again Doran's mood darkens, the war that he fears so much is already at his doorstep.
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