The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 21

It was a silent, weary camp, full of fear and sorrow.

The rebel forces had left thousands of their number on the field. The total count still hadn't been made, no one entirely sure who was dead or missing in the aftermath of the chaotic retreat. There were some certainties and many, many questions, foremost among them the fate of Hoster Tully, who had not escaped the battle. If my goodfather still lives, he will be the only grandparent my child has a chance to know. The rest have been taken, by natural means or murder.

Eddard had nearly lost the man he viewed as a second father as well. Lord Paramount Jon Arryn of the Vale, insistent on leading his troops despite his advancing age, had taken a dagger to his calf, struck by a no name knight whom Arryn thought to be dead. The man most certainly hadn't been, ignoring the fact that his own leg was gone to strike from his lying position and sink the blade into Arryn's. The sudden blow had brought the aging knight to a knee just as the Vale line broke. Though Jon killed the man who wounded him, he would have been killed in turn or captured by the charge if not for Lord Yohn Royce. Bronze Yohn and his knights had cut through the onslaught to their liege's side, bundling him onto a horse and fighting their way free to bear him to safety.

The wound was deep but not serious, making it hard for Jon to walk but not threatening to his life. The much more dangerous blow to the Lord Paramount had been the death of his heir Denys, the Darling of the Vale, struck down by Jon Connington at the ford. Lord Arryn had been trying to recover his body when he was himself wounded, and hadn't been able to reach his kinsman in the ensuing madness. Ned knew that fact weighed on his friend as heavily as Denys' death.

Whether Hoster was dead or captured no one could rightly say. None of his retainers had returned, having taken the brunt of the Dornish charge. No one remembered him being struck down, yet he hadn't fled the field with the rest of the Riverlanders. Reason says he is dead. I wonder if my stranger of a wife will blame me for living when her father did not.

Many others had not either. Beyond Robert and perhaps Hoster, over a score of rebel lords had lost their lives in the bloodbath at the ford, and scores more of noble blood. Lords Swygert and Pryor in the first charge, lords Gower, Bigglestone and Wull in the melee, and lords Terrick, Melcolm and Hersy in the retreat were but a handful, and several more were wounded severely enough that they may not long outlive their companions.

If they were to fall upon us now, reeling as we are, they'd put us to rout and kill what's left of us.

It was for that reason that Eddard was relieved when the sentries called out that a rider approached, bearing a white flag. It was a single man who rode amongst them at dusk, riding a bay courser. In one hand he held a spear with a white cloth tied to its head; in the other he held the leadrope of a mule that trailed behind him, harnessed to an apple cart.

By the time the rider was escorted to the center of the camp Eddard and Jon Arryn were waiting for him, Ned standing while Lord Arryn sat in a chair with his leg stretched out before him. The war council, or at least what remained of them, stood slightly behind the two great lords, among them the Greatjon, Bronze Yohn Royce and Blackfish Brynden Tully. A score of bodyguards, hands on blades, made it an altogether daunting welcoming party for the rider.

A rider that proved to be a boy, no more than six and ten. Hypocritical of me, as I'm only a few years older. Tall and lanky, he was dressed in a magnificent set of black and burgundy armor, each inch of it scrubbed clean. Recently at that, if Eddard had a guess, for nothing had been clean after the Battle of the Trident; not armor, not weapons, and not the participant's souls.

The envoy reined his bay to a halt several paces away from the men gathered to meet him. His angular face was trying not to betray nervousness, but Ned knew the boy had to be feeling it. I would be. He was surrounded by men who, hours before, he had been trying to kill—and who had been trying to kill him, making it a less than an auspicious start. Despite those factors, he spoke calmly and clearly, tone carrying in the crisp air. "I come with a message from Prince Aelor Targaryen, Lord of Duskendale and Hand of the King."