The Game of Cyvasse

The Viper in the Grass

The day still shone young and fresh when their banners joined, south of Tumbleton, two hosts each mighty, and each built upon yesterdays' enmities.
Five riders approached, moving before long columns of men and wagons. Lord Franklyn Fowler, resplendent in blue armor, with long blue hawk feathers streaming from his great helm. Step behind him rode Blackmont lad, Perros, as the lord's new squire.

The Old hawk rode abreast to Baelor Hightower, whose standard bore his brother Humfrey, sporting thin chestnut beard on a face too square to be handsome. Baelor Breakwind in flesh and name, Oberyn hid a mocking grin, the last thing I need is to ruffle him. Out of proud habit, ser Baelor swiftly doffed his burgonet, letting a wavy hair catch the wind. A face too fair not to show, though, Oberyn marked a few grey strands staining the chestnut locks.

"Ser Baelor, long time no see", Oberyn called from afar, beholding the same comeliness Elia once fell for. Time had been kinder to him than to most men, he had not changed a whit, the white tower shields well. Until Oberyn's jest shattered Elia's maiden eyes, leaving the renown of Baelor Brightsmile to ridicule. The prince always had a gift for words, oft at the right moment, or wrong as Doran might chide. Elia never ceased to mock young Baelor after, he recalled, a loosened wind ruined a marriage offer. Neither of them was young any more and Elia... Elia would still breathe if she wed him, delighting in singers in his lofty tower, gazing at the world from the height she deserved.

"Ser Oberyn, the pleasure is mine", Baelor kept his courtesy, only for a glance, turning a noble head to his liege Willas Tyrell. "Nephew, you have my condolences. The Reach lost a valiant champion in ser Garlan. I hunted with him, feasted with him, my heart grieves to know I shall not again. Sobs are heard all over the Oldtown".

"Kind words, ser Baelor. My brother was better suited to lead this great host than most men. Let us honor him by winning." Sir Willas did not neglect Lord Franklyn, "Lord Fowler, it is great honor to meet your lordship, in your person."

Making a small bow, Lord Fowler returned his sympathies, "Never met the man, but good voice of his lance and blade preceded him. May he rest in all seven heavens."

The affair went smoother than Oberyn hoped, if the hour was not so dire, they would linger here, in the vast spreading camp, savoring the joys of soldiers' life.   Eating good food, drinking good wine, fucking well desired women.

"Khmm, do you Westerosi Lords must make everything into a pageant, we are behindhand. By now, Tarly must be riding through the Kingswood", snarled Mertyn Otreyes, still with one foot of his charger on the Rose road. Upon his body, each knight of the Golden Company bore the wealth of service, gold and silver, cloaks in rich hues, yet when in the war sellswords kept unyielding discipline. Oberyn had little to relish in their part of the camp, too neat, too quiet. Nights were redolent with well-cooked food and dance, in the Reacher part, and ardent lust to savor the fruits of life in the Dornish one. Courtesans, fools, singers, cooks made well over a third of the camp. Now and then, swords left scabbard to reclaim whores stolen, casks of wine smashed and insults going so deep to the time Targaryen lords still bored themselves on the jagged crags of Dragonstone; whining for a home lost, dreaming of a new kingdom.

The Camp was to Oberyn's liking, bountiful to belly, melodious to ear and splendid to cock, but Elia's boy awaited him, hale and hearty. He must not be late, not this time. Cords deep in his heart leapt, when Willas told him, The king is awake. Then, the king is wed and last, the queen is with child. As rigid as Mertyn Otreyes was, he was right, Tarly must not reach the gates of King's Landing. And he would not.

Baelor, gazed at the men in gold armor and orange cloak with bewilderment, "Forgive me good ser, your name eludes me".

"I am no ser," Otreyes retorted, drawing a grin from Lord Franklyn.