The Brightest Sun

Chapter 61

The shouts had died down at some point, the sound of dragon wings beating furiously in tandem with the low rumbles of thunder cutting through the moans of pain and the shuffling noise of soldiers moving about. They flew across the sky, blotting out the little moonlight visible through the gathering clouds.

Harry absently flicked his wand, the bandage tightening as the wound beneath began to slowly stitch closed. Under the torchlight, the wounds looked worse than ever, though Harry knew they were better off despite the grime on their bodies. The soldier thanked him, not an ounce of fear on his face as he began to sit up.

One of the men who took Bloodstone, Harry thought. They were the only ones capable of looking past the terror of the ships to see some benefit to the magic, their discomfort wiped away at the thought of healing quickly.

"Was that the last of them?" Harry asked, glancing around the makeshift infirmary they had made. He had put up an open tent, the stretchers placed on conjured blocks of wood as more and more of their injured were brought inside. He could make out a group of men moving to pile the dead just inside the gates; scores of soldiers remained outside under the watchful eyes of the knights from Lemonwood, the household gathered in the courtyard and the guards stripped of their arms and armour.

"A number of the men have burns," Oberyn answered, surprising Harry as he sauntered forward. His goodbrother's armour was bloodied and dirty, streaks of mud letting Harry know he had been in the thick of things. Oberyn shook his head at his perusal, silently telling Harry he was uninjured.

"Ours?" Harry asked. Harry had heard the whispers and seen enough bodies to know that the men of Stannis' camp had not fared well in the face of fire.

"A few too eager to heed orders to stay back," Oberyn said, an undercurrent of anger in his tone.

Behind him, Teddy and Ser Daemon came into view, the two boys supporting another man between them. He was moaning pitifully, hair darkened with mud and sweat and his eyes screwed shut in pain, his leathers letting Harry know he was meant to be far away from the tents yet had rushed forward eagerly. It had melted along his side, mixing with dirt and leathery strips of skin, the stench of blood and piss and shit lingering strongly.

"Put him here," Harry ordered, gesturing to the makeshift stretcher he had conjured.

Teddy and Daemon Sand dropped him, holding the man in place as he shifted.

Not so much a man, he thought. Probably of age with Teddy or Viserys and wishing to earn himself glory on the battlefield.

The sky rumbled ominously, streaks of lightning dancing above them as the first drops of rain began to pound at the tent. He flicked his wand, keeping the tent from caving beneath the sudden torrent of rain or soaking through.

The sound of retching reached his ears as Harry cut the leather open, the guard closest to him unable to stomach the sight of burnt skin clinging to protruding bone.

He reached a hand into the pouch at his side, digging elbow deep before he shook his head and summoned the necessary jars.

Three small tubs of paste flew out, landing neatly beside the small bottle of dittany he had out. He frowned, seeing how little he had left before he glanced at his pouch. He had packed enough dittany to last their campaign, but that might prove to completely deplete their stores if they had more men running headlong into dragonfire.

"Teddy," Harry said, seeing his son turn to him. "Take two of these and find any man in need of healing for burns."

He turned back to find Oberyn's hand on the boy's shoulder, a low murmur passing between them. Dark eyes turned questioningly to him and Harry nodded.