500 gems = bonus chapter
Advanced chapters at:
patreon.com/posts/eminence-in-got-125798646
***
P.O.V. Lac Flowers, a tenth man in the Tyrell service.
The middle of the eleventh month of the year 299 A.D.
The third wall of Highgarden, Spaceland, Westeros.
«Fire! Fire! Fire! - As if mad, our centurion shouted, tearing his throat, pointing his finger at the advancing wave of steel and blood. - Fire! Shoot! Kill those things before they kill va... Blearh...!
He couldn't finish - few men could speak with a crossbow bolt in their neck.
«I told him to keep his head down, you little turkey. - I hissed angrily, standing up to my full height and covering myself with a large shield, which was almost immediately hit by several arrows. - Guys! I'm in charge now! Break into pairs and keep shooting, covering each other! If one of you gets shot and doesn't die, I'll personally finish him off by sticking a sword in his ass! Is that clear?!
«Yes, sire!
«Yes, sire!
«Yes, Luck!
«Don't die yourself! - I heard forty hoarse throats who had been with me for a month trying to keep the greatest castle in Westeros from surrendering.
When the Dornish army approached the High Garden a month ago, I, like most nobles, was in a state of incredible shock. Yes, as the bastard of a minor Tyrell vassal family, I differed from the commoners only in my skill with sword, quill, and horse. But that didn't stop me from becoming a tenth man of the Highgarden Home Guard and keeping abreast of most of the events of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Thanks to that smarmy maid working in the heir's chambers," I said sadly, remembering that pretty redhead who was not spoiled even by her many freckles. She'd had the misfortune to run past the armory, where a stone launched by a trebuchet had hit her. The splinter in her eye killed her almost instantly, as well as the five maids who were too close to that ill-fated armory.
Now, the Dornish invasion was a low blow to our suzerains. The war with the middle Baratheon, Robb Stark, and a finally losing the last shred of his mind, Balon Greyjoy, was already very hard on the Commonwealth. Even with the Lannister forces reduced, but still significant, the sides were roughly equal. And the sudden and very sharp blow of thirty-odd thousand Dornish marching on our kingdom with fire and sword was very heavy.
«Look out! - A militiaman standing nearby, who had only recently been an ordinary peasant, sharply shouted. - Scorpion!
"Fuck!" - Lightning flashed through my head as my body jumped away from the paveza (p.a. a huge stature shield, sometimes used to put extra protection on the walls of fortresses) used as a defense. And for good reason.
Clang...
«Aah!
A wave of splinters struck him in the back, thank the Seven that could not penetrate the brigantine and the armor underneath. But the peasant with the eyes was not so lucky - wearing only a simple leather armor, which was found in the depths of the castle's warehouses, he received several splinters in his arm and an unexpected arrow in his shoulder, rendering him useless for the next weeks.
«To the Maesters! - I bellowed at the top of my lungs, trying to cover my savior with my own good steel shield. But the main reason for that was the value of each man to us - after a month of siege there was barely a sixth of the three thousand garrison left, so we had to attract peasants and castle servants who had hidden from the war behind the walls.
Two head-to-toe leather-clad maids swiftly rushed down the narrow staircase and grabbed the wounded man by the shoulders and carried him down.
«Stop!" I grabbed one of them by the shoulder and turned them toward me. - What's happening at the west gate?
«The Dornish are coming, sir. - The servant girl, who sounded like a young girl, answered me. - They managed to set fire to the gate, but the bars are still intact. As some of the wounded said, they are taking a battering ram there.
My eyes widened in shock as I turned around and saw thick black smoke rising into the sky behind the Highgarden Donjon.
«Seven save us..." I whispered incredulously, letting go of the maid, who immediately ran downstairs.
"If they break through, we're finished" - I thought, hiding behind the nearest embrasure and watching the Dornish soldiers dragging a small catapult up the second wall. - "Peklov bastard Temper-r!"
Until a month ago, most of the men of the Highgarden Guard and garrison, having learned that most of the Dornish had withdrawn toward Staromest and King's Landing, had thought that history would repeat itself with the siege of Storm's End twenty years ago by the current head of house. For it was impossible to take the High Garden, defended by three thousand of the finest warriors in the Sprawl, and seven thousand Dornish kozo*bs, even if each of them was equal in strength to Robert Baratheon.
But this pecking Dornean...
Not a day after the rest of the desert armies left, the castle shook with the blows. Scorpions, catapults, and trebuchets pounded the walls day and night like a cook grinds meat for a good steak, giving no rest and inflicting unpleasant casualties.
Lord Willas, following the advice of the master of the castle's weapons, Martin Tyrell, ordered a night sortie to destroy the siege machines and kill as many Dornish as possible. And all was well at first - even from the walls could be heard the loud sounds of the feast, the music of the bards and the joyous laughter of the whores from the enemy camp. This, coupled with the complete absence of sentries, spoke well of the military talents of the Dornish peddler and the skills of his army.
But we underestimated the dishonesty of the Dornish.
The noise in the desert camp was merely a decoy created by the marquitantes, bargainers, and prostitutes. The three hundred guardsmen sent out were almost instantly shot and slaughtered by the Temper warriors sitting in ambush. That night I saw with my own eyes Lord Willas clench his fists to a bloody pulp as he watched the Dornish men feasting and yelling insults at us.
It went on like that all night, until at first light the fresh and rested enemies came out of the main camp and stormed the first wall.
We repulsed it, losing quite a few men in the process - the Dornish pressed hard, breaking through the walls several times and approaching the gates, but our suffering was just beginning.
Food poisoning in the barracks, which sent seven hundred men to the Seven at a time.
The Great Labyrinth that burst into flames like straw, and the Dornish had soaked it in some black and viscous muck.
The passage that had suddenly appeared a decade ago in the second ring of walls, from which swordsmen clad in black armor had fallen and sent nearly three hundred militiamen dressed only in their undergarments to their deaths before retreating and collapsing the tunnel without loss.
And all of this was combined with constant assaults, shelling, sneak attacks and other nasty stuff that the enemy commander was very resourceful at.
The result was simple - two of the three rings of walls were taken, a third of the defenders went to the Unknown, and the situation in the castle, which lost most of its supplies because of bribed servants, whose heads adorn the spears above the main gate, was close to critical. What to say, if the first defectors appeared, who every morning and evening yelled how they were happy with the Dornish and that they should surrender rather than die in vain for their former servants.
«As my father taught me, the most valuable thing in the world is human and chivalric honor. Without it, we are nothing more than dogs, feeding from another man's hand and biting those on whom that hand points. And to trade my honor for Dornish sourness and whores was incredibly repugnant to me.
«Commander!" A panting militiaman came up and grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. How dare he... - They've got the ballista up on the wall! They'll start firing soon!
«What?! - I yelled in shock and, quickly pulling my head out from behind the embrasure, looked at the recently lost ring of walls. There already stood a small onager, which the former peasant called by the wrong name, in the box of which they put a stone, preparing to send it at us. - What, **** you Gods, were the archers doing?!
«They were sent to the neighboring wall! - A militiaman shouted, looking fearfully toward the donjon. - Things are really bad there... The Dornish are almost through the gate!
Bang...
A stone fired by some lucky son of a bitch into one of the embrasures made me involuntarily shudder and suppress an involuntary fit of trembling.
We were losing. We were losing badly. The Dornish were pushing with all their might, using the elite warriors and archers of Temper himself. And our only hope of keeping the last wall from falling was a miracle. God's miracle.
«Toodoo, toodoo!!!
«Toodoo!!!
«Go, go, go, go!!!
Suddenly trumpets and horns rattled over the castle, playing a simple and uncomplicated signal.
"He's Dornish," I thought, peering outside the wall through a thin crack in the parapet. There, the warriors, who had been marching in straight lines with their shields and ladders, under cover of archers who kept our noses to the ground, began to stop and glance around quickly-"What's going on?"
And what was going on was some scorching nonsense - without losing formation, slowly and surely, the Dornish began to retreat behind the second wall, not even giving us a chance to send a couple of arrows after them. None of us had even planned that, though - everyone was so shocked that they just stared in silence at the swarming camp of the desert dwellers, located between the second and first walls, on the site of the burned-out labyrinth.
«Are they leaving? - One of the militiamen asked incredulously as he noticed the sharp tops of the tents and tents belonging to the lords and knights begin to fade quickly, and small outposts began to move off to the east, looking very much like a scouting party.
«Looks like it. - One of the few castle guards standing nearby confirmed his words.
«But why?
«Does it matter?
«Right.
«I don't know why.
«The most important thing is that we stood our ground!
«We stood our ground!
«We beat back the siege!
«We beat the Dornish!
«Glory to the Seven!
«Glory to the Seven!
«I hope they don't come back..." I whispered quietly, sliding down the wall I was leaning against. This month had drained me of too much vitality, so now I only dreamed of one thing: a warm bed, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep. - As soon as peace is established, I'll find a wife. This life is too fragile to be alone in it.
That night the Dornish army, much diminished by the weeks of incessant battle, lifted the siege and marched eastward toward Night Song. The battle for Highgarden was over.
***
A few hours earlier. The middle of the eleventh month of the year 299 AD.
The main tent of Dorne's forces, the area between the second and first walls of Highgarden, Spaceland, Westeros.
«My lord, we've managed to set fire to the west gate. It won't be two hours before the support mechanism and the bolt are burned out. - The young stone Dornean, who was one of the centurions of my army, reported to me. He was responsible for another five hundred archers, pikemen, and swordsmen storming the weakest gate of Highgarden's third wall, the Western Gate.
«Good. - I nodded, taking a small sip of the herbal concoction. I was no longer young, and the stress of a month of constant stress was not good for my health. - Prepare the battering ram and don't give the Tyrells even a chance to break it.
"It's all relative though," I thought as I rested my head on my hand and looked after the soldier who had left the battlefield. - "Compared to other lords my age, I do have excellent health. I can't compare it to Oberyn, though - I think he's eaten, drank, and tra****** even more over the years."
The siege of Highgarden was going on with mixed success.
The High Garden itself was not only one of the most beautiful and wealthy castles in Westeros, but also the most fortified and resistant to long sieges. Unlike Eagle's Nest or Pyke, which were considered impregnable mainly because of their location and the impossibility of besieging them with a large army, Highgarden was located on a wide plain, giving the besiegers full use of their numerical advantage.
So Garth Greenhand and his descendants, the Gardener and his Tyrell successors, did a fine job of making life as difficult as possible for the Dornish, who had been attacking the Vale for centuries.
High, ten-meter high outer walls, with deep foundations that made it necessary to dig a dugout for almost two decades day and night. Dozens of round and square towers, with scorpions and ballistae mounted on them. Endless labyrinths between the first and second ring of walls, which five bribed Tyrell servants had to spend a week pruning the main roots and soaking the ground in oil to burn down - it was lucky that three of them were gardeners and no one paid attention to such a mess until the first assault, which cost Highgarden its first ring of walls.
The owners of the castle did their best to keep the attackers happy.
I haven't mentioned the castle's complete independence from wells and other sources of water thanks to the small tributary of the Mandera River flowing nearby and the incredible loyalty and skill of the Tyrell home guard, which, despite the deteriorating situation and numerous promises to surrender, lost only two dozen men to desertion. Incredible devotion and loyalty worthy of respect.
But slowly, day by day, losing men, land and faith in victory, Highgarden was losing.
Though I am no master of siege, I have always had at my disposal a wealth of imagination and resources many times greater than the defenses.
Split the army into two squads and attack day and night, constantly organizing real and false assaults, not letting the expanses sleep well? Easy.
Throw the earth left from the tunnel and build a tower on it, getting a firing point higher than the height of the wall? No problem.
Using bribery and blackmail to get one of the servants to sneak into the kitchen and put poison in a vat of soldiers' food? I had to mess with communications, but rats live everywhere, even in the High Gardens.
Secretly ruin scorpion rods by soaking them in water or letting rats into the warehouse? More a matter of time and money than any kind of trickery.
«Anyway, as Khan said, a donkey laden with gold will take any city. It worked with Night Song, and it worked with Highgarden. - I grinned, taking another sip of the peppermint and molasses concoction.
The fun part of the siege was that my main problem was not Highgarden and its defender, Willas Tyrell, who, despite his fame as a crippled cripple who liked to breed birds and horses, turned out to be a pretty good commander. Not a single trick or trick, despite all my efforts, did not work on him more than twice, forcing me to come up with something new every day and push my idea into the uncomprehending knights and lords. They were the main problem.
Those with persistence worthy of the most stupid and hard-headed sheep, proved to me that I was fighting wrong and instead of careful preparation, sabotage, overwhelming archers and firing at the walls before the assault, it was necessary to go to the attack on the walls "bare" chest, showing everyone the strength and power of the Dornish, while respecting the knightly honor.
My eyes almost popped when I heard that last one. The Dornish, who outnumber the First Men and Rhoynar by far more than the Andals and are known as poisoners, adulterers, and sybarites, observe knightly honor??? At first I thought I was being played. Or a very unpleasant joke on some unknown subject. But when I looked at most of the lords and knights present in the main tent that day, everything fell into place.
As I've said before, by leaving for Bitter Bridge or Staromest, the commanders had taken the most organized and well-organized units with them, because they, like everyone else in Westeros, didn't believe I could take Highgarden. So the five and a half thousand left to me consisted of lances and the militia of small lords and knights with a maximum of one hundred and fifty men at their command. I was able to rally the lot of them (often with the simple sight of a few hundred swordsmen with wargs galloping alongside them), but it just so happened that most of them were under thirty.
Dorne is a unique region. It has its own flavor, different from the rest of the world. Poisoning, intrigue, treachery, honey traps, and more were a constant part of life in the southernmost kingdom. Doing mean things to one's neighbor was the order of the day here. It didn't affect me and my family much - at first no one paid much attention to a peddler sitting on a wasteland in the mountains, and when they did I already had the protection of the Martells, the reputation of the Bloody Jackal, and enough influence to crush the annoying little things.
But back to the lords and knights in my army. Over the centuries of Dorne's history, it has become a tradition to leave the younglings out of the "adult" games, letting them enjoy the tantalizing and alluring spirit of chivalry and nobility.
And now, coincidentally, all the commanders in my camp were either lords under thirty or heirs sent by their caring parents to gain experience in war. Playing on the strings of my nerves. I had to use the method of old Don Al Capone - a good word and a steeled fist can do much more than just a good word. In my case it was a lot of loot from the surrounding Highgarden lands and a few duels that ended with a few broken arms, legs and ribs. Still, despite the old wound I was still a pretty good fighter, no match for the young and inexperienced heirs.
"By the way, about the loot," I thought tiredly, looking at the three large chests filled to the top with gold, silver, and large copper coins. Almost fifteen hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. That's a lot of money for a lord or a merchant (I don't even need to talk about the peasants), but knowing that it was all of my loot from the plundered lands from Sidrhall to Old Oak made me sad.
This war was fought solely at the expense of the Prostrans. Unlike Dorne and the other kingdoms to the north, the former Kingdom of Meadows and Fields had always been wealthy. The same West, despite all the Lannister gold, could never call itself the richest kingdom because of the many collapses, crop failures, and mine depletions that have occurred in its lands.
The lands of Spacious are not called the Promised Land for nothing. The long winters, sometimes lasting for years, were almost untouched by them, allowing the farmers to harvest uninterrupted several times in a row. But even among them, Highgarden was a jewel that neither Old Town with its merchants and wealth, nor Horn Hill with its warriors and mines, nor Arbor with its ships and vineyards could surpass. It was all about a very old blessing placed on these lands as far back as Garth of Greenhand.
Eternal fertility.
An inexhaustible land that had given the owners of the High Garden an uninterrupted stream of crops for millennia. The local farmers didn't even know about the concept of two-field, three-field or crop rotation. Why? When your land yields a steady crop every year, and the Maesters create a new, more fertile kind of wheat or other plant every half century, a man has only one thing to do: plant, harvest, and reap what the Seven give him.
This is why the Gardener's, and after them the Tyrells, never needed money or warriors. For when you have an almost endless and uninterrupted supply of man's most important and limited resource - food - it is easy to stand at the head of the strongest kingdom.
And now these lands are being ravaged by my soldiers, taking all the grain, cattle, and gold, burning the crops, and taking a few of the prettier girls with them.
Brutal?
No. Far from it.
My men, who were disciplined by the Unsullied themselves, at least left behind whole houses, women not raped, and husbands and children alive. I had no doubt that the peasants would survive - the common people had always had a lot of domestic cunning, and even the Tyrell peasants, who had only heard of "crop failures" from travelers' tales, had an untouchable supply of grain. But what the other Dornish did in the first days of the siege, when I allowed them to get their own provisions....
When I and my fifty bodyguards rode to the remains of a village whose smoke was visible even from Highgarden, I nearly had a fit of rage. Burnt houses, raped corpses of women, a mountain of severed heads of men and old men. And children. Openly raped children who were used in place of "broken" women.
It simply cannot be described in words. The sight, the suffering written on their faces, the smells, the mixture of blood and dirt that the ground had turned into... It all rattled around in my head, forcing me to give an order that I don't regret one bit.
To kill them all.
I had a big fight with the other lords and knights that day. It almost came to a stabbing. But in the end an agreement was made - the troops of the minor nobles storm the city, earning themselves glory and points in relations with the Martells, and mine loot the surrounding lands, giving them 80% of the booty. Everyone was satisfied - the lords were happy with the fact that they got the best places in the battle and "sagged" the standard-bearer-trader himself, and I was happy with the fact that I got the opportunity to send the most "liked" lords of the Dornish to the walls and saved my troops from unnecessary battles.
Which, unfortunately, happened anyway. A week ago, as my men ravaged the last villages on the plains and reached the sea, they encountered the ironborn.
Speaking of the side that benefited most from the bedlam going on in Westeros, it was the Greyjoy clan. Recognizing the weakness of the West, the vulnerability of the North, and the departure of most of his troops from the Vale, Baelon made the same move he'd made ten years earlier. He declared himself King of the Iron Islands. After that, all the captains on the islands were given the command, with the phrase, "Rob whoever you want! Anyone in the green lands!
According to Rodrick Harlow, with whose house I had long maintained good trade relations, many of the captains didn't even need those words. Hundreds of rooks began terrorizing the entire west coast of the Seven Kingdoms, ignoring whose lands they were plundering and disregarding even the threats of Tywin Lannister, who had lost much of his authority after so many defeats to the Young Wolf. Some of them even managed to ambush my fleets and attack them. Naturally without results - the difference in firepower, size and displacement was too great. The Ironborn couldn't even get close to the caravan before they were shot with harpoons and ceramic shells filled with oil. From the reports they sent back, they burned like hell.
But it was all just a cover for the Greyjoys' main attack. The Iron Fleet, who shared third place with mine in the number of ships, had been gathering strength and preparing to strike point-blank and painful blows. The first one happened a month and a half ago - the Northmen lost Flintfinger, the only castle on Cape Kraken and the southernmost city of the North. The second blow was the unexpected capture of two of the four Shield Islands, Gray Island and Oak Island. The other two were able to repel the attack and are still under siege. And the last, to date, the strike was made in the West, because of which I was informed about it not Harlow, and the older brother, finally "kicked out" the Northmen from the lands of the lions and now strengthening the defense of the Golden Tooth.
The Iron Fleet, led by Victarion, attacked and captured Kais, regaining its oldest outpost on the mainland.
This is not to say that the western lords missed the attack. No, it's just that in all other wars, the Ironborn attacked the Bright Isle or the Fortress of Doom first, serving as the first lines of defense against raiders.
Capturing Cayce, in and of itself, did nothing for Baelon - the city didn't have the best walls, and it was hard enough to defend. Whether it was weakness, bravery, or some cunning plan is unknown, but either way, the Ironborn are now the largest force in the Sunset Sea.
And a few of my squads have run afoul of the Free Captains, who are so brazen that they've set up camp at the Mandera's confluence with the ocean and have been raiding nearby villages from there. This resulted in short skirmishes where the islanders, though clad head to toe in iron, were instantly slaughtered by my men. The reason was simple: lack of discipline, lack of normal archers, fear of "huge four-legged creatures" and most importantly - the disgusting quality of steel.
If the armor and weapons of my men were made in manufactories, according to a single and super-technological recipe for the local time, then the slag in which the raiders of the Iron Islands were dressed was made almost on their knees in the most primitive forges.
"It's nice to know that the army you've created is head and shoulders above the rest," I thought, in high spirits. Highgarden was almost taken - the third wall would be taken today-tomorrow, and the donjon, if a couple of my plans were realized, would fall just as quickly. Fowler has plundered nearly all of Hightower's lands, leaving only the largest and most fortified castles like Honey Grove, Highland, and Bandallon untouched. And Oberyn is well entrenched at Bitterbridge and has been holding Tarly's army in place for half a month now, even after several attempts to storm it, they haven't been able to cross to the other side.
«I expected more from Randil. - I grinned, taking a large sip of the potion and leaning back in my chair with satisfaction.
That was one of my biggest mistakes....
«My lord! It's all gone! - A red whirlwind burst into my tent, instantly stopped by the three blades placed against my neck.
«Halt! Put away your swords! - I bellowed, recognizing the whirlwind as one of the ambassadors to Oberyn's army I had left there for emergencies. And the amount of old blood on his clothes displeased me greatly... - What happened? Tell me! Quickly!
«Prince Oberyn is defeated! - He shouted three words that made my heart sink instantly. - All our troops have been defeated! The Blood Hunter is crossing the river!
«How did this happen!!! - Without restraining my voice, I asked, picking up the messenger by his pecs and lifting him a third of a meter onto the floor. My heart was pounding frantically in my head.
«Keevan Lannister! - Shouted the blushing boy, whose collar crashed into his neck and made it hard to breathe. - He and five thousand men had come up behind Prince Oberyn! He had stabbed the prince in the back during another Blood Hunter attack! They had him pinned down on both sides! That was two days ago!
After hearing about the defeat of our main army, I quickly counted to ten in my mind and let the innocent messenger go. Even on the contrary - judging by his words, he had traveled almost four hundred kilometers in two days, which, in fact, was an incredible feat. First of all, riding a horse at a gallop is a pleasure that requires a lot of stamina and willpower. Even on his wrinkled face, you can see what these days has become his fifth point. And secondly, even the most hardy of Dornish stallions, capable of covering long distances with speed, will become stiff after a hundred miles and fall off their hooves. Which means he's managed to find a replacement horse somewhere in the hostile Outlands and ride it to us.
«Feed, water and change him. - I said to the servant who looked inside the tent, pointing a finger at the boy who looked at me in surprise and was barely twenty years old. - Give the signal to retreat and send messengers to the other lords and knights. Have them converge on my tent in half an hour. If they resent it, tell them it's urgent. - I turned to my messenger, responsible for passing military messages to my centurions and other nobles.
Soon after the end of the assault, I and the disgruntled lords listened to a brief account of a slightly rested and refreshed messenger, who no longer reeked of sweat and blood.
And what came out was this.
Oberyn had relaxed. Criminally relaxed. Yes, he still remembered my words about being careful of the one-armed Tarly and watched his every move carefully.
But in other ways, my friend was too careless. His army was fortifying the Bitter Bridge only on the shore side, completely neglecting its own rear, and the outriders, whose role was to patrol and early detection of the enemy, were busy only plundering small villages and huts, which were in abundance in the district of not the smallest city.
All this resulted in Keevan Lannister, the Old Lion's younger brother, taking his two thousand men and mounting them on horseback and marching south. Secretly traversing the hills of the Keys, he took the garrisons from the castle of the Sarviks, Cordwainers, and Kidwells (hell knows how he got the castellans to leave their lands unattended) and stabbed Oberyn in the back. Though two-fifths of his "army" were simple peasants driven from the fields, it was enough to defeat our main army.
After the story, a few lords in the tent even doubted the words of the messenger, thinking that he was completely out of his mind, but my kind and favorable look immediately shut them up. I understood their doubts, though - Keevan Lannister was better known as the Shadow of the Great Lion. All his life he had been a mere appendage to his older brother, being completely subservient and never once taking the initiative.
The type of person who is great at executing plans, but can't create them themselves. There is nothing wrong with that, because our world was built on people like Kiwan. After all, even the success of the Old Lion, who had spent almost twenty years in King's Harbor as the Hand, was very closely tied to his younger brother. Had he not wisely and gently ruled the West for Tywin, skillfully taking preferential treatment from the laws and edicts he created, the Lannisters would not have nearly doubled their wealth in the last thirty years.
But the fact that he had undertaken such a venture on his own, worthy of the most desperate adventurers, very much tore at the templates by which he had previously been judged.
«What of Oberyn's army? - I asked, already calmed down and rubbing my eyes tiredly with my fingers. - How many of them survived?
«I do not know, my lord. - The messenger answered frustratedly, looking down at the floor. - But before I left the battlefield, I saw a force of five thousand men under the flags of the Martells and Jordains manage to break out of the encirclement.
"Not bad already." - I thought exhaustedly, seeing some good in that barrel of tar that had fallen on us. The defeat of Oberyn's army had been a disaster in itself, but compared to Tarly breaking through the Bitter Bridge, it had been nothing. Now we'd have to march away from the Night Song, praying to all the gods that the cavalry wouldn't catch up with us and our heavy wagons.
Fowler was even more screwed, being near Staromest and not getting away before Rendyll's retreat was cut off. Thank the Old Gods I heeded Volkan's words and sent two convoys of ten ships to Starfall, formerly engaged in trade in the Sunset Sea. The Ironborn were not allowed there anyway, and twenty transports at a time capable of carrying five hundred people wouldn't hurt.
«I'll send a letter to Old Hawk. - I said to those assembled, who also understood the gravity of our situation. - Tell them to go to the Sun House, take ships there, and sail back to Dorne. My ships will soon sail out of Starfall as well.
«What are we to do, Lord Temper? - Asked me Ser Lens, who was the head of a small knightly house that in practice consisted more of merchants than warriors. A cowardly and cunning sort.
«Let's go quickly to the Night Song. - I said, getting up from the table, which was repeated by the others present. - We have two or three days before the knights' cavalry arrives here. - Noticing the sad notes in the eyes of some and thinking what they can cause in the people of the local mentality, I added. - Yes, I too am sorry to leave the almost taken castle, but sires and lords we have no choice. We've already accomplished our main task of ravaging the Vastness, leaving the Tyrell and Lannister armies without food supplies in the run-up to Winter. All that's left is to take it home.
No one argued with my words, and by nightfall the walls of Highgarden had left the last of the Dornish troops retreating calmly and without haste toward Night Song.
It was not until a week later, when all my army and wagon had passed the fortress and gone to Dorne, that I learned that Fowler had been able to siege and take the Sun House with a sharp attack, albeit with heavy losses. There he had captured nearly fifty ships of all kinds, from small merchant vessels to a redwine galleon, and, with my ships, had begun in great haste to ferry men and booty to the nearest Dornish shore. For he was well aware of the thirty-strong fleet that had left Staromest, whose purpose was to cut off his retreat.
The salvaged remnants of Oberyn's army had begun to arrive, and they were not too numerous. Despite the best efforts of Lord Trebor, the current head of the Jordains, only eight thousand men were able to return home, among them many lightly wounded.
But that was not the worst news. In the heat of battle, trying to set fire to the collected supplies so that they did not reach the enemy, and later to kill the hated Lannister, who put his troops under the monastery, Oberyn died. He succeeded in the first - a noble fire destroyed most of the city and all its warehouses, but the second did not. According to several soldiers who saw the last moments of my friend and brother's life, he single-handedly broke through to Kivan's retinue and was almost able to reach him with his spear before the Scarlet Guards came to their senses and put him on many sharp spears like a butterfly on a pin. Obara, Nymeria, and Tiena, who had accompanied him on this adventure, were captured.
That day I drank myself into oblivion in the solarium of the Night Song. My friend, my brother, the husband of my beloved sister, the father of my two nieces, died. Died while executing my plan. My idea. And so did Elia...
It was hard. Very hard.
It was like a stone dropped to the bottom of my stomach, dragging me down. Only the strongest alcohol was able to somehow ease my pain, but, unfortunately, I was not allowed to indulge in self-indulgence for long.
On the third day of my drinking, Volkan dragged me out of the solarium, rinsed me in an ice well, poured an expensive Lysnian mind-altering potion into my mouth, and gave me a hard slap. That last one worked best.
I said a lot of other things to my former pupil that day, knocking a few teeth out of his mouth in a frenzy, but it accomplished its purpose. I came to my senses. And I knew what I had to do.
The letter to Lyon was written and mailed in minutes. It was time for him to do the thing I'd sent him to Azabad for. Yes, if the Itian Emperor found out about this, I would be in trouble, but all means were good in war. Including this.
And I myself, having apologized to Volkan, who only waved his hand at my words, went south, towards the Prince's Pass. Prostor will not sit idly by and will surely try to return the loot. It was my duty to give him a warm welcome.
***
Don't forget to donate gems.
And subscribe at:
patreon.com/FanFictionPremium