War might be upon the land, but the night seems almost peaceful despite it. The great bulk of Yronwood is no more than a squat outline, only the occasional glint of steel visible on the battlements. It is the hour of false dawn, when men are at their lowest, the darkness deep as sin save for the faintest band of light in the eastern skies. There are no stars or moon to be seen; no torches lit within. Still, there is a watchful air to the keep as if the very stones keep watch upon the army encircling it.
Then, with only the faintest whisper of sound, a postern gate opens in the deepest shadow of the wall, cleverly masked by wild, twisted growth and the lie of the land. And riders begin to emerge, all cloaked in black, armour and harness muffled with scraps of cloth, sandsteeds silent.
Deep within the shadows of a black hood, a pair of eyes gleam watchfully as one of the riders bends low over her mount’s neck, one hand patting the sleek hide soothingly so it will not make a sound. Bent as she is, horse and rider might be some queer amalgam of humped beast come out of legend into life, no more than a shade against the darkness of dawn.
Tomas was awake, even at this late hour, though he had not been stationed as a watchman and so he was paying no attention to the fortress walls. Illuminated by the glare of a low burning camp fire the famed swordsman was at work, drilling himself vigorously in the hopes of exhausting himslf beyond his capacity to stay awake. Armoured in the chain he was caable of donning by himself, so as to make the ordeal more difficult, the knight slashes at the air with blade over and over again, lifting his shield to defend against some imaginary opponent. He is an obvious shape in the red light, rapid and erratic movement drawing the eye in the dim light. Though he does not know for sure, the knight even suspects that some members of the watch team are paying a little more attention to him than is apropriate. Still, he does not expect anything to occur tonight and so makes no issue of it. If only he knew…
They ride without shields, with weapons sheathed and steel blackened with soot; they could wraiths, these Dornish, more passing fancy in the dark hours of the night than reality. With practised swiftness, they spread out in the wall’s shadow to make space for those riding out behind them. A score, two score, three score, four—it does not take very long for more than a hundred riders to emerge.
One of the cloaked shapes that emerged first sidesteps his horse until he is beside the woman; then he leans over, his voice barely a breath to tickle her ear: “North, like we had said. And no one is to draw their weapons until I give the sign. Pass the word back.”
He starts to straighten, then leans over again and adds: “Keep beside me.”
The dark hood nods and then turns; soon the word is spreading like a breath of wind and the horsemen are soon arrayed facing north. “I will,” the woman says in reply, her own voice too low to carry. So, slowly, the party of riders makes northward, approaching the gap in the unfinished defenses of the Young Dragon’s army.
The Dornishmen ride hunched low over the necks of their sandsteeds, heads constantly moving as they scan the darkness. The vague shapes of the countervallations the northmen have been making around the keep begin to emerge from the night. There are small changes in their heading as if they are riding for a particular point from memory.
And then, a break in the earthworks can be seen. Without a word being said, the entire company turns as one towards it, veering to keep its approach away from the campfire where a man can be seen practising his swordplay.
Their horses smoothly pick up speed until they are cantering. The captain half-hefts a throwing spear in readiness.
Tomas pauses grunts some as he continues his combat drills, the heavy stomp of boots and rattling of chain armour carrying easily in the relative quiet of the night. His gaze is set firmly ahead at all times as the Bastard of Riverrun performs complicated maneuvers, leaning to the left as he parries an imaginary blade, feet stepping expertly in the same direction so as to carry the man into a quick spin that finishes in a low cut. He pauses then, though, muscles freezing with tension for a moment as the man thinks he had heard something out of place in the night. This brief pause only lasts a moment however since no hue nor cry is raised, the man returning to his drills with a slight shake of the head.
Such spears appear in any number of hands, though not in the woman’s. She stays low on her mount and keeps to the captain’s side as if tethered one horse to the other. She watches the man at the campfire warily as they approach the break, then reaches out to tap the captain’s shoulder to point Tomas out.
The captain follows the woman’s pointing figure and nods; he hefts the throwing spear again, as if gauging the distance.
And then, when the section of the northern host that lies betwen the Dornish and the countervallations is little more than a hundred paces distant, a figure moves near a tent. The northern soldier’s face gleams pale in the night, mouth dropping open as he sees the dark mass bearing down.
Three throwing spears hiss through the intervening distance almost as one. One misses, punching throw a tent with a ripping sound. The other two pin the soldier and he falls—but does not die.
And a moment later, a scream of surprised agony rends the night.
The captain does not waste any time in cursing. “Ride,” he calls to his men, abandoning silence. “Ride!”
Alek jolts awake at a sudden, bloodcurdling scream. He blinks, having fell asleep sitting up, the most comfortable position for his wounded arm, reaching for the dirk beside him, yanking it from the sheath, holding it steady in his good hand. He struggles free of the canvas, looking around blearily.
Tomas starts for just a second as the shrill scream rips through the near-silence of the camp. His mind sharepened by years of soldiery though, it only takes a split second for him to regain his senses. As any self respecting soldier should, the first thing Tomas does is bellow out an alarm. “TO ARMS! TO ARMS! DORNISHMEN IN THE CAMP!” His commanding voice carries easily in the night and will likely alert many more northerners to the call. Then, with no time to make his way to a mount, the knight rushes to meet the galloping Dornish warriors, angled to aim for a spot some distance ahead of the riders, in the hope of reaching them before they cause too much damage. His bellowing continues as he runs however, armour rattling and longsword thudding again and again against his shield, which is held up to cover his body.
The woman sits bolt upright at that scream, then puts heels to steed. The well-trained sandsteed, sleek and swift, leaps to a run. But a hundred riders do not quickly spring from a canter to a gallop without some jostling and so it happens as they try to win free of the gap. Caught in the scrum, it is all Caitrin Blackmont can do to keep beside the captain.
It might be the most difficult hour for sentries to stay alert, the false down, but this is a battle-hardened host. If the northerners failed in spotting the Dornishmen early, they do not fail in reacting to the scream and Tomas’ cry now. Other voices ring out; startled oaths, questions, commands. And in bare moments, men are scrambling out of tents and bedrolls. Most are only half-clothed, some entirely naked—but they all carry weapons or grab the closest ones to hand.
And as the Dornish stretch into a gallop, there is a wicked susurration. Entire clusters of northerners disappear, some snatched off their feet, others simply dropping; the Dornish javelins do bloody work. Another round, and yet more northerners fall. There is pandemonium by now, the alarm well and truly spread.
Then, the Dornish are just a few moments from plunging between the tents and the captain bares a wicked axe. “Ride over them!” he cries. “No stopping!” His own horse barrels straight towards Tomas.
Alek looks up at the host of Dornish approaching. “Damn! Reynes! At arms! Dornishmen in camp!” He rouses the last of the Reyne Pikemen. Mainly by kicking them and other uncouth awakenings. He runs forward, dirk at the ready, coming to the side of Ser Tomas. “Alas, good ser! We meet at the forefront of the enemy!” He calls out to Tomas, a few of the easily woken Pikemen starting to form behind.
Caitrin draws the wicked long knife from its sheath and keeps hard to Laurent’s side. With him, she spurs onward toward Alek and Tomas, letting fly a wild cry of encouragement to the sandsteed.
Tomas stands his ground firmly as those horses gallop toward him, turning to look at Alek from the corner of his eyes very quickly. His demeanor holds nothing of his usual calmand friendly manner however as he yells at the Reyne knight. “GET THOSE PIKES SET SER! NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR COURTESY! IT WILL FALL TO YOUR MEN TO MEET THIS RUSH!” With that he steps forward only once, hefting his oaken shield, painted the Tully colours, up to his shoulder so as to defend himself better. Waiting till the very last moment, the sword master throws himself onto the opposite side of Laurent to the female rider and lashes out with a backhand cut, aimed to open the man’s gut as he rides through. The blade lashes out like a steel viper’s tongue, wielded with the skill granted only by long years of rigorous training. It seems that he will not allow himself to be held responsible if these men escape.
And the Dornish are among the tents. Steel clashes against steel, horses whinny, men scream. Tents are cut down or simply ridden over, the snapping canvas making the nightmarish confusion even more so.
And as for the captain, he does not even bother countering Tomas’ blow; a man with a longsword is little threat to a rider at full gallop, and upon a sandsteed at that. Leaning away from the Riverknight’s whistling cut, the Sand Dog merely nudges his mount with his knees to send it swinging wider of the other man.
And careens into Caitrin’s mount.
It only causes his sandsteed to stumble momentarily—but that is enough for it to plunge straight onto Tomas’ sword. The gallop turns into a headlong plunge onto its knees; it whinnies shrilly, blood spraying from the great vein in its neck.
And the Sand Dog throws himself out of the saddle with desperate skill and a shouted oath. It is enough to save him from being crushed, but he hits the ground with bone-rattling force, axe flying from him as he rolls along the ground.
Alek growls in reply. “Pikemen, form up! Defensive Formation! Let no Dornish dog pass!” A roar of acknowledgement from the Reyne Pikemen as they quickly form up a defensive perimeter. Alek blinks, noticing that the bastard of Tully had scored a glancing hit on a rider, causing chaos. He notices the man’s weapon fly from his hand. Alek acts on impulse, running forward, dodging any horses oncoming, reaching the axe, placing a boot on it to attempt to prevent the owner retreiving it.
The blood-spray from Laurent’s dying horse catches Caitrin across her side as she struggles to keep her own mount in hand, the beast stumbling and staggering from the collision. Finally she is forced to leap free as it goes down. “Laurent!” she cries, her voice shrill as she seeks him among the charging, plunging horses and the sword-wielding warriors. “Laurent!”
Tomas splutters as he turns away from the hot spray of horse blood, almost instantly coated from crown to groin in thick red liquid. Spitting out some of the coppery gore with a disgusted expression and throwing his head to one side so as to clear some of the blood from his eyes, the knight turns in the direction which Laurent fell. His blade flashes up to drive beath the raised arm of a Dornish rider as he passes, the man preparing to apply the finishing blow to a northern knight with his spear. Giving the blade a quick twist before yanking it out of the other man, the bastard knight barely even breaks his stride. He does smile some at the thick and fresh red which coats his sword, but that lasts only a moment as those blue eyes scan the area, seeking out that Dornishman who’s horse he felled. That man had appeared to be leading the group, so it was him who Tomas sought out. In the intense confusion of clashing weapons and panicking horses though, spotting one man was a very difficult feat to accomplish.
More and more northerners are racing from the other parts of the camp; the Dornish are perforce slowed in that tangle of tents and enemies, but they have the momentum still; the break in the countervallations is agonisingly close. The pikemen add to the problem; some of the Dornish simply ride wide of them but others cannot avoid plunging into them. Horses go down in a tangle of thrashing limbs, dying but creating holes in the ranks of the pikemen with their weight.
As for the Dornish captain, he lies as if dead for a moment or two; then, slowly, painfully, he rolls onto his stomach and gets his hands under him, then pushes himself to his knees, blood dripping from his brow the while. And a northerner, stark naked, runs screaming towards him with axe raised, balls flapping obscenely. It is a sight from the deepest hells.
And the Sand Dog, driven by pure instinct before he even seems to fully understand what is happening, draws the dagger from his belt and buries it in the northerner’s groin, catching the descending axe-haft with his other hand. The naked men keens and folds, a river of blood flowing over the hands he claps to his groin. Seizing the axe, the Sand Dog staggers to his feet. Only then does he seem to hear his name being called.
“Caitrin!” he roars, whirling in a circle. “Caitrin!” Then, he sees Tomas advancing towards him and stops, hefting the axe.
Alek drops the dirk, scooping up the Dornishman’s axe, watching the scene with the naked man. He growls lowly, advancing on the man. He perks, hearing the call. “Laurent?” He mumbles, hearing the shrill calling of a woman. He disregards that, swinging the axe single handedly towards an oncoming horse, hitting, purely by luck, one of the legs, causing the sandsteed to whinney loudly in pain, toppling over with his rider yelping and flailing as he’s pinned under alot of horse. He keeps advancing, seeing Tomas advance on the same target.
Caitrin manages to get to her feet, only to drop to her knees again with a shrill cry of pain. When she rises again, it is to limp in the direction of her name. She is a scrappy fighter on foot, however, so even with her injury she manages to bury her long knife in the throat of a half-dressed attacker.
His blood sprays in a wide arc when she yanks her blade free and as he falls, she helps herself to the dirk he lets fall from lifeless fingers. All the while, the Dornish horses plunge and rear and some begin to win free. But some don’t and these hamper Caitrin’s progress. She falls twice more, the second time in a mire of dirt and blood from Laurent’s fallen horse. Then she is at his side. “Dog,” she gasps, slipping once more.
Tomas demonstrates clearly why there are men in King’s Landing who argue that bastard of Riverrun is the deadliest sword in all the Seven Kingdoms; as a Dornishman who had somehow been parted with his horse leaps at him from the right hand side, just as he catches sight of Laurent and Caitrin. Barely taking his eyes from them for a moment he paused and leans backward just so, allowing the spear head to whistle past his face, so perilously close that he could feel the air which it displaced. His longsword would be wrenched up with frightening speed then, severing the haft of the weapon halfway along it’s length. Momentarily releasing his grip on the hilt of his sword, the knight turns his hand over so that the blade runs along his forearm, turning just slightly so as to bury the blade almost to the hand guards in the shocked warriors bowels. Even before he withdraws the blade, a mixture of red and goopy gore and darker, thicker excrement flow from the wound as the man writhes and screams, gripping the blade with both hands in a vain effort to wrench it free of his body. All the while the knight watches the Sand Dog and Caitrin, unaware of their identities. However, that look says one thing, and one thing only. ‘Look hard, this is your future.’
Dazed as he is, half-blinded by blood, there is nothing wrong with the Sand Dog’s instincts; he catches Alek advancing as well and half-turns to keep both men in sight, backing away slowly, cursing under his breath the while. Clearly, he means to escape, not engage them.
And then, the woman gasps his name and he backs into her. Seizing her by the back of her tunic, he pull her to her feet. And his cursing increases in virulence as he sees her limp.
For a moment, his indecision is clear in the way he stands, gauging the distance between the two of them and the approaching northerners. Then, he pushes her hard towards the pike line: “Find a horse. Ride north.”
And he sets himself to meet Tomas and Alek.
Alek stops, looking at the naked man that the Dog had seperated from his manhood. He freezes, looking from the dead man to the Dornish bastard that did this. The dead man was a sergeant in one of Alek’s old axe regiments from when he commanded the Reyne forces. Tears of rage suddenly cloud the man’s eyes. He remembers training this man from a fresh recruit. He looks back to the Dornishman. “You bastard!” He yells, running forward, adrenaline pumping, the axe raised above his head, heedless of his broken arm. He wanted to make the Dornish scum pay.
Caitrin looks torn for a moment, but she is about to obey until she hears Alek and looks up to see him coming. So instead of finding a horse, she puts herself between Alek and Laurent, slashing out with her knife to catch him under the arm—she hopes—and possibly stop him.
Tomas wrenches the blade free of the now erratically convulsing foe, his blade shearing off the tips of several fingers and sending them flying into the air with thin streamers of crimson flowing behind. His blade is coated in thick red gore, deeper coloured faeces and even dangling here and there with a piece of the man’s digestive tract. Sneering in disgust, Tomas flicks his blade in a cross cut that sends the revolting coating of his blade well away from either himself or the Sand Dog. After all, there is no need to be rude. Rapidly he approaches the other knight, shield and sword set into the correct duelling positions as he gauges the size and weight of his opponent. After all, he did not become of of the very best by underestimating his opponents. “Are you willing to face the Stranger, ser? Or will you yield?” He raises his voice just enough to be heard above the din, knowing that even in Dorne they would have heard of him. His smile is cocky, though not so much that one could say he is overconfident. Clearly, he enjoys his work.
“Piss off,” is the Sand Dog’s succint reply.
Only half his attention is given to the Riverknight; the rest has been captured by Alek’s screaming charge. Swinging half-around—always keeping Tomas within his field of vision—he catches the back of Caitrin’s tunic again, pulling her away from the threat of the axe even as he follows up her slash with a backhanded cut across Alek’s chest.
If he did not choose that moment to curse—“A horse, you daft bitch! Get out of here!”—it would have seemed an exquisitely coordinated attack instead of the accident it is.
Alek quickly brings his plastercasted arm into the path of the knife, the small blade digging in and sticking to the plaster, cutting into Ser Alek’s flesh. He growls slightly in pain, pulling back, potentially yanking the dirk from the woman’s hand. It was fortunate that Laurent had pulled Caitrin back and slashed at the same time as Alek pulled himself back, the slash missing the Reyne Knight’s chest by mere millimeters!
Caitrin keeps the blade in her hand, but this time she listens to Laurent and reels back from the fight. “Horse. Right.” And she turns to limp a few feet away and catch at the reins of a rearing sandsteed. It is only luck that gives her the words to soothe it; she pats its neck and smoothes its nose before putting foot to stirrup.
Tomas is a knight of principles, even if he is a warrior at heart and there is no honour in attacking a man who’s back is partially turned, especially after issuing a challenge such as he had. He does snarl somewhat in irritation as the Sand Dog half turns his back on him, taking the opportunity to wipe some of the blood from his face. “Turn and face me ser, or are you craven!?” Even as he speaks the words though, his eyes flick rapidly to the woman as she prepares to mount the sandsteed. “After her ser Alek! We must allow none of them to escape!” A quick practice cut is made then, arching diagonally across his body, from high on the right to low on the left, sending a spray of yet more gore hurtling through the air. He does not advance any further though, awaiting the Sand Dog’s reply. Apparently, he is expecting a duel.
The Sand Dog, clearly, has no such compunctions. For a northerner comes reeling by at that very moment—one of the rare, fully armoured ones—blood streaming from a head wound. And in a heartbeat, the Dornishman has torn out his throat with a slash from his axe and propelled the heavy weight of the man directly at Tomas with a violent shove.
And clearly he has heard the Riverknight’s instruction to Alek for he throws himself at the Reyna knight with short, chopping blows, then.
Alek salutes roughly. “Aye, ser!” He growls, darting forward after Caitrin before he’s intercepted by Laurent. He howls out, the weapon the Dornishman weilding cutting into his back. Alek trips, falling to the ground, squirming in pain, now attempting to get away, unprepared for Laurent’s sudden onslaught.
It takes two attempts and a howl of pain before Caitrin is in the sandsteed’s saddle and spurring it toward Laurent. “Dog!” she shrills, reining in beside him and extending her hand.
Tomas holds back a frustrated roar as he rushes forward, light armour allowing him to cover the ground between himself and the man the woman addresses as ‘Dog’ in a second. Throwing all his weight behind the charge, the Riverknight raises his shield and throws his shoulder behind it, tilting the oaken barrier just slightly so as to slam the rim into the back of his enemy’s head. He is not heedless in this rush though, his longsword brought down to, at least partially, cover the lower portion of his form.
The Sand Dog spares the briefest of glances to see the woman reach the horse safely. Then—Alek ignored now that he is down—he whirls to meet Tomas’ charge just in time. Even so, he is not able to sidestep it entirely; the shield catches his shoulder and sends him spinning away.
Steadying himself, he attacks the other man with ferocious skill. In lesser hands, the axe would have seemed a clumsy weapon; he makes it sing through the night, using its head-heavy momentum to build swift, curving blows.
But it is clear from the first moment that it is a losing battle. Dazed and bloodied, he is just a fraction slower than he should be, a touch too careless.
Then, the horse plunges into the duel. And he stares up at Caitrin open-mouthed; clearly, he had not expected this. But only for a moment and then he is reaching for her; their hands meet and grasp, his slick with blood. He steps towards the horse.
Alek groans, wincing as he tried to sit, howling out again. “D-Damn it! Dornish bastards!”
With all her might, Caitrin hauls back on Laurent’s hand, trying to pull him into the saddle. At the same time, she tries to start the horse out of the fray, the beast already sidling anxiously and whinnying. “Up, damn you,” she cries hoarsely to the Dalt knight.
Tomas is caught off guard somewhat by the ferocious counter attack, barely managing to guide the first blow over his head with the flat of his sword, the second though, since he is more prepared, is met with solid painted oak as the Tully shield is thrust in the way. The axe head bites firmly into the wood and through it, shearing an angry wound in Tomas’ forearm which immediately wells with blood.
As Laurent attempts to climb into the saddle, the Bastard of Riverrun growls in frustration, casting the ruined shield aside and glancing back at the wounded Reyne knight for only an instant before making his decision.
The flat of his blade—or mostly the flat at least, for it is angled just slightly to cut into the animal—is brought around in a two handed cross-cut then, aimed to slap the sandsteed firmly on the rump with all the force that his powerful body can muster, a loud and wordless cry of rage escaping his lungs even as he makes impact. He does not want the Sand Dog to ecape, clearly and will make sure that if he does so then it is as uncomfortable an experience as possible. Right now though, his priority is the knight of Reyne.
The hope of escape has made the Sand Dog careless; he turns his back fully to Tomas, dropping the axe and trying to get a foot in the stirrup atop Caitrin’s as the horse whinnies and sidesteps skittishly. It is lucky for him the Riverknight chooses to save his comrade. But that blow to the sandsteed’s rear makes it neigh shrilly and leap forward.
And Laurent is dragged along for a good dozen paces before he is able to half-pull himself up behind Caitrin with her help. Even then, he is barely secure, clinging on to her desperately. “Through the tents,” he pants, trying to secure himself. And indeed, all the tents to the right of the pike line have been trampled down, clearing a path to the gap in the defences. Even now, the last of the Dornish are plunging through it, leaving almost a score of their company dead.
Caitrin wastes no time. When she is sure that the man’s grip is secure, she shrills a whistle to the horse, puts her heels to it sharply, and plunges through the gap with the last of the Dornish to make good their escape from Yronwood.
Tomas growls in anger and frustration as the Dornish make good their escape, though he takes some grim satisfaction both from the awkwardness of the Sand Dog’s departure and the number of Dornish dead and dying. A small smile crosses his face briefly, that damaged shield arm lifted slightly so as to minimise the flow of blood. Grunting in annoyance at himself though, the knight turns and dashes toward Alek and puts his hand behind the Reyne knights head, attempting to sit him up with his one good hand. He has to place his sword back in it’s sheath to do so, though with the enemy making their escape it no longer seemed to matter. “Ser Alek? Ser! Can you hear me?”
Alek groans in pain, bringing himself back into conciousness. “S-Ser Tomas…” He smiles weakly. “I-I think I’m injured, s-ser…”
Tomas grunts in annoyance at himself for allowing his comrade to be injured so out of a desire for personal glory, though he knows that he was well within his rights to demand single combat against the Dornishman. “Can you stand, ser?” The knight glances at his own bloody arm with concern, wondering whether it is strong enough to carry the Reyne knight if he is unable to move by himself. “I promise you, that craven Dornishman will pay…”
“Ser Alek!” A man yells out, a solitary pikeman, a lieutenant, running forward. He stops by the prone figure of Alek Reyne, looking to Tomas. “S-Ser…Is he…?” The lieutenant stammers.
Alek groans. “Alas, ser, I am unable to stand. And at ease, lieutenant.” He growls at the pikeman.
Tomas looks up at the man with furrowed brows, offering a shake of the head even as the man enquires about his former commander, before looking down in shame. That lasts only a moment though, before his previous commanding presence returns and he snaps around to face the lieutenant. “Help me with him. We must get him to a maester!” With that, he throws Alek’s uninjured arm over his shoulders and places his hand across the man’s back. Once the pikeman has a secure grip on him, the bastard knight would lift Ser Alek upright, not even considering that the pikeman might be less than careful with the knight’s broken arm.
Alek yelps in pain as Tomas roughly grips his injured back. “Easy, ser…I’m rather fragile at the moment.” The pikeman is, indeed, alot more careful with Alek’s injured arm. Seems he knows of Alek’s fury at those who do him ill.
Tomas just chuckles at Alek’s comments, making as light of the situation as possible, so as to allay the Reyne knights concerns. “I’ll make sure you’re even more fragile if you don’t shut up, ser” The words are spoken over the top of a laugh, the bastard shaking his head even as he carries Alek toward the maesters tent. In the confusion, the maesters will likely be very busy indeed, though Tomas knew that if Alek’s wounds were serious, he would most certainly be given a priority.
Alek grunts. “Do not jest, ser. I am far more than capable of breaking a bastard like you…” His voice is slurred due to lack of blood. It’s clear that the Reyne knight is not of his right mind. Drunk on bloodlust and adrenaline, and also due to a lack of blood, the knight cannot be trusted on his word.s
Tomas sets his mouth tight then, a single heavy breath forcing it’s way from his nose at the words of the Reyne knight. Knowing that blood loss is affecting the words of the Reyne warrior, the bastard resists the urge to dump him on the ground and seek out medical attention for himself alone. He offers no other words to the knight now, glancing across at the pikeman, fire raging in his eyes. Normally the dreaded ‘b’ word would not have bothered him so much, but Ser Tomas is enfuriated by the escape of those Dornishmen. Better to remain silent for now, it seems.
Alek groans lightly. “For-Forgive me, ser…That…That was uncalled for, ser…” He stammers, seeming to have realised his mistake.
Tomas simply nods some at that, picking up his step just a little in order to carry Alek to a maester sooner. The loss of blood is obviously affecting Ser Alek and it causes Tomas some concern. Most men step out of they, though some have to be roughly shoulder barged, in order that the knight can maintain his step. “Have no fear, Ser. We’ll get you to a maester and you’ll be fine.”
Tomas ducks into the maesters tent, looking somewhat sheepish after his meeting with the king’s steward. Ser William Waxley had delivered the king’s decree regarding the fighting earlier and whilst he had received a good scolding, Tomas believed that he had made away lightly. He would stand by the canvas doorway to the tent for a time, watching as the maester in attendance spoke with Ser Alek quietly. He had no desire to interrupt that particular conversation and so he would wait.
Nothing found.
Alek is barely concious, but is a bit more lucid than before. He is describing to the Maester exactly what has happened.
Tomas wanders slowly over to the bed, smiling softly all the while. “I see you are getting back to yourself, Ser…” He would offer a slight nod to the maester then, who gives him a nod in return. His eyes make the point to Tomas that he should not take too long though, since the wounded knight would need his rest. His right hand would come up tp scratch at the minor axe wound on his left forearm, which has already been stitched up by another maester. “How do you feel?”
Alek smiles lightly. “I’m fine…Thanks to….To you, ser…” His breathing is ragged and shallow, he’s pale and tired-looking.
Tomas chuckles and simply nods, though he says nothing more on that particular matter. “What did the maester say?” His chain armour has been removed now, replaced with a simple red wool doublet. The buttons on the front are dark blue, though the reference is understated. His sword still hangs at his waist, though it appears that it has been wiped clean, along with the rest of his body. The last time Alek had seen him, he was spattered with gore from man and horse alike.
Alek grunts, wincing. “They say I’m lucky. That bastard Dornish barely missed my heart and lung…”
Tomas would nod slightly at that, his strong and square jaw set in a firm line that indicated his disgust at the mention of the Sand Dog. “That craven will pay… Both for the injury which he has done to you and the insult done to me.” He would shake his head then, offering a slight sigh. “Ser William Waxley, the king’s steward, came to see me. He has given me news on the king’s decree regarding these events.” The bastard looks somewhat forlorn there, making it apparent that the king’s news is not entirely good.
Alek frowns lightly, attempting to sit up, a maester nearly pouncing on him. “We told you not to sit up, ser.” “Aye, I know what you told me, maester.” “Then, please,
Ser Alek, stay down!” “Fine…” Alek resigns himself to lying down. “So. What news did the king give?”
Tomas would step back slightly as the maester came over, not wanting to interrupt the scholar in his work. Once the man had wandered back off, Tomas would smirk slightly at the Reyne knight cowed by a bookworm. Not that Tomas didn’t respect the knowledge or practices of the maester, the image of it was just humorous.
“His Grace has decreed that the watchmen whom were on duty last night are to be set to work digging latrines for a few days…” He would sigh then, looking at the ground as he considered the implications of what he was about to say. “...I, am to lead the next few foraging parties in the desert. I think it would have been much worse, if I had not been who I am.” He would chuckle awkwardly at that, suddenly realising that it was the perhaps first time in his life he was glad for the circumstances of his birth.”
Alek smiles lightly. “I guess it can be favourable to be of your status at times, eh?” He coughs slightly, wincing. “Did Ser William mention me, perchance?”
Tomas chuckles just a little bit and shakes his head. “It wasn’t my natural birth that saved me I think, ser.” Another scratch at the wound on his arm, though less intense than the last one. “It was my connection to House Frey and the fact that I am a nephew of the Lady Tully.” He’d smirk then and offer just a little bit of a shrug, before shaking his head. “It doesn’t appear that you’re in trouble Ser. It seems that the guards were watching me at my practice, rather than going doing their work. It is for that, that I will be punished,”