Morning has brought no relief to Godsgrace; not from the heat, not from the dire situation in which the defenders find themselves. The long room high in the keep—a council chamber, to judge by the maps spread on a heavy table and chairs strewn here and there—is flooded with sunlight from the broad casement that looks out towards the walls and the plain beyond. In the distance, the twinkling of steel can be seen and the sluggish sense, more than sight, of movement, like some great beast patiently waiting until it is time to hunt.
Voices echo in the chamber, arguing, perhaps unwisely with the door open as it is.
“...tonight, then when? Shall we sit here and wait for them like rats in a hole instead? To the hells with that. You can stay here and suckle on your aunt’s teat like a scared babe, Galayn. I am not so minded.”
The Sand Dog is withering in his scorn; Galayn Allyrion, facing him, is flushed with anger, near shaking with it.
The slender woman at the window, bathed in sunlight, stirs as the voices rise. Caitrin Blackmont turns from her contemplation of the world outside and regards the two men impassively. “Keep your voices down,” she says after a moment. “Things are bad enough without letting every scullery maid and potboy hear you as they pass.”
The Speardancer fairly leaps into the chamber.
“Hahah!” he exclaims speaking to someone behind him, “No, I’m not dead yet, but thank you for asking… Though not for lack of trying by that damned cockleshells knight.”
A rare frown creases his handsome, bearded face as he remarks, “I thought I put him down too… Though maybe it was some knight with oysters on his chest or something.” Michael rubs his head, wandering around the room. He grins, “Maybe he knocked some sense into me, eh?”
A few steps behind Ser Michael, and much more soberly, enters the Prince’s Keeper of the Sandship, Ser Perrin Blackmont—erstwhile general, and now trapped here with so many hundreds of others. Including that prancing knave, his cousin Michael. He shakes his head and tells him, “You’ll be the death of yourself yet, cousin, with these antics. The Warrior’s smiled on you, but you can’t expect it to last.” He turns his gaze, then, to the others in the chamber. His daughter catches his gaze, and there’s a nod ... but he’s much more remote with her lover. “What goes on here, Ser Laurent, Ser Galayn? And why isn’t Lady Geleria here?”
The Allyrion knight opens his mouth—for a heated reply, by the looks of it—then bites down on it at Caitrin’s reprimand, flashing her a chagrined look. Laurent, however, seems unaffected by it and ready to tear into him again. At least until the others enter; he has the sense to break off then.
“Ser Michael. My lord of Blackmont. Is she not with you?”
He gives Galayn a flat look before turning away: “And nothing at all. A disagreement about tactics. Galayn is feeling the heat today.”
“Oh, please!” the Speardancer retorts, spinning on his heel and backstepping lithely, “You’d keep the Stranger fit company with your humors, coz.”
Turning about again, he peers at those in the room, “Ah! Dog! And you, Caitrin, are you playing with this mongrel? Mind you, he has fleas!” He laughs.
To Laurent, Michael sketches a bow and says, “No, Ser Laurent, it was not my turn to watch her.” His bearded face splits into a grin.
“Michael,” Caitrin says in greeting to him, smiling fondly. She starts toward him, carrying the sunlight with her in the warm golden silk she wears, but then her father comes in behind him and she falters. “Hello, Father,” she says in a strange tone, half formal and half… what? Hopeful, maybe.
But the crack does not stay in her smooth facade. Caitrin moves to stand near Laurent. “Lady Geleria asked me to say she will be along directly. Something to do with the wall defenses.”
She flashes a grin at Michael. “Fleas may be plucked off and killed, cousin. I do well enough.”
“She’s a punctual woman,” mutters Ser Perrin, still by the door. When Caitrin speaks, though, he nods to his daughter. “So be it. I’ve grave concerns about the walls, to be frank, from what I’ve seen and the reports we’ve had in Sunspear. A tight-wound man, with many cares on his shoulders—and certain fears gnawing at his belly—he moves to sit himself down at a seat, though he leaves the high chair for the Lady of Godsgrace.
“Once Lady Allyrion is here, we’ll have matters to discuss, concerning provisioning and quartering my men.” He looks to Ser Galayn and notes, as if preempting an argument, “They cannot camp in the town square for days, when half the houses are empty.”
Galayn inclines his head in—if not acceptance—acknowledgement, still flushed with anger: “I have made my concerns known to Lady Geleria, my lord. It is for her to decide.” He moves to the table as well, pulling out a chair and courteously gesturing for Caitrin to take it; he seems to be made uncomfortable by Speardancer, doing his best to avoid looking at the man: “Although I will say that those houses are not entirely empty. We have men who need a place as well.”
Laurent, for his part, snaps his teeth at Michael like a snarling hound in truth, although he seems more amused than insulted; he glances at Perrin, then: “Perhaps you could share what was in those reports, my lord.”
“Mayhaps,” Michael says casually, “But they also leave you with an itchy rash.”
Smiling, he looks over at Ser Perrin. He punches his fist into his opposite hand saying, “I say we go out at night and attack them! They would never expect it!” Narrowing his eyes pensively, a smirk on his lips, he adds, “Or! I can ride out and meet up with Rhodry and the rest and arrange a counter attack!”
Looking over at Laurent, he wags his handsome brows at the Sand Dog.
“We’ve little left to throw from the walls as well,” Caitrin notes, moving to the sideboard where wine is ready, and filling goblets. It is a thin sour red, but unwatered. “We can always pull down one of those empty houses and throw the building stones.”
As she says this, she puts a goblet down before Perrin, then hesitates before touching his shoulder and moving on to bring wine to Michael and Laurent as well. Finally she brings a cup for herself and for Galayn, sliding into the chair he offers. “Would you like to have a look at me for rashes?” she asks Michael, arching her brows and giving him a come-hither gesture. But she sobers quickly enough, and simply listens for a moment.
“Please, child!” the Speardancer says, carelessly waving his wine cup about—he does not spill a drop, “My amazingly beautiful wife would be cross with me should I look upon another.”
He hides his face behind the cup as he drinks, his eyes darting over at Perrin with a glint of mirth.
That makes Galayn finally look at Speardancer; stepping away from the chair as Caitrin sits he shakes his head and says flatly: “Impossible, ser. Daeron is no fool and neither are his commanders. We’ll not take them by surprise. There is no sense in throwing away our men. Better to save our strength and wait for Prince Rhodry and Ser Mavros to make their move.”
“The same old song, Galayn?” It has a sharp, mocking edge to it as Laurent takes a chair of his own: “It begins to grate. Find a new one.” And to the room at large, he says, “I am with Speardancer. The longer we let them sit there untroubled, the bolder they will grow. And the harder the assault upon the walls when it comes.”
“Not take them by surprise?!” the Speardancer asks in mock alarm and repeats, “Not take them by surprise?!?”
A bemused perplexity is in the look he gives Galayn as Michael says, “We’ve surprised them at every point! Not that we’ve been successful, mind you.” He shrugs, “They’ve surprised us too… That mad bastard Meros and his damned clever tricks!”
He makes a wry face and drinks. Shrugging, he exclaims, “But this time it will work!”
His daughter’s touch relaxes Ser Perrin perceptibly ... but her words to Speardancer—her cousin, after all—leads to a frown on his lips. He scratches at the side of his nose, until the expression’s gone. It’s hard to keep it, when Michael’s playing the knave. “Please, cousin,” he sighs. “A moment of silence. We’ll consider your ... plan, afterward. But we’ve more immediate concerns.” With that, the knight turns to regard Ser Laurent. “I’ve done a survey of part of the walls, and there are sections where mud there’s little more than mud brick and rubble filling gaps. I cannot see how—
The door opens, and Lady Geleria sweeps in: old but stately, beautiful even in a remote, imperious fashion. “They’re crumbling, Ser Perrin, because the boy king made sure of it.” Perrin rises and offers a bow to her, and her distant kinsman as well. She moves along to take her accustomed seat. “He knocked a dozen holes in my walls, four years ago, and left us without the means to repair them soundly. He offered to pay ... but only enough for what you see. He _meant_ Godsgrace to remain vulnerable. Do you think it’s coincidence that the duties he placed on goods on the Greenblood were so high, while everywhere else he was generous? The Young Dragon may be little more than a boy, but he’s not green. We could never afford to improve the walls, and he knows it. He knows exactly where the weak places are, having made them in the first place.”
There’s a rising heat in her voice, and she cuts off then, and restores some order to herself. After a moment, she finishes, voice flat, “These walls will not last two weeks. Not with the engines Velaryon has brought him. Half a dozen breaches, and he’ll take the town with ease, and with it Dorne. So if we’re to talk, Ser Perrin ... best to discuss plans that do not depend on my walls.”
Pointing at Galayn, the Speardancer winks, “See? Attack!”
“We have been saying -that- since Yronwood,” Caitrin says wryly to Michael. “And it only barely worked there. We only escaped Yronwood by a hairsbreadth and a handful of luck.”
She drums her long fingers lightly on the tabletop, listening to Geleria and watching her father. Then there is a light slap as she flattens her hand. “No, he is not green,” she says of Daeron. “But I have been before him, and what he -is- is confident. He is so damned -sure- of himself that he cannot quite get his head round anyone who openly defies him. If we cannot take out his army—and we cannot, not from here—we must find a way to take out -him-.”
The Sand Dog rises as well, bowing to Lady Allyrion; for all his harshness to her cousin, he is the picture of courtly grace to her, even battle-marked and worn as he is: “No, my lady. They will not hold, as you say. Not as matters stand now. And that is why”—he includes Perrin in the look—“we must teach them to be cautious. The longer we take, the more time Rhodry and Ser Mavros have to regroup and make their move. Or—”
He breaks off as Caitrin speaks, then finishes after her, “—or find a way to remove Daeron from here, yes. A feint perhaps.” He shakes his head, “If we had a sure way to send word to Rhodry and the others…but even the river gate is an impossibility now, with Oakenfist here.”
Galayn, meanwhile, sits by his aunt, his mouth a thin, hard line as he sips his wine.
“Oh, I’ll do it!” the Speardancer says, the image of handsome bravado, “Give me a swift sandsteed and I will sally from the gate like the buzzard of Blackmont! None of those fat mares the interlopers ride can catch me!”
Grinning to himself, he looks at the cup and takes another drink. Nodding, his eyes narrowed, he says to himself, “Yeah… I’ll get word to Rhodry and the rest and then we’ll crush them in the night like bugs under a rock. It’ll be fun!”
Michael smiles, evidently pleased with his own idea.
“That’s grave news,” says Ser Perrin, who slumps in his seat at it. “And the Planky Town taken—at least enough of it for Oakenfist to get ships and men through—makes matters worse. Hoping that Prince Rhodry and Ser Mavros could break their lines of supply and starve them seems fruitless, when their ships can bring all the supplies they wish from the Reach.” He shakes his head, and frowns. Speardancer and Caitrin give two very different plans, and the Keeper of the Sandship sits in grim silence as Ser Laurent speaks.
“Knowing the Prince,” he says with a certain reticence, “he is not likely to sit and wait long. With Uller, Lord Orlyn, and the rest advising him, one must hope whatever he does is sound.” Implying that it might not be, otherwise. He shakes his head, and is left to ponder his cousin. “That may be our best hope. To get word back and forth with the army, and coordinate ... something. Something to break this siege, at least.” His gaze slides to Caitrin, and he adds, “I do not see how to kill King Daeron, not in the midst of all his power, his White Swords and knights all about him. It is one thing to say the deed, another to accomplish it, daughter.”
Finally, Galayn speaks; he does more, pushing back his chair, he stands and drains his wine first as if to fortify himself. Putting the cup down, he braces his fists on the table, white-knuckled: “My lords. Caitrin, my lady aunt. You will not like what I have to say. But it must be said.”
His voice almost sounds choked and he does not look at Lady Allyrion: “If there is no way to get word to them—if the prince tries whatever he has in mind and fails—we have fought the northerners at every step and at every step they have pushed us back. We have made them bleed but we have bled as well. And we have no more strength to thrown against them.”
“Perhaps it will be time to seek terms.”
And even before the Allyrion knight finishes speaking, the Sand Dog is on his feet, his chair crashing back. “A plague on you, you craven whoreson!” he rages. “Seek terms? Crawl to the boy-king on our knees? I would kill him as soon as speak to him!”
“Hah! Cowardice!”
The Speardancer says, laughing. He takes a drink and guffaws, “Yes! A fine jest! Let’s surrender when we’ve got them right where we want them!”
“Father…” Caitrin begins, her voice placating. But then she pauses to listen to Galayn, her eyes widening. “That’s it,” she says to him. “It is time to seek terms.”
Then she rises to lay her hand on Laurent’s arm, blue eyes blazing. “Don’t you see, Laurent? Father, if it’s treachery… listen, all of you.”
Caitrin draws in breath, but her eyes are shining. “Listen,” she says again. “We ride out under the rainbow flag of truce, and we take his death to him. What are the lives of one or two of us, after all, with all Dorne weighed against them? Kill him by treachery.”
Ser Perrin starts to speak, shaking his head, looking to Lady Allyrion as he does so. But Caitrin has her idea, and Perrin ... Perrin’s left silent for a long time. Geleria fills that silence. “Yes,” she says, simply. “That may work. I do not care for honor, not when my people’s lives are in the balance.” And then, she adds doubtfully, “But ... surrendering the town? I must do that myself, if it is to be believed. I am many things, but a warrior is not one. I’m likelier to bed the boy than kill him.”
Perrin, on the other hand, has a different reaction. “No,” he says, quite firmly. “Impossible. I will not support it. It was one thing, to rise in rebellion. Tyrell was a tyrant, and the boy king did not care. We had the right. More than the right. But Prince Marence would never countenance this. Never.”
“Murder the boy now and we will be called cowards,” Michael says with a frown, “Afraid to face them in another battle… outplayed by a slip of a boy who hasn’t even known his first bedding.”
The Speardancer crosses his arms and shakes his head, “No, I’m not murdering some child just because it’s easy. Sure, we could lure him to a trap! But how could we pray to the Warrior again, knowing we had shirked from battle in favor of an assassin’s dagger?”
Holding up his hand he asks, “Where is the glory in that?!”
“No.”
Galayn stares at the women as if they have gone mad: “Ride out under a banner of peace for treachery’s sake?” He swings to Perrin and Michael in appeal: “This is madness, my lords! We broke our oaths because we had reason. This…this will curse us in the eyes of gods and men alike.”
Caitrin looks on her father, and suddenly she is the hardened woman who has come into being since she left Sunspear, not his young, pampered Cat. “Father. I have done any number of things in this fight that Prince Marence would never countenance, and all for his sake.”
Suddenly, however, she flashes a grin at Geleria. “I tried bedding him. He wasn’t interested.” As she speaks, she is moving around the table, letting her hand trail over Laurent’s shoulder briefly before she comes to her father’s side and kneels beside him.
“So many awful things, Father,” she says to him, almost too softly for the others to hear, though Michael might. “What is killing a king to one already damned, if thousands might be saved by it? We can fight and we can die. And Daeron will march on Sunspear unresisted.”
“Our immortal souls,” Perrin starts, and Lady Geleria scoffs aloud to cut him off.
“The Father will judge us,” she tells him. “Perhaps he’ll judge us less harshly for this than for letting ourselves be ground beneath the dragon’s claws, and our people with us,” she tells him, that stern, wise lady.
Again, Ser Perrin shakes his head, and he gives Ser Laurent a sullen, accusatory look, as if blaming him ... for what? His daughter’s sins?
Raising a brow, the Speardancer asks, “Is this what you women talk about while we’re not in the room? Who you’ll murder next?”
He remarks, “I shouldn’t let Katrin out of my sight…”
The Sand Dog, however, has an entirely different reaction than the other men; still after his outburst, he listens to the argument rage around him. And then, as his paramour passes him, he stirs.
“I piss on your gods. And I piss on your glory.” He bares his teeth at Galayn and Michael, part smile, part snarl. And meeting Perrin’s gaze, he steps around the table to stand beside Lady Allyrion: “Prince Marence would never countenance it. But Prince Marence is not here. Rhodry is. And he will do it. I would wager my life on it.”
And he swings around to Geleria. “I would wager my life on it,” he repeats. “Ride out, my lady. I will ride with you.”
“Rhodry would rather see the Stormbreaker dead… or bed him, Dog,” Michael says with a laugh, “I think you’ve misjudged our beloved Prince!”
Caitrin sighs and rises again. “I think my lady and I alone understand what must be done,” she says, turning to hold Geleria’s gaze for a moment while she stands between father and cousin. “It is the ruthlessness of a mother, I think, to do what must be done for the good of her children. I would look to the Mother, not the Father, if either of them exist at all. Dorne is in desperate need of her mercy.”
She sends Laurent a very queer look then, but says nothing. She remains where she is to cast her cousin an amused look. “Not even Rhodry would try the Stormbreaker. That big bastard would rend him hip to hip!”
Perrin’s lips thin, as the others speak, his own daughter against him, and the Sand Dog, and Geleria. Only that capering madman stands with him, his cousin. He sighs and, finding it easier to discuss, he says, “You missed it from the walls, daughter. The prince and Ser Sarmion crossed weapons. The prince barely escaped with his life, though that was more every knight on the field seemed to aim themselves. He is conspicuous, in his copper armor, and reckless…”
He shakes his head, after a silence. “I do not think this should be done, with Prince Rhodry unconsulted. He might be willing to murder a man under truce, I’ll grant you,” he says. “But ... not without another attempt, not without knowing what will happen.” The Keeper of the Sandship frowns, and adds, “And if there’s anything I do know, it’s that if the Dragonknight lives, he may well lead the army on. If the boy were killed by some ... assassin,” he says, making that word a curse, “the army must be prepared for it, to take what advantage they can.”
Lady Geleria, haughty after Ser Perrin’s refusals, seems to at least consider that with some seriousness. “Ser Perrin is right. It may be best to consider how to bring our plan before Prince Rhodry, so that the army is poised.”
“Hahah!” Michael says, leaping to his feet, “So, I ride!”
He strides around the room, “I will ride when the moon sets! I will take the best steed in the stables and be at the Prince’s side ere daybreak!”
The Speardancer continues, “Then, in a few days, we will flank the invaders and rout them, freeing Godsgrace! Yes, I can see it now!”
A few days since the defeat of the combined Martell-Blackmont forces by the timely arrival of Oakenfist, the Dornish defenders attempt to break the siege of Godsgrace. They attack at night so as to sow and exploit confusion amongst the Targaryen ranks.
Galayn sits again, slumped as if in despair, still shaking his head; he seems dazed at the speed with which his suggestion has taken matters in a completely different direction.
“True enough,” the Sand Dog concedes easily, perhaps too easily. His earlier anger is gone entirely; his eyes are almost feverish: “Let me write to him. I know his mind well. You will read it of course, my lord of Blackmont.”
It is courtesy bordering on insult; he glances sardonically at Speardancer, then: “And you can carry it when you ride, ser. Your hour of glory approaches.”
Caitrin kneels again with a sigh and takes her father’s hand in her own, which are colder than they ought to be. Just that.
Perrin turns a sad gaze on his daughter, and gives another shake of his head. “You’ve lost your way, daughter,” he tells her then, quite openly. He does not remove his hand from her grip, however, instead turning back to Ser Laurent and saying curtly, “I will certainly wish to read it. And I will add my own dispatch, brief words only, regarding my readiness to hold the town as long as may be.” He looks to Lady Geleria and Ser Galayn and says, “What I said of houses to quarter my men—we must forget that. If there are any homes standing empty, we must destroy them, and use the stone and wood we can salvage to strengthen the walls.”
Lady Geleria’s lips purse, and then she nods. “So be it. I had hoped it would not come to it, but better to prepare in case ... anything unexpected happens,” she says. Such as a failure to kill the boy, or a failure to pounce when the moment is right, or any number of things that may happen. She stands then, and says, “Ser Perrin? A further word with you. Lady Caitrin, Ser Michael, Ser Laurent, Galayn—good day. We know what we are about, now. I trust you will do what you believe needful.”
“It shall be done, my lady!” Michael declares, “Tonight, I ride!”
Pounding a fist into his opposite hand, he adds, “Then in the days after… Battle! Hahah!”
It takes Galayn a long moment to stand. When he does, he stalks out without sparing a look at anyone, brushing past the Sand Dog on his way out.
But Laurent ignores it, inclining his head to Geleria and Perrin. Draining his wine, he too strides to the door, shaking his head at Speardancer’s declaration. There, he pauses and turns, calling to Caitrin as she kneels beside her father: “My lady.”
Caitrin rises only reluctantly, looking between her father and the Lady of Godsgrace. “Father…” she starts helplessly. Then she lets go his hand and turns to take her leave, making a curtsy to Geleria. “My lady, be well,” she murmurs, then joins Laurent at the door—pausing only to look back at Perrin. “If you knew, Father…” she begins, then shakes her head.