A dusty road leads to this, the heart of Dorne’s defenses. The region about the town and castle of Godsgrace is marked by a wide, open area to the east, and the river to the west and south which pours into a canyon, soon lost to sight.
The town walls are marked by banners, the golden hand of the Allyrions flying bravely above them. The stone is old, much worn by weather, save for areas—here and there—showing the scars of King Daeron’s siege in his first conquest of Dorne; some parts of the wall have been repaired, after the king knocked holes into them with his engines and his mining. The town’s gates are guarded by strongly-built gatehouses, fortified in the months of Dorne’s rebellion. The walls are crowded with engines of war: scorpions, catapults, and trebuchets.
The river road leads past the city walls to continue down the Greenblood, while taking it north will lead out into the desert. The gates of Godsgrace loom, forbidding and well-guarded.
“Put your back into it Prester!” he yells at his former Squire who is among those pulling, which actually seems to agitate young Symeon more than it should, as he reaches over suddenly to his side, even as the yell leaves his mouth. The sword in his lap slips a little, and he reaches over to pull it back into place.
Meanwhile, Ser Symeon’s plain and unadorned armor, in case you are wondering, if off being smithy-ed back into shape, having been heavily battered on multiple occasions, his still being alive a testament to his fortitude, and less to his skill. He had no fought his best battle a few nights previous, and he knew it.
“The maesters seem to have done a fine job of stitching your wound, I see,” he tells the westerman, one soldier to another. His own wound to the shoulder has healed well enough—there’s only some stiffness when he makes any use of it.
The great, bronze gates of the Red Keep are one of the most dominant features in this western end of the outer yard. Buildings cluster along the walls and great drum towers are set into them to leave the central portion empty but for the constant traffic of men, wayns, and horses who have business in one part or another of the castle. The largest open space in the castle, smaller structures cluster at the walls—smithies, stables, barracks, granaries, kitchens, and more—while the centre of the yard is given over to the constant traffic of men, horses, carts, and wayns. Often the castle’s squires, knights, and guards spend their time tilting at the quintain, shooting at the butts set off to a side and partly bordered with wooden fences, or practicing their skills in other arms with a raucous and lusty clatter.
The open expanse of the outer yard’s northern quadrant is wide enough to admit the winds and weather beyond the keep; though lofty towers and the barrier of the postern wall border it, there is room to spare for the residents of the castle. The lawns here are well-kept, divided by footpaths which lead to destinations famous and common. And there is no lack of the former in this place; for branching from the northern yard are the seats of power for both the Royal Sept and the Kingsguard. A common gathering place for the nobles residing at the Red Keep is also found here in the form of the Old Keep, a long grey keep with a slate roof.
And indeed, on a day such as this it would not be unusual to see a mighty knight in Kingsguard White in addition to the lords and ladies passing to and from this area, or a wise and sacred septon about his holy business.
The young Westerling starts to push to his feet, using the one still fully capable arm to press himself up off the ground. Even in this small display, his muscles are well-defined in ways that his armor usually hides, his arms thick and knotted, “They did, your Grace,” he replies and balancing on one leg, bows a little. Holding his scabbarded broad-sword in the one hand while the other is extended far out to his side to offer him sort of counter-balance.
Perhaps a bit over-zealous, Ser Symeon suggests, “I should be ready to fight as soon as my armor is repaired, your Grace,” and hops a little on his good leg, his eyes going from the King to the trebuchet on several occasions. Clearly not wanting to miss it, this thing was something akin to the revenge he himself he had felt brewing in his heart since his fall of last.
Being the man that he is, he continues to hop there and keep his head inclined for far longer than anyone else would expect him to.
With a light grunt, Ser Symeon deposits himself and settles his sword across his lap. “As you say, your Grace, but I should think it is the grace we show when it is not expected,” he replies and watches the horses’ hooves, as he has watched all things that might trample his legs, laid out before him as they are. Shifting back against his seat, he looks up at the King he says, “Not for glory, your Grace, I only wish to do my part, if I am not fighting, then I am a burden on my horse and little else.”
As the trebuchet is drawn further and further into position, and that growing tension fills the air. It truly would be a thunderous collision when it hit, and Symeon was fairly anticipating the sound of it alone. He also silently prayed that no innocent would lose their life in its passing beyond the great crack in the wall.
and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the landscape.
“Mayhaps it would make sense,” muses the king aloud, “to use the other, lesser engines for a time. Fewer men, and less weight of stone, but less effort as well.”
The great stone, many times that of those used with the catapults, Ser Symeon replies to the musing, “If I might offer, your Grace, a smaller stone is more likely to penetrate deep within the wall, and to cause the populace to become fearful, but also likely later to hold you with enmity for those innocent’s lost,” on the other hand, “While the great stone cracks the wall, it also provides a means of attack, as it’s use is clearly military, and not an attack on the populace—so while it takes longer to break their will, I think that in the long run, you will find them more compliant, your Grace.” Looking down at his bandaged legs and side, and at the bit sticking out above his eyebrow, he adds, “Sitting here with nothing to do has given me time to think.”
Adjusting his sword slightly, he pulls it around to the other side, clearly concerned with how his weapon rests and at his ability to jump up and defend himself in case the Dornish come in quickly. Also, he has a growing sense of paranoia about scorpions in the sand, and snakes, but perhaps he has been sitting with the Maesters too long.
The young Westerling thinks on this for a long moment and only after a great deal of thought admits, “Your Grace is wise.” Turning his head slightly, he looks up towards the King and seems to debate saying more, but instead keeps his mouth shut and opts not to question the wisdom of the man’s advisors, and in so public a forum. Instead, his sandy features turn back towards the trebuchet, and he yells out again in time to the chant, “1-2-3!!”
The sling opens at the apex, and suddenly that great stone hurtles through the air. King Daeron watches the rock fly through the air, dwindling in size. It arcs down towards Godsgrace. On the walls, men who stood watch can be seen scattering from where it seems likely to fall, calling warnings that cannot be heard at such a distance. “A thing of beauty,” the king says, exultant.
The stone falls, crashes into the wall just where it was aimed. That sound can be heard from here, this time, a faint tumult. Dust floats from the walls, pulped bricks and mortar. And then, with a groan, that part of the wall collapses. There’s cheers and adulation, and the king laughs, in high spirits. “Such a thing deserves a name. We’ll call this engine Balerion, what do you say?” he asks his jubilant men.
Sitting up slightly, a hand digging into the ground to give him an angle, Ser Symeon watches and gives a cheer along with everyone else, just as impressed by this miracle of warfare. When the dust has settled, he too tries to relax back into position as those on the foreign wall do now. Settling back into position, he stares up at the sky and pushes back again, trying to be comfortable with all of his bruises and cuts and yet never finding any rest.
At the suggestion of the name, Ser Symeon suggests, “Such a grand name is fitting of such a grand creation, but what if it were improved upon, your Grace?”
“Horse thrower? Siege ender?” Ser Symeon suggests, not really having had time to think of a name for a machine he’d never heard a single word of before having seen it a few days prior. Thinking on it a little more, he suggests, “It certainly creates a big shadow, perhaps ‘eclipse engines,’” a pause. “I’m not much for naming things your Grace, I can’t even name my horse,” the young Westerling continues.
“Horse’s Arse, mayhaps,” some wit in the king’s retinue drawls, “or Thick Head.” There’s snorts and laughter mixed together, and the king ... well, he smiles. “Well, if some man comes across a better by tomorrow’s sunrise, I would be pleased to hear it.” He starts to turn, raising a hand to his retinue to direct them to follow him, when he pauses and reconsiders what he just said. “Indeed. I’ll put a purse on it, ser, now that you suggest it. Seven-and-seventy gold dragons, a holy number, to the man who gives the engine a better name.”
Jokes at his expense are not the sort of thing that Ser Symeon would normally let go, and today is no exception. Putting a hand back, he presses up off of the ground with one hand, and with the other wrapped gingerly around his broad-sword, he looks right at the man with the big mouth. “I don’t imagine that was in my direction, ser, was it?” he questions, as serious as the siege engine by which he stands.
Hobbling his way a bit closer, his boulder-like shoulders rolling a little as he half-walks.
And with that, the king decides it’s time to leave the engines, with men busy at half a dozen lesser engines, and already a rock or five have been flung, to little apparent effect when they did manage to strike the wall rather than fall short or sail over the walls.
“Of course, your Grace, I will put all of my limited skill at such things to the task,” the young Westerling knight replies and bows slightly, then looks back at the courtly knight with the big mouth.
Ambling a bit closer, he tilts his head to the side to look the other knight in the eyes, “On my honor, I think you are lying, I think that you have insulted me, and now wag your jaw like a Dornish-woman, do you dispute my claim? Do you wish to take up my challenge?” his eyes deadly serious.
And Daeron shakes his head. “It would be absurd,” the Young Dragons says firmly, and the look he gives Symeon is rather flinty. “You are mistaken, ser. A simple enough mistake to make, all considered. Get yourself some rest out of the sun, and think on a name for this engine of war.”
Ser Symeon turns his head slightly and bows his head in the King’s direction, “Of course your Grace, perhaps the sun has been getting to me,” he assents and with another bow and a hobbled movement starts to make his way back to the Maester’s tents, the sword swinging in one hand and the other balled up tightly, his knuckles as white as snow.