A still mist envelops this stretch of kingswood, and if there’s the scent of smoke in it, it is a distant one—the fires that engulfed the kingswood has been dampened, by storm and rain and word of efforts by foresters and local lords to contain it. The host’s encampments, stretching for a league and more, is also quite still, and has been the last three days, as a petty lord’s towerhouse has served as a place where the king’s ravens can fly to deliver messages… and more importantly, messages are able to find the king quickly. And those messages have not been good. Rumor has run through the army of what has happened: of the scattering of the royal fleet by the same storm that helped douse the fires (but made for a sodden pair of days), of an ever increasing account of men still accounted for, and most importantly of the loss of nearly all the supply train. Men have been set to scouring the woods for forage, and what supply remained has been rationed, but there is only a matter of time before the host must either move or disperse.
And as it happens, each morning finds empty tents, as levies and even knights decide to slip away from the host entirely. Suffice it to say, King Aegon is not pleased.
The formerly jovial demeanor of Ser Lorence Blackwood has chilled significantly. It is a stark change, from buoyant and blithe to grim and dour. No longer gregarious and boisterous, he now only speaks when necessary, eats when he must, and does what work he must. So this is what it takes to sober him up, literally and figuratively.
Otho is among those nobles assembled, the Valeman clearly has seen better days, trudging through fire, smoke, rain, and the worst… mud. Between him and his squire, it has been difficult to keep the armor perfect, but it has at the very least been kept clean, though his surcoat not as easily; fortunately one of the upsides of bronze and black is its forgiving nature in such matters. The Royce knight has tried to keep himself busy helping his uncle in maintaining discipline and order amongst their force, though today he is near the towerhouse to see if any word has arrived to be relayed back to Waymar.
Taking off his half-helm Luthor approaches the tower and spotting Otho he steps to his side, “Otho, any fresh word?“he asks quietly
He watches the proceedings with a solemn expression on his face, his mismatched eyes scanning the group. The news is grim. The royal fleet, one galley captained by his own uncle, lost to a storm, and many knights, including his former master, missing or worse. Grim, indeed. He sips again from the goblet and scowls, his displeasure matching the fourth Aegon’s.
King Aegon has been riding about the camp, the remaining knights of the Kingsguard and a few household knights riding with him. The king has stopped at times, to have a few words with a lord or knight, or to trade some bawdy japes with men-at-arms and serjeants, but more often he looks grim and unhappy, especially when he passes dead cookfires matched with the empty tents of deserters. The further away he’s ridden from the royal pavilion, the more common they are, and the grimmer his expression.
Lorence was in the middle of snapping at his squire when the king and his entourage come into view. He stand straight, bowing his head as his sovereign passes. “Your Grace,” he intones gravely. Grim. Focused. This is our lord of Blackwood.
Otho nods to Luthor and Jon in greeting, though he then follows it with a shake to the two, “None that I am aware of today, though I only recently arrived. But it means no ill news, at least.” The Valeman tries to take a step to realize he has found a particularly soggy patch an takes a moment to wrench his foot free of the mud. Otho then finds a more sturdy and dry piece of ground before seeing the king and affording a bow and a solemn, “Your Grace.”
Tired, muddy, wet, and hungry, but alive, Ser Merys Lydden, followed by his cousin and squire, is returning from one of the many tents set up for the injured, checking on those within. At the approach of Aegon and his men, both Westermen mimic the Blackwood and Royce knights, and offer the King their greeting, bowing their heads. Looking down, the heir to Deep Den cannot help but think how his armor, in the the green and brown of his house, look perhaps a bit too much like colors that have been haunting the memories of all those who still survive. He grimaces slightly at that. “Your Grace.” Merys speaks, but his voice is quiet and low, with none of its usual friendly and affable ease.
“No fresh ravens, my lords,” he says, his voice low and even. “I take it you have heard of the royal fleet? Scattered by storm. It would seem we are all just rats on this sinking ship.” Of course, when the king approaches, the Hightower dips his head low. “You Grace.”
A nod for news of the fleet, “Grim tidings, my wife must be beside herself her brother and father sailed with them.”
Further comment is halted by the arrival of the king and Luthor bows his head offering his own grim “Your grace,” to those offered by his companions.
While some of the knights offer him cursory greetings, Dermett Corbray says nothing. A once fervent belief that Sunspear would fall has given away to simmering frustration as the reality of their situation becomes apparent. His armour caked in the the scum of a hard march and an even more brutal fire, he stands with his arms crossed with Lorence and the other Blackwood men.
The Corbray heir hears the tail of Malwyn’s words to the others and he shakes his head in dismay, his lips curled in disgust.
“Good ser knights,” the king says, raising a hand in salute. “The Seven’s blessing on you.” References to the Seven are generally accompanied by foul curses, from this king, so it says something when he mouths these words without imprications; Baelor the Blessed, he’s never been. He looks at the men, and then to his guards and companions he says, “We’ll tary here awhile.” A squire leaps down from his own palfrey, and runs to take the reins of the king’s horse as Aegon dismounts. His regal garb is immaculate, not showing the wear and dirt of travel, but then it’s said his household brought a half dozen great chests filled only with such kingly raiment… and he has washerwomen, it’s said, to keep everything quite spotless. Among other uses, it’s also said.
“I’ve brought some wine from my own larder, Ser Luthor,” he says, looking to his commander of the City Watch. “Something to share with your fellows.” And indeed, a man-at-arms has also dismounted, as the others do, and tied to his saddle are several heavy sacks. One he opens, and withdrawn from it can be seen a small cask with the instantly recognizable mark of the Arbor burned into its side.
“Have any of you happened upon any of the lost Reachman in your sorties? I have met with few signs of those missing since the fire…”
“Ah, Ser Malwyn, you came to war well provisioned. I have heard tell of the Royal Fleet. Lord Velaryon and Ser Myles’s forces scattered. More grim news, but none since.” At Malwayn’s next observation, Jon’s jaw tightens. But then, he is bowing to Aegon, “Your Grace.” Jon stares, a bit taken aback by Aegon’s pristine appearance, and the cask of arbor wine—now so precious—as they wait with naught but what might be foraged. “Your grace is too kind.”
As to the sorties? Luthor says “No Reachmen as yet, but I found my healer, badly injured but breathing still, with some of the survivors, he was close to the blast so if he made it there is hope for any who have not yet been found,” he says with a meaningul look to Malwyn as the man’s former mentor is among the missing.
The wine and the king though have Luthor’s full attention shortly after, “A welcome gift your Grace I can say we found nothing so fine in our foraging,” he says looking about for cups wishing he had not sent his squire away so soon.
“Ser Myles should have /never/ commanded the King’s flagship in the first place,” Dermett says to Jon in a quiet hiss, merely repeating his much earlier reservations, “though perhaps the Sea Serpent himself would have struggled in such a storm.”
Then he steps forward, placing a hand across his chest as he bows to Aegon.
“A vintage worthy of the King’s most dedicated servants, sire,” Dermett calls out to Aegon, echoing Luthor’s words, “we thank you for this most welcome boon.”
“It is good your healer lives, ser,” Otho quietly notes to Luthor and then as the King speaks, he nods quietly, and then blinks as he realizes that the king is dressed immaculately. He then blinks as the tension among the other nobles is mildly present. He affords Luthor a smile at the honor of receiving wine from the king, and Arbor Gold to boot. Even as one not known to overindulge in wine, after the days they have seen, even Otho is intrigued by the cask, to which he gives a bow to the sovereign in thanks.
“Might I also inquire about the state of the campaign, Your Grace?” he asks respectfully. “I have taken the liberty of sending word to Oldtown, requesting that they send food and supplies at once, but it will be a few days until I hear back and longer still for any provisions to arrive.”
He glances over at Dermett, his expression cool. “It is unbecoming to talk ill of a man who could be dead, Corbray, and unproductive to assign blame for the loss of the fleet. No man can claim domain over the weather, not even a king. We must work together to find a solution to this crisis, not point fingers or question His Grace’s wisdom.”
Pale green eyes remain down for a moment longer, though Merys slowly makes himself raise his head. “Your Grace is too kind.” He offers softly, an attempt at a smile trying to tug at the corner of his lips, as he quickly bows his head again. He then remembers himself, and offers quick nods of greeting to the other men present. His quiet demeanor seems a bit off-putting, given his usual nature. He does, however, curve a single curious brow at the exchange between the Corbray heir and the Hightower knight.
“I’m not blaming anyone for anything, boy,” Dermett snaps back at Malwyn, visibly irritated, “nor am I speaking ill of the dead. Did you take one too many tumbles from your horse when Janden was teaching you which end of the lance to hold?”
His face still twisted into a fury, he strides forward and takes up one of the cups that Jon has laid out on a stump. He helps himself to the silver.
“Let us drink to those who have fallen,” he says, loudly so that all around may hear his rallying words, “and to the streets of Sunspear running red with Dornish blood. “
Aegon does not hear the chatter about the fleet, but the mixture of pleasantries with more guarded gazes and quieter whispers do not entirely elude him. “I’ll drink to our honored dead,” Aegon says when asked, “and for full bellies for the living.” But how will he accomplish that? He moves to find some empty camp stool to sit on, and around this gathering more men begin to wander nearer, to get a glimpse of the king, to hear what he has to say, because it seems he’s decided to be talkative. “But first, the wine. We cannot toast anyone, living or dead, without cups.”
When Ser Jon provides the cups luthor nods his thanks. As the Lydden heir joins them too, Luthor gives the man a welcoming nod, the ride free of the flames far from forgotten.
“Here let’s get this poured then,” he says of the wine, and when Dermett takes the silver Luthor makes certain the gold remains for the king seeing him served first before cups make the rounds to the others.
As to the toast? Luthor echoes the first part at least.
Otho winces at the macabre speeches, but he too takes a cup when he is given an opportunity to be served, affording a quick nod. “But yes, to toast the fallen would be fitting,” and a silent prayer for those who live. He joins in the toast while putting on a brave face, because even in such dark times, some joy must be found, even if it is a cup of Arbor gold.
A lone rider approaches from what would have been the head of the march. Adorned in riding leathers and mail so not to weigh down his mount, Ser Balon Selmy bares the weather of his constant riding. As he approaches the group his face is marred by a look of concern and shock at the surrounding he has returned to. Upon seeing the King, he offers an hasty tilt of the head, “Your Grace.”
Wincing slightly at the mention of more bloodshed, even of Dornish blood, the heir to Deep Den silently curses to himself, irritated at his own behavior. He’d always been an open book, but now it felt wrong do be so. How could he dare to act so… ungrateful, in front of the King. To the King, even. Merys had been first off his horse to help the King when Aegon was thrown from His, this was his monarch, his liege, the greatest Lord of the Realm… The Lydden then put all his effort in mustering a semblance of his normal affability, thanking Jon for the cups, taking one for himself and one for his Lefford squire. At the newest arrival, he offers a nod of greeting.
“To old fallen comrades.” Malwyn raises his cup and drinks darkly.
With his cup filled, Aegon lifts it up and says, “May the Seven keep the good men we’ve lost, and hold them in esteem in the seven heavens.” And then, after a moment, with a grin, “Good weather, good marching, and good food for the rest of us would also be appreciated.” And with that, the king drinks deep from the cup.
He does not, it seem, have much thought for Sunspear running red with blood, however. In fact, after another swallow, aware of the eyes and ears on him, he finally says, “Dorne shall have to wait, of course, Ser Malwyn. Young Lord Tyrell will be dispatching ferries filled with grain and beer and other victuals up the Mander. A good portion of the host will follow me to Tumbleton, while I mean to give the stormlords and others leave to return to their seats. I have the maesters writing writs, permitting hunting in the wood, and foraging as necessary, for those who choose to go home.”
There’s a few sounds at that, at the peripheries. The promise of food, of shelter… that’s welcomed by the common men, at least, and some of the knights. But others here what’s not spoken of: the war on Dorne has ended before it began.
Scarce believing what he has heard, Dermett lowers his cup and takes a step closer to Aegon. His quarrel with Malwyn is forgotten with these new tidings.
“Do not lose heart, my King,” he says, “we have come too far and lost too much to turn from our path now. Sunspear will fall. The finest knights of the age have flocked to your banner, to fight your war. Dorne is weak and ripe for the taking. We are all still with you, sire.”
Otho listens and it takes a few moments to sink in. They are going home. A combination of relief and grief race through the ambivalent knight and it leaves him stunned for a moment, though Dermett’s words give him pause for a moment. He takes a long drink and looks to see the King’s reaction.
Dermett’s words are not pleasing to the king. The smile he gives the man does not touch those purple eyes of his, and instead he nods to Luthor, “As Rivers says. We will regroup, and bring fire and blood to Dorne, I promise you that. Next year, I am sure. We’ll replace the ships we’ve lost, perhaps even have better dragons made.” A pause after that and then a nod, more to himself than anyone, before he takes another swallow of wine from his camp stool.
Not everyone likes the sound of more pyromancer’s piss-spewing engines, but no one seems willing to tell the king that. But that he’s definitely calling an end to the campaign… well, that’s news, and men from the outskirts of the conversation are already rushing to spread the word.
Pale green eyes widen slightly, the realization dawning on the Lydden heir. A flicker of hope ignited within him. Then, the mention of ‘dragons’ causes a soft gasp, one he quickly hides with a cough. Though as much he wishes to return home, Merys yet remains duty-bound to his King. Echoing Jon and Balon, he too steps up, off bows his head to Aegon. “As will I, if you shall have me, your Grace.” He says, determined. Those eyes betray his uncertainty a tad, but they also show the sincerity.
It is never good to question the word of a King. It even foolish to do so a second time.
“Next year,” Dermett says, repeating the words of his King, finally admitting defeat. The cup of Arbor wine, scarcely sipped, he places back onto the tree stump in silent disgust.
Saying nothing more of it, he turns and departs from the gathered group in a black mood indeed.
“That’s a pleasing thought,” Aegon says, seeming to mean it. The camp followers have been all well and good, but… As to the rest, when Ser Balon asks of when the host will march, the king says, “We’ll march on the morrow, those of my household and the crownlands who will return to King’s Landing.” One last drink of his cup then, draining it, and he raises it up for someone to take from him before he stands. Be adjusts his sword in its scabbard, and his cloak, after he does so. “If we’re quick about it, we’ll be there in a few days. Lord Footly has already been informed of our intentions,” he says at last, “and there’ll be a feast awaiting the lords and knights in my following, and more food besides for everyone else.”
“You’ve carried enough messages, Selmy. March at ease for awhile,” is Aegon’s reply, as he moves now to reclaim his horse. A knight of the Kingsguard offers a boost up, while the squire passes the reins to the king once he’s back in the saddle. Pointedly, he does not respond to the question of the dragon skulls that the Footlys acquired in the Dance; he doesn’t want to be reminded of _real_ dragons.
When Luthor asks permission to carry on, the king stops him and says, “Rivers, have your second do that, and come along with me to my pavilion. There’s more drink, and food.” And then from the saddle, his gaze sweeps through the crowd of gathered men, eager to hear what he says. And so he addresses them, “We’ll soon be in Tumbleton, good men! Feasts await, and a return to your homes, your wives… mayhaps your mistresses, if you’re lucky, eh?” The king grins, and raises a hand in salute, and then he and his companions turn back to return to the royal pavilion.
Merys bows deeply to the King, Orcan quickly following after him. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He offers, though his mind is already thinking of how then to help about the camp with these new plans. “I shall join you I think, Ser Jon. If I may. The wounded will need to be seen to and preparations made for them.” He offers upon hearing the Roxton’s suggestion, after which he offers a gracious nod farewell to the assembled company.