Blood of Dragons

The 'A Song of Ice and Fire' MUSH

Logs

The Death of the Young Dragon
IC Date: Day 9 of Month 6, 161 AC.
RL Date: February 20, 2010.
Participants: Almer Connington, Burton Crakehall, Caitrin Blackmont, Elmer Crakehall, Ermen Frey, Ethos Mertyns, Halyn Grimm, Luthor Rivers, Mavros Uller, Sorin of Sevenstreams, Symeon Westerling, Tancred Baratheon.
Locations: Godsgrace: Before Godsgrace.

Summary: Daeron's dream of conquest ends in blood spilled on the sands of Dorne.

The Dornish sun stands high in the sky as witness to the king’s triumphant moment. His siege camp spreads to surround Godsgrace, where four gaping wounds mark the holes his great siege engine Balerion—no man was judged to have found a better name, so the king threw out the seven-and-seventy dragons to the crowd of common soldiers and let them amuse themselves by fighting over the coins—had made in its walls. The Dornish army has approached in submission, flying no banners in token of surrender, save one: from a staff topped by a seven-pointed star, a rainbow banner flies, the symbol of peace. Five men ride under it, Dornish lords and captains all, their pride broken as they come to make obessiance to their rightful king. Their armor seems less bright than it did on a day of battle, and their cloaks are as listless as they are.

The Dornish sun stands high in the sky as witness to the king’s triumphant moment. His siege camp spreads to surround Godsgrace, where four gaping wounds mark the holes his great siege engine Balerion—no man was judged to have found a better name, so the king threw out the seven-and-seventy dragons to the crowd of common soldiers and let them amuse themselves by fighting over the coins—had made in its walls. The Dornish army has approached in submission, flying no banners in token of surrender, save one: from a staff topped by a seven-pointed star, a rainbow banner flies, the symbol of peace. Five men ride under it, Dornish lords and captains all, their pride broken as they come to make obessiance to their rightful king. Their armor seems less bright than it did on a day of battle, and their cloaks are as listless as they are.

The king himself and his four Kingsguard—Ser Reynard the Lord Commanderm Ser Olyvar the Green Oak, Ser Osbert the Breaker of Yronwood, and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight—is in his finest armor, and on his fair brow is the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, a band of Valyrian steel set with great rubies. He laughs at some soldier’s jest as he and his White Swords move through the camp. At one point, one man calls, “Three cheers for the Young Dragon!” And the many in the camp do just that: “HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH!” as their young, bold, handsome king sets forth to meet the Dornishmen. At the camp’s edge, the king pauses, and lifts his hand for silence.

“It’s about time the fucking Dornish know their place in this world.” Ethos Mertyns mutters under his breath to no one in particular. The knight is squinting in the sunlight, sloppy in appearance with hair half-heartedly combed back, beard scraggly, clothing wrinkled beneath his armor. As the king rides in, the man grins at the impending triumph before them.

The Westerosi army mills around in camp, an almost festive air to it. The brutal months of fighting their way acrosse these Gods-forsaken lands—long, blood-soaked leagues—are finally at an end. And even as cheers rise around the camp for their gallant king, men in other parts of the camp—most of them unarmoured now that the impending attack is no longer needed—wander near the picket lines to jeer at their broken foes as the Dornishmen ride forth to bend the knee.

But acclaim and insults both slowly fade away as word spreads from man to another that the King is going to speak. Those who are close enough to hear crowd even closer.

Less jovial is Ser Almer Connington. He, like the knights who choose to ride and fight with him, are resplendent in bright steel and silken heraldry, but there is a pall on their moods this day. For his part, Almer remains silent and sober in crimson and white griffin-livery, seeming to take small comfort in the impending events.

Tancred stands, looking for one since the middle of the campaign, as the heir to House Baratheon. His armor is once again parade ground polished, and mended to the best that can be in the field. The new beard he has is closely cropped and trimmed. He stands by his cousin during this. “Indeed, I am looking forward to getting out of these lands and back to the Storm Lands, or even Kings Landing.” A slight wistful tone in his voice as for the first time since the first battle, a tone of hope. “Back to Obany.”

His bashed and battered armor polished to a shine and wearing a fresh tabard Ser Luthor examines the mass of Dornishmen with a critical eye. “I still don’t believe it,” he murmurs to himself. He nudges his horse with a knee and it takes him to the fore of the King’s knights where he can get a better view. Joining the cheer somewhat half-heartedly, he loosens his sword in its scabbard. “Just in case,” he says to himself as he waits for the King’s words.

The hedge knight Sorin of Sevenstreams stands near the edge of the camp where the Doornish party is approaching, adding a cheer or two to the rest of the host’s. He is flanked by two of the more reliable hedge knights that were placed under his charge, both proven well in this battle. In constrast he stands in full armor, finely wrought Doornish pieces that he has collected on the battlefield. Also in constrast is his expression, a slight grimace. He does not seem to hope for an end to this conflict, it being the main source of his income of course.

Halyn Grimm, the young squire stands near his knight, Ethos Mertyns. Unlike his master, the boy is neatly attired and the expression on his youthful face is strangely adult. The war has aged him, it seems, and he will leave his boyhood in Dorne.

Not far away, with the other Stormlanders, is the massive Ser Endros Buckler. His body, already marked by battle, has a few new scars to add to his collection. The fierce knight is silent and serious, alternately watching his cousin, the King, and the Dornish commanders. Tucked into one gauntlet is a lock of his wife’s hair, now soiled with sweat and grime. Tucked into the other gauntlet is her missive to him, announcing the birth of their healthy son. Though his countence gives no indication, Ser Endros has much waiting for him at home.

Silence falls fitfully, but it falls. “We have fought long and hard for this, our victory,” says King Daeron, voice raised for these soaring words. “Now it comes, and it comes thanks to you, my brothers in arms! Know that no man of you will ever be forgotten!”

And with that, the gallant king and his four white knights ride out to meet the supplicants under the truce banner. Ser Reynard, the Lord Commander, carries the three-headed red dragon on black, the king’s banner.

The section of the camp where the Reachlords and Riverlords have their main strength is as festive as any other. Near the edge of the camp where the King speaks before riding forth stands the Lord-Protector of Highgarden, Ardon Tyrell, eyes shaded as he looks at the Dornish army. His rich breastplate—much battered now—is buckled on and his sword by his side, but he wears no other armour.

He seems to have just made a jape, for he is laughing even as the camp erupts in cheers around him again. His good-brother who stands with him—the Iron Serpent, also in half-armour—smiles and shakes his head: “They really do smile on you. Another day and we would have been pushing through those breaches.”

“Or you. Or all of us,” the Lord-Protector laughs again before looking around: “And where is my mad nuncle? I would have thought he would be here to see the show.”

A great moment in the king’s history, this, as he reaches the Dornishmen on neutral ground between the line of the camp and the Dornish force. The Dornishmen on their sand steeds seem unhappy, by the set of their bodies on horseback—it’s too far to make out faces clearly. Yet the foremost of them must be Ser Mavros Uller, the man many credit with beginning the rebellion, and with him are Lord Jordayne and Blackmont. The big, mass of muscle, Big Archie Wells, represents Lady Yronwood, and Ser Rufus Dalt represent his wife, Lady Fowler.

So do nearly all the mightiest lords have their representatives ... except the Martells, but perhaps that is where Ser Mavros comes in. Prince Rhodry Nymeros Martell is not evident, but with the flight of the Dornish when they failed to break the siege went the rumor that the prince had fallen—it seems to be true.

“We may not return yet, cousin. There are always the rabble to mop up that refuse to face the truth.” Ethos murmurs to Tancred, glancing between his cousin and squire, then turns his pale Stormlander eyes back towards the king. “But I suppose you will not stay for that bit of fun.” He says, smirking.

The stormlands stands in good array. Lord Swann and Lord Dondarrion keep their great forces in good order, those they’ve deigned fit to witness this event—the second surrender of Dorne. At their fore, the Stormbreaker sits, brother of the Lord Baratheon, chief of the Stormland knights, he has led them through victory after victory from Boneway to Godsgrace and now the capitulation of this conquered people.

Sarmion looks on, sitting his saddle like the mountains lashed by the Storms that give those lands their name. He waits to see an end to this latest struggle. An end that will bring him back to his young and lovely Hightower wife, Lyrissa.

Tancred grunts, and looks as if he has tasted something sour. “Oh yes, more sleeping in mud and the stench of blood and unwashed bodies versus clean sheets and a nice smelling warm body, who can argue against that dear cousin. Still, I am here as long as the King needs me, regardless of my wishes.”

Words are exchanged, of greeting, between the king and the supplicants. The Dornish army looks on, no banners flying still, so defeated when compared to the camp where men are eager to see the king make the Dornishmen kneel to him, and slap backs and shoulders as they start counting what rewards the king may grant them—his brothers! he called them—when Dorne is his. So many dragons for a sand steed, they count in their minds, so many dragons for a nobleman’s swordbelt fitted with plaquettes of gold and silver, so many dragons for silver and gold plate…

As the king and his embassy move out, Almer and his Stormlord companion-knights find their way toward the flower banners of his kinsman, Ardon Tyrell. He is silent, still, though pensive in his manner. Almer offers a curt nod to Dagur, then motions for his own squire to bring up his horse.

The ironborn knight returns the nod in kind, but his attention is focused on the Dornish party that rides out. “No Rhodry,” he finally says to no one in particular. “Dead, then. Or wounded badly enough that it makes no difference.”

His horse and his good-brother’s are led forward, and they mount to ride forward to where Ser Dalton Florent

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