The ditch around the siege camp that encircles Yronwood, looming tall and resolute, has been completed. Even now, men labor to complete the earth stockade behind it, a wall to defend the thousands of men the king will leave behind to prosectue the siege and keep the Boneway clear. The sounds of digging, of hammering mallets setting sharpened stakes in place, of craftsmen raising a gate, fills the area. So, too, does music: a musician, singing some Marcher ballad to an audience under a stretched awning: King Daeron, his steward Ser William Waxley, two of the Kingsguard knights, and some other notables.
Tomas drives his ragged band of men toward the ditch that surrounds the camp at a quick canter; wincing with every movement of his horse. Behind the nose and cheek guards of his helm though, the slight motions at the edges of his eyes and lips are barely noticeable.
His son and squire rides at the Bastard of Riverrun’s side at the rear of the cluster. Their swords are drawn, joined with the weapons of two hedgeknights to whom Tomas could not have put a name. Relief clearly shows over the faces of the men whom lead the covered wagon which Tomas had managed to once again requisition for foraging purposes, though those who encircle and guard the vehicle as it moves have bowstrings taught and arrows notched, obviously still too wary to lower their weapons.
For himself, Tomas continues to look back behind him, a hand reaching up to touch the cloth wrapped around his shoulder, now slick and red with his blood.
“Get inside and have that food delivered! You aren’t going to let one encounter with a couple of fucking girly Dornish unman you, are you?”
He turns and grins at his son then, as the men pick up the pace some, though he does not, nor does he cease to look back along the line which they followed from the South. Their party is somewhat smaller than normal for a foraging party, an obvious indication of trouble along the way, if nothing else.
Though there’s wine and music and shade, the king does not seem idle. The doublet he wears is half-open, and sweat is on his brow as he pores over a map of Dorne on a table, while Ser William Waxley consults with him. A servant brings a fresh cup of wine, as Daeron frowns at the map, as if willing the shape of Dorne to change at his command. Then, one of the Kingsguard—Ser Osbert—leans over, and gestures away to where the Bastard of Riverrun has entered the camp.
The king lifts his gaze, purple eyes tracking where directed, and with a curt word he turns back to his map. Ser Osbert bows, and then sets off across to where Rivers is. “Ser Tomas!” the knight from the west calls once near enough. “The king desires a word with you.”
Tomas glances back toward the camp swiftly as his name is called, offering a curt nod to Ser Osbert even as he sheathes his sword. Then, without a word, he slings that long left leg from his stirrup and slides from the back of the chestnut mare.
A few gentle pats on the neck and some soothing words were offered to the animal then, though he was quick about it, not wanting to keep the king waiting any longer than was necessary.
Handing the reins off to Hothor, Tomas strides swiftly over towards the kings awning, straightening his swordbelt around his waist and wiping ineffectually at the thick red gore that covers his breastplate with a piece of silk cloth.
However, once he reaches the king all thought of his appearance is lost, the bastard removing his helm and offering a low bow to his grace. All the time wondering what it was which the king wanted to speak to him about.
Not more punishments, surely?
“More oranges, Ser Tomas?” the king asks, when the Bastard of Riverrun is before him. A ghost of a smile is on his lips, but he looks past the man to where the remnant of his foraging company are, and the smile fades. Then, the king’s voice takes a turn, stern and questioning. “What resistance did you meet, ser, and how far from Yronwood, and in what direction?” A finger taps his map, emphasizing the questions. “In two days, we leave for Godsgrace. A difficult crossing, made no easier if the Dornish lead us a chase.”