'Fears, I drink with jam and bread!'
-Taken from 'The Red Prince', performed famously by The Mummers Guild. The writer of the play remains unknown.
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Laswell of Bandallon was one of many acolytes who departed at the beckoning of Rhaenar's Call.
The Citadel dispatched numerous maesters and attendants to accompany the host.
The scholars of the realm were determined to seize the opportunity to travel, to document what they witnessed, to acquire knowledge, and above all to represent the institution to which they owed their allegiance.
It was on the seventh day of the army's occupation of Lys that Laswell of Bandallon managed into his quarters, tears streaming down his face.
With a trembling hand, he wrote thus:
'Dear Gods, Mother Above, what have we done? This is not the work of the Father, for there is no justice here. The Warrior is but a ghost, for his spirit offered no protection. The Smith has wrought only destruction. The Crone has clawed out her eyes. Only the Stranger walks this earth, and he has defiled the Maiden.
'This was not how it was meant to be.
'Hope is an illusion. All I have is duty, this word to which I cling, that alone keeps my sanity.
'I pray this account finds the right keeper.
'When the Prince sounded the Call, I, like many of my colleagues, was filled with wonder. A journey, paid for by Rhaenar himself, that saw a fifth of our number depart the Citadel to witness the resolve of our countrymen.
'Bright were those days as we watched them stream into Oldtown, noble banners flying as second sons, bastards, and smallfolk from across the Reach came to board the ships. There was endless talk of honor to be claimed, glory to be won, songs yet to be sung.
'There are no songs here. Only the cry of despair.
'We sailed long leagues, believing our noble quest to save Johanna Swann would carry us forward, only to find it barred by the Lyseni fleet. The Prince and Laenor Velaryon destroyed it in a single night. Then we waited, and for a time it seemed we might turn back without ever making landfall.
'If only that had been so.
'On the third day, the signal was given, and the army rowed into the bay.
'The garrison manning the high walls were mercenaries, lacking the discipline and loyalty to match the ferocity of the Rhaenari Legion. Once the walls were taken, the true horror began.
'The Westerosi — as one of the monikers by which our host had been fashioned — were given leave to enter the city. They landed in their thousands. From the bay, I heard the screams. After a time, it was deemed safe enough for the scholars to follow. That was when our innocence — if any of us truly possessed it — was stripped away, chipped piece by piece by every debauched act we were forced to witness.
'The siege swiftly devolved into slaughter — a festival of plunder and lust; a carnival of blood.
'With all resistance spent, the Westerosi moved street by street, house by house, door by door, doing as they pleased. In the fervor of war, it seemed each man was determined to leave no stone unturned, no bosom unbruised.
'It began with the men. They were dragged out in droves and had their throats slit. They were the fortunate ones.
'I saw… hundreds lined against a wall as Stormlanders loosed their arrows. Temples set ablaze, doors barred, their occupants burned alive.
'I saw men leap from the highest towers, brains splat upon the cobbles, choosing death over the spear points herding them to the edge.
'Once, a soldier boasted that his crossbow could kill ten men with a single shot. When no one believed him, he ordered ten line up, one behind the other. He aimed the bolt inches from the front man's neck and fired. Only two fell. In a rage at his failure, he beat the rest to death.
'I saw hangings; bodies limp from every ledge. Crucifixions.
'People with eyes plucked out, left to stagger like headless chickens until they bled to death. Ropes tied to each limb as horses were made to pull until the body was torn into six pieces.
'I saw the Goonies. I heard their laughter as they split open bellies and ordered the victims to run, round and round a spire, entrails unfurling behind them. Why did the Prince keep such creatures in his charge?
'I saw my countrymen – the very same who spent weeks at sea spouting chivalry – spend their seed in any woman they could seize.
'It didn't matter where they did it or who saw. One man tore a babe from her mothers arms , used it as a club to beat the husband to death. Then raped her on top of their remains.
'I saw one group order a father to rape his daughter, or else the wife would be raped to death in front of him, then his children, before they finally gave him a slow, tortuous death. The father did as he was told. The men just laughed and raped them all the same.
'Age was of no matter. The old crones with tits sagged to their ankles may have been dryer, but tears, they found, made for good lubricant.
'The pretty ones never got a break. They were passed around like playthings. Used over and over and over until the voice was pounded out of them.
'Each day got worse. Each act bore more evil.
'I prayed to the Gods and heard no answer. I told myself that this could not be. It must be a dream. Logic and reason were of no solace. So I turned to man.
'Where was Prince Rhaenar? The last we saw, he had flown to the grand palace atop the city's highest peak — and since then, he had not been seen. Was he content to let this happen? Why did he not intervene?
'I abandoned this line of questioning by the fourth day.
'One time hundreds were hogtied and laid out on the street as troops raced through the city on horses and galloped through their road of flesh.
'The Goonies placed rats in buckets against the victims' flesh and heated the metal until the rats, with nowhere to flee, burrowed through flesh to escape. This drew only laughter and cheers from onlookers, many of whom made the effort to attend the Goonies' gruesome spectacle each night, if only to see what they would come up with next.
'And the children. By Gods, the things I have seen done to the children…
Laswell of Bandallon had to pause his writing to dry heave, eventually vomiting stomach acid. He had not eaten in days and could not keep food down.
"Huff… huff…"
Laswell needed a break. Weak-legged, he stumbled outside.
On his first step out of the cabin, he had to leap aside as a rider thundered past, shouting "Out of the way!" — a corpse tied to the back, dragged along, leaving a trail of blood as the rider laughed and laughed.
Even on the outskirts of the city, the wailing of some poor woman carried through the air. He walked a few steps, then peered down an alley to see a woman pressed against the wall as a soldier assaulted her from behind.
He gazed upward and saw the same haze — a thin veil of smoke draping the moon like a fragile curtain. The fires raged on, carrying the stench of entrails, filth, and spent body fluids.
The air was so thick and suffocating that Laswell could barely breathe. He stumbled back to his cabin in haste, only to freeze in horror when he arrived.
His blood ran cold. On his desk, the paper that bore his confession was gone.
All Laswell felt next was the dragonglass dagger as it stabbed him in the back.