Chapter 70: Dorne XI
Early 162 AC
The heat of the desert sun was finally abating as it slowly disappeared beyond the western horizon. To think that anyone could live in this sort of wasteland, where so little green grew, it may as well have been made entirely of ice, for even mountains of rain-splattered stone could play host to small and scraggly trees and shrubs. Here?
"I fucking hate this place," Lord Tyrell muttered, taking a long swig from his waterskin, grateful for the water wagons his king had made use of in the other half of Dorne during the war, which had then spread to his governorship's authority soon after. They had saved lives time and time again when other wells were found dry or temporarily ruined by Dornish bandits, made unfit for anything that was not a beast or plant. Of course, these same 'bandits' were no doubt feasting on 'stolen' supplies. Ha! More like eating donations by the locals whose silent support had allowed them to so proliferate in these hellish wastes, despite all he had done to curb their presence.
Yet for the sake of his house's potential future, he stayed his hand from the pitiful conspiring smallfolk, refraining from overly leaning on the few Dornish lords that had managed to be convinced the Iron Throne's rule would serve them better than continued independence under the Martells. Though he buried it, to live as they did in these lands did bear some begrudging respect on his part, but the fact remained that his messages to the king had had to be… proofread to ensure nothing was amiss in those reports. A potential royal marriage was on the line, one House Tyrell could notafford to fuck up by failing to maintain order and integrate these sandy devils into the Iron Throne's rule.
Of course, he'd heard rumors of how the eastern portion of Dorne was faring under the Baratheons and the prince. Hard not to when the Dornish smallfolk seemed to hear about more of Dorne's business than he did, and he was paying people to bring him such reports as efficiently as possible. Irked by the apparent magic that was smallfolk gossip, he had tried time and time again to replicate some of the results in his western portion. He had water wagons, strict discipline placed upon the garrisons of Reachmen and others, devised rewards and boons to lords who had brought bandits to justice… he'd done all he could think of and more. Yet for every idea that had succeeded, at least one more had failed, and the tensions amongst the lords of the dunes and sandy wastes had been slowly rising these past few years, especially considering the lackluster food he'd been served in their halls did little to improve his goodwill towards them. Accusations of conspiring with bandits had led to more duels than he'd previously seen in his life, whispers of false attacks by 'bandits' upon lonely caravans, Reach and Dornish men alike seemingly to die randomly if they were just a touch too strict in their garrisoned towns, it was all just a mess. Gods, even just the food was driving him mad, as everything he ate was so filled with those damnable peppers that he'd have probably suffered less burns in his mouth than if he'd tried to eat hot coals! Water would have cooled coals enough to force them down, yet did nothing for those damnable peppers. Yet endure their foods, deviousness, and the swaths of desert he did, and would continue to do until his time as governor was complete and his sister was to become the queen of the now Seven Kingdoms. Only then could he return to Highgarden and lie in the cool grasses outside its walls as he had done as a boy, the gentle breeze of the Reach washing over him rather than this damnable wall of heat that seemed intent on boiling him within his armor.
To think he was in a cooler portion of these damnable lands, high among the towers of Skyreach, and yet the heat was still so unjustly vicious against him and his men. Some of the Dornish more in line with the Iron Throne's future for their lands had questioned as to why Skyreach, of all places, was to host the summit he had devised for Dorne, rather than his primary bastions of force in Nightsong or Sandstone. Though their concerns yet held sway over those beneath their station, Lord Tyrell was truly confident that this plan, unlike so many before, would be of greater success than all the others he had thus attempted. It had to, the success and reputation of his house was depending on it.
Dinner was once again a spicier affair than he would have liked, but he gave credit to the herders of House Fowler, as their goat milk and cheese did much to quench the fiery food. This did not, however, serve to quench the embers amongst the Dornish lords in attendance, for while many had answered his summons, many more had sent kin in their stead with vague reasons as to their personal absence. All had come with small retinues worth of soldiers and guards, no more than what would normally be necessary, but were it not for the number of his own men by his side, he would have feared them planning to accost him, to then be used as a hostage or just outright killed. Yet as he ate, his eyes did not deceive him as he looked upon the banners and the houses they represented.
There were clear divides amongst the Dornish lords, which according to the local lords he considered most trustworthy, had always been a part of Dornish life. Not so different from the other kingdoms in that regard, true, but in Dorne it was far less civil as far as he was concerned. He spied no less than what he determined to be four primary camps within the groups, the first initially divided amongst those who were under his own jurisdiction and that of House Baratheon's governorship. Yet as to why even amongst these groups there was a divide he could not say, only hope to keep at bay during these proceedings.
"My lords," he said aloud as dinner finished and the many, many taste testers sampled desserts. "I bid you welcome once more to the auspicious home of House Fowler, an ancient and storied house who has so graciously offered to be the location of a historic event in the future of not only Dorne, but the Reach and other kingdoms now united under the Iron Throne." His words garnered the attention of the gathered lords, but that small feeling in the back of his head, an almost crawling sensation, spoke of these men neither respecting nor fearing him despite the authority placed upon him by their respective king. After all, he had been unable to convince them to leave behind daggers for this gathering, something that any sane lord would have called off for being unable to control, but he was desperate for this venture to succeed enough to allow this to slip by. He had more than enough guards to keep him safe, so let them keep their weapons, even if it made him look weak. This same lack of respect was one he had long known from amongst his own vassals, but at least in the walls of Highgarden, he was far, far safer than he was here.
"As it stands," Lord Tyrell continued, "there are problems at hand that must be dealt with if autonomy is to be returned to Dornish hands in a timely manner under the banner of House Martell."
"As it should be," one man said, his symbol that of House Jordayne, likely an unlanded cousin. Murmurs of agreement spread amongst the gathered Dornish, though Lord Tyrell noticed it was not an even distribution amongst them all, regardless of which group they had settled into. This was concerning. "Long has the sun of House Martell kept our realm united against outside threats, and it shall rise again as the sun always has."
"It did little good against the young dragon king, but such is the way of the world, the old giving way to the young, the ancient to the new," another man said, his sigil that of Ladybright. Lord Tyrell knew that house had tried to assassinate the king, but the tales put it that the prince's quick eye and hand had sent an arrow into his gullet before that lord could attempt the foul deed. Was this the man's son, or perhaps his younger brother? "Yet as you have said, Jordayne, the sun shall rise again."
"Indeed, but as it stands the agreement for House Martell is that should they be granted the title of Lord Paramount of Dorne, the fosterage of that house's heirs in the Stormlands will not end," Lord Tyrell said.
"What of our kith and kin now outside of Dorne?" the Vaith man asked. "My lordly uncle had to send my cousin to Kings Landing as a hostage, but now I hear she is under the sway of Lord Arryn in the Vale. Did he think her unworthy of dwelling near him in the Red Keep?"
Though the king's letter did not so explicitly state as such, Lyonel did not doubt it was to protect the chastity of the young woman from the king's cousin. Rumors had long spread from Kings Landing of Prince Aegon's… proclivities, and while he did not mind it happening to the women of other houses, he would be damned if he did not secure his sister's betrothal to Daeron before letting her anywhere near the prince. "It is the king's opinion that to prevent claims of favoritism, hostages will stay with the respective houses outside of Dorne until the land is rebuilt and peace has resumed in full. I have petitioned for the return of some to yet no avail, but given time, I am confident that he will relax this policy in favor of fostering better relations. For any chance of your kith and kin returning to Dorne, however, we must show that Dorne has fully embraced its role as a new kingdom under the vassalage of the Iron Throne. For this, Dorne must remain unified in the goal of rebuilding what was lost, my lords, and perhaps grow back stronger than ever, as my own house has done since the days of the Conquest."
"Yet the troubles that plague Dorne cannot be so easily swept aside like the Gardeners were at the Fields of Fire, Lord Tyrell," another man said, his sigil and age marking him as an elder Yronwood. Not the lord, perhaps an uncle? "Just because the house of the dragon has taken Dorne does not mean our troubles before the war have magically disappeared into thin air."
"I have been told many times what troubles yet plague these lands, especially in the south and west, but I have seen little in the way of these issues being rectified," he replied. "All too often I hear tales of petty bandit kings and their ilk, striking from the desert like a serpent from among grass, and yet whenever I attempt to bring these animals to heel, they scurry like rats cast into the light and disappear into whatever cracks they can find. No matter the planning, no matter the local guides, they almost always manage to evade our men."
"The many crags and valleys of Dorne's highlands have hidden bandits for as long as anyone can remember, Lord Tyrell," the Yronwood said. "The origin of our mutual problem likely mirrors that of the Valemen, with older peoples and houses driven into lawlessness with the coming of the Andal adventurers many of us are descended from. Yet unlike the Vale with their mountain barbarians, the Dornish of those First Men lineages likely lost all their trappings of kith and kin, and instead draw from our ranks of bastards and disgraced scions to keep their numbers up, living on the edge of a knife in a land where the softness of more fertile pastures is the exception."
"The Wyls likely had such origins," the Ladybright man said, a short hush coming over the assembly at the mention of that extinct house before he continued. "Bandits maintaining a hold over a land long enough to become its lords through whatever tricks they could muster."
"Even if they know these lands better than I do, that does not explain how the locals of these lands, trackers and scouts and the like, cannot seem to find them when we seek out these cretins after they raid caravans or foul the wells!" Lord Tyrell remarked, managing to keep his tone civil.
More than a few lords chuckled, primarily those not under his jurisdiction. "Either those scouts are swindlers, Lord Tyrell, and taking you for a fool in exchange for coin, or those bandits are mere tricks of the mind brought on by the desert heat," one said. "It is not uncommon for 'bandits' to be mere attacks by a rival lord or someone in his domain, and the blame is then placed upon bandits that none can find. No doubt another similarity we may have to Valemen whenever there are convenient attacks by those mountain barbarians on their rivals."
"Regardless of who these bandits are, or even if they exist, there are more present problems within Dorne, ones affecting us all Lord Tyrell," another lord from his jurisdiction said. Lord Qorgyle had been most instrumental in putting down more than a few rebellious lords, strangling some revolts in their respective cribs with a few well-placed words or threats, and for that Lyonel appreciated him greatly, even if he could not always show it. "Though not the most pressing, the reports from the shores of Dorne are disturbing. In the absence of the few Dornish ships once available, ones yet to be replaced and manned by experienced crew after the war, the Essosi are looking to enslave any coastal hamlet or village they deem isolated enough to be worth the risk. Not since the fleets of the Iron Throne departed for their own ports have our lands been so exposed to slaver scum, not to mention rumored raids by errant Ironborn."
Lyonel noted the rather unified reactions of disgust and anger amongst the gathered. Good, good, he could try and use this to his advantage, as redirecting their anger towards such a loathsome and bestial foe would certainly remove their ire for him. "Yes my lords, even though their power has diminished following the Lysene Spring, the Essosi still think themselves above our laws against the taking or selling of slaves. I have spoken with my own vassals on this matter, and we have done all we can to put out as much of our fleets to patrol the shorelines between good ports."
"Therein lies the problem Lord Tyrell, for much of Dorne lacks good locations for ports needed to dock, let alone supply such patrol fleets," one of the more southerly lords said. "Much of the southern coast is windswept escarpments and bluffs, or what few rivers drain into the sea do so through rapids into turbulent surf, not sheltered bays. Many of us do not have the means of protecting our shores from those who would raid lonely fishing villages, for even if we did, the lack of suitable timber in our lands means what few ships we could field would be needed elsewhere."
"The Sea of Dorne remains the most protected portion, as the eastern coastlines boast more ports and the deterrent of storms to the north. The Stormlord fleets along the north shores regularly patrol the coasts to the best of their ability," the elder Jordayne said. "Yet even they cannot hope to account for such a lengthy line of coast, even with the timber they possess to build fleets, either of which we sadly do not possess. We may have the men to build and sail these vessels, but not the vessels themselves."
"Then why not import wood from elsewhere for such ships, if you have such a bevy of experienced shipbuilders and sailors?" Lyonel countered. "Dorne is well known for its great amounts of fruits, spices and goods like wine. Such exotic and rich trade would surely be more than enough to cover the cost of importing good timber from the Stormlands, no?"
"Maybe for the eastern half of Dorne, but the southern and western coasts remain unreachable for their caravans, either by bandits or by the sheer cost of travel," a Vaith countered. "Yet even if we could build ships, where would we dock them? The swaths of Plankytown have yet to fully recover and Sunspear is not suitable for that many fleets of ships. Besides, it is not as if we could build our own harbors without needing to invest untold amounts of coin and men into such labors."
"My lords, the pirate situation is to be resolved through Daeron our king," Lord Tyrell said. "He intends to put Bloodstone under the firm heel of the Iron Throne and close the Sea of Dorne, if not as much of southern Westeros as possible, from the predations of Essosi slavers so our smallfolk need not fear being carried off in the middle of the night. This will take time, my lords, but trust in the young king, for he surrounds himself with men whose talents match their ambitions."
"Trust the king? What of the lack of coin coming into the purses and vaults of many Dornish lords and ladies?" another said, his banner one Lyonel did not immediately recognize. "Many lords were promised recompense for the losses incurred during sacks and the like by the Targaryen king, and yet my house has yet to receive a single copper! Our lemon orchards were nearly burnt to the ground during the destruction of Plankytown and the sacking of the surrounding lands, Lord Tyrell. This is a vital source of coin which is not so easily replaced as Reach fields of grain."
"You have my condolences for the losses during the war, Lord Dalt," the Yronwood representative said, rising from his seat. "Far too many Dornish houses lost lords and sons to the war, yet we are Dorne, are we not? We shall endure as we always have, as our lands have bidden us to do since time immemorial. Your funds, my lord, they will reach you in time, I am certain of it."
"Certain that the dragon king's stolen gold will pay for our lost revenue? Or that the gold will serve as a balm for the anger festering from the losses we have suffered, that our people have suffered?" a young man said, rising from another set of tables, his tabard bearing the sigil of House Jordayne. "Lord Yronwood's ambitions to reclaim lost titles is well-known amongst the Dornish, Lord Tyrell. There are those among us who would not put it past him to knock down his so-called friends if it achieved him greater goals."
The first Jordayne man beside him rose and restrained the younger man, as angry words began to drift through the crowds. "My brother's anger is misplaced, my lord, but it still stands that others feel this way, the justifications for which are as endless as the sand of our lands," the elder Jordayne said. "Even with my father and sister having traveled to Kings Landing to attend the king's nameday tourneys and celebration, our troubles seem to grow more and more disparate. The king's brother has seen fit to ensure that the lands under the governorship of the Baratheons have not only been compensated for such losses, save for those unavoidable amidst war, but has taken to ensuring the lands are being brought to even greater prosperity. Roads, bridges, new wells and smaller aqueducts, improved pastures, greater imports of cheap grain, it is almost unheard of for a prince to be so charitable in his dealings with a land he aided in conquering."
"The king's brother? The Fyrestorm? He has no magnanimity in him, for he slew my father during his surrender before the king!" Lord Ladybright interjected.
Angry shouts arose as the Yronwood turned to the young lord. "A king that your father, by all accounts, attempted to assassinate with a hidden dagger dripping in poison, Lord Ladybright."
"Lies!" the young man countered, though his expression told Lord Tyrell he did not believe his own words, merely roared them to save some manner of twisted Dornish pride. T'was easier to deny the unflattering truth than to accept it. "My father would do many things for Dorne before and during the war, but I know in my heart that was never one of them!"
"War equates well with the passions of men, being a reflection of them," the Yronwood said. "Whether your father did so as a plan, or in the spur of the moment to vainly try and keep Dorne free, we will never know, my lord. Yet the king's generosity saw your father's bones returned to your halls, rather than merely discarded of. What we do know, however, is that the disparity between the halves of Dorne has grown in recent years, as young Jordayne has unintentionally indicated. Tell me, Lord Tyrell," he said, turning to Lyonel. "Is it not true that the crops carted in from the Stormlands are less costly than those imported from the Reach?"
"I am not in the habit of interfering with the mercantile actions of my vassals, Yronwood, especially in the matters of grain," the Lord Paramount countered. He could not simply admit that doing so would see him lose his seat, if not his family's position, as while there were a great many things he could do to influence or coerce his vassals, there were a great many more only a tyrant would try for. Yet the tyrants who so often did such ended their lives quite quickly, usually through revolt or a hidden dagger from the aggrieved party. "Their roads into these lands are far less hostile, both from heat and bandits, than those who come from my kingdom must suffer."
"Yet the Reach grows far more grain than the Stormlands, as was always the case, far more than enough that even a small portion would overwhelm any opposition of heat or bandits," a Dayne man said, also rising to his feet, joining a worrying number that had already done so. "Our people suffered greatly under the Lannister forces and the predatory Greyjoy ilk, and many are upon the edge of a very fine knife as it is. Should even one harvest face partial ruin, we may suffer from a harsh famine, Lord Tyrell, and many others have told me of such perilously fragile states of their own lands. Yet if Jordayne and Yronwood is correct, why is it we must pay more for grain from a land that grows more grain than their governor's own?"
"It must be the Wytch," Lord Qorgyle said, and though he had never met the man himself, Lord Tyrell was minutely impressed by the sudden shift in the faces of many men in their gathering at the lord's name. He had heard rumors, smallfolk hearsay perhaps, of what the lord had done to garner such a reputation, but for such hardened men to show such signs of fear, including more than one youth glancing around as if the mere mention of the name would summon the man… it was a most curious thing. "Tales have come from the Stormlands of his reputation," Lord Qorgyle continued. "Tales of strange new machines for tilling soil and planting fields, of constructions that create great lakes of clean water where there once was barren valleys, of fine roads, of granaries bursting with more grain than all of his people could hope to eat in a hard winter."
"I bear little stock in such rumors as the latter, as the Stormlands have always needed more grain than they could grow," the Yronwood said. "Yet I can attest to the plows and other implements. My lord nephew was able to secure a few of these for our personal fields, where we need not fear the loss of soil to sun and wind near as much, and we have yet to find disappointment in their usage."
"Of course you would buy the tools of our ancient foes, Yronwood," the Dayne said. "Dealing with Stormlords is a surefire way to see you reclaim your ancient titles."
"Be mindful of your words, Dayne," the Vaith man said. "No Dornishman would so carelessly do something so dreadful as to ally with the house that has more Dornish blood on his hands than any man alive, save for the Fyrestorm himself."
"My nephew bought no such creations from the Wytch," the Yronwood replied. "T'was through the Baratheon governor that my house acquired them, as it has been no doubt for any Dornishman in the east who has sought them for his own lands. They have made it a point to supply not only these devices at costs that must surely be reduced, but also the knowledge on how to best use them. Besides, what could my lordly nephew possibly gain by allying himself with a house whose name terrifies women and children across Dorne? That would be as ludicrous as supplying bandits in other parts of Dorne, a thought so vile it sickens me to even speak it."
There were a few dark chuckles around the gathering. "Aye, Yronwood has the right of it," Dalt said. "Whoever these bandits are, I am convinced they are somehow in an alliance with the Essosi. Were Dorne to have suitable ports and timber for fleets, we would no doubt find ourselves in the possession of Essosi ships laden with arms and supplies for these raiders. Only, how would they be acquiring them? With so few ports suitable for such trade, and the secrecy involved my lords, surely none here would deliberately seek to harm his fellow Dornish when solidarity is most needed?"
"Weakening the recovery would certainly allow for greater disparity in trade, as the slaver merchants would be able to control the prices without need to fear local competition," the Vaith said. "Especially if imported grain is still somehow more expensive despite being that much closer."
"Then if they are doing such, it is not in the eastern reaches of Dorne," the elder Jordayne said. "My father has taken great care to ensure the peace promised during his surrender after the Battle for the Gates. Banditry in our lands, and those of our vassals, is lower than is to be expected in the aftermath of a war, victorious or otherwise."
"None would accuse a house as old and storied as Jordayne from unduly profiting from the aftermath of the peace," a new voice, belonging to a man Lord Tyrell thought seemed familiar, but he bore no sigil he recognized. A knightly house perhaps? "Yet it stands that different lands in Dorne continue to unevenly suffer years after the supposed end of the conflict. Rumors of raids for slaves and thralls by Essosi and Ironborn alike, a famine on the horizon for far too many should the price of grain not be lowered, and losses of coin supposed to be received for damages from looting? What more can we expect of the king's reign in the years to come? Is he to expect Dorne to send her spears to Bloodstone when he decides to take that island? What of when he no doubt intends to take all the Stepstones, as his grandfather once attempted with an army of sellswords and dragons at his command?"
Lord Tyrell felt helpless as the anger in the room seemed to thicken like a sickly fog. Yet what condolences and platitudes could he hope to offer that would not be countered by these crafty sand devils? He had tried his hardest to emulate the unheard of successes in the east, but the lands and peoples of the west proved far, far harder to pacify and integrate into the Iron Throne's rule. Plows were not needed in deserts anymore than seed drills around oasis. Gods, even with his sister's potential queenship on the line, how he wished for nothing more than these devils to turn on one another instead of bickering like old women about such trivial matters.
"To say nothing of the sicknesses that are appearing all across these lands!" the mysterious man continued, his passion running hot as the tempers of the gathered lords grew. "From Plankytown to Starfall, Sunspear and beyond, the men under the command of Lord Baratheon and yourself, Lord Tyrell, have carried with them pestilence most foul. I have heard of villages stricken with these fevers becoming bedridden for days, almost entirely dependent on those who recovered first or were never ill at all to bring them water in the heat of the day."
"Maybe if the wells weren't being fouled by bandits, these maladies would not spread so readily, or be so difficult to overcome," Dayne said. "Jordayne, your lands, have they suffered such outbreaks?"
"Not that my father has mentioned, nor his maester," the elder Jordayne replied. "While some sickness has certainly come in the aftermath of that unusually short winter in the form of spring fevers, I cannot say for certain if more have fallen ill, or if we have just noticed how many have done so for once. Given our soaps and the like from the Stormlands, as well as the food, perhaps it is a lack of these things so readily allowing for fevers and the like to spread?"
"Soap? What good is soap from the Stormlands when ours has served us fine?" another man asked, his sigil that of House Manwoody.
"This soap is far gentler, as it does not roughen the skin and floats in water. Hells, it is cheap enough that even smallfolk may purchase it regularly, but that is besides the point, Manwoody. Our people are not suffering as others are, and for that, all my father can do at this point is offer his condolences and aid to his closest neighbors if they are truly in need of aid. We would send aid to more distant affected lands if we could, but as we've already discussed, the bandits in western Dorne remain an issue that must be overcome before our success in the east can diffuse into the west. There is no good in sending aid that will never be able to arrive."
"The excuse of western bandits is growing as old as our houses, ser. Hoarding such vital supplies under a veneer of caution is unbecoming of a lord of Dorne, especially one who surrendered after a single battle," the mysterious man said.
"We hoard nothing, we are no more a Wyl than we are a robber in his hole, and my father doubtless did not see you or your men at the Gates of Dorne," the younger Jordayne replied with heat. "Through the Iron Throne and the governorship of Lord Baratheon alike, all these things and more are available to those whose pride has not blinded them to the needs of their people and lands in the aftermath of all we have suffered. Long has my father written to Lord Martell of the matter, yet Sunspear remains obtusely silent when so many of our fellow Dornishman's suffering could be alleviated with the shedding of undue pride!"
"Pride? It is not pride that diverts our attentions from our lands and the plight of our people, boy," the man said amongst angry shouts from the other Dornishman. "It is the knowledge that things would not have fallen so low that we are near begging one another for aid, had the war been won!"
Angry cries arose, even as Lord Tyrell called for calm. Yet much as it had been in worse times in Highgarden, he was clearly ignored now that the blood was running hot.
"Yet the war is lost! Dorne is now under the Iron Throne! What else can we expect to do other than rebuild and tend to our wounds?" the Dayne cried, as more and more men stood up, pointing fingers and hurling accusations of deceit, treachery, and greed. Hands had gone to hilted daggers even now, with guards thumbing the pommels of swords and more than one man eyeing the weak points in the stances of other men.
"Remember that Dorne has faced such conquests before and risen from the shackles like the dawn of a new day, as bright and strong as ever!" the mysterious man cried over the dull roar of a room ready to draw steel. "It does not matter if it our generation, our grandsons, or their grandsons after them! We are Dorne, we will-,"
The horrific, sudden thunk of a crossbow bolt meshed itself with the dull roar of jeers, shouts and arguing, quivering as it protruded from the man's chest. A gasping cry escaped his lips as another flew from parts unknown, just as the first one did, all eyes drawn to him as his companion, with a cry, lunged forward and caught him in his arms. Trying to make sense of this sudden change, Lord Tyrell could barely do much more than stand and cry in alarm as the entire area suddenly descended into madness. Men looked wildly back and forth, more shouts of alarm and cries of anger at this sudden murder in what was meant to be a gathering of houses to solve problems for Dorne.
"Assassins!" a man cried, the elder Yronwood perhaps, and from alcoves hidden by dark or by distance, more crossbow bolts fell amongst them, seemingly at random. Men drew steel amidst cries of anger and rage, plunging and swiping with daggers or being pulled behind the shields and drawn swords of rushing guards. Clashes erupted as men overturned tables or dove beneath whatever would protect them from the death raining around them. Lyonel dove behind his table just as a crossbow bolt embedded itself deeply into the center of his chair, the fletching just barely sticking out from the fine wood and wicker.
"My lord!" one of his guards cried, his raised shield just managing to save him from another bolt. "We must get you to safety!"
"Yes, yes!" he cried in reply. More and more shouts erupted from the panicking and battling men, coinciding with many braziers and torches being knocked aside in the confusion. His own men, trained to defend him until their last breaths, rushed from their positions amidst crossbow fire and made to defend their Lord Paramount. "To the stables, we must reach our encampment!"
Less and less bolts flew as they made their escape, yet even these few continued striking stone, men, and tables alike as the chaos only deepened, the throng of fleeing men nearly coming to blows as steel sang amongst combatants whose passions had fully boiled over. Moving through halls, knocking serving girls and confused Fowler guards aside, the cries of panic growing more and more jumbled as they drew further apart, Lord Tyrell turned and was rushed with his guards into the open air of the stables. The chaos had spread even to here, as a bolt immediately struck the flagstone beneath his feet, the wind whistling between his legs. Had it been a mere hand higher, he'd have been gelded, the realization of which only spurred him faster, ignoring most of his surroundings in an effort to escape. Already the horses were panicking as smoke from fallen torches wafted through the air, and as Dornishmen made for their own mounts, more swords were drawn, and battle grew ever more.
With his men's focus on keeping their lord alive, Lord Tyrell watched as the mysterious man from before, half-dragged by a companion, was loaded onto a horse just as another bolt whizzed past them, striking a Jordayne guard in the chest instead. Mounting upon a second horse, the duo escaped through the front gates outside of Skyreach, with Lord Tyrell making sure to be right behind them. Amidst the cries and blood-splattered stones, the winding road down to his primary forces lay before him. A bolt whizzed by close enough to skip across the ground beneath his horse, and as his other guards fell to bolts or guarded him as they rode, Skyreach grew further and further behind him. Swearing under his ragged breath, vowing to rally his banners and put an end to this awful mess before it could spiral further out of his control, Lyonel managed to reach the stockades of his encampment, where the men had rallied and were making for the defenses.
"My lord Tyrell!" a voice cried, and he turned to find Lord Qorgyle there, nursing a wounded arm and leaking blood down the side of his horse. Several of his guards were missing, and of those that remained, more than a few were wounded.
"Lord Qorgyle, what in the Seven Hells happened?"
"Assassins, my lord, likely aiming for you, or those their masters thought would not rise in rebellion," one of the few cooperative Dornish under his governorship said, a Tyrell guard helping him to dismount. "We were betrayed, but by whom I cannot yet know. Yet that so many were targeted, be they lords or the kin of lords, it speaks of something much fouler than mere rebellion for food prices or taxes."
To think they had the audacity to attempt to kill him, after all he had tried to do for their sorry sandy shithole. What next? He would wake up in a bed of scorpions? "Where are the other lords? Those who have aided my governorship in keeping the peace?" A peace now shattered, for the deeds this night would only be met with more bloodshed…
"Some are trickling in, but the longer it takes them, the more likely they are prisoners or no longer alive, my lord," the Dornishman said, arriving at one of their larger tents. "Last I saw him, Lord Fowler managed to bar himself in his inner keep with his family and several attendees, but he was wounded as he did so. With the number of lords and their retinues fleeing, it would be safer to wait until morning to attempt to re-establish contact, and in force."
"Aye, I agree, there's no telling if he's a prisoner in his own inner keep, and the rest has fallen to treachery most foul," Lyonel said, his ragged breathing finally coming under his control. "What of others? The lords who have kept to themselves, or proven obstinately reluctant in their aid?"
"Lord Dayne is uninjured, but last I saw he and his men were battling the Vaiths. Whether they will return to us or their lands come victory or retreat, I do not know." The man spat in fury, wincing as one of the medics, one of three Lord Tyrell had been able to employ from Lord Wytch with a great deal of gold, tended to his wound, a deep gouge in his shield arm by the look of things. "The Jordaynes, last I saw, were fleeing alongside the Yronwoods, but other than that, the chaos of it all… this will bring about war, my lord."
"Aye, it will," he replied. "See to your wounds, my lord, we-,"
"Lord Tyrell!" a voice cried, that of one of his captains, and amongst guards with swords already drawn, a familiar figure was carried to the tent. "My lord, we found this one outside our perimeter. There was another with him, but they fled on horseback into the night before they could be apprehended."
"Never mind him, he will be long gone before our outriders can attempt to track him in these wastes. Who is this man? Does he yet live?" Lord Qorgyle asked.
Lord Tyrell felt his stomach, already having dropped from the bloody events of the night, plummet down into the soles of his boots. Even as the crossbow bolts were steadied to prevent further damage, the guise of the scarf and turban were removed to reveal a face he knew all too well, having had to look at it plenty in the aftermath of the Sack of Sunspear. "Lord Martell," he muttered in shock. What the hells was he doing here, and in a disguise of all things? How had nobody noticed it was the former prince of gods-damned Dorne?
The man said nothing, blood flecking from his lips as he fell back, light coughs growing weaker and weaker as his lifeblood leaked from the bolts buried in his chest.
"Lord Martell?" Qorgyle's shock mirrored his own as the former prince breathed his last, the death rattle as unsettling as was the light leaving his eyes. To think a potential Lord Paramount would face such an ignominious, sudden end... "He cannot be dead, what was he doing here? He had not responded to your call for this gathering, my lord, I am sure of it. We were not even certain he would send someone in his stead, even if he were to show!"
"Yet it is unmistakably him, Lord Qorgyle, dead right in front of us! How am I going to explain this complete catastrophe to the king now? Do you know what this will mean for my governorship, for my house?"
The Dornish lord did not seem to hear him or acknowledge his woes, suffering from some form of shock at the dead man before them. "Had it been distant kin, or even a representative, it would have been merely unfortunate, but entirely salvageable my lord. Yet the death of Arthur Martell, the former prince… this will mean war, my lord, but no mere rebellion." He turned to Lyonel, his bloodied face grim and serious. "This… once word gets out tonight, be it true or falsified, Dorne will be at war with herself for the first time in generations, and with how taut the strands holding our realm together have been pulled… I am afraid they are going to fray and break in ways we cannot imagine."
"A civil war," Lord Tyrell muttered as he rubbed his face, feeling the need to go sleep and hope against hope this was nothing more than a dream brought on by spiced food and Dornish red. A civil war, in a land already suffering from sickness, bandits, uneven rebuilding in the aftermath of war, and along clearly divided lands and houses, perhaps now more than ever. It was a war that would set back countless plans by him and the king alike, bring suffering to untold numbers of men, women and children, and worst of all… it was a war whose fault was going to be squarely placed directly upon his shoulders, and that of his house.
He looked at the dead Arthur Martell, frustration and misery finally breaching the careful façade he had kept up as governor of western Dorne. "… fuck."