Chapter 67: Interlude : The Dornishman
"How will you greet death? With defiance or with deference?"
The monster's nest stood on the horizon, a great brown lump rising from the landscape like a boil upon a sick man's skin. A boil Lord Wyl was only too keen to lance, to rid the land of the sickness and corruption that dwelled within. His eyes had locked upon the castle at the top of the hill, and had noticed the pale red stone of its seven towers, but all he had seen were seven swords stained red with the blood of Dorne.
His liege had been very eager to say what he thought of the enemy. Poetic, even. Indulging his singer's soul.
Ser Walder, by contrast, saw only his doom. Not because of the dragonlords who no doubt would take great pleasure in his death, mind you. No, this went deeper than that. At least, however much deeper a plan of vengeance crossed with a show of strength was.
It was, as his liege's liege had so euphemistically termed it, the Dornish Option, their very last potential way of securing peace on their terms. And as was the case with every last-ditch option, the risks were enormous.
"My lord, in case it has already been an hour since I last reminded you, I would like to note that this will only end poorly," the knight said, riding next to his lord. Despite what rumors had drifted south of the Red Mountains, the approach to the city was little more than a dirt track. Two dirt tracks technically, packed hard as stone, but still made of dirt.
In any other situation, Ser Walder would not have minded the northerners being a disappointment. After weeks on the road from Dorne to the capital of their enemy, on a quest that was as bold as it was likely to get them killed, his priorities had shifted. Slightly.
"Your complaint is noted," Lord Wyl said magnanimously. "And in case it has already leaked from that head of yours, this is the plan of our Princess."
"That does not make this idea less foolish."
"The armies of Dorne are outnumbered nearly a hundred to one," the other knight in their party pointed out. Another vassal to the lord of Wyl, Ser Willum now wore the heraldry of some lesser knight from the Reach. Presumably. There were a lot of flowers upon his surcoat, and that seemed like something a Reacher might call a sigil. "If we do this properly, we might even be able to turn this into a victory."
"Enough, men," their liege said gently. "No more talk of home. Not when we are so close. And remember your diguises."
Right. To any who was not Dornish, the man in the middle of the group was most certainly not Lord Wyl. He was Ser Walter of… Oldbridge, was it? Some lesser place of even lesser means in the middle of the Reach, hoping the join the war.
A bit late, of course, but there had been important work left to do back home. Harvests, justice, ailing families, and the like. Brigands, if they felt like telling a particularly riveting tale.
"Of course, ser," Walder said dutifully. It seemed like duty was all he and his kind had left these days. No glory to be had, no honor, no justice, only duty to his liege and to Dorne. "Just a group of knights on the road to serve their king."
"Three knights and their retainers," Ser Willum chimed in. "Here to do their part as loyal subjects of the kingdom."
"Indeed," the no-longer-lord-Wyl said solemnly. "Now come, let us see if we can even get into the city."
At least the hard-packed dirt track leading to the city was straight, devoid of winding curves that characterized the mountain roads of their home. Straight and level. And pleasantly broad. Broad enough for their group twelve to ride in only two rows.
They rode in silence until they began to pass a large wagon train as they neared the city. Nearly twenty of them, each covered in a linen cloth that bulged with the promise of a heavy load. To any raiders, to any man of sense in war, this would have been a ripe target. Not even to seize, just to burn this close to the city walls.
Even if there were a handful of guards riding alongside the wagons.
"Ho there, Sers!" one of them shouted a greeting, a barely armed and armored horseman. No livery, no heraldry, just a guard to a particularly wealthy merchant. Little more than a mercenary.
Inwardly, Ser Walder despaired. Even with the vast hordes of soldiers despoiling his home, the dragons were far from strapped for men. Nearly a hundred thousand men ravaging the lands of Dorne, and yet more remained for glorified guard duty far from the front lines.
This Dornish Option had to succeed, he realized.
"Ho there!" Wyl shouted back, maintaining his air of affability. There was not a doubt in Walder's mind that both the guard and his lord would not hesitate to gut the other in any other situation, but this was a delicate matter. "Carrying more supplies for the war? I almost feared we had missed it!"
"No coin in that, Ser," the man replied. "This here's for the wedding."
The wedding?
"The wedding?" Wyl shared his confusion. Walder merely traded a glance with the other knight in the party. They had not known about a wedding. That could… that could make things a lot easier, actually.
"You have been on the road for too long, Ser," the guard said easily. "Ser Braxton Beesbury is marrying Princess Saera."
A Reachman and a Targaryen. The worst of both worlds.
"There was much work to be done back home," he said by way of explanation. Not that it was much of a lie, really. "And no maester to receive ravens. I suppose my friends and I will be here at the most fortunate of times, then."
"What better time to be in King's Landing than for a royal wedding?" the guard asked.
"You're carrying goods for the wedding then?" Wyl asked. Walder, too, felt his attention drawn. Weddings were hardly subdued affairs at the humblest of times. And they were all raiders at heart. They knew perfectly well that this train was worth a small fortune.
Or quite a large fortune for a merchant.
"Oh, yes," he answered. "It will unlike any other, if the rumors I heard are true."
Rumors?
Some commotion from the front of the train forced an abrupt end to the conversation. A man, far more finely dressed than the guard, was quickly riding towards them. Still no sigil, but Walder knew silk when he saw it. Mayhaps this was the owner of the wagon train?
"Pate, what are you doing?" the wealthy man hissed. "Focus on your task. We do not want to lose these goods to brigands in sight of the walls."
"Of course, master Devlin," the guard said, blood rushing to his face as he rode out a way from the train. The rest of them, from the other guards to the secret Dornish, kept their pace steady.
"There are brigands this close to the city?" Ser Walder asked. This kingdom was proving to be a combination of extremes. Able to send a veritable horde to lay waste to a neighbor with men to spare, yet unable to secure its own roads. No wonder it had proved unable to conquer Dorne if it could not even keep its own realm safe.
"Do you want to find out?" the wealthy man asked sourly, only to let out a deep sigh. "My apologies sers, but it has been a trying journey. His Grace has high expectations of us all for this wedding."
"That is only natural," Ser Walder said evenly. His lordship seemed amenable to letting someone else speak for the moment. All the better for their disguise as nominal equals. "The day one's daughter is wed is always a special day."
"Oh no, not His Grace the King, he's busy with the war," the wealthy man said quickly. "It's His Grace Prince Vaegon."
Him.
For a moment, Walder did not speak, eager for the helmet that covered his face as his features contorted with anger. The Black Dragon and the mayhem it had brought to Dorne was no secret. Especially among the Stoney Dornish.
An entire house extinguished. Another house stripped of its lands and holdings. A realm sundered. An entire lordship cut off from the rest of the realm, forced so move in fishing boats just to meet with the Princess of Dorne. Even if it had been the traitor Yorick who had made the move, none had missed the dragon by his side.
Forget the doom of it all. Forget the foolishness of the plan.
Walder would personally volunteer to lead the charge if it meant bringing down him.
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