For Turquoise's safety, I had to move her into one of the dungeons and lock her there. I could not risk a young dragon that I couldn't even ride yet.
She did not take kindly to such treatment. She growled, exhaled smoke, and made every effort to show her irritation. I spoke with her for a long time, trying as best I could to convey the necessity of what I had done. I don't know whether she understood, but it seemed I managed to calm her at least a little.
Just before our departure, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch sent a letter reporting increased activity among the dead beyond the Wall. Many in the capital treated such news with skepticism, dismissing it as fantasy and invention. And so I did the most sensible in the circumstances—I wrote back, stating that if Jon Snow wished to receive royal aid, he must bring one of these "dead men" to the Red Keep.
The raven flew.
I believe Jon Snow will understand how important this is and will carry out my request. Truth be told, without living proof of the horror unfolding beyond the Wall, it will be difficult for me to convince the lords of the necessity of launching a grand campaign beyond it.
Capturing a lone wight shouldn't be a problem—or so I think. The Watch ought to manage it.
Yes, the tidings from the North were troubling, and I understood the danger well enough. Despite that, I sent no proposals for a truce to Daenerys—what she had done to Myrcella and Kevan could not be forgotten so easily. Moreover, the Small Council had received a letter signed by the Martells and Daenerys, stating they were willing to forgive us—if we laid down our arms and acknowledged total defeat.
So neither side sought a truce.
***
Hundreds of ballistae and scorpions mounted on wagons guarded our army from all sides. Around three thousand archers and crossbowmen were spread throughout the marching host, providing aerial defense.
Numerous scouting parties constantly surveyed the surroundings. And we devised one clever measure—lords and knights repainted or replaced their fine, gleaming armor, stripped away decorations and bright details. Now the entire army appeared as a single gray, faceless mass. We had no intention of giving Daenerys's dragons an easy way to identify where the noble lords—and their king—were concentrated by their rich armor, garments, and banners.
Yes, we all believed Dany was no fool. First and foremost, if she managed to get close enough, she would burn the lords and the commanders—not on common men, yesterday's peasants still smeared with dung.
The lords were not used to looking like this. Nor were they accustomed to fighting without their grand and towering banners. Still, the very real prospect of being roasted alive quickly stripped even the proudest and most stubborn of their arrogance.
The Kingsguard removed their splendid white cloaks and bright armor, and now looked no different from ordinary mounted knights.
That did not mean we had left all our wealth behind in the capital. We had a substantial baggage train, and for some time I had been considering one rather interesting idea.
From time to time, we spotted dragons flying in the distance. They had managed to ambush and burn several advance detachments, but they clearly were in no hurry to engage the main force. The hail of arrows that had greeted them the first time had cooled the Stormborn's temper considerably.
I marched with the host as well.
It was dangerously reckless, fraught with countless risks—but I simply could not show cowardice. I could not remain behind while the flower of Westerosi chivalry rode out to face dragons. I simply couldn't. They would not have understood. And even had we won, they would never have respected me after that. I would have lost everything I had spent the past year painstakingly building.
Of course, I took precautions. No grand royal pavilion, no banners, no trumpeters. My men and I were merely one of many detachments within the host. Today we were here, tomorrow somewhere else.
And I had another trump card up my sleeve.
The problem was—the Martells had surely come up with something as well.
***
We passed through the Kingswood. Water dripped from the branches; everything was damp. The maesters of the Citadel had already sent out white ravens across the continent, announcing that the Long Winter had come to Westeros.
It sounded ominous, but in practice, things did not seem quite so dire. Winter gathers strength slowly and steadily, and that meant the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands were entering a prolonged season of rain, with heavy precipitation and gradually falling temperatures. We still had perhaps two—maybe even three—months before true snows and hard frosts would arrive.
Despite the rain, the forest smelled exquisite—rich with the scents of leaf and resin, warm and southern, and wonderfully pleasant. My grief for Myrcella was slowly ebbing. I felt the taste of life return, and found myself enjoying the march and the quiet gait of my new, remarkably sure-footed horse, a gelding named Rivulet.
We were all in tolerably good spirits. Only the dragons wore on the mind, a constant, foul pressure that never quite lifted.
By then the enemy had shifted their position. They had taken Meadowland on the Blueburn—a tributary of the Mander—and were waiting for us there.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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