Chapter 43: Baelor IX

Mid 157 AC

As eastern winds buffeted their tent, and brief flashes of lightning lit up the northern horizon, Baelor stood by his foster father, the tension and excitement of the gathering driving away any semblance of sleep. Not a man among them would admit to their exhaustion, with the bloodlust an almost palpable flavor upon every man's tongues. The Dornish had been found and chase had been given, with their united vanguard reporting a score wounded or captured before the main force had found a means of defense.

Here they stood, before the upwards slope of a series of hills, into which their prey had disappeared. They could not escape, however, for the swiftest scouts had reported the sides of this small valley were too steep for man or beast to scale, being mossy rock walls that ran its forested length. These same scouts had reported the back of the gorge was a steep slope of loose and jagged rock, the entire thing likely carved by an ancient flood scouring a channel through the area. It was surely the favor of the Seven that saw this come to pass, for it was an impossibility for the Dornish to know or plan for, and while a man might escape through the back, no horse could hope to with speed. They were trapped amidst the forest that grew in this alcove, the thick grasses along its exterior giving way to thick brambles and trees.

The dryness of the autumn air parched Baelor's throat and cracked his hands when left uncovered for too long. This was reflected in the lands themselves, where even the grasses beneath had long lost much of their luster, with some patches becoming as dry as hay and exposed ground was prone to grinding to dust underfoot. Any cooking fires were cleared of nearby debris, lest a fire spread, and his foster father had been adamant in ensuring this was done. Yet despite the aridity of the land, the air bore little of the heat it had earlier in the season, for the chill of night grew deeper as the night approached, the last light of the day creating a beautiful glow from the Red Mountains to their south. All around, the smallfolk levies constructed the latrines and battlements, creating a wall of death for any foolish Dornish attempting a nighttime attack. The furthest sentries would be relieved soon, but for now, nothing stirred from that forested gully.

Lord Baratheon looked upon the gathered lords, their blood running hot and the storms swirling in their eyes. "This is not the entire force," he finally said, his voice clear and brooking no argument.

Not that Baelor could detect any from the gathered Stormlords. The estimates put this band at perhaps half the original estimate, even less now that what few they had captured were now being 'put in their place' by eager Stormlanders. Baelor chose to ignore their screams for now, the memory of razed villages tempering his softer side. Yet he denied the urge to enjoy their suffering, despite how easy it would be to indulge it, striking a balance between his sense of justice and his compassion. To fall to one would make him cruel, and to fall to the other would see the men see him as weak, a trait he could not allow his brother to be associated with.

"The rest must have fallen afoul of the Wytch, else this lot would not have been retreating as they did," Lord Selmy said, earning more dark chuckles from the others. "Great haste away from battle, victors do not make."

"We must still send aid with due haste to the young lord when possible," Lord Dondarrion replied. "We've no idea of his situation, and if the other portion of this army has slipped by his forces, we must not let them escape or wreak further havoc."

"Our swiftest scouts have already secured the rear of the gulch and will prevent any Dornish from slipping out on foot," Lord Baratheon said. "Come morning, we shall replace them with others, and send them to aid our fellows. Until then, we rest, and keep these Dornish pinned."

"We cannot send aid now?" Baelor whispered as muttering broke out among the lords.

"No, my prince," his foster father replied. "To send good scouts on such a journey in complete darkness would risk their lives more than we can do now, even on your friend's behalf."

"But would they not have an easier time reaching his lands undetected?"

"Aye, but they cannot see any better in the dark than the Dornish can. Just as well, their mounts are tired, as are they. I cannot ask my lords to risk their men as such, for if their mounts fail them, then they would be stranded far from help."

"Can't you just order them to anyway?" Baelor hated to sound petulant, but he could hardly keep the desperation out of his voice. He had grown friendly with the other squires and pages by now with his training and through the camaraderie of war, but his true friend, perhaps his only friend, needed their help. Why did none of the other lords see this?

"Aye, I could, but whether they did or not, it would be ill for my house," Royce Baratheon said. "A lord must learn to balance his power with his vassals and their own needs. I can neither leave them entirely to their own ambitions nor rule over them as a tyrant. No man wishes to faithfully follow a lord who treats him as a slave. That is the price of the rule of my family, and the price your brother the king will one day come to appreciate."

"Then the great game must be followed, even during war where greater goals demand greater actions be taken," Baelor replied, hiding his bitter disappointment in a sigh. "Flattery, cajoling, favors and promises, all so our tasks are completed as needed."

"It can be frustrating, Baelor, but it is the way it is."

Baelor fell to silence as one of the others rose to his feet. "My lord, what of the Dornish?" Lord Swann asked, the muttering dying away.

"What of them?"

"Do we attack them while they lay wounded, or do we wait them out?"

"We wait until at least morning, Lord Swann. I don't know about the rest of you, but sending anyone into a potential charnel house of a forest, in the dead of night no less, taints the taste of victory we draw so near to. Rather we seek victory in the daylight, when the Dornish cannot hide and use the darkness to their advantage."

Most of the murmurs echoed the same sentiment. Even if none were tired, they had all heard tales of Dornish tricks and traps when the dogs were cornered. Lord Baratheon of all people would know, given how his ancestor Orys and his forces had fallen afoul of the Wyls during the First Dornish War. Baelor had read in Stormhall of the horrors inflicted upon those who tried to give battle in environments that favored defenders heavily, such as the marshes of the Neck or the narrow mountain passes in the Vale and Westerlands. To say less of Dorne itself, and her desert canyons and high mountains, the better.

"Then come morning, we shall ensure these Dornish regret ever setting foot in this kingdom!" Lord Baratheon finished, earning a rousing cheer from the lords.

Baelor was silent as the lords left, looking around. It was near his own time to sleep, but his blood sang with the fire of his ancestors, that familiar feeling of restlessness refusing to leave. He had to do something, anything, before he went to bed, but what to do?

"Foster father?" he asked, trying to feel older than he was. At his age, most other lads were yet at home while their fathers and older brothers went to war. Yet here he was, a boy among men, trying to make sense of it all, and find a place for himself in this great mess.

"Yes, my prince?" Royce's exhaustion was more apparent now that the others had left. Only half a dozen years Casper's senior, and yet he seemed so much older than Baelor's friend. It was a side of his foster father few outside his innermost circle were privy to.

"What are our plans for the night?"

"Before bed? Inspecting some of the men, going over what few reports remain, and I've a meeting with Lords Selmy and Swann, a small disagreement to soothe over, nothing more. I know most of the cooks are making the meals for the coming sentries, but I've men to check on those tasks instead."

"May I assist? You've no need of me for removing your armor yet, and your weapons have already been cared for." An idea formed even as he spoke, something that could help him burn off this energy before his bedroll could call him to its embrace.

"Whatever for, my prince?"

"Well, in my studies under your maester, I have greatly excelled in overseeing logistics and ensuring tasks are completed in a timely manner. To oversee an aspect of such for an army mirrors the same studies I partook in when developing those old yeoman lands, and I was hoping doing so out here might lend me another lesson or two." He paused, before adding "under proper protection, of course."

A flicker of exasperation was replaced by mysterious amusement and earned Baelor the tussling of his hair by Royce. "I see no reason not to," he began, before a stern look erased his smile. "So long as you remain the presence of a great many men, and only in the boundaries of the camp. I'll not have the king know I allowed his brother, under guard or not, to wander too close to the edge of an army during an active siege."

"I promise, foster father," Baelor replied, before smoothing out his braids and donning his helmet. A size too large, but the chinstrap held it in place well enough. "I'll be back to our tent in time for bed."

Having three men by his side had been a new experience for Baelor. He'd always had Ser Thorne, whose silent presence in the tent had been a comforting one, but the addition of two sworn shields had thrown a slight damper in his alone time. Balon was of good Stormlander stock, some cousin to the current Lord Buckler, and Gendry was a Celtigar's nephew. Both were very good with their swords, quick to answer their prince's call and never straying from his side, but as far as their minds went?

Baelor detested calling them simpletons, but he found conversation to better with Ser Thorne of the Kingsguard than with his sworn swords. While by no means stupid, they tended not to have any hobbies that coincided with anything the prince liked to discuss, and try as he might, Baelor could not bring himself to bring up topics that none of them could connect through. Pleasing a wife could be a learning experience, but Baelor was also just three and ten, and was not looking to try his luck before the marriage bed, nor was he interested in drink and gambling. He'd learned his lesson in Stormhall on the matter of alcohol before bedtime, and the thought of falling prey to the vice of betting on mere chance did not sit well with him.

Hence his silence as he meandered through the innermost circle of the camp, many of the men at arms or knights giving him a proper bow or greeting. He was glad most had lost the need to grovel at his feet, it was unsightly and frankly more than a bit annoying when on a march or after one. They were at war, and while the proper etiquette was a given, they needn't be so obtuse about it. That, and it made him more of a target to an errant bowmen's long shot, not that they'd had any issue with them, but still!

That, and the respect he had earned thus far being among them was worth more than any flattery he'd come to know. He marched and rode with them, he ate much the same they did, though with spices and better preparation as befitting his station, and while he hadn't the need to dig latrines or unload the wagons, most appreciated his thanks for their work. Case in point, with his three shadows in tow, he came to a small gathering of camp attendants, smallfolk with their wives and son tending to the cooking fires and unloading more supplies from their wagons. The quartermaster in charge noticed his approach, and moved to greet him, placing himself between Baelor and the attendants.

"My prince," he said with a bow. "How may I be of service?"

"Supper is over, my good man, but the attendants continue to unpack more supplies. Did a lord give you this order?"

"Yes, my prince, a runner from Lord Baratheon claimed we wouldn't be moving for another day or two now. Good thing too, the mules hauling the wagons need that time to regain their strength after pulling for so long. Didn't help when we lost that last cart and had to load its cargo into the others."

"Did this runner specifically say to unpack?"

The man gave a sharp nod. "The camp'll be needing a better setup to keep it supplied and running, my prince. Things are more straightforward when on the march, and lesser needs are put on hold for the more important ones. Now that we're ta be stopped for some time, best we set up for what'll be needed now."

"Such as?" Baelor asked. He'd been on the march for so long, it was hard to remember when they'd taken a rest for more than a night to keep up their pursuit of the Dornish host.

"The smithies, the barbers, the bakers and the like all need ta be ready for whatever comes. It's one thing ta be makin' bread loaf by loaf in our copper pots, another for a good oven ta be set up and makin' many more loaves and pies at a time."

"I see," Baelor replied, glancing past the man. "The smithies will also be needed for repairs to tools and armor, while the barbers will be needed to check wounds and clean up the men. What of those green tents over there?"

The quartermaster turned a slight shade of pink as he rubbed the back of his neck, not even looking behind him. "Those are the tents for the… companions, my prince."

"Companions?"

"Aye, ladies o' the night."

"Whores, my prince," Ser Thorne added. "Many an army can be found with an attachment of a smaller army of attendants, including gamblers, whores, and other such followers. Most keep their tents out of the camp itself, but whores usually find their way in a good spot, easy access to the most men and all that."

"I'd not seen such tents before," the prince commented. "Are they common?"

"These be nicer than their usual accommodations, but aye, as the good ser said, they be after every army," the quartermaster replied. "Families of some men tag along as well, servin' as cooks, washerwomen, or whatever else they can be earnin' coin for. The lords don't be payin' them for their service, so whatever they earn is theirs ta keep, and they often be the biggest looters after a battle."

"Sounds like it could be trouble for an army to deal with so many hangers-on."

"Aye, it can be, my prince. I've heard tales of slow armies having a shadow of camp followers bigger than the army itself."

"The reason you've not seen these people is that you've never had cause to be in the presence of such smallfolk, my prince," Thorne said with a haughty sniff. "Between your studies and staying by Lord Baratheon's side as his squire, it is no small wonder they escaped your notice. Most higher lords tend to keep away from such riffraff."

"I see," Baelor said, as a group of hedge knights, laughing amongst themselves, moved towards the tents. "Are the whores clean?"

"No, we're all dirty from the march, but they can wash with the water after the maids are done cleanin' the clothes. We've the soap for it, from Wytch lands, I think. Good stuff, better and cheaper than that lye we get from the Riverlands."

"No, good man, I meant of disease, of pox and the like."

The quartermaster scratched his chin in thought. "I don't right know, my prince. I would like ta think so, but most men don't question it when they're tired after a long march."

"If the whores are not clean, and they have been following the army all this time, how many poxes could have been spread between them and the men?"

"I don't rightly know, my prince, I'm no maester. Why?"

"If the army were to come down with a pox spread by even a few 'well-used' whores, then the entire army is at risk of an outbreak of disease," Baelor replied, recalling his masterly lessons on such matters. Even the embarrassing thought of sex was driven away by the knowledge of what some poxes could do to a man. "A sick army is one less likely to be ready to do battle or move with any great speed. How many whores are there?"

"Oh, might be a hundred or more, hard ta say. Be hard to see them all inspected, we've so few who know what ta look for, my prince, and seein' as they be earning their coin, some might lie to not lose out on servicing the men."

"Well, if there are any obvious sicknesses among them, be sure they are noted as such and kept from the others if possible," Baelor said. Were it entirely up to him they'd all be sent away, but the morale of the men would drop drastically if they had no means of relieving themselves. Better that they have access to clean whores than none. While not an order, and technically not under his authority to do so, such a 'suggestion' from a prince would bear more weight than most smallfolk or nobles would ever consider going against. "Be sure the men know of this as well, my good man, and I'll let Lord Baratheon know of your work when I next see him."

"Thank you, my prince, I'll see to it right away," the man said with a bow, before hurrying off to the cluster of tents.

Looking to his guards, Baelor gestured to them. "Are any of you worried of catching such a pox?"

"Nay, my prince, I hold to my vows most seriously,' Ser Thorne replied with a bow.

"I've a good wife back in Bronzegate, and she'd flay me alive if I touched another woman, let alone a poxy whore," Balon the Buckler said with a chuckle. "Besides, my prince, my place is by your side."

"As is mine, my prince," Gendry the Celtigar added. "Whores hold no interest for me."

"Any reason as to why?" the prince asked.

"None, really, I just don't see the appeal. I'd prefer a willing woman enticed by my good looks than one enticed by coin, more worthwhile and genuine. Besides, I'd rather a drink in hand than a woman most days, drinks tend not to get angry over my time by your side."

Baelor chuckled at that. Gendry's looks were middling at worst, leaning towards handsome, but it wasn't as if women were throwing themselves at his sworn sword at every tourney they attended. He took such deprecation in good cheer, at least.

"Just as well, my prince, there are far better means of partaking in such experiences than in some tent in the middle of an encampment," Ser Thorne said. "Your cousin Aegon was fond for the longest time of the Street of Silk and its many fine 'wares', so I've been told."

"Isn't he still?" Balon asked. "I tend not to give much thought to the gossip in court, all that doublespeak spins my head around." He heard it all the same, and wrote down whatever he thought important, but that was rare enough as it was. He didn't care if a stableboy was being rather 'friendly' with one of the cook's daughters.

"Not for some time, or else he is being less brazen about it," Ser Thorne said. "With Vaella's birth, he's taken even more to drinking, feasting and hunting than whoring."

"Just as well, so that he doesn't dishonor his wife," Baelor said, a light scowl forming despite his resistance. Ignoring the fact that he'd been teased nigh relentlessly in his younger years by his elder cousin, the thought of marring the sanctity of his marriage bed with other women sat unwell with the prince. No matter the power he would wield in his majority, was he still not beholden to the laws of men and gods alike? The Targaryens had long flaunted the practice by marrying within the family, but even then, the stain of infidelity was still a taboo to them. He knew the Seven tentatively accepted bastards as an inevitability, but far more despised any sort of lust that resulted in them. Better to be in bed alone than with another that was not your wife.

Yet as they moved onto the next portion of the camp, amongst the smithies and gathered fletchers, his thoughts were interrupted by a larger group of men haphazardly blundering their way into his midst. Heirs and spares of the gathered Stormlords, ranging from lesser knightly and masterly houses all the way to the sons of storied Marcher lords. Each was shadowed by a sworn sword or three, much like Baelor, but the sight of the prince brought their subdued revelry to a halt.

"Borros," Ser Thorne said. "How goes the watch?"

"Sentries report no Dornish from the canyon," the Selmy heir replied. Hard to believe he was only a few years Casper's elder, and already had two daughters well out of their infancy. "Father put me in charge of our northern flank, and the others and I were thinking of taking a look around the perimeter, get a feel for our defenses and maybe check in on some of the other sentries out there." The men turned to Baelor. "Would you care to join us, my prince?"

Baelor resisted the urge to turn to his sworn shields and Kingsguard to ask for their advice. He was a prince, and while he was still a child in the eyes of gods and men, he was old enough to make at least some of his own decisions now. It would not interfere with his foster father's instructions, and mingling with the heirs would be a good way for him to bring his brother's influence into the next generation. Besides, he was in the presence of a great number of armed men, with sentries and defenses aplenty, and their enemy was cowering in a dry, forested canyon.

"Certainly," he replied, grabbing one of the torches from a nearby stand and, without asking, had one of the other men light it for him. Did etiquette dictate he should not be the one having to hold a torch, being a prince? Yes. In this case, did he particularly care that he was carrying one? No, they were in an encampment at war, and if his foster father chastised him for it, it would be his burden to bear. "Are we expecting any trouble?"

"No, my prince," the young man said as they moved off, Baelor's men falling into step behind him. "The Dornish seem content to sit and lick their wounds in that canyon, and the sentries have yet to report any attempts of surrender."

"Not that they'll be likely to be accepted, or at the very least be lenient," Ser Thorne said with a scowl, agreements echoing from the young men around them. "Not even Ironborn scum would behave as these Dornish have, the reaving scum they are. Come Daeron's victory, concessions for these lands will be an utmost priority."

"Aye, besides the coin to replace and repair buildings and the supplies they held, so many villages burnt means smallfolk'll be needed to replace the ones lost to fire and sword," one of the others, his sigil noting him as a Swann, replied. "Where to get them from, though?"

"Aye, we Stormlanders are proud, but not so plentiful as other lands," another said as they moved from the center of the main camp, a Dondarrion by the looks of it. "Sending only a few from every lord might work, but many a lord might raise a stink of it. I know my father certainly would."

"Mine as well, even if his lands have been so affected," Borros added. "I'll not beg for smallfolk to replace those we've lost. The king may decree it if he feels the right, but I'll not accept Reach smallfolk as settlers in my lands, no matter how many there are. Don't trust 'em, not with the trouble one of their lords caused the family of my brother's betrothed."

"You mean Lord Wytch?" Most of the other heirs, to Baelor's secret delight, seemed to perk up at the mention of his friend.

"Aye, my prince, most o' us have heard of his troubles with the Fossoways. The Lady Wytch writes to my mother, since we're soon ta be kin by marriage. Those Reachmen turned up their noses at Lord Wytch because of his father's rise and grandfather's birth. A bastard the latter may have been, but the man died for the last Lord Baratheon, and look what came of it! We haven't had to buy Reacher grain for years now, and those pompous fops can eat their own saddles for all I care for their griping. Same goes for their merchants, lousy grubs."

"How so?" Baelor asked, guards at all sides as they entered the next series of stakes and ditches. Not as formidable as the ones Lord Baratheon had told him of, but on such short notice, more than able to serve as a defense.

"Complaining 'bout the price of grain being so low, my prince. Bah! We've so much of it, the cooks've been having a grand old time making pies and tryin' some of those new recipes Lord Wytch sent my father. Smallfolk'll never complain about there bein' so much grain either, not with winter so close."

"Aye, grain is cheaper now than my father has ever seen it," the Dondarrion said. "Our merchants didn't seem ta mind, but we're running out of places to store it where the vermin won't get to it."

Baelor was silent as they arrived at their destination, the series of interconnected rings around each portion of the entire encampment reminding the prince of a gently sloped castle, or perhaps low watchtowers connected by simple bridges. Assaulting this entire encampment was a possibility, but the forces needed would have to be enormous and would face severe losses no matter their skill, and thankfully the Dornish did not have either this day.

The inspection was, sadly, a bit boring. The discussions were mainly of the latrines, the unloading of more supplies, the sentries being properly awake and not slacking on the job, and more that, while fascinating, did little to quell a sudden unease in Baelor's belly. The flashes of light to the north had been growing closer this entire time, as were clouds, but there was no smell of rain in the air. The dry lands around them likely cried for water, but other than the piss of horses and men, it seemed they were unlikely to receive it.

"Dry lightning, my prince," the Dondarrion said, catching his wandering gaze upon the northern horizon.

"It is an odd sight," Baelor replied, his grip on his torch growing a touch tighter, the flicker of the flames growing less comforting and more erratic. Some of the nearby horses seemed uneasy, and more than a few passing levies would glance nervously to the north. He wasn't frightened, but that such lightning held no thunder seemed rather… ominous. "Is it the same as heat lightning? I've heard mention of it before, but never saw it this far south."

"Not quite the same, my prince. We Dondarrions know our lightning, it was, after all, how our house began," the man said, gesturing to his family crest. "Heat lightning, our maesters have noted, occurs in hot and wet times, such as during the height of summer. The storm we are seeing, while perhaps a part of a larger one that indeed has rain, is likely losing the rain before it comes near us."

"Then why don't we hear any thunder?" Ser Thorne asked. "The Stormlands, while famous for its storms, is also noted to have a great deal of thunder whenever one appears."

"Aye, but given our southerly position, so close to the Red Mountains, we may be sheltered from the rain of Shipbreaker Bay," Borros Selmy said, most of the others rejoining their group. "We know rain often follows thunder, so it might all be falling before it gets close, or the wind is drowning out its distant rumbles. Although… I don't ever recall seeing that many strikes of lightning before in such a storm."

"I agree, it is rather odd, and the clouds seem to be moving strangely as well. A winter storm?"

"Perhaps, but only when winter is upon us then the winds of the west blow." Borros said with a chuckle. "Reminds me of the stories I'd heard my gran tell. Scary stories of what can happen 'when west winds blow' and all that nonsense. Think she even gave a name to it, but I can't recall."

"It wouldn't be entirely nonsense if elders felt the need to say it," Ser Thorne said. "My own gran spoke of tales of the heaths and hidden bogs of the Crownlands, and the dangers therein. Mire and muck that'll submerge a man or horse as well as if they were tossed from a ship in full plate."

"Just stories to keep foolish boys and girls from wandering where they aren't meant to go, that's all," Borros replied. "My gran said there's still worshippers of the Old Gods out in our lands, up in the mountains most likely, but I've never seen one. The Andals stamped out such nonsense when they came across the Narrow Sea, through sword and marriage alike."

"I've heard of old stories too," the Swann said. "My grandmother's mother told me stories when I was but a child at her knee. Always told me her pa still paid respect to the gods of our ancestors."

"Sounds a bit heretical to me," Balon whispered next to Baelor, yet still loud enough for the others to hear, much to Baelor's hidden embarrassment.

"Weren't nothing heretical about it, ser, just good sense not to offend something that may or may not be there," the Swann said with little heat. "Practical thing, to be respectful of what you don't understand, else you'd have fight like what the Andals had in the Riverlands for years on end, what with burnin' all those weirwoods I hear the Northmen are so fond of."

"What did she tell you? Your great grandmother, that is?" Baelor asked, intrigued. As devout as he was to the Seven, and all the good they stood for, it wouldn't hurt to at least hear of others. His family had long since left the ways of the Valyrian gods behind, but he still knew of them, to some extent.

"Oh, just the usual. 'Don't go when the west winds blow, dearie, there be when the vultures come' and other stories meant to frighten babes. Always said somethin' about a great vulture ridin' the winds, even had some odd name for it, or maybe it was just the name they gave a great west wind, it was always hard to tell with her. I wager she must have been batty by then, what with bein' so old. Only 'vulture' I know is those Vulture Kings that come out of Dorne every now and then, and I don't know of any winds having names."

"Well, if anything was going to take advantage of the aftereffects of a winter storm, it'd be vultures," Borros said. "Plenty of shepherds and their flocks've been stuck down by terrible winds and whatever falls in their wake. Shelter out in the open isn't possible unless you hide in the tallest grasses, and even then there's nothing to save you from the worst of it."

"What was the name she had for this west wind?" Baelor asked, the dread in his stomach growing even as his curiosity grew.

Amidst another great flash of dry lightning crackling across the sky, the Swann said something that sounded like 'Aean', and then all hells broke loose as a great gust of wind slammed into them, only… it wasn't from the east. Amidst a roar that no living animal could hope to match, a western blast of dry and frankly frigid air descended upon them, sending their portion of the camp into disarray. Fine dust kicked up by the trampling of the ground by countless feet blinded them, and more than one torch found itself snuffed out, casting the area into a great darkness. As he used one hand to bring his cloak to cover his mouth, and to shield his eyes from the stinging debris, Baelor flung his still-sputtering torch eastward, out and away from the camp itself.

"We must take shelter! To the tents!" he cried, amazed that none of their tents had fallen in this sudden westerly gale. A testament to the skills of their marcher laborers, who knew these lands and their weather better than any maester, and how best to prepare for them.

"A sound idea, my prince!" he heard Ser Thorne shout to his side, his white cloak laced with dust and being used to shield his face. Moving quickly towards the center, where a great many others were seeking shelter behind or under whatever they could, the Kingsguard opened the flap of a tent just in time for another great gust of wind to kick up even more dust around the camp.

Coughing and spluttering as he entered, Baelor shook his head, his braids trailing dust as the others filed in past him. Most had not seen fit to cover their mouths as quickly as he had, and more than a few were gagging on whatever had managed to find its way in. The Dondarrion even lurched over to a corner and dry heaved for a few moments.

"See?" the Swann said. "That batty old woman knew winter winds and the trouble they brought!"

"I doubt she could have foreseen our trampling of the ground in a dry autumn leading to such a whirling of dust," Ser Thorne spat, wiping his face. "This would have been the same no matter the season, so long as it was dry."

"It's not autumn anymore, I'd wager ten dragons on it," the Swann replied. "Winter is upon us, all Marchermen know west winds don't blow like that until the cold comes. At least we are not out in the open and have the slight sheltering of hills to our west. It could be much, much worse, my prince."

"While it is no doubt frigid, we've no word if the ravens were sent by the maesters, and we've already had one unusually cold period this year," Baelor added. "We shall have to wait and see when they determine if winter has come or not."

"Best we hold down until it passes, I'd rather not go out there again unless we're needed," Borros Selmy replied, removing his helmet to wipe the dust from his face as he gagged. "Gods, my eyes sting, and I think I swallowed some of it too. Bleh."

In silence they sat, the wind rattling the tent in a great rage. Most of the fires and torches had gone out around the camp, smothered by dust, or simply snuffed out by the harsh winds. Were they larger than mere cooking fires, then perhaps they might have been in trouble, but Baelor remained as calm as he could. It wouldn't do for the men to see a prince scared, even if this sudden bout of westerly wind occurred just as he was hearing stories of such events. He needed to put on a brave face in times like this, for his brother the king was counting on him, and while Daeron would understand his plight, many of his vassals would not.

A glow to the east began to grow, at first barely visible through the thick tent walls, but unmistakable. Baelor watched in confused amazement, had he been up so long that morning had come? No wonder his excitement from before had been replaced by exhaustion, he could barely hold his head up, and his legs were heavy even where he stood. None of the others made a comment about it until some saw where he was looking, and even then, most were noncommittal grunts of surprise. Yet when cries of alarm grew, even as the dust seemed to die down while the wind raged, another thought came to the prince and all those within his shelter.

Fire.

One of the cooking fires must have set a tent on fire, or perhaps even a cluster of them. No wonder there were cries of alarm, some must have been bringing buckets of water to try and put out whatever they could hope to salvage. Yet none ran past the tent carrying anything, and the cries soon sounded oddly happy. Why would they be happy of a fire?

Peering out of the tent whilst still shielding his mouth, he was instead met with a sight he'd never have imagined, even in his wildest dreams. The dry grasses to the east of their camp were a sea of flame and smoke, drive by the winds in a howling fury that turned all before them into nothing more than tinder and kindling. Dry shrubs smoked and burst into flame before the fires even reached them, and the grasses left in their wake, if they were still standing, smoldered as great blackened piles, with small gouts of flame occasionally erupting amidst the wind.

Yet as more emptied from their tents to watch the spectacle, Baelor realized something.

The flames were being driven directly eastward, and in a moment, were amongst the very edges of the gulch. A gulch surrounded by dry shrubs and tall grasses, filled to the brim with a dry forest, and dry understory, and… all the Dornish they had been chasing for so long.

In silent horror, he watched as the flames grew in leaps in bounds, leaping from tree to tree, consuming them in a wrathful display of the fury of wind and fire. Entire trees burst from the fire, sending bits of flaming wood flying up and out of the gulch, carried further by this western gale. Smoke billowed high into the sky, driven towards the mountains as a vengeful cloud and blocking any sign of stars or moonlight to the east. Great gouts of fire swirled amidst the gulch, whirling in great spirals hundreds of feet into the air, coiling like serpents and striking at whatever lay in their path. Trees, even great and mighty mature ones, were torn from the ground by fire and wind, sent flying like burning pinwheels all along the narrow canyon. The grasses along the rocky edge of the canyon were erased, burning so quickly the exposed rock was nothing more than a charred ruin.

"A fyrestorm," one of the marcher men said. Who it was, Baelor didn't recall, but the fearful reverence in his voice told him all he needed to know, as a terrible realization burned in his belly. "Never thought I'd live to see one."

"What's a fyrestorm?" Ser Thorne asked.

"Shy of a hurricane, or even a great whirlwind, it is one of the worst storms a Stormlander and his neighbors can suffer," Balon replied by Baelor's side, awe and fear mixed in his tone. "A ferocious inferno of wind and fire, deadly and a whispered fear of all who know dry forests and grasslands. Eastern winds tend not to form them, but a western one, blowing in dry times and funneled into a valley such as ours…"

"Twas the prince's torch that set it alight! I saw him throw it!" another voice cried. The Swann, perhaps? "Just as the wind arrived, he threw it eastward, towards the Dornish!"

"Aye, tis the prince who set the grasses ablaze, and those damned Dornish within!"

"Baelor set alight the flame of justice, for with Fire and Blood does our prince repay the Dornish dogs for their crimes!"

More voices added to the sudden cacophony, even as men from the other camps arrived to witness the destructive spectacle. Baelor saw his foster father among them, a look of shock and bewilderment upon his face. Easy to see, given how the entire area was now bathed in the light of this towering inferno, casting the camp into near the brightness of day.

"Ours is the Fury!"

"Baelor set the fyrestorm! Down with those Dornish!"

"With Fire and Blood!"

"Prince Baelor! The Fyrestorm!"

"For the Stormlands!"

"For the king!"

Yet one cry, above all, began to make the rounds, earning greater cheers and echoes, all while the prince felt his blood roar in his veins and, perhaps imagined, the cries of the trapped Dornish reached only his ears. How his bed suddenly called to him, and he wished only to cry in its embrace, knowing what he had done, and how he would be remembered for it. What would the court, nay, the kingdoms think of him now, after this great and terrible deed?

What would Casper think of him?

"Baelor Fyrestorm!"

"Baelor Fyrestorm!"

"Baelor Fyrestorm!"