Chapter 126 123

The Stormlands. Nightsong. 298 AC.

Ser Gerold Dayne.

Nightsong was a wall. Nightsong was a shield. Nightsong was a bulwark against the Dornishmen and their raids. This formidable castle, one of the mightiest in the Stormlands and indeed in all of Westeros, had for centuries protected the Marches from the depredations of both the Reach and Dorne, and now, in the middle of a civil war, it was performing that same function with the same distinction it had throughout its entire history.

Like the other fortresses of the Dornish Marches, Nightsong had been built as a stronghold against Dorne and the Reach alike. Situated close to the borders of both neighboring kingdoms, the castle carried a rich military history: the chronicles recorded no fewer than thirty-seven sieges in the last millennium alone. The thirty-eighth was now underway, visited upon the seat of House Caron.

When the war came, Lord Bryce Caron, the sole legitimate representative of his house, declared at once for his good friend Renly Baratheon. In recognition of his outstanding martial contributions, King Renly had honored his friend greatly and allowed him to name his own reward. War being what it is, and Bryce the Orange being the last of an ancient line, he had no wish to see his house die with him. He asked that his brother Rolland Storm be legitimized and made heir to Nightsong. The king approved, and the bastard became heir to one of the most storied houses in the Stormlands.

Ser Rolland Caron, in turn, became a steadfast supporter of King Renly. Storm's End and Highgarden, aware of the coming Dornish invasion, had sent four thousand swords each to Nightsong and Blackhaven, the castles that had always borne the brunt of the southern neighbor's attacks. Later, however, the misfortunes of the war had compelled the king to strip those garrisons thin.

Rhaenys Targaryen, at the head of ten thousand soldiers, had taken command of the siege of Nightsong, and after three months had precious little to show for it. Ten thousand against fifteen hundred would seem to leave no room for doubt, and Rhaenys had pressed her authority as a Targaryen to bear down on the defenders as well. Every advantage lay against them, and the castle ought to have fallen within the first month. Only no one had thought to inform Ser Rolland Caron of this. His king had commanded him to hold the castle, and Caron would hold it to the last man. Incorruptible, loyal, sharp-minded, and commanding, Rolland had repelled six assaults and stood ready to repel as many more. The entire Targaryen restoration campaign had stalled at its very first obstacle, and now, in a very small circle, Princess Rhaenys was planning her next move. In the tent with her was her close friend, Ser Gerold Dayne.

"That bastard is driving me mad!" Rhaenys had been venting her frustration ever since the seventh assault failed.

"I'll grant you, the men in that castle are genuine lunatics," Gerold said, with something close to admiration.

Gerold was a patriot, as any worthy man of his kingdom ought to be, and he held Dorne to be a great power, and rightly so. What else could one call it: a language all its own in Rhoynish, a storied history, a singular geography at the meeting point of two continents, and a wealth of traditions that made the southern kingdom unlike anything else in the world. By the gods, while entire peoples had submitted to the dragonlords, the Dornishmen alone had never bent the knee.

Dayne loved history, above all the deeds of his proud ancestors. He had devoured every account he could find of campaigns, conquests, battles, and the great commanders who had distinguished themselves in them. But for all the dozens of successful campaigns Dorne had waged, the failed ones outnumbered them by far. Even as a young man he had puzzled over it: how had a handful of small castles managed to hold back the mighty armies of Dorne, especially when the advantage was so overwhelming?

He understood it now, at last. For a thousand years the people of the Dornish Marches had been born, lived, and died in endless war against their southern enemy. That kind of life had forged the Marchers into warriors known across the world for their ferocity. Not even a little over a century of peace had burned the deep hatred out of them. They would sooner die than let a Dornishman set foot on their soil.

The garrison of Nightsong was the worst imaginable. Gerold had seen a great deal of ugliness in the world, but the defenders' tactics filled him with genuine dread. These lunatics, when they took a mortal wound, would throw themselves off the wall and take an enemy with them on the way down. It was a truly terrifying, blood-chilling practice, dragging their most hated enemies down into the grave alongside them.

The tactic also simplified the defense of the walls in a grimly practical way: when a soldier died, his body became an obstacle for the men beside him. For that reason, with their last breath, they would topple themselves over the edge, clearing the path and killing as many of the enemy as they could on the way.

The man who had instilled this tactic was none other than Ser Rolland Caron, granted full authority over the fortress by King Renly and his Lord brother. Orders this suicidal were seldom followed with such devotion, but here Dayne could admit the fault lay with the Dornishmen themselves.

Fifteen years ago, Robert Baratheon's rebellion had claimed the life of Dorne's princess, her son, and tens of thousands of Dornish soldiers. The Sunspear had eventually acknowledged Baratheon rule, but that had not stopped the whole region from chipping away at the new authority through raids on the Dornish Marches ever since.

The defenders of Nightsong were not ordinary soldiers. The men on those walls had been handpicked by Ser Rolland personally. They were the fathers, brothers, and sons of those who had died in Dornish raids over the past fifteen years. They hated Dornishmen, and they had been waiting for a chance to answer for it, which was why they could fight with such savagery.

"We need to take Nightsong, and quickly," the Sand Dragon declared, her nerves fraying. This was her first campaign, and the whole situation was wearing on her.

"Only at great cost." These lunatics would fight to the last man, which boded ill for the army. "Rhaenys, calm yourself. The garrison is at twice its breaking point; all we need to do is maintain the siege, and in five or six months they'll starve."

"A letter arrived from Uncle Oberyn about the outcome of the negotiations." Thirty thousand swords were about to enter the war. "The Vale will not join the war until we've pushed through the Dornish Marches."

"I don't follow. You offered him a crown, and the bastard is still setting conditions? How can a man be such a coward? I suppose all those tales about the courage of Falcon's Eye are pure fiction."

"As it turns out," Rhaenys said, her voice sharp with anger. "Axel is quite the hypocrite. He looks down on Uncle Doran for cowardice, yet does exactly the same."

Gerold was no great politician, but he thought himself clever enough to see the obvious. On the surface, the Falcon's Eye put conditions that looked reasonable: he wanted to be sure they wouldn't bog down at the very first castle. On the other hand, everyone understood the cost of pressing the assault decisively. Losing three or four thousand Dornish spears to gain thirty thousand Vale swords and the resources of an entire region might seem like a favorable trade, but Dayne believed it was better to have a few loyal men than many unreliable ones.

An army gave leverage, and the larger it was, the more one was beholden to it. After the war, Rhaenys would have to settle accounts with all her allies, and the fewer soldiers personally loyal to her remained, the bolder the lords would grow, the Arryn above all. He could see why Doran was worried, and in some measure he agreed.

"I can ease the siege somewhat." Seeing the future queen's interest sharpen, he continued. "A couple of letters, and in two weeks we'll have fifty siege engines or more. If these bastards are so attached to their castle, let them die under its rubble."

"Nightsong is a strong castle. It will take a great deal of time to bring it down."

"You're placing your priorities in the wrong order. I won't argue that this is a good moment to enter the war for anyone: the usurpers are fighting each other and bleeding money, men, and resources. Fine. But even then that is no reason to waste lives needlessly for us, especially when we have an interest in letting our enemies cut each other apart for as long as possible. Look at the bright side. The Vale is undoubtedly a powerful ally, and we would like to bind it to us quickly, but everything in its own time."

"What if someone else wins him over?" Rhaenys began to work herself up again.

"And who could better the title of king-consort?" Dayne asked, leaving the question to answer itself.

"Fine." It took remarkably little to settle the woman down. "Thank you. You can go."

"Ah, no." It took him only a moment to settle the princess onto his lap. "I'm quite comfortable here."

"Is that any way to speak to your queen?!" the girl protested, though not very convincingly.

"With the utmost respect."

And before Rhaenys could think of a retort, Gerold silenced her with a kiss that drifted, without any hurry, into something more pleasurable.