Chapter 76: Chapter 63: Voice of Reason?
In other words, something was keeping the servants of the Seven indoors. Threats, most likely. And if there was something willing and able to threaten the clergy, they would not hesitate to threaten us.
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"Weapons out," I ordered, drawing my pilfered blade as I spoke the words. The men-at-arms in front, their maces and spears already drawn, shifted into a ready position. Our column advanced through the streets far more slowly after that, taking every precaution as we approached alleys and crossings. More than previously, at least. There was a comfort in large numbers, after all.
"You really should get around to giving that sword a name," Martyn commented. Despite the lightness of his tone, he kept his gaze on the street in front and the houses around us.
"Only people with greatly inflated opinions of themselves name their weapons," I answered, likewise keeping my attention on my surroundings. My armor was more than a match for most light crossbows, but my horse most certainly was not. And a heavy crossbow, or anything Myrish for that matter, was another story.
"So what are you going to name it?" Desmond, the traitor, asked in turn. I, being the magnanimous prince, managed to resist the urge to give his horse a clap on the rear, instead giving him a soft chuckle.
For a long while, we continued without incident. Until one of the men-at-arms at the front signaled a halt. In an instant, the entire column of nearly two dozen stopped, horse and man alike.
"I'm hearing something up ahead."
As he said it, I could hear it too. The muffled sounds of shouting warped by the forest of houses and streets of King's Landing. And above it, barely audible, the dull sounds of impacts on padded flesh. Normally, I would have guessed it to be a brawl or a riot. Judging by the grisly remains we had passed thus far, however, this was no doubt something slightly more… grisly.
Which gave me free rein to intervene. Not that I needed it. Royal status had its advantages.
"What are we waiting for?" I asked as the men stood in place. "Onwards!"
I spurred my horse into a slightly brisker canter, mindful of the men on foot who could not keep up with a full gallop, Martyn and Desmond only a hair behind me. The few others on horseback around us easily kept pace while the men of foot had to put in a bit more effort, but we managed to turn the corner up ahead without difficulty.
And the sight before us told me everything I needed to know: A large group of men clustered around a wall, arms swinging wildly, bodies moving wildly as they tried to kick at something. Cruel laughter filled the air, interspersed with shouts and encouragements and insults, only occasionally broken up by a man's scream of pain.
"What's going on here?" I asked loudly.
The men froze. Arms stopped in mid-swing, kicks were aborted, voices stilled. Most of them, at least. One throat did not cease its screams of pain.
"Your Grace," in a staggered and uneven wave, the smallfolk sank to their knees, revealing the broken man in the midst. His body was a ruin. Covered in blood and angry red welts that would have left his entire body an angry bruise in the morning. Judging by how the arms looked to have been broken and the amount of blood around him, even his survival was in doubt.
But his face was even worse. If the body had been a ruin, then the face was little more than the cracked remnants of a foundation. The mouth did not fully close, looking like it had been nearly torn from its hinges. One of the eyes was little more than a barely recognizable lump of wet flesh. The nose was flattened, and a maze of cuts and gashes crossed his face, chunks of flesh and skin missing in certain places.
Even in that ruined face, however, I could see the fear as I approached.
The same fear I had once seen on Aemon's face.
"What is this?" I asked the kneeling peasantry with icy calm.
"One of them Dornish," came the response from one of them, like that explained everything. The voice was quavering, uncertain, much like a child who had been caught trying to raid the kitchens in the night because they were hungry.
Like that excused anything.
"And you know this how?" I turned in the direction of the voice.
"He… looked Dornish, Your Grace," the same man spoke, still kneeling but with his head slightly raised. Dark of hair and with sun-beaten skin, I had seen dozens of men like him while in Dorne. Had cut most of them down, too.
"And the others?" I asked, gesturing behind me with Dawn. Gestured in the direction of dozens of carcasses that looked to have been mauled by beasts instead of men. The dead who were almost certainly not isolated cases.
"We… we did not catch any others, Your Grace," the man offered, seemingly shrinking in on myself. "The others must have done for them."
"And have you thought to send for the Silent Sisters?" I asked, receiving no response. "For the many dead in the streets? Have any of you? Or were you going to let the dead rot and bring disease on top of tragedy?"
"We…" the man's voice faltered but did not continue. Of course they had not. They had not thought, only acted. Consumed by vengeance, they were willing to sink to the level of beasts, regardless of the consequences.
Are we any different?
Dawn came down, and the broken Dornishman's head swiftly rolled free of his shoulders.
A mercy. Or vengeance delivered. Either way, it felt hollow.
You know we are no different.
"You." I turned to face the man who spoken for this group who had been stealing my vengeance from me. Instead of any kind of verbal of physical reprimand I could have very easily justified to any of the very few people who would have cared, I reached to my belt for one of the many small pouches of silver coins I kept nearby for impromptu rewards. Naturally, I tossed this purse to the man. "Get the Silent Sisters."
"I…" the man's voice trailed off as he realized that I was not, in fact, going to kill him. Even if I was displeased at how it had been done, it needed to be done. "It will be done, Your Grace."
"Go." My voice was flat as I regarded the dead Dornishman. Or the man who had been identified as such. My blood screamed at my denied vengeance, at my duty having been taken from me by a gaggle of impetuous peasants. Were I a particularly spiteful individual, I could have found a reason to bring them in. For murder, say. A good way to hang a man. Or behead him if I felt generous. "And donate half of that purse to the Sisters as penance for not doing so sooner."
But who was I to punish loyalty to my family, no matter how brutally done? If I punished these men, would they rise to defend my family again? Or would they raise a hand to bring us down?
We could stop them from ever becoming a threat.
"The rest of you are to wait until he returns." I turned to a bulky man who no doubt worked on building one of my residential towers. Doing a quick count of the people around me, I grabbed one of the larger purses and tossed it him. Only this one was filled with lead tokens. My tokens. "Make sure he receives a share of this."
"Coin?" Another man asked.
"Discounted drinks at the Drakes," I corrected. "While your methods sicken me, your loyalty demands a reward. Act with restraint in the future, and the next time it will be coin."
With that last message delivered, I returned to my mount and my entourage.
"We're just going to leave?" Martyn asked. "Just like that? With you hogging all the fun?"
"We are not going to achieve anything here," I answered, already setting off for Aegon's Hill and the Red Keep at its peak. I had handled that rather well, I had to admit. Not even the odd flash of excessive rage.
Maegelle would be proud of my ability to not immediately resort to violence in the face of mild adversity. "And it appears I need to speak with my brother. We need a new commander of the city watch. And more men to fill the ranks and patrol the streets."
No doubt he would try to rope me into his scheme to reclassify Father as an invalid in exchange. Or he would have me set fire to an appreciable portion of Dorne. Mayhaps this might actually end well.
Wouldn't that be a fun turn of events?
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