Of the Blood of the Dragon

Chapter Twenty Six

Ser Criston faced fires as well. As he drove his men south through the riverlands, smoke rose up before him and behind him. Every village that he came to he found burned and abandoned. His column moved through forests of dead trees where living woods had been just days before, as the riverlands set blazes all along his line of march. In every brook and pool and village well, he found death: dead horses, dead cows, dead men, swollen and stinking, befouling the waters. Elsewhere his scouts came across a ghastly tableau where armored corpses sat beneath the trees in rotting raiment, in a grotesque mockery of a feast. The feasters were men who had fallen in the Fishfeed, skulls grinning under rusted helms as their green and rotted flesh sloughed off their bones.

Four days out of Harrenhal, the attacks began. Archers hid amongst the trees, picking off outriders and stragglers with their longbows. Men died. Men fell behind the rear guard and were never seen again. Men fled, abandoning their shields and spears to fade into the woods. Men went over to the enemy. In the village commons at Crossed Elms, another of the ghastly feasts was found. Familiar with such sights by now, Ser Criston's outriders grimaced and rode past, paying no heed to the rotting dead... until the corpses sprang up and fell upon them. A dozen died before they realized it had all been a ploy, the work of a Myrish sellsword in the service of Lord Vance, a former mummer called Black Trombo.

All this was but a prelude, for the Lords of the Trident had been gathering their forces. When Ser Criston left the lake behind, striking out overland for the Blackwater, he found them waiting atop a stony ridge; three hundred mounted knights in armor, as many longbowmen, three thousand archers, three thousand ragged rivermen with spears, hundreds of northmen brandishing axes, mauls, spiked maces, and ancient iron swords. Above their heads flew Queen Rhaenyra's banners. "Who are they?" a squire asked when the foe appeared, for they showed no arms but the queen's.

Off in the distance they heard a roar... Viserra had come to the riverlands. She landed Cannibal near the Winter Wolves before sending the dragon away.

"Our death," answered Ser Criston Cole, for even without Viserra these foes were fresh, better fed, better horsed, better armed, and they held the high ground, whilst his own men were stumbling, sick, and dispirited.

Calling for a peace banner, King Aegon's Hand rode out to treat with them. Four came down from the ridge to meet him. Chief amongst them was Ser Garibald Grey in his dented plate and mail. Pate of Longleaf was with him, the Lionslayer who had cut down Jason Lannister, Roddy the Ruin, bearing the scars he had taken at the Fishfeed, along with Lady Viserra.

"If I strike my banners, do you promise us our lives?" Ser Criston asked the four of them. The three men turned to look at Viserra. "We are good people, we've suffered enough." He said, finally looking at the girl who he used to teach.

"I will give you the same mercy that Aemond gave to my brother and Lucerys, the same mercy that was shown to my son and Prince Jacaerys at the Battle of the Gullet, Kingmaker. I litter the Seven Kingdoms with the blood of traitors." Viserra said menacingly, coming down from her horse.

"Viserra, if there is to be a battle here, many of your own will die as well."

The northman Roderick Dustin laughed loudly, "That's why we come. Winter's here. Time for us to go. No better way to die than with a sword in hand."

Ser Criston drew his longsword from its scabbard. "As you will it. We can begin here, the five of us. One of me against the four of you. Will that be enough to make a fight of it?"

Ser Criston turned to look at the three men on their horses, suddenly he dropped his sword and clutched at his throat where a dagger made blood pool. The knight fell to his knees as Lady Viserra came over to him.