Chapter 95 92

The Vale. 298 AC.

Ser Brynden Tully.

Watching an enemy's camp tells you a great deal about the state of your foe. Over a long life I had mastered that art. My experienced eye unconsciously noted small details and assembled them into a broader picture.

The ground was flat and undisturbed, which meant no large tents had been pitched. The remains of campfires every twenty paces. The closer to them, the more blood could be found on the earth. Plainly, the most badly wounded had been carried near the warmth. At the most exposed positions, the carcasses of horses had been arranged into protective barricades. Original, and they had even thought to lay the carcasses on the windward side. We found where the horses had been stabled; the blood there was far thicker than near the fires. That was easy enough to explain. Ten minutes later a man came running to report.

"My lord, we found thirty-six bodies wrapped in cloth." They had left their dead behind, an ugly thing to do, but understandable.

"Axel Arryn and Jasper Redfort? Any unidentified bodies?" I asked, just to be certain.

"All bodies are in fair condition. Arryn and Redfort are not among them." Bad. The bastard had survived.

"Can you tell me which direction they went?" The Falcon's Eye needed to be finished quickly, while he was still weak.

"Yes, ser, only..." The scout wanted to say something but was hesitating.

"Speak." He had been recommended to me as the best. His instincts were not to be dismissed.

"They went south." Seeing no comprehension in my eyes, he continued. "Toward the mountains."

"That troubles you?"

"Yes, ser. It is easy enough to hide there, but hard to get out."

"Could an army be concealed there?"

"Five hundred, perhaps six hundred men at most."

Was a Royce detachment hiding there? I doubted it, but it could not be discounted. Damn it all. The Falcon's Eye had to be killed at any cost. He would not give us a second chance. Enough placing faith in the gods' will. History knew too well that wounded men recovered and dealt killing blows to those who had wronged them. King Robert's example left no room for argument.

"Lead the way."

…

Lord Axel Arryn.

It was an ordinary valley, the sort that could be found by the thousands across all of Planetos, yet it was unlike the others. It could only be entered through four long passes, each running in a different direction. To reach the center, a rider had to push hard for a full fifteen minutes, and only then would a small hill of two hundred feet come into view. On its slope stood a camp flying the colors of House Arryn. Two men stood watching one of the passes.

"This is a foolish scheme, Lord Axel." Eyris was categorically opposed to my plan. After my wounding he had become a mother hen, set against any risk to my life whatsoever.

"There are no others." Seeing that he wanted to object, I cut him off. "Enough. The matter is already decided. Have the wounded lie down and rest. Send men to gather goldenrod, moonflowers, bloodwort, and smokevine. As much as they can carry." Understanding that arguing with me was pointless, he gave a short bow and went to carry out the order.

To stay alive, I had to sustain myself with magic constantly. If I broke the flow, I would die. It consumed roughly two thirds of all my magic. Right now I could not have broken an enemy line alone or cut through a fully-armored knight with a single blow. The remaining portion of my strength helped me move. In terms of raw power, I barely reached the level of an experienced knight.

What could be done with one fifth of my reserves left free? Not much. Cheap conjurer's tricks: throwing a fireball, calling down lightning, raising a corpse. The cost and the aim were not worth the consequences. Push past the limit and unleash a blight storm, turning everything within a hundred paces into wights? I could manage it, but I would sooner die than become a creature of the wraith world again, and this time with no hope of finding rest.

Having turned over every available option, I settled on using the magic of life, specifically herbalism. My memories of being the King of Arwalor, in the east of Arda, were faint and incomplete. I remembered that out of fear of death I had set myself on the path of seeking immortality. That had led me to study magic under Annatar, Sauron himself. And the first magical discipline I had taken up was the magic of life and everything bound to it. Working with plants had been one of my chief interests, and I had achieved good results. Not equal to those of my former companion the Nazgul, the erstwhile prince of Harandor, who had created the Morgul poison so beloved by every dark creature of Middle-earth. And already in my more conscious years, when I had studied the properties of local poisons under Oberyn, I had learned the nature of the surrounding plants whether I wished to or not. Because of this, I could produce simple herbal salves anywhere in Westeros that, when combined with magic, showed excellent results.

"Lyron." One of my men, a man from Lys, was filling in for Eyris as adjutant for the time being. "Ser Jasper should return within twenty minutes."

…

Ser Brynden Tully.

Brynden had good reason to doubt the reliability of what his scouts were telling him. He had never been a fool, and he had never noticed that failing in the Falcon's Eye either. And so he found himself with questions about what the Arryn was actually doing. Four passes and a hill in the middle: that was not a place where a man could hide. Brynden himself would not have chosen it.

"Are they in there?" He had already heard reports from several different men, but he trusted his tried and tested people far more.

"Yes, ser. They have made camp on the slope." What in all the hells was Arryn thinking?

"Sound the attack?" asked the commander of my personal guard.

"No. First we seal off every exit from the trap."

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