The Toils of War

Watching as the weapons started to tumble from the walls, as he had commanded, Aelyx called his captains to him.

Paekiro sauntered closer upon a stumbling steed, the Pentosi pressing a cloth to the stump that represented all that remained of his left ear. He was grinning wider than Aelyx had ever seen.

Hartirah and Daaror marched up together, golden bands on their forearms so smeared with dirt and blood that they may as well have been tarnished bronze. They shared a laugh, something seemingly crude, and pertaining to some Valemen. Looking up to Aelyx atop his horse, their faces straightened, taking on a more serious visage.

Areo seemed to have collected another pair of daggers from somewhere, as well as an arakh smeared in crimson, and the helm with a crest of pink, a winged cup embossed into the steel. He seemed quite impressed at himself, and began to admire the honed edge on the Dothraki blade.

There was no sign of Sorrahran, Celiar or Maengyreon.

They could be on the other side of the city, or they could be at their feet. They would simply have to wait to see if they turned up.

He glanced around, before gesturing across the battlefield.

“Many good men have fallen today, injured, maimed, killed. The formers will join the latter in the time, if we are not quick. Most of the usurper’s men follow their Lords, who in turn followed the man they were forced to take as King. Gather your serjeants, the men under your command, and seek them out. To the Lords that bend the knee, offer them assistance. Provide them milk of the poppy and firewine, have their wounds bound, their arms and legs splinted. For those that remain unwise, grant them the mercy of a quick death, for they have suffered enough under a pretender King.”