GOT : All Left Behind

"There are few gifts greater than opportunity."​

In a faithful and just world, knights would be holy warriors, each a paragon dedicated to the spirit of their vows. Not brutes whose only desire was to fight, not tools to be used by faithless lords in their games of power, but men who were driven by their desire to serve the Seven in action above all else. Servants of none but the Seven.

And these few dozen defenders of the town upon the mouth of the Torrentine were so close to being an example of fine knights. It had only been a few years since I had been knighted on that early morning of the second-greatest day of my life, but the words were still etched into my mind.

In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.

The realization that I had failed my vows was like bile upon my tongue, a burning revulsion that lingered and refused to be washed away. The young had been torn from their homes and innocence. The innocent had been consigned to a grisly fate at my hand. I knew this. I knew I would pay for those actions. No matter the reasoning and excuses, I would pay for those actions. If not in this life, then in the next.

And as I pondered the fates of the former defenders of this town upon the mouth of the Torrentine, I could already feel my sentence in the next life grow inexorably longer. My conscience was bracing for the new weight that would slam into it as I pondered how long I could hold off on sentencing these men - men who had yielded to me to defend the innocent of this town.

Send the lords and knights to the Arbor, the heirs to Oldtown, my father's words echoed through my mind. Burn everything else.

"Prince Vaegon?" The words of the captain of the Naga's Bane, a man whom I had since learned was known to his peers as Bertram, broke me out of my thoughtful haze and back into the present. Back into the small chamber that had served as the solar for the lord of this town. The walls were not bare, the furniture of considerable vintage, but it still felt inadequate in the oppressively small chamber. "You called?"

"How many prisoners?" I asked the small number of guests I had invited into the solar. Calling them my best commanders was a stretch- but these were the captains who had men who either brought down a raven or had fought on the eastern bank. They had proven if not trustworthy then at the very least reliable. The priest who stood beside them… well, he seemed to have taken an interest in me and was predictably influential among the Ironborn.

"Lord Torrentsmouth and his son, six family members, forty-odd men-at-arms and sworn knights, and some two hundred servants."

That many?

Seven save me. Roughly two hundred and fifty souls. And Father would want them consigned to the flame.

But Father was not here.

"The cells must be overflowing," I muttered, turning my attention to the parchments on the table. What few ravens I had not been forced to bring down myself had had their blood-spattered messages delivered to me. The contents were generic, warning of a dragon attack, the seal had not even been properly applied, and the letters lacked any sort of formal address to the recipients. Clearly, I had overestimated their value. Or these were forgeries. "Release the servants, but make it clear they have lost their positions as such and are not to return to the keep. Bring the lord to me and the heir to the docks. Choose whichever captain you wish, just make sure to have him bring the boy to Oldtown."

There, two hundred were spared from an atrocity. Easily done.

"If not the boy, are we drowning the lord, then?" Bertram asked. The first reaction of denial was almost on my tongue before the full implication reached my mind. "The other guards?"

"What?" A drowning? A sacrifice to their god? And they were asking me?

I wanted to laugh.

I would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, were we not discussing the execution of prisoners who had willingly surrendered. Prisoners who could expect a certain quality of treatment. Prisoners who, if nothing else, had proven noble enough to yield quickly in the face of greater harm done to their people.

"A drowning, Your Grace," the priest explained patiently. "It is tradition to offer captured enemies to the Drowned God to give thanks for our victory."

"I will consider it. But not for Lord Torrentsmouth." I would not give a solid answer. "I will have words with him and then send him to the Arbor."

Once the words had been spoken, however, another thought rose to the fore.

"Take his family to the docks as well," I amended my earlier order. "Put them on the same ship as the heir, Captain Bertram. You may relax afterward, but remember to relieve the guards at the town's east gate when the time comes. That goes for all of you."

"Guard duty?" another captain asked incredulously. This one, a lean and unscarred youth, was one I would have mistaken for a crewman on one of the other ships. But his fine armor, covered in what appeared to be tiny little fish, suggested there was a good reason why he had held a command. Besides, he had done well in battle, according to those who had been present. "Why waste our time with that? We should be striking at the enemy while we can!"

"Because we do not yet know our next target," I answered patiently. Unfortunately, in my haste to deal with the maester and any reinforcements he might have called, I had also cost us most if not all of the more detailed maps of the area. Advancing blindly, while a fine strategy in an emergency, was not something I wished to try in the land of the scorched earth tactics. "And we cannot allow word of our landing to reach the rest of Dorne quite yet. Ensure that none leave this town. I will leave the details of how that is done to you."

"Cheer up, Donnos. You can make your own fun!" Bertram chuckled, and I did not wish to know what this 'fun' would involve. He gave the other captain a friendly clap on the shoulder, but then swiftly took his leave. To follow his orders, presumably. Compared to how this invasion had started, it was a marked improvement. Even if they were questioned, and their execution questionable, my orders were obeyed.

For now.

Should I lose their respect now, this carefully constructed working relationship might yet fail.

"And have your men continue their search efforts," I told my remaining guests. "We need every last horse and draft animal we can find. Carts, too. There will be an extra ration of ale to the crew who finds the highest number of usable beasts of burden."

That had been an unavoidable problem with this invasion. Ironborn longships were not particularly suited to carrying anything other than soldiers and their supplies. No oxen, nor any carts to be drawn by oxen, were part of my army when we landed. That meant no supply train, not unless I intended to have my men carry their own supplies.

Now there was a thought.

But I would greatly prefer to reduce my men's burden. Were I to turn them into heavily armed mules, they would have to carry a lot. Far more than was usual for a campaign. Once the Dornish realized we were here, they would make foraging a near impossibility. At least, if I wanted to keep my men safe from poisoning.

And I had a complete lack of cavalry. In a land famous for its rapidly striking raiders, not having something to counter them, or at least keep them occupied, was an excellent way of getting your army annihilated. Even if the Cannibal could scout far better than any mounted unit, even he had to sleep. And be in only one place at a time. And could not attack enemies close to our own lines without causing undue damage to my men.

Yes, staying in the town for a few days was for the best. We needed to prepare for the difficult part of this war.

I heard the door slam shut behind the leaving captains, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

And one of the advisors.

"Your Grace, I must again suggest drowning at least one of our prisoners," the priest reiterated once we were behind closed doors. "The Drowned God frowns upon miserly behavior."

"So you say," I looked at the notes on the small desk before me. Nearly twenty thousand men at my disposal. I could hardly provision that many men in the field without heavy foraging. Nearly fifty prisoners that I had captured. I did not wish to have to guard them while on campaign in dangerous lands. If only there was a convenient of way storing prisoners and soldiers away from the front for an extended amount of time while securing this beachhead. No, wait, that was the easy part.

The difficult part was the fact that Father had left painfully clear instructions.

"We shall revisit this topic after I speak with the lord of this place," I decided. "The threat of his men dying horribly should loosen his lips."

"Words are wind, Your Grace," the priest pointed out. "If you do not drown at least one of his men, how will he take your threats seriously?"

In response, I drew the sword that I still wore, the sword of legendary heroes, the sword that all of Westeros, from the Wall to the Torrentine, knew as Dawn. Atop the desk only slightly crowded with messages and notes, it came to a rest, the pale blade casting a milky light upon the mottled surface of the desk.

"I do not make idle threats," I said softly, memories of my past misdeeds bubbling into my mind. "But if he doubts me still…"

My meaning was clear.

The priest was free to pray for an arrogant fool of a lord. All I needed was a reasonable man, and for the Crone to grant him at least a mote of wisdom.

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