Beric Dondarrion
This was the end…
King Joffrey was sending out letters demanding that Littlefinger and Arya Stark be handed over to him. The former Master of Coin's fate was already sealed. As for the girl, he promised to spare her life and have her reside in the Red Keep alongside her sister, Sansa.
Dondarrion was aware of the latest news, but they scarcely touched him, like distant winds. They had repelled one of Tarly's assaults, and afterward the enemy simply settled into a siege—slow and methodical. No one wanted unnecessary casualties, and no one was eager to die, especially as the Arryn forces in the east continued to retreat.
King Joffrey moved deliberately and methodically, taking one castle after another and securing the entire Vale. Each day, he sent out letters urging them to avoid needless bloodshed and surrender Littlefinger.
In the end, his strategy bore fruit.
It was a fresh, windy day. Clouds gathered in the west, over the steepest peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, and over the Giant's Lance—the maesters claimed it was the tallest mountain in all of Westeros.
The wind played with the banner atop the pole—a white crescent moon barred by a black portcullis on a purple field, encircled by ancient runes. It was the coat of arms of House Royce of the Gates of the Moon, to whom the castle belonged.
Dondarrion, Thoros, and young Dayne stood atop a tower, looking down the slope. Below, beneath the walls, the army of Randyll Tarly had dug in and erected fortifications. Men bustled about like ants. Beyond the ditches and palisades stretched countless tents, and a little apart from them camped the mountain clans.
"Look," sharp-eyed Dayne broke the silence. "Someone's approaching the castle from the other side."
They moved along the wall and climbed another tower that guarded the fortress from the Vale side.
A large force was advancing from the east. Horns sounded, ordering the drawbridge lowered and the portcullis raised.
Beric stood watching as the warriors passed through the gates. Hooves thudded heavily against the wooden planks. A horse whinnied. The banners of the Vale's great houses flashed by—the senior Royces, the Hunters' arrows, and the burning yellow tower of House Grafton, lords of Gulltown.
After some time, the Blackfish came up to join them on the platform. He looked pale, but strangely calm.
"It's over. The war is finished," he said, approaching their group and drawing a deep breath. "The lords of the Vale have had their say—Petyr Baelish is dead, and his body has been delivered to King Joffrey. The Kettleblack brothers are dead as well, and the Hound has been taken prisoner. Arya is being held at the Eyrie. Lysa Arryn remains there, issuing orders no one listens to, fussing over her son."
"What will happen to us?" Thoros asked quietly. He leaned against the wall and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
"Ask the Stranger—or your god," the Blackfish replied with an indifferent shrug.
They fell silent. The wind picked up, and Beric involuntarily shivered. How did the locals live in such a place?
The three men and the boy had a decision to make.
"We won't be able to slip away. So either we kill each other right here, or we surrender," Lord Tully said.
"Joffrey might execute us just the same," Thoros countered.
"Exactly," Beric agreed.
"But he might make it far more painful," the Blackfish said.
"I'm not afraid of dying, but I don't intend to die just yet," Thoros said with a crooked grin.
"So I take it none of you are eager to die here and now?" Brynden Tully swept them with a calm glance. "Then let's go and surrender."
They were disarmed, bound, and then loaded into wagons and taken to Gulltown—where Joffrey had established his command.
In the city, they were all confined in a large cellar beneath some stone building—around twenty men, the remnants of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
The Blackfish was held somewhere else, and they heard nothing of him.
Several days passed. They were not mistreated and were even fed decently enough. Then Beric and Edric Dayne were taken from the cellar. A barber cut their hair and shaved them, they were allowed to wash, and given fresh clothes.
At last, they were brought into a chamber where the Blackfish was already waiting. After a time, King Joffrey entered, accompanied by his guards.
The king was attended by Jaime, the Kingslayer, and he alone looked at them with open hostility. Then again, Ser Willem Mooton did not seem inclined toward friendliness either.
Beric had not seen the king in nearly two years, and he could not help but be struck by how much he had changed.
Joffrey sat in a small chair by the window. For a long moment, he studied their faces, his gaze moving from one to the next.
Beric himself managed to keep his composure. Lord Tully remained silent, his brow dark with disdain. Edric Dayne swallowed nervously and clenched his fists.
"I can allow that you are men of honor who fought in accordance with your duty," the king said at last, unexpectedly and in a quiet voice. His tone was perfectly calm. "However, in Westeros, the victor dictates the law. And so, by that law, you are nothing more than common outlaws. Yet Lord Edmure Tully has spoken on your behalf, Lord Brynden. And you, Lord Dondarrion, acted under the orders of the Hand. Therefore, you are given a choice—execution, or swear your vows and take the black."
(End of Chapter)
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