Slowly, almost as if I feared to believe it, I looked across the battlefield. Was that truly all? Had we really won?
Tarly's men began disarming the Dornish. Here and there across the field moved the mercy men — warriors tasked with finishing the wounded using narrow swords or heavy mauls. There were simply too many injured for aid to be given to all of them. Besides, many were doomed regardless — to die from blood loss, gangrene, or simply from the agony itself.
The Dothraki were slaughtered without distinction. Jaime wished to show the savage tribes of the east, once and for all, just how ruthless and merciless Westeros could be. He meant to teach them one single lesson — brutal and unforgettable — to ensure the Dothraki would henceforth fear not only the sea, but would piss themselves at the mere thought of facing western knights again.
The Dornish and the surviving sellswords — mostly Stormcrows — were treated far more humanely. Only the utterly hopeless cases were given the gift of mercy, while the Silent Sisters began tending to the rest.
Jaime rode up to me with a dozen knights. All of them were bloodied, exhausted, splattered with mud and sweat.
And all of them were smiling.
"Joff, let's ride a little farther off," Jaime suggested, and we headed toward a place where the stink of blood, death, and shit was not quite so overwhelming.
To reach it, we had to cross Cloverfield itself. The whole earth was strewn with corpses. The scent of victory mingled thickly with the smell of fresh dead. Rivulet snorted, tossing her head and arching her neck — she did not care for the atmosphere in the slightest.
I rode slowly and saw everywhere bloodied body parts, split skulls, mangled noses, severed ears, hacked necks, gouged-out eyes, ripped-open bellies, entrails spilling onto the ground, hair clotted with blood, slashed torsos, twisted fingers and limbs… Bodies half-hewn apart or entirely severed, foreheads, chests, arms, and legs pierced through with arrows, ribs jutting out into the air… Lifeless faces with glazed eyes that only hours before had been full of life and laughter… Gaping wounds, the final breaths of dying men… Rivers of blood…
Without meaning to, I bent forward in the saddle. A lump rose in my throat. War revealed itself before me in all its horror and unimaginable cruelty. How many lives had ended upon Cloverfield? I still only dimly grasped the true scale of the battle that had taken place there, yet already some superstitious dread was creeping into my heart…
***
We made camp farther upstream along the Blueburn, beyond a hill so that neither the stench nor the groans of the wounded would reach us.
Servants unloaded my great pavilion from the wagons and began pitching it.
One dragon still lived, but now it was no longer truly dangerous. We had Daenerys, and I intended to keep her within my own tent. I suspected the dragon would sense that and refrain from any needless aggression.
I dismounted. Robert Brax helped remove my helm and breastplate. Jaime directed the camp, posting watches and barking out a constant stream of orders. He also commanded that the bodies of all the most prominent knights and lords be brought here. Many were still unaccounted for — friends and comrades, as well as foes— and I wished to learn their fates.
The first body they carried before us was Ser Barristan Selmy — the proud old knight who had preserved his courage and dignity even in death. The old memories of the former Joffrey rose unbidden in my mind. Bloody fool… how could he ever have cast such a man aside?
Our own dead were laid apart. There they carefully placed Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Surprise seemed frozen upon his face. Some spear had pierced his throat.
So Tyrell had fallen as well…
He had dreamed of glory and renown. He had wished to become the most celebrated knight in all Westeros. And thus you found your end, Knight of Flowers. You died, though looking upon your laughing face and knowing your hunger for life, it had always seemed to us that death and you were utterly incompatible things. How terribly hard it would be for Margaery to learn of this…
I bent down, dropped to one knee, and closed his eyes.
Beside Selmy they laid Jorah Mormont. Him I had not known, but my knights identified him. Mormont had died trying to save the fallen Dany. He had been badly burned, then finished off with several blows.
Alongside him they placed Tallad the Tall. He had been neither noble nor important, but once he had served Joffrey as a bodyguard, and the servants had decided to bring him as well. He died fighting beside Oberyn, the Red Viper.
Well then, now it was clear where that man had gone after I cast him aside. Back then, I had been young and foolish, making certain decisions with my heart rather than my head. No doubt he had managed to tell the Martells many interesting things about Joffrey and his habits.
And there lay Oberyn himself, the Red Viper. That one had been finished deliberately. I had hinted to Tarly that Oberyn was not needed alive, and he had understood perfectly. Oberyn died in battle, and even death had failed to erase the arrogance from his face. His armor — dented, scratched, smeared with blood and earth — remained astonishingly rich and splendid.
Beside Loras Tyrell they laid the Kingsguard knight Ragnar Ran. He had died not far from me, and I had seen one of the Unsullied drive a spear through him.
Men kept bringing bodies, laying them down one after another. Knights from the Rock, Riverrun, King's Landing, the Reach. There were so many of them. And yet, despite all our losses, I was grateful that Jaime, Edmure Tully, and Randyll Tarly had survived.
Though Tully had not escaped unscathed. The Dothraki had carved him up badly, and now the river lord was in poor condition indeed. I prayed sincerely to the Seven that Marwyn the Mage would prove equal to his reputation and not let Edmure die.
(End of Chapter)
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