Game of Thrones: Wind of Change

Beric Dondarrion

Life is a strange thing. Not so long ago, he had been a lord of the Dornish Marches, master of Blackhaven, and head of an ancient house. He had a betrothed—Allyria Dayne—and life had seemed magnificent and bright.

All of that was…

And then the Hand of King Robert, Lord Eddard Stark, had placed him at the head of a force of one hundred and twenty men and sent him into the Riverlands after the head of Gregor Clegane.

A great deal of water had passed under the bridge since then. The realm had changed; some people had died, others had risen to prominence. He himself had died more than once, been brought back, and continued to fight. In the end, death—the greatest adventure of a lifetime—had become routine.

Finding the will to go on had grown harder with each passing day. Their Brotherhood Without Banners, having turned into a guerrilla band, tried to help the smallfolk and cut down bandits, marauders, rapists, and murderers. At first, they believed they were fighting only against the Lannisters. In time, it became clear that men from the North, Freys, river lords—anyone with a cock and no conscience—were just as capable of raping women.

They operated north and south of the Trident, reaching as far west as Riverrun and as far east as Saltpans. Their main refuge had become the Hollow Hill—a system of caves a day's ride east of High Heart.

It was there that Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish, had found them.

"My nephew surrendered Riverrun and bent the knee to the bastard Joffrey," the Blackfish said. He sat on a rock draped with a wolfskin, drinking wine from a skin. Bitterness and disappointment laced his voice.

They were in the largest cavern of Hollow Hill, and now all the brothers had gathered around the old warrior, listening closely to his tale.

It was quiet, warm, and dry here. A bright fire burned, along with several torches wedged into cracks in the walls. A deer carcass roasted slowly over the flames, fat hissing as it dripped onto the coals.

Lord Dondarrion watched the Blackfish closely—a tall, lean man of advanced years, with a weathered, wrinkled face and gray stubble. Once, his dark blue eyes had loved to laugh, but the years and the passage of time had erased even the faintest trace of that joy.

War takes a piece of us all, Lord Beric thought, shifting his gaze to Thoros of Myr, the red priest who had brought him back from the dead more than once. Thoros had just taken the wineskin from Tully's hands and was taking a deep drink.

"How did it happen?" Dondarrion asked. The flames cast strange shadows in his one remaining eye. The other, gouged out, was covered by a patch. Of average height, with a gaunt, weary face and short light-brown hair, he did not look like a great warrior. Those who knew him understood how deceptive that impression was. Beric could move with startling speed, fighting with relentless skill and cunning. He also led his men well, often managing to catch the enemy off guard, striking as if from nowhere. For all this, he had earned the name the Lightning Lord.

"Edmure believed Joffrey, swore him fealty, and then the Lannisters sent him back beneath the castle walls. The river lords had no choice but to open the gates and lay down their arms." Tully spat to the side and fell silent. "I had to use a secret passage and flee."

A ripple of unrest passed through those gathered. Questions rose: "What now?" "Are we without support?" "The Tullys have yielded—are we finished as well…?"

Beric raised his head and looked over his men. There were about two dozen of them here—Lem Lemoncloak, Pello of Tyrosh called Greenbeard, Harwin of Winterfell who led six other northmen, Jack-Be-Lucky, the Mad Huntsman, Mudge, Beardless Dick, several archers under Anguy, Karyl Vance, and Tom of Sevenstreams—a bard of dubious reputation, a drunkard, and a lover of women.

A little behind them stood Edric Dayne, lord of Starfall, a boy of thirteen, shifting from foot to foot. For his bravery, Beric had knighted him, but the boy still thought of himself as a squire and helped however he could.

They all believed in the Lightning Lord and remained with his band no matter what. But now, with the fall of Riverrun, their situation had worsened considerably. The Blackfish had supported them with coin, arms, horses, and provisions, but now even a fool could see that the good days were over.

Under Dondarrion's steady gaze, his men fell silent one by one, though Lem Lemoncloak continued to mutter curses under his breath.

"What will happen now, Lord Tully?" Beric asked quietly.

"Fuck if I know," the Blackfish replied indifferently, and silence settled over the cave.

"And what do you intend to do?" Thoros asked, breaking it. He looked serene and untroubled. Nothing in this life seemed to concern him, and even the prospect of death he treated philosophically—it would come when R'hllor deemed it so. Why worry before then?

"Me? I'm thinking of heading to the Vale, to my niece Lysa Arryn," the Blackfish said, nodding his thanks as Dayne cut a piece of venison, placed it on a wooden plate, and handed it to him. "That's what I came here for, in fact. If you wish, you can come with me. As I see it, there's nothing left for you to do in the Riverlands."

"In the name of King Robert, we swore to protect them," Dondarrion said quietly.

(End of Chapter)

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