Post by Horas on Nov 14, 2008 13:34:29 GMT -5
Monterys Velaryon woke with a start. It was a moment before he remembered where he was.
Duskendale. Where he had been taken to after his wounding at Skiff’s Vale. He closed his eyes remembering. Images of the battle and his part in it swirled before his eyes.
Nothing had prepared Monterys Velaryon for the hell that was Skiff’s Vale. No doubt there had been bigger and more bloody battles, but this had been Monterys’ first battle – the one where he’d hoped to impress the other men of the King’s forces and mayhap the King himself would notice him.
He had been fighting with Lord Danton’s Massey’s cavalry. The cavalry had charged the Riverlanders’ lines. The men on foot had been no match for armed knights and Massey’s charge had cut through them like a hot knife through a tub of butter.
Monterys closed his eyes to images that were more vivid.
Monterys’ stallion had plunged down the hill, lengthening stride as he gathered speed, mane and tail streaming like silver banners in the wind. As they crashed into the Riverlanders’ lines, Monterys saw men on both sides fall right and left. In front of him one Riverlander man-at-arms stood his ground and, with foolhardy courage, jabbed upwards towards the young knight with his spear. Monterys' stallion swerved, flashed on by. The man was dead by the time the men behind reached him, all but decapitated by a single swing of Monterys’ sword.
Monterys’ saw a Riverlander knight bearing down on him, a man of considerable bulk and far heavier than Monterys. Several of the King’s nearby men shouted a warning, but Monterys was already turning to meet the attack. The Riverlander swung a morning star mace in a wide arc toward Montery’s helm; the spiked ball slashed the air, all but grazed Monterys’ visor. The Riverlander, jerked his mount around, circled back for a second strike. Montery’s aim was truer. His lance hit the Riverlander full in the chest. The impact of the blow shattered the point of his lance and Monterys reeled back in the saddle. But the Riverlander’s horse was also rearing up and the man was toppling backwards, hitting the ground with all the force of a felled oak. He lay still. Several men around Monterys’ in the Baratheon livery who had seen the exchange cheered. Monterys horse stood trembling with exhaustion and he dismounted, threw the reins to one of the squires, shouted at him to get the horse out of the battle.
Tomas Waters was dead. Monterys had seen him fall; knew no man could survive the blow Tomas had taken. Too far away to help, he had shouted a futile warning, watched in horror as his squire crumpled to the ground. The moment of frozen immobility had nearly cost him his life. A staggering blow from a mace had knocked him sideways, driven him to his knees. Instinct saved him, instinct and years of practice at the quintain with battle-axe and broadsword. Even has he had gone down he reacted, without thought, without conscious choice. As his knee hit the ground he swung his sword upward in a manuovere learned years ago at Ashemark. Blood spurted over him as the man clutched his stomach, fell backward. Almost at once, another Baratheon man-at-arms was beside Monterys, helping him rise.
Monterys at the time had had no way of knowing how badly he had been hurt by the blow. The mace had crushed his vambrace. His right arm – his sword-arm! - was numb from elbow to wrist. There had been no pain… not yet, but blood was filling his gauntlet where a slice of plate armor had cut into him. He mouthed a hasty prayer to the Warrior – cursing his luck at the same time. Inside his gauntlets, his arms were slippery with sweat. The leather clung to his palms, his fingers were cramped and stiff.
A man was bearing down on him, swinging a deadly chained mace. Monterys gave ground, took another glancing blow on the shoulder that staggered him, and drove his sword through the man’s mailed brigandine, under his ribs. The force of this thrust numbed his arm even further. His grip weakened, the sword dipping dangerously.
Ahead of him, one of the King’s soldiers fell, reeling with fatigue. Monterys stopped and the soldier gazed up dully recognising him.
“Ser…I cannot.”
“Don’t talk.” Monterys’ own voice cracked, He coughed and the muscles of his throat constricted painfully. “Stay..catch your breath. Join us then..”
Somehow the man regained his feet, managed a ghostly smile. “I don’t…don’t want to have....”
Monterys never knew what he meant to say. The man gasped, both hands going up to his throat, to the protruding shaft of an arrow. Blood gushed from the dying man, over them both. Monterys recoiled, fought back a queasy wave of sickness. He’d bitten down on his lower lip, now tasted blood in his mouth and nearly gagged. The man slid to the ground at his feet twitching convulsively. Monterys shuddered, backed away, his numbed arm haging uselessly at his side.. He cursed. There was no feeling in his arm. Not being able to swing his sword and remain in the battle was almost certain death. He would have to withdraw.
A few hours later Monterys’ shattered armor lay on the floor of the surgeon’s tent. The battle was over – a victory for the king. The surgeon was leaning over him unfastening the straps and buckles that closed his cuirass on his right side, fumbling with the straps across his shoulders. The surgeon was not used to acting as a squire, jerking with awkward roughness as he removed Monterys’ breastplate and then removed the plate armor that covered his arms. Too tired for complaint Monterys suffered the surgeon’s ministrations in silence and gave a sigh of relief when he could at last draw a breath without constraint.
The surgeon knelt beside him to examine his arm, by now stiff with congealed blood. Monterys flinched at the touch and gratefully accepted a wine flask that an assistant offered him. He drank too deeply, choked. The surgeon was pouring honey into the wound to cleanse it; under his probing the bleeding had begun anew. Monterys sagged back, closed his eyes.
He was back in Duskendale, lying in a bed with a whore dozing beside him, taken to pass the time while he got over his arm injury. The maesters had been treating his arm and he had been pronounced almost fully recovered. News had filtered through of the King’s subsequent victories at Harrenhal against the Riverlanders and to Monterys’ sorrow the Westerlanders. Nevertheless as he sat up and flexed his arm with no pain he realised it was time to return.
The next day Monterys was gone riding hard towards Harrenhal. He just hoped he was in time to fight again.
In the end he was.
Results
Monterys Velaryon gains Expert Lance
Monterys Velaryon makes full recovery from wound taken in Battle of Skiff’s Vale.
Monterys Velaryon returns to the Kings army at Harrenhal to fight in the next battle.
Duskendale. Where he had been taken to after his wounding at Skiff’s Vale. He closed his eyes remembering. Images of the battle and his part in it swirled before his eyes.
Nothing had prepared Monterys Velaryon for the hell that was Skiff’s Vale. No doubt there had been bigger and more bloody battles, but this had been Monterys’ first battle – the one where he’d hoped to impress the other men of the King’s forces and mayhap the King himself would notice him.
He had been fighting with Lord Danton’s Massey’s cavalry. The cavalry had charged the Riverlanders’ lines. The men on foot had been no match for armed knights and Massey’s charge had cut through them like a hot knife through a tub of butter.
Monterys closed his eyes to images that were more vivid.
Monterys’ stallion had plunged down the hill, lengthening stride as he gathered speed, mane and tail streaming like silver banners in the wind. As they crashed into the Riverlanders’ lines, Monterys saw men on both sides fall right and left. In front of him one Riverlander man-at-arms stood his ground and, with foolhardy courage, jabbed upwards towards the young knight with his spear. Monterys' stallion swerved, flashed on by. The man was dead by the time the men behind reached him, all but decapitated by a single swing of Monterys’ sword.
Monterys’ saw a Riverlander knight bearing down on him, a man of considerable bulk and far heavier than Monterys. Several of the King’s nearby men shouted a warning, but Monterys was already turning to meet the attack. The Riverlander swung a morning star mace in a wide arc toward Montery’s helm; the spiked ball slashed the air, all but grazed Monterys’ visor. The Riverlander, jerked his mount around, circled back for a second strike. Montery’s aim was truer. His lance hit the Riverlander full in the chest. The impact of the blow shattered the point of his lance and Monterys reeled back in the saddle. But the Riverlander’s horse was also rearing up and the man was toppling backwards, hitting the ground with all the force of a felled oak. He lay still. Several men around Monterys’ in the Baratheon livery who had seen the exchange cheered. Monterys horse stood trembling with exhaustion and he dismounted, threw the reins to one of the squires, shouted at him to get the horse out of the battle.
Tomas Waters was dead. Monterys had seen him fall; knew no man could survive the blow Tomas had taken. Too far away to help, he had shouted a futile warning, watched in horror as his squire crumpled to the ground. The moment of frozen immobility had nearly cost him his life. A staggering blow from a mace had knocked him sideways, driven him to his knees. Instinct saved him, instinct and years of practice at the quintain with battle-axe and broadsword. Even has he had gone down he reacted, without thought, without conscious choice. As his knee hit the ground he swung his sword upward in a manuovere learned years ago at Ashemark. Blood spurted over him as the man clutched his stomach, fell backward. Almost at once, another Baratheon man-at-arms was beside Monterys, helping him rise.
Monterys at the time had had no way of knowing how badly he had been hurt by the blow. The mace had crushed his vambrace. His right arm – his sword-arm! - was numb from elbow to wrist. There had been no pain… not yet, but blood was filling his gauntlet where a slice of plate armor had cut into him. He mouthed a hasty prayer to the Warrior – cursing his luck at the same time. Inside his gauntlets, his arms were slippery with sweat. The leather clung to his palms, his fingers were cramped and stiff.
A man was bearing down on him, swinging a deadly chained mace. Monterys gave ground, took another glancing blow on the shoulder that staggered him, and drove his sword through the man’s mailed brigandine, under his ribs. The force of this thrust numbed his arm even further. His grip weakened, the sword dipping dangerously.
Ahead of him, one of the King’s soldiers fell, reeling with fatigue. Monterys stopped and the soldier gazed up dully recognising him.
“Ser…I cannot.”
“Don’t talk.” Monterys’ own voice cracked, He coughed and the muscles of his throat constricted painfully. “Stay..catch your breath. Join us then..”
Somehow the man regained his feet, managed a ghostly smile. “I don’t…don’t want to have....”
Monterys never knew what he meant to say. The man gasped, both hands going up to his throat, to the protruding shaft of an arrow. Blood gushed from the dying man, over them both. Monterys recoiled, fought back a queasy wave of sickness. He’d bitten down on his lower lip, now tasted blood in his mouth and nearly gagged. The man slid to the ground at his feet twitching convulsively. Monterys shuddered, backed away, his numbed arm haging uselessly at his side.. He cursed. There was no feeling in his arm. Not being able to swing his sword and remain in the battle was almost certain death. He would have to withdraw.
A few hours later Monterys’ shattered armor lay on the floor of the surgeon’s tent. The battle was over – a victory for the king. The surgeon was leaning over him unfastening the straps and buckles that closed his cuirass on his right side, fumbling with the straps across his shoulders. The surgeon was not used to acting as a squire, jerking with awkward roughness as he removed Monterys’ breastplate and then removed the plate armor that covered his arms. Too tired for complaint Monterys suffered the surgeon’s ministrations in silence and gave a sigh of relief when he could at last draw a breath without constraint.
The surgeon knelt beside him to examine his arm, by now stiff with congealed blood. Monterys flinched at the touch and gratefully accepted a wine flask that an assistant offered him. He drank too deeply, choked. The surgeon was pouring honey into the wound to cleanse it; under his probing the bleeding had begun anew. Monterys sagged back, closed his eyes.
He was back in Duskendale, lying in a bed with a whore dozing beside him, taken to pass the time while he got over his arm injury. The maesters had been treating his arm and he had been pronounced almost fully recovered. News had filtered through of the King’s subsequent victories at Harrenhal against the Riverlanders and to Monterys’ sorrow the Westerlanders. Nevertheless as he sat up and flexed his arm with no pain he realised it was time to return.
The next day Monterys was gone riding hard towards Harrenhal. He just hoped he was in time to fight again.
In the end he was.
Results
Monterys Velaryon gains Expert Lance
Monterys Velaryon makes full recovery from wound taken in Battle of Skiff’s Vale.
Monterys Velaryon returns to the Kings army at Harrenhal to fight in the next battle.