A Dragon of Storms - The Sellsword Prince II

Jon raised his hand, halting the advance of the force that he'd brought with him, which numbered just over a hundred men. They'd been moving slowly across the forests and plains of the Disputed Lands towards their goal, and Jon was confident that he'd found it.

A camp loomed below them, easily far larger than the one the rest of his men had set up, with a variety of tents and open spaces. Surrounded by rivers and hills, Jon knew that he was fortunate that he hadn't gone for the attack that Mors Crowfood had been urging him to pursue.

"Mira, my lady," Jon said cautiously, as he looked at the enemy's hold. "Did you find any ways into their hold that aren't too well guarded?"

"I did, my Prince," the short woman replied dutifully, leaning casually against her trident that was firmly implanted into the ground, pointing to the east and west sides of the camp. "I've marked each location where we can sneak in with chalk."

"Good work." Jon praised, giving her an appreciative nod. "Ready your men as soon as you can. We attack in half an hour."

"Want me to get the knight and the pretty one over here?" Mira inquired, referring rather obliquely to Ser Horpe and Saanro, the commanders that he'd decided to bring on this mission.

"Yes," the prince affirmed, absently fiddling with a silver bracelet on his arm. By the gods, he hoped that Amara was doing okay wherever she was.

"Your grace?" Ser Richard asked, seemingly ready for battle already. "Has that swamp dweller told you where we can get into this godsforsaken camp?"

"She has, ser." Jon replied, pushing aside his indignation for a moment. "I want you to gather forty men and follow her lead. She'll take you to where you'll be able to get in."

"As you wish, your grace." The knight answered somewhat more stiffly then before, seemingly offended by the prospect of having to take orders from a crannogman, even if it was only for a bit. He'd have to get used to it before long, Jon thought. He wanted the most capable at his side, not the ones who had the highest status.

"What about me, Prince Jon?" Saanro asked bluntly, his strong Volantene accent shining through.

"I'm putting you in charge of the catapults and archers," Jon ordered, trusting that the Volantene would be able to do this task without complaint. He'd been among the most dependable of those who'd chosen to come with him, but still… It never hurt to be careful.

"It shall be done." Saanro the Unbroken replied, bowing his head with nary a complaint. "May the Lord of Light smile on you, Prince Jon."

Jon merely nodded, before preparing himself, grabbing his sword from his tent and absently swinging it once and twice to check the balance before putting it in the sheathe on his hip. He was ready for this… He had to be. People were depending on him to complete this task.

The prince moved towards the soldiers that had gathered to follow him into battle, and he briefly hoped that none of them would get hurt… Even if he knew damn well that was an impossible wish.

"With me!" He commanded firmly, as over forty lightly armored soldiers quickly obeyed, hastening to join him, feeling increasingly nervous as they descended down the hill. "Spread out and move as quietly and as fast as you can and look for the chalk signs."

The silence of the night was slowly but surely replaced by the sounds of sleeping men and the footsteps of his companions, as his forty men slowly divided themselves into groups of five, all with unlit torches and flint and steel in hands.

Jon felt a certain anxiety rise in him as he approached the camp, spying Mira's chalk sign almost immediately, quietly and slowly tearing off loose planks and motioning his men in.

"Now." The prince ordered, raising his hand and clenching his fist, immediately feeling his heart constrict. He really was doing this, wasn't he?

His men immediately lit their torches and began to sprint, dousing the tents in flame.

"FIRE! SOMEONE'S STARTED A FIRE!" A random voice began to shout, as the fires began to spread, the flames licking the dry grass.

It was chaos in an instant as Saanro launched his catapults, flaming barrels coursing through the air towards the camp, a loud crash echoing in Jon's ears as they smashed against the hard ground. The flames were uncontrollable now, not caring what it touched.

"INTRUDERS!" Someone yelled in front of him, a mismatched set of hastily thrown on armor and a steel mace marching towards him. Jon was faster however, and his sword entered his throat before he could spout any more words.

Pulling his blade out of the man's throat, Jon marched forwards, a haze of chaos and blood slowly forming in front of his very eyes. "RETREAT!" He bellowed, grabbing the shoulder of one of his men, who'd just finished killing one of the sellswords with a meaty thud of his mace. "Find the rest of your soldiers and get to our camp - now!"

"Right on, your grace," the soldier quickly replied, dropping his torch immediately.

Jon couldn't help but stare for a moment at the carnage that his plan had wreaked, as he began to retreat, with most of his men in tow. The flames had engulfed the entire camp, and he heard the cries and screams as men and women were burned alive, and many others died to the smoke, hacking at their lungs.

Jon didn't feel like a prince or a commander at that point… He felt like a butcher. He had won the battle and most of his men had made it out with nary a scratch, yet Jon couldn't help but feel as if he had failed.

He realized as he stumbled towards his tent, after hours of marching back to their camp, congratulations and grim praise echoing in his ears like thunder, that he genuinely felt hatred at that moment. Not towards the Company of the Cat, his men or even the various commanders at his disposal… He felt it towards himself.

AN: As always, I am unsure about battle scenes, so feel free to give criticism and comments. As for any long term plans… I got plans. Trust me on that one. Especially for Jon and several others.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, I had best get to writing the next one.