Chapter 11: XI: THE VULTURE HUNT

Chapter 11: XI: THE VULTURE HUNTChapter TextXI: THE VULTURE HUNT

The men gathered at Summerhall were not a host readied for war, for this Vulture King was but a pale shadow of the first one, who could gather thousands under his banner. From what his men had found out, this one could not command even one thousand, his brigands numbering but a few hundred.

But while they did not have the advantage of numbers, they had others. The Vulture King had struck at Summerhall, been repelled, and had fled into the Red Mountains once Aerys had started gathering men to hunt for him. He would not easily be caught, for he most likely knew his hiding places better than any marcher could.

It was Aerys that commanded the men gathered against the Dornish brigand, but he owed half of his authority to the presence of the Lord Penrose by his right side, for while he was young and untested, Penrose was a man forged in war.

 While he was but a boy during the Dance, he had been squire to the Oakenfist afterwards, and by his side during the fighting in the Stepstones, and during the war in the Vale regarding the succession of the House of Arryn. When he was older, he had been at the side of the Young Dragon during his Conquest of Dorne, and had earned his fair share of glory, and of wounds and scars.

He had slain in single combat the Sword of the Morning, Vorian Dayne, and had earned himself a song for it – The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. He had been at Daeron's side on that faithful day, and he had been dragged half-dead from that place, and in the days afterwards, laying wounded on his bed, he had begged the Stranger to finish the job, rather than live when the king he fought beside was dead.

With old Penrose approving of his command and deeds, the marchers would follow suit. And it was Aerys' vengeance to be had, and that was a thing every marcher lord understood.

It was close to a thousand men that pursued the villain into the Red Mountains, more than he deserved, but not one of his neighbours wished to be seen as lesser in worth by sending fewer men than the others.

They went into the mountains, and sometimes were ambushed by the Vulture, but the ambushes were hastily planned affairs, and haphazardly fought besides. It was certain that the brigand had not much experience in such warfare. They had found half a dozen camps, and their prey was foolish enough to leave enough tracks for the hunters to track him to his next hideout, only for him to flee at his approach.

And it was in terms of a hunt that Aerys' host spoke of him and his. He was not a man, but a vulture, and his fellow brigands were only animals, to be pursued and slain as one would a boar that unwisely feasted upon a village's crops. They were pests to be dealt with, swiftly and harshly.

As one by one, the Vulture's camps were found, abandoned in haste, and it seemed that the man retired deeper into Dornish lands, and he found shelter for himself amidst the villages hidden in mountain valleys.

It was to such a village, in Wyl lands, that they tracked his "scent", and his men ransacked every village for them while Aerys stood and watched impassively as men and women, from old men to children, toddlers and babes were unceremoniously dragged from their houses in the middle of night.

The men, and even the women were not eager to speak and betray that foul brotherhood. Aerys could have decided to torture them, or threaten to hang them, but he doubted they would tell him the truth. And when he would be able to discern if what they spoke was true or false, those men would have longed fled with their families, away from his ire.

No, he would do otherwise. He had one of the small boys seized from his mother's arms and brought before him. Children were easier to break after all, and easier made to tell the truth, naïve in the face of the higher workings of the world.

The boy was snivelling, begging to be brought back to his mother. A mailed hand struck across his cheek did not stop his sobs, so Aerys backhanded him once more, so hard that teeth were knocked out and the boy fell to the ground.

"Be silent and answer only as I bid you too, boy, lest I break your nose too. Tell me, were any strange men hosted in your father's house, or any other's? You could defy me and stay silent, but I doubt you want me to cut your father's throat before your eyes, don't you?"

Between sobs and hiccups, the boy answered.

"There were… st-strange men… leaving Old Ulrick's ho-house last n-night, just before d-dawn. B-But.. but… that's all, all that I know, I swear to you, m'lord! Just please don't kill my father!," the boy begged, throwing himself at the prince's feet.

"I shall not," spoke the prince with a voice that could be mistaken as kind for a moment, before turning harsh once more, "Men, drag every living man, woman, and children from the houses, slaughter every beast and cattle in the village, burn every house and barn, slight every well, burn, and trample under hoof every crop not yet harvested. That is the price of Old Ulrick's folly."

It was not the last of such scenes, for it took the Dornish half a dozen burnt villages to understand that allowing the brigands in their houses assured the destruction of their livelihood at the hands of the Stormlanders, and their leader, who they feared, and hated, the Red Drake, the Prince of Cinders. One could hear him before he saw him, for his dragonshead standard had a cloth tube affixed at its reared, that filled with air and made shrill sounds as the wind passed through it, as if whispering malevolently of fire, blood, and destruction.

In the end, the Vulture King was the one who attacked the villages that refused him shelter – for food to fill their bellies and warm hearths to sleep beside, and it was the prince's men that showed up only to save the smallfolk from the depredations of outlaws. Those of the brigands that did not flee fast enough, or were not lucky enough to fall in battle, were dragged before Aerys, so he may fulfil his vengeance.

Some he had made to dig their own graves, and they were unceremoniously thrown into them, not even being given the courtesy of being killed before, as the soldiers covered the graves with them bound and screaming inside.

When his wrath was hotter, he had the men-at-arms bound the prisoners to a construction of wood and wicker, a giant wicker man filled with the captured brigands, then set ablaze, and heard their screams, as in distance, the sounds of Pearse Caron's harp could be heard.

'Twas months passed when they caught the track of the Vulture fast enough that he could not escape again, his last lair found. But it was not easy to catch him, as whatever men he had left ambushed them, throwing rocks and trees from high cliffs, while they tried to raise their shield to avert any wounds, many fell, but soon they reached his hiding place.

Aelinor's grandfather advanced with the grace of a young man, as, with swift cuts of his blades, he fell brigand after brigand, with a grim smile upon his face, spitting upon the fallen corpse and then killing another.

Aerys had abandoned his shield and wielded with two hands his falx, the curved blade with the inside edge sharp. He struck at his foe, with a strength borrowed from his grief and anger, piercing poorly made helmets, using the blade as a hook to pull away their shield and cutting at their limbs. But he did not kill the fallen men – no mercy stroke came. He let them live, so that he might unleash his wrath upon them once more.

He espied the Vulture King in his shaped helm, coming at him, sword drawn, tired of fleeing – or he had nowhere left to go.

Aerys yelled at him. "Your life, or mine! As the gods will it, but I will not suffer you to live unpunished one hour more!"

They came at each other, blades crossed. They fought and fought, bitterly and valiantly, vile oaths thrown at each other. Aerys struck him down at last, but the villain, arose again, looked around desperately for another weapon. He could not find out any.

"I have punished you enough, for the wrong you've done me," said the brigand, "you may go now in your peace, for I will not trouble you again, for I have paid your slight in kind."

Aerys was suddenly confused, but he did not let that allow the man any reprieve. His boot came crashing upon his face, and he could hear the man's nose crunch. All around him the battle was ending, brigands fallen, or wounded so that they had no fight left in them. The lords of the Marches gathered around him, and Penrose, bent down and lifted the helmet from the Vulture's head.

Aerys saw his face, and a distant memory came to him – of his wedding, of Caron seizing the day and stabbing at a Wyl, the Dornishman fallen and his son cradling the man's corpse while gazing with hatred around him, his eyes fixing towards him, cold and hateful. He remembered and he knew who the Vulture King was – but he did not repent his actions.

"A fucking Wyl were you! I should have known that only a snake born and bred of Wyl of Wyl's line could strike so perfidiously."

"Tie the man to two poles," he said to his men.

He gave orders first for the prisoners. Those whose wounds did not kill them were given to the stake, impaled through their torsos with their hands tied at their backs. They were left so until the morning, when the strongest amongst them begged for mercy. He gave them that, or the measure of one. Kindling was gathered beneath the poles, and fire and smoke were their death.

After he gave the orders for the rest, he approached his hated foe, dagger in hand. "Orys took the hands and feet of Walter Wyl for his father taking his hand, but you've taken more from me, and such a fate would be too merciful. The first Vulture was tied naked between two post and left to die, but I'd rather kill you myself."

He took his knife and one of Wyl's fingers came off – the first phalange, then the next, and so on, and then to the next finger until none were left. While the Wyl screamed, bound, and held into place, with a borrowed warhammer, Aerys slowly crushed the man's arm -from wrist to elbow. And then the other one.

Crushed and mangled, the arms soon saw the fall of an axe, sliced thin until the elbow. It was the turn of the legs first, from toes to ankle, from ankle to knee, and so on, until Wyl had no arms left, nor legs.

It was his hair next, as Aerys scalped him. The ears were cut, and then with pliers he removed each teeth in turn and forced him to swallow them, before breaking his jaw. His already broken nose was then cut off. He gouged the man's eyes out next.

A dozen stabs before the Wyl's heart was torn out of his chest, and he was dead. Aerys rose, and he turned towards the gathered lord, who had watched him with morbid curiosity.

"Were this man a common brigand, I'd have counted my vengeance fulfilled and I would now return to Summerhall, to my grieving wife. But he's a Wyl, even if but a cousin to the main branch. I can not believe he could arise and accomplish what he did, without old Wyl's knowledge and aid. My father has given me leave to consider the old laws and customs of the Marches in my lands. And House Wyl has wronged me. I shall send to his castle envoys and declare my feud; I will gather my knights and levy in force, and I shall make war against Lord Wyl and his."

"You are kin, and neighbour to me, so I ask of you to aid my cause. But know this: as king, is my father's right to call us in front of him, to arbitrate our quarrel. But I will not let my vengeance in my father's hands, not while my mother whispers in his year. We might even face my uncle's men if they come to Wyl's aid."

"If you join my cause, you might be soon against the king's will, rebels. When Wyl has faced his punishment and not a moment before, I shall return home, and hopefully my father's tender heart would bring me back into the King's Peace. But not a moment before. I would not hold it against you if you returned to your homes."

There, in that place, Penrose's sword was drawn of its sheath and lain at the feet of the Prince Aerys. So did Caron and Swann, and Dondarrion and Grandison, Meadows, Ashford, and Selmy. And thus was the Defiance of Summerhall born.