Chapter 37.4- The Seadragon's Roar

They rode their horses hard until the sun was directly overhead, and then beyond that. Every time they turned around the sight was the same. Gerold Sand, alone, chasing them with all the wrath of a disturbed manticore.

Their lead, massive at first, thanks to the sacrifice of Yoren’s men steadily shrunk as more and more time passed. But the ray of hope they could rely on was that the Tor was in sight now. His family castle, normally a sight that brought rage to his heart as he thought back to all they had lost, was now a balm to his soul.

They just had to make it to the walls. Gerold Sand or not, the archers of the Tor were some of the best in all of Dorne, and not even he could make it across so many miles of open sand with archers raining hell down on him.

And so they rode. The closer they got, the more he felt his horse slow. Even with how light he was, the weight of the Prince was enough for the horse to begin to flag. And as he slowed, so did Yoren. His friend’s loyalty would normally make him smile, but in this case, it was stupidity.

“Ride ahead. Get to the castle, tell the archers to fill Gerold with arrows the second he is in range.”

“No. Let’s continue together” Yoren screamed over the sound of pounding hooves.

“This fucking lard of fat is too heavy. The horse is exhausted.”

“Move him to mine then”

“That’s stupid. We don’t have the time. Yoren please” He begged, and even as much as it clearly hurt his friend to do so, Yoren still turned and left him, horse pounding as he pushed it to go faster and faster. Good. Gerold would gain, but as long as Icarus managed to make it within range of the archers before Gerold removed his head from his body, then he would be fine.

So he rode. He rode and he rode, nothing on his mind other than the desire to keep the horse moving. That was why when he felt the horse begin to slow even further and he heard the sound of Gerold’s own horse closer than ever, he almost had a breathing fit. But then he looked up. And there they were. The Archers of the Tor in all their splendor, waiting at the walls. He judged the distance with all the skill of a man who had been shooting arrows since he could walk. Just a few more, and he would be in range. So he did the wise thing and pushed the horse even farther, knowing that this would be its last ride. And when he made it enough, he spurred the horse to turn around and face his friend— his enemy.

Gerold was still riding, clearly intent on running him through. He lifted one hand. Four arrows buried themselves in the ground right in front of Gerold’s horse. Only the man’s quick reflexes saving him from having a dead horse. He looked into his eyes as they met. Gerold hated using a helmet and even now did not wear one. His black hair flowed in the wind easily and his black eyes starred daggers into Icarus’ soul. Lips usually set in a smile now sported a scowl that dripped venom.