1st month 327AC

The walls of Lannisport had held.

Ser Carsen was pleased that his men had stood and prevented the Riverlanders from taking refuge within the city. The battle was over and the men of Dorne had fought with honor. The dead from his lands numbered only 60, a mercifully small toll for the men of Blackmont and High Hermitage. As the counts of the dead rolled in, he heard that the House Dayne had fared far worse. Their soldiers had held, but sons of Starfall were among the fallen.

Around the dais of the king, many had fallen. Friend and foe, loyal and traitor alike. The king was safe, as was his heir, but a son of Dorne had given his life to ensure that. Prince Garryn Martell lay dead by the hands of the Riverlanders. The boy’s lifeless body lay as he had fallen, and his remains were brought to the Dornish encampment as soon as they were identified.

Ser Carsen took a long look at the lifeless prince. He looks like a young Axel. He wept for his young nephew, he wept for his brother so far away, he wept for Dorne whose conflict had only just begun. He turned to his men, “Friends, one of my kinsman has fallen. A Prince of Dorne and a son of Blackmont. A man as proud as any from our noble house. Tonight we will honor him, in the custom of the House Blackmont.”

That evening, the Blackmont soldiers built a great pile of wood, preparing it for a bonfire. Each man brought forth from his rations a measure of oil to pour upon the waiting pyre. While his nephew’s body had been given over to the Silent Sisters, placed symbolically atop the pile was the prince’s empty helm. When each man had given his measure of oil, Ser Carsen walked reverently up to the pyre, his eyes fixed upon that empty helm, sword and shield in hand. He drew his sword and saluted the empty helm.

“Son of the mountains, heir of the vultures, we return you to the heavens.”

Thirteen men brought forth flaming torches, and at the signal of Ser Carsen, cast them into the tower of wood. The pyre ignited, blazing light forth. Herbs, spices and incense were cast into the fire as it grew, causing sparks and scents to blaze forth. The thirteen retrieved their swords and shields, forming a ring around Ser Carsen and the fire. He dragged the tip of his sword around the edge of the bonfire. When he had completed a full rotation, he rapped his sword on his shield thirteen times. Ser Carsen and the thirteen began the sword dance, leaping into the air and rapping their swords against their shields as Dornish lyres and flutes played the song of mourning.