1,328RHAEGAR | TYWIN | DENYS
Inside the dimly lit tent, the air felt suffocating, as if it had been sucked out by the news of that death.
Rhaegar's eyes felt hot, stinging not from the torch smoke, but from tears forced back from falling. His breath came in gasps, short and shallow, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his lungs. His heart beat far faster than it should, a frantic rhythm that battered his ribs with a dull ache.
This should not have happened. By the Seven, this was not in any plan.
They did not ask for this. They did not want blood. They had discussed, debated, and finally agreed, two days. Two days for an end. Two days to let fear creep up Darklyn's neck. It was a sensible plan, a cold but safe plan.
But one man, a knight sworn to protect, had destroyed all that with one act of foolish heroism.
"The King is dead!"
That cry... that cry echoed from within the Dun Fort moments ago, crossing the stone walls, passing the moat, and reaching their camp with unnatural speed, like a plague carried by the wind. The sound was not a cheer of victory, but a howl of despair from those who knew they had just invited their own deaths.
Now, outside the tent, the world was collapsing. Trumpets sounded one after another, captains shouting to gather troops, the thunder of hooves breaking the ground, and the clashing of sharpened steel. It was chaotic. Far more chaotic than before. The Lords' anger exploded into an unstoppable bloodlust.
But Rhaegar paid them no heed. The voices sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.
His mind drifted, dragged by the current of memory far back. He did not see the hateful Aerys. He saw the father of old. He saw the Aerys who sat at the end of the dining table in the Red Keep, wearing a neat velvet doublet, smiling at him and asking, "How was your harp practice today, my son?"
The memory was so sharp, so painful, that Rhaegar had to close his eyes and turn his face away. His father might not have been a good king at the end of his life, but he was still his father. He was the man who once carried Rhaegar on his shoulders. He was the man who once had hope.
And now he was just a broken corpse behind those stone walls.
Barristan...
The name tasted bitter on Rhaegar's tongue, as bitter as gall. He cursed the man in silence. Barristan the Bold. He should have been called Barristan the Fool. If only he hadn't taken matters into his own hands, if only he had obeyed orders and waited like a disciplined soldier, none of this would have happened. His father might still be alive. Negotiations might still be possible.
A knight's arrogance had killed a King.
"We will avenge him, Prince."
The voice was heavy and hollow, like wind blowing through an empty tomb. Rhaegar opened his eyes and saw Ser Gerold Hightower standing near the tent flap. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked broken. His face was pale beneath his white helm, his eyes hollow. He had failed to protect his king, and the weight of that failure bowed his usually broad shoulders.
"Avenge?" Rhaegar repeated the word, his voice hoarse.
Could vengeance bring his father back to life? Would burning Duskendale put his father's broken body back together? No, of course not. Death was an absolute end. No song, no magic, no prayer could undo it.
However, Rhaegar was a Targaryen. He was the heir to the throne. And the world was watching. The Lords were watching. If he remained silent, if he showed weakness when his father was murdered, then the kingdom would crumble with him.
'Justice' indeed had to be served, however hollow the word felt now. They could not let this pass without consequence. They could not let a Lord kill his King and keep breathing. Not while Rhaegar still breathed. No one could harm his family without paying the highest price.
"Yes, Ser," Rhaegar said, weak at first, then he straightened his body, forcing his voice to be loud. "Yes. We will avenge him."
Closing his eyes for a moment, Rhaegar took a deep breath, trying to bury his grief in a deep, dark place in his heart. He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist, so tight that the leather of his gloves creaked.
He did not want to do this. Truly. His soul, which loved music and peace, screamed in rejection of the coming slaughter. But his father's vengeance had to be paid. And the Lords' anger also needed to be appeased. The dam had broken, and the flood of violence could no longer be stemmed. Blood had to be paid with blood. Fire with fire.
"Help me," Rhaegar ordered the two squires waiting in the corner of the tent with frightened faces.
Rhaegar stood, spreading his arms. The squires moved quickly, fastening pieces of armor to his body. The breastplate with the three-headed dragon. Pauldrons. Vambraces.
He rarely wore this. Its weight felt heavy, pressing on his shoulders and chest, restricting his movements. But compared to the weight in his heart now, the weight of this steel was nothing. This armor was his second skin now. The skin of a dragon that would burn its enemies.
He walked out of the tent.
The night world welcomed him with a roar. Thousands of torches burned, turning night into a bloody day. Rows of soldiers stood in formation, their faces hard, their weapons ready. Torchlight reflected off his armor, making it gleam grimly, not blinding like the sun, but enough to give a majestic and terrifying impression.
Ser Gerold Hightower was already mounted, sword drawn. Beside him, Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington were also prepared, their faces grim but full of determination.
"Is everything ready, Ser?" Rhaegar asked, his tone flat, not as melodious as usual.
Gerold nodded, pointing toward the front lines. "Everything is prepared, Prince. The battering ram is in position. Archers have soaked their arrows in oil. The horses are impatient. They all will not let this drag on. They want to end this tonight."
Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the Dun Fort. The fortress loomed black and silent in the distance, its gates shut tight, as if trying to hide the sin within.
There were tens of thousands of men out here, ready to kill. And in there... Rhaegar thought of the Dun Fort. There were women, there were children, there were old servants who only served wine, there were stablehands who only tended the livestock.
They would all be destroyed. His people would die fighting this unstoppable tide. The innocent would be there, trapped between stone walls and steel swords, bearing the sins of their mad leader.
Jaime Lannister once told him, in a shabby tavern in King's Landing, that everyone had a story. That the smallfolk were not just a faceless mass.
Tonight, those stories would end with screams. And it was Rhaegar who would write the end of that story with his sword.
"Prepare my horse," Rhaegar commanded.
Then, he walked toward his large black warhorse, mounting the saddle in one fluid motion. He drew his sword. Metal clashed against metal, a sharp and final sound.
Rhaegar looked at the fortress one last time. He did not see an enemy. He saw a graveyard.
…
Dawn broke over Duskendale, not with the golden light of hope, but with a cold pale grey, as if the sky itself were mourning, or perhaps, washing its hands of the sin about to occur. A thin mist crept from the sea, caressing the silent and haughty stone walls of the Dun Fort, hiding the King's corpse within from the world's view.
In front of the fortress's main gate, the entire besieging force had gathered. Thousands of soldiers stood in tight formation, a frozen sea of steel and leather. No trumpets sounded, no cheers. The silence was heavy, oppressive, broken only by the sound of waves and the wood of siege engines being pulled into position.
A giant battering ram, a tree trunk tipped with iron, was at the very front. Around it, soldiers bearing large shields formed a tortoise shell to protect its operators.
Tywin Lannister sat atop his great warhorse, not far behind the front line. He wore his full crimson armor with gold trim, his lion helm tucked under his arm. His face was as calm and cold as the surface of a frozen lake.
Beside him, Rhaegar Targaryen sat on his horse. The Prince looked like a ghost. His face was as pale as milk, his violet eyes staring blankly at the ironwood gate ahead. Since the news of death shattered their sleep hours ago, Rhaegar had not spoken a word. He had retreated into himself, his soul perhaps still kneeling beside his father's corpse in his imagination.
Seeing the broken and empty Rhaegar, Tywin felt the corner of his lip twitch, almost forming a smile. He did not show it openly, of course. That would be improper. But in his heart, the satisfaction flowed warm like the finest wine.
'Aerys', Tywin thought, staring at the enemy fortress with an analytical gaze. 'A pity you had to die so ridiculously without me seeing it.'
He imagined his king's final moments. The fool was probably happy enough when the idiotic Barristan approached him in the cell. He probably thought he would get out of there, return to his throne, and punish everyone he deemed traitors. He probably already planned his feast.
But apparently fate, or rather, human stupidity, said otherwise. They died before they could exit the gate. Barristan died of futile heroism, and Aerys died of his own incompetence.
This was an unexpected situation. Tywin's original plan was a slow and torturous siege, letting Aerys rot mentally. But this quick death? This was a gift. Tywin was very satisfied with the story's end. He didn't even have to do anything. He didn't have to dirty his hands with regicide. He just slept in his tent, let others make mistakes, and everything had run its course towards the optimal result.
This was a good thing. Even better than his wildest dreams.
Aerys was gone. The thorn in his flesh, the biggest obstacle to his ambitions, had been plucked by fate.
Now, thanks to this tragedy, Rhaegar would become King. This melancholic and guilt-ridden young prince would need guidance. He would need a strong and experienced Hand to stabilize the shaken kingdom. And Tywin would be there.
And most importantly, no one could stop Cersei from becoming Queen anymore. The Aerys who rejected the betrothal was history. The future of House Lannister stretched bright and straight before Tywin's eyes, as red as the blood that would spill this morning.
Tywin drew his sword. The sound of metal clashing against the scabbard rang sharp in the morning air.
He gave no speech. Speeches were for people who needed motivation. This army only needed blood.
Tywin shouted, his voice very loud and high, cutting through the silence.
"FORWARD!"
His spirit burned so hot in his chest, it overflowed, yet he covered it with a mask of righteous fury. He had to show grief and wrath over the King's death, and for that, Tywin was the perfect actor.
He signaled the battering ram with his outstretched arm.
"BREAK IT!"
The ram operators began to swing the giant trunk.
Meanwhile, from atop the walls of the Dun Fort, Darklyn's archers began to release their desperate attack. Arrows launched with a whizzing sound like angry bees. But Tywin's formation was disciplined. Shields were raised, forming a roof of steel. The arrows fell in places, bouncing off armor or sticking in the wood of shields, only hitting a few unlucky men.
THUMP!
The iron head of the ram struck the wooden gate. The shock was so massive, Tywin could feel the vibration through his horse's legs. The sound of the impact was like thunder.
THUMP!
Again. The old wood groaned and cracked.
THUMP!
Again and again. Splinters of wood flew. Atop the walls, Darklyn's defenders tried to pour hot oil and stones, but the royal archers retaliated with a deadly rain of arrows, forcing them to take cover.
CRACK!
With one final deafening blow, the gate hinges gave way. The thick wooden doors split and collapsed inward, opening a path into the belly of the Dun Fort.
The gate was open. Gaping like the mouth of the dead.
"ATTACK! NO MERCY!" Tywin shouted.
Tywin's horse shrieked loudly as he kicked its belly, commanding it to run. He did not lead from the rear today. He spurred his horse forward, running very fast, passing the infantry lines, towards the newly opened breach.
He wanted to be one of the first. He wanted Darklyn to see his face when doom arrived.
Tywin broke into the courtyard. Before him, the remaining Darklyn troops, men who were tired, hungry, and terrified, tried to form a pathetic defensive line.
Tywin did not slow down. He swung his sword with full force.
His steel blade sliced through a Darklyn spearman's neck without resistance. Blood splattered everywhere, bright red in the morning air, staining Tywin's armor.
They appeared before him again, screaming in despair. And he did the same. One by one. Slash after slash. None escaped. He finished them all without hesitation, without mercy. He moved efficiently and brutally.
'For Aerys', he thought cynically as he slashed a soldier's shoulder down to the chest. 'For our friendship'.
The battle was one-sided. Darklyn's forces were outnumbered, out-moraled, and out-fed. The royal forces flooded the fortress, drowning every resistance.
Bones crushed under horse hooves. Tywin could feel it, a sickening vibration traveling up to his saddle. Strangely, it added to the feeling of joy in his chest. It was the sound of victory. The sound of order being restored in the only way rebels understood: absolute violence.
The sound of battle was deafening, clashing steel, screams of pain, roars of anger. It was a beautiful symphony of chaos to Tywin.
Tywin's horse stepped on someone who had fallen, a young archer trying to crawl away. The scream of pain was there, high-pitched. Tywin looked down, seeing the boy's face destroyed by fear.
Without stopping his horse, Tywin swung his sword downward, beheading the man in one clean motion. The scream was cut off instantly, replaced by a spray of blood.
A worthy mercy. Tywin did not like unnecessary suffering. He liked quick and complete death.
He continued spurring his horse toward the main keep, where Denys Darklyn must be hiding like a rat. Around him, the Dun Fort burned and bled. Screams of death echoed in every corner.
And for Tywin Lannister, those screams were the most beautiful thing in his ears right now.
…
The sound of the battering ram hitting the main gate echoed into Denys's solar, like a death knell tolling incessantly. Every vibration traveled through the stone floor, creeping up through his legs, and shaking his spine.
Denys stood in the middle of the room, his eyes moving wildly from corner to corner, looking for an escape that did not exist.
This was outside the plan. This was all wrong.
In his now fractured mind, the scenario should have been different. They, Tywin Lannister, Prince Rhaegar, those arrogant lords, should have been trembling in fear at the sight of Aerys's finger. They should have realized Denys was serious. They should have backed down, begged for negotiation, and finally given him what he wanted: a town charter, freedom from taxes, honor.
Not this. Not breaking down the gate by force like madmen!
"They are mad," Denys whispered, his voice trembling. "They are mad."
He was careless. He had been careless by only letting four guards underground guard the King. He thought it was enough. He thought no one was crazy enough to try to infiltrate. And now the King was dead, killed by an accident in a failed rescue attempt, and Denys no longer had a shield.
His hands grabbed his own black hair, pulling it with painful frustration. What should he do? Run? Where? The sea was blockaded. The land besieged. Secret passages? Probably already guarded.
"Denys! Denys! What must we do?"
The voice was shrill, full of hysteria. Denys turned and saw his wife, Serala. The usually elegant and calm Myrish woman was now a mess. Her silk gown was crumpled, her hair loose and wild, and black tears streamed down her pale cheeks.
"They have entered the outer bailey! I heard their screams!" Serala gripped Denys's arm, her fingernails digging in painfully. "We must leave! We must hide!"
Denys looked at her, disgust suddenly welling in his chest. Why was this woman asking him? Was she so stupid she didn't see her husband was drowning too?
"Silence, Serala! Silence!" snapped Denys, throwing off his wife's hand.
He fumbled for the sword hilt at his waist, his sweaty fingers slipping on the leather scabbard. "I... I will fight!" he cried, trying to summon the remnants of the famous Darklyn courage. "I am Lord of Duskendale! I will not die like a rat! I did the right thing! I only demanded my rights!"
"You fool!" screamed Serala, her voice breaking. "You cannot fight them all! There are thousands out there! They will cut us to pieces!"
"Then what must I do?!" Denys shouted back, his face flushed red, neck veins bulging. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Tell me, my clever wife! What is your plan now?!"
Serala took a step back, trembling. "Surrender, Denys! Surrender! Maybe... maybe they will spare us if we beg. I told you from the start this was a bad idea! We should never have held the King!"
Denys fell silent. He looked into his wife's eyes, dark eyes that once captivated him so, now only containing cowardly fear.
A mocking laugh escaped Denys's throat, a dry and mad sound.
"Told me from the start?" Denys stepped forward, backing Serala against the wall. "You said this was a bad idea? Wasn't it you who whispered to me to imprison the king, you damn woman?! Wasn't it you who said, 'Take your rights, husband. Show them your strength. Aerys is weak, he will bow.'"
Serala shook her head frantically, her eyes widening in horror. "N-no... W-what do you mean? I never said such things! Even the stupidest person would know holding a king is suicide! I always forbade you!"
That lie was the final straw.
"DON'T PRETEND TO BE INNOCENT!"
Denys swung his hand with all his might.
SLAP!
The slap was so hard Serala was thrown to the floor. She gave a stifled scream, holding her reddening cheek.
Denys stood over her, breathing heavily, pointing with a trembling finger. "YOU WHISPERED THAT TO ME EVERY NIGHT IN BED! YOU SAID THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY! And now you try to wash your hands of the poison you poured into my ears?!"
Serala looked up at Denys from the floor, her eyes full of fear, as if seeing a stranger. "You... are mad," she whispered. "You are truly mad."
BOOM!
An explosion sound far louder than before shook the keep. Dust fell from the ceiling. Bright orange light suddenly illuminated the window, fire. A massive fire had lit inside the fortress walls. The inner gate had been breached.
War cries of "For the King!" sounded closer, accompanied by the death screams of Darklyn soldiers.
Denys staggered back, his strength spent. His anger at Serala evaporated, replaced by cold emptiness.
Surrender.
Yes, Serala was right. The only way was surrender. Not to save Serala, not to save the town, but to save his own life. Maybe... maybe if he knelt, Tywin would give him mercy.
Denys turned, leaving his weeping wife on the floor. He didn't take his sword. He didn't take his helm.
He ran out of the room, stumbling down the stone stairs. He ignored the servants running in panic, ignored the wounded soldiers begging for orders.
He arrived in front of his own castle, which was no longer his.
There, amidst a sea of steel and horses, he saw the figure.
Tywin Lannister sat on his horse. His armor gleamed reflecting the firelight, clean without a blemish, contrasting with the dirty and disheveled Denys. The Hand of the King's face was flat, emotionless, staring at Denys like someone staring at a disgusting insect from afar.
Beside him was Prince Rhaegar, his face pale and full of grief, yet his eyes burned with cold hatred. Their horses kept running closer.
Denys's legs felt very weak, his bones seemed to melt. Pure, primal fear took over.
He didn't wait to be ordered. He let his knees fall to the muddy ground. Ignoring everything around him.
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