Chapter 4 – The Sudden Uprising
Creak…
The groan of a rotten iron gate pierced the silence, the sound sharp enough to set one's teeth on edge.
A sliver of pale, imperfect moonlight bled into the dungeon as boots struck against the stone floor, each tap, tap echoing off the damp walls. Judging from the footsteps, more than one person had come.
"Open it."
Coombs gave the order with a frown as he reached the barred wooden cell. From his breast pocket he pulled a perfumed handkerchief, pressing it to his nose. The sweet scent of powder and rosewater dulled the stench of filth, but not enough to ease his disgust.
As Lady Serala's only brother, Coombs had lived a pampered life since the siblings crossed the Narrow Sea to Duskendale. His sister had married Lord Denys Darklyn, and Coombs had never tasted hardship again.
He cast a quick glance at the neighboring cell. The king hadn't stirred—still motionless. Likely asleep.
At his command, Fenley quickly stepped forward, opened the cell door, and with another guard's help hauled up the broken figure slumped on the floor. Lance dangled between them, barely conscious.
"You two seem to have found yourselves a… curious little game," Coombs drawled, eyes flicking to the white cloak draped over Lance's shoulders.
He remembered well the garment's true master—a knight who had once followed the king into Duskendale, fearless and proud, only to be struck down within days by the town's swordmaster, Symon Hollard.
The cloak had only been surrendered because the king, half-mad with despair, had threatened to starve himself unless Denys handed it over. Now, somehow, the tattered white hung on the back of this pitiful smith.
Coombs did not bother asking. A half-starved king and a fool of a blacksmith who had gotten himself jailed after whoring in the wrong place? Together, there was no telling what madness might brew.
"L-Lord Coombs…"
Lance raised his head weakly, lips pale from days of torment. His voice was hoarse, breaking.
At that moment, a lithe figure sauntered forward from Coombs's side. The scrape of flint, the flare of flame—soon, the neglected candelabrum on the table was burning, throwing flickering light across the chamber.
"I… I deeply regret what I did to you, Ser Biber…"
As the glow revealed a face so finely sculpted it was almost impossible to tell man from woman—marred now by a cruel bruise across one cheek—Lance's words spilled out in desperate submission.
"Please, Lord Coombs, for the sake of my years of loyal service to House Darklyn… forgive me this once."
The plea was pitifully earnest, as if the tortures he had endured had already broken his will. He had been a smith in Duskendale since boyhood, forging countless blades for the Darklyns.
"Tsk, tsk…"
Coombs clicked his tongue, lips twisting into a mocking smile. His silken doublet clung to his frame, black and gold diamonds embroidered across the chest—the crest of House Darklyn. A jewel-studded sword hung at his hip, its emerald pommel worth a small fortune. He looked every inch the pampered noble, nothing like the refugee boy who had once fled Myr in rags beside his sister.
"He's begging, sweetheart," Coombs said with a smirk, cocking his brow at his companion. "Perhaps you might be merciful—show him a touch of forgiveness?"
"Not a chance."
Biber's reply was sharp, his voice high and cutting, almost indistinguishable from a woman's. Few could guess the truth—that he was no woman at all.
Lifting the candelabrum, Biber swayed forward with a dancer's grace. His eyes were cold, filled with disdain as they locked onto Lance—the man who had once dared to "insult" him.
The guards shifted uneasily behind them, their throats audibly bobbing as they swallowed. Between Biber's sculpted body, his revealing attire, and the predatory glint in his gaze, desire and unease mingled in the foul air.
This was the rot of the age—its decadence, its cruelty.
With long, pale fingers, Biber reached down, seized Lance's chin, and tilted it upward.
Two pairs of eyes locked—one filled with disdain and icy contempt, the other burning with naked hatred and loathing.
"Kill him!"
Biber's voice cracked like a whip. He had seen the insult in Lance's gaze, raw and unmasked. For all his trade as a courtesan, he still had pride—and that pride had been spat upon.
Coombs, however, only stood where he was, lips curved in faint amusement.
As one of Biber's many admirers, he had never minded the man's business. On certain nights, he had even joined in—or watched, entertained. But what Lance had done, that had crossed a line.
Fenley and the other guard exchanged a glance. Slowly, one drew a dagger from his boot. Technically, Biber had no authority to command them—but Coombs was standing behind him, and Coombs's will carried the weight of Lady Serala's protection. Even Lord Denys himself rarely dared chastise her brother.
Just as Fenley raised the blade, Lance cried out desperately—
"Wait! I… I have a way to save Duskendale, Lord Coombs!"
"Stop."
The order was sharp. Coombs's brows furrowed as he waved the guards back. He shoved Biber aside and stepped forward, studying the broken man in the white cloak.
Once, Coombs himself had hurled that very cloak to the king—a mockery, a token of surrender. And now it clung to the shoulders of this pitiful smith.
"Speak, then," Coombs said, voice low. "Tell me your way, boy."
He doubted a lowborn fool could have any solution worth hearing. But after six months of siege, even Coombs knew Lord Tywin's patience was thinning.
And if this cloak had been placed on Lance's shoulders by Aerys himself… perhaps there was something more to this man than met the eye.
"I… we could work with Prince Rhaegar."
Lance forced himself upright, feigning weakness, while his eyes never left the jewel-encrusted sword at Coombs's hip. Closer… just a little closer…
"Prince Rhaegar?" Coombs's hand shifted, instinctively resting on the sword hilt, wary of the sudden suggestion.
"Yes, my lord," Lance replied, swallowing hard, masking the glint of calculation in his eyes. His tone softened, almost coaxing:
"Think. If the king were to die here in Duskendale —who benefits most?"
"It won't be us," Coombs muttered coldly.
He knew well enough. Branded as traitors, the Darklyns' only shield was the hostage king. Once Aerys was gone, the royal host would storm the city, slaughtering them to the last.
But then… a thought struck him, sudden and sharp.
"You mean…"
"Exactly, my lord!" Lance's voice rose, urgent, persuasive. "As long as the king lives, Prince Rhaegar cannot take the throne. But if we—quietly—sent word to the prince, told him the king would die in Duskendale, and that in return all charges against Lord Denys would be forgotten… do you not think he would agree?"
"Rhaegar is a man of passion, a man of vision. Do you truly believe he will be content to remain a prince when the crown could be his?"
Lance's words coiled like a spell. Coombs found his own breath quickening, pulse hammering. The plan was bold, reckless—yet tantalizingly possible.
He had to tell his sister. Quickly.
But then, from the other cell, a voice thundered like madness itself.
"You treacherous worms! Cowards! Filth from the sewers!"
It was the king—Aerys himself, clinging to the bars like a caged beast, his eyes wild.
"Scheming with my son, plotting my death in my very presence! You think the dragon's fire will not find you? One day—one day soon—it will burn House Darklyn to ash, burn your mongrel souls straight to the Seven Hells!"
And then came his laughter—shrill, manic, echoing like nails down stone.
It grated against Coombs's nerves. With a single sharp glance, he sent Fenley forward. The guard obeyed instantly, boots slamming into the king's ribs.
None of them dared strike the king without reason—but Coombs's will was law. To defy him was far more dangerous than to offend a mad monarch.
Still, Coombs knew the truth in his own mind: every man in this cell was already dead. They had heard too much.
"My… my lord…"
Lance's faint whisper rose again, his body trembling as if drained of life. "There are… details I haven't told you yet… Please… come closer…"
He seemed so near death, so broken, that Coombs's guard dropped. What threat could this shattered smith possibly pose?
Biber's eyes burned with fury. He longed to slit the man's throat where he lay. Coombs noticed the look, but only scoffed, brushing it aside.
He stepped forward, leaned down, brought his ear close to Lance's lips.
"Speak."
"Yes… I'll tell you… I'll…"
"Send you to hell!"
The words were a snarl.
In a flash, Lance's elbow smashed into the temple of the guard beside him—bone cracked, the man crumpling in silence. At the same moment, Lance's other hand shot to Coombs's sword, wrenching at the hilt.
Coombs reacted, clamping his grip like iron on Lance's wrist—but he had misjudged the smith's strength.
Shing!
The steel sang as it slid free. Coombs staggered back, stunned—his prized blade torn from its scabbard.
And before Biber could even scream, the sword flashed.
Schhk!
The edge opened his throat in a single stroke. Arterial blood fountained high, splattering across Lance's face, painting him like a demon risen from the Pit.
Biber's eyes widened, disbelieving. His hands clawed at his neck, choking, gurgling, but nothing stemmed the flood.
In seconds, Duskendale's prized courtesan collapsed to the ground with a dull, final thud.