Chapter 8 – The Tumult of Duskendale
The Dun Fort.
Denys Darklyn sat slumped in his wide chair, his gaze fixed on the corpses laid before him, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
In the center of the hall, a woman in heavy paint and silks knelt weeping over the body of Coombs. Her wails filled the chamber, drowning the air in sorrow.
"Enough."
At last, Denys's deep voice broke the silence. But the woman did not heed him—her sobs only grew louder, shriller, stabbing at his ears.
"I said…" His tone sharpened, laced with impatience. "Stop crying!"
The command, barked like a lash, finally cut through. Her loud wails dwindled to soft whimpers. Red-rimmed eyes lifted, fixing on him with a gaze heavy with grief… and something darker. Resentment.
Denys sighed. He rubbed his temples, weariness dragging at his shoulders.
He had inherited his title as naturally as breathing, the firstborn of House Darklyn. He liked to think himself a capable lord. Under his governance, Duskendale prospered—its harbor fat with trade, its people better-fed than most of Westeros.
He should have lived as his father had: ruling steadily, aging with dignity, passing his title to the next heir.
But somewhere along the road, all his good cards had turned to ash in his hands.
When had it begun?
Perhaps the moment he met her—Serala, the woman from across the Narrow Sea. Despite every warning, despite his family's protest, he'd defied them all and married her.
"My Coombs… my poor brother…"
Serala suddenly flung herself into his arms, sobbing hotly against his chest. "He crossed the sea with me. We siblings had only each other, and now—now he's gone!"
Her tears turned to accusation. "You must avenge him, Denys. You're the Lord of Duskendale. This is your city. None dare defy you here. None!"
But Denys's eyes had already drifted past her, to the still corpse of Ser Symon Hollard. A bitter snort escaped his nose.
It had been the same arguments, the same pleading, that led him astray in the first place. Serala's urging had swayed him to defy the crown. When the king himself rode into Duskendale, it was her whispering that steeled his resolve to imprison Aerys.
Without her… none of this would have come to pass. Ser Symon, loyal to House Darklyn all his life, would not have met his death.
"Serala…"
He meant to lash out, to scold her, to spit the truth. But when he met her tear-drenched eyes, all his anger dissolved. Once again, his heart weakened.
Another sigh. He tapped his brow with a knuckle, as though to drive away the throbbing ache behind his eyes.
"Milord."
The voice was steady, carrying a calm authority. Denys looked up as a tall figure strode into the hall. The man bowed slightly—Jon Hollard, his steward… and distant kin to Symon.
"Any word of the king?" Denys blurted, shoving Serala aside as he rose from his chair, anxiety thick in his tone.
Jon shook his head. "No. But he is still within the walls. Many claim to have seen him—some even fought him. Yet he escapes still."
"His Grace is not alone. There is a knight with him. A dangerous one. I sent men to bar their path, but most were cut down. Those who survived swore the knight carried the king upon his shoulders, all while carving a trail through our streets."
His eyes narrowed. "Even so, they are but two men. They slip past because their trail is narrow. Our forces must spread out to seek them."
Denys's face drained of color. He knew full well the treason he had committed. If the king slipped free of the city, he would lose his only bargaining chip with Tywin Lannister. And then… death was all that awaited him.
"Calm yourself, milord." Jon's voice was soothing, steady. "There is but one way in and out of Duskendale—the gate. I have stationed Ser Robin with fifty men there. No matter how skilled he is, the knight will never break through."
Denys sagged with relief, sinking back into his chair. "Good… good."
How far had he fallen? The once-proud Lord of Duskendale now quaked like a man with no will of his own.
"You should rest," Jon continued, voice measured. "See to Lady Asha. She misses you."
Denys blinked, softening. Asha—his sister. Five years wed to Jon. That bond was why Denys trusted him above all others. "You're right… she told me it has been weeks since you last came home. She longs to see you."
Jon bowed slightly, polite as ever. "Not yet, milord. Not until I have avenged Ser Coombs and Ser Symon. Then I will return to her."
"You have my gratitude, Jon." Denys managed a faint smile. "Without you, Duskendale would already be in chaos."
"Serving House Darklyn is my honor."
Jon bowed again. When Denys leaned back, eyes closing in weary reprieve, Jon turned crisply to leave.
Yet just before crossing the threshold, his head angled back—subtle, almost hidden.
His eyes lingered on Serala. His tongue flicked across his lips.
And he smiled—a lewd, hungry grin.
Serala, instead of getting angry, suddenly burst into laughter through her tears and blew him a silent kiss.
…
…
"Damn it…"
In the narrow alley, Lance drove his sword through another pursuer's throat. The cries of killing echoed from all directions, making him curse under his breath:
"These bastards stick to me like tar! Kill a batch, and another shows up right after!"
He hadn't bothered to count, but Lance figured he had already cut down at least a dozen men.
If not for the Barristan Experience Card (SS Rank), even with the physical boost granted by his 30% fusion with Khal Drogo, he would have collapsed long ago.
But right now, Lance wasn't exactly doing well either. His whole body was covered in blood and grime, wounds ran across both his arm and thigh, and the Barristan buff had less than eight minutes left. A wave of panic stirred in his chest.
If it was already this hard with the card's support, then once the Westerosian "Barristan the Bold" expired, how the hell was he supposed to break through with just Khal Drogo's measly 30% stat boost?
And to make matters worse, the lunatic on his shoulder—King Aerys—was having another attack.
"Heh-heh… I am the True Dragon! I shall ride the Black Death and burn every last traitor into charred bone and roasted flesh!"
"I will be the King of Ashes!"
"Burn! Burn them all!!!"
"Shut the hell up!"
Driven mad by Aerys' ravings, Lance smacked his scrawny thigh and barked:
"Keep screeching and you'll bring the pursuers right to us! And when they catch up, I swear Denys Darklyn will turn your royal ass into a pincushion!"
"You know Coombs is tight with that freak—Darklyn's definitely one of those backdoor-loving perverts!"
Maybe it was Lance's furious scolding, maybe the mad king had just worn himself out, but Aerys finally fell silent.
Hearing nothing behind him, Lance let out a long sigh of relief.
Still, as the seconds ticked away, his eyes kept darting toward the city gate, his mind racing.
Damn it! Why only give me an SS-rank card? If it had been an SSR—whether the Lightbringer Azor Ahai or the Perfect Knight Galadon—hell, anyone from the Heroic Age! Just one of those, and I'd be dragging Aerys while cutting this whole damn city into pieces!
Instead, here I am, scurrying around like a headless fly.
"Fuck!"
Lance grit his teeth, spat another curse, then hoisted Aerys tighter onto his shoulder and made for the city gate.
Time was almost up. No matter how dangerous that gate was, he had no choice but to risk it.
If the pursuers dragged them back, Lance wasn't sure what fate awaited the king—but for himself, death was certain. Gwayne Gaunt's bloody example was still fresh in everyone's memory.
Man's gotta risk it once before he dies!
With that final resolve burning in him, Lance sprinted toward the gate. But just as he turned out of the alley, a figure suddenly stepped into his path!
"Die!"
Reacting purely on instinct, Lance swung his blade down at the newcomer.
But the man was fast—he twisted aside and dodged with startling agility.
Lance was about to launch a second strike when the stranger barked back in a low growl:
"Stop! I'm here to save the king!"