Chapter 11 – Breakout from Duskendale!
On the battlements—
Ser Barristan Selmy's blade flashed again and again, each strike clean, each strike deadly. Heads rolled at his feet, yet his heart was heavy. He felt no pride in his display of skill.
Because no one had followed him up the wall.
The moment he scaled the battlements, the defenders spotted him, forcing Barristan to fight alone. With no other choice, he cut his way through, even hewing one soldier clean off the wall.
This time he had come in disguise, with no gleaming armor to shield him—just a thin breastplate strapped beneath his plain clothes.
"Seven hells…" he muttered, pressing his back against the stonework. The narrow walkway left him no room to maneuver. He hefted the corpse of a fallen foe, holding it before him as a crude shield against the archers' arrows.
The king was nowhere in sight. Instead, he had blundered into danger himself. The thought soured his mood, though at least his ferocity kept the enemy wary. They hesitated, unwilling to press too close, a silent standoff stretching across the wall.
As Barristan weighed his options, a roar of battle erupted from below, drawing his gaze through the crenelations.
There, charging straight into a mass of spearmen, was a lone warrior on horseback.
At first Barristan expected the fool to be skewered within moments. Yet to his shock, the rider twisted fate itself—ripping weapons from his foes, felling men with ruthless precision, scattering soldiers as though they were children.
"Come on then, pups of Duskendale!"
"I'm just getting started!"
The warrior's voice rang so clear, so fierce, that even Barristan felt his chest tighten.
That reckless courage… it stirred memories of the Battle of the Ninepenny Kings, when he himself had cut his way through the Golden Company and, against all odds, struck down the last Blackfyre—Maelys the Monstrous.
No, Barristan thought, this rider was facing something even worse. A battlefield drowned in chaos—and yet he truly stood alone against dozens.
By the Seven… I thought my own deeds were unmatched. But this man—who is he?
Then Barristan's sharp eyes caught something that made him freeze.
The rider's horse bore not just its master, but another figure slung across its back.
That long silver hair—matted, filthy, yet unmistakable. That tattered black robe—familiar even through the grime.
The king.
---
Below the wall—
At Lance's roar, the formation of spearmen faltered. Dozens of soldiers stood rooted, weapons shaking in their hands, unwilling to take a single step forward. They could only block the gate, hoping their presence alone might intimidate this knight who seemed less a man than a force of nature.
"Pathetic…"
Lance spat blood, feeling the sting of a blow he hadn't even noticed in the frenzy. His cheek throbbed, his body burned, and on his inner display the timer ticked mercilessly downward—1 minute, 13 seconds.
He lowered his cracked spear once more, leveling it parallel with the earth. Beneath him, his warhorse pawed the ground, nostrils flaring hot breath, its hide streaked with blood yet its spirit surging with battle-lust.
This fire, this thrill—it had never felt such power under Robin Hollard's hand.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Lance murmured, brushing its mane with a bloodstained hand. Then, with a grin:
"Success or failure… this will be our last charge."
"Hyahhh!"
With a thunderous cry, he drove his heels into the horse's flanks.
And so, before the eyes of all, the lone knight hurled himself once more against an army that outnumbered him fifty to one.
The sight alone made hardened men quail, knees buckling as dread clawed their hearts.
"Make way!!!"
"LANCELOT!!!"
A voice roared from behind—Reveray's desperate shout.
Lance glanced back just in time to see three enormous wine barrels hurtling across the ground, rolling at deadly speed. He wrenched the reins, swinging his horse aside at the very last instant, narrowly escaping the crushing impact.
The barrels rolled down the cobbled road, bumping to a stop before the enemy ranks. They didn't smash into soldiers, didn't bowl anyone over—just lay there, spent of momentum.
But Lance's nostrils flared.
Not wine. Something sharper. Harsher.
Pitch oil.
His eyes snapped toward the barrels. They had been cracked open, their contents already spilling across the stones in a dark, glistening trail—an elegant arc of liquid fire waiting for a spark.
"Oi, old man!"
Lance slapped Aerys on the back, his lips twisting into a mad grin.
"You've always wanted to burn them, haven't you? Well… let's give them fire!"
He rammed his spear against the paving stones, steel grinding stone with a scream—sparks burst, leaping eagerly into the oil.
Flames bloomed.
They raced along the trail in a ravenous rush, lapping at boots and greaves. In an instant, the front line of spearmen were engulfed, shrieking as fire devoured leather, flesh, and bone.
Above the inferno, Aerys writhed in the saddle, clapping and gnashing at his own robes with blackened teeth, shrieking with manic joy:
"Hahaha! Burn them! Burn them all! Reduce them to ash! I am the King of Ashes!"
The firestorm tore the enemy formation in two, leaving a blazing corridor down the center.
On Lance's inner display, the timer flashed crimson: 00:23.
He tore a strip of cloth from his shoulder, tying it across his mouth and nose. Then, leaning low over the saddle, he whispered so only Aerys could hear:
"They say true dragons… don't fear fire. Isn't that right, old man?"
"Woooo… AHHHHH!"
Aerys's pupils shrank with fevered delight, as if he understood. A keening shriek burst from his throat, and he clutched the horse's mane like reins of a dragon, staring into the flames as though commanding them.
"Here we go!"
Lance wrenched the reins. The warhorse, half-mad with terror and bloodlust, surged forward—its hooves striking sparks as it plunged into the corridor of fire. Its mane brushed the tongues of flame and ignited, burning away in a brilliant arc.
Spearmen who had survived the fire thrust their lances forward in desperation.
Lance lowered his own weapon, dragging the spearpoint across the ground. Heat seared the steel until it glowed ember-red. At the final instant, he heaved it up—each thrust a blazing comet driving into exposed throats.
Soldiers dropped, choking and burning, as Aerys threw back his head and screamed a single word that tore the night apart:
"Dracarys!"
He clutched the flaming mane, molten hair and fat dripping down between his fingers, blistering flesh—and he laughed, blind to the pain.
But fate itself rebelled.
The wooden winch of the portcullis cracked in the heat. With a groaning snap, the great bronze gate came crashing down.
"No!"
From behind, Reveray bellowed in horror, eyes wide as the gate plummeted.
In that heartbeat, Lance seized his spear in both hands. Every muscle bulged beneath firelight as he hurled it with all his strength.
The shaft jammed into the mechanism, wedging against the bronze. The falling gate shuddered, arrested for the barest instant.
It was enough.
The warhorse thundered forward, a gale of fire in its wake like the wings of a dragon. With the mad king slung across its back, Lance burst through the flames—slipping past the gate at the very moment it slammed shut with a deafening crash.
And as they tore out of Duskendale, the timer before his eyes ticked down to nothing.
Zero.