TYWIN | BARRISTAN
Tonight, the air upon the Duskendale docks carried not only the scent of salt and woodsmoke, but a far more perilous reek: the smell of blood and panic.
The sky above was pitch black, but down here, in the midst of a camp that had turned into a hive of angry hornets, torches burned with a terrifying intensity. Flickering orange light cast long, distorted shadows across the faces of the gathered lords and knights.
Fury. The night was filled with a fury pure and unstoppable.
Shouts were hurled everywhere, shattering the silence of the night usually filled only by the lapping of waves. Insults, slurs, curses, all merged to form a tumult as hot as a blacksmith's forge.
"We need his head!"
The scream came from Lord Rosby, a man who usually trembled at a gentle breeze, yet now his face was flushed red with wrath. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pointed a shaking finger toward the dark silhouette of the Dun Fort.
"Behead him!" cried Lord Coldwater, his sword half-drawn, the steel blade gleaming under the torchlight.
"Flay him alive! Let him feel the pain he gave the King!"
Tywin Lannister stood in the eye of this storm, silent and immovable as a rock amidst crashing waves. He wore a crimson doublet embroidered with a golden lion on the chest, his pale green eyes sweeping over the hysterical crowd of lords with a boredom that was nearly unbearable.
They were at the docks as usual, the place where strategy was typically discussed in hushed, calculating tones. Only tonight, this place was alive—too alive—because of something Darklyn had done. Something so unexpected, so mad, that it shook the foundations of logic Tywin had built.
Tywin had not expected the man to do this.
On the rough wooden table in the center of the circle lay the opened bundle of dirty cloth. And upon it, a pale finger rested.
A King's finger. Severed just like that, as a butcher cuts a sausage, and sent via raven simply so his demands would be heard.
'Desperate,' Tywin thought. 'He is truly desperate.'
Was it because of the fire? Reports said Darklyn's stables had burned down just last night. Did Darklyn think it was Tywin who ordered the arson?
Truthfully, Tywin had done nothing. Not yet. He was still enjoying the silence from before, enjoying the game of stalling, letting hunger and fear grow naturally like mold in a damp place. His plan was slow strangulation, not brutal mutilation.
But in the letter they found along with the finger, Darklyn indeed accused them of it. The rough handwriting, stained with blood, screamed of 'Lannister fire'.
A joke. Tywin was accused of something he had not actually done.
"Enough!"
The voice of Ser Barristan Selmy cut through the commotion like a sharp blade. The Kingsguard stepped forward, his face pale as death but his eyes burning with holy fire.
"If we continue this debate any longer, the King will truly be gone!" Barristan gritted his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides. "He cut off a finger today. What will he cut off tomorrow if we do not act?"
"The more time passes, the greater the risk," Lord Lucerys Velaryon agreed quickly, his voice trembling. The Master of Ships looked as if he wanted to vomit at the sight of the finger on the table. "If today it is a finger, what is it tomorrow? A hand? A foot? A head? Darklyn is confirmed mad. We cannot speak to a madman with logic!"
"And what is your suggestion, Lord Velaryon?" Tywin asked, his voice instantly silencing the murmurs around him. "Storm it now? In the dead of night? With the King in the hands of a madman holding a knife?"
"Better than letting him rot piece by piece!" Rhaegar exclaimed. The young Prince stood beside Gerold Hightower, his face looking ten years older tonight. His violet eyes were dark with sorrow and suppressed rage. "We must do something, Lord Hand. We cannot just... wait."
"A direct assault is suicide for the hostage," Tywin countered. "Darklyn will kill him the moment the first battering ram hits the gate."
"Then let us die trying to save him!" Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, bellowed, his voice booming. "The honor of the Kingsguard is at stake! Better the King dies in a noble rescue attempt than be mutilated like cattle in a slaughterhouse while his knights watch from afar!"
"Honor does not raise the dead, Ser Gerold," Tywin replied flatly. "I need a living King."
"I would rather die than let him end like this!" Barristan snapped.
The Lords behind began to shout again, supporting violence. "Attack! Burn the fort!" someone yelled. "Blood pays for blood!"
The Lords screamed demanding Darklyn's blood, no matter the method.
Tywin listened to it all without expression. Inside his head, his thoughts spun fast. This situation... it was messy. Darklyn's chaos had accelerated his schedule. He wanted Aerys dead. Now, with the situation shifting so drastically, he might actually survive.
He tried to delay this longer. He raised arguments about preparation, about the risk of traps, about the need for final negotiations. But he could see it in the eyes of the men around him. Fear had turned into panic. And panic demanded immediate action.
If he continued to delay, they would start suspecting his motives. They would start wondering if the Hand indeed wanted his King dead.
Tywin looked toward Rhaegar. The Prince stared at him, a silent plea in his eyes. 'Do something. End this.'
Tywin exhaled a long breath, very slowly, barely audible. He knew he had lost this game of time. He had to give something to these howling dogs before they bit his own hand.
"Two days," Tywin said finally.
His voice was not loud, but it held the weight of absolute authority. All eyes turned to him.
"Two days?" repeated Barristan, in disbelief. "You ask us to wait two more days while the King bleeds?"
"We give a final warning to Darklyn," Tywin continued, ignoring Barristan's tone of protest. "A final action. Unconditional surrender within two days, or we raze the Dun Fort to the ground and not a single soul will be left alive, including babes in the cradle."
"That is absurd!" Barristan stepped forward, his courage fueled by desperation. "Now is the time! Every hour is precious! Do you... do you not care for the King?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed. The temperature on the docks seemed to drop rapidly.
"Aerys is the King," Tywin said coldly, every word spoken with lethal precision. "And he is also my childhood friend. Do you, Ser Barristan Selmy, dare to say before these Lords that I wish him dead?"
The question hung in the air heavily.
Barristan fell silent, his face flushing red, then turning pale. Accusing the Hand of the King of treason in public was a death sentence, even for a Kingsguard. He lowered his head, taking a step back. "No, My Lord. Forgive my insolence."
The atmosphere was total silence. Only the sound of waves and the crackling of torch fire could be heard. Tywin had asserted his dominance once again.
"It is decided," Tywin said. "Two days. We prepare the siege engines. We prepare the army. And if in two days Darklyn is still stubborn... we will storm."
He turned, his crimson cloak swirling, leaving the lords still muttering in dissatisfaction and fear.
Tywin walked back to his command tent. His face remained flat, but in his heart, he felt disappointment. His plan for a long, exhausting siege had failed. Now, he had to prepare himself for a messy bloodbath.
But two days... two days was a long time in war. Many things could happen in two days. Perhaps a miracle would happen, but, unfortunately, he did not believe in miracles themselves.
…
The night wind outside the tent blew hard, shaking the thick canvas fabric with a rhythmic sound, like the heartbeat of a dying giant. Inside, Ser Barristan Selmy stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the torch flame dancing wildly in the intruding draft. His shadow stretched long on the tent wall, distorted and swaying, as if mocking his hesitation.
'A joke,' Barristan thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ground together. 'Tywin calls this strategy? Yes, the strategy of a coward.'
The Lord Hand's words echoed in his ears, cold and emotionless: "We will wait."
Wait? The King was surely dying in that accursed pit right now. The King was wounded, and that man said they must wait two days? Two days staying here longer was tantamount to letting infection climb, gnawing at the blood until only a rotting corpse remained. Such a wound, in a filthy place like the Dun Fort, was an open invitation for death to come collecting.
The King needed a Maester. Not just some village healer or a quack doctor, but someone most capable, who could cure even the deadliest poison or clean a wound already festering.
And certainly, Aerys did not need a Maester who was on Darklyn's side.
Barristan turned from the torch, his steps heavy on the worn rug covering the ground. He stared at his armor arranged neatly on the stand; it gleamed holy, a symbol of the vow he had sworn. To protect the King. To give my life for him.
Honor. It was a heavy word. Tonight, that honor felt like a noose wrapping around his neck. If Aerys died while he sat quietly here polishing his sword, Barristan knew he would never be able to look at his own reflection again. He would be a failed Kingsguard. One who let his King rot.
"No," he whispered to the emptiness of the tent.
The resolve came like a tidal wave, cold and unstoppable. This had to be done. Whether with Tywin Lannister's permission or not. Damn politics. Damn the siege. This was the duty of a Knight.
He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. The metal felt cold, sending a piercing sensation through his bones but simultaneously steadying his racing heart.
He walked slowly toward a wooden chest in the corner of the tent, where he kept personal items rarely touched. Its hinges creaked softly as it opened. At the very bottom, buried under spare tunics, was a coarse brown cloth. A beggar's cloak, or perhaps a poor pilgrim's. Age had eaten at its fibers, making it thin and faded.
Perfect.
Snatching the cloth, Barristan put it on without hesitation. He removed his magnificent white cloak, folded it respectfully, and placed it on the bed. In its stead, the brown cloth covered his muscular frame, hiding the gleam of his sword. He pulled the hood deep, covering his graying hair and a face known throughout the realm.
Tonight, Ser Barristan the Bold dies. Tonight, there is only a nameless ghost.
He stepped out of the tent, slipping into the darkness of the night like smoke. He evaded patrols with frightening ease, moving between the shadows of tents, utilizing every second when guards looked away to fix a fire or yawn.
Duskendale loomed before him, a giant black silhouette against the moonless night sky. The Dun Fort, the fortress within the city, was his target. During this month of siege, Barristan had not just sat idle. His eyes had studied every inch of those walls. He knew where the stones had crumbled, where the moss grew thickest making it slippery, and where the forgotten cracks lay.
The night chill pierced through his thin cloak, but cold sweat soaked his back. He reached the base of the wall on the eastern side, the part facing the sea, where steep cliffs made the guard looser. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below became his sound camouflage.
Barristan looked up. The wall was high, black, and unforgiving. Up there, points of torchlight signaled the positions of guards.
'Now or never.'
He began to climb.
His fingers, accustomed to holding a sword hilt, now gripped rough wet stone. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled his body up inch by inch. The sea wind slapped his face, trying to pry his grip loose, but Barristan clung like a spider. His breathing was steady, his focus narrowed until there was only the next stone, the next crevice.
He reached the top after what felt like an eternity. Carefully, he peeked over. A guard was leaning on his spear, looking bored toward the sea.
Barristan waited. One heartbeat. Two. The guard turned, walking away.
In one motion, Barristan vaulted over and descended slowly, landing soundlessly on the stone walkway. He moved fast, merging with the shadows of the tower.
His knowledge of the Dun Fort led him through cold stone corridors. He avoided two patrols, holding his breath in dark alcoves as heavy boots stomped past him. His destination was the dungeon. Rumors, and logic, placed the King there.
He found the entrance to the dungeon. A heavy ironwood door, guarded by an oppressive silence. He slipped inside.
The smell down there was terrible, a mixture of human filth, rotting straw, and dried blood. Torches on the walls burned dimly, casting long, eerie shadows.
Barristan held his breath as he turned a corner. There.
At the end of the corridor, in front of a large iron cell, were four guards. They sat on a wooden bench, their spears leaning against the wall. They were relaxed, too confident inside their own fortress.
Barristan knew he could not sneak past them. This had to be quick. And bloody.
He picked up a small stone from the floor and kicked it toward a dark corner.
One guard looked up, frowning. "What was that? Rats again?" He stood, walking lazily toward the sound.
As he moved away from his friends, Barristan charged.
He moved like a storm unleashed. His sword left its scabbard with a lethal hiss. The standing guard died before he could scream, his throat opened in one precise slash.
The other three jumped in shock, fumbling for their weapons. Too late. Barristan was already among them. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, spun his body, and buried his sword into the second guard's chest. He pulled it out, spun, and cut the third guard's thigh, then finished him with a thrust to the heart.
The last guard managed to draw his sword, eyes wide with terror. "You—"
Barristan did not let him speak. He lunged forward, knocking aside the opponent's sword, and smashed his sword pommel into the man's temple. Bone cracked. The man fell like a sack of grain.
Silence returned to cloak the dungeon, broken only by Barristan's slightly labored breathing and the dripping of blood from his blade.
He searched the bodies, his bloody hands finding a heavy iron key ring. With hands trembling from adrenaline, he unlocked the cell door.
The hinges screamed in protest. Barristan stepped inside.
The sight before him made his blood boil.
Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, lay upon a pile of filthy straw. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in pale skin. His clothes were in tatters, and there was a dirty bandage binding his hand.
And beside him stood a man in grey robes, a Maester, with a chain clinking softly. There was a bowl of murky liquid in his hand. The Maester turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the figure in a brown cloak with a bloody sword.
"Who are you?" the Maester's voice was hoarse, trembling. "What are you—"
Barristan's eyes widened, his instincts taking over. No questions. No hesitation. This man was a threat.
Barristan stepped forward and thrust his sword.
It was a quick and brutal stab, piercing right through the Maester's chest. The man gasped, the bowl in his hand falling, shattering on the stone floor. He opened his mouth to scream, but only bloody froth came out. Barristan pulled his sword, and the body collapsed beside Aerys.
"Your Grace?" whispered Barristan, kneeling beside his King.
Aerys opened his eyes. Those violet eyes were clouded with fever and pain, wild with fear. At first, he flinched away, as if ready to thrash, perhaps thinking Barristan was someone else.
"Keep that dagger away! Keep it away!" Aerys shrieked weakly.
"It is me, Your Grace. Barristan," he said softly, lowering his hood.
Recognition slowly dawned on Aerys's face. Tears welled in the corners of his sunken eyes. His thin hand, missing a finger and wrapped in cloth, clutched Barristan's arm with the strength of a desperate man. "You... you. Barristan. You came." His voice cracked. "Get me out. Quick! They... they want to cut me again. Take me away!"
"I will take you home, Your Grace," Barristan promised.
He sheathed his sword and carefully lifted Aerys's body. The King was very light, too light, as if part of his soul had been eroded along with his flesh. Barristan carried him on his back, feeling Aerys's hot, feverish breath on his neck.
Barristan exited the cell, his steps quick. He had to get out before the guards' bodies were discovered.
He managed to reach the stairs. However, as he opened the door leading to the upper floor, bad luck greeted him.
A serving woman was passing by, carrying a tray of food. Her eyes met Barristan's, then dropped to the dead guards visible behind the open door, and then to the limp figure of the King on his back.
She screamed.
The scream was shrill, high, and echoed through the stone corridors, shattering the night's silence like breaking glass.
"INTRUDERS! THEY'RE STEALING THE KING! GUARDS!"
"Damn," cursed Barristan.
He ran. No more sneaking. Now it was a race against death.
The hallways came alive. Shouts were heard from all directions. Footsteps stomped, approaching fast. Barristan spurred his legs, the weight of Aerys on his back feeling heavier every second.
He turned a corner, and two guards appeared before him. Barristan did not stop. He drew his sword with one hand, the other holding Aerys. He crashed into them like a bull. His sword sliced, his shoulder bashed. They fell, but more were coming.
Barristan burst through a side door, out into the cold night air of the inner courtyard. Chaos had broken out. Torches were popping up everywhere like hellish fireflies.
"There! Catch him!"
Arrows began to whiz through the air. One stuck in the ground near his feet. Another bounced off the stone wall.
Aerys had fainted some time ago, his body limp like a broken doll on Barristan's back. It made movement difficult. Barristan slashed a soldier trying to block him, blood splattering his face.
He had to reach the gate. Just a little more.
But they were too many. Dozens of Darklyn soldiers flooded the courtyard, forming a wall of steel and spears.
Barristan roared, attacking with desperation. He fought like a demon, his sword a flash of death. One man fell. Two men fell. But for every man he killed, two more took their place.
He gasped for breath, his lungs burning. His legs felt like lead.
Then, he heard it. The sound of bowstrings released.
Not one, but many.
An arrow struck his shoulder, piercing through cloth and flesh. The pain exploded, hot and stinging. He staggered, but stayed standing.
However, the second arrow did not miss.
It came from the darkness, unseen, unavoidable. The iron tip struck the side of his head, just below the temple, tearing skin and hitting bone.
Barristan's world exploded into blinding white light, then instantly turned pitch black.
The sounds of battle, the clash of steel, the shouts of rage, the stomp of boots, suddenly receded, as if he were sinking to the bottom of a deep sea. His strength vanished instantly, pulled from his body like a snuffed candle wick.
His legs gave way.
He fell forward, his knees hitting the cold courtyard stones. His grip on Aerys loosened.
In the last second of his fading consciousness, Barristan felt the weight on his back slide off. He watched, in agonizing slow motion, the thin body of his King thrown from his back, rolling on the stones with a harsh sound.
Aerys's body stopped rolling a few feet away, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his open eyes staring blankly at the starless night sky. No breath. No movement. Only eternal stillness.
Darkness swallowed Barristan's vision completely.
The King fell. And as his consciousness was lost, Barristan Selmy's final thought was not of pain or his own death, but of his own emptiness.
If only he had waited two more days…
...
The king is dead, long live the king!