DENYS
That afternoon, the sun shone with a brightness that felt almost mocking. The sky above Duskendale stretched out in a flawless blue, adorned by white clouds drifting lazily. A gentle breeze blew softly, dancing past the stone walls of the Dun Fort, scattering dry leaves across the courtyard and caressing the faces of the soldiers standing guard with tension in their eyes.
It was the kind of day that should have been celebrated with a hunt in the woods or a feast in the gardens. But for Denys Darklyn, the sunlight felt blinding and painful.
He stood in the highest tower, his hands gripping the rough stone. Denys possessed none of the spark of life a man should have when welcoming the sun. His face was haggard, as if he had slept in his clothes for a full week, and perhaps he had. The wrinkles on his face had grown more numerous and deeper than a month ago, carving a map of anxiety onto his paling skin. His body, once broad and proud, now seemed to shrink beneath his black velvet doublet; he was growing thinner despite eating enough, as if fear itself were eating the flesh from his bones.
His mind was in turmoil, a storm that refused to subside. Sometimes empty, void of ideas, other times full of screaming voices of doubt. What have I done? The whisper came when he slept, when he ate, when he relieved himself. I am holding the King. I killed a Kingsguard.
However, every time panic began to choke him, another voice emerged. The soft, sweet, and confident voice of his wife, Serala.
'They are only bluffing, Denys. Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, not a madman. As long as we have him, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it.'
It was that voice that kept him standing upright. It was that voice that convinced him this was all just a complex game of cyvasse.
Denys shifted his gaze to the harbor below. From this height, he could see the sight he had always dreamed of. The sea was filled with ships. Sails fluttered everywhere, masts like a wooden forest growing upon the water.
Once, he had always hoped that Duskendale would be like this. He wanted his city to rival King's Landing, to be a center of trade where ships fought for space to dock, bringing silk and spices, enriching House Darklyn beyond his ancestors' wildest dreams.
Now his wish was granted. His harbor was full.
But in a strange and terrible way.
They were not merchant ships. They were warships. Ships of the Royal Fleet, ships flying the banners of dragons and lions. They did not come bearing gold. They all came here to blockade his port, to starve his people, and ultimately, to take his head.
The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.
Denys snorted roughly, combing his long, greasy black hair back with trembling fingers. He banished all those dark thoughts. 'No. They won't attack. They are afraid. Just look, it's been a month and they are just sitting there.'
"Yes, they will wait," he muttered to the wind. "And we will wait too. Until they realize my demands are worthy."
Turning away from the painful view, Denys decided he had seen enough of his grim 'glory'. His throat was dry. He needed a cup of ale, strong ale, one that could burn away the fear in his gut, and he needed the daily report from Maester Reggan, though he knew the report would bring no good news.
He began to descend the tower stairs. Step by step he took, the spiral stones winding down into the belly of the fortress seeming endless. The further down he went, the fresh summer air vanished, replaced by a cold and damp chill seeping from the walls. The smell of moss and wet stone filled his nose; the smell of a prison, not a palace.
In the corridor leading to his solar, he met a young guard. The boy looked tense, his hands gripping his spear too tightly until his knuckles turned white. The boy's eyes went wide upon seeing his Lord, full of questions he dared not speak: 'Are we going to die?'
"Summon Maester Reggan to my solar," Denys ordered, his voice hoarse. He did not look the guard in the eye. He couldn't.
"Y-yes, My Lord," the guard stammered, rushing away, his armor clanking in the quiet hallway.
Denys pushed open the door to his solar and entered.
Inside, the atmosphere was slightly different. The room smelled of floral scents and perfumed oils from Myr, thanks to his wife's touch. Serala always tried to make this gloomy fortress feel like her home in Essos. Once, Denys loved this scent. Now, the sweet fragrance mixed with the smell of dust and stale ale, creating a nauseating aroma.
Denys walked to the side table, pouring dark brown ale from a silver flagon into a goblet. He didn't bother to sit. He downed the contents in one long gulp, letting the liquid burn his throat, hoping it could drown out the voices in his head.
Just as he placed the goblet back on the table, there was a soft knock on the door.
"Enter," Denys growled.
The door opened, and Maester Reggan stepped inside. He was a man in his early fifties, his grey robes looking somewhat dull in the dim room light. His hair, perhaps once pitch black, had now begun to whiten at the temples, giving him an aura of weary wisdom. His face was serious, with deep lines around his mouth showing he rarely smiled. He was the type of man who didn't speak much unless ordered, a trait very fitting for a grim situation like now.
"My Lord." The Maester bowed low, the chain at his neck clinking softly.
Denys threw himself into the chair behind his large desk and signaled for him to sit.
"How is our food situation, Maester?" Denys asked the most important thing first, his voice heavy. This was a matter of life and death, more urgent than the swords out there.
Reggan frowned, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He didn't answer immediately, as if weighing how much truth his master could handle today. However, he was a Maester, and his duty was truth.
"Worrying, Lord Darklyn," he answered honestly. "We had prepared to ration even before the army arrived, hoarding what we could. But it is not enough. The grain in the granaries will eventually run out, and with the humidity of this season, the vegetables we stored are starting to rot faster than expected."
Denys felt his stomach churn. "How much longer before we run out? Give me a number, Reggan. Not vague estimates."
Reggan took a deep breath. "Three months. Maybe four, if we are truly frugal and take drastic measures. We must cut supplies for soldiers and servants starting today."
"You mean? We have to take their rations?" Denys frowned, imagining the hungry faces of his people.
"Cut, My Lord," the Maester corrected in a clinical tone. "Half rations. If they only eat once a day, thin porridge in the morning, a bit of hard bread at night, these supplies will last that long. We must prioritize the archers on the walls and the elite guards."
Denys fell silent, thinking about it. He twirled his empty goblet. Three months. Four months. He didn't know how long Tywin Lannister would endure out there with his legendary patience. It felt like a very long time, an eternity in a siege.
His head felt dizzy, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Was there no other way? What could he do to make them, Tywin, Rhaegar, the lords besieging him, listen to him more? He didn't want the people in this castle to starve and die slowly for his ambition. He wanted them alive to see the glory of the new Duskendale he promised.
"If we do that, our people will become weak," Denys said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "Hungry soldiers cannot draw bowstrings strongly. Hungry servants will be slow. And at that time... disease will strike more easily. It will kill them before Lannister swords have the chance."
Reggan nodded, agreeing with the assessment. He was silent for a moment, then replied in a flat but piercing voice. "There is always a price to pay, My Lord. For anything. The freedom of Duskendale, the city charter you desire... the price is paid with the empty bellies of these people."
Those words hit Denys harder than a physical blow. He stared at the Maester, looking for signs of judgment, but Reggan's face remained neutral.
"And the King?" Denys asked suddenly, shifting the topic from his guilt. "Is he eating?"
"King Aerys refuses most of the food we bring, My Lord," Reggan reported. "He... He is convinced we are trying to poison him. He will only eat bread he sees cut from the whole loaf himself, and drink water that we drink first. His condition... is not good. He is getting thinner, and he talks to himself."
"Let him talk to himself all he likes, as long as he stays alive," Denys grumbled. "He is the only reason these walls haven't crumbled onto our heads."
"There is one more thing, My Lord," Reggan said hesitantly.
"Speak."
"The soldiers... they are starting to whisper. They see the tents out there. They see the smoke from the royal army's camp fires that seem endless. Their morale... is wavering."
"Tell them to shut up and do their duty!" Denys snapped, his anger exploding to mask his own fear. "Tywin will give in! We just need to hold on a little longer!"
Reggan bowed obediently, but his eyes betrayed deep doubt. "As you command, My Lord."
The Maester stood, bowed once more, and left the room with heavy steps.
Denys was alone again. He poured more ale, his hand shaking so violently that some liquid spilled onto the table. He stared at the spill, spreading like dark blood on the wood.
Three months. He had three months before hunger turned his castle into a graveyard. He had to think of something. Or perhaps, he had to start praying. But... pray to whom?
…
Denys lay in his large, luxurious bed, the silk sheets feeling cold against his skin. The moon had replaced the scorching sun, and the sounds of fortress activity had subsided into an oppressive silence.
His eyes were closed, trying to summon sleep that wouldn't come, when he felt movement beside him. A cold and trembling hand wrapped around his body, clutching his sleeping tunic with fragile desperation.
Serala.
Denys turned slowly. In the dim moonlight entering through the window slit, he saw his wife. The woman was staring at him, her dark eyes wide open, reflecting a nameless fear. Her face looked soft, fragile, and her black hair lay messy on the pillow.
"Can't sleep?" Denys asked, his voice hoarse. He lifted his rough hand, stroking his wife's cheek with a gentleness he rarely showed lately.
"No," whispered Serala. "They are all too noisy, Denys."
Denys closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his ears. He felt the chill seeping in from the stone cracks, bringing the salty smell of the sea. There was no sound. No whispers. Only the gentle breeze passing through the tower window slit.
"You are hallucinating, My Lady," Denys said softly, "There is no one there."
"But it feels real," Serala's voice broke, her eyes tearing up. She pulled the fur blanket higher, covering her body up to her chin as if the fabric could protect her from ghosts.
"Shhh." Denys pulled his wife into his embrace, holding her head to his chest. He could feel Serala's heartbeat racing like a trapped bird.
"They are just hallucinations, Serala," Denys whispered into her fragrant hair. "Tywin Lannister is trying to do that to us, to make us chaotic. As long as we have the King, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it."
Serala clutched the chest of Denys's tunic tightly, her breathing slowly becoming regular, matching the rhythm of her husband's breath. Those words, their protective mantra, seemed to work. Slowly, the tension in his wife's body loosened.
Denys's eyes slowly closed, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless and dreamless sleep.
...
"FIRE!"
The scream tore through Denys's sleep like a hot knife cutting butter.
He jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs. Serala jumped beside him, shrieking in surprise.
"What...?" Denys gasped, his consciousness still foggy.
The scream was heard again, this time more numerous, more frantic. "FIRE! WATER! BRING WATER!"
Denys immediately stood up, ignoring the dizziness hitting his head. He ran to the window, pushing the shutters wide open.
The view outside froze him.
Down there, in the fortress courtyard that should have been dark, a bright orange light danced wildly. Tongues of fire licked the night sky, spewing thick black smoke that began to cover the stars. The source was the main stables, a large wooden building full of dry hay and valuable livestock.
Denys's breath hitched. Not just the stables. The granary was right next to it.
His mind raced wildly, faster than the fire itself. How could it be? Tonight was calm. There was no lightning storm.
'Did Tywin Lannister manage to send infiltrators?' The thought exploded in his mind. 'Is this an attack? Are they burning us alive?'
"My Lord? D-Denys? What is it?!" Serala was already by his side, clutching her husband's arm. She looked out, and her eyes widened in horror. Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream. "Oh Gods..."
"I will check it," Denys said, his voice hard and sharp. He turned, grabbing his robe and the sword that was always beside the bed.
He left the room quickly, his footsteps thumping on the stone floor. Serala followed him, her face deathly pale.
They passed corridors now starting to fill with thin smoke smelling acrid. In the main hall, they crossed paths with Maester Reggan running with a limp, his face full of soot.
"My Lord!" Reggan exclaimed, his breath ragged. "The fire... the fire is spreading fast! The sea wind is blowing it towards the storage sheds!"
"We must extinguish it immediately! Mobilize everyone!" Denys barked, continuing to walk fast down the stairs.
When Denys and Serala burst through the main doors of the fortress and stepped out into the courtyard, the heat slapped their faces instantly.
It was total chaos.
Soldiers ran without clear direction, some still in their undergarments, carrying buckets of water that looked pitiful compared to the fire giant raging in front of them. Horses that managed to escape ran in panic, neighing in terror, adding to the confusion.
The starry night sky was now covered by smoke and sparks flying like hellish fireflies. The cold wind that whispered earlier now roared, feeding the fire, making it grow taller, hungrier.
Denys stood frozen for a moment. He watched the fire devour the old wood of the stables with a terrifying sound. The heat was felt even from this distance, drying his skin.
And within the dancing flames, reflected in his widened eyes, Denys did not see an accident. He saw the end.
…
Deep beneath the foundation of the Dun Fort, where sunlight never touched and the sound of waves only sounded like the earth's weak heartbeat, the air felt heavy and still.
Denys Darklyn stepped down the narrow stone corridor, followed by two of his loyal guards carrying torches. The flickering firelight cast long shadows dancing on the mossy walls, as if the ghosts of Darklyn ancestors were watching in silence.
Denys could still smell the smoke on his clothes, remnants of the stable fire that had just been extinguished. The charred scent stuck to his skin, a constant reminder that time was burning away his chances. Tywin Lannister was not just sitting idly out there; he sent fire. He sent a message.
And now, Denys had to reply to that message.
He stopped in front of a heavy iron cell door. The guard on duty there immediately straightened up, his face pale under his iron helm. Without a word, Denys nodded, and the guard turned the large key in silence.
Denys stepped inside.
The room was damp and cold, smelling of rotting straw and human waste not properly cleaned. In the corner of the room, on a pile of dirty straw, sat the figure who held the fate of all Duskendale in his hands.
Aerys Targaryen.
The sight was pathetic. The King, once known for his looks and charm, now looked like a mad beggar. His long silver hair was matted, greasy and filled with filth. His beard grew wild, covering part of his face. His nails, nails that should hold a scepter, had grown long like animal claws, yellow and dirty.
On the floor, a tray containing hard bread and cold meat lay barely touched.
'How dare he,' Denys thought, cold anger creeping into his veins. 'My people out there are starting to starve, rationing their food, while he wastes food at times like these?'
"Your Grace," Denys greeted, his voice flat, emotionless, echoing in the narrow space.
Aerys, who seemed to be asleep or daydreaming in the darkness of his own mind, jerked. His violet eyes widened, pupils shrinking upon seeing the torchlight. He crawled back until his back hit the stone wall, like a cornered animal.
Then, recognition came.
Aerys lunged forward, gripping the iron bars with his thin hands, shaking them with the strength of a madman.
"You!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and broken. "You will die! You will burn! I see my dragons coming! They will burn you alive until your flesh melts from your bones!"
Denys did not flinch. He stood tall, staring at the king with a gaze he hoped looked stronger than he actually felt.
"No dragons are coming, Your Grace," Denys said coldly. "There is only Tywin Lannister out there. And he does not care about you."
"Liar! He is my friend! He is my Hand!" Aerys spat, saliva dripping from his dirty chin.
"If he is your friend, why does he let you rot here for a month?" Denys pressed. "I only ask for a condition, Aerys. A simple condition. A city charter for Duskendale. Freedom from strangling taxes. It is a thing you could easily do with words. Is it so hard? Just one signature, and you can return to the Red Keep, sleep in a silk bed, and eat warm food."
Aerys laughed, a high-pitched sound that hurt the ears.
"You think I am a fool?" he hissed, bringing his face close to the bars until Denys could smell his foul breath. "You lowly bastard! You traitor! Your blood is dirty! You are sick if you think you can command a dragon! I will give you nothing but fire and blood!"
Denys felt his patience, already as thin as paper, finally snap. The fire earlier, the fear in Serala's eyes, the looming starvation... everything peaked into a boiling point. He had no time for this. He had no time to listen to the ravings of the man before him while his city burned.
Without warning, Denys stepped forward. His large, rough hand reached through the gap in the bars, gripping Aerys's jaw tightly. He squeezed the king's face, forcing him to silence.
Aerys struggled, his eyes wild. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat right into Denys's face.
The warm, filthy liquid hit Denys's cheek and eye.
The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment.
Denys released his grip slowly. He took a step back, closing his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, trying to control the rumble in his chest, then wiped the spit away with his sleeve. The action was slow, methodical, and terrifying.
When he opened his eyes again, there was no more respect or hesitation there.
"Bring him out," Denys ordered the two guards. His voice was calm, too calm. "Do not let him struggle."
The guards hesitated for a moment, after all, this was the King, but Denys's glare made them move. The key turned. The cell door opened.
They dragged Aerys out. The King raged, kicking and scratching, shouting curses and threats of burning. His weak body was no match for two trained soldiers.
Denys watched them struggle. He thought of the fire that had just been extinguished up there. He thought of the smoke still billowing. He needed momentum. He needed something to silence the besiegers outside, something to prove he was serious. If Tywin Lannister wanted to play with fire, then Denys would show that he was not afraid to burn himself.
"Make him kneel!" Denys raised his voice, his tone cracking like a whip.
The guards kicked the back of Aerys's knees, forcing him to fall onto the cold, dirty stone floor. The King shouted in protest, but strong hands held him there.
"Hold his right hand," Denys ordered again. "Spread it on the floor. Before me."
One of the guards looked pale, his eyes widening in horror at what was about to happen, but he did not argue. He gripped Aerys's thin wrist, forcing the king's palm open on the damp stone. Aerys tried to pull it back, but his strength was far inferior.
Denys stepped forward. His hand moved to his waist, drawing a sharp hunting dagger. The metal glinted gloomily under the torchlight.
This had to be done. This was the only language understood by men in this world.
He crouched in front of his King. He said nothing more. No threats, no negotiations.
With a swift movement, Denys drove the dagger downward.
The steel blade embedded itself between Aerys's fingers, cutting the thin skin between the ring finger and the middle finger, and then Denys sliced it upward.
Aerys screamed.
...
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