Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Barristan crept through the shadowed underbrush just below the outer walls of the keep, a length of rope coiled in his hand. He slung it over the stone battlements and tugged it tight, checking the strength of the knot before beginning his ascent. Hand over hand, he scaled the walls of the Dun Fort.

The sky above was vast and quiet, the stars glinting cold and far away, like the eyes of gods watching the desperate dance of men below. He glanced up, feeling a strange sense of distance from his own body, from the tremor of battle he had long tried to suppress. A streak of white crossed the night—a shooting star, gone as soon as he’d seen it. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods, or perhaps just another indifference in the heavens. With a final pull, Barristan reached the top of the wall, swinging himself silently over the edge and onto the battlements.

Damned Denys Darklyn. If ever a man deserved the title of fool, it was him. Defiance, they called it. Lunacy, if Barristan was honest with himself. Darklyn had dared to ask that the king himself come to Duskendale to hear his grievances and Aerys, in his unpredictable pride, had agreed, sweeping into the port town with only a meager guard, including one of Barristan’s sworn brothers—the young Ser Gwayne Gaunt.

After that, there had been nothing. No word, no message, no sign of life beyond Lord Darklyn’s own pronouncement: if the king’s men dared attack, he would kill Aerys outright. And so the Hand of the King had come with his hosts, settling around Duskendale like the jaws of a lion, squeezing tighter with each day. For half a year, Lord Tywin had held his siege, patient, calculating, waiting for Darklyn to make a mistake. But now the Hand’s patience had run its course.

Lannister had been clear: if Barristan failed tonight, there would be no more waiting, no more plans—at first light, the lion would pounce. King Aerys would be dead. And gods know how many innocents with him. The knight would have this one night, one desperate chance to slip into the heart of the keep, find the king, and spirit him away. If he failed, dawn would be a bloody reckoning for all dwelling within Duskendale.

He pulled his hood low over his face, pressing himself against the wall as he made his way toward the inner keep. He listened as he went, and the sound of footsteps reached him long before he saw their owners—a pair of guards making their rounds. He slid back into a shadowed recess as the men approached, their torches briefly illuminating their faces.

“This nonsense is starting to wear thin,” muttered one, a stocky man with bushy eyebrows and a large scar slashed across his cheek. “Ain’t had a hot supper in weeks, and my feet ache worse than my gran’s.”

“You’ll have a warm meal once this is done with,” his lankier companion replied. “Lord Darklyn will make sure of it. Never seen a lord give a damn about the likes of us, but he’s different. He’ll come through. He said so.”

“Aye, and maybe throw in a lass or two, eh?” The first guard chuckled, nudging the other.

Their voices faded as they moved on, but Barristan waited until he was certain that he couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore before slipping into the keep. His feet carried him through the darkened passages, deeper and deeper, where the air grew stale and the shadows more oppressive.

Darklyn had placed his guards well, but Barristan knew how to disappear when he had to. Soon, the dank smell of the dungeons greeted him, the air was thick with rot, damp stone and stale blood. Only one guard stood watch over the cells, a young man wearing a leather breastplate and clutching a pike. The boy barely had time to register the swing of Barristan’s blade. With a single, smooth stroke, Barristan separated his head from his shoulders. There was barely a sound beyond the dull thud of his head hitting stone.

Barristan knelt, wiping his blade quickly on the guard’s trousers before searching his belt for keys. There—he found them, a ring of cold iron keys, each one as precious as gold for the doors they might open.

He moved swiftly now, he could not fail. He was this close, he could not fail. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as he passed by rows of barred cells, each one filled with darkness and silence. His eyes searched every shadow, his heart straining with a faint hope— Ser Gwayne, where are you? For an instant, he thought he recognized the knight in a huddled form slumped in one of the farther cells. But when he drew closer, the dim light revealed only a stranger’s hollow face.

At last, he came upon a heavy iron door with a thick bar drawn across it, as though something vile was hidden within. He paused for a moment, hand on the ring and inserted the largest of the keys into the lock.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he found inside. There, chained and hanging from the ceiling, was the king. Or what remained of him.

The smell struck Barristan first, King Aerys had been left here in his own waste, and it clung to his legs and the stone beneath him as he dangled several feet off the ground. His skin was bruised and chafed raw, the bones of his wrists peeking out from under torn flesh where the iron of the shackles had bitten deep. The king’s hair fell in tangled clumps across his hollow cheeks, matted with filth. It was horrid.

Barristan’s stomach churned, but he strode forward, drawing his sword. “Your Grace,” he murmured softly, unsure if the king could even understand him. “Hold steady. I’ll have you free in a moment.”

Aerys’ head jerked up, eyes wide, but there was no sign of comprehension. He mumbled something incomprehensible, half laughter, half wheezing. Barristan struck hard at the chains with his sword. The iron snapped and Aerys fell, his frail body collapsing to the floor in a pitiful heap. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Barristan muttered, bending down quickly. He stripped his own cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around the king’s thin, shaking frame.

“They come… in the walls… the whispers,” mumbled Aerys. His voice was barely a whisper, a thin, rasping sound. “Darklyn… his voice in the walls, Ser Gwayne… Ser Gwayne… they killed him, Ser… he screamed and the walls… they laughed.” A shiver wracked Aerys’s body, and he slumped, his head dropping against Barristan’s chest.

Ser Gwayne, his sworn brother, the man who’d ridden here with the king in good faith, taken by Lord Darklyn and butchered before his sovereign. There will be time to mourn, Barristan told himself, clenching his teeth until he thought they might shatter. Now was not the time. He had to get the king out of this damned place.

Carefully, Barristan lifted Aerys from the floor. The king weighed so little, no more than young Prince Rhaegar had when he was a boy. Rhaegar, who would ask Barristan to play “the dragon” for him, to toss him about like a prize won in battle. But now, in this cold, reeking dungeon, he carried a broken king, cradled against his chest like a feathered thing. His every step through the corridors was swift, and he kept his ears sharp for any approaching sound. 

He reached the edge of the keep and stepped out into the night air. A sudden shout sounded from nearby. Barristan’s head whipped around and he saw two guards running toward him, swords drawn, torches casting harsh orange light across the stones.

There was no other choice for him left now. “Stay here, Your Grace,” he said, lowering Aerys carefully to the ground beside a stack of broken crates. Aerys shrank beneath the cloak, muttering incoherently.

With a breath, Barristan turned to face his attackers, sword drawn and ready. He knew the odds well; these men outnumbered him, but he was a Kingsguard, and his one reason for being was to protect the man huddled on the ground. As the first guard lunged, Barristan sidestepped, parrying him before slashing downward and cleaving through the man’s neck. The second guard let out a growl of rage before Barristan spun around to see him charge. 

Another clash, another strike, and another body fell. But a third guard joined the fray, then a fourth and a fifth. He parried one blade, felt the sharp sting of another nick his arm, but he moved, relentless, like the water down a stream, flowing and adapting, unbreakable.

Between strikes, Barristan glanced over his shoulder and his heart sank as he saw King Aerys scurry away towards the entrance of the keep again, crawling on all fours like a frightened animal.

“No—Your Grace, stay where you are!” Barristan shouted, momentarily distracted. A sword swung toward his side, catching the edge of his armor, but he twisted free, stepping back just in time to evade the killing blow.

Barristan's instincts betrayed him then—without a second thought, he turned and took two hurried steps toward the king. “Your Grace, stay!” It was all the opportunity his attackers needed. 

He felt a cold, biting pain across his shoulder as a blade slashed down. King Aerys shrieked, reeling away from Barristan's touch. “Unhand me!” he wailed. He pushed Barristan back with surprising force and staggered forward, disappearing in the shadows.

Thrown off balance, Barristan found himself on one knee, surrounded. He twisted, rolling to one side, and kicked out with his boot, catching one of the men square in the knee with a wet crack. Hissing a curse, he hurled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as his side throbbed where another sword had grazed him. If he was to get to Aerys, he would have to cut down every last one of them first.

He steadied his breath, pushing aside the pulse of pain from his shoulder and side, gripping his sword firmly. He moved carefully, keeping his back to the wall this time, no longer giving them an opening. The three remaining guards circled him like a pack of wolves, they did not speak, but their narrow eyes told him everything he needed to know. They would have to break through him to reach Aerys. He wouldn't let them.

One of the men lunged, thrusting forward with a wild swing that Barristan sidestepped, bringing his blade up in an arc that caught the guard’s jaw. He felt the crunch of bone as the man staggered back, blood pouring from his face, and Barristan wasted no time, pressing forward to finish him. He hardly saw the next attack coming—a second guard rushing him with a dagger aimed at his armpit.

Pain exploded in his shoulder and chest as the blade bit deep, a searing heat spreading under his armor. He gasped, choking back a cry, but he did not lose his wits as he twisted, wrenching himself free of the blade’s point. The pain was almost blinding, but he forced himself to swing and the man fell with a strangled cry, clutching his side.

One remained. Barristan could feel his strength waning, his vision growing darker and his limbs heavier, yet he would not let himself fall—not here, not until the king was safe. Blood slicked his gauntlets and pooled beneath his boots as he turned to face the last guard.

They circled each other, both breathing hard, and then the man lunged. With one last burst of strength, Barristan swung his blade low. His sword met flesh, then bone, and the last of his foes crumpled to the ground. Barristan staggered back, barely managing to stay upright. Every heartbeat came with pulsing, fresh agony, but he had done it. They were all down.

He braced himself against the wall, leaving a trail of blood as he tried to push forward, searching desperately for any trace of the king. Each step felt more difficult than the last, his breaths ragged and shallow, yet he forced himself forward. I must find the king.

But his legs gave out at last, refusing to carry him any longer. He slumped against the cold stone, sliding down as his sword fell from his hand with a clatter. A Kingsguard’s duty was simple—to guard, to serve, to protect. He was a shield sworn to his king, his life forfeit before a hair on Aerys’s head came to harm. Yet here he was, bleeding out in some godsforsaken corner of Duskendale, without a soul left to defend.

A fool’s hope gripped him then. Perhaps the king had somehow found his way out, had escaped into the dawn with his cloak still clutched around him. Perhaps he would stumble into the Hand’s camp, to safety, to salvation.

Above, the stars had begun to fade, giving way to the golden rays of morning that chased away the shadows. Somewhere in the silence, he thought he could hear the distant roar of a lion.