A/N: Just as we promised we would, we have returned! Thanks to everyone who has patiently waited for the next chapter, we hope it will prove worth the wait. Two reviews asking for an update were posted yesterday, which was a funny coincidence given that this chapter was in the final stages of its editing process at that very moment. This chapter is in many ways a culmination of events that have been foreshadowed and seeded throughout A Tale of Two Dragons up until this point. Without further ado, The Riot:
Baela
Baela hadn't realized that she had fallen asleep until she smelled the Pentoshi incense. Opening her eyes, she found herself lying on a bed covered in elaborately decorated cushions. A slight breeze was blowing through an alcove that opened into a view of the harbor below. Standing, Baela hesitantly approached the aperture, appreciating the slight smell of the sea that accompanied the wind. She assumed from the view that she was staying in one of the manses that dotted the hills around Pentos. She watched a ship with a mermaid on its prow chart a course out of the harbor towards the setting sun. The waves that rippled in its wake reflected the reds and oranges of the sunset, more dancing flame than water.
The whisper of a dress behind her caught her attention. Turning, she found herself face to face with a beautiful woman whose sea-green eyes matched the silk of her dress. A great mane of silver-gold ringlets ran down her back past her waist. Baela's breath caught in her throat. Her earliest memories came to the fore as she sprang forward, wrapping the woman in a tight embrace. Her mother's hair smelled of the same Pentoshi incense that burned on the bedside table, as well as something else besides. Baela breathed deeply a second time, smiling as she identified the mystery scent. All about her lingered the sulfurous smell of dragons.
Her mother returned her embrace for several moments, before pulling away, taking a moment to look her over.
"Baela, dearest, you've become a woman grown whilst I've been away." Her mother said with a twinge of sadness in her voice. " I do not have long. I must needs speak with you quickly."
Tears flowed unbidden down Baela's cheeks. Looking into her mother's eyes, the loss of the past several days rushed back into the fore of her mind. "But mother, I have already lost so much. Stay with me, please."
Laena Velaryon took her hands between her own, tears welling within her own eyes. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Baela my love, the war is near its end. The dragons have danced, and the dragons have died. Your father's family has brought itself and Westeros to its knees." She gripped Baela's hands tightly. "I need both you and Rhaena to be strong. You are amongst the last of the dragons. The fire is dying, and the two of you will have to keep the embers alight."
"Mother, how can I be strong when I only fail those I love? In the span of a year, I've lost grandmother, Lucerys, Jacaerys, and Gaemon. The Queen has forbidden me from flying to war. When the Usurper's forces reach the city, I won't even be able to reach Moondancer. I can't even die properly, as grandmother Rhaenys did, dragonwhip in hand."
"Baela, fate has conspired to place you within a time and place of great import." Her mother pursed her lips. "My time with you draws to a close. Be strong."
Behind her mother, a lacquered door swung open. Baela was shocked to see her father standing in the precipice. Unlike her mother, he was dressed for battle, his silver hair flowing over the black plate he wore the day he departed. Beckoning to her mother, he gave Baela a wan smile. Laena planted a warm kiss on Baela's brow before taking her father's hand and allowing herself to be led from the chamber.
As he closed the door, her father spoke. "Give my love to your brothers and your sisters, my princess. I fear we may not speak again for some time." With one last smile, her parents closed the door behind them. Baela immediately ran to the doors, struggling to pull them open, begging for her parents to return.
"Please, don't leave me!" She cried, banging on the doors whilst hot tears flowed. She struck the doors until her hands were raw and aching, but to no avail. Even when she stopped striking them, the dull thud continued. Eventually, she realized that the sound was coming from outside the confines of her dream.
Opening her eyes, she rose groggily from her bed, clutching a blanket around her disheveled clothing for warmth. Whilst it was impossible to tell the time from this deep within the Red Keep, she calculated that it must be very late, as the stones of the floor were cold and the coals within the brazier had cooled, with only a few continuing to glow. She grasped at the lacquered handle to open the door, pulling it inwards and revealing Ser Lorent Marbrand standing in the hall.
"I am terribly aggrieved to disturb your rest, my Lady, but the Queen has asked that you attend her in the Queen's ballroom. With the Red Keep's garrison as depleted as it is, the Queen wishes to ensure the safety of all who remain."
Baela stared numbly, before nodding in acquiescence. She had not attended the Queen since the news had arrived from Tumbleton two days prior. When the court had received word of the Green's stunning victory, everything had changed. The war was over that day. We all simply lacked the strength to admit it. Her Grandfather had been devastated, weeping openly for the loss of his grandson and heir. Baela had simply felt empty inside. First Jace and now Gaemon. Every time the Queen dispatched those in her service, Baela lost someone dear to her. Her mother's words troubled her. How am I to be strong for anyone else? I can barely muster the desire to wake in the mornings.
She allowed herself to be led through the passages of Maegor's Holdfast quietly. Ser Lorent maintained a respectful distance, remaining quiet as they walked. When they reached the double doors to the Ballroom, he drew them open, announcing her presence to the Queen, who sat disheveled in a silken night gown at her customary seat.
Rhaenyra's bloodshot purple eyes regarded her from across the hall as she approached. Her cousin appeared to have been in the midst of finishing a tray of lemon cakes, judging by the half-eaten platter in front of her.
"Baela, so good of you to join us. It appears that even the smallfolk of the city have conspired to support the Usurper. As we speak, they throw themselves against the gates, hoping to force them open for the Hightowers and their lackeys. While you slept, I was forced to dispatch the rest of the castle garrison and nearly all of my remaining knights to cut them to ribbons and restore order."
The Princes Aegon and Viserys sat to their mother's left, looking both fearful and exhausted. Terrax, the flame colored hatchling of Viserys, was busy tearing into a cold leg of chicken. To the Queen's right sat Prince Joffrey. When she made eye contact with him, she was shocked at how much rage boiled behind his normally warm brown eyes. Joffrey likely wished to ride with the Queen's knights. Her grandfather paced behind the high table, and the Queen's ladies-in-waiting sat throughout the chamber, some whispering whilst others wept. The seven Knights of Rhaenyra's Queensguard stood at attention along the walls, the silvered mirrors reflecting their white cloaks.
Baela drew in a ragged breath before responding. "I have come to support you during this trying time, Your Grace."
Rhaenyra laughed coldly. "Is that so? I was certain that if I didn't send Ser Marbrand to fetch you that you would have already attempted to escape your confinement. I wouldn't have been shocked if you harbored illusions of dispersing these traitors from atop your dragon."
Baela clenched her fist, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palms. "I gave you my word, Your Grace. I swore to obey your commands."
"The people of this city swore to obey me as well. They prostrated themselves in the streets when I arrived, thanking me for freeing them from the depredations of my accursed half-brother. For nearly half a year I have protected their worthless lives, sending my dragonriders forth to strike down those who menaced them. They repaid my sacrifices by killing Ser Luthor and his goldcloaks earlier today, and now they've decided their rags look better in Green. I ought to burn them all to a crisp. Aegon won't enjoy this city nearly as much if all of the traitors, whores and lickspittles have been reduced to ash."
Joffrey slammed his fist on the table, causing his mother to jump with fright. "Seven Hells mother! Why did you forbid me from speaking with them? I could have assured them that I could defend them from the likes of Prince Daeron or the two betrayers from atop Tyraxes. Instead, they are attempting to flee for their lives whilst they still have them. When you barred the gates it only confirmed the rumors spread by the Hightowers' men in the city below!"
"My sweet boy, these animals are undeserving of your diplomacy. They'd have been far more likely to have loosed an arrow at you than accepted your oaths of protection. Besides, I need you here, by my side. You are my pillar of strength in these trying times."
Joffrey wrenched himself out of his mother's desperate embrace, standing and joining Baela where she stood in front of the high table. He clutched his sword in its scabbard with one hand while turning the ivory cyvasse King piece in his other hand over and over.
Pulling Baela to the side of the hall, he turned his back on his mother, who was watching them both intently. His brown eyes locked with hers. "My mother is not herself. Ever since the news of Tumbleton she has spent the last few days weeping constantly and jumping at shadows. She will not allow me to fight, even for her own crown. You and I remain the only dragonriders in the city. We must needs do something. Our enemies were only fifty leagues away days ago. We must get to the Dragonpit. Otherwise the city will be lost, and with it, my mother's cause."
Baela sighed. She was so tired. Tired of fighting, and tired of loss. She was about to respond in the negative when shouts echoed outside of the ballroom doors. The clanging of live steel and the screams of a dying man erupted. The knights of the Queensguard drew their blades, looking confusedly at one another before taking positions in a semicircle around the entrance. The noncombatants throughout the chamber screamed and rushed to the rear, while the Queen stood, gazing with a terrified fixation on the chamber doors. After a heartbeat or so of silence, the doors burst inwards, revealing a column of screaming goldcloaks surging inwards. Ser Lorent and the other members of the Queensguard met them in combat near the entrance, cutting them down seemingly with little effort. For a few moments, the enemy seemed powerless against them. Then the tide began to turn.
First to fall was Ser Lyonel Bentley, who was grabbed by two men and forced against the wall whilst a third pushed a dagger into his eye as he screamed. Ser Harold Darke slipped on the entrails of a man he had just cut open, falling forwards onto the cold stone. His accident cost him his life when three more goldcloaks drove their spears through his back. They plunged them in again and again, turning the once brilliant white a dark crimson. Ser Adrian Redfort held several men at bay until an arrow sprouted from his neck, shot by an archer whose gambeson sported a black swan. Ser Loreth Lansdale and Ser Glendon Goode died soon after, falling victim to the spears of their many opponents. As his brothers fell around him, Ser Lorent's footwork and speed improved. He spun throughout the chamber like a dancer, cutting through his enemies and sending arcs of blood sailing through the air only to splatter in grotesque patterns on the silvered mirrors. Running a particularly large goldcloak through, he forced his dying opponent to his knees, planting his foot against the man's chest to withdraw his blade. As he wrenched it free, a knight wearing a black-and-white doublet entered the chamber. Ser Lorent, breathing heavily, turned to engage him, and for a few moments they danced about one another, their steel screeching as they traded blows. Their duel ended when a goldcloak put his spear through Marbrand's calf. The Lord Commander fell to one knee, cringing in pain. He reached for the dagger hanging at his side, but the knight in black-and-white dealt him a savage blow across the neck before he could use it, nearly cutting his head from his shoulders.
As the enemy knight turned to face the Queen, Prince Joffrey turned to Baela. Despite her shock, she felt him press her cyvasse piece into her hands. A cold chill ran down her spine.
"Joffrey, don't."
His eyes, so much like those of his brothers, no longer were filled with rage. Instead, they flickered with resolve. He closed her hands around the piece.
"I promised you when the time came that I would be ready Baela. I am ready now."
As he turned, she grabbed his shoulder to stop him, but he pulled free, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. The sound of it exciting its scabbard drew the attention of the men in the room, and the knight in black-and-white turned to face the Prince.
Joffrey raised his blade, pointing it at his opponent. The knight rose his blade in a salute, before returning to his fighting stance. Baela glanced at the Queen, whose eyes were glassy and unfocused. Her hands gripped the table in front of her with white knuckles.
Joffrey attacked, swinging his longsword in a savage downward cut. Quick as lightning, the knight brought his blade upwards, knocking the Prince's strike aside. With his free hand, the knight drove a dagger hidden within the folds of his cloak deep into Joffrey's chest. The Prince of Dragonstone staggered, inhaling sharply, before his blade slipped from his fingers to clatter on the ballroom floor. Collapsing, he began to choke and sputter, his blood pooling beneath him, flowing outward. Like the wings of a dragon.
Rhaenyra screamed a hideous, animalistic sound of agony. Baela felt lightheaded. She staggered backwards, the cyvasse piece falling from her grasp. Pulling a knife from a half-eaten lamprey pie, she ran at the knight standing over Joffrey's body, screaming in pure hatred. The knight turned to face her, his eyes cold as he swung a gauntleted fist. Stars danced as the void took her.
Gyles
Where in the Seven Hells did they all go? Unlike the River Gate and the King's Gate, the Lion Gate had not been forced open. "Someone opened the bloody thing!" exclaimed Ser Harmon of the Reeds, a huge and hulking hedge knight wearing mottled and dented iron plate. What disturbed Gyles the most, however, was the lack of corpses, but for a single gold-cloaked corpse that dangled from a noose above the gate. There wasn't even a fight. The lion gate garrison has simply up and vanished into the night.
"Utter cowardice!" Ser Medrick Manderly seethed. The northern knight had been tasked by Queen Rhaenyra with securing the seven gates of King's Landing, entrusting him with nearly every knight and man-at-arms she had left in the Red Keep to do so. After Ser Luthor Largent's disastrous expedition into the city earlier that day, in which he and nearly the entire Gold Cloak garrison stationed within the Red Keep had been killed, none of the remaining Gold Cloaks could be spared from their posts to help in this task.
Most are likely dead by now, Gyles thought grimly. The garrison of the King's Gate had tried to hold out against the mob, but with no defences on the inner wall, they were quickly overrun and butchered. By the time the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms had reached the King's Gate, it was an utter ruin. The smallfolk who had attacked the gate had long since fled into the countryside beyond, leaving naught behind but a gate that had been chopped to kindling and the bloody trampled corpses of the Gold Cloaks they'd killed.
"Who is that man?" Ser Medrick called, nodding in the direction of the Gold-cloaked corpse hanging from the noose. "Thatn's Ser Benwyck Thistle, Ser," a voice called out. "He was Cap'n of the Lion Gate."
Ser Medrick grimaced, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a gauntleted finger. "Treason after treason," he grunted. The Lion gate garrison was not the only group of Gold Cloaks to foreswear their oaths. The River Gate's garrison, known as the Mudfoots, had risen up with the rioters, executing their Captain and opening their gate to the mob.
Fighting them and the seemingly endless tide of enraged merchants, sailors, and other rioters had been costly. With the men they'd lost in the fighting, as well as the small amounts of men that they'd left behind to hold each gate the armored column had secured, Ser Medrick had scarcely more than half the men left that he had departed the Red Keep with.
Ser Medrick quickly set about leaving a small force to hold the Lion Gate, ordering the selected men to close the gate and cut down Captain Benwyck Thistle's corpse. Raising his sword, Ser Medrick pointed it northeast, further along the city's wall. "Onwards!" he shouted, and a man-at-arms raised a brass war trumpet to his lips and blew a brazen call. In response, the mounted men-at-arms and knights of the party closed ranks and rode further along the interior of the wall.
Gyles rode near the head of the column, along with his squire Mors. Since the brutal melee at the River Gate, the movement of the column had been surprisingly unimpeded. It seemed as though the gate garrisons that had not betrayed the Queen's cause had been quickly overrun by the large amounts of smallfolk rabble that wished to escape the city. Many of such groups of rioters had already done their bloody work, however, and those that remained in the city were more interested in looting, raping, and murdering than escaping the Hightower army's wrath.
The outer edges of the city nearest the walls were abandoned, with naught but the charred husks of burned buildings and corpses to greet the column as it rode onwards. Further within the city, however, utter chaos reigned supreme, with faint traces of the sounds of mayhem carried to the ears of the knights and men-at-arms on the cold night breeze.
Gyles wondered when the Green army would arrive from Tumbleton. Rumors of the dire letter that they had sent to Queen Rhaenyra had spread quickly from the Red Keep into the city beyond. Before the riots had broken out, Gyles had hoped that the city would be able to hold out against the Prince Daeron and the traitorous Dragonseeds until the Northmen and Rivermen could arrive to support Queen Rhaenyra. They surely wouldn't burn the city that they wish to return to the usurper Aegon.
Upon seeing the condition of several of the city's gates, however, Gyles began to realize just how untenable their situation was. With the exception of the Lion Gate, there are no gates to even defend anymore, just shattered and splintered ruins. Thinking about what was to come would do no good in the present, however. Steeling his nerves, he rode on.
Gyles began to feel a sinking sensation in his stomach long before the column had reached the Gate of the Gods. The evidence of a recent brutal fight was everywhere, judging by the large amounts of bloody corpses strewn about the street. But who was fighting who? He didn't see any hint of gold amongst the raiments of the slain, nor three-headed dragon or any other sigil. Only dead commoners, by the look of them all. But why were they fighting each other?
Gyles' question was quickly forgotten as the column reached the Gate of the Gods. The gate showed evidence of an unsuccessful defence, with the corpses of its Gold Cloak garrison strewn about the inner wall's entryway to the gate. What confused Gyles, however, was what waited just beyond the Gate of the Gods, further along the inner wall of the city.
It was a large hastily-assembled palisade, that looked to be made of every type of wooden object that men had ever crafted. Bedframes, wagon wheels, tables, ladders, broken spear shafts; all were piled together in a bristling hedge that stood nearly ten feet above the cobbled stones of the street. Atop it were a multitude of grimy men clutching torches. Some wore the boiled leathers and mail of sellswords, a few bore the grimy and heavily-scarred plate of robber knights, and most wore naught but cloaks and other cheap, frayed articles of clothing. All however were covered in bloodstains and scowled darkly at the multitude of knights arrayed before their barricade.
Ser Medrick urged his warhorse forward slightly, tapping its flanks with his spurs when the beast shied away from the jagged and splintered shafts of wood sticking out haphazardly from the barricade. Lifting his visor, the heir to White Harbor's voice rang out into the night. "Who goes there, he who dares to impede knights about the Queen's business!?" For several moments there was no response, until one of the robber knights atop the barricade made a quick motion with his hand. A gangling boy in boiled leathers standing next to the knight handed off his torch, his closely-cropped silvery hair glinting in its flickering light. Turning to the knight, he removed his helmet and stepped back to the side.
Resting his gauntleted hands on the edge of a bedframe that adorned the barricade's top, the now-helmetless knight leaned forward and began to speak. "Ser Perkin the Flea, most honorable Ser," the man replied in a mocking tone. He had a large hooked nose that reminded Gyles of a hawk's beak, small beady eyes the color of flint chips, and a sharp widow's peak that receded far back into his scalp. "And me and mine are about the King's business."
At those treasonous words, Ser Medrick Manderly hefted his blade, an action that was quickly mimicked by the knights and men-at-arms around Gyles. Gyles however, eased his goldenheart recurve bow from its holder attached to Evenfall's saddle. With his other hand, he drew an arrow from a quiver attached securely to his hip, nocking it.
Ser Perkin merely laughed at the threatening show of force below him. "Wave that sword o' yours all ya like, it won't make a bit o' difference. Ya can't go forward, and ya can't go back." Can't go back? Gyles was confused, twisting in his saddle to look behind himself. Beyond the rear edge of the column, a massive crowd was approaching, many of them hefting spears that had most likely been yanked from the grasp of dead gold cloaks. The bodies in the street, Gyles realized with horror. They weren't dead, but merely waiting for us to pass by so they could spring their trap.
Gyles quickly looked left towards the Gate of the Gods, hoping that it would prove a viable means of escape, but was disappointed when he saw that it was closed, with the steps up to the gatehouse barricaded with the same detritus that Ser Perkin the Flea and his men stood atop. Looking to the right, Gyles was disheartened to see that the street leading from the Gate of the Gods up to Cobbler's Square was blocked by the remains of a charred building that had collapsed into it, with extra debris piled on top.
We could continue on foot, but not on horseback. To try to escape on foot would be certain death, however. The rabble would swarm us and tear us to pieces before we made it even halfway to Cobbler's Square. The knights and men-at-arms of the column around Gyles sat tense in their saddles, clutching their weapons. Many men had joined Ser Perkin atop the barricade, clutching bows, crossbows, slings, and rocks. Sneering, Ser Perkin opened his arms wide. "You all need not die here today. Lay down your arms and surrender, and King Aegon may show you all mercy yet, despite your treason."
After hatefully glaring at Ser Perkin, Ser Medrick turned to address the column. "Tighten ranks, men! Prepare yourselves!" The column drew inwards, closing its ranks until it was a formidable ring of mounted warriors in mail and plate. As the men of the column finished maneuvering themselves and their mounts into a more defensible formation, they began to notice a cacophony of noise drawing nearer and nearer.
A mob was approaching the Gate of the Gods from Cobbler's Square, a roiling mass of shouting and jeering smallfolk, seemingly displaying none of the limited discipline of the grimy army of Ser Perkin the Flea. Gyles quickly glanced at Ser Perkin atop the barricade, and was surprised to see a dark scowl on the man's face. Mayhaps he did not expect the arrival of this mob either.
Climbing over the rubble pile impeding their progress, the newcomers drew up short, eyeing not only the mounted column warily, but the men who surrounded them as well. A burly man made his way to the head of the mob, and it seemed clear to Gyles that he was their leader. He wore simple clothing that had become torn and stained, as well as a crudely-made heavy leather apron. He bore a bloody and dented breastplate that had been haphazardly strapped on over his clothing, and Gyles noticed that the breastplate was embossed with a red crab.
In one stained hand, the man held a longsword. In the other, he clutched a tall wooden staff. At the staff's top was a severed head, and not far below, tied tightly to the staff with twine… Gyles felt sick to his stomach. If I'm to die tonight, I hope that my member doesn't join the one already tied to that man's staff.
With a murderous grin, the man in the stolen breastplate laughed boisterously and called out to the men arrayed before him. "Seven blessings, friends!" he shouted mockingly. "I fear that you lot are in our way!" Pointing his sword in the direction of the Gate of the Gods, the man continued to speak. "We ain't going to wait on no dragons to burn us all to a crisp." Hefting the staff, the man nodded at the severed head. "But we thought that some debts needed paying before we quit the city." As a deep growling cackle began to emanate from the crowd behind him, the man shook the staff in his grasp. "Tis only fair that the highborn pay their share o' taxes. Lord Celtigar already paid his part o' the cock tax." Sneering at the multitude of knights before him, the burly peasant continued. "Methinks it's time for you lot to pay your share as well."
It was then that Ser Perkin spoke up, anger evident in his voice and features. "Ya have no business with us." Motioning at the men standing around him, Ser Perkin continued to speak. "We're men o' King Aegon, here to protect his city and put down traitors." He glared at the mob. "Me and mine won't hesitate to kill ya if ya try anything. Disperse now, and I'll forget I ever saw any of ya."
The peasant in the bloody breastplate laughed heartily. "Kill me, will you?" he began. "You can bloody well try." The mob around him began to jeer, with a few individuals beginning to throw stones and other debris indiscriminately, pelting both the men of the mounted column and Perkin the Flea and his men. Though they made no overt movement forward, it looked to Gyles as though the mob's numbers were only growing. Seven Hells.
Perkin the Flea turned back to regard the knights and men-at-arms of the mounted column. "Surrender and submit yourself to the rightful King's mercy. There needn't be any more blood spilled." Beneath his visor, Gyles scoffed. Does he take us for utter fools? I'd sooner surrender to a pack of wolves than this robber knight and his army of cutthroats.
Gyles was pleased to see that Ser Medrick Manderly seemed to share his sentiments. Red-faced, the northern knight shouted at Perkin the Flea. "I won't suffer to hear one more word pass between your traitorous lips! We are knights and leal soldiers of the Queen, and you are sorely mistaken if you believe that we will forsake our vows to her and hand ourselves over to the mercy of a traitorous cutthroat and his army of gutter rats."
The jeering of the mob resounded off the stones of the street and city walls, ringing within Gyles' helm. Horses whickered, and the light of torches threw long twisted shadows in every direction. Heart pounding, Gyles drew back an arrow with his recurve bow, aiming it at Perkin the Flea atop the barricade. You heard Ser Manderly, traitor. Not one more word.
Ser Perkin leaned forward over the barricade, face contorted with rage. "You highborns are all the same! I-" The robber knight's next words turned into a strangled gurgle as Gyles shot an arrow cleanly through his throat. Jerking backwards, Perkin the Flea clawed at his throat as he coughed and spluttered, blood frothing at his lips and running down his chin. He fell backwards, disappearing from view. For a single moment, all was still. The men of the column sat tense atop their horses, and several of them gave Gyles incredulous looks. The jeers of the crowd died down, and Ser Perkin's men stood atop the barricade and behind the column, shocked by the sudden death of their leader.
In the next moment, all hell broke loose. The mob surged forward with a feral shriek, and Perkin the Flea's gutter army attacked, firing arrows and bolts from atop the barricade, and attacking with spears, cudgels, chipped swords, and rusty dirks at the column's rear. Instinct and training took over, and Gyles began shooting arrows as fast as he could. For every grimy assailant that collapsed with an arrow through their heart, two more scrabbled forward, faces twisted into murderous snarls.
The knights and men-at-arms of the column maintained formation, and savagely hacked at any who dared step in range. Gyles desperately hoped that they might seize the advantage, despite the vast disparity in numbers between the Queen's men and their enemies. Gyles grimaced as he began to see knights and men-at-arms at the column's periphery pulled from their saddles and disappear into a maelstrom of roaring smallfolk.
As the column lost more and more of its defensive cohesion, Gyles slipped his recurve bow back into its holder on his saddle and drew his sword, slinging his round shield around from his back to his arm. A peasant grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, screaming curses at Gyles. His venomous curses turned into pitiful wails as Gyles savagely hacked the man's hand off at the wrist, before slicing his face open with a quick backhand slash. The man collapsed and was trampled beneath Evenfall's hooves as Gyles rode forward.
Gyles watched as a laughing knight in heavy iron plate with a bear pelt tied about his shoulders plunged into the heart of the mob, riding straight for its leader, who was still clutching the pole adorned with pieces of Lord Celtigar. Each mounted knight and man-at-arms was becoming an island all to himself as more and more screaming smallfolk rushed forward, attempting to surround the riders and pull them from their mounts.
Mors fought his way towards Gyles, his eyes wide beneath his halfhelm. "Ser, we must needs retreat!" Pockets of knights desperately fought their way forward, trying to reach small nearby alleys and wynds. I won't falter. Gyles turned to Mors. "We can't afford to flee now, Mors! We have to stand our ground!" I am no craven. We can win the day yet. Gyles spurred Evenfall forward, bowling over several shouting peasants in ragged and bloody clothing. He swung his sword again and again, striking down attacker after attacker.
Where are they all coming from? Have they no fear? A small crowd of smallfolk had clambered up the gatehouse steps over the debris that had been strewn across them, and were battering at the door that contained the gate's winch. Though he scarcely had a moment to truly observe his surroundings, Gyles was dismayed to see less and less mounted knights and men-at-arms around him. Medrick Manderly, the column's leader, was nowhere to be seen. Cohesion had been utterly lost, and noble knights and lowly smallfolk alike died bloody deaths under an unending hail of arrows, bolts, and rocks being fired from the men atop the makeshift barricade.
"KILL THAT FUCKING DORNISHMAN!" a voice screamed, and Gyles was set upon by a small crowd of enraged rioters. He struck one with his sword as they grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, and another as they tried to grab hold of his shield arm. However, twisting in his saddle to attack robbed Gyles of his balance, and he felt terror clench at his heart as several sets of hands clutched at his right foot and dragged it from its stirrup.
In desperation, Gyles clenched his thighs as tightly as he could about his saddle, but it was no use. No, No, NO! Gyles thought in panic. They'll tear me to pieces if I'm pulled from the saddle! Just as Gyles thought that his fate was sealed, the hands released their grip on him. He desperately scrabbled fully back atop Evenfall, and turned to see his savior cutting down the last of his assailants. "Mors!" Gyles shouted hoarsely, elation filling his heart.
The grizzled squire was tense in his saddle, a grave expression stretched across his features. "Now, Ser," he began, his voice oddly brittle and strained. "We go, NOW." Gyles nodded without hesitation, slightly surprised by his loyal squire's sudden ferocious demeanor.
Riding forward, the two of them made for a cramped wynd that led deeper into the city. Gyles felt sick to his stomach as he rode over the carnage surrounding him. He watched as a screaming knight had a rusty dirk shoved through his eye, unable to escape from beneath his dead warhorse. A peasant dragged himself across the blood-soaked cobblestones, with naught but a bloody stump beneath his right knee. "I'm alright," the man sobbed to no one in particular, "I'm alright."
Gyles was astounded when Evenfall successfully reached and entered the wynd, carrying him clear of the utter bloodbath that had nearly been his doom. Mors was right behind him on his spotted rounsey, the poor old beast frothing at the mouth as it bled from a dozen wounds. Following the wynd's twisting and turning path, Gyles was surprised as it widened suddenly, and Evenfall galloped into Cobbler's square.
It was abandoned, though the buildings surrounding its perimeter had been thoroughly looted, some smoldering and burning. Mors nodded further up the main thoroughfare. "A few others made it clear 'afore us. I'd put my coin on finding 'em in the city's main square." The squire let out a ragged cough. Gyles nodded, and he and Mors urged their mounts onward, deeper into the heart of the city.
As they rode along the street, it was as though they'd passed into the center of a forge. On both sides, buildings blazed brightly as they were consumed in an uncontrolled inferno, a rippling multi-colored tapestry with such a terrifying and primal beauty that Gyles found himself utterly speechless, staring in mesmerised wonder.
The heat of the flame was intense, and in his mind Gyles could feel memories of home, riding in the dry plains far south of Yronwood castle under Dorne's relentless sun. Gyles' senses returned to him fully as Evenfall carried him clear of the burning street, into the massive square at the city's center, situated at the base of Visenya's Hill.
A small group was gathered in the center of the massive square, and several heads turned to regard Gyles and Mors as they approached. Though the sounds of rioting drifted on the night air, the square itself was largely abandoned. A small contingent of Gold Cloaks milled about on foot, their cloaks and armor covered in blood. Among them were mounted knights and men-at-arms. Sure enough, those mounted on horses were survivors of the column, for Gyles recognized Ser Harmon of the Reeds and Ser Rayford Lothston, as well as a few others. Surely this can't be all that remains.
Of the men at the square that had escaped the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods, Gyles counted less than twenty. Gods be good. The slaughter was even worse than I imagined. Gyles once again felt a sense of incredulity at having escaped. If not for Mors… Gyles didn't want to consider the grisly death that he'd nearly suffered. Twould have been an ignoble and sad end, alone and far from home.
One of the knights rode a short distance out to meet Gyles and Mors as they approached, and Gyles recognized him as Ser Torrhen Manderly, by the merman stitched into his doublet. And yet no sign of his brother, Ser Medrick. Gyles grimaced. To die in that frenzied melee was not a fate that he would wish on even his worst enemy.
The visor on Ser Torrhen's helm was lifted, revealing the man's doughy features beneath. His face was flushed, and his eyes sad. Reining up in front of Gyles and Mors, Ser Torrhen began to speak. "Well met. We did not expect for any other survivors to escape the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods. An utter travesty, that was. Mayhaps our fortunes have begun to change, however, for it was here that we found Captain Balon Byrch of the Old Gate, and Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate."
Two men in gold cloaks sat atop warhorses, wearing black breastplates ornamented with four golden discs. Raising his voice, Ser Torrhen called out to the men around him. "Prithee, gather round." Nodding at the two gate Captains before him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "If you will, Captains, inform the rest of these men what you have just imparted to me."
With a nod, one of the two gate Captains edged his warhorse forward, removing his helm and placing it in the crook of his arm. He had close-cropped black hair and an equally dark beard, though both had begun to turn grey. "I am Captain Balon Byrch, of the Old Gate, and the other officer with me is Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate. We had also been accompanied by Captain Robert Waters of the Iron Gate, but I am aggrieved to say that he was slain earlier this very night."
The Captain pointed in the direction of the Hill of Rhaenys as he continued to speak. "The three of us had combined our gates' garrisons and marched forth, and we were able to restore some small semblance of order around Rhaenys' Hill. We received word that some 'prophet' had led a mob up Hill Street from Cobbler's Square to attack the Dragonpit, so we made our way there to disperse them. We took them from behind as they attempted to force their way past the Dragonkeepers defending the Dragonpit's main entrance. They were numerous, and twas a close and bloody thing."
Captain Byrch sighed sadly. "We lost Captain Waters, and many other fine city watchmen as well. However, when Captain Garth struck down the mob's leader, some one-handed mad begging brother, the mob lost heart and fled into the night. We lost far too many men holding the Dragonpit, however. With the men left to us, it would be impossible to hold any of our three gates. It was our intent to travel to the Red Keep to inform the Queen of our successful defense of the Dragonpit, while adding what meager numbers we have remaining to the Red Keep's defence."
Ser Torrhen Manderly nodded gravely. "Thank you, Captain Byrch," the northern knight said courteously. Looking at the ragged, bloody, and tired knights and men-at-arms around him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "I should think that we will join you. With the loss of so many fighting men, the safety of the Queen and her family can now be our only concern."
As the men in the square's center began to prepare for their final push to the Red Keep, Gyles turned to Mors, intending to properly thank his squire for saving his life. He was dismayed to see the man crouching a ways off next to his rounsey, which had evidently collapsed and was now laying on its side, breathing raggedly.
Gyles climbed from Evenfall's saddle and approached his squire on foot. The grizzled squire cradled the rounsey's head in the crook of one arm, while he gently stroked its face with his other hand. As Gyles approached, the poor beast seemed to finally expire, going limp and its head slipping from Mors' grasp. With a ragged sigh, the old squire pulled the horse's eyelids closed with two fingers. "Farewell, old friend," Mors whispered sadly.
The squire struggled to his feet as Gyles approached, before staggering and pitching forward. Gyles sprinted forward, managing to catch his squire before he collapsed. "Mors?" he asked, concerned. All strength had left his squire's body, and Gyles struggled to hold him aloft.
"Prithee, Ser, set me down with my horse," the squire grunted, his voice faint. Gyles did as his squire bid him, lowering him to the ground and propping his back up against the flank of his companion. It was then that Gyles noticed the wicked and bloody tear that ran along Mors' left side, slightly above his hip. Whatever weapon had dealt the blow had torn right through Mors' leather jerkin, brutally wrending the flesh beneath.
It can't be, Gyles thought in disbelief. Looking at his squire in dismay, Gyles tried to think of something he could say, something he could do. Instead, he only managed to croak out one word. "How?" he whispered, feeling a sudden wave of emotion wash over him.
Mors coughed, and Gyles was dismayed to see blood upon his squire's lips. "Before we escaped," Mors grunted, "when I fought off the rabble trying to pull ya from your horse." He grimaced, his eyelids fluttering slightly. "One of 'em stuck me with a spear before I cut him down."
Crouching before his squire, Gyles could only shake his head in denial. No, no, it's not fair. He saved me! "You tried to warn me, to tell me that staying and fighting was hopeless," Gyles muttered, feeling a growing sense of despair. This is my fault.
"I did," was his squire's simple response. Gyles closed his eyes and grimaced at the words. Mors let out a wet and wheezing cough before he continued to speak. "All boys dream o' being the bravest man, o' standing strong against some great foe!" Mors smiled weakly. "I did once, a lifetime ago." He then frowned. "And when ya find yourself in the thick of the fight, covered in the blood of foe and friend, you either get lucky, or you die." Mors coughed, hunching over in pain. "And my luck finally ran out tonight." He regarded Gyles with a firm gaze. "Each man only has so much luck, Ser. See that ya don't run out o' yours."
Gyles was utterly despondent. You can't die now, old man, he thought plaintively, I need you, please. From the beginning of his exile in the Boneway, to the bloodsoaked cobblestones at the Gate of the Gods, Mors had been Gyles' faithful squire and companion. He freely offered Gyles his lifetime's worth of wisdom, and followed Gyles wherever he went, without complaint. And he never asked for a single boon in return. Gyles felt ashamed for once suspecting the old squire of an ulterior motive, when he had first joined Gyles in his travels.
"Mors," Gyles began, his voice cracking. "You've been as good a squire as any knight could ask for…" he shook his head, "no, as good a friend as any man could ask for. It is long past time that I reward you for your faithful service." Standing, he drew his sword, and placed it upon Mors' right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak. "Mors of Yronwood," he began, "do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your queen, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"
Mors sat in silence for a moment, looking up at Gyles. A smile slowly spread across his grizzled features, even as he struggled to take in another wheezing breath. "I do so swear," was his response, though his voice had become faint.
Gyles moved his blade to the left shoulder of his former squire. "Then take on your new title with pride and distinction, Ser Mors of Yronwood," Gyles said, "may the Seven guide your way."
With a shaking hand, Mors patted his dead rounsey on its flank. "Ya hear that, boy?" he whispered. "You died the noble steed o' a knight!" Reaching into a saddlebag still attached to his rounsey's saddle, Mors pulled an old leather wineskin from within. Pulling the cork loose with his teeth, Mors took a deep swig, sighing in satisfaction. He then nodded weakly at Gyles. "Thankee, Ser," he began, "but I think it's time for ya to go."
Looking behind him, Gyles saw that the mounted knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks were ready to depart. As he hesitated, Mors called out to him weakly. "Go, Ser. I'd like some peace and quiet before the Stranger comes for me."
Mors looked to the sky. "Thesen's the same stars that shine over the Boneway at night." He grinned, taking another swig of wine. "In a strange sort o' way, methinks I made it home in the end." Gyles nodded in acquiescence, and climbed into Evenfall's saddle. As the ragged band of knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks began their trek in the direction of Aegon's High Hill, Gyles spared one more glance back at his faithful squire. The grizzled Dornishman still sat against his dead horse drinking his wine. And as smoke plumes billowed and hungry flames roared, the old man looked to the stars.
Though the Iron Gate loomed larger and larger in his vision, Gyles barely took heed of it. How could this have happened? The small band of surviving gold cloaks, men-at-arms, and knights had moved quickly, and relatively unimpeded. Though the burning and bloodshed continued throughout the city, many thought better of attacking the heavily armed column moving through the city's heart, and gave it a wide berth while it passed. Those who remain in the city care much more for gold and other valuables than spilled blood. The ascent up Aegon's High Hill had taken longer, for none of the gold cloaks save their two Captains rode on horseback.
Upon reaching the cobblestone square at the hill's crest, Gyles' party had been met with a surprise of the vilest sort. Large banners dangled from towers and walls of the Red Keep that overlooked the city beyond its walls, but were shrouded in the darkness of night. One banner, however, dangled directly above the keep's main gate, visible to all in the square. It was fine black silk, and a magnificent three-headed dragon adorned it. In the light of the torches and fires however, the glitter of gold thread, rather than crimson, was unmistakable.
For a moment, the courtyard beyond the Red Keep was silent as a mausoleum. "By the Gods," a voice finally murmured in mute horror. No one seemed willing to be the first to move, to accept the awful reality that was plain to all of their eyes. Their decision was made for them, however, as whatever sentries had been posted at the gatehouse sent up a hue and cry, alerting whoever was inside the Red Keep to the presence of the men in the square before the Keep. Springing to action, Ser Torrhen called out to the men surrounding him: "Retreat! We must needs regroup! We can't afford to meet whatever foe lies in wait on their terms!"
And so it had come to pass that the survivors had fled yet again, this time back down Aegon's High Hill, moving through side streets and wynds with great haste until arriving at the Iron Gate. Once again, having arrived at this arbitrary destination, the members of the party seemed unsure of what their next move should be. What choices are even available to us? While the usurper's conspirators trapped and slaughtered us at one end of the city, the nearly undefended Keep fell right into the hands of the Greens.
Gyles grimaced. We are utterly friendless in a burning city, with less than fifty men. However, since their flight from the square outside the Red Keep, a significant amount of gold cloaks had vanished in the ensuing chaos, dropping their number even lower. Despite this, Ser Willam Royce and many of the knights seemed to be of the opinion that an immediate assault should be mounted on the Red Keep.
"With what army do you propose to take the keep?" Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate began, a scowl on his face. "By what way do you intend to gain entrance to the castle?" When Ser Willam and his supporters had no answer for him, the grizzled gold cloak snorted darkly. "We've a need for every sword that we got left. Wasting lives in a futile assault does little and less for the Queen and her family."
The approach of two individuals on horseback set all on edge, and Gyles was not the only man to draw his blade. Reining up in front of Gyles and the others, they both drew back the hoods of their cloaks to reveal themselves. The first was a man, with a cold and emotionless face, and purple eyes so dark they nearly seemed black. His hair was silver-white, and on his hip was a sword unlike any Gyles had ever seen.
The second rider drew a much larger amount of attention, however. For beneath the heavy black hood was none other than the Queen's mistress of whisperers, Mysaria, though Gyles had heard her referred to as 'Lady Misery' behind closed doors.
She wasted no time in getting to the point, speaking tersely with a frown. "The Red Keep has fallen to conspirators of the usurper. I know not of the fate of the Queen and her family, for I was forced to flee in haste with naught but my sworn protector, Tysaro."
Ser Torrhen spoke next, scratching his chin with a gauntleted finger, and watching Mysaria's face closely. "And how, Lady Mysaria, did you and your companion make such an escape? Surely, whatever means you used to escape could be used as a route back into the castle."
She turned to regard the northern knight. "I know of paths long forgotten, Ser, that are best trodden by as few as possible. I will speak truthfully, and without exaggeration. You do not have enough men to retake the Red Keep. At least one entire garrison of gold cloaks has turned cloak and thrown in with the usurper's cause. With the castle garrison fighting in the streets, I would assume it unlikely that their casualties were grievous while taking the Keep. They hold it now, and have put down whatever short-lived resistance occurred within the Keep's walls."
Many of the men stared mutely at the mistress of whispers with stricken expressions, and Gyles felt a deep sense of despair. Not only did we fail at protecting the city's gates, but we have also allowed for the Queen and her family to fall into the hands of her enemies while we fought and died in useless skirmishes. Gyles turned to ask Mors for his thoughts on the current predicament, and was faced with yet another painful revelation. Mors is dead in the city's main square. I'm left friendless in an increasingly helpless situation.
Gyles grit his teeth in grief and rage. It appears you have won in the end, Lord Wyl. Your dead son will soon be avenged when my head is added to the spikes atop the Red Keep's gatehouse. It all felt very unfair. To travel all this way, and to survive so much, only to die for choosing the wrong side in a war that I had no true reason to even be fighting in. In the end, Lord Wyl had arranged for an even more elaborate execution than the snake pits his family was known for keeping. Instead, he allowed me to think I'd escaped his wrath, only to run myself into a noose of my own making.
Gyles was so lost in his thoughts of doom that he nearly didn't notice Ser Torrhen Manderly begin to speak. "Men," he began, "each and every one of you have fought with enough bravery and tenacity tonight to earn a song in their honor." Pausing, he took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "We cannot, we will not, let the sacrifices of those who were slain tonight be in vain!" Gyles had no doubt that the northern knight was thinking of his own brother as he spoke those words.
For a moment, Ser Torrhen sat silently in his saddle. With a small shake of his head, he continued. "There remains only one choice for us to make, though I know it is the one that none of us wish to hear spoken. We cannot help the Queen and her family as our situation currently stands. If we stay in this city, have no doubt that we will all die." Ser Torrhen clenched his fist in rage. "We will all become naught but heads for the usurper Aegon to mount on spikes."
Drawing his sword, Ser Torrhen pointed his sword toward the Iron Gate. "Dying here will not save the Queen and her family. However, if we take this one chance to leave whilst we can, there is a chance that we may prove of use to her again one day. The Queen's cause yet lives on in the Riverlands, and the men of the North march south to uphold her rights as we speak."
Ser Torrhen turned his gaze this way and that, making eye contact with as many men surrounding him as he could. "I will not mislead you. The chances of us living long enough to regroup with the Queen's supporters in the Riverlands are slim. Very slim." Ser Torrhen grimaced. "Though it deals my pride, my honor, a grave blow, I will tell you the only thing that can be done now. To help the Queen's cause, we must abandon this city and ride north."
Ser Torrhen paused for a moment, and when no voices of dissent spoke up, he nodded gravely. "Then let us prepare to be gone from this place with the arrival of dawn. Search the nearby homes and shops for whatever supplies your mount can carry. We will have need of them. But most of all, heed these next words. One day, we will return for this city, and we will return for our Queen."
Gyles looked up at the Red Keep. In the shadow of night, and illuminated by the fires burning throughout the city below it, it was a grotesque sight. Gyles felt his hands clench the reins of Evenfall tightly. He thought of the Queen and her children, and the peril that they were in. He thought of Mors, dead and likely to be left to rot in the ruined central square of the city. Enjoy the city while you have it, Usurper, Gyles thought, a black rage consuming him. And may the Gods have mercy on you and yours when we return for it.