Author's Note: Hello again lords and ladies. For those interested, there was an edit to the last chapter in which all loyalist Riverlords were revoked from the Tullys instead of just Harrenhal, courtesy of Tertius711 making one hell of an argument on discord. I am many things, and sometimes reasonable is one of them.
I hope you enjoy this update.
Chapter 24
Original word count: 1,297
Revised word count: 2,602
Maegor's Holdfast had become a prison, it's cellars slaughterhouses. Three men hung from the rafters in separate chambers, their naked forms showing the various tortures they had undergone. While the methods to get them to talk had been different for each, they all ended up the same; disembowled, their guts hanging to their knees, screaming as they died. The last still did, twisting weakly against the bindings holding him to a heavy wooden beam.
Ser Manfred Darke of the Kingsguard had been confident he had gathered all the information he was going to by the second man, but he had interrogated and killed the other anyway.
The knight of the Kingsguard stepped out of the cellar, leaving the man to finish dying alone. A Dornishman in the white and blue of House Santagar waited there with ten spearman, faces hard as stone. The knight's was trimmed by thick black hair and a beard peppered heavily with grey. "Anything?"
Manfred nodded once. "Enough. Status?"
"I acted as you commanded, Ser Manfred." Ser Symon was a big man, taller than Manfred though not nearly as broad, and a noble. He thankfully hadn't let that birth stop him from obeying the Kingsguard knight, something Manfred begrudgingly gave him credit for. The captain of the Dornishmen who had been left at the Red Keep with the queen, Santager and his men had been returning from their assigned duty of overseeing the cleanup of debris in Flea Bottom the night before when they had stumbled upon a half a coup. It was him and his detachment, let into the Red Keep by the oblivious guards at the gates and walls, who had stumbled upon a stable full of dead bodies and the three men in Targaryen colors who had laid them low. It was their alarm that had alerted the rest of the castle of the treachery within.
That was the only reason Manfred didn't view them as a threat. Even still, he was wary. Ser Symon knew it but was showing an admirable strength of character by not letting Manfred's commands or distrust rile him. I'd almost respect the fucker if I let myself. Manfred wouldn't, though. He'd seen too many 'respectable' men act utterly barbaric to think many men truly earned that regard. Tywin fucking Lannister was highly respected, and his orders left Elia dead on the stone.
Ten men had infiltrated the Red Keep. Manfred was confident that number was right, for all three prisoners had given it to him in pained cries. We killed four during the coup, then those three. Three of them escaped, along with the Lannisters. Hired men, catspaws, the type who didn't care what they did so long as they were paid for it. They'd been recruited by a man they never saw the face of from the brothels and taverns of King's Landing, then given the guardsmen uniforms in the back room of a nondescript tavern. From there, that same hooded figure had led them into a cellar, then a tunnel, then so many turns and twists that none of them—or at least none of the three who'd been captured—had had any idea where they were. At the end the hooded man had remained behind as the ten men climbed up rungs in one of the walls of a small shaft. They'd come out in the bedchambers of the Hand of the King, and gone about the bloody business, having been drilled with explicit instructions.
Four had gone to the stables, killing the grooms and master of the stables and then the horses themselves. Two had killed the men outside of Jaime Lannister's chambers. The final four had gone to the black cells, killing the unsuspecting gaelors with quiet knife work, then freeing Tywin Lannister and escorting him back to the Tower of the Hand under a heavy cloak and hood.
It was from there that the assassinations began, as a surprised son and knowing father reunited. Elia Martell's had been first, as she'd had the misfortune of unknowingly walking into their claws.
Easy. That'd been the word the man with a beard had used to describe it. Manfred had made that one scream the loudest before he died.
Varys stood waiting at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper levels of the Holdfast, hands clutched before him. Two more Dornishmen stood with him, having been sent by Ser Symon at Manfred's order to collect him. As he passed, Varys fell into step beside the Kingsguard.
At first the knight had thought Varys was involved. No one knew the tunnels like the Spider, and the man had a network of information that stretched from the Wall to the Summer Sea. It hadn't taken long to shove that theory into the unlikely, though, considering it had been Varys who had alerted Aelor of Tywin's march and potential reasons for it. Throwing in that it had been Varys who had led Manfred and the royal family to their means of escape, and the man seemed wholly unlikely to have been involved.
But he should have fucking known.
Manfred said as much. "How the fuck did you let this happen."
Varys replied calmly, easily. "I know much of what happens in Westeros and more of what happens in King's Landing, but not even I know all."
"They came through the fucking tunnels. No one knows those like you."
"That is true, and I knew of the ones leading to the Tower of the Hand, but Lord Tywin lived there for over a decade before I ever entered the city. He is cunning and ruthless, as you and your knights learned when you could not effectively go search for him and his son on dead horses. He knew the tunnels as well, it appears."
Manfred was having none of it. "You should have known something was being planned right below your own fucking nose."
Varys bowed his head. "On that we agree. But I did not, Ser Manfred."
The knight scoffed dismissively. "I won't kill you, eunuch, but prince Aelor might."
"Perhaps, though I have been investigating this since the moment it happened, despite your mandate to remain in chambers. I think I have another target for the prince's ire." Darke stopped and turned on him, fists clenched, but said nothing, prompting Varys to continue. "I do not think this could happen without some inside the keep being involved. I considered the possibilities from that light and have a solid guess." Varys cocked his head. "Maester Pycelle was locked in the Holdfast overnight, correct?"
Manfred gave a hard nod. "He was allowed out this morning to help those wounded during the night."
Varys cocked his head. "Then why have ravens been flying all morning?"
Manfred stared at Varys a moment, then whirled on Santagar. "Two of you remain with Lord Varys until I fucking say to leave him. You and the others follow me." The knight of the Kingsguard didn't wait to hear their reply or Symon's barked orders to his men, instead marching up the steps and on towards the chambers of Dowager Queen Rhaella. Four men in the white dragons of Duskendale and another six in the golden antlers of Buckwell stood guard there, Old Robin at the head of them. They let him in at once.
Manfred eyed the people he had shepherded into the chambers hours ago. The queen, great with child. Prince Lewyn near the door, hand on his blade. Lord Buckwell. Ashara Dayne, keeping Viserys and poor Rhaenys distracted with some game or another. Malessa Rykker, also heavy with child, holding a prince Aegon who seemed content to watch his sibling and uncle play. King Aegon now, though only I know that. He'd saved the boy the night before, when three men with red dragons—not white—had approached the nursery. Manfred had heard the distant shouts and had thusly been even more on edge that usual, having sent a runner to report but heard no explanation.
The blood had given them away. The boots of the bearded one, the same one Manfred had relished killing, had been covered in it. The knight of the Kingsguard had looked at that, then at their faces. When he recognized none, he acted without a word of warning to them. Two strides and the first one was dead, shock in his glassy eyes. The second got his hand to his sword but no farther, dying of a slit throat. Beard had his blade only half unsheathed when Manfred leveled his own at the man's chest, and promptly surrendered.
Chaos followed.
After binding Beard and hitting him so hard about the head that the man nearly stopped breathing, Manfred had corralled the king and princess, as well as prince Viserys, into the chambers of Queen Rhaella, guarded by a freshly-woken Prince Lewyn. Lord Buckwell had arrived shortly thereafter with his daughter and a few of his own household guard, and Manfred had reluctantly charged the lord and his men with protecting the doors while Lewyn acted as a last line of defense within. He didn't fully trust Lord Donnel—Manfred didn't fully trust anyone—but Elia had, and he'd had few options. Maegor's drawbridge had been raised, Buckwell and Duskendale guards manning her walls, all servants forced into a pair of chambers and locked there while Manfred sorted through the mess.
The knight of the Kingsguard had searched for Elia, Queen Rhaella convincing Prince Lewyn to allow Manfred to do so instead of searching for his niece himself. Worry gnawing at his gut when he couldn't find her within, Manfred had been about to leave the Holdfast and search the rest of the keep when Ser Symon, standing at the edge of the pit of spikes, passed the news. It was he who had found her body. Manfred, untrusting, had held the standoff for some time more, but finally lowered the drawbridge around midnight once the knight had presented four other prisoners his Dornishmen had taken at various points across the castle. Though the Dornishmen and a few guards under Merritt had cleared the rest of the Keep, servants and lords alike had been ordered to remain in their chambers indefinitely while Manfred found answers.
It was those answers he now needed to act on.
All the adults looked at him the moment he entered, but it was to Lord Buckwell he spoke. "Let's go." Lord Donnel followed without hesitation as Manfred turned to Prince Lewyn. "I think you're best suited here, Ser, while I handle what happens next."
Prince Lewyn, pain evident in his eyes but his tone hard, nodded sharply. "Securing the castle is your duty right now, Ser Manfred. The Royal Family will be mine."
Manfred stepped back outside the heavy wooden door, Lewyn closing it behind Lord Donnel. "Kill anyone who you don't recognize." Robin and his men nodded, and Manfred turned to the duty on hand.
By the time Manfred reached the maester's tower he had worked himself into a quiet rage. Unlike his usual ones, though, this was fueled by pain and shame. Elia. She was ultimately under his care, and he had let her die, alone, in her own home. He'd liked the Dornishwoman, and Manfred as a rule hated everyone. When he'd seen her body in the torchlight, recovered by Ser Symon, he'd nearly gone mad with anger and grief.
He could only imagine what Aelor would do when he arrived.
Manfred didn't give enough fucks to go about it quietly. If Varys was wrong and he accosted the old man unjustly, too fucking bad. The knight flung the door open, storming into Grandmaester Pycelle's chambers, Lord Buckwell and Ser Symon close behind him. The Dornish guardsmen spread out, Manfred shouting orders at them as he made for the rookery stairs. "Search everything!"
The knight of the Kingsguard was short with short legs, but he took the stairs to the rookery two at a time. Sounds of squawking ravens and closing cages grew louder as they climbed, driving the knight faster.
Manfred tried the door at the top of the stairs and, finding it locked, did not try again. Instead, he lowered his massive shoulder and charged, splintering the wood as he burst into the rookery room. Grandmaester Pycelle, dressed in the robes and chain of the Citadel, grey beard long and back stooped, stood near the release window, a large raven on his arm with a rolled parchment on its legs. He looked both shocked and terrified, speaking in stuttering, bumbling words. "Wha—what is the meaning of this?"
Ser Manfred Darke drew his blade and barked an order, marching towards Pycelle. "Not a move, traitor."
Pycelle, seeing the man was not to be deterred and knowing what his words must mean, suddenly rushed to the window, moving much quicker than Manfred thought him capable of. The knight let out a roar as he charged forward, Pycelle answering with a panicked squeak as he reached his arm out the window. The great black bird perched there opened its wings and began flapping.
Manfred Darke had never swung truer in all his years of swordplay. He bulled Pycelle aside, extending his blade out the window and bringing it down as hard as his bulging arm could. The blade cleaved completely through the raven's left wing and part of its head, the carcass and whatever message it bore spiraling down towards the courtyard.
The Kingsguard knight didn't watch its body long, bringing his sword arm backwards to smash an elbow into the Grandmaester of the Citadel's nose. Pycelle shouted out in pain as bone and cartilage was crushed, the blow dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. With a curse Manfred hurled his sword aside, stepping forward to land a kick to Pycelle's shoulder as the Grandmaester tried to turn aside.
I'll break him one bone at a time. Manfred reached down and grabbed Pycelle by his robe, pulling the whimpering old man back up with one closed fist while drawing his other one back to strike again.
"Stop!" Symon shouted as he ran into the room, Buckwell a few steps behind.
"Why the fuck should I?" Manfred shot back, shaking the now crying Pycelle roughly though he did not land the strike.
Ser Symon came forward to grip Pycelle firmly by both arms, steadying the maester. Buckwell, close behind, answered the Kingsguard's question, breathing heavy from the climb. "Because we need to know what else he has done. Even you can't get answers from a dead man, Manfred."
Manfred spat directly in Pycelle's face, seeing Elia's dead form in his mind's eye. He wanted nothing more than to rip the groveling traitor in two. "I'll leave him alive long enough to talk."
"He's ancient, Manfred. The shock that comes with what you have in mind might kill him outright." Donnel Buckwell approached, and only Manfred's tolerance of the man kept the knight from yanking Pycelle out of Ser Symon's grip and beating him. "Prince Aelor is mere days away from the city. He'll want more than a few words with Pycelle as well, wouldn't you say?"
Manfred cursed aloud as Buckwell played the only card he knew for certain would work. It still took everything the newest knight of the Kingsguard had to release the whimpering man, who sagged back against Ser Symon's hold. "Take him to a cell, and make sure the fucker stays alive." Santagar nodded, pulling Pycelle away as he began to stammer out excuses. "And someone get me that damn message."