"We found them, Commander in the Kingswood...Ambushed… made to look like a bandit raid" Roland Ironhand said in a low voice.
They were in Harrold's solar which was a disheveled mess, with furniture thrown about as if someone had ransacked it in a fit of rage. It was dark, the curtains drawn tightly, allowing only slivers of light to pierce through the gloom.
Harrold Hayford looked up from his seated position to see Roland Ironhand looking at him with his usual stone-faced demeanor to his right was Cedric Rollingford who stood trembling and sweating vigorously he looked like he had lost weight in the last few months.
Hayford was stewing in anger, his gaze shifting between Roland's impassive face and Cedric's quivering form. He had lost both his trusted and capable officers and was now left with a bumbling fat fool and a lowly commoner.
How had things come to this? He was losing everything.
The prince had taken over the city from him piece by piece in less than a year.
'HOW ?' his mind screamed at him.
Since Harte's death in the fire at his cottage, all his so-called friends in court had ceased contact with him. By sheer luck, one of his oldest allies in court had informed him that he was under investigation again by the Old Falcon, this time with the full support of the prince. To make matters worse, he had learned that they had approached the king as well.
He tried reaching out to his allies again, desperately hoping they could help him like last time, but he received nothing but silence. They had abandoned him. After all he had done for them, they had abandoned him.
"The gall," he muttered angrily.
He looked at his two surviving officers. "How?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you fail a simple task?" he repeated, louder this time, but received no response from them.
"Tell me which one of you have betrayed me," he demanded.
"We have... not, my lord," Cedric stammered.
"Then tell me how he knew. Tell me how the bastard knew of our operations. Where Elwood was. Where Lambert was," Hayford growled, his anger intensifying.
"I believe some captains may have defected," Roland said, his voice steady.
"Oh, defected?" Hayford echoed, a maniacal laugh bubbling up from his throat. "Defected!" he repeated, laughing louder.
"Get out," he said, still laughing. When they didn't move, he screamed, "GET OUT!"
Roland and Cedric hurriedly left the room, leaving Hayford alone in the darkness. He sat in the shadowy silence for some time, his mind racing with dark thoughts.
'They all betrayed me,' he thought. Everyone had turned against him. He felt a gnawing paranoia creeping in, making him feel trapped and hunted.
"I can still win. I've done it before," he muttered to himself, standing up with a newfound resolve.
'There was one person who would not abandon him, he could help him.' he thought with a smile. His eyes glinted with a dangerous determination as he walked out of his solar, ready to reclaim the power that was slipping through his fingers.
===============
Leaving his manse by the old gate he arrived at his destination, Hayford found himself standing before a small manse by the Lion Gate. It was an unremarkable building, blending in with its surroundings. The plain exterior belied the influence and power of the individual within—a person who had helped him rise and, in turn, had been repaid with numerous favors.
The guards, recognizing him immediately, allowed him entry without question.
He was expected.
As he walked inside, Hayford's eyes adjusted to the dim light. The interior was modest, with a small garden featuring carefully maintained plants and a trickling fountain. Standing next to the garden was the man he sought: Quenton Qoherys. But he was not alone. Beside him stood the unmistakable figure of the master of whispers, Varys.
The fat Lyseni smiled upon seeing him, a smile that seemed to carry a hint of pity. Hayford's unease grew as he noted the presence of a third individual—Quenton's sword shield, a very tall man with a hound-shaped helm. The helm's dark metal gleamed menacingly in the muted light.
"Ah, Harrold, come in," Quenton called, his tone seemingly welcoming.
Varys nodded to Quenton before turning his attention to Hayford. "I shall take my leave," Varys said smoothly. He nodded politely to Quenton and then cast a lingering smile at Hayford as he departed. The strong scent of perfume followed him, lingering in the air long after he had gone.
"Quenton, you have to," Harrold began to say, his voice trembling with desperation.
"Help you," Quenton finished for him, his tone devoid of empathy.
"Yes, I am losing everything. Everything I have built for the last twenty years. You can help me, I am sure, like you did last time when that traitor Jon Arryn accused me," Harrold pleaded, his eyes wide with panic.
Quenton sighed deeply, looking almost regretful. "I am sorry, old friend, but I cannot help you this time."
Harrold stood there stunned, unable to believe what he was hearing. Reality finally hit him like a cold slap. This was truly happening.
This was the end.
He was going to be executed.
"You have made a powerful enemy, Harrold, one I cannot help you with," Quenton said, his voice filled with resignation.
"That's it then? After all I did to help you?" Harrold muttered, his voice a mix of disbelief and betrayal.
"It's not personal, Harrold. You have become a liability, and I have found myself a very powerful friend, a friend that wants you gone," Quenton said, taking a sip from his goblet, his demeanor calm and composed.
"The prince? You would abandon me for a bastard prince?" Harrold asked, his voice rising in indignation.
"Yes," Quenton said without missing a beat.
"There are no friends or enemies in the game of thrones, Harrold, only interests. You were useful until you weren't," Quenton added, his tone cold and pragmatic.
"You... you..." Harrold began to say, seething with anger. "If I go down, I will take you all down with me."
"That is only if they capture you alive, Harrold," Quenton said, much to Harrold's shock.
"What?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Prince Maekar plans to kill you, Harrold," Quenton said, standing up and making a face of worry.
"But... but I am a lord. I have rights," Harrold stammered, his confidence crumbling.
"It is what the prince has planned. I only tell you this because of our previous alliance," Quenton said, his voice filled with false concern. "Run, Harrold," Quenton said, coming closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You have to leave the city."
Quenton then leaned in close to Harrold's ear. "You will never know who you will find on the way back home."
Harrold was confused by Quenton's words that did not last as the anger returned. How dare he tell him to run? This city was his kingdom.
In a fit of rage, Harrold lunged at Quenton, his hands outstretched. But before he could get close, Quenton's sword shield, the man with the hound-shaped helm, intervened. With a swift, brutal movement, the man grabbed Harrold by the collar and threw him across the room. Harrold crashed into a small table, splintering it under his weight. The wind was knocked out of him, and he lay there gasping, his face contorted with pain and fury.
"Sandor, see the former commander out," Quenton said with a smile, sitting down again and casually sipping his drink.
"Come on, you cunt," Sandor said, grabbing Harrold by the scruff of his neck and dragging him out of the manse. Harrold struggled and cursed, but Sandor's grip was like iron. The tall man hauled him through the garden, past the guards who watched impassively, and out into the street.
The sun had set, and the city was cloaked in darkness. Sandor released Harrold with a rough shove, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones.
"You heard him. Run," Sandor said, his voice a low growl, before turning and re-entering the manse, leaving Harrold alone in the cold night.
============
Harrold stumbled back to his manse, his mind a storm of rage and desperation. The dim light from the few lit candles cast eerie shadows on the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear. He pushed open the door to his solar, his sanctuary now turned into a den of despair.
He slumped into a chair, the darkness of the room mirroring the turmoil in his mind. Quenton's words echoed in his head, a relentless reminder of his predicament. "Run, run," they whispered, taunting him.
"I have no choice… I have to do this… Yes, yes, this might work," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination.
He stood abruptly, his resolve hardening. He had to act quickly if he was to survive. He moved to the door and called for his guards, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with urgency. Within moments, two guards appeared, their faces tense and alert.
"I need you to go to the western barracks," he commanded, his voice growing stronger. "Gather a hundred of our most loyal men. Armored and ready to leave in a few hours."
The guards exchanged worried glances but nodded, knowing better than to question their lord in his current state. They hurried out of the room, their footsteps echoing in the silent hallway.
Left alone, Hayford sank back into his chair, his hands gripping the armrests tightly.
"I can still win," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
.
.
.
Maekar
Red Keep
Morning light filtered through the windows as Maekar sat in his chambers, writing a letter to Brandon Stark. His quill moved swiftly over the parchment, the ink forming precise, bold letters.
"...and so, my father is planning to hold a grand tourney in the capital at the end of the year..."
As he wrote, a knock sounded at the door. "Come in," he called.
Ser Oswell entered, his expression serious. "My prince, Lord Arryn is here."
"Send him in, Ser Oswell," he said, setting the parchment aside to let the ink dry.
He stood up as Jon Arryn entered the room. The old man looked more vigorous and happier these days, a testament to their recent successes.
"Lord Arryn," Maekar greeted.
"Prince Maekar," Jon Arryn retired the greeting and sat down in the chair next to his desk.
He filled two goblets with watered wine and handed one to the old falcon. "A toast, Lord Arryn, to our success," Maekar said, raising his goblet.
"Is it not too early to celebrate?" Jon Arryn asked, his tone cautious.
Maekar laughed, a confident sound that filled the room. "Hayford is done. Ser Alliser will soon be here with the defector, and once we present him before my father, we can arrest Hayford."
Jon sighed, a mix of relief and concern in his eyes. "I hope I had your optimism. I have already given the king all the evidence we have collected yesterday."
"He is studying them as we speak," Maekar said, taking a sip from his goblet.
"What if he tries to flee?" Jon Arryn asked.
"He might try, and if he does succeed, I have already informed our allies in the Crownlands. Rykker, Buckwell, and Staunton will all invade Hayford's lands."
"I hope he does not. I don't want more blood to be spilt."
Just then, Oswell reentered, followed by Alliser Thorne and a hooded man.
"Ah, they are here," he said, standing up to greet them. "You have done well, Ser Alliser."
"It is my duty, my prince," Alliser replied, bowing slightly.
He turned to the hooded man. "I will make sure you are completely pardoned for this, Ser Roland."
The man under the hood was one of Hayford's four officers, Ser Roland Ironhand. With Hogg and Harte dead, Hayford was now left with only one loyal officer.
"No," Roland said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"No?" Maekar repeated, surprised.
"I wish to take the black, to atone for my sins. I have broken all virtues of knighthood," Roland declared, his voice steady.
There was a moment of silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
"An honorable decision," Jon Arryn said, nodding in approval.
"Very well," Maekar agreed. "You will be allowed to take the black."
"Let us not tarry. We should go to your father at once, my prince," Jon Arryn said, standing up.
Maekar nodded.
"My prince, I have heard of something strange happening in the western barracks. Some men were recalled there last night," Alliser said, his voice filled with concern.
He cursed inwardly. 'How could Hayford know? I was so careful. Aegon had culled any support at court, and I made sure his spies were purged from the keep,' he thought.
"Do you think Hayford knows?" Jon Arryn asked.
"We've been careful, but perhaps some of his friends at court informed him," he replied uneasily.
"It's true, my prince. He has been quite paranoid since yesterday," Roland added.
"We have no time to waste, then," Maekar said, leading them out of the chamber.
====================
They walked through the labyrinthine corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.The passages twisted and turned, some leading to narrow staircases that spiraled upward, others to shadowy alcoves where the flicker of torchlight barely reached. The Holdfast was a fortress within a fortress, its design meant to confuse and delay any intruders.
"Is that Prince Aegon?" Jon Arryn asked, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow hallway.
He looked ahead and saw two figures approaching them. It was indeed Aegon, walking with the help of his cane. His face was set in a determined expression, his gait steady but careful. Beside him, Gerold Dayne walked with a swagger, a sneer curling his lips as he spotted him and his companions.
"Brother," Aegon greeted as he approached them, his tone warm despite the stiffness in his movements.
"Brother," Maekar greeted back, nodding in acknowledgment.
"I assume you are going to father to put an end to the commander?" Aegon asked, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"You already know," he said with a smile, appreciating Aegon's perceptiveness.
Aegon laughed, a sound that echoed pleasantly in the stone corridor. "I shall be coming along as well," he said.
"Of course, the more the merrier," he replied.
Their party moved along, now joined by Aegon and Gerold. As they navigated the Holdfast, Maekar could feel Gerold's glare on him, a constant, burning presence that he chose to ignore. They climbed another set of winding stairs, the air growing warmer as they neared the king's solar.
Finally, they reached the large, ornate doors that led to the king's private chambers.
As they arrived, Arthur Dayne let them in immediately.
"He has been expecting you," Arthur said, leading them inside.
Inside, Maekar found his father seated at his desk, the air thick with the scent of parchment and ink. The desk was cluttered with documents, scrolls, and letters, the evidence he and Lord Arryn had collected meticulously laid out. Candles burned softly, casting a warm glow over the room, illuminating the lines of concentration etched on Rhaegar's face as he read through the papers.
Rhaegar looked up as they entered, his piercing violet eyes scrutinizing the group. "Maekar, Lord Arryn," Rhaegar greeted, then his gaze fell on Aegon, surprise flickering across his features. "Aegon, what are you doing here?"
Aegon seemed slighted by his father's reaction. "I have helped with the investigation as well, Father," Aegon mentioned, a hint of frustration in his tone.
"Oh, I did not know," Rhaegar said, taken aback.
"Aegon's involvement was quite recent, Father," he interjected, trying to smooth over the tension.
"Well then, is this the witness?" Rhaegar asked, his attention shifting to the newcomers.
"Yes, Ser Alliser," Maekar confirmed. "But recently, we found someone who will be more helpful."
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Father, this is Ser Roland Ironhand, one of the four officers of Harrold Hayford."
"I see," Rhaegar said, his gaze intense as he turned to Ser Alliser. "Ser Alliser, you first. Did you have a hand in Hayford's activities?"
Alliser shook his head vehemently. "No, Your Grace. Many in the Watch do not, and some like me were suspicious."
"Why did you not come forward? Or why didn't the others you mentioned?" Rhaegar asked, his tone sharp.
Alliser's face tightened with emotion. "We did, Your Grace. We approached Lord Arryn two years ago. Hayford had many of those who came forward killed," Alliser said, his voice tinged with sadness and anger.
Rhaegar looked momentarily ashamed, turning to Jon Arryn. "My apologies, Lord Arryn. I was told then...," his voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
"It does not matter now, Your Grace. What matters is the present. Hayford must be given your justice," Jon Arryn replied firmly, his eyes steady on the king.
Rhaegar nodded and turned to Roland Ironhand. "Well, you were one of the former commander's officers. Is there any truth to this?"
"Yes, Your Grace. All the evidence presented before you by Prince Maekar and Lord Arryn is true," Roland replied solemnly.
"Why?" Rhaegar asked, leaning forward slightly.
Roland took a deep breath. "I was born a commoner, Your Grace. Rising to knighthood and then to my position under Commander Hayford was an honor I never thought possible. At first, I believed I was serving faithfully. But… " Roland looked like he could not continue.
"I have failed your grace i was too cowardly to break free from his influence and the city suffered because of this"
He paused, his voice trembling with emotion. "Allow me to take the black to atone for my sins."
Rhaegar considered this for a moment before nodding. "Oswell, take Ser Roland to the cells. He is to leave for the Wall after the trial."
Oswell nodded and escorted Roland out of the chamber. As they left, the Hand of the King, Jon Connington, entered the room with Ser Barristan Selmy.
"Your Grace, what is..." Connington began to say, but Rhaegar interrupted him.
"Commander Hayford has committed treason. As soon as he is captured, we need to put him on trial," Rhaegar stated firmly.
"I see," Connington replied, visibly shocked by the turn of events.
Connington composed himself and asked, "Who will be the new commander?"
Rhaegar looked thoughtful for a moment. "Maekar can serve as acting commander until the matter is settled."
A wide grin spread across Maekar's face. "Thank you, Father."
He turned to Alliser. "Tell your allies in the Watch to keep the peace when news of Hayford's arrest spreads."
"Yes, my prince," Alliser replied.
"We believe he may be in his manse or perhaps in the western barracks," he said, strategizing.
"We can go to the western barracks, brother. Let Ser Barristan and Oswell search for Hayford in his manse," Aegon suggested.
Maekar considered this and nodded.
"We shall follow your plan then, brother," Maekar said with a smile, though it was tinged with a hint of rivalry.
Rhaegar smiled at his sons, pleased to see them working together.
==================
Maekar, along with his best Varangians, the guards from the Red Keep, Aegon, Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur, made their way to the western barracks of the Goldcloaks. Meanwhile, Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan along with Nymeria and Obara led another group of guards to Hayford's manse.
"Are we sure he will be here?" Arthur asked as they approached the western barracks. The barracks were a sturdy complex of stone buildings, fortified with high walls and iron gates. The area was bustling with activity, Goldcloaks training in the yard and tending to their duties.
"I believe he will be here," Maekar answered. "Rollingford is the officer in charge of the western district and Hayford's only remaining officer."
They dismounted from their horses, Aegon did as well with the help of Ser Gerold.
They entered the barracks without resistance, the Goldcloaks looking confused as to why two princes, a Kingsguard, and thirty men were there. One Goldcloak, who he assumed was one of the captains here, approached them and knelt.
Before he could speak, Aegon spoke first, "Where is Harrold Hayford?"
"He was here last night, my prince. He took a hundred men with him, told us he was on a secret quest from the king himself," the captain replied.
"So he ran," Maekar said, frustrated.
'Plan B then' he thought.
"Ran, my prince?" the captain asked, clearly confused.
Arthur then stepped forward "By the decree of King Rhaegar Targaryen, Harrold Hayford is hereby charged with treason against the realm. His crimes include corruption, conspiracy, and the deliberate endangerment of the city and its people," Arthur declared, his words hanging heavily in the air.
The Goldcloaks stood in stunned silence, their eyes wide and mouths agape. The news was a shock to many who had served under Hayford, never suspecting the depths of his betrayal. Murmurs began to spread through the ranks, whispers of disbelief and confusion.
Arthur continued, his tone unyielding. "From this moment onward, you are to report directly to Prince Maekar Targaryen."
The declaration sent ripples through the gathered soldiers. Some exchanged worried glances, while others stood resolute, understanding the gravity of the situation. The authority of the Kingsguard and the direct order from the king left no room for dissent.
"Where is Officer Rollingford?" Maekar asked, his tone firm.
"He has been locked in his solar, my prince, since the commander left," the captain answered.
"Take us to him," he ordered.
The captain led them to Rollingford's solar. They found the fat lord quivering, scared, and a mess. The room was dimly lit, with papers strewn everywhere and an overturned chair in the corner. Rollingford, a man of considerable girth, was sweating profusely, his clothes disheveled and his face pale with terror.
"I told him not to do it. I beg you," Rollingford said, dropping to his knees as they entered.
"What are you…?" he muttered, looking at the pathetic sight before him.
"Where is Hayford?" Aegon demanded, commanding Gerold to pick the fat man up and place him in a chair.
"He left. He left for his lands. I told him not to do it. I told him it was madness," Rollingford whimpered, shaking uncontrollably.
'Something is wrong,' he thought. Rollingford wouldn't react like this if Hayford had merely fled. He had expected Hayford to flee.
"What is Hayford planning?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"He is fleeing, of course. What plan do you think he has?" Gerold sneered at him.
"Tell me!" Maekar roared, stepping closer to the whimpering Rollingford. "What is he planning?"
"The princesses... he is after the princesses," Rollingford cried out. "I told him not to do it. I told him to surrender," he sobbed, his words barely coherent through his tears.
The chamber fell silent, the only sound being Rollingford's pitiful cries.
"Gerold, kill him," Aegon commanded, breaking the silence.
"Wait, no!" he shouted, but it was too late.
Gerold swiftly drew his dagger and slit Rollingford's throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, and Rollingford gurgled, clutching at his neck before slumping over, lifeless. The metallic scent of blood filled the room, mingling with the musty smell of fear and sweat.
"What did you do?" he asked, turning to Aegon, his voice filled with anger and disbelief.
"What have you done, Aegon?" Arthur asked. It was rare for the Kingsguard to drop the formalities.
"What did I do?" Aegon repeated, his tone cold. "I executed a traitor, a traitor who has conspired to abduct my sister."
No, this was not the time to argue; they had no time to waste. "We have to go. Hayford could not have gotten far," he said, still staring at Aegon.
The room erupted into a flurry of activity as Arthur shouted orders. Guards and warriors moved quickly, preparing for the chase.
He found himself alone for a moment with Rollingford's bleeding body. The thick, coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils.
'How did I not see this coming?' he thought, feeling a deep sense of unease.
He felt like he was trapped in someone else's plot, a pawn in a game he couldn't fully comprehend.
He did not like this feeling.
He did not like this at all.
.
.