The Cloak of Night
The camp outside Duskendale was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as a sentry adjusted their cloak or the distant murmur of a soldier speaking softly to another. Hosteen waited in his tent, counting the seconds as the moon climbed higher into the sky. Soon, both the city and the siege camp would be deep in slumber, their sentries lulled into complacency by the stillness of the night.
When the time felt right, he stood and donned his dark cloak, fastening it securely at his throat. The thick fabric would help him blend into the shadows of the city. He took a deep breath, centering himself, before closing his eyes and focusing on the walls of Duskendale. The image formed clearly in his mind: the gray stone, the narrow walkways, the faint smell of sea air carried by the breeze. With a barely perceptible twist of his thoughts, he vanished with a faint pop.
The cool night air hit Hosteen's face as he reappeared on the city wall. The stones beneath his feet were worn smooth from centuries of use, and the faint scent of salt lingered in the breeze, mingling with the earthy smell of the fields beyond. Around him, the wall was eerily quiet, illuminated only by the soft glow of the moon.
He crouched low, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Duskendale stretched out below him, a labyrinth of darkened streets and silent homes. In the distance, the keep loomed like a slumbering beast, its black silhouette stark against the sky.
The sound of footsteps jolted him. Two guards, clad in simple mail and carrying spears, were approaching along the wall. Hosteen straightened, his heart quickening. He stepped into their path deliberately, ensuring they couldn't miss him.
"Evening," he said, his tone calm but firm. His voice carried just enough authority to make them hesitate.
The two guards stopped abruptly, their confusion evident even in the low light. "Who are you?" one of them demanded, his voice gruff with suspicion.
"I'm Hosteen," he replied, inclining his head slightly. "Here to scout for the King's rescue. I only have about an hour before my group notices I've slipped away."
The guards exchanged a bewildered glance. "Rescue? What are you talking about? You shouldn't be here."
Hosteen's gaze remained steady. "If you draw your weapons, I'll have to silence you. But if you let me pass, I promise you'll live to see the morning."
The threat made them falter, their hands twitching toward their hilts but not committing. Hosteen's patience was thin. Before either could act further, he raised a hand subtly, casting a silent Obliviate. Their expressions slackened immediately, confusion melting into vacant stares.
Quickly following up, Hosteen cast a silent Confundus. "You two can head to the other side of the wall," he said, his voice now calm and reassuring. "I've got this section for the night. You're free to focus elsewhere."
The guards blinked, then nodded as if this had been their idea all along. "Right," one of them muttered. "We'll leave you to it."
As they turned and walked away, Hosteen let out a slow breath. The encounter had been brief, but his pulse still thrummed with adrenaline. He adjusted his cloak and stepped forward, melting into the shadows of the wall.
Once he reached a ladder leading down to the city streets, Hosteen descended carefully, his boots landing silently on the cobblestones below. He cast a disillusionment spell over himself, the familiar shimmer of magic enveloping him like a second skin. Now invisible to the naked eye, he began his journey toward the keep.
The streets of Duskendale were narrow and winding, lined with shuttered windows and closed doors. The silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the occasional bark of a distant dog or the faint rustle of wind through the alleys. Hosteen moved swiftly but cautiously, his senses on high alert. Every shadow, every flicker of movement, felt like a potential threat.
As he passed through the market square, he noted the remnants of the day's trade: overturned barrels, scattered straw, and the faint smell of fish. It struck him how ordinary the city seemed despite the extraordinary circumstances of its siege. These streets, filled with mundane echoes of daily life, now hid a King in chains.
The keep loomed larger as he approached, its stone walls dark and foreboding. Two guards stood at the main entrance, their torches casting flickering light on the heavy wooden doors. Hosteen studied them for a moment, noting their relaxed posture and occasional yawns. They weren't expecting trouble.
With a silent gesture, he cast a Confundus charm on both. Their faces slackened, their eyes unfocused as the magic took hold. "You two have the night off," he murmured softly, though he knew they couldn't hear him. "Go enjoy it."
The guards exchanged a brief glance, then turned and walked away, leaving the door unguarded. Hosteen approached, his hand hovering over the massive iron handle. He whispered a quick unlocking spell, and the heavy door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside.
The interior of the keep was dimly lit, with only the occasional torch flickering along the stone corridors. Hosteen kept his disillusionment spell active, his footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and old wood, and every creak of the building seemed amplified in the stillness.
He paused at an intersection, pulling out a small scrap of paper from his cloak. He whispered a point-me spell, feeling the tug of magic guide his hand. The faint pull was downward, toward the lower levels of the keep. The dungeons.
Hosteen suppressed a shiver and pressed onward, descending a spiral staircase that seemed to plunge endlessly into the earth. The air grew colder with each step, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the distance.
At the bottom of the staircase, he found himself in a narrow corridor lined with heavy iron doors. The air was damp and stale, the kind of place where despair lingered long after its occupants had gone. Hosteen's grip on his cloak tightened as he moved forward, careful not to make a sound.
He couldn't see the King yet, but the pull of the spell told him he was close. With a nod to himself, he turned back toward the staircase, retracing his steps with practiced ease.
Once outside the keep, Hosteen ensured the guards he'd confunded earlier were still absent before stepping into the shadows of the city streets. He moved quickly, the disillusionment spell still active, until he reached the city walls.
Finding a quiet spot away from any patrolling guards, he took one last look at Duskendale, its sleeping streets bathed in moonlight. Then, with a quiet exhale, he focused on his tent back in the camp. The image formed clearly in his mind, and with a faint pop, he vanished once more.
When he reappeared in his tent, he let out a deep breath, his heart pounding. The mission was far from over, but he'd taken the first step. Now, all that remained was to share the official plan with his companions—and to ensure his hidden strategy stayed a secret.
20 minutes later, as the time for action arrived, the tension in the camp was palpable. The journey into Duskendale began under the cover of night, each step heavy with purpose. Hosteen stood with his three Mudd men-at-arms—Daeron, Mathys, and Willard—and the two Kingsguard knights, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gerold Hightower, at the foot of the city walls. The air was damp and cool, carrying with it the faint scent of the nearby sea. Above them, the high walls of Duskendale loomed ominously, their gray stones lit faintly by the silvery glow of moonlight.
Hosteen took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "Ready your grappling hooks," he whispered.
The men moved silently, uncoiling their ropes and preparing their tools. The metal hooks gleamed faintly in the darkness, and with practiced precision, each man threw his hook over the battlements. Hosteen listened carefully for the soft clink of metal catching stone, his ears attuned to every sound in the still night.
"Test them," he murmured. Each man tugged on his rope to ensure it was secure. Satisfied, they began to climb.
Hosteen climbed steadily, his fingers gripping the rough rope tightly. The strain in his arms and legs was nothing compared to the weight of responsibility pressing on him. Every scrape of a boot against stone, every creak of the rope, felt deafening in the quiet night. But they were trained men, and they moved with the skill of those accustomed to stealth.
When they reached the top of the wall, Hosteen was the first to peer over the edge. His earlier magical preparations had ensured this part of the wall was deserted, but caution still ruled his movements. He slipped over the edge, landing softly on the stone walkway. One by one, the others joined him, crouching low and scanning the area for any sign of guards.
"Strange," Ser Barristan muttered, his voice low. "No guards on a wall in a besieged city?"
Hosteen glanced at him but said nothing. He could hardly explain why without revealing his secrets. "Keep your voices down," he whispered instead. "Let's move."
Descending the inner side of the wall was quicker, though no less careful. Once on the ground, they pressed themselves against the shadowed side of a nearby house. Hosteen unfolded a small scrap of parchment, a rough map of Duskendale. By the faint light of the moon, he traced their path to the keep.
"We follow this alley," he said, pointing to a narrow street. "Then across the square and up the hill."
The others nodded, and they moved in single file, keeping close to the walls of the buildings. Hosteen led the way, his eyes constantly scanning for any signs of movement.
As they reached the square, faint laughter and the clink of armor reached their ears. A patrol. Hosteen froze, holding up a hand to signal the others to stop. The group instinctively pressed against the shadows, their breaths held as the voices of the approaching guards grew louder.
Hosteen's mind worked quickly, his expression betraying none of the silent spellcasting he set into motion. He extended his senses outward, and with a subtle, wandless motion, he cast a Disillusionment charm over the group. A faint ripple of magic coursed through the air, imperceptible to the others but weaving them seamlessly into the surrounding darkness.
"Hide in the shadows," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the patrol's laughter. The group obeyed, ducking into the deeper recesses of the square where the moonlight failed to reach.
Ser Barristan furrowed his brow as he crouched, glancing around. "Strange," he muttered, "it feels as if the night itself is hiding us."
The patrol, a group of four soldiers, rounded the corner, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. They were talking about the siege, joking about the futility of the Westerlanders' efforts. Hosteen watched them carefully, his breath slow and steady.
Hosteen ignored the comment, his sharp gaze fixed on the direction of the noise from the patrol.
As the patrol passed, he motioned to the others. Daeron, Mathys, and Willard moved swiftly and silently, drawing their daggers. Before the soldiers could react, their throats were slit in unison, blood pooling on the cobblestones. Hosteen's heart pounded as the soldiers' bodies were dragged into a dark corner, hidden from view.
"No time to linger," Hosteen whispered. They continued toward the keep, their pace quickening.
The keep loomed before them, its dark silhouette cutting an imposing figure against the night sky. Hosteen led the group toward the heavy wooden doors at its entrance, his eyes scanning the area. To his satisfaction—and lack of surprise—there were no guards stationed at the door.
Ser Barristan paused, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword as his gaze darted around. "No guards?" he murmured, his tone skeptical.
"Strange," Ser Gerold Hightower added, his voice low. "A keep under siege, and they leave the main doors unprotected?"
Hosteen kept his face neutral, but inside, he smirked. The absence of guards was no mystery to him. Hours earlier, during his reconnaissance mission, he had encountered the two men assigned to this post. A quick combination of silent confundus and memory charms had convinced them to abandon their watch for the night, freeing the entrance of any obstacles for this very moment.
"Perhaps they've been stretched thin with the siege," Hosteen suggested, his voice calm as he glanced at his companions. "Or overconfident in their defenses."
Neither Kingsguard seemed fully convinced, but there was no time to dwell on the oddity. Hosteen stepped forward, extending his hand toward the door. With a subtle, wandless motion and a silent unlocking spell, the heavy door gave a soft click and creaked open. The sound was louder than he liked, but the corridor beyond remained silent.
The group slipped inside, their movements careful and deliberate. Hosteen took the lead, his senses sharp. The keep's stone walls felt cold and unwelcoming, the air within heavy with the scents of damp stone and stale air. Flickering torches cast unsteady light across the corridor, their shadows twisting and swaying like specters.
Every footfall seemed deafening in the stillness. Hosteen's eyes swept over every detail, noting the cracked mortar between stones, the faint scuff marks on the floor, and the occasional faded tapestry hanging limp against the walls.
"Stay close," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the faint crackle of torches.
The group pressed forward, their formation tight. Hosteen kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. He knew exactly where they were headed—his earlier spellwork had confirmed the King's location—but he had to maintain the illusion that this was all part of the initial plan.
The Kingsguard remained vigilant, their eyes scanning every shadow. The Mudd men-at-arms followed silently, their grips on their weapons firm. The atmosphere grew heavier with every step, the weight of their mission pressing down on them like the very stone above their heads.
For Hosteen, it was a delicate balance—leading his companions while concealing the truth of his prior efforts. He could only hope the façade would hold as they moved closer to their goal.
As they made their way deeper into the keep, they encountered a maid carrying a basket of laundry. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw the armed men, and she froze in place, the basket slipping from her hands.
Daeron moved forward, his dagger drawn, and pressed it gently against her throat. "Quiet," he hissed. "We're not here to hurt you. Lead us to the dungeons, and you'll live."
The maid nodded frantically, her lips trembling. She turned and began to walk, her steps hurried but careful. They followed her through a series of twisting corridors, descending deeper into the bowels of the keep. The air grew colder and heavier, the faint sound of dripping water echoing around them.
When they reached the dungeons, the maid pointed toward a heavy iron door. "He's in there," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Hosteen nodded. "Stay here," he ordered. The maid sank to the floor, her back pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with fear.
Inside the dungeons, the smell of rot and mildew was overpowering. Hosteen cast a point-me spell, the magic tugging him toward a particular cell. There, slumped against the wall, was King Aerys II Targaryen. His once-proud form was a shadow of its former self—his hair was unkempt, his robes tattered, and his eyes wild with madness.
"Your Grace," Ser Barristan whispered, kneeling before him. "We've come to free you."
The King mumbled incoherently, his gaze unfocused. Hosteen gestured to Mathys and Willard, who began working on the locks. Once the cell was open, they lifted the frail King between them.
"Move," Hosteen ordered. "We need to be out before the alarm is raised."
The group retraced their steps, the King's mutterings barely audible as they carried him through the halls. The maid remained where they had left her, her eyes filled with silent terror. As they exited the keep, the first faint glow of dawn appeared on the horizon.
Hosteen's heart raced as they approached the city walls. The success of their mission hinged on escaping without detection. They reached the grappling hooks still dangling from the battlements, and one by one, they climbed down, the King carefully lowered between them.
When their feet touched the ground outside the walls, Hosteen allowed himself a moment of relief. They had done it—they had rescued the King. But as they moved toward the safety of the siege camp, he knew the hardest part of their journey was still ahead.