Chapter 33: A Short Reach Is No State for a Hand (Denys)
"-. 274 AC .-"
"All hear!" thundered the voice of Harlan Grandison, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "All hear Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, by the grace of the Old Gods and New Gods, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
All eyes were on the king as he rose from his seat of fanged steel. The red and black royal robes caught and tore in three different places as he descended from the top of the asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges that was the Iron Throne. It was quite the feat for Denys to not let his face betray what he thought of it, let alone the king's bedraggled appearance. The man had already looked a sight on his arrival to the City of Shit, but now he looked even worse. One wondered when the man had last combed his hair. Or trimmed his beard. Cut his fingernails even. Weeks, at least. They were looking rather long and uneven even from a distance. Made it easy to believe all the gossip, about how Aerys had never been particularly adept at outshining his own Hand. Maybe that was why he'd started to publically undermine, mock and humiliate the High Butcher. And the less said about how the king compared to his pale shadows, the better.
The grace of the gods is looking mighty unkempt, he thought with disdain. Stinks like a putrid cunt too, now that the late Grand Maester's smell of pork has properly mixed with the capital's native 'fragrances.'
Still, he withheld his sneer. He'd stay in step with the pageantry. Pretend the truest loyalty, convey all the right affectations and don every false smile. The suspicion, the contempt, the moodswings that almost saw him arrested, the condescension of this failed son of an upstart dynasty of sister-fucking abominations, soon he could put them all behind him along with the rest of the filth.
"The King's Justice has been dispensed, with Fire and Blood!" said Aerys Targaryen over the awkward silence of the court. "But that was merely the first step in redressing the wrongs inflicted upon the Realm by the order of traitors. Lord Darklyn! Step forward."
Lord Denys of the House Darklyn emerged from amidst the other courtiers, strode upon the smooth marble of the great hall and bent the knee at the foot of the Iron Throne.
"Having verified the veracity of the ghastly assassination, subornation, line theft, and line extinction conspiracies perpetrated by the Order of Maesters, as confirmed beyond doubt by two Wardens of the Realm, the Iron Throne hereby issues the following proclamation." Which Aerys should have done before calling Denys forward, but an upstart wouldn't be an upstart if he didn't like to see you kneel. "From this moment forth, allowing any one institution to control all knowledge and communication in the Seven Kingdoms will no more be borne!"
A stir went through the court.
"The matter of House Hightower's potential sedition remains to be settled." Denys couldn't find anything 'potential' about his tone, nor about the conspicuous absence of Ser Gerold Hightower who used to lead the Whitecloaks until a moon ago. "But the Iron Throne is of firm and immutable view on this point. Therefore, the Crown hereby calls for the establishment of a new order of learned men, one removed from the reach and influence of whichsoever forces may or may not still be entrenched in House Hightower's pets."
It spoke to how deeply entrenched the Citadel was in the day to day reality of Westeros that over half the court was still surprised at the decree.
"Nevertheless, the Crown is neither blind nor lacking informed counsel with regards to the enormous endeavour that is establishing a new order of learned men." Counsel which Denys had been prompt to sail down from Duskendale to volunteer. Immediately. The same day the first proclamation reached him. "Backing. Coin. The traffic of men and goods that only a harbour can supply. The patronage of a prestigious House. Closeness to the Crown, yet not so much that a similar conspiracy would be even better positioned to strike against the Realm, should this folly prove intrinsic to those who fancy themselves wise. Lord Darklyn. Please rise."
It took you bloody long enough. He stood and faced the king, making sure not to look at the fake lion lest he truly go blind from vainglory. Denys had never shied from drinking full from the cup of envy. After all, the envy of your enemies always tasted so very sweet. This was neither the time nor place to revel in it though.
"Lord Darklyn. The Crown is of the mind that your House Seat more than fulfils all the conditions for establishing a new Citadel. Do you accept this honor?"
"If that is the will of Your Grace, I will humbly accept."
"Receive, then, the Crown's decree." Aerys Targaryen motioned to his Hand, who handed a gilded scroll over to Ser Jonnothor Darry to deliver. "A new title, Keeper of the Wise, to be held by you and your heirs after you. A new Royal Charter for the City of Duskendale, lifting all boundaries of expansion and affirming the right to set and change all aspects of governance as House Darklyn sees fit. Furthermore, the burden of taxation is hereby lifted from the city and its dependencies. These boons shall last until such a time as the new Citadel, in whatever name is decided on by its founders, has achieved parity with the Citadel of Oldtown in representation among the landed nobility of the realm."
Still amazed he'd managed to cajole such open-ended terms from himself, Denys took the scroll from Darry and opened it for a quick perusal. This, too, was part of the pageantry, as no one could be expected to read this grand a document for the first time in such a setting. Denys gave it a quick skim anyway. Speed-reading was among his more useful skills, and reading a given contract was just good sense, even if terms had been agreed beforehand down... to the… wording…
His eyes flew over the writing and abruptly stopped at the terms of taxation.
"Ahem."
Denys slowly lifted his eyes to meet those of Tywin 'Lannister,' in whose stone-cold mien he could nonetheless see the spark of petty vindication as clearly as he'd come to recognise the spark of madness in the king.
"Lord Darklyn," Aerys impatiently called. "Do you or do you not accept this honor?"
"… I accept with my most humble thanks, Your Grace," Denys replied, acutely aware of the time, the place, the wholly red and gold livery of the troops ensuring his 'safety' since the Hand's return to King's Landing, and the vivid memory of the king's reaction to Pycelle's tortured screams. "Though I would like to extend my appreciation to the Lord Hand as well."
Aerys seemed to be taken by a sudden fury, but Denys couldn't help but appreciate even more the way Tywin 'Lannister's' well hidden satisfaction faltered.
"Is that so?" Aerys Targaryen mused with thinly veiled outrage. "Do go on, then. Express your appreciation for my dear and old friend."
"Indeed, Your Grace." He was more determined than ever to not associate the word 'Targaryen' with 'my' and 'king' even in his head. "I am confident that all rumors and gossip about a rift between you and your Hand will die a final death within the week. Why, the moment I learned of Lord Tywin's delegation in Oldtown, I was convinced that they are, and always have been, but empty words spread by despicable malcontents."
Utter silence filled the Great Hall.
"I confess to once having some small measure of pride in my quickness of action and forthrightness," Denys added humbly. "But now I see how paltry such feelings were. I admit I wanted to disbelieve when I first heard it, this morning while checking on my ship down in the harbour. But now I see truly that even my most well informed counsel is nothing next to Your Grace's foresight. Truly, Your Grace is blessed to have found a Hand capable of so thoroughly predicting and acting out your will. If not by your command, why else would your Hand's own brothers have been collecting Maesters and books in Oldtown all this time?"
Lord Tywin's face turned so dark that for half a heartbeat Denys wondered if someone had beaten him to poisoning his wine.
"Why else indeed," murmured Aerys Targaryen, the spark of madness now turned towards away from Denys entirely.
Does your envy taste sweet now, Lydden? This is why you're not supposed to drink from your own cup. "By your leave, your Grace, I will set out to do your will."
"… Granted." The King allowed at length, still staring at his Hand. "Fair winds, Lord Keeper."
Denys bowed low one last time, but his last glance as he turned away was for Tywin alone.
It must kill you that I got here first.
He made it to the docks without getting attacked, assassinated or mobbed. Only the last wasn't surprising after the 'show' of the day. How many other people wondered about the way the King had looked and breathed by the time the late Grand Maester's screams finally ended? Because if he didn't know better, Denys could swear Aerys Targaryen had almost looked aroused.
He missed the tide, but he'd expected it. It was why he'd come in the morning, before the burning, to order the captain to lift anchor if he should be delayed. He requisitioned a boat, making sure to pick an oarsman he remembered working the docks since before Tywin's return from the Westerlands. He made it to his ship without issue and sent the man back with a silver moon for his troubles.
Once aboard, they cast off immediately, just as a small flotilla arrived from the south led by a galley larger than anything Denys had ever been on, bearing the Hightower beacon on its sails. For a moment, he regretted missing whatever drama would ensue next, but ultimately decided leaving was best. He was already losing his grip on the real emotions he was feeling.
Absolutely murderous.
He spent some time on the top deck. Watched his captain and the crew as they moved around him. Listened to their voices. Traced the banners on the sails of the ships coming and going. Waved back at the large, jolly man that hollered greetings at them from the top mast of the Baratheon flagship as it went the opposite way. He stared after it for a time, watching the ship and the steadily shrinking image of King's Landing in the distance. Tried to imagine that the fading smell of shit took his murderous rage down with it.
It didn't work.
He turned away from the aft, went to exchange some quick words with the captain, then headed for the sailor tying rigging near the front on the starboard side and stabbed him through the kidney.
"URGK!"
His sword wrenched through flesh, came out the other side with a wet squelch and sunk dully into the taffrail.
"Do you know what else I remember besides faces?" Denys asked idly, pulling the gurgling man by the hair. "Voices. And your Westerlander accent is not as buried in trade tongue as you think, my friend." He viciously twisted his sword.
The man screamed in agony.
"I also tend to mind timing." Denys pulled his sword out and stabbed the man through the arse, cutting his cock in half on the way out.
The shriek this time was of considerably higher pitch.
"Truly, Lydden is a fool if he thinks I'd not wonder at my man's death to 'mugging' just days after his arrival to the city, leaving a spot conveniently free for an interloper to insinuate himself into my crew."
Denys yanked his sword out, pushed the screaming man overboard, reassured his crew that he didn't hold this one slip against them, and spent the next hour cleaning, sharpening and oiling his sword. Then he took over the would be spy's job.
His captain wouldn't have hired someone unless it was strictly necessary and the ship wasn't going to man itself.
They didn't find anything blatantly incriminating among the new hire's things, save for a tad too many silvers. Not that he expected anything else. He didn't actually think Tywin expected such a transparent ploy to work, because it didn't need to work if all you wanted to send was a warning. Such a shame he played that piece so early.
Denys Darklyn spent the trip home plying his well-honed mariner skills by day, and too often failing to rest at night. He was too angry. And too angry to stop being angry, lest the rage give way to something else.
He didn't take his time appreciating the view of his home the evening when it finally came into view. Didn't emerge from his cabin until they were docked. Didn't linger to smile, wave and talk to his people, who always appreciated their lord remembering their names and faces and asking after their families, and treated him like a thoughtful patriarch in return.
Instead, he secured a horse, rode swiftly out of the harbour and up the cobbled streets, sped through and past the market, and did the same for the rest of the way to the Dun Fort, the squat, square stone castle with round drum towers where his line had lived since time immemorial, unbroken and never usurped.
Unlike some other lines he could name.
It was in the privacy of the quarters he shared with his lovely wife that Denys, Lord of the House Darklyn of Duskendale, finally loosed the grip on his emotions.
"The Seven Hells take every man, woman and child spawned by the name Lydden!" He roared, throwing the charter scroll onto the bed in disgust. "And may the Stranger devour the fake lion alive for a thousand years!"
"Well now!" Serala exclaimed in surprise. "You're mighty angry for someone whose last raven said everything went as well as we'd hoped. Better even. Care to share what ails you, husband?"
"The mad lion that calls himself Lannister is no better than a child throwing a tantrum over losing his toy! He took Aerys' decree and changed the wording. Instead of sparing House Darklyn from paying taxes, it also spares the city and everyone in it form paying taxes to us!"
"He did what?"
"He's beggared us!"
The last rays of daylight passed in a whirlwind of curses, rage and recriminations hurled against the walls along with papers, tables and bottles of firewine. The night passed too, in a fervor of lowly voiced rage, talks and planning. Serala tried no end of ways to calm and soothe him, and incite him to passionate hatemaking when that didn't work. He rebuffed her. He couldn't stomach the thought of thinking of that man while bedding his own wife. Not any man and especially not that usurper bastard.
He'd always known that line theft never led to anything but miscreants that never knew their place, but that bastard line… it truly was the worst. May the gods curse the soul of Joffrey Lydden, no matter how much poetic justice there was in the line of Lann the Usurper being in turn usurped by lesser blood.
It was well past the Hour of the Wolf when his rage finally began to exhaust itself. His thoughts were starting to clear again, though their paths were no less dark than they'd been since the throne room. He found that he didn't regret playing his own piece when he did.
You should have used some of those guards to kill rumors coming from the docks instead of minding me, usurper dog.
Not that it would have worked. The report about Tywin's little poaching operation had actually come via a Merchant's Guild raven, conveyed to him by a man from a business he had stake in. Actual rumors wouldn't make it for another week most likely, if not longer. Especially if the Hightower ship had left before Lannister's brothers arrived at Oldtown, which it must have, to reach King's Landing when it did. Notwithstanding all the ravens and their maesters that every Guild employed.
The Faith too. Denys wondered what chaos would occur back in the capital when the High Septon inevitably came in screaming about that other nasty business that seemed to have taken place back west. Assuming it wasn't just a poor jape, or the ramblings of a man too far into his cups.
"What are you thinking, husband?"
"Stupidity." The Citadel's. The king's. Tywin Lydden's. His own. "And the chaos it brings."
"My family back in Myr would tell you that chaos is a ladder."
"Aye, a mighty fine ladder it is when the chaos strikes at its own foundation and your ladder falls down faster than you can climb it." Denys scoffed. "When a ship springs a leak, the lions roar. If no-one heeds them, they jump to swim ashore with powerful strokes of big paws. When the holds fill with water, the rats that have been squeaking silently about it abandon ship in droves to seek the closest tower to gnaw at its foundation until it topples. Only the monkey continues to climb the mast of the sinking ship, proclaiming to be the highest of all."
His words settled eerily in the near total darkness of the winter night.
The quiet sat poorly on his mind. "What do you think, dear wife?"
"I think, dear husband…" Serala said from where she sat on the bed, thoughtfully biting on her lower lip while running light fingers over the charter. Seen in the reflected light from the moon and distant snow outside, the silks of the Lace Serpent were undone in just the right way to entice his imagination. He cursed Tywin Lydden all over again. "I think Tywin Lannister might not be as clever as he thinks he is."
"Clever or not, he's gone too far." Denys turned away from the window. "And I promise you now, that man will die screaming."
The walls of Duskendale shimmered palely in the predawn as the Keeper of the Wise plotted murder.
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