Chapter 25

Darkness thickly enveloped the old stone corridors of the dungeon, where the air was heavy with dampness and the scent of fear. Ser Whent moved like a shadow, his footsteps completely silent. Soon, he stopped at a massive door, listening to the sounds within.

Ralf stood behind, watching every move of the guardsman closely. Buckler was neither strong nor skilled with a sword, so he often carried a bow, which had become his faithful companion. Hidden in the narrow corridors of the dungeon, they tried not to attract attention.

Moving a bit further, Oswell froze, suddenly grabbing Ralf's arm and hiding behind the wall. At that moment, they heard approaching voices.

"Two guards ahead," the knight whispered, barely nodding in their direction.

Ralf exhaled slowly and silently drew back the bowstring, preparing an arrow. He knew Whent could easily handle these men, but even the slightest noise could raise alarm throughout the castle. Silence was their only escape. Oswell leaned closer to the wall, his face impassive, and only concentration was visible in his eyes. Unlike Buckler, who often had to act with cunning, he was already accustomed to deadly danger—it was just part of the job.

Silently raising his hand, he signaled that it was time to act. One quick breath—and the arrow pierced the air, hitting the guard squarely in the throat. The second guard, not having understood what was happening, received a swift dagger strike in the eye from Oswell, who had silently approached him. The bodies quietly fell onto the cold stone floor. Ralf cautiously peered around the corner, ensuring no one had noticed their presence.

"Quickly and quietly," the royal guard said calmly, wiping the blade on the dead guard.

Catching his breath, they continued moving through the corridors, approaching the place where, according to their information, the king was held. The dark walls pressed down on them; each corner could conceal new danger. But they both knew: there could be no mistakes.

"Do you think Aerys is still in his right mind?" Ralf whispered, not so much needing an answer as probing his new ally.

"He wasn't known for his sanity even before his capture, and coming here, even the most rational among us might break," Oswell replied grimly. "But that's not our concern. We are here on Prince Aeryon's orders."

Hearing those words, Ralf smiled. Ahead, a heavy iron door appeared, guarded by two dozing guards. Buckler prepared his bow again, but this time Oswell raised his hand, stopping him.

"I'll handle it," he said briefly.

The white cloak moved forward, his steps so silent that even Ralf could barely hear them. The blade of his sword glimmered in the dim light of the torch, and in an instant, both guards fell, unable to raise an alarm.

They approached the door, and Oswell pushed it open, causing the hinges to creak in the tense silence. The darkness inside the room seemed even denser. On the floor, amidst chains and filth, lay someone who barely resembled a king. Aerys II Targaryen, gaunt and desperate, slowly lifted his head.

"Your Grace," Oswell said quietly, kneeling before the ruler. "We have come for you."

Aerys seemed not to immediately recognize his rescuers. The king's face was pale and drawn, but a spark of recognition finally flickered in his eyes.

"Oswell... You came..." His voice was hoarse, yet still carried a note of madness.

Buckler, standing slightly aside, cast a quick glance at Whent.

"My name is Ralf Buckler. I am a friend of your son Aeryon. It is he who entrusted us with your rescue and is now risking his life to arrange a safe retreat for us."

"A... Aeryon... I knew I wouldn't be abandoned, I knew!" Aerys tried to straighten up, but his body seemed drained.

Now they had to get the king out and leave as quietly as they had come. But even a novice warrior like Ralf understood that escaping would be much harder than getting in.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the castle, the cold moonlight barely illuminated the chambers of Lord Darklyn. The air in them was filled with warmth and freshness, and in the bed, on clean sheets, Denys and his wife Serala slept peacefully.

The young Targaryen and his friend Qwelton silently approached the bed, moving like predators gliding through the night. The guard they had killed remained behind, his body dragged into a dark corner of the castle, so that no one would notice the absence.

Fell scanned the room, checking for possible threats, before nodding to Aeryon. The prince stopped at the head of the bed, slightly raised his hand, and covered Darklyn's mouth. The lord jolted awake, feeling the cold touch on his face, and opened his eyes sharply, not yet understanding what was happening. Beside him, his wife Serala also woke and immediately noticed the unfamiliar figures above them. Her face froze in terror, but Aeryon placed a finger on his lips, demanding silence.

"Don't scream," he whispered. "We just need to talk."

Denys stared at the prince, his eyes widening with anger and shock. He tried to say something, but Aeryon forcefully gripped his jaw, preventing him from making a sound.

"You know why we're here," the Targaryen continued with icy calm, his gaze falling on the frightened Serala. "I came for the letter. And I'll leave as soon as I get it."

Qwelton watched the scene, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to intervene if anything went wrong. Serala struggled to breathe steadily, but it was hard to hide her fear; her eyes darted between her husband and their nighttime visitors.

Finally, Denys raised his hands, trying to de-escalate the situation, and, with great difficulty, freeing himself from Aeryon's grip, hissed through clenched teeth:

"You've betrayed me, bastard. I knew I couldn't trust Targaryens! But she is innocent in all this," his gaze turned to his wife, his voice softening, almost pleading. "Let her go! You'll get your letter only if she remains alive and leaves here."

Aeryon paused for a moment, then his eyes narrowed dangerously, as if assessing his prey. Then, without further ado, the prince abruptly grabbed Denys's hand and, with ease, as if holding a mere twig, broke his finger with a crack. Darklyn gasped in pain, but Aeryon immediately covered his mouth again, stifling his cry.

"You are not in a position to dictate terms to me," he hissed, his voice filled with threat. "You will hand over the letter now, also telling me who else, besides you, knew about it, or my dragon will burn this city to the ground. After all, Aerys is already safe and would be very pleased with such an outcome. Everything you have so desperately fought for will burn in dragonfire, or shall we take the peaceful route?"

Serala covered her mouth in horror, trying not to break down. She understood her position: once trapped, it was hard to hope for salvation.

"Where is the letter?" Aeryon asked, now no longer demanding, but commanding. Denys, gritting his teeth against pain and anger, could barely nod towards the table by the window.

"In the desk... bottom drawer..." he spat through clenched teeth.

"You don't even hide it?" the prince asked in confusion.

"Why should I? There are only a couple of people in this castle who can read. All of them are loyal to me."

Aeryon released his hand and glanced at Qwelton.

"Go, get it."

Fell quickly made his way to the table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small bundle. He unwrapped it and handed it to Aeryon, who skimmed the lines.

"This is it," the prince confirmed, his gaze returning to Darklyn. "Who else knew about the letter? Remember, your answer depends on the life of this lovely lady."

"I won't say anything while she is in danger," Darklyn spat, his pride struggling against the instinct for self-preservation.

Aeryon smirked, narrowing his eyes.

"I thought you were smarter, Denys. But it seems someone is overestimating their strength."

"I trust my people!" Darklyn spat out.

The Targaryen stepped closer, his gaze menacing.

"Come on, tell me their names, and we'll end this without unnecessary bloodshed," he paused, giving the other time to consider his answer. "Or would you prefer I burned the entire castle along with its inhabitants?"

Serala, trembling, embraced her husband's shoulders, realizing they were in a hopeless situation.

"Please, dear," she whispered, her voice filled with fear and desperation. "Tell him. I don't want to die!"

Darklyn looked at her, his heart painfully clenching.

"Fine," he finally whispered. "Only one person knew—Hubert. He is my childhood friend, and I can guarantee his loyalty."

Aeryon's eyes gleamed dangerously with an overflow of emotions.

"Weren't you just betraying him?" the prince tilted his head, as if pondering aloud. "But the decision is wise. Name one more, and perhaps you'll remain alive."

"That's all I know!" Darklyn shouted in despair. "I swear!"

Qwelton, standing nearby, watched the unfolding drama closely, waiting for the next command from the prince. Serala, feeling the situation becoming increasingly critical, tightened her grip on her husband's hand, her eyes filling with tears.

"Please, don't do this!" she cried, barely holding back sobs. "We can... we can find a way!"

"Unfortunately, my lady, trust is but an illusion in this world. It's time to end this."

"Cursed be you!" Darklin shouted with fury, trying to rise from the bed, but his attempt was doomed to fail.

As if on cue, Aeryon and Fell simultaneously grabbed the couple by their heads and slammed them against the wall. Denis and Serala's bodies slumped lifelessly to the floor. As they lost consciousness, the prince and his friend silently lifted them and threw them off the balcony, creating the appearance of a suicide.