Chapter 26

Oswell carefully lifted the king to his feet. His movements were swift yet awkward, as Aerys' frail body could barely stand. Pale and trembling, the king leaned heavily on the warrior. Every motion was slow and painful, as if he didn't want to return to life.

"We must hurry," Ralf whispered, glancing nervously toward the door from which they had come.

Oswell nodded, firmly gripping Aerys by the waist, practically carrying him. The king felt as light as a feather, but his presence weighed heavy—a burden not physical but moral. Whent felt the growing tension, realizing that saving this man was their duty, but perhaps also their greatest threat.

"Please, Your Grace, move faster," the Kingsguard urged, his voice restrained and polite, but tinged with impatience.

"My son… Aeryon…" Aerys muttered weakly, his voice a mix of pride and madness. "He will save me… He will save the kingdom!"

"He's doing everything he can to save you," Ralf replied calmly, trying to hide his unease. "But we need to leave now."

They moved cautiously toward the exit, step by step, when a dull sound echoed from deep within the corridor. Buckler heart froze. He cast a quick glance at Oswell, who stopped momentarily, listening.

"We're not alone," Whent whispered, feeling the tension in his body intensify.

Frowning, he pressed the king against the wall to keep him from collapsing and drew his sword. Now, it wasn't just the king's safety on the line, but their own lives as well.

Soon, the sounds of guards loudly conversing reached their ears.

"Ser Hubert, I don't know how this happened. While patrolling, I came upon his body already dead."

"First the fire, now the death of our men… It seems someone has planned this thoroughly. If that bastard isn't in the dungeons, you'll answer with your head."

"But Ser…"

"Shut up! You're interrupting my thinking. I've already sent men to Lord Denys and to—"

Before the guards could round the corner, Oswell struck, delivering a swift blow with his sword. The man, apparently the captain of the guard, reacted quickly and pulled one of his men by the cloak, using him as a shield. Blood sprayed, and the wounded soldier collapsed to the ground with a gurgling sound.

Whent wasted no time. Lunging forward, he raised his sword again. Hubert, now spattered with blood, drew his blade, ready for the fight. Buckler, hearing the clash of steel, pulled the king's weak body along, trying to hide behind the wall.

"Don't lose, Whent," Ralf muttered through gritted teeth.

Oswell parried another blow from his enemy. The clash of steel filled the narrow corridor, each strike echoing in their ears. His gaze was focused and fierce—there was no room for retreat.

The second guard, standing behind the captain, finally realized what was happening and reached for his sword. But before he could act, one of Ralf's arrows pierced his hand. The man screamed in pain, dropping his weapon.

Whent quickly responded: with a kick, he pushed Hubert back and, without hesitation, struck the wounded guard. His blade flashed, slicing through the guard's neck. Blood gushed onto the floor, and the body fell with a heavy thud on the stone.

Seeing the death of his second subordinate, the captain of the guard was enraged. He understood the gravity of his situation, but his fury clouded his judgment. With a roar, he charged at the Kingsguard. His large frame, clad in heavy armor, moved unexpectedly fast. Oswell dodged the first blow but quickly realized that his opponent was not just strong—he was also a dangerous, experienced fighter, driven by sheer ferocity.

The swords clashed with a resounding ring, and Oswell's arms began to go numb from the strain. But his lack of armor gave him an advantage: he relied on speed and skill, dodging the powerful swings and delivering quick, precise thrusts.

"You'll die here, bastard!" Hubert growled, raising his sword for a downward strike. Whent sidestepped, letting the enemy's blade slice through empty air.

"Perhaps, but not today," the Kingsguard replied calmly, darting forward. With deft precision, he slipped under the captain's raised arm and drove his sword into the unarmored gap under his armpit.

Hubert roared in pain and tried to lift his sword with his left hand, but Oswell was faster. In one swift motion, he pulled his blade free and, with a sharp swing, beheaded his opponent.

"That was impressive," came Ralf's voice from behind.

"He was a good fighter," Oswell replied curtly. "But we must move."

Gripping the king more securely, they hurried forward, but moments later, the ringing of alarm bells echoed through the castle. The sound reverberated off the stone walls, heightening the tension in the hearts of the fugitives. Oswell pressed his lips into a thin line, casting a quick glance at Ralf, who was supporting the king. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but there was no time for conversation. They had to keep moving—and fast.

"Hurry, before reinforcements arrive," Oswell whispered tensely, wiping blood from his sword.

They continued down the narrow corridor, alert to every sound. Though Ralf tried to hold the king as firmly as possible, he saw that Aerys' frail body was on the brink of collapse. The Targaryen could barely move. His pale face was covered in sweat, and his breathing grew more labored. Madness flickered more frequently in his eyes, mingling with pride and fear.

"Just a little further, Your Grace," Ralf attempted to encourage the king, though he didn't believe his own words.

"Aeryon… He… will sa-save…" the king whispered, his voice trembling and faltering. "I told you… I told you he…"

"He will," Oswell quietly added, but his mind was focused on their escape. With each step, the tension grew. The ringing of the bells became louder, like a storm building in intensity.

"There's a dead end ahead," Ralf said, slowing his pace. "We need to get to the eastern wing, but if we're caught now…"

"Let them try," Whent muttered grimly, gripping his sword hilt tighter.

Suddenly, shadows appeared in the distance—another patrol. Oswell froze, and Ralf tensed, realizing they were running out of time.

"This way!" Buckler shoved Oswell and the king into a side passage leading toward their escape. The sound of footsteps behind them grew louder.

"Faster!" Ralf gasped, leading them down the narrow passage. The stone walls pressed in from both sides, and the cold seeped into their bones. Soon, they reached the exit to the lower levels of the castle, where dark corridors stretched into the depths. Outside, they could hear the clanking of armor and the voices of guards.

"We're close," Ralf whispered, barely keeping the king on his feet. But then, one of the guards shouted something, and they heard the pounding footsteps of soldiers approaching. They had been spotted.

"Run!" Oswell commanded, drawing his sword and preparing for battle. "I'll hold them off."

"What? You can't take them on alone!" Ralf exclaimed.

"You have to get the king out," the White Cloak replied firmly, his eyes filled with resolve.

Without waiting for a response, he charged toward the guards. Ralf gritted his teeth and, breathing heavily, pushed the king forward. They needed to reach the exit at any cost. Behind them, the sounds of battle echoed—the clash of steel and the shouts of men. Oswell fought fiercely, knowing that every strike could be his last.

Soon, they reached the final passage, but another group of soldiers appeared before them. Buckler gripped his sword, ready for a desperate fight. The king barely stood, and it seemed as if the situation was about to collapse. His hand trembled, and his heart raced in his chest.

"It looks like this is the end," Aerys whispered as four guards surrounded them.

But then, a knife flew from behind, striking one of the guards in the head. Buckler turned to see a familiar figure emerge from the shadows. It was easy to recognize him—Aeryon, covered in blood, stepped out of the darkness with a calm expression on his face.

"Having fun?" he asked with a slight smile, but there was something more than irony in the prince's eyes. His gaze was fixed on the king, who leaned heavily on Ralf.

"We've been waiting for you," Buckler gasped, his voice strained. "Three left."

Aeryon nodded, quickly assessing the situation.

However, their enemies decided to interrupt the pleasant conversation and attacked simultaneously, each choosing an opponent. Buckler blocked the first strike—their swords clanged together loudly—but Aeryon was faster. He deftly parried the second blow, delivering an instant counterattack to a vulnerable spot.

"You're falling behind, Ralf," the prince remarked, slaying one of the guards and turning to face the next. The man had already raised his sword, and they began trading blows, but no one could match the young Targaryen in agility. With one swift slash, he cut the guard's throat.

Ralf, though exhausted, managed to deal with the last opponent, driving him against the wall and delivering the final blow. As the fight ended, Qwelton approached them, holding up a bloodied and barely standing Oswell. The Kingsguard was wounded, blood oozing from a deep cut on his side, but he held on with the last of his strength.

"Oswell!" Ralf exclaimed, but his joy was mixed with concern. He realized that with two people unable to move, they were doomed.

"We're not getting out of here," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Aeryon glanced at his father, who was muttering something incoherent, his eyes darting around in madness. Approaching him, the prince exchanged a few brief words, but quickly realized that his father was in no state to act or make decisions. The prince tightened his grip on his sword hilt, then turned to the others with a slight smirk.

"We have reinforcements."

Before anyone could ask what he meant, the night was pierced by a deafening roar. In that instant, the dark sky lit up with a burst of fire. The dragon's roar resounded again, filling the air, and the castle's stone walls began to tremble. On the horizon, in the dim light, a massive shadow appeared. The flying beast descended from the sky, and streams of its fire rained down on the castle, engulfing everything around it in a deadly heat. The guards began to scream in terror, scattering in panic as the flaming walls crumbled into ruins.

"A dragon..." Fell breathed.

"It's time," Aeryon said calmly, heading for the exit. "The fire will distract them. Follow me!"

Grabbing the king and Oswell by the arms, Ralf and Qwelton hurried after the prince. The fiery storm raged over the castle, turning the night sky into a bright canvas of flames. The guards tried to flee, but the dragon's fire spared no one.

"I think they have bigger problems than us right now," Aeryon smirked as they reached the exit. The king, growing weaker with every step, looked at the destruction with a faint smile on his face, as if everything unfolding before him was the grandest of spectacles.