Duskendale, 196 A.C. Duskendale was an old city. About that much there could be no doubt. It was not for no reason that its masters had conferred the honorific of Eldest Child of the Narrow Sea upon her, for just as Oldtown was the Eldest Child of Westeros, the lords of Darklyn house considered their home to have been the first true city to be raised on the coast this side of the Narrow Sea. Peopled since the Dawn Age, the town had been founded by Darroch Shadowborn in the Age of Heroes when he took to wife Derborgaill, the Daughter of the Dusk, the youngest and wisest sister of three sired by the King of the Dale. Since then, for eight thousand years, if the chronologies could be trusted, had the Darklyns ruled over Duskendale, and the town had grown around its harbor. Cobbled streets, sprawling empty squares, and magnificent and yet austere guild halls and septs hinted at the past glories and wealth of the city, scarred by war and devastation, just as the old lady that ruled over them all. If the town was old, the Dun Fort was ancient. Two curtain walls intersected by big drum towers surrounded a massive square keep in the center. The castle was built on uneven ground and terraces, at one point standing on the white chalk cliffs that rose towards the north of the town, only to descend to sea level to rest by the harbor. Its brown sandstone walls were patched up by black slate and mortar where time had corroded the stone, and its base had over the centuries been darkened by dirt and the elements. Under the soothing light of the rising (or the setting) sun, the pale dun-brown stone shimmered in a golden hue, as if the castle itself bathed the city in sunlight. There had been only little fanfare to receive the Prince of Dragonstone at the town gates. A somber mood that settled over the city ever since the death of Lady Darklyn's eldest son and heir, Ser Gunthor, a few weeks prior. Three of the lady's grandsons had welcomed Baelor at the Maidenpool gate. From there, it was only a short ride to the Dun Fort. They made their entrance from the north, riding over a lowered drawbridge that spanned the gap over a crevice in the chalk cliffs by the shore that separated the castle gate from the town walls, unlike the main gates that opened to the harbor square. The Prince was led from the outer ward into the inner ward, and from there through the cavernous entrance hall of the Great Keep down to the innermost ward at sea level, where the Great Hall lay. But the high seat of the Darklyns was empty that day, as was the court, and his escort led the Prince to a side door in the basilica, leading into a private pillared courtyard surrounding a small garden. It was there that Prince Baelor would find the Lady Meredyth Darklyn, an ancient woman huddled inside her ancient castle, though he would be hard pressed to decide which had come before: the castle or the lady. Buried under a multitude of blankets in a wheeled chair, the lady sat by a stone fountain under a cherry tree, clad in a widow's black gown, with gold embroidery. From atop the fountain, a Swan Maiden watched over the courtyard with its marble gaze, white wings flaring and unfolded across her delicate back. A young woman in mail stood by the tree, not far from the matriarch, a bravo's slender blade crowned by the basket hilt of the Free Cities hanging from her belt. She was not as much a guard as she was good company, where the old lady was concerned. "Prince Baelor," the Lady of Duskendale greeted her guest merrily, once he had been announced. "Please forgive me if I do not rise. I assure you it is not a lack of courtesy, but simply a lack of knees." The Prince remedied the issue by taking a knee himself so that they were level with one another. "My Lady there is nothing to forgive, it is a pleasure to meet you once again." He reassured her smoothly. "The pleasure is mine. Come closer, child. Let me see you properly," bade the Lady Meredyth, well pleased. Their duty fulfilled, her grandsons exited from where they had come from, leaving them alone with the girl in mail and the Swan Maiden in her court. The Lady of Duskendale motioned for the former to come forward. "You remember my great-granddaughter Dorea, I hope? I tell her to seek merrier company, to enjoy her youth beyond relics of the past, but she seems like a shadow to me, hmmm? Can't say it isn't in her blood." "She would be a diffcult maiden to forget my Lady. It is good to see you again Lady Dorea." Baelor nodded. "My Prince," the bastard girl greeted with a bow of her head, the thick Braavosi accent of her childhood not yet washed away from her speech. "A charmer, isn't he, Dorea?" Meredyth said teasingly. In a way, it's in his blood too. She pointed at a stone bench by the fountain. "Please, take a seat. Spare your knees the most you can, if the gods are good you will need them for a long time." "Kostilus, brōzi issa Baelor" The Prince requested in High Valyrian, though it sounded strange in the native accent of the narrow sea. Prince Baelor did as he was bid, "Sound advice, my Lady, from your letter I believe that you have more of that to give on wider troubles than my knees." "If only. They say wisdom comes with age. Clearly they have not lived for as long as I have," Meredyth replied. "How was Crackclaw Point? You ventured into those pines and bogs, no? I am sad to say we have few friends there. Then again, mayhaps Craghorn Crabb shouldn't have laid siege to Duskendale when he did, during the coming of the Andals. And no, there is no need to ask, I wasn't alive for it." "I did, it was a beautiful place, quiet and ancient. Much like your own seat though in a very different way," Baelor offered contemplatively. "And the men there are as proud and loyal as any Knight of Duskendale, there is no need to ask, I wish for them to answer the call as well."
"The call," Meredyth pondered grimly. "The call to war."
She rang a little silver bell. From the pillared gallery sprung forth a couple of servants, bearing wine and an assortment of local delicacies, from bread, cheese and fried shrimp to sweet berries from the Darkwood, which were Meredyth's favorites. Dorea helped them set up a folding table between them, and pushed Lady Darklyn's wheeled chair towards it. As quickly as they had come, the servants disappeared back into the galleries, having deposited the instruments of guest right onto the table.
"Did you know that this chair was a gift from your lord father?" Meredyth asked with a smile, patting at the armrest of the wheeled chair as she picked a berry. "Maester Wylis had one constructed for me a couple of years ago, but it was rickety. The King was generous enough to provide a helping hand. Kindness like that is rare these days, though, to be fair, it was a rarity back in my youth too."
"I did not but it does not surprise me. The King is a gentle and wise soul." His heir said looking at the chair proudly.
At Lady Darklyn's instigation, Dorea poured the prince a goblet of wine. It was neither Arbor Gold or Dornish Red, but the pale amber wine from the Free City of Pentos, which reminded Meredyth so of her late step-grandfather.
"It is regrettable that many in the Seven Kingdoms seem to disagree," she said with a sigh. "Kindness can often be seen as weakness in the warped world we live in."
"A common mistake is still a mistake."
"There have been mistakes aplenty," Meredyth considered. "Tell me, Prince Baelor, what is truly going on?"
"Ser Daemon Blackfyre has gathered an army in the Stormlands and taken Summerhall and crowned himself a King, my brother Prince Maekar and his family escaped thank the Seven but it seems to be war. It is my hope that Daemon can be made to see sense before we are drowned in blood but we need to gather an army to meet him all the same."
"Once swords are drawn, it is rare for good sense to prevail," Meredyth warned wearily. "I thought you dragons would have learned your lesson from the Dance. It seems not. The realm has been at peace for too long, and the knights of summer have forgotten the horrors of war. Are you a knight of summer, child? I think not. This Blackfyre and his friends, on the other hand…"
"You speak truly my Lady but I fear that the swords have been drawn already."
"And you have need of mine."
"Yes." He confirmed. "The King has called the banners."
The Lady of Duskendale closed her eyes for a brief moment, a darkness tightening around her chest.
"My husband, Lord Gunthor. My cousin, Ser Harrold. My uncle, Ser Steffon. My sons, Damond and Rolland… my Rolland, who was only six and ten. The Young Dragon clasped a white cloak to his shoulders, and my boy was dead within the hour. At least Daeron lived, but not for much longer. My Darmund, returned from Dorne as only a pale shell of what he had been. My eldest… my Gunthor… disfigured and scarred for life, forced to hide his face from the world to his dying breath. Hundreds upon hundreds of my subjects, my kin, felled by the Kingmaker's wrath, whose countless bones now line the walls of the crypts below us."
She paused, mournful.
"Tell me, child, has my family not sacrificed enough in the service of the House of the Dragon?"
Baelor bowed his head a moment.
"My Lady, it is a terrible price you and your kin have paid, I can think of no words or redress that could heal your wounded heart. The only consolation I can offer is that they lived and died by the words they swore to when so many others have fallen short. It as a terrible truth that the best and brightest take to the Van and are carried all the way to the halls of the Father above.
I cannot promise that this new war should it take place will not cull too many knights and innocents as wars are wont to do. I can only promise that I will set no man a task I would not do myself, demand no sacrifice I would not make, and spare no effort to avoid the blood of my father's subjects being spilled.
My Lady, this tragedy could have been avoided but it has not been and now it will grow and consume the lives of countless people from Dorne to the frozen North unless we stop it. That is what my father asks of your house, that is the duty he has entrusted me with and it is a burden and privilage I cannot carry alone. I pray the sons of Duskendale will carry it with me and together we keep as many crypts empty for as long as it in in the humble power of mortal men to do so."
"That is an eloquent way of asking me to send my grandchildren to fight the battles that the dragons have brought upon themselves," Meredyth retorted astutely. "First it was a stepmother feuding with her stepdaughter, and a King who was too kind and loving for his own good, mayhaps not unlike your lord father. Then it was the Young Dragon, drunk on the glories of youth, who sent fifty thousand men and boys to their graves just so he could measure himself up against the Conqueror. Now 'tis your late grandfather, whose dying wish haunts us even from beyond the Stranger's veil. Long-lived as I am, I have yet to see a just war in these Seven Kingdoms, if such a thing even exists. Did the Conqueror not promise us the King's peace when he forged the realm with fire and blood? Was it not his gift in exchange for our fealty? Then why have the dragons themselves broken it time and time again?"
She placed her wine goblet on the table. My heir is dead. My husband is dead. At least Robert Darklyn had been there for all past tragedies to share in the grief and in the rebuilding, but now he rested under the chalk cliffs with the rest of them. I am alone.
"Fear not, Prince Baelor. Duskendale will do its duty. I swore an oath. I am just left to wonder what price you dragons will exact this time from this old woman."
"You have my thanks and my sympathies my Lady, and my vow to end this tragedy as swiftly as I can."
The old lady couldn't help but notice that the contemplative prince had no answer to give to her short tirade.
"Speak plainly, Prince Baelor, how many of my knights do you need and when do you need them?" Meredyth asked instead. "My heir, Robin, is in the country mustering the men, but it is no simple process when they have a city to feed and families to sustain. My great-grandson, Ser Harry of Shadeside, has been most enthusiastic in levying his fief, and the men of Hammerhold are always eager for a fight. Half-Crackclaws, I'll tell you, but leal bannermen, Lord Rykker chief of them. My granddaughter Jeyne sits as his lady. How many men do you demand of me now?"
"How many do you have?" Baelor asked. "I'd rather hardened knights and armed and trained soldiers than field hands dragged from their homes to die. I do not know Duskendale's muster I would say as much of your mounted strength as you can offer and as much of the rest as you can spare."
Meredyth nodded thoughtfully.
"These men. My men. You mean to take them to Summerhall." She paused. "What word has there been from Storm's End? My rookery has been quiet."
Of course, Baelor would know that Lord Edrich Baratheon was one of Lady Darklyn's many great-grandsons. Her granddaughter, Lady Sybell Darklyn, the Storm Serpent, was the Dowager of Storm's End, a fierce woman of some four and forty years, sister to the Blackrobin and Ser Denys the Darkhelm of the Kingsguard.
"My father and Lord Baratheon exchange ravens, I do not know what has been agreed since I left. As for my own plans, at this point I cannot elabourate in truth my Lady too much depends on matters beyond my control."
"That does not put me at ease," Meredyth admitted. "Ravens, you say. What is there to write about? What is my great-grandson up to, child? Speak truthfully, please. If I am to lend you my arms, I must know that they will only be wielded against Daemon Blackfyre."
"Grandmother!" her shadow admonished, aghast.
"I must know, Dorea," the old lady retorted painfully. "The realm is descending into madness as it is. What is there to be discussed between the King and Edrich, if not declarations of fealty and loyalty? Now the Prince of Dragonstone comes to our home and asks for my knights to march with him into the Stormlands. We have one kinslayer in the family already, I would much rather not have a second and a third!"
That quietened the girl, and she took a step back, wounded. It was her father the Lady Meredyth had spoken about, and he was a sore point for her. Meredyth, to her credit, did not fail to recognize Dorea's discomfort.
"My apologies, child," she offered genuinely, "and to you as well, Your Grace. These are darkling thoughts that dwell in my head, the darker these days grow."
"I am speaking truthfully my Lady, my father does not share his corrospondence with me. I do not know what Baratheon is asking for or if he has committed, I struggle to imagine him turning against his own flesh and blood and empowering rebels whose next step would be to unseat him but I cannot tell you what I do not know." Baelor answered firmly.
"To have a large family is a blessing, child, the greatest boon the Mother Above can give us," Meredyth confided in the prince, "but in a time of strife, it is a curse. And I have to admit the Mother favored me very much, my apologies."
She watched as the wind carried off a handful of leaves from the cherry tree, lazily depositing them in the waters of the fountain.
"The Knights of Duskendale will march with you. On such a short notice, I can give you a thousand men, most of them mounted. Lord Rufus Rykker will lead them in my name, and I shall part with my master-at-arms. Ser Donnel was my late husband's squire, and you shall find no finer blade in all of the Crownlands, mayhaps not even those that are tinted white. I trust you shall wield this force prudently, and not give this old widow any more reasons to grieve. Robin will remain here to muster the remainder of my forces. Within a moon's turn I may give you thrice those numbers. Robin will march them to King's Landing, though I hope they will no longer be needed by then."
"As do we all," Baelor affirmed. "My thanks my Lady, I will not forget this or your losses."
Meredyth nodded gravely.
"Stay until the morrow, Prince Baelor. Dusk is falling, and night will soon be upon us. Dine with my grandchildren. I must rest. Please do not think of me as a poor hostess. Quarters have been set aside for you and yours in the Great Keep, though I dare not make the climb anymore. I much prefer rooms on the ground, these days, heh."
She pointed over her shoulder, in the direction of the galleries, where a two floor building rose next to the Great Hall, enclosing the pillared courtyard. Dorea made a move to push the lady's wheeled chair, but Meredyth raised a wrinkled hand to stop her.
"A final word, if you would allow me, child," she said to Baelor in her wavery voice. "Promise me you will not lose sight of peace, come what may. You dragons speak of fire and blood, but if everything burns, what is left in the end? Hmmm. Rhaenyra Targaryen once stood where you stand. And I do mean this quite literally. Sometimes I swear I can see her ghost aimlessly walking my battlements in sleepless nights, looking for strength that will never come. It was a sorry sight, ser. I will never forget the day I first watched the blood of the dragon cry. You were magnificent, but you cut your own wings, extinguished your own flame, because kin fought against kin and all notions of honor and mercy were abandoned in the wake of hate. The mere thought of peace was forever abandoned after… after what they did to that poor boy. You are a father, aren't you, Baelor? Two young boys? Never let things fester beyond any boundary. The dragons danced, then, and they died. All of them. I do not wish another specter to haunt my home. Mine will already be enough."
