Rosby Holdfast, Afternoon
The sun hung low over Rosby, casting gold across the fields as I stood in the yard, my cloak dusty from the ride.
Nearby, Gyles barked orders while his men loaded two carts of rye seed, hoes, and a plow. Fifty acres at Duskendale wasn't much, but it would prove our worth to Denys Darklyn, Lord of Duskendale.
The orb at my belt pulsed warm, and my bandaged wrist throbbed—a reminder of the crypt's cost. I was exhausted, but Rosby stood firm and Duskendale had to follow.
Gyles stomped over and wiped sweat from his scar. "The Carts are set," he said, gruffly. "The Seed is good, It is enough for a start. But are you sure about coming this time, my prince? You look like you could use some rest."
I rubbed my neck, the ache spreading. "I'll manage," I said with a low voice. "Rosby's feeding 'em and Duskendale's next. Denys needs to see it work." My voice held, but my hand shook a little and Gyles' frown said he noticed.
"Aelthys is coming with us?" he asked, glancing at the barn where the shadow stood still as ever with a sword in hand.
"Yeah," I said sharply. "He'll clear the way—That way raiders won't touch us. Gather the men—five of 'em, the strongest you got. we're leaving soon."
Gyles nodded slowly. "They're jumpy. They are talking about him, about you. You gotta hold 'em together."
"I will," I said turning to the carts. "Let's get moving."
He walked off, and I leaned on a post, the orb's heat flaring. Aelthys was my edge. He was fast and deadly—but every kill he made pulled something from me.
Duskendale had to work or it'd all unravel.
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Kingsroad, Late Afternoon
The carts clattered along the Kingsroad, dust rising with every hoofbeat.
I rode ahead, my cloak snapping in the wind with Gyles beside me and five men trailing close—Jory among them, gripping his reins.
Up front, Aelthys moved like a shadow, his amber eyes catching the last of the light as he scouted the trees.
Gyles glanced at me, reins loose in his hands. "Land's bad there, my prince," he said, blunt. "Salt's chewed it up and raiders took what's left. Those fifty acres won't be easy."
"Rosby wasn't easy," I said, rough, eyes on Aelthys ahead. "We'll make it grow and show Denys it's real. He's got no choice anyway, famine's knocking on his door as well."
He grunted, nodding. "Aye. But he's listening to Aerys too. That shadow talk is loud, and has already reached people's ears. Aelthys spooks 'em—hell, sometimes he spooks me."
I gripped my reins tighter, feeling the orb pulsing. "He's ours," I said, low. "He keeps the fields and keeps us alive. That's what matters." My voice stayed firm, but my legs wobbled in the saddle, and Gyles' look said he saw it.
"Hope so," he muttered, turning back to the carts.
A shout cut through—it was Jory and he was pointing left.
Three figures darted from the trees with ragged cloaks and blades glinting. Raiders.
"Aelthys!" I barked and he moved in a blur—one swing, then another. Two bodies dropped, their blood soaking the road.
The third turned to flee, but Aelthys was faster, his blade driving clean through the man's back. Silent and efficient.
Gyles stared at Aelthys, then at me. "Too damn fast," he murmured. "You alright ?"
"Yeah," I lied, straightening. "Keep moving. He's cleared it."
The men muttered behind us, they were uneasy. I pushed my horse forward, my jaw clenched as the orb's drain clawed deeper.
Duskendale was close.
I just had to hold.
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Denys Darklyn
Duskendale, Midday
The market square in Duskendale buzzed with life—vendors shouting, carts rattling and smallfolk arguing over fish and bread.
From the balcony of the Dun Fort, I watched it all, my dark cloak snapping in the sea wind.
Vaegon's Rosby harvest had eased the hunger—two carts of grain arrived yesterday, enough to quiet the grumbling—but new whispers were spreading, carried by traders off the Kingsroad.
Corwyn my steward, stepped up beside me, his bald head gleaming in the light. His voice was low and cautious. "Word from the capital, my lord," he said, handing me a crumpled note.
"Aerys Targaryen is ranting. He claims his brother is tied to a shadow, some creature at Rosby. He keep saying it's sorcery."
I snorted and scanning the scrawled message. It was scribbled by a merchant who'd overheard guards and maids talking. "Aerys," I muttered dryly. "Always flapping his mouth. What does it say about Vaegon?"
Corwyn's face tightened. "That he's weak. Pale and unsteady. He's riding to duskendale as we speak. The shadow he speaks of is Aelthys. The guards say he moves too fast and unnatural. Aerys wants him gone. He says he'll ruin the realm if he stays."
I folded the note, tucking it into my belt, my eyes still on the square. "Vaegon's grain is feeding us," I said firmly. "Rosby's holding and Duskendale is next as he promised. Aelthys is his blade. He Kept raiders off the fields and i don't care if he's a ghost as long as he works."
Corwyn shifted uneasily. "Aye, but the talk's getting loud. Smallfolk have heard it too. If Aerys pushes this, it could turn them against the grain."
I rubbed my jaw, the salt air bitter on my tongue. "Spook them?" I said, my voice low. "They'll either they eat or they starve—It doesn't matter who guards their bread."
But the unease gnawed at me. If Vaegon was slipping… Then Rosby wouldn't hold forever. A weak prince with a cursed shadow could drag us all down.
Corwyn nodded, stepping away. "But if Aerys is right—"
"He's not," I cut in sharply. "Not yet. Vaegon's held this far and I'll trust that until he falls."
I turned from the balcony, but the weight of the note pressed against me. Duskendale needed Rosby's strength.
But cracks were showing.
And I wouldn't sink with them.