Fire and Blood

Chapter 150: Hour of the Blood Moon (Part 4)

|| MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR: ||

See below for a special announcement from me!

--------------------------

King's Landing ― Fishmonger's Square...

Though born of salt and sea, Alyn of Hull found himself amidst a tempest of furious zealots as they overran the City Watch garrison at the River Gate. The captain of the garrison, along with three sergeants, had met a grim fate, their lifeless bodies swaying from the gatehouse like grim pendants―a chilling testament to the chaos unfurling. Around him, more of the River Gate's gold cloaks abandoned their posts, some slinking into the shadows, others openly joining the ranks of the so-called "Mudfoot" gutter knights, swayed by the enticing promises of their leader, Ser Perkin the Flea. The stakes were perilously high; Alyn knew the Royal Fleet's stronghold would lie vulnerable if the River Gate fell, an easy prize for the rabble. With most of the fleet comprising ships commissioned by House Velaryon, Alyn and his men fought tooth and nail at the docks to defend their lifeline.

"Back, you mindless wretches!" Alyn roared, his voice hoarse as he swung his blade with every ounce of his sea-hardened strength. Blood sprayed across the cobbles, and the air reeked of iron and salt. His men, loyal sailors of Driftmark, formed a desperate line against the tide of zealots, their swords and axes flashing in the torchlight. But the enemy was relentless―a swarm of ragged figures wielding stolen steel and makeshift spears, their eyes alight with fervor. Alyn's heart pounded, not from fear but from the weight of duty. He was no highborn lord, but as a bastard of House Velaryon, he carried the sea in his veins and the memory of his brother Addam, who had died for the Blacks at the Battle of the Gullet. Failure here would dishonor that sacrifice.

Perkin's sneer curved wickedly as he confronted the Velaryon sailor. "Huh, you're stubborn, I'll give ya that. But no matter," he taunted, the edge of his voice sharp and calculated. A lowborn hedge knight, Perkin the Flea was a creature of Flea Bottom's alleys, his cunning honed by years of scraping for survival. Rumors painted him as a man who'd trample anyone to gain favor, his ambition a burning coal in his chest. He saw the Dance of the Dragons as his chance to rise, to carve a place in a court that had always spat on men like him. With a glimmer of ambition in his eye, he proclaimed, "The era of the Targaryen dynasty is over. Long live the reign of our new king, Trystane Truefyre, son of King Viserys the Peaceful!" Any knight could make a knight, and Perkin had dubbed every sellsword, thief, and butcher's boy who flocked to Trystane's ragged banner. Men and boys appeared by the hundreds, their makeshift weapons raised, pledging themselves to a cause as fragile as it was fervent. To Perkin, his squire was a tool―a name to rally the desperate, a stepping stone to power. He cared little for the boy's dubious claim; what mattered was the chaos that elevated men like him.

"Damn it, their numbers are growing!" a Velaryon sailor cursed, his voice hoarse as he parried a blow from a zealot wielding a butcher's cleaver. The man beside him fell, a pitchfork piercing his side, and Alyn's heart clenched. They were losing ground, the tide of bodies pressing ever closer to the docks.

Alyn's blade sang as it met steel, parrying a clumsy strike from one of Perkin's newly dubbed knights―a lad barely old enough to shave, his eyes wild with fervor. The docks were a maelstrom of clashing swords, splintering wood, and the acrid stench of blood and saltwater. Alyn's men, outnumbered but hardened by years at sea, fought with grim determination, their loyalty to House Velaryon forged in the crucible of countless voyages. Yet the tide was turning. For every zealot they cut down, two more seemed to rise, emboldened by Perkin's promises of glory and land under Trystane's banner.

"Hold the line!" Alyn bellowed, his voice hoarse over the din. He drove his shoulder into a charging Mudfoot, sending the man sprawling into the churning waters below. But even as he fought, doubt gnawed at him. The River Gate was a linchpin; if it fell, the Velaryon fleet would be at the mercy of this rabble. And worse, the whispers of Trystane Truefyre's claim, however dubious, had ignited a spark in the smallfolk. Alyn had seen it in their eyes: desperation, hunger, and a dangerous flicker of hope. "Tomas, take ten men and barricade the eastern alley! Use the fish carts, anything you can find!"