White Cloak - A GoT Fan-Fiction

The White Sword

Merwyn regarded Doran with perplexity wrought into the lines of his face. The Dornishman returned his wide-grin as Ser Harys clunked to his side, the latter's longsword drawn so that meanderings of metallic light ran amok the length of the blade.

"Doran, explain yourself. Where did you acquire that?" Merwyn said, gesturing to the sword on his hip. "Your man, Noro, knifed me from behind. I put my steel through him."

Doran threw a half-hearted look down the passageway. "It would appear so, Ser Merwyn. I did tell you any one of us would die for our cause."

Our cause? Merwyn glanced once more to the dragon pommel and a flurry of strands wove themselves into something he could recognise. "Tell me true, Doran ... who are you?"

In response, Doran jerked his sword loose from its sheath. It parted silently, the blade sharp enough to cut the air, glowing pale in the chamber's light. Merwyn knew Valyrian steel when he saw it.

"You're the Sons of Balerion ..." Merwyn muttered, confirming to himself as much as anything.

Doran tipped his head a fraction. "This is Whytefyre, Ser Merwyn," he proclaimed, flicking his wrist. "It's a forgotten Targaryen sword; the brother to Blackfyre, though somewhat more unheralded. We  serve the true queen; the Dragon Queen. What shall the tales tell of but four men ending the tyranny of Westeros? We will burn our queen a path to the Iron Throne."

Merwyn looked to Ser Harys and saw that the old knight was every bit as serious. He felt his breath catch in his throat. "What queen burns innocents?"

"Oh, Daenary's doesn't give us orders. She doesn't know we exist. But she will ..."

"And this mummer's farce of a hunt?"

"You have my condolences, Ser Merwyn. You are simply a pawn in this game; we bear you no ill-will. You see, our plan was to stir up trouble by killing Cersei's nobles. Our aim was to offer the Queen our services; play on her growing distrust. She's astute, though, I'll give her that. Not once did she grant us an audience. Had she consented ... well, she'd be in a grave by now like as not. We'd have thrown ourselves at her, blades in hand, and readily suffered the consequences. Only, she didn't consent. She hired you ..."

Merwyn flexed his sword arm. He could feel the anger beginning to tremble.

Doran continued, "We prepared for such an outcome, of course. The men behind you. Notice how their hair is long and blond, their faces so pretty. Or, at least, they were. They're our Sons of Balerion, Ser Merwyn; they're our ticket to Cersei's good favour, to our audience. We bring her four blond heads, and ... well. As for her white knight ..." Doran presented an appalling smirk and took a step forward.

Merwyn steeled himself. "They call me the Blood Rose, Ser. If you wish to know why, then come."

Doran didn't back off. He stalked forward, Whytefyre held high, a cat-like quality to his movements. Ser Harys advanced as well, his own steel gripped firmly in two gauntleted hands.

Merwyn brought Thorn up and stepped in to meet them. His leg faltered as he moved, but he knew better than to be trapped against the wall. He feigned, to draw a swing from Doran, but the Dornishman didn't take the bait. Merwyn shuffled cautiously to his right, raising Thorn quickly to meet Ser Harys' vicious chopping blow. The sword song rang out in the chamber, and Merwyn parried twice more before finally seeing his opportunity. He side stepped a clumsy swing from Ser Harys and brought Thorn round in an arcing sweep that cleaved through chainmail to lodge itself in his foe's neck. Ser Hary's dropped to his knees and his sword fell loose from his fingers. Merwyn slammed into him with his side and let the knight's weight do the rest.

Doran leapt in as Ser Harys' corpse hit the floor, pushing Merwyn back with a flurry of strikes. Whytefyre and Thorn danced at their own pace, neither sword capable of ceding; of being marked as the other's inferior.

How long the two blades screamed at one another, Merwyn had no way of knowing. Eventually, it was he who faltered, not Thorn. His leg, weak from Noro's wound, disobeyed his command to move, and Doran took advantage. Whytefyre found a gap in his armour, slewing through the gambeson that protected the area under his arm; puncturing things that Merwyn knew could never be unpunctured.

He fell against the wall, insides ablaze with fire. Spitting blood, he glared at Doran as the Dornishman moved in for the kill. The Blood Rose, humbled by a sellsword ... how the bards will remember me.

"Yield, Ser Merwyn, and I shall make it quick," Doran mocked.

"I am a knight of the Queensguard, Ser. Our knees do not bend easily."

Doran's smile vanished and he raised Whytefyre high. It came down violently and Merwyn fell forward to meet it, Thorn piercing Doran's throat and Whytefyre crunching through helm and skull, ending Merwyn's life as his last thrust claimed the Bastard of Dorne. Doran choked, eyes wide with shock.

Merwyn knew nothing; felt nothing.  His body hit the ground, Thorn gripped in his hand as Doran bled out. He rolled onto his front, and the white cloak became his shroud.