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46(1): The Son of Ice and Fire, Checkmate pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-07-20 08:53:41 +0000 UTCHarrold Hayford
Kings Landing
“We found them, Commander in the Kingswood……Ambushed… made to look like a bandit raid“ Roland Ironhand said in a low voice.
They were in Harrold’s solar which was a disheveled mess, with furniture thrown about as if someone had ransacked it in a fit of rage. It was dark, the curtains drawn tightly, allowing only slivers of light to pierce through the gloom.
Harrold Hayford looked up from his seated position to see Roland Ironhand looking at him with his usual stone-faced demeanor to his right was Cedric Rollingford who stood trembling and sweating vigorously he looked like he had lost weight in the last few months.
Hayford was stewing in anger, his gaze shifting between Roland's impassive face and Cedric's quivering form. He had lost both his trusted and capable officers and was now left with a bumbling fat fool and a lowly commoner.
How had things come to this? He was losing everything.
The prince had taken over the city from him piece by piece in less than a year.
‘HOW ?’ his mind screamed at him.
Since Harte's death in the fire at his cottage, all his so-called friends in court had ceased contact with him. By sheer luck, one of his oldest allies in court had informed him that he was under investigation again by the Old Falcon, this time with the full support of the prince. To make matters worse, he had learned that they had approached the king as well.
He tried reaching out to his allies again, desperately hoping they could help him like last time, but he received nothing but silence. They had abandoned him. After all he had done for them, they had abandoned him.
"The gall," he muttered angrily.
He looked at his two surviving officers. "How?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you fail a simple task?" he repeated, louder this time, but received no response from them.
"Tell me which one of you have betrayed me," he demanded.
"We have... not, my lord," Cedric stammered.
"Then tell me how he knew. Tell me how the bastard knew of our operations. Where Elwood was. Where Lambert was," Hayford growled, his anger intensifying.
"I believe some captains may have defected," Roland said, his voice steady.
"Oh, defected?" Hayford echoed, a maniacal laugh bubbling up from his throat. "Defected!" he repeated, laughing louder.
"Get out," he said, still laughing. When they didn't move, he screamed, "GET OUT!"
Roland and Cedric hurriedly left the room, leaving Hayford alone in the darkness. He sat in the shadowy silence for some time, his mind racing with dark thoughts.
‘They all betrayed me,’ he thought. Everyone had turned against him. He felt a gnawing paranoia creeping in, making him feel trapped and hunted.
"I can still win. I've done it before," he muttered to himself, standing up with a newfound resolve.
‘There was one person who would not abandon him, he could help him.’ he thought with a smile. His eyes glinted with a dangerous determination as he walked out of his solar, ready to reclaim the power that was slipping through his fingers.
===============
Leaving his manse by the old gate he arrived at his destination, Hayford found himself standing before a small manse by the Lion Gate. It was an unremarkable building, blending in with its surroundings. The plain exterior belied the influence and power of the individual within—a person who had helped him rise and, in turn, had been repaid with numerous favors.
The guards, recognizing him immediately, allowed him entry without question.
He was expected.
As he walked inside, Hayford's eyes adjusted to the dim light. The interior was modest, with a small garden featuring carefully maintained plants and a trickling fountain. Standing next to the garden was the man he sought: Quenton Qoherys. But he was not alone. Beside him stood the unmistakable figure of the master of whispers, Varys.
The fat Lyseni smiled upon seeing him, a smile that seemed to carry a hint of pity. Hayford's unease grew as he noted the presence of a third individual—Quenton's sword shield, a very tall man with a hound-shaped helm. The helm's dark metal gleamed menacingly in the muted light.
"Ah, Harrold, come in," Quenton called, his tone seemingly welcoming.
Varys nodded to Quenton before turning his attention to Hayford. "I shall take my leave," Varys said smoothly. He nodded politely to Quenton and then cast a lingering smile at Hayford as he departed. The strong scent of perfume followed him, lingering in the air long after he had gone.
"Quenton, you have to," Harrold began to say, his voice trembling with desperation.
"Help you," Quenton finished for him, his tone devoid of empathy.
"Yes, I am losing everything. Everything I have built for the last twenty years. You can help me, I am sure, like you did last time when that traitor Jon Arryn accused me," Harrold pleaded, his eyes wide with panic.
Quenton sighed deeply, looking almost regretful. "I am sorry, old friend, but I cannot help you this time."
Harrold stood there stunned, unable to believe what he was hearing. Reality finally hit him like a cold slap. This was truly happening.
This was the end.
He was going to be executed.
"You have made a powerful enemy, Harrold, one I cannot help you with," Quenton said, his voice filled with resignation.
"That's it then? After all I did to help you?" Harrold muttered, his voice a mix of disbelief and betrayal.
"It's not personal, Harrold. You have become a liability, and I have found myself a very powerful friend, a friend that wants you gone," Quenton said, taking a sip from his goblet, his demeanor calm and composed.
"The prince? You woud abandon me for a bastard prince?" Harrold asked, his voice rising in indignation.
"Yes," Quenton said without missing a beat.
"There are no friends or enemies in the game of thrones, Harrold, only interests. You were useful until you weren't," Quenton added, his tone cold and pragmatic.
"You... you..." Harrold began to say, seething with anger. "If I go down, I will take you all down with me."
"That is only if they capture you alive, Harrold," Quenton said, much to Harrold's shock.
"What?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Prince Maekar plans to kill you, Harrold," Quenton said, standing up and making a face of worry.
"But... but I am a lord. I have rights," Harrold stammered, his confidence crumbling.
"It is what the prince has planned. I only tell you this because of our previous alliance," Quenton said, his voice filled with false concern. "Run, Harrold," Quenton said, coming closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You have to leave the city."
Quenton then leaned in close to Harrold's ear. "You will never know who you will find on the way back home."
Harrold was confused by Quenton's words that did not last as the anger returned. How dare he tell him to run? This city was his kingdom.
In a fit of rage, Harrold lunged at Quenton, his hands outstretched. But before he could get close, Quenton's sword shield, the man with the hound-shaped helm, intervened. With a swift, brutal movement, the man grabbed Harrold by the collar and threw him across the room. Harrold crashed into a small table, splintering it under his weight. The wind was knocked out of him, and he lay there gasping, his face contorted with pain and fury.
"Sandor, see the former commander out," Quenton said with a smile, sitting down again and casually sipping his drink.
"Come on, you cunt," Sandor said, grabbing Harrold by the scruff of his neck and dragging him out of the manse. Harrold struggled and cursed, but Sandor's grip was like iron. The tall man hauled him through the garden, past the guards who watched impassively, and out into the street.
The sun had set, and the city was cloaked in darkness. Sandor released Harrold with a rough shove, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones.
"You heard him. Run," Sandor said, his voice a low growl, before turning and re-entering the manse, leaving Harrold alone in the cold night.
=================
Harrold stumbled back to his manse, his mind a storm of rage and desperation. The dim light from the few lit candles cast eerie shadows on the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear. He pushed open the door to his solar, his sanctuary now turned into a den of despair.
He slumped into a chair, the darkness of the room mirroring the turmoil in his mind. Quenton's words echoed in his head, a relentless reminder of his predicament. "Run, run," they whispered, taunting him.
"I have no choice… I have to do this… Yes, yes, this might work," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination.
He stood abruptly, his resolve hardening. He had to act quickly if he was to survive. He moved to the door and called for his guards, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with urgency. Within moments, two guards appeared, their faces tense and alert.
"I need you to go to the western barracks," he commanded, his voice growing stronger. "Gather a hundred of our most loyal men. Armored and ready to leave in a few hours."
The guards exchanged worried glances but nodded, knowing better than to question their lord in his current state. They hurried out of the room, their footsteps echoing in the silent hallway.
Left alone, Hayford sank back into his chair, his hands gripping the armrests tightly.
"I can still win," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
.
.
