Misfits and Maniacs Part VII
Fourteenth Day of the Third Month 293 AC
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Ceria winced when the door a few rooms over slammed closed, the travelling medico sighing audibly at such intemperance, one Braavosi who she had paid generously to ask no questions as he treated not only Ser Bywater and his men's wounds--and it was lucky for the Knight he had not lost too many in last week's troubling events, for he would already have much to answer for with the destruction that was wrought--but that of her companions. Ting was in good spirits at least, and in good
spirits. And Denys had been the only one to make it out of that fight against the Quickling fey ring-leader on his own two feet. Criston would be recovering a few days more, and not having a good time of it, as he had been bade not to drink.
If she had been told just what tricksome fey had vexed and outwitted them so, she would have felt doubly humiliated. But whatever was behind this one, or what other strength of character, wits or legend preceded them, this one was seemingly beyond their ken, always one step ahead, always with the right gewgaw or potion on hand, and a different blade for every call to arms, none of common make.
They'd lost the trail. Flatly, there was no more leads to pull them this way or that. They had killed the street dealers, yet the remaining supply was still in circulation, enough of it pouring through people's veins and changing hands that even without steady suppliers feeding the trade, the city would be dealing with its effects for months.
The Goldcloaks had hidden the humiliation by coming down on three or more street gangs with connections to the chaos earlier in the month, and they had not been careful about keeping ordinary folk out of the way of harm, something that much aggrieved both Denys, but also Ser Jacelyn Bywater. While she couldn't do anything for the former, she almost felt she should do something for the latter. But he hadn't asked for any help explaining that business at the docks to the Lord Commander of the Watch, and she hadn't a mind to argue for pity's sake.
If she had to put a number to the witless dead that couldn't be saved from this utter failure which she was forced to bear, it would definitely be over a hundred altogether. From the continued simmering resentment, addiction and acted-on grudges, maybe hundreds more. The Goldcloaks had other things to worry about with something targeting them personally, in their homes, in and around their haunts. They would not be coming to rescue Fleabottom from itself, and the streets were almost certain to run red with the blood of innocents.
She grit her teeth, trying not to seethe.
This had been my chance, she thought.
Denys entered without her notice, slowly easing into the chair across from her. She folded her shoulders, not willing to look him in the eye.
"It's not your fault," he replied to her unspoken thought. "We did what we could, but there's always a limit to what decent people in a bad situation can do. We found ours sooner." Even as he spoke, he didn't seem like he believed his own words. He hated not being able to do more, and damn common sense saying otherwise, but she knew the words for what they were worth. A door out.
"If not our fault, who's then?" She wondered idly. Through the air itself, the thought was implicit between them that the King could have done more, for he ruled from Aegon's High Hill and could make edict or justice out of any who stood to oppose him. But she knew that was all that passed between them, for while she understood such as merely an opportunity, he felt the sting of bitter regret and even hatred.
He didn't carry hatred well, it didn't sit upon his shoulders right, and she understood in their brief time working together that he was a decent man, looking to make sense of a world gone mad.
"This is where we part ways, I suppose," she mused, almost disappointed it had come to an end.
"Whatever did this," Denys said instead, slowly, building up to something, "It hasn't just left all us silly normal folk to our own devices, to squabble over the spilled milk. These things are still out there, working to bleed honest people dry, to kill and mutilate and desecrate. And all the while, silence from..." he paused, almost not knowing how to refer to the Stag up in the Red Keep, drinking his way into nightly stupors, some say from the Iron Throne itself.
"Go on," she baited, a small smirk touching her lips. "Usurper?" She guessed at his poison of choice. Men and their ideals...
"Arch-Traitor," he muttered. She shook her head.
"You think Robert Baratheon gave a mind what people called him when he battled Rhaegar in the Red Fork's waters? Allegedly battling over some woman?" She couldn't bother to pay a mind to what might have precipitated that conflict which hung like a cloak from this frustrating man's shoulders, only that he doubted it had really been over Lyanna Stark, or even who would have made a better King.
It had been all ego, she thought. Ego and madness. Given the High Lords continued to play their games, heedless of the harm their people were coming to, she found it difficult to see past the yawning void in her already hardened heart for the likes of rulers and the plans they laid.
"What I know," Denys replied quietly, "Is that the only King I mean to bend my knee to wouldn't stand by and let these atrocities take place."
"What proof do you even have that Viserys Targaryen, who you seem to know so well, would care one whit for the suffering of the people in King's Landing? Where he might have been born, but certainly did not grow up?" For all that they say that the Dragon is ever looming upon the Western shore, he seemed inordinately preoccupied with matters of the East. Even if he meant no ill by it, she found it hard to believe he shed as many tears over the people dead from this spree of crimes than he did for the Usurper's dogs barking loudest over who's ass belonged upon the iron eyesore a mile or more away.
"There's one way to find out," he said quietly. "What more binds us here, but the paths we take?"
She thought long and hard, then. Handing over the sweat from her brow to another who seemed simply
born for greatness, rankled at her slightly.
But then she caught Denys' eye and breathed out a sigh.
"No ship is sailing right now, not with the harbor all riled..."
"We'll bide our time. Or ride south." And of course he had a readied reply waiting, smiling like a puppy who'd just been fed the whole bone.
"Oh? Fancy yourself a good rider, do you?" And as a personal gift to herself, Denys was much more handsome looking when he blushed. "Come on. Tell me about your skills..."