That night, the moon was dark and the wind fierce.
Several hundred Braavos sellswords, long prepared, suddenly rose in rebellion. They struck first at the Westerlands troops guarding the key passages throughout Dun Fort.
The fighting erupted in an instant.
Shouts and clashes shattered the silence of the night.
The rebels were numerous and well organized. The defenders were driven back step by step as the attackers pushed rapidly toward the core of the fortress.
Yet things did not go entirely according to plan.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack of the Kingsguard, a knight of House Kettleblack who had risen through Cersei's favor and his own slick opportunism, showed an unexpected sharpness and ferocity at this critical moment.
Leading a patrol by chance, he ran straight into rebels attempting to secretly open the inner gate.
"In the King's name, halt!"
Osmund shouted, drawing his sword and charging forward.
He moved swiftly, cutting down a rebel leader in a single exchange.
But his valor exposed him.
More rebels surged in, blades crowding around him.
Osmund fought on, striking down two more men, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Several spears pierced him from behind, and he fell where he stood.
His death bought precious warning time for the others inside the castle.
Chaos spread rapidly through Dun Fort.
The remaining two Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount and Ser Barron Swann, rushed to rally what soldiers they could and organized a defense.
Savage fighting broke out in the narrow corridors and winding staircases.
The Braavos sellswords attacked like madmen, driven by gold and the need to survive. The Westerlands soldiers fought just as desperately, holding their ground out of loyalty and fear of death.
Ser Boros Blount roared as he swung his longsword, hacking down rebel after rebel, until he was finally overwhelmed and cut apart.
Ser Barron Swann held a stairwell alone, his blade flashing like a silver serpent. He slew more than a dozen attackers, their bodies nearly clogging the passage.
In the end, arrows struck him again and again, and he fell after fighting to his last breath.
With the Kingsguard dying one by one, the fall of Dun Fort was all but inevitable.
The moment the uprising began, the seasoned Kevan made no attempt to organize a counterattack.
He knew that if the sellswords dared rebel, their numbers must be overwhelming. The situation was already beyond saving.
His first instinct was to reach the king.
He burst into the royal bedchamber to find young King Tommen huddled in the corner of his bed, shaking with fear.
"Quickly, Tommen! Come with me!"
Kevan hauled him up at once, not even giving him time to change clothes.
In the corridor, they ran into Addam Marbrand and Damion Lannister, who had also rushed in with a small group of loyal guards.
"My Lord Hand! Your Grace!" Ser Addam said urgently. "There are too many rebels. Dun Fort won't hold!"
"Take the northwest gate," Damion added. His face was smeared with blood, evidence of fresh fighting. "It may not be completely sealed yet."
Tommen's face went white, his voice trembling.
"My mother… what about my mother?"
Kevan's heart twisted, but he forced himself to be ruthless.
He gripped Tommen's arm tightly, his voice hoarse and urgent.
"There's no time, Tommen. You are the king. You are our last hope. Right now, you must think only of your own safety. Go!"
He gave Tommen no chance to hesitate. Almost dragging him along, Kevan rushed toward the relatively secluded northwest gate, protected by Addam, Damion, and a handful of loyal soldiers.
They encountered only scattered rebels along the way, who were swiftly cut down.
...
At the same time, inside the lavish chambers of the Queen Mother.
Cersei cowered behind the heavy curtains, her entire body trembling.
The shouts, clashes, and screams outside seemed to drag her back to the riot in King's Landing. The distorted faces of the mob and their filthy hands felt as if they were right in front of her once again.
She clamped her hands over her ears and curled into a tight ball, her mind screaming a single name over and over.
"Jaime… Jaime… save me… please, save me…"
Just as despair was about to swallow her whole, the doors to the bedchamber were smashed open.
A massive figure filled the doorway, blocking out the firelight and chaos beyond.
It was the Mountain, Gregor Clegane.
He wore his heavy white armor, smeared thick with blood. In his left hand he held a terrifying two-handed greatsword, its blade still dripping red.
Behind him followed more than a dozen Westerlands soldiers, all of them battered and blood-soaked from fighting.
"Your Grace!"
The Mountain crossed the room in a few long strides, his voice deep and booming.
His sheer bulk radiated a suffocating pressure, but to Cersei, he was the only salvation left in the world.
"Go."
The command was blunt and final. He slung the nearly limp Cersei over his shoulder and turned, charging straight back out.
"Stop them!"
The rebels spotted their target and surged forward in a frenzy.
The Mountain let out a monstrous roar and swept his greatsword in a brutal arc.
The force was horrifying. The three rebels in front were cut cleanly in half, men and weapons alike, blood and entrails splashing across the floor.
The sight shattered the rebels' nerve, their advance stalling in terror.
Seizing the moment, the Mountain barreled forward with Cersei on his shoulder, a living battering ram charging toward a small gate of Dun Fort.
Anyone who tried to block his path was smashed aside by raw, overwhelming strength and the enormous blade in his hands.
Limbs flew. Screams echoed without end.
He needed no finesse. Pure power and killing instinct were enough to carve a path through flesh and steel.
Cersei was jolted so violently she nearly retched, the clash of weapons and dying screams pounding in her ears.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, terror overwhelming her, yet a sliver of frantic hope took root deep inside.
They fought their way forward and finally reached the small gate.
The Mountain kicked the two rebels guarding it aside, still carrying Cersei, and burst out of the burning Dun Fort, vanishing into the darkness beyond Duskendale.
…
Only when Dun Fort was ablaze and the sounds of slaughter filled the night did the allied camp outside finally stir.
Young Aegon and the others were jolted awake and rushed from their tents, hastily throwing on armor.
"What's going on?!"
Young Aegon stared at the chaos engulfing Duskendale, shock and suspicion written across his face.
Before long, reports came in from the forward scouts.
A massive uprising had broken out inside the city.
Suspected mercenary mutiny.
Jon Connington, seasoned and sharp-eyed, immediately grasped the opportunity.
"Your Grace, this is our chance. The city must be in complete chaos. We should attack at once."
Young Aegon's excitement flared. He immediately ordered a full-scale assault.
This time, the attack went astonishingly smoothly.
Facing almost no real resistance, the allied forces quickly scaled the walls and threw open the gates.
The army poured into Duskendale like a flood.
Mounted on horseback, Young Aegon watched with elation as his black banner bearing the red dragon was planted atop the walls.
But soon, word reached him that Kevan and Tommen had apparently escaped through the northwest gate, and Cersei was nowhere to be found.
"They must not be allowed to get away, especially that false king Tommen!"
Young Aegon issued the order at once.
"Lord Jon, Ser Harry, take thirty thousand elite troops and pursue them along their route of escape. Do not let them return to the Westerlands."
Jon Connington and Harry Strickland accepted the command. They immediately gathered their finest Golden Company soldiers along with Dothraki light cavalry, rode out of Duskendale, and chased westward at full speed.
...
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