There is only one god, and His name is Death.
And there is only one thing we say to Death: “Not today.”
– Game of Thrones
***
King’s Landing shuddered when word of the Greyjoy attack upon Lannisport swept through the walls of the Red Keep and spilled into the streets below.
A day that had begun in its usual bustle suddenly took on a different hue.
Market squares emptied, and anxious whispers filled every corner of the city.
Men abandoned their work and broke off conversations to listen as town criers shouted the news of war.
King Robert Baratheon, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, was furious.
Since the night before, he had raged through the Throne Room, stomping across the marble floor like an enraged stag preparing for battle.
His face, flushed crimson with anger, gleamed in the torchlight, and his voice rolled through the hall like thunder.
The Iron Islands had not merely destroyed the Lannister fleet, an outcome that, deep in his heart, Robert could not say displeased him.
If he was not glad of it, he certainly took some satisfaction in it, having long disliked and distrusted his former Hand.
Yet by striking at the house of his queen, they had challenged his rule itself and wounded his royal pride.
The raven bearing Balon Greyjoy’s ultimatum only plunged him deeper into wrath.
The Lord of the Iron Islands declared his intention to break away from the Seven Kingdoms and reclaim independence.
The fact that Robert himself had won the Iron Throne through rebellion troubled him not in the slightest.
“I’ll drown those filthy krakens in their own sea!” Robert thundered, waving the goblet clutched in his fist as though it were a battle-axe.
Within the council chamber, where discussions of taxes and treaties usually echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, Robert Baratheon’s voice now dominated an emergency session.
Standing over a map of the Westerlands, the king seemed less a man than a blade heated white-hot in the forge, ready to fall upon his enemies.
“We must move before Tywin, Jon!” he barked when Jon Arryn urged caution and proper preparation.
His grip tightened around the goblet until the delicate gilding at its rim cracked and the metal itself began to bend.
“I’ll show them what it means to challenge King Robert!”
“We need to gather troops and secure supplies,” Arryn replied.
Though he knew delay was dangerous, recklessness could prove just as deadly.
“Ravens must be sent.
Allied forces must be assembled.
It takes time, Robert.
Tywin understands that as well.
He won’t rush.”
Robert fell silent for a moment, calculating how swiftly they could make the necessary arrangements.
As a commander, he understood the truth of Arryn’s words.
Yet every instinct in him demanded battle at once.
“The royal fleet stands ready,” Stannis declared after a moment.
Unlike many men, he took his duties seriously and had complete confidence in those under his command.
“I have several ideas for defeating them at sea and securing passage to the islands.”
“Excellent, brother!” Robert roared with laughter, addressing the grim Stannis with unusual warmth.
“Then do it!”
The king paced the chamber, his heavy footsteps echoing from the stone walls.
He looked less a monarch than a war leader already in the midst of a campaign.
His massive figure, draped in black and gold, towered above the gathered lords.
His eyes burned.
There was something primal in his fury, something almost magnetic.
In a matter of moments, the jovial drunkard who had sunk into years of indulgence vanished.
In his place stood the man whom armies had followed and feared.
The Demon of the Trident.
“Ravens!” he bellowed at the scribes.
“To Ned, the Tullys, the Tyrells…
everyone!
Let all men know that we march to war against these squids!
Every sword!
Every ship!” His voice rose still higher.
“Let them have our wrath!”
The discussion of the campaign and its opening moves consumed long hours.
Letters flew to Winterfell, Riverrun, Highgarden, and every corner of the realm, carrying a call to arms.
From dawn onward, the streets of King’s Landing surged with activity.
Recruiters wandered from district to district, calling upon every man capable of wielding a sword to join the king’s levies.
Their cries rose above the ring of smiths’ hammers and the steady knocking of shipwrights laboring to ready vessels for departure.
“Glory awaits upon the battlefield!” they shouted.
“King Robert promises wealth and victory to all who ride with him to defend the honor of the crown!”
The harbor boiled with life.
Ships of every kind, from aging merchant cogs to fearsome war galleys, prepared to sail.
Sailors hastily gathered from nearby villages and city districts loaded weapons, provisions, and barrels of pitch.
The wind carried the scent of salt, mingled with coal smoke and sweat.
The city hummed like a disturbed hive.
Common folk hoarded food, fearing famine and rising prices.
Nobles argued over who would accompany the king and who would remain behind the walls.
Intrigues multiplied.
Alliances were weighed.
Plans were whispered.
And the king himself…
Tired yet invigorated, Robert returned to his chambers.
The thick air smelled of old wood, leather, and wine.
The room felt like the stillness before a storm, much like the one raging within his own soul.
The gilded bracelets on his wrists clinked softly as he shrugged off his heavy cloak and tossed it onto a nearby table.
A goblet of wine awaited him there.
He reached for it like an old friend.
His lips touched the rim, yet he paused, gazing into the crimson liquid.
It looked so very much like blood.
For all his anger, Robert was truly happy in that moment.
“This will be a glorious battle,” he muttered, staring into the red depths of the wine as though he could see the coming tempest swirling within.
“Gods damn me, how I’ve waited for this.”
*
Humfrey Waters stepped into the dark corridor of the Red Keep’s dungeons.
Night was giving way to the pale light of dawn, yet the lieutenant felt as though the darkness had never ended.
The exhaustion of a sleepless night throbbed behind his eyes, but he could not allow himself rest before finishing what needed to be done.
At the heavy door leading to the cells stood Soles, a bulky gaoler with a perpetually sweating neck.
Irritation struck Humfrey the instant he saw him.
“Where’s the boy?” he demanded without bothering with a greeting.
Soles looked up from a ring of keys and blinked as though surprised anyone had spoken to him at all.
“What boy?”
“The one I brought in yesterday.” Irritation sharpened Humfrey’s voice.
“I’m here for him.
The baker confessed to everything.
The lad stole nothing more than a loaf.
One night in a cell was punishment enough.”
Soles rolled his eyes as he searched his memory.
Then his expression tightened.
“Oh.
That boy.”
“Well?” Humfrey frowned.
“What is it?”
“He…
well…” Soles muttered, rubbing his sweaty palms together.
“There was an incident.”
Soles’s words echoed through Humfrey’s mind.
For a moment, the world seemed to darken.
It took every scrap of self-control not to strike the man. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Humfrey Waters stood before the gaoler breathing heavily, as though he had just completed a forced march in full armor.
The fatigue of his sleepless night had transformed into a dull, simmering rage.
His hand clenched into a fist.
Still, he forced himself not to hit the sweating, trembling man who now looked like a thief caught in the act.
“I asked you,” Humfrey said, his voice cutting through the corridor.
“I asked you to place him in a separate cell until matters were sorted out.
Did you not hear me?”
The gaoler lowered his eyes.
“I…
well…
I didn’t get around to it.
Lots to do.
Too many prisoners…”
He faltered beneath Humfrey’s stare.
“Lots to do?” Humfrey repeated coldly, stepping forward.
“You left a boy locked in a cage with a murderer, and now the boy is a murderer himself!”
“Listen, who could’ve known it’d turn out like this…” the gaoler mumbled.
His face turned even paler when Humfrey did not answer immediately.
The lieutenant’s gaze had become sharp as a blade.
He said nothing.
He did not need to.
The fury in his eyes was plain enough.
“Where is he now?” Humfrey asked at last.
His voice was ice.
A killing, even in self-defense, was a grave matter.
The boy’s fate now rested with Ser Ilyn Payne.
Humfrey could do little except tell the King’s Justice everything he knew.
He rubbed his forehead harshly, struggling to collect his thoughts.
One night.
Only one night.
“I just came on duty,” Soles answered.
“I think they moved him to solitary.
Cell thirteen.”
“At least someone possessed a shred of sense,” Humfrey snapped.
“Take me there.”
Reluctantly, the man turned and led him down a staircase into the depths below.
The journey felt like a nightmare.
The air was damp and cold.
Footsteps echoed endlessly through the stone corridors.
When they reached the massive iron-barred door, Soles stopped abruptly.
Cell thirteen stood empty.
“What the…” he whispered, stunned.
He unlocked the door and hurried inside, searching every corner.
“Maybe they moved him somewhere else?”
“Yes,” Humfrey said dryly.
“Why don’t you keep looking?
Perhaps he’s in another cell.”
The frightened gaoler nearly ran off down the corridor, peering into neighboring cells.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)