Chapter 92 – Loose Ends
"Southward rides the king's host, another year…"
Had Symond Staunton—Lord of Rook's Rest, Master of Laws—ever studied poetry, perhaps only a verse like that could have captured his emotions at this moment.
For the instant he saw the rising plume of dust and heard the pounding hooves thundering up the King's Road behind them, Symond's eyes flooded with tears.
Seven above—
They were here!
They'd finally come!
The loyal royal host!
His salvation!
He nearly leapt from the moving carriage to run toward them like a maiden meeting her lover—
But a certain large Baratheon head popped out beside him, and Symond's eagerness shriveled instantly.
"Seven hells…" Robert growled, squinting at the distant riders. "They're faster than I expected."
Then his green eyes slid toward Symond.
Symond froze.
Did he notice something?
Did he discover the trail markers?
Did he—
Cold steel pressed against his ribs.
Robert had drawn a dagger.
"Drive into the woods. Now."
His voice was a harsh whisper of urgency.
Ordinarily, a noble Baratheon holding a dagger to a commoner's ribs would have been a scandal.
But after kidnapping the crown prince, reputation was already long dead and buried.
Symond's entire body screamed to jump off the seat and run, but Robert's hand clamped the back of his collar—strong as a bear snatching a cub.
"You godsdamned Baratheon brute…" Symond cursed silently, swallowing his terror as he yanked the reins and steered the horses into the treeline.
The carriage plunged into the forest.
CRASH!!
Behind them, the lead rider pulled up sharply.
"They've hit a tree! Move!"
The troop surged forward and barreled into the woods.
It didn't take long—following the ruts—to find the carriage crushed sideways between two massive oaks, its frame splintered.
The horses lay collapsed on the ground, struggling feebly and whinnying in pain, having been driven headlong into the trees.
At the captain's gesture, two armored riders dismounted, drew their swords, and approached the carriage cautiously.
One lifted the curtain—
Then the other leapt inside—
Only to reemerge moments later, confused.
"No one inside, Ser Valentyn!"
"Captain Valentyn, you idiot!" the man snarled, cuffing him sharply.
But seeing the young knight's wounded expression, he sighed, forced himself to calm, and lowered his voice.
"Look at what we're wearing, Brother Watt. Today we're not septons. We are King's Landing Goldcloaks."
He leaned close.
"The holy war begins soon. We must take care. We can't reveal ourselves—not now."
The young man straightened, face flushing in embarrassment.
"Yes, Captain Valentyn…"
He pressed his hands together reverently.
"Seven guide us."
"Seven guide us!" nearly twenty "Goldcloaks" echoed together, repeating the gesture in perfect unison.
Valentyn's eye twitched.
Gods help me… I'm leading a troop of fanatical septons in gold cloaks.
These holy-war zealots were unquestionably devout—no one could deny that.
Their faith in the Seven burned bright enough to scorch stone.
But gods, their brains ran on a single track.
Then again, men who were too clever would never fall under the… guidance—no, the "inspiration"—of the Faith Militant.
Blind devotion required a certain… simplicity.
Still, for all their lack of subtlety, years of drilling under him and Ser Bonifer Hasty had shaped them into a genuinely formidable fighting force.
As long as they remembered to be careful, nothing should go wrong today.
Probably.
--
"They can't have gone far."
Once the prayers concluded, Valentyn swung off his horse and inspected the forest floor.
The undergrowth bore scattered signs of trampling—too many, in fact.
The fugitives had deliberately muddled the trail.
"Split up!"
After a moment's thought, Valentyn barked orders:
"You take a squad and sweep the eastern ridge. I'll take the other.
They've lost their horses—they can't outrun us on foot.
If you spot them, shout immediately."
"Yes, Brother Valent— err— Captain Valentyn!"
Watt gave a clumsy salute, gathered his men, and rode deeper into the woods.
"Hide your identity," Valentyn called after him, face twitching, "and stop calling me brother, Watt—"
"Yes, Brother Valentyn!!"
The answer echoed loud enough to scare birds from the branches.
Valentyn closed his eyes.
Several "Goldcloaks" around him fought to keep straight faces.
"Move out," he muttered darkly. "We will complete Brother Bonifer's mission. One way or another."
With that, he mounted up and led his squad in the opposite direction.
---
Blackwater Riverbank
Before a bloated, half-decayed corpse lying in the shallows, Ser Lance Lot—newly appointed Lord Commander—narrowed his eyes, irritation brewing in his chest.
The kidnapping itself still made no sense.
He could think of no reason why the Stark girl and the Baratheon heir would infiltrate the Red Keep together—much less abduct the prince of the realm.
But the corpse before him told a clear story.
Someone murdered the ferryman.
Someone wanted no witnesses.
If they were innocent, they would not have slit the throat of a harmless boatman.
"Any other witnesses?"
Lance turned to Janos Slynt, now standing stiff as a spear beside him.
With so few clues, they could barely guess the fugitives' route.
And now, their only lead lay dead and waterlogged.
"None so far, ser," Janos replied, puffing his chest.
He stood tall, trying desperately to appear dependable before the new Lord Commander.
Ambition burned behind his eyes.
In only a few days, Sir Lance Lot had risen from a mere Kingsguard knight to Lord Commander, and on top of that, the king had entrusted him with command of the entire City Watch.
If he could win this man's favor…
Why shouldn't Janos Slynt someday become commander himself?
Why shouldn't he surpass Stokeworth, or any other noble buffoon?
Lance ignored the man's ridiculous posturing.
Instead, his attention slid to the gleaming bald head of the eunuch beside him.
Seven help me… that shine could blind a dragon.
Varys felt the stare and calmly continued:
"My little birds saw them board this man's boat, ser.
After that, the trail goes cold."
If even Varys had no idea where they'd gone…
That meant finding them before something happened to Rhaegar would be damned near impossible.
Damn it…
I promised the old man.
Much as Lance disliked Rhaegar's arrogant airs, he was still the king's son.
If he died, it would shatter the crown's authority.
A king who couldn't protect his heir would never keep the loyalty of his lords.
Lance clicked his tongue.
Just then, a piercing flash of light struck his eyes.
He shielded his face.
Varys?
No… even his scalp wasn't that reflective.
Someone—somewhere—was signaling him.
Lowering his hand, Lance looked toward the source.
Atop the distant hill of Visenya's Hill, sunlight glinted from the bronze statue of Aegon the Conqueror's sister, bouncing off the polished surface like a deliberate signal.
"Start searching the houses," Lance ordered Janos.
"Every one. Don't overlook a single detail."
"Yes, ser!"
Janos saluted sharply and rushed off with his men.
Only after the riders dispersed did Lance fix his gaze on Visenya's Hill and stride toward it, suspicion hardening in his eyes.
.