The game Kaden Storm and his men were playing was a butcher's dance. Steel met steel with the terrifying ring of intent, and blood sprayed the muddy courtyard of the inn.
In the Golden Dawn, training was a blood sport. With Sunwalkers standing by to weave Solar Grace, recruits were pushed past the fear of injury. It was the Order's touchstone: a man who could not face the bite of a blade without flinching would never channel the Light. They were sent back to the fields, their chance at ascension lost. This bred a culture of terrifying recklessness—men who gambled with their lives because they knew the Sun could mend what the sword broke.
"Is there a purse?" Carlo Schmidt asked, watching a warrior narrow his eyes against a flurry of strikes.
"A gold dragon," a soldier replied, never looking away. "Sir Kaden promised a treat for the whole company to whoever can land a killing blow on him. He says the High Lords of the Red Keep pay well for his 'errands.' A dragon is just a drop in the sea."
Carlo shook his head. He had been a Gold Cloak long enough to know that "noble gold" came with strings of silk and steel. Kaden was either a saint who viewed wealth as dirt or far richer than a man of his rank should be. Either way, he was a man worth knowing.
As the fifth challenger fell, Kaden knelt, casting a pulse of Light. The man's gashed side knitted together in a flicker of gold. Kaden dropped a coin into the man's palm. "Go. Buy wine for the brothers. Let them drink until the sun sets."
On the second floor of the Lucky Clover, the talk turned to business.
"We are here on a dual mission," Marin Sharp said, opening a small cedar box. Inside lay rows of translucent, milky-white cubes. They caught the dim light like cut quartz.
"Sugar?" Kaden asked, popping one into his mouth. His eyes widened. "By the Smith... it's pure."
"The Lightbringer's design," Carlo said. "We submit a letter of surrender to Lord Tywin, but we open the market with this. The Old Lion might not care for sweets, but he cares for the wealth of the Riverlands. If we can monopolize the trade, the Alliance becomes indispensable."
"It's a gamble," Kaden noted. "The city is a tinderbox. I was a squadron leader until Sansa Stark vanished on my watch. Now I'm back to patrolling the gates. Tywin is purging the Watch after Stannis's assault. Half my old friends are either dead or in the dungeons."
"And the Imp?" Carlo pressed.
"Doomed," Kaden said flatly. "He denies everything, but the pile of witnesses is higher than the Wall. Lord Tywin wants a head to appease the Queen. The trial is a formality."
The next morning, Carlo and Marin waited at the Red Keep from dawn until the sun hit its zenith. They were nobodies in a sea of petitioners.
A shadow suddenly fell across the square. A horse, black and massive as a titan's mount, trotted toward the gates. Atop it sat a giant.
Marin turned deathly pale. He grabbed Carlo, hauling him out of the horse's path. They stood with heads bowed, sweat slicking their brows. Ser Gregor Clegane didn't stop. He gave them a single, predatory glance—the look a wolf gives to sheep it isn't yet hungry enough to kill—and rode into the Keep.
"The Mountain," Carlo whispered, his voice shaking. "I felt like a beast was marking me for the slaughter."
"If he's here," Marin murmured, "Harrenhal is unguarded. I hope the Lightbringer is watching."
By afternoon, the castle erupted with the news: Tyrion Lannister had demanded a Trial by Combat.
The Queen's champion: Ser Gregor Clegane.
The Imp's champion: Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne.
"Dorne?" Carlo was bewildered. "Why risk the Viper for a Lannister dwarf?"
"Revenge," Marin explained grimly. "The Mountain raped and murdered Princess Elia during the Sack. Oberyn isn't fighting for Tyrion. He's fighting for his sister's ghost."
The sun struggled against a heavy, gray overcast as the crowds packed the outer courtyard of the Red Keep. They were on the walls, the balconies, and the rooftops.
Kaden Storm found a window for them in the Gold Cloak barracks. From there, they saw Prince Oberyn stride out. He wore only light, red-lacquered leather. In his hand was a slender Dornish spear, its head gleaming with a wicked, silver light. His face was handsome and pitiless, his black eyes dancing with a manic excitement.
Then came the Mountain.
Eight feet of muscle and steel. He carried a six-foot greatsword in one hand and a shield thick as an oak plank. His armor was a fortress of dark gray plate, scarred by a hundred battles. On his shield, the three black dogs of Clegane had been painted over with a massive Seven-Pointed Star.
"If the Mountain represents the Gods," Kaden muttered from the shadows of the window, "then the Seven are blind and false."
Below, the High Septon, draped in crystals and gold, raised his hands. He called for the Father's justice.
Lord Tywin sat on a raised dais, his expression as cold as a winter tomb. He glanced once at his dwarf son, then raised his arm.
The trumpets screamed. The dance of the Viper and the Mountain began.