"So, you two turned the City Watch barracks into a pit-fight over a pair of hedge knights from the Trident?"
Ser Addam Marbrand's eyes were narrowed, the veins on his forehead bulging with a fury that threatened to boil over. "You are soldiers of the King's Peace, not sellswords in a Braavosi alley! Keep your gutter habits out of my sight."
Kaden Storm and Ralf Koch stood in the command tent, heads bowed. Kaden's knuckles were white, his jaw set in a mask of silent frustration. Opposite him, Ralf Koch looked a ruin—one eye was swollen shut, his face a mosaic of purple and blue bruises.
Marbrand kicked a stool across the tent, sending it clattering against a heavy oak table. "Gods be damned, the Gold Cloaks are a festering wound! I should gut the lot of you and start over. Get out! If I see your faces before the moon turns, I'll have them on spikes!"
The two officers backed out of the tent in silence. Once outside, Ralf Koch leaned in close to Kaden, his breath smelling of sour wine and hatred. "You think you're clever, boy? Don't let me find you alone in the dark."
Kaden met his gaze with eyes like flint. He said nothing. He didn't need to. Marbrand's voice roared from inside the tent again: "Go!"
Ralf spat on the ground and limped away toward the Dragon Gate. Kaden watched him vanish before turning toward the Red Keep.
Kaden had spent the night ensuring Carlo Schmidt and Marin Sharp were safely hidden within the High Sparrow's refugee camp. He had coordinated his story with the guards who lent him the surcoats, greasing their palms with the last of his spare coin.
Marbrand had "raised the hammer high but let it fall soft." He knew the treasury was empty. The Crown hadn't paid the Watch in two moons, and men like Ralf Koch were only staying because they could squeeze the smallfolk. To punish Ralf for extortion would invite a mutiny; to punish Kaden for the rescue would appear as if the Commander condoned brigandage. Silence was the only peace the city could afford.
Kaden found his comrades in the shadow of the Great Sept of Baelor. The camp was a sprawling mire of damp canvas and human misery—the forgotten corner of the capital.
"We owe you our necks, Kaden," Carlo said, gripping his hand. "When we get back to the Gods Eye, the first cask of Sun-Sugar ale is yours."
"Return as soon as you can," Kaden warned. "The city is a tinderbox. With Tywin dead, the Lions will be looking for ghosts to blame. Move in small groups. Ralf Koch is a bitter man; he has mercenary friends who would kill for a copper star."
Viktor nodded, his eyes full of concern. "And you? You're alone here now."
"I'll stay behind the walls of the Red Keep," Kaden said. "Not even Ralf is stupid enough to storm the King's castle."
As Kaden crossed the Visenya's Hill, the grand marble of the Great Sept loomed over the squalor of the refugees. The bells began to toll—a heavy, mourning sound.
A column of Gold Cloaks led by Addam Marbrand approached. Kaden stood aside, fist to his chest in salute.
"Still here, Storm?" Marbrand asked, his tone less sharp than before.
"I came to seek the Father's mercy for my failings, Commander," Kaden lied smoothly. "But the brothers told me the Lord Hand's remains are within, and the doors are barred."
Marbrand's expression softened slightly. "Wait for the brothers. The Queen and King Tommen are coming to pay their respects. Stay with the line. The Red Keep guards are spread thin today."
Kaden fell in. He watched as the royal procession arrived—the White Cloaks of the Kingsguard in their shimmering plate, followed by fifty Lannister guards in crimson and gold.
The High Septon waited at the top of the stairs. He was an old man, his back so bent it seemed his ornate crystal crown was the only thing keeping him upright. Beside the fierce, unwavering conviction of the High Sparrow, this man looked like a fragile bird made of glass and silk.
Queen Cersei knelt on the cold marble, her face a mask of regal grief, forcing young Tommen to do the same. As the nobles filed into the Sept, Kaden and his squad were ordered to clear the streets for the return journey.
He felt the heat of the crowds' stares as they pushed vendors' carts into the mud. Every street corner held a pair of eyes filled with a simmering, silent hatred for the Gold Cloaks. It was a pressure that sat heavy on Kaden's shoulders.
Back within the Red Keep, Kaden was preparing to head to his barracks when a page caught him. "You! And those two—come with me. Now!"
Kaden followed the boy to the base of Maegor's Holdfast. An old man in black robes emerged—Qyburn. He looked like a kindly grandfather, with more gray hair than white and a perpetual, gentle smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Only three?" Qyburn tutted, looking at Kaden and the others. "It takes more than three to move Ser Gregor Clegane. You, page—you help as well."
"Me? But I serve the King's table—"
"The Queen's command outweighs the King's appetite," Qyburn said softly.
They entered a timbered building near the outer wall. Before they reached the door, Kaden heard it: a low, guttural moaning that vibrated through the floorboards. It was the sound of a beast dying in a trap.
Inside, the Mountain lay naked on a wooden slab.
His body was a map of horror. His veins had turned a bruised black, standing out against his pale skin like ink. The hole where the Viper's spear had pierced him had turned into a weeping, fist-sized crater that refused to knit. The smell was unbearable—the scent of rot and burnt meat.
"Is that... Ser Gregor?" Kaden whispered.
"The greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms," Qyburn said, his voice almost tender. "The venom is slow. It savors its work. Even the Milk of the Poppy is useless now; the Ser's squires say he drank it like ale for years to dull his headaches. His blood is now a soup of poison and magic."
Qyburn shook his head. "The Citadel's fossils would let him rot. I, however, understand the dance between life and death better than they. I will make him stronger. But the process is... loud. The Queen wishes him moved to the black cells for 'privacy.' Lift him."
It took all four of them to move the giant. He was a mountain of dead weight, radiating a feverish heat that felt like a furnace. As they carried the stretcher through the dark tunnels of the dungeon, Gregor's shrieks echoed off the stone like the wailing of a demon.
Kaden looked at the ruined giant. He wondered if his own Light could purge such darkness. Then he remembered the tales of the Mountain's atrocities in the Riverlands.
Let him wail, Kaden thought. Let the poison have its due.
As they laid the Mountain on a stone table in the depths, Kaden heard Qyburn whisper one last question to the page: "The remnants of that skull sent down from the Wall... do you know where the mummers put it?"
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/zefyrus