Ser Clement stabbed down three or four times, each thrust a dull thud against burnt flesh. The sound was faint but sickening, and it carried through the stunned silence of the hall. The reek of scorched flesh assaulted the knight's nostrils, as he grimaced.
"Is it dead now?" Aegon asked from behind.
Clement turned and glanced up. His jaw worked before he gave a single nod. "Yes, my prince. It breathes no more."
The sound of boots came from the corridor. A file of guards hurried through the doors. They stopped at the sight: the wrecked table, the smoking corpse, the white-cloaked Kingsguard, the Queen behind, and finally Prince Aegon standing in the center of the hall.
"My prince," their captain said, bowing quickly, though his eyes darted wide at the horror before him.
"It was an assassin," Aegon said, his tone clipped. He gestured at the body, its limbs twisted grotesquely on the stone. "Dead now. But there may be more. Double the patrols. No one enters or leaves the castle tonight."
"Yes, my prince." The order carried, and the guards began to fan out.
"Leave men here as well," Aegon added, voice cutting through the shuffle of feet. He nodded toward the huddled servants by the wall. "Guard them until I say otherwise. And make sure the maids are seen to. They are not at fault for this."
The guards nodded and adjusted their spears and numbers.
Then Aegon turned back toward the high table. Ser Raymond sheathed his sword and shifted aside as he approached.
His grandmother reached for him the moment he came close. Her hands clutched his forearms, and though her composure held, her fingers trembled.
Her face was pale, lips pressed tight to keep steady.
"Aegon… are you hurt?"
"I am well, Grandmother," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. He tightened his hands gently over hers, letting her feel his calm.
Gael edged forward, her face drawn and pale, eyes wide with fright.
He gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Truly. I am unharmed."
Lady Jocelyn's gaze flicked to the corpse, her voice low. "And… the assassin?"
"Dead," Aegon said simply. "He cannot rise again."
The Queen's shoulders eased a fraction, but the fear did not leave her eyes. Aegon read it in the quiver at the corner of her mouth, the slight drag of her breath.
"There is nothing more to fear tonight," he said softly, pitching his voice for their ears. "The hall will be secured. But you and the others should return to your chambers until it is so."
He looked to Ser Raymond. "Escort them. Stay with them until I come."
The knight bowed, and Jocelyn guided Gael close, her arm firm around the younger girl. Alysanne lingered, pressing Aegon's arm once more, reluctant to let go. Aegon gave her the faintest nod, calm and unyielding, and only then did she allow herself to be led out, her steps slow and heavy.
The doors shut heavily behind them.
"Head maid," Aegon called.
The woman came forward, pale as milk, hands twisting at her apron. She dipped into a jerky curtsey. "My prince."
"Stand easy," he said, his tone gentler now. "You are not at fault. That creature was no maid. He wore false skin…sorcery."
The woman swallowed hard, relief flickering across her frightened face. "Your mercy… my prince."
"Your task now is to steady the others," Aegon said. His gaze swept over the cluster of women against the wall; some sobbing into each other's shoulders, some staring blankly at the blackened body, their shock carved into their faces. "Keep them calm. I will ask questions after they have settled."
The head maid nodded quickly. "At once."
Aegon's eyes moved to the girl slumped on the floor nearby. Her hair was loose, her face blotched from crying. She rocked where she sat, her sobs spilling raw into the hall. Over and over she murmured the same broken words.
"Anya… my Anya…"
His jaw tightened. "See to her first," he told the head maid. "She grieves. Speak gently. Make certain she is sound before the night ends. Tomorrow, I will hear her myself."
The woman bobbed her head. "Yes, my prince."
"Guard," Aegon called, sharper.
One stepped forward. "My prince?"
"Help her. See that she has water and a bed."
"Yes, my prince."
Then Aegon turned back. "Ser Clement."
The Kingsguard straightened, his armor still gleaming faintly from the firelight. "My prince?"
"Search him…the assassin, and her belongings. Every cloth, every coin, every bag of hers. Bring it to me. And use no bare hands... it may be poisoned."
"As you command," Clement answered, his voice hoarse but steady. He began calling men to him at once.
The stench of charred flesh still lingered, thick and cloying. It mingled repulsively with the scent of the untouched food, rich with herbs and fat.
Moments later, the scrape of chains and the shuffle of robes announced the arrival of the maesters. Two entered, then froze at the sight: the corpse still smoking, the scattered feast, the prince standing calmly in its center.
"My prince…" one stammered. "What—what has happened? The guards told us that…"
"A man came into this hall wearing the face of a maid," Aegon said evenly. "He tried to strike me. He failed."
The younger maester went pale, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the stench caught him. "An assassin?"
"Yes." Aegon's voice was firm. "Write to the Red Keep immediately. The King must be told of what happened tonight."
The elder bowed deeply. "At once, my prince."
Their robes swirled as they hurried out.
Aegon stood at the center of the ruined hall. He drew a slow, steady breath, the air heavy with the mingled scents of food, smoke, and death.
"No more sleep tonight," he murmured, a little tired.
The torchlight flickered against the low ceiling as Ser Clement and two guards stepped into the servants' quarters. A young maid trailed behind them, wringing her hands nervously.
"Where is the maid Anya's bed?" Clement asked.
The girl jumped slightly at being spoken to, then pointed quickly toward a narrow cot pressed against the far wall. "There, ser."
Clement gave a sharp nod. "Search it."
The guards set to work at once, moving with urgency. The mattress was lifted, shaken, and split along the seam. Sheets were pulled loose and tossed aside, the straw stuffing scattered onto the floor. A pillow was torn open, feathers bursting into the air. They rifled through the bag at the bed's foot, shaking out each garment; aprons, a coarse shift, even the smallclothes, checking seams, hems, and linings.
Clement stood watching, arms folded, the young maid hovering beside him, biting her lip.
His thoughts, however, were not on the search.
Fire, blinding and merciless, filling the space before he could even raise his sword. The prince had stood unshaken, flame in hand, striking the assassin down with a force Clement could never have matched. He, a Kingsguard, sworn to stand between the royal line and death, had been left a useless shadow. His sword had done nothing.
He had done nothing.
The shame sat like a stone in his gut.
A murmur from one of the guards broke him from the thought. "Ser."
He turned. One of the men held something small in his palm.
Clement stepped closer. "What is it?"
The guard held it out wordlessly.
A ring.
Clement pulled a square of linen from his belt, wrapping the cloth around his fingers before he touched it. He lifted it carefully, holding it up to the torchlight. The gold caught the glow, and the engraving came clear.
A tiger.
A signet ring.
Clement's brow furrowed. "This was hidden?"
The guard nodded. "Tucked inside the lining of her bag, ser. Stitched shut."
Clement studied the ring again. This was no trinket of a serving girl. No maid should have carried such a piece, much less kept it hidden so carefully.
He glanced at the timid maid beside him. She was staring wide-eyed at the ring, as if surprised that such an ornament was present in their quarters.
Clement exhaled slowly. "The prince will want to see this."
He tucked the wrapped ring safely into his belt. "Finish the search. Tear the place apart if you must. I want every stitch, every scrap of cloth, every coin. Nothing overlooked."
The guards nodded grimly and bent back to their work, pulling the bedframe away from the wall, tapping the boards, checking the joints.
Clement turned toward the doorway, the image of the tiger still seared into his thoughts as he made his way back to the dinner hall.
Braavos
The temple was quiet, as it always was. A faint chill drifted from the black pool at the center of the hall, its still surface reflecting nothing but shadow. Around it rose pillars studded with faces, man and woman, old and young, each mask stretched thin over the stone, watching without eyes.
A priest knelt at the edge of the pool, head bowed. His lips moved in silence, though the words were swallowed by the cold air. For a long time he remained still, as if waiting for an answer only he could hear. At last, he opened his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. His sandals echoed softly as he moved through the hall.
Outside, the night lay heavy. Fog drifted from the canal and clung to the steps. The marble walls of the House of Black and White loomed pale in the moonlight. In the shadows beyond the steps stood a man wrapped in a thick cloak, his breath steaming faintly.
"Valar Morghulis," came a voice, calm but carrying, from the mist.
The man straightened at once. "Valar Dohaeris."
From the fog, the priest emerged, his face half-hidden, his expression unreadable. The two regarded each other briefly, and the man opened his mouth to speak. But the priest's voice cut through the quiet.
"The prince still lives."
The words struck like a blade. The man's eyes widened, his breath sharp in the chill air. "The attempt failed?"
The priest inclined his head, the motion slow. "It is so. The Valyrian sorcery stirs again. Fire answered fire, and the blade could not reach its mark."
The man frowned. "But then—"
"Worry not," the priest said, his tone steady though a flicker of unease tugged at his eyes. "A name was given to the Many-Faced God. The god will have his due, in time."
Silence stretched between them. The man shifted, uneasy. Finally, with a touch of hesitation, he asked, "And the ring? As we spoke?"
"The King's men will find it," the priest replied. "As promised."
Relief left the man in a quick breath, fog spilling in the night air. But the priest's voice followed. "This will be the only time such a request is granted. Do not mistake us for merchants of favors."
The man felt the words crawl down his spine. He nodded quickly, bowing his head. "Understood."
The priest's gaze lingered on him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, softer, but no less cold: "Give the Sealord our regards."
He stepped back, vanishing step by step into the fog until the night swallowed him whole.
The man stood alone on the marble steps, the chill settling heavier now, before turning away. His pace quickened, cloak trailing behind, until the mist closed over him too.