ULF
The traitor was hiding well.
Three weeks of investigation. Every contact in my network activated. Bribes distributed. Threats delivered. And still nothing concrete.
Someone in the Keep fed maps to Daemon's assassin. Updated maps. Recent information.
I spread my notes across my desk. Names circled in ink. Connections drawn between them.
The assassin I'd killed had possessed information she shouldn't have. Patrol schedules. Guard rotations. The specific hours when the nursery was most vulnerable.
Not just passage maps. Operational intelligence.
Someone was watching. Reporting. Waiting.
"You're not sleeping again."
Helaena's voice from the doorway. I hadn't heard her enter—a failure that irritated me.
"I'll sleep when the traitor is found."
She crossed to my desk. Studied my notes without commenting on their paranoid thoroughness.
"The children asked about you today. Jaehaerys wanted to know if you'd teach him 'the heavy trick' again."
A smile tugged at my mouth despite everything. I'd shown the boy how to make a stone seem impossibly heavy—a simple demonstration of my Kilo Kilo powers, disguised as a strongman's technique.
"Tomorrow. I'll visit tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She touched my shoulder. Left without pressing further.
Back to work.
THE NEXT DAY
My network had identified seventeen people with access to both the Red Keep's passages and the nursery's patrol schedules.
Guards. Servants. Maesters. Minor functionaries.
I'd cleared nine through careful surveillance. Their routines matched their claimed duties. Their finances showed no suspicious inflows. Their movements never coincided with information leaks.
Eight remained.
Today, I focused on a kitchen steward named Garrett. Forty years old. Served the Keep for two decades. Responsible for coordinating meal deliveries to the royal family.
On paper, unremarkable.
But my contact in Flea Bottom had reported seeing him at the Broken Chalice tavern three times in the past fortnight. A place where Black sympathizers gathered. A place where coins changed hands for information.
I followed him through the morning. Watched him deliver breakfast trays. Observed him speaking with other servants—normal interactions, nothing suspicious.
Then, at midday, he slipped into a service corridor and didn't emerge.
The passages.
I gave him a thirty-second head start. Then I followed.
The service corridor connected to a hidden door—one I'd mapped weeks ago. Garrett knew the mechanism. Worked it smoothly.
Too smoothly. He's done this before.
I dropped my weight to 10kg. Moved silently. The passage swallowed sound, but my reduced mass made my footsteps ghost-quiet.
Garrett walked quickly. Confidently. He passed three junctions without hesitation, following a route that led toward the Keep's outer wall.
Meeting someone? Delivering something?
A door ahead. Garrett knocked—three quick raps, two slow.
The door opened from the other side.
A face I recognized from my network's reports. A dockworker who'd been seen meeting Black agents three months ago.
"You're late," the dockworker said.
"The new guard rotations changed everything. That bastard—Ulf—he's reorganized the patterns. Made them unpredictable."
"Can you still access the information?"
"Takes longer now. He's careful. Paranoid."
Good. I should be.
"When's the next window?"
"Three nights from now. The guard captain drinks on seventh-days. His replacement is slower. Less observant."
Ser Willem. I knew he was weak.
"The prince wants confirmation before he acts again."
Prince. Daemon.
Garrett pulled a folded paper from his sleeve. Handed it over.
"Patrol schedules. Guard names. The layout of the new security measures."
The dockworker took the paper. Tucked it away.
"The promised coin will be at the usual place."
"Tell the prince—the next attempt won't fail. That bastard guard can't watch everything."
Watch me.
I let them finish their meeting. Let Garrett walk back through the passages, confident in his treachery.
Then I stepped from the shadows.
"Garrett."
He spun. Face draining of color.
"I—I was just—"
"You were selling information to Daemon's agents. Information that nearly got the queen's children killed."
"You don't understand, I didn't have a choice—"
"Everyone has a choice."
Soru. Point-blank.
My hand closed around his throat before he could scream. Lifted him off the ground. His feet kicked uselessly.
"Who else? How many others like you?"
"No one—just me—I swear—"
I increased pressure. His face purpled.
"Truth. Now. Or I make this last for hours."
"There's... another... kitchen girl... Marta... she carries messages..."
"Where?"
"Dead drop... near the sept... behind the—"
His words cut off. I'd squeezed too hard. Windpipe crushed.
Damn.
I lowered the body. Searched his pockets. Found nothing useful—smart enough not to carry evidence.
Marta. Kitchen girl. The sept.
I had my next target.
THAT NIGHT
Silverwing waited on the Dragonpit's upper ledge.
I'd taken to visiting her at night, when fewer eyes watched. Our bond had strengthened since Rook's Rest—she recognized me now, rumbled greeting when I approached.
But recognition wasn't mastery. She still had her own will, her own instincts. Sometimes she obeyed my commands. Sometimes she simply looked at me with ancient eyes and did whatever she pleased.
Tonight, I practiced aerial maneuvers.
We launched from the Dragonpit's peak. Spiraled over King's Landing. The city spread below like a constellation of torchlight and shadow.
"Bank left," I murmured, pressing with my knees.
Silverwing considered. Then banked right.
Stubborn.
"Left, Silverwing. Left."
She banked left. Her way of making sure I understood: she obeyed by choice, not obligation.
We flew for an hour. Practicing turns, dives, coordinated movements. By the end, my legs ached from gripping and my voice was hoarse from commands.
But we were better. Smoother. More united.
Good enough to fight Caraxes? To face Daemon?
Not yet. But getting closer.
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