ULF
Blood fought like what he was—a soldier turned killer.
His sword work was clean. Economical. The product of years with the Gold Cloaks followed by years of less legitimate employment.
His blade caught my forearm on the first exchange. Sliced through skin. I felt hot blood running down to my wrist.
Pain later. Focus now.
I closed distance. Too tight for proper sword work.
He thrust anyway. The blade drove toward my ribs.
Tekkai.
The steel struck hardened flesh. Didn't pierce.
His eyes went wide.
Surprise. Good.
I grabbed his sword arm. Twisted. Bone cracked.
He screamed. Dropped the blade.
Kilo Kilo. 10,000kg concentrated in my right palm.
I struck his chest.
The impact drove him backward. His feet left the ground. He hit the passage wall with a wet thud.
Something broke inside him. Several somethings.
He slid down. Gasping. Bleeding from mouth and nose.
"Who..." He coughed blood. "What are you?"
"Someone you shouldn't have threatened."
I knelt beside him. Took his chin in my hand.
"A message for your master, if you see him in whatever hell comes next. Tell Daemon the children are protected. Tell him to send better men next time."
I snapped his neck.
Quick. Clean.
The body slumped.
I leaned against the wall. Let myself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours.
Done. Both of them. Done.
My arm burned. My ribs ached where Blood's thrust had struck before Tekkai fully hardened.
But done.
I started dragging the body toward Cheese's remains.
Evidence to present. Stories to tell.
The night's work wasn't finished yet.
CRISTON COLE
The Lord Commander arrived with a dozen Gold Cloaks.
Torches filled the passage with flickering orange light. The bodies lay where the bastard had arranged them—two men, obviously killed in combat, their weapons scattered nearby.
"Assassins." Ulf stood against the wall, arm wrapped in makeshift bandaging, blood seeping through the cloth. "Sent by Daemon Targaryen."
Criston studied the scene. The larger man's neck was broken—massive force, brutal efficiency. The smaller one's throat had been opened. Both kills spoke of speed and skill.
"You did this alone?"
"They came through the passages. Heading for the children's rooms."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I was patrolling. I heard them. I stopped them." The bastard's voice carried no bravado. Just facts.
Criston moved to the bodies. Searched them.
On the larger one: a map of the Red Keep with certain chambers marked. A coin bearing Daemon's personal sigil.
Proof. Clean and convenient.
"How did you know they'd come tonight?"
"I didn't. I've been patrolling every night for two weeks."
"Two weeks of sleepless nights?"
"I sleep during the day. When the children are surrounded by guards."
Criston straightened. Met the bastard's eyes.
Something there. Something dangerous. Something that had killed two professional assassins in darkness without raising alarm until it was done.
"The Hand will want to speak with you."
"I expected he would."
"Your wounds need tending first."
"After I speak with the Hand."
Stubborn. Focused. Refusing to show weakness.
Criston nodded slowly. Respect, however grudging.
"Bring him to the Tower," he ordered his men. "And summon Lord Otto."
OTTO
The bastard sat across from Otto, arm newly bandaged, exhaustion visible in every line of his body.
But those eyes stayed alert. Watchful.
Dangerous, Otto thought. More dangerous than we assumed.
"Walk me through it again."
"I've walked through it three times, Lord Hand."
"Walk through it a fourth."
Ulf did. The same story. The same details. No contradictions.
Either truth or exceptionally well-prepared lies.
"You've been investigating these men for weeks. On whose authority?"
"My own. I serve Queen Helaena. Her children were threatened. I acted."
"Without informing the Gold Cloaks. Without informing me."
"The Gold Cloaks leak like sieves. Information shared with them reaches Flea Bottom within hours." The bastard leaned forward slightly. "Would you have trusted them with this?"
Otto didn't answer. They both knew the truth.
"You killed two men tonight. Professional killers. In darkness. Alone." He spread his hands. "I find myself wondering how."
"I was prepared. They weren't."
"That's not an explanation."
"It's the one I have."
Silence stretched between them.
He's hiding something. Abilities he won't reveal. Methods he won't explain.
But the result was undeniable. Two assassins dead. The queen's children safe. Daemon's plot foiled.
"You've made an enemy of the Rogue Prince."
"I've made enemies before."
"Not like Daemon Targaryen. He holds grudges for decades. He'll come for you eventually."
"Then I'll kill whoever he sends. However many times it takes."
No bravado. No posturing. Just flat certainty.
Gods help us, Otto thought. This man might actually be capable of it.
"Return to your duties," he said finally. "We'll discuss this further after you've rested."
The bastard stood. Bowed correctly. Left.
Otto remained at his desk, staring at the closed door.
A useful monster. But still a monster.
He would bear watching.
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