The streets of King's Landing were a labyrinth of ink and shadow. Every household had bolted their doors and shuttered their windows, leaving only the faintest slivers of candlelight to bleed into the narrow alleys. The air was heavy with the silence of a city holding its breath.
Bronze Yohn Royce rode through the Mud Gate, the rhythmic clack-tap of his horse's hooves echoing against the damp flagstones. He wore his ancient bronze plate, the magical runes etched into the metal glowing with a dull, predatory light in the torchlight of the patrolling Golden Cloaks. He did not wear a helmet; his face was a mask of weathered stone, his grey eyes fixed forward with a terrifying clarity.
Behind him followed ten knights in silver-chased plate. They were the finest blades of Runestone, men whose families had served the Bronze Lords since the Age of Heroes. They moved with a silent, disciplined purpose toward the Red Keep.
War was at the doorstep. High in the Hand's Tower, the windows were ablaze with light. Ser Kevan Lannister, the Acting Hand, was a man drowning in logistics, and Royce knew the Lion was too exhausted to see the snake in his garden.
"Proceed as planned," Royce whispered as they reached the inner gates.
The iron portcullis had already been lowered for the night. A guard in Lannister crimson shouted from the battlements, "The gate is closed! State your business or return at dawn!"
"I am Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone!" Bronze Yohn's voice boomed, carrying over the walls and deep into the outer yard. "I have urgent intelligence regarding the Karstark vanguard. Open the gate for the King's allies!"
A moment of hesitation followed, then the heavy chains groaned. The portcullis rose, and the gates swung inward. A guard captain stepped out, bowing low. "Lord Royce, Ser Kevan is in his study. He has been expecting word from the north."
Royce nodded curtly, leading his men into the courtyard. When the guard attempted to stop the armed retainers, Royce fixed him with a frigid stare. "These are knights of the Vale, anointed in the Light of the Seven. Every one of them carries a report from the front lines. Would you have the Hand wait while we play at etiquette?"
The guard, overwhelmed by the presence of a High Lord and ten armored giants, stepped aside. "Please... enter, My Lords."
As they ascended the winding stairs of the Hand's Tower, Royce peeled off his forces. He sent Ser Shet toward Maegor's Holdfast to "secure" the other Vale nobles under house arrest, while he continued to the solar with only two companions.
Inside the study, the air was thick with the scent of burnt oil and stale wine. Ser Kevan sat by the window, squinting at a map under a flickering lamp. He looked a decade older than he had a month ago, the skin beneath his eyes sagging with fatigue. An official was in the corner, grumbling about blocked merchant ships and lost tax revenue.
"Lord Royce, please, sit," Kevan said, not looking up from his scrolls. "You've come at a dark hour. Tell me, is the news as grim as the scouts suggest?"
"The news is grave, Kevan," Royce replied, his voice a low rumble. "But its accuracy requires confirmation. I need Varys and Archmaester Pycelle. Now."
Kevan paused, a hint of doubt flickering across his tired face. But the Vale was his only shield against the "Winter Wizard." He gestured to a guard. "Go. Fetch the Spider and the Grand Maester. Tell them the Council meets."
Silence fell over the room. Minutes later, the door opened to admit the Master of Whisperers. Varys was a vision in lavender silk, his powdered face looking unnaturally pale. His eyes darted between Royce and Kevan, his instincts screaming of a shift in the air he couldn't yet define.
Finally, Archmaester Pycelle shuffled in, his heavy chain of office clinking against his chest. He was followed by a young Vale knight who "escorted" him with a hand a bit too close to his sword hilt.
"My Lords, so late... is there a crisis?" Pycelle squeaked, his voice full of practiced flattery.
"Lord Royce," Kevan said, leaning forward. "You have your audience. Speak."
In one fluid motion, Jon Royce stood up. He drew a dagger from his greaves and pressed the cold steel against Kevan Lannister's chin.
The room froze. Pycelle let out a choked gasp, his legs giving way as he collapsed into a heap on the floor, the scent of urine instantly filling the study. Varys stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the young knight beside him who had a blade leveled at his throat.
Outside, the sounds of combat erupted, the sharp ring of steel on steel and the screams of Lannister guards being cut down in the corridors.
"Lord Royce! What is this madness?!" Kevan roared, though he dared not move against the blade. "There are hundreds of Red Cloaks in this castle! You will never leave alive!"
"The Red Cloaks are busy dying, Kevan," Royce replied, his eyes like flint. He glanced toward the window. To the north, the Gods Gate and the Old Gate were wreathed in fire. Torches, thousands of them were pouring into the city. The Karstark vanguard hadn't been "approaching"; they had been waiting for the signal.
"I care nothing for your life or your castle," Royce said, turning his lethal gaze toward Pycelle and Varys. "I am here for justice. And you two will answer one question before the sun rises."
Royce pressed the dagger harder against Kevan's throat, drawing a bead of crimson.
"What was the true cause of Lord Jon Arryn's death?"
[Status: Acting Hand Kevan Lannister captured.]
[Global Event: King's Landing Gates opened to Karstark Forces.]
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