Trick would eventually shoulder the burden of the Order's affairs in the capital. Once Caden took the golden cloak, his duties as a Sunwalker were placed in a state of quiet suspension, while Trick acted as the primary conduit between the capital and the monastery. As Jon Snow's former deputy, Trick held a prestige within the Golden Dawn that far outshone Caden's, and his presence was a protective measure—a second pair of eyes to ensure the temptation of thousands of gold dragons didn't sway a single man's heart.
The transition complete, Caden reported to the Red Keep to present his commission to Ser Blue Strauss, the captain of the Palace Guard. Strauss sat in the shadow of the gatehouse tower, eyeing Caden's parchment with weary indifference.
"Lucky for you I'm on rotation today," Strauss grunted, gesturing to a sentry. "Karl, this is Ser Caden Storm. He's taking over Jeffreys's squad. Lead him to the North Gate camp."
Karl was far more spirited than his captain. As they wound through the fortress of pale red stone, he explained the lay of the land. Four hundred Gold Cloaks were stationed within the Red Keep, divided into eight companies. Strauss held the main gate with two, while others held the side gates. Maegor's Holdfast, where the King slept, was the province of the Kingsguard and squires; even a Gold Cloak couldn't cross those drawbridges without an express warrant.
"You don't have to rot in the barracks," Karl suggested. "Officers often rent rooms in the city. Just show up for morning roll-call and keep Ser Blue happy. I've a spare room at my place—one silver moon a month. Good enough for you and the boy."
"A silver moon? That's steep," Caden noted.
"Steep? In this city, it's a gift," Karl countered. "During the siege, a silver moon wouldn't buy you two days of bread. Prices have dropped since Lady Margaery arrived with the grain-trains, but it's still King's Landing."
They reached the North Gate, which was little more than a two-story stone building leaning against the curtain wall. Karl pointed Caden toward the door and vanished, his "hospitality" seemingly snubbed.
Inside, Caden found no disciplined soldiers. He found twenty-odd men in various states of undress—some sleeping, most gambling with stained cards. The acting captain, a veteran named Robert, was away "working a side job." When Caden announced himself, the men offered a half-hearted "Morning, Captain" and went back to their game.
Caden didn't bristle. He knew he was a stranger in a den of thieves. He simply rolled up his sleeves and joined the card table. Ten silver stags later, he was one of the boys.
He learned quickly that the Palace Guard was the lowest rung of the City Watch. They didn't collect gate tolls or extort merchants. They stood still, opened gates, and were treated like furniture by the high-born. Pay was five silvers a month—barely enough to survive—and the "Blackwater bounty" promised by the King had never arrived.
"The coin is all going to the wedding," a guard named Jamie spat, throwing a card. "I'm only here so they don't find my bunk empty if the Hand does a walkthrough."
Caden realized he could never turn these men into the iron-willed warriors of the Dawn. From the Order's perspective, a corrupt Watch was a useful Watch. He settled into a rhythm of cards, drilling his squire Jasmine in the yard, and slipping away to the High Sparrow's camp when his shift ended.
The leisure ended when Ser Addam Marbrand summoned the officers. The royal wedding was at hand. The city would be sealed; the Street Guard would line the route from the Red Keep to the Great Sept, while the Palace Guard would serve as the ceremonial escort and the internal security for the feast.
"A great honor for a new man, Ser Caden," Strauss said with a smirk, handing him the most grueling shift: guarding the interior of the Throne Room through the entire banquet.
Caden's squad was restored to a paper strength of seventy-two, though only forty-one actually appeared for duty. Caden didn't complain; forty lazy men were easier to hide than seventy.
On the wedding morning, the Gold Cloaks were forced into their finest wools and polished mail. They stood in the pre-dawn chill of the plaza until the sun rose over the harbor. Then, the heavy gates groaned open.
The royal procession was a river of color. Joffrey and Margaery sat in a gilded pavilion-on-wheels, showered in flower petals by the throngs of citizens who screamed the new Queen's name. Caden rode at the rear, his hand on his hilt, watching the rooftops with a Sunwalker's paranoia. One arrow, one stone...
They reached the Great Sept, where the refugee shacks had been cleared for a sea of cheering subjects. Caden caught his first real look at the King: tall, golden, and terrifyingly handsome, his deep crimson velvet cloak embroidered with the Lion and the Stag. The bride was his equal—ivory silk and Myrish lace, her chestnut curls shimmering with pearls.
The ceremony was a blur of incense and bells. When the couple emerged as man and wife, the noise was deafening. Prince Tommen tossed roses; Queen Cersei walked with Lord Tyrell; the "Queen of Thorns" hobbled with a cane, supported by Ser Kevan Lannister. Behind them came Tyrion and his bride, Sansa Stark—a girl who looked like a ghost haunting her own life.
The party moved to the Throne Room for the banquet. Caden and his men were tasked with a final sweep of the hall. It was Caden's first time standing before the Iron Throne. It was a jagged, ugly mountain of twisted blades and blackened needles.
No wonder King Robert preferred the woods, Caden thought, touching a cold, sharp hilt on the armrest. This seat was made for a man who wants to bleed.
As the feast began, the room was transformed into a paradise of torches and music. Drummers, flutists, and harpers filled the galleries. Course after course of impossible delicacies was carried past the guards, who stood like statues in the shadows, their stomachs growling in protest.
Caden, ever prepared, pulled a piece of white bread from his tunic and chewed quietly.
"Where'd you get that, Captain?" Robert whispered.
"Stole it during the sweep. There's a basket on every table. Didn't you take one?"
"Didn't dare," the veteran admitted.
Caden tore the bread in half and handed it over. "The lords won't miss a crust. What they're eating tonight could feed a village for a year."
As the wine flowed, a woman slipped through the main doors. It was Sansa Stark. Her face was a masterwork of Tully beauty—blue eyes and auburn hair—but she looked brittle.
"My Lady, are you unwell?" Caden asked softly as she approached.
"I... I am merely tired, Ser," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I wish to rest."
"Do you need an escort? It is dark."
"No! I can walk!" She hurried away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Caden watched her go. Poor little thing. Married to the Imp, surrounded by Lions. To be 'unwell' is the only sanity she has left.
He returned to his post, the scent of roasted meat and heavy wine filling his lungs. He began to count the minutes until the relief shift.
Suddenly, a woman's scream shattered the music. It was followed by a man's roar of rage.
Caden didn't wait for orders. He drew his sword and led his men charging into the center of the hall.
King Joffrey was on the floor, his face a hideous shade of purple, his hands clawing at his throat. Above him, Queen Cersei was a portrait of madness, her finger pointing at the stunted figure of her brother.
"Seize him!" she shrieked at the stunned Kingsguard. "It was him! The dwarf and his little wife! They have murdered my son! They have killed your King! Take them!"
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