Deep into the night, King's Landing was under a sweeping manhunt. Large numbers of troops flooded the streets and alleys; the torches they carried alone were enough to light up half the city.
They went door to door with municipal officials, forcing entry to verify any possible suspects.
Ser Willem Darklyn, commander of the royal army, had never seen King's Landing this quiet in his life.
A suffocating silence—only the sound of iron-shod boots striking stone.
Mounted on his warhorse, Ser Willem wore armor bearing the black three-headed dragon on his breastplate. Under the torchlight, the entire suit gleamed with a cold, hard sheen.
An hour ago, he had still been asleep.
Then his personal guard had shaken him awake—orders had come down from the Red Keep: immediate lockdown, citywide curfew, and the arrest of any suspicious individuals.
"Suspicious individuals?" Willem had asked at the time. "What's the standard?"
"The prince says—anyone walking the streets counts as suspicious."
Now Willem understood.
It meant there should be no one on the streets at all—except his army.
"Open up! By royal command, inspection!"
A soldier smashed open yet another wooden door with the shaft of his spear.
Civilians screamed from within—women shrieking in terror.
From atop his horse, Ser Willem watched with an expressionless face.
They had already detained over thirty "suspicious individuals": drunkards, thieves, prostitutes still working deep into the night—and even a few nobles foolish enough to be out.
"My lord! Mercy, my lord!"
A man was dragged out, bare-chested, his trousers barely tied.
Behind him followed four young women of modest beauty, wrapped in white blankets, their faces pale with fear.
The women trembled as they huddled together, aware of the soldiers' hungry gazes.
"Soliciting prostitutes during curfew," the squad captain Frey said, glancing at what was stuffed in the man's trouser pocket—something that made him a bit embarrassed.
No wonder one man dared take on three.
The captain then looked up at Willem. "My lord—do we take him in?"
Willem glanced at the man.
Forty-something. The flush on his face spoke of years of heavy drinking.
A man like this wouldn't yield anything under interrogation.
"Five lashes. Throw him back," Willem said with a wave of his hand, turning his horse away.
The man was forced to the ground. The whip cracked across his back.
He didn't dare scream—he clenched his teeth and endured.
After five lashes, the soldiers tossed him back inside like refuse and shut the door.
Captain Frey watched as Lord Willem rode off.
Then he turned slowly toward the trembling women, a playful smile curling on his lips.
"Take them back. I'll interrogate them myself."
"Boss… heh…" the soldiers behind him chuckled, rubbing their hands.
Frey looked at his men. "Don't worry. I hate wasting anything."
"Even crumbs on a plate—I clean them up."
"Take them back. I'll go first. The rest of you—line up properly."
Elsewhere, the streets returned to their dead silence, broken only by the rhythmic tramp of soldiers' boots against stone.
"My lord commander."
A young noble was dragged forward, a bruise on his face, his fine clothes torn but still clearly of quality.
He lifted his head. There was anger in his eyes—but far more fear.
"I am Arthur Rosby, of House Rosby," the young noble said, striving to keep his voice steady.
"My men merely drank too much—they didn't know about the curfew…"
Willem looked down at him.
House Rosby—crownlands nobility, their lands not far from King's Landing.
In times of peace, such a house carried some weight.
But tonight—when the Red Keep itself might already be overturned—none of that mattered.
"How much did you drink?" Willem asked.
"Just… just a few cups…"
"A few cups, and you're roaming the streets drunk? Forcing soldiers to intervene?" Willem's gaze was cold.
"The prince issued the curfew himself. You take it for a jest?"
Arthur Rosby's face turned pale.
"My lord, I—"
"Take him away," Willem cut him off. "Throw him in the dungeons. Let the Master of Laws deal with him."
"The Master of Laws?" Arthur's legs nearly gave out.
Lord Jasper Wylde—that bald, fat man infamous for caring only about coin.
If a noble fell into his hands, they wouldn't leave without being skinned of silver.
Even if his father, Lord Rosby, paid the fine afterward, he would likely break Arthur's legs himself.
In the past year, the nobles of King's Landing had all behaved themselves—not because they'd grown kinder, but because they feared the fines.
As the soldiers dragged him away, the heir of House Rosby finally broke down, crying and begging for mercy.
Willem did not look back.
He still didn't know what had happened inside the Red Keep.
But his instincts told him—
The realm was about to change.
...
At the top floor of Maegor's Holdfast, in the king's bedchamber—
Seven white candles burned in silver holders.
Viserys lay upon the bed, dressed in black silk funeral garments.
Queen Dowager Alicent had personally dressed him with her maids—combed his hair, wiped his face.
She had even powdered his face, trying to hide the ashen pallor.
But it could not be hidden. Death had its own presence—just like the smell in the room.
Incense mingled with the faint scent of blood.
Alicent sat beside the bed, dressed in black, a veil covering her head.
She no longer wept. Her tears had run dry. Now she only looked at her husband—the man she had been married to for twenty years, to whom she had borne six children.
Aegon stood beside his mother, leaning on a crutch.
From the battle at Dragonstone, he had fallen from dragonback; his right leg had been broken and had yet to heal.
Pain had drained the color from his face—but what weighed heavier was grief.
His king, his father, was dead.
His younger brother now held real power.
Though he was the crown prince, he was nothing more than a puppet.
He did not fear becoming king as a puppet.
What he feared was this younger brother—Aemond—placing him upon the throne, only to pull him down from it later.
This brother of his had always been impossible to read.
He wanted to curry favor—but fear dominated him.
His wife, Alyn Rogare, supported him at his side.
She had given birth just three days ago—a daughter. Viserys had even named her: Jaehenira.
Now the king was dead, her husband was about to ascend the throne—
Calculations stirred within her mind, though her face showed only grief.
From time to time, she stole glances at Aemond—the brother who truly held power.
Helaena knelt at the foot of the bed.
She wore a simple white mourning gown, her silver hair loose, her hands clasped in prayer before her chest.
Tears fell silently, one drop after another, soaking into her dress.
She had just completed her wedding with Aemond.
She had thought she might have a few days of peace.
Now her father was dead—and war seemed imminent.
She remembered the dream from last night…
Tyland Lannister stood to the left of the bed, hands folded.
The Hand of the King from the Westerlands wore a solemn expression—but his blue eyes were cold and composed.
Larys Strong stood beside him, leaning on his silver-topped cane.
The crippled master of whisperers showed no expression, but his eyes moved—watching Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, watching everyone present.
Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, wiped sweat from his brow.
He had been the first to receive orders tonight—lock down the city, enforce curfew, arrest people.
He had known at once that something immense had happened.
Now the king had been poisoned. The envoys of the Four Regions had fled.
Elwyn Redwyne, Master of Ships, stood stiffly upright.
Will Simmons, the newly appointed Master of Coin, stood at the outer edge, so nervous he didn't know where to put his hands.
He was the most successful of the "Three Fingers"—Hall commanded the guard, Carter held lands, and he managed the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms.
But he knew well—
His seat on the small council existed because of a single word from Aemond.
It was the prince who had raised him to this position.
Everyone else here came from great noble houses.
Only he—
Half a year ago, he had been nothing but a commoner.
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