ULF
I restructured everything.
The guards on the royal chambers doubled. Then tripled. I personally vetted every man, checking backgrounds, questioning loyalties, dismissing anyone who couldn't meet my eyes when they answered.
"This is excessive," Otto complained during council.
"This is necessary."
"The previous guard arrangement served adequately—"
"The previous arrangement let Blood and Cheese into the Keep." I kept my voice flat. "They reached the queen's children. Would have killed them if I hadn't intervened."
"You keep bringing that up."
"Because you keep questioning my methods." I leaned forward. "I stopped Blood and Cheese. I survived God's Eye. I'm the only reason three of the four Green dragons have riders who returned alive." I let that sink in. "Question my methods when you have comparable credentials."
Otto's mouth opened. Closed.
Criston Cole almost smiled.
The council moved on.
THE NETWORK
My informants painted an ugly picture.
"Black agents in the city," Marsh reported. "Not many, but active. They're mapping patrol routes, charting servant schedules, identifying entry points."
"Same methods as Blood and Cheese?"
"Different. More sophisticated." He lowered his voice. "They're not hiring local criminals this time. These are trained operatives. Professionals."
The rat returns in different skin.
"Names?"
"Working on it. They're careful."
"Work faster."
I paid him double. Sent him back into the city.
The night shift brought more reports. New servants hired in the past month—all with references that checked out perfectly. Too perfectly. I ordered surveillance on each one.
Daemon's dead. But his network survived. His money survived. His hate survived.
Someone will try again. Just a matter of when.
THE PUBLIC APPEARANCE
Helaena stood before the Iron Throne.
Not sitting on it—that was Jaehaerys's seat now, even if the boy king looked lost on the massive metal structure. But standing beside it, black mourning clothes hiding her pregnancy, pale face composed into queenly dignity.
"My lords and ladies." Her voice carried clearly. "My husband the king is dead. My son takes his rightful crown. The realm continues."
The court watched. Judged. Calculated.
"The war against the usurper continues as well. Prince Aemond fell in battle against the traitor Daemon—both died killing each other. Their sacrifice was not in vain. The Black cause weakens daily."
Half true. The Blacks still have dragons. Still have armies. Still have Rhaenyra.
"During this time of transition, I ask for your loyalty. Not to me, but to my son. To the true Targaryen line. To the realm we all serve."
Murmurs of approval. Pledges of fealty. The theater of court politics playing out as it always did.
I watched from the shadows, tracking who seemed genuine and who seemed calculating.
Too many of the latter.
The appearance ended. Helaena retreated through the side passage, where I waited.
She made it three steps before her legs buckled.
I caught her.
"Orwyle. Now."
THE DIAGNOSIS
"The stress is taking its toll."
Grand Maester Orwyle delivered the verdict in Helaena's private chambers. She lay on the bed, pale, breathing shallow, one hand pressed to her stomach.
"The pregnancy?"
"Stable for now. But if this continues—these public appearances, these late nights, this constant tension—" He shook his head. "We may lose mother, child, or both."
No.
"What does she need?"
"Rest. Quiet. Minimal stress." Orwyle met my eyes. "She needs to stop being Queen Regent."
"She can't."
"Then she can't carry this child to term safely."
The words hung in the air.
Helaena's hand found mine.
"There has to be another way."
"We delegate everything possible." I was already planning. "Reduce her public appearances. Let the council handle routine matters. Make Jaehaerys more visible—he's king, after all."
"A seven-year-old making decisions?"
"A seven-year-old reading scripts we write." I squeezed Helaena's hand. "You rest. I handle the rest."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
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