Aren's new manor stood on Falcon Hill.
Stone walls.
Iron gates.
A view of the river and the lower city.
A prize.
And a warning.
Visitors arrived immediately.
Too many.
Too quickly.
Minor lords.
Merchants.
Officers.
All smiling.
All measuring.
All lying.
Lord Petyr of Hollowford came first.
"You rise fast," he said warmly.
"Fast falls hurt more," Aren replied.
Petyr laughed too loudly.
Lady Serwyn brought gifts.
Silk.
Wine.
Jewels.
"I admire strength," she said.
"I respect honesty," Aren answered.
She kept smiling.
Aren listened.
He offered little.
Let others reveal themselves.
Promises drifted like smoke.
Empty.
Dangerous.
At court, factions shifted.
Rowan's supporters grew.
Edric's shrank.
Malric vanished from sight.
Plots bred in quiet rooms.
Lysa reported nightly.
"Petyr feeds Draven."
"Serwyn bribes judges."
"Two captains want your post."
Aren stored every name.
Every sin.
One evening, Rowan summoned him.
"War returns," the prince said.
"Draven rebuilds."
Aren nodded.
"Let them."
"They have allies," Rowan added.
"Inside."
Aren's eyes hardened.
"Then we cut them out."
A masked ball followed.
Music.
Perfume.
False laughter.
Aren danced with enemies.
Smiled at traitors.
Spoke gently to killers.
Midway through the night, a servant slipped him a note.
Three words:
Petyr. Midnight. Docks.
A trap.
Or a truth.
Possibly both.
Aren folded the note.
Looked at Lysa.
"Get your bow," he said.
"Let's go fishing."