Late at night in King's Landing, a great host of soldiers searched the streets and alleys. The torches they carried lit up half the city. They broke down doors together with representatives from the Guildhall, searching for any sign of the suspect.
Ser William Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch, had never seen King's Landing so silent in all his life. A silence that was oppressive, broken only by the iron-shod boots of his men striking the cobblestones.
William Darklyn rode a warhorse; the three-headed golden dragon on the black breastplate of his armor glinted cold and hard in the torchlight. An hour ago, he had still been asleep. Then a royal guardsman had woken him, saying the Red Keep had issued a decree: martial law, citywide curfew, and a search for suspicious persons.
"Suspicious persons?" William had asked then. "By what standard?"
"The Prince said: anyone walking the streets is suspicious."
Now William understood.
No one was to walk the streets except his soldiers.
"Open up! Search by order of the King!"
A soldier kicked open another wooden door with the butt of his spear. The civilians inside screamed; women's cries rose up. Sir William, astride his horse, watched expressionless.
They had arrested more than thirty suspicious persons already—drunks, thieves, whores working late, and a handful of nobles who lacked the sense to stay indoors.
"My lord! My lord, spare me!"
A man was dragged out shirtless, his trousers unfastened. Behind him followed four young women of some comeliness, wrapped in white sheets, their faces pale with fear. The soldiers' eyes gleamed as they stared.
"Whoring during curfew," the squad leader, Frey, said, glancing at the contents of the man's trousers with grudging admiration. No wonder one man could satisfy three. He looked up at William on his horse. "My lord, shall we take him?"
William glanced at the man. Mid-forties, his face flushed from years of drink. Even if arrested, such a man could know nothing useful.
"Five lashes. Throw him back inside."
William waved and rode on.
The man was pinned to the ground; the whip cracked across his back. He dared not scream, clenching his teeth and bracing himself. After five strokes, the soldiers threw him back into the house like refuse, and the door closed again.
Captain Frey watched Lord William depart. Then he turned his head toward the trembling women, a predatory gleam in his eye.
"Take them back. I need to question them thoroughly."
Five or six soldiers behind him laughed and rubbed their hands together.
Frey looked at his brothers. "Don't worry. I hate wasting things most of all. When there's food on the plate, I lick it clean—even the crumbs. Take them back. I'll go first. The rest of you brothers, line up in order."
On another street, the dead silence resumed, broken only by the sound of iron boots striking stone.
"Commander."
A young nobleman was brought forward. His face was bruised, his clothing torn, but the quality of the cloth was still evident. He lifted his gaze, anger in his eyes, but more fear.
"I am of House Cressey. Arthur Cressey." The young noble tried to steady his voice. "My men drank too much, that is all. We knew nothing of the curfew..."
William looked at him.
House Cressey. Crownlands nobility, their lands bordering King's Landing. In peacetime, the family carried some weight. But tonight, when the Red Keep itself might be in upheaval, they were nothing.
"How much did you drink?" William asked.
"Only... only a few cups..."
"A few cups, and you lose all sense on the streets, making trouble for the soldiers?" William regarded the young noble impassively. "The Prince himself declared this curfew. Are you deaf?"
Arthur Cressey's face went pale. "My lord, I..."
"Take him," William cut him off. "Lock him in the dungeons. He will await the judgment of the Master of Laws."
"The Master of Laws?" Arthur's legs gave way.
Lord Jasper Wylde, the bald fat man known for knowing gold, not men. When a noble's crime fell into his hands, escape was impossible without the skin stripped from him. Even if his father, Lord Cressey, paid the fine, Arthur would be lucky to walk away with both legs intact. In the past year, the nobles of the Crownlands had been remarkably well-behaved—not because they had grown kinder, but because they feared the fines.
As the soldiers led Arthur away, the heir of House Cressey finally broke, begging for mercy.
William did not look back.
He still did not understand what had happened in the Red Keep. But instinct told him the sky was about to change.
---
In the royal chambers atop Maegor's Holdfast, seven white candles burned in silver holders.
Viserys the First lay in his bed, dressed in a black silk shroud. Queen Mother Alicent, with her handmaidens, had dressed him herself, combed his hair, washed his face. She had even dusted his face with powder, trying to hide the grey pallor of death. But it could not be hidden. The stillness of the dead could not be hidden, nor the smell in this room. Incense mingled with the scent of blood.
Alicent sat in a chair beside the bed, dressed in black, a black gauze veil covering her hair. She had stopped crying. Her tears were spent. Now she simply looked at her husband—the man she had been wed to for twenty years, the father of her six children.
Aegon stood beside his mother, leaning on crutches. In the battle at Dragonstone, he had fallen from his dragon and broken his right leg; it had yet to heal properly. The pain left his face pale, but what hurt more than the pain was grief. The king, his own father, was dead. And his younger brother held all the power. Though he was the Crown Prince, he was also a puppet. He did not fear inheriting the throne as a puppet. What he feared was that his younger brother—the Prince Aemond who now stood before him—would push him onto the throne only to push him off it again. Aemond had always been a man he could not read. He had tried to please him, but only grew more afraid.
His wife, Helaena, stood beside him. Three days ago, she had given birth to a daughter, whom Viserys had named Jaehaera. Now that His Grace was dead and her husband was to be king, Helaena's face was full of sorrow, though her eyes occasionally darted toward Aemond—the uncle who held true power.
Helaena knelt at the bedside. She wore a simple white gown, her silver-gold hair unbound, her hands pressed to her breast in prayer. Tears flowed silently, falling one by one onto her skirt. She had only just wed Aemond, thinking she might have a few days of peace. Now her father was dead, and war seemed to loom. She remembered her dreams of the night before...
Tyland Lannister stood to the left of the bed, hands folded. The Hand of the King from the West wore a solemn expression, but his blue eyes were very calm.
Larys Strong stood beside Tyland, leaning on his silver-headed cane. The club-footed Master of Whisperers showed no expression, but his eyes moved—taking in Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, and all those present.
Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, dabbed at his sweat. The bald fat man had been the first to receive orders tonight: lockdown, curfew, arrests. He knew something grave had happened, and now that the king had been poisoned, he also knew that the representatives of the Four Kingdoms had fled.
The Master of Ships, Erwin Redwyne, stood straight-backed.
The new Master of Coin, Will Simmons, stood at the furthest edge, nervous, uncertain where to look. He was the best of the "Three Fingers"—Hal handled security, Carter handled the lands, and he handled all the gold of the Seven Kingdoms. But he knew his position had been given by Aemond, with a single word. It was the Prince who had raised him to this station. Everyone else here had been born into noble houses. Only he, half a year ago, had been a commoner.
Aemond stood at the foot of the bed, looking at his father's body.
The candles flickered. The incense smoke curled upward. And the King's chambers, for the first time in many years, fell utterly silent.