The whore's son knew that he possessed a force within him, something mysterious and powerful that coursed beneath his skin like liquid fire.
A blessing from the gods? Ancient magic? Forbidden witchcraft?
For four days, he had slowly mastered this strange power. He began to wonder if perhaps the Stranger might not come for him quite so soon after all.
Today, or decades hence—what did it matter, so long as vengeance was his?
He glanced at the man beside him, the only soul he had encountered these past few days. In his mind, he had given this man a name known only to himself—"Silver Stag"—for that precious coin had bought him brief respite from the cold and hunger that had been his constant companions.
Silver Stag guided him to the central square adjacent to the Alchemists' Guild, where green flames occasionally flickered behind distant windows.
"Lord Stannis will be inspecting the royal fleet in the harbor," the man explained, his voice low and measured. "He approaches from the north. The Mud Road and Fisherman's Square lie between here and the harbor—that is where you must seize your opportunity."
His pale eyes narrowed. "Rest assured, I shall be watching."
Having delivered his instructions, Silver Stag melted into the crowd like morning mist before the sun.
The boy stood motionless at the square's edge, feeling oddly abandoned.
Faces swept past him in an endless tide—men, women, children, the elderly—all oblivious to the deadly purpose that had taken root in his heart. Where among them was Stannis Baratheon?
After a time, he spotted a face gradually growing larger and more distinct as its owner approached through the throng.
A stern countenance, hard as granite, the same face that had haunted his dreams each night since his mother's execution.
He tightened his grip on the knife concealed within his sleeve, feeling the strange warmth it emanated against his skin.
Silently, he began to drift closer.
Stannis Baratheon strode forward with the rigid demeanor of a man marching to battle, his jaw clenched in perpetual disapproval.
He remained deeply dissatisfied with his royal brother's decision.
After Lord Jon's death, I should have been named Robert's Hand!
I have served diligently in the Small Council for so many years, yet he only shows love for Eddard Stark!
Indeed, how could a king who indulged in endless revelry, feasting, and women possibly favor an unsmiling, stern younger brother who never approached the fairer sex?
Stannis recognized this reality but could not reconcile himself to it.
Renly, who spent his days in idle jests and frivolous tournaments, had received Storm's End—the ancestral seat of House Baratheon—along with their elder brother's affection.
Stannis had received naught but Robert's mockery and a few volcanic rocks across the Narrow Sea.
What is Dragonstone compared to what should be mine by right?
I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!
Unfortunately, he alone seemed to acknowledge this truth. His only ally, Lord Jon Arryn, had been murdered before his time.
In the wake of that suspicious death, the king had almost immediately decided to journey north to Winterfell, completely disregarding him, his own blood. Naturally, Stannis found himself in a black humor.
He had resolved to distance himself from King's Landing—this hateful, shadowy, and dangerous pit of vipers.
"Ser Davos, are your preparations complete?" he asked the Onion Knight at his side, his tone as rigid as if conducting an interrogation.
Davos Seaworth, long accustomed to his lord's demeanor, replied with equanimity, "We can set sail on the morrow, my lord. All ships stand ready. Do you not wish to inspect them first?"
Stannis intended not only to depart himself but also to take most of the fleet in the harbor back to Dragonstone.
After all, he remained Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, at least in name.
"Very well. Send word to Dragonstone to prepare for our arrival," Stannis commanded, his mind already arranging the pieces on the board.
He knew the Lannisters would not remain idle. Robert was likely no longer safe upon the Iron Throne, and Stannis needed to make preparations while time remained.
Dragonstone guarded the throat of Blackwater Bay, and with the fleet at his command...
The whore's son drew closer to his quarry. His fingers closed around the half-knife hidden within his sleeve, its metal unnaturally warm against his palm.
His target was deep in conversation, which presented an ideal opportunity, yet a circle of alert soldiers still surrounded the lord. He would need to find the perfect moment to strike.
"Davos, what is the condition of Blackwater Bay?" Stannis asked. "Are our supplies sufficient? How do the men respond to the prospect of voyage?"
Davos answered each question with patience, though secretly, his suspicion grew.
From his understanding of Lord Stannis, such trivial concerns rarely occupied his thoughts. These were matters his subordinates would typically manage without his direct involvement. Why such unusual interest today?
Stannis proceeded onto the Mud Road.
Though named for its proximity to the riverbank, the well-laid stones underfoot allowed large numbers of pedestrians to pass without incident.
Today, the road teemed with life, as it did each day.
Taking advantage of the crowd, the nameless assassin edged ever closer, keeping his blade low, below waist height.
The guards remained vigilant, their hands never straying far from their sword hilts.
Lord Stannis reached the more densely populated Fisherman's Square.
Here gathered the common folk of King's Landing—fishmongers with their day's catch, small vendors hawking trinkets, laborers who had just crossed the river into the city, beggars in various states of desperation, and women of negotiable virtue plying their trade for copper pennies...
Finally, a moment—one soldier became distracted by a drunkard who stumbled against him, struggling to disentangle himself from the man's flailing limbs.
The knife saw its chance!
In a heartbeat, Davos caught an unusual glint of steel and his heart plummeted to his boots.
The knife plunged toward Lord Stannis!
Only then did Davos manage to cry out, "Assassin! Protect Lord Stannis!"
The soldiers snapped to attention, drawing their longswords with a chorus of steel against leather.
But the assassin had already struck his blow and vanished into the sea of bodies around them.
"My lord! How grievously are you wounded?" Davos asked anxiously, supporting Stannis's weight.
The sturdy breastplate and chainmail beneath had been pierced like parchment. A bloody wound gaped upon the lord's chest, red spreading across the blue of his doublet!
Stannis had caught only the briefest glimpse of his attacker's face.
He struggled to recall the features—young, somewhat familiar. Who could possibly...?
Intense pain invaded his consciousness. Stannis said nothing, though cold sweat beaded upon his brow and ran in rivulets down his stern face. The soldiers formed a protective ring around him, escorting their lord back to his manse with all haste.
Stannis lay upon his bed, his upper body bare and smeared with blood.
A cluster of trusted advisors gathered before him, while guards stood at attention both within and without the chamber. The atmosphere hung heavy with dread.
By some fortune, the knife had not damaged Stannis's vital organs. It was but a flesh wound, though a deep one.
After the maester had cleansed and bandaged the injury, the lord appeared to be in tolerable condition, though his face remained paler than usual, and more rigid, if such a thing were possible.
Suddenly, recognition dawned in his eyes.
"It was a whore's bastard!" he declared, his voice harsh despite his weakened state.
Davos had not yet comprehended. "My lord, what do you mean?"
"That assassin was a whore's bastard," Stannis clarified through gritted teeth. "I saw him in the throne room. As expected, he has no respect for law or justice!"
Stannis now understood the cause of the day's misfortune.
Simply because he had executed a murderer according to the laws of the realm, this baseborn whelp had nursed a grudge and sought revenge?!
Any reasonable man should understand that law is law, Stannis thought bitterly. It cannot be bent by personal sentiment or preference, nor should its executor be held to blame.
Indeed, bastards are born of impurity and will inevitably grow into agents of chaos and wickedness!
Stannis waved his hand, signaling for all present to withdraw.
"It is nothing. Merely an ignorant thug. I am well enough."
The tension in the room eased somewhat, and the assembled men gradually departed.
Davos, however, found his unease difficult to banish.
"My lord, time is of the essence," he urged. "All preparations have been completed. Why not depart tonight? To avoid any further peril?"
"Do you believe me a coward?" Stannis asked sharply. "The itinerary remains as planned. Prepare my evening meal."
Davos could do naught but obey.
In the kitchen, some of the cooks and servants dozed against the fireplace and wooden storage crates, while others exchanged whispered gossip.
The head chef cuffed the young kitchen lads about their ears. "Lazy wretches! Bestir yourselves! Lord Stannis wishes to dine!"
The kitchen helper called Dickon received a blow despite his diligence.
He cursed the old man silently in his heart. Relying on age and seniority to treat us like dogs rather than men. Someday you'll receive your due, old fool.
Dickon's duties were numerous and thankless.
Chopping vegetables, preparing ingredients, scrubbing pots, tending fires, delivering meals, and serving the so-called senior servants who treated him little better than the dirt beneath their boots.
He had long yearned to abandon his position, and now a golden opportunity had presented itself.
Dickon glanced furtively about the kitchen. No eyes were upon him. Quietly, he withdrew a small paper packet from within his sleeve and emptied the white powder it contained into the bubbling soup.
Remembering the gleaming gold dragon that had been pressed into his palm, the last traces of hesitation and fear within his heart dissolved like salt in water.
He took a wooden spoon and stirred the venison soup several times, watching the powder disappear into the rich broth.
"My lord!"
Davos wanted nothing more than to hack the trembling kitchen boy into pieces with his gaze alone!
"Take him below!" he commanded.
Two soldiers glanced at their lord for confirmation, then roughly seized the traitor, who writhed and wept like a maggot upon a hook, dragging him from the chamber to meet his end.
"My lord," Davos insisted, "this was no accident. Someone truly wishes you harm. We must depart without delay!"
Stannis offered no further objection. Had he taken the first spoonful of soup, the one lying cold upon the floor would not have been a hapless cook tasting his master's meal, but Stannis himself.
Near midnight, Stannis led a sizeable contingent directly to the harbor. The Gold Cloaks stationed there dared not impede their progress.
A pair of eyes watched from the darkness.
Earlier that day, Silver Stag had informed the boy of his failure. Stannis yet lived, his wound insufficient to claim his life.
Silver Stag had granted him one more night. If he could not succeed before dawn, there would be no further opportunities.
After that pronouncement, the boy had never again laid eyes upon Silver Stag.
He had wandered aimlessly around Fisherman's Square, his thoughts a confused tangle of rage and despair.
Now, he observed a great procession of hundreds moving through the night. Torchlight gleamed upon armor and swords, illuminating grim, watchful faces.
Mother, he thought, that day you told me to live well. I remember.
I'm sorry.
It seems the Stranger destines me to join you after I have your vengeance!
He ceased all thought, charging headlong toward the stern face at the center of the torchlit procession.
"Be alert! Movement to the left!" a guard shouted.
In the wavering light of the torches, the knife in the boy's hand seemed to glow with an unearthly red luminescence.
Though but a scrawny youth with no martial training, the runes gifted to him lent him unnatural speed and protection.
The knights and guards struck accurately at the assailant's body, yet their blades found no purchase. The boy rushed unimpeded to Lord Stannis's side!
The enchanted knife plunged into Stannis's chest a second time, and remained there. Scorching flames poured into Stannis's heart, consuming his very soul.
The Lord of Dragonstone stared into his killer's face, recognition and disbelief warring in his eyes.
He opened his mouth weakly, exhaling a wisp of black and crimson smoke. With it went his life's breath.
Before the flames and true steel, pure iron that never yields—black and hard and unyielding to the last—Stannis Baratheon shattered.
Davos Seaworth uttered a soundless cry, his throat constricted by horror.
The assassin stood motionless, as if stunned by his own success.
Davos summoned all his strength and swung his sword with deadly intent.
The boy's body crumpled to the ground, his head rolling to one side, eyes still open and staring at nothing.
A few heartbeats later, as the whore's son's eyes turned completely gray and lifeless, far away in the Riverlands, Joffrey Baratheon's eyes snapped open...
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