The fall of Old Oak came not with the clash of steel upon steel, but with the whisper of surrender upon trembling lips.
Days of siege and the steady drumbeat of despair had ground the defenders' will to powder. Where once had burned the fierce pride of the Reach's ancient houses, now remained only the cold arithmetic of survival. The rebels' hearts had turned from thoughts of glorious death to the simple desire to see another dawn.
Yet it was not the common soldiers who sealed Old Oak's fate—it was the highborn lords whose blood ran as water when courage was needed most.
Had Lord Mathis Rowan raised his voice in one final call to battle, had the proud bannermen of House Oakheart demanded their men die with swords in hand, the lower ranks might have obeyed. Such was the way of things—smallfolk followed where lords led, even unto death.
But no such call came. Not from Lord Mathis, not from any man who wore silk and gold. The nobles held their tongues and clutched their hopes like drowning men clutch driftwood.
Ser Garlan's words had planted a seed of terrible possibility alongside the certainty of doom. Unconditional surrender—at least it promised life. And where there was life, there might yet be hope for better days.
The lords saw what they wished to see: a path through the darkness that did not end in the grave. So long as they drew breath, they might yet find a way to rise again. Dead men, however, had no second chances.
Moreover, Ser Garlan had spoken of "destruction"—not merely death, but the ending of entire bloodlines. Most thought it mere bluster, the sort of threat made to speed a siege's conclusion. But what if it were not? What if the young Lord of Highgarden meant every word?
For the sake of wives and children, for the continuation of names that had echoed through history for a thousand years, surely it was better to bend the knee than to test whether such threats held substance.
Thus, when the Guards poured through the shattered gates, they met not the fury of organized resistance but the scattering of broken men. Here and there a faithful retainer might raise his blade in final defiance, but these were sparks in the rain—brief flashes of light soon quenched in blood.
The thousand star-marked warriors dispersed through Old Oak's winding streets like hunters seeking prey, each with his own quarry to claim.
The one they called Gray Mouse had drawn a prize worth the taking.
"Target confirmed in the main keep—move with all speed!" He spoke to the flickering light that danced before his eyes, that marvel of sorcery that showed him things no mortal sight should see. There—a still figure in a chamber high above, waiting like a spider in her web.
Gray Mouse tightened his grip upon his blade and opened a guard's throat with a sound like tearing silk, then led his men toward the ancient stronghold that crowned Old Oak like a stone crown.
Time was his enemy now, more dangerous than any sword. Even the slightest delay might see his prize claimed by another, for he was not the only hunter in these halls.
A glance at the shimmering display showed his nearest rivals still two hundred paces behind. If fortune favored him, if no ill chance intervened, the target would be his before any other could reach her.
Gray Mouse allowed himself a thin smile. All his scheming had borne fruit—the bribes paid, the favors curried, the careful positioning that had seen his squad among the first to breach the walls. It had been worth every risk, every silver piece, every degrading bow and scrape.
This target was no mere prize—it was the key to everything he had ever wanted.
His ambitions stretched far beyond the rank of sergeant in the City Guards, though few knew his true calling. The Military Intelligence Agency existed in shadow, its very name unknown to all save those who served it. But Gray Mouse understood what others could not: though newly born and still finding its legs, the Agency would one day be the hidden spine upon which the kingdom's power rested.
He harbored no delusions of commanding such an organization—that honor belonged to greater men than he. But to become one of its fingers, perhaps even an arm of its reaching influence... that was a life worth the living.
To climb that narrow ladder, he must step upon the backs of his competitors, must prove himself more cunning, more ruthless, more valuable than all the rest.
The target waiting in Old Oak's highest tower would be his first great step upward.
Gray Mouse raised his eyes to the keep that loomed before them, its ancient stones dark with shadow and old blood. Somewhere in those halls waited the key to his future.
His men followed as he plunged into the building's depths, their boots ringing against stone worn smooth by centuries of passage. Here the guards proved more loyal, more willing to die for their oaths than their brothers at the gates. More than half drew steel against these invaders who bore the star upon their breasts.
But Gray Mouse and his companions were far more than common soldiers.
Nine of his men bore the blessing of the Holy Shield, that divine protection which turned mortal steel to whistling air. They walked through the storm of blades as though through summer rain, their own weapons finding flesh and bone with terrible certainty. Each thrust was answered by a scream, each cut by the splash of crimson upon gray stone.
Gray Mouse had earned greater gifts through service well-rendered. When enemy blades struck him, they met not flesh but flame—his longsword blazed like a torch as it carved through mail and bone alike, leaving the reek of burnt meat in its wake.
Near a hundred men died before the will to resist finally broke. The survivors cast down their weapons and fell to their knees, begging mercy from men who had walked through death itself.
Gray Mouse paid them no heed. His quarry waited above, and the shimmering display showed she had not stirred from her chamber. Step by step he climbed the winding stairs, his prize drawing near with each heartbeat.
Until at last he stood before her door, and ten men put their shoulders to the ancient oak.
The woman who turned from the window might have been a maiden for all the years showed upon her face. Slender and small, with eyes the color of summer sky, she possessed that ageless beauty that sometimes blessed the highborn. Yet Gray Mouse knew better—Lady Alyssia Oakheart had borne five sons to her lord husband, and the youngest of them had died in King's Landing wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
He studied his prize with the care of a merchant appraising a jewel. Time had been kind to her, leaving few marks upon features that might have graced a queen. Her eyes held depths that seemed to see through to a man's very soul, making him ashamed of the base thoughts that dwelt there.
She was mistress of Old Oak, and more—she was the heart of its resistance.
"Lady Alyssia Oakheart," Gray Mouse said, his voice carefully neutral. "Your opposition to His Grace seems... unusually fervent. Might there be particular cause for such devotion to a lost cause?"
Intelligence had marked her as the strongest voice for continued resistance, the one who had stiffened spines when others would have bent.
The lady sighed, a sound like wind through autumn leaves. "What purpose does explanation serve now? Do with me as you will—I shall not weep or beg like a child."
"On the contrary, my lady. There is always purpose in understanding." Gray Mouse needed more than mere completion of his mission—he required information that would make his superiors take notice, would see his name whispered in the right ears.
He leaned forward, allowing a note of mockery to creep into his tone. "Or perhaps this stems from nothing more than a woman's wounded pride?"
Lady Alyssia's composure cracked like ice in spring. Her eyes flashed with sudden fire, and words poured forth like water through a broken dam.
"What could creatures like you possibly understand? My son—my Arys—died in that cesspit of a capital, cut down for reasons no one will speak! Did you think Old Oak would simply forget? That we would bow and scrape to those who spilled Oakheart blood?" Her voice rose to a near shout. "Not even kings may murder with impunity!"
Gray Mouse's fingers danced across the light display, recording every word. This was precisely what he had hoped for—a connection between the royal family and the death of Ser Arys Oakheart. Such intelligence would surely reach the highest levels, and with it would go the name of the agent who had uncovered it.
Lady Alyssia continued her tirade, grief and fury pouring out in equal measure, but Gray Mouse was no longer listening. His eyes found the window, checking the angle of the sun. Time was growing short.
A subtle gesture brought his men to readiness. Gray Mouse stepped aside, positioning himself where he might observe without participating in what was to come.
Two of his soldiers dragged bodies into the chamber—one a castle guard, naked and clearly dead, the other a young man who breathed still despite his evident terror.
The dead one was an ordinary Old Oak City guard, with no clothes on his lower body and a sword through his heart. The living one was Ewyn Oakheart's second son, completely naked, hugging his arms and shivering.
Alyssia Oakheart's face changed drastically: "What are you going to do?"
Gray Mouse remained silent.
The nine City Guard soldiers and Military Intelligence Agency trainees each took action.
Five stood guard outside the door, two neatly took off their cumbersome armor and breeches, and two monitored Alyssia Oakheart's second son.
"You go first, brother!"
A veteran in his thirties or forties looked generous, pushing the young man next to him onto Lady Alyssia, causing the woman to scream shrilly.
"You're lucky, you old hag. My little brother is still a virgin." The veteran pushed his young companion.
"Stop dawdling, hurry up and strip her naked! Others will come at any time, and it will be too late by then!" The veteran looked at Gray mouse, "After all, the mission is important."
The young man was at a loss and couldn't help but look at Gray Mouse for help, but he received a silent acquiescence.
Finally, he tore Lady Alyssia's clothes… …