Angai stormed down the main road outside the Red Keep, his teeth bared in fury. The famed archer, once crowned champion at the Hand's Tourney, now looked more like a wild beast than a celebrated bowman. His voice rose above the noise of the crowd, dripping with venom.
"Tom, where did you hide my Golden Shadow Bow? Find it now, or I swear I'll put an arrow straight through that fat bastard of a banquet master. He cheated me, mocked me, and thought I would swallow the insult like some craven."
Pedestrians turned their heads at his outburst, then quickly looked away. Few in King's Landing wished to draw attention when tempers ran hot, especially so close to the Red Keep.
The archer's silk robe of bright Dornish blue fluttered around his thin frame, the silver embroidery catching the sunlight. Golden chains jingled around his neck, and his hands glittered with rings, a gaudy disguise of wealth he had chosen for the day. Yet beneath all the finery, he looked too young, too hungry, too raw—a wolf pup dressed as a merchant lord.
"Keep your voice down, before the Golden Cloaks hear you."
Beside him walked Tom Sevenstrings, harp cradled in his arms, his garish costume almost more absurd than Angai's. He spoke in a low voice, though his words carried an edge of amusement.
"That fat old goat cheated you, aye. But it was my fault as well. I was too eager, asking around taverns for ways to sneak into the King's wedding. A minstrel's pass, a connection, a coin slipped in the right hand—what did I expect? Of course some rogue would bite."
"Too easy," Angai spat, fingers twitching for the string of an arrow that wasn't there. His empty hand clenched with frustration. "How am I meant to face the Lord of the Crossing now? He'll think us fools."
Tom shrugged, far calmer than his companion. "Eddard told me, quietly, that even if we failed to enter the feast, we were to remain in King's Landing. He said other opportunities might present themselves. Perhaps the wedding was never the true goal."
"Why in the Seven Hells did he not tell me?"
Tom's lips curved into a sly smile. "Because, my fiery young friend, you are quick to anger. Secrets sit uneasily with men who carry sparks in their bellies. Better to entrust you with the bow than the whispers."
Angai cursed loudly. "Damn your games. What is it you're not telling me?"
"The Lord forbade me to say."
Their bickering carried them down the bustling street, blending them into the river of merchants, peasants, and soldiers who filled the city. All around, the talk was of the royal wedding—the food, the performers, the thousand noble guests.
"I heard a troupe from Pentos will perform, bears and men dancing together!"
"And fire-breathers, jugglers, sword swallowers! Gods, what I would give to see it!"
"You'll be lucky to see a crust of bread, Galleon. Dream on."
"Seventy-seven dishes, they say. A pigeon pie so large a hundred birds will fly free when it's cut!"
"A thousand guests, each with seventy-seven dishes? While I fought a stray dog for a carrot yesterday? Curse them all!"
"Quiet, fool! Do you want the dungeons?"
Golden Cloaks stalked through the street, clubs in hand, barking at idlers until silence returned. Tom and Angai slipped from the main road into Silk Alley, heading toward the Silver String tavern where Lemon awaited.
But before they reached it, the bells began.
One deep toll. Then another. Slow. Mournful. Heavy as stone.
The sound swept across the city, and a hush followed. People froze, then hurried on, eyes down, hearts uneasy.
Angai caught sight of a ragged child darting past. He seized her by the arm. "You there, girl! What do these bells mean?"
The child turned wide eyes upon him. She was filthy, her hair matted, her cheeks streaked with grime. But it was her mouth that made Angai's heart lurch. When she opened it, there was no tongue, only an empty, mutilated pit. She tried to speak, but only wet sounds came.
Angai recoiled, then, moved by pity, pressed a handful of coppers into her palm. "Go, buy yourself cakes."
The girl stared at the coins as if she had never seen such wealth, then bolted into the crowd without another glance.
Tom gripped Angai's arm. "Best not linger. Come, Lemon waits."
Inside the Silver String, Lemon sat with a jug of wine, his old yellow cloak draped about his shoulders. Once a nameless brother of the outlaw band, now he wore the colors of the Empty Mountain Knights, funded and legitimized by the Lord of the Crossing. Where once they had been hunted as brigands, now they were hailed as heroes of the Riverlands. The banner changed, the name changed, and the world bent to accommodate them.
He raised his cup with a grin. "So? I warned you Darren was a liar. Did you think a royal cook's quartermaster could seat you at a king's table?"
Tom scowled, snatching the jug. He spat after the first swallow. "Swill. Come to my room. I've still a bottle of Arbor gold hidden."
Their laughter and curses drew eyes, but soon they slipped upstairs. When the door was shut, Tom's mirth fell away. His voice grew grave.
"The bells, my friends, ring for a king. Joffrey Baratheon is dead."
Angai's eyes widened. "Dead? At his own wedding feast? Gods be good." He tore off his silk robe and hurled it aside. "Then our task is done! The banquet in chaos, the king in his grave—we've no reason to linger."
"Not so simple," Lemon muttered, frowning. "The death of a king at his own wedding reeks of poison. Like Aegon the Second, two centuries past. If that is true, the Golden Cloaks will soon seal every street. We must move swiftly."
"You know of Aegon?" Tom teased.
Lemon flushed. "The Lord funds a free school in Twin River City. I sat in once or twice."
But Tom was already reaching into his boot. With a sly smile, he drew out a folded letter hidden in the sole. "And here lies our true task."
Angai's jaw clenched—he could not read. He watched in silence as Tom and Lemon bent over the parchment.
"If Joffrey lives, return home at once," Lemon read aloud. "But if he dies, spread word through King's Landing that his death was wrought by House Tyrell."
Tom's eyes gleamed. "Olenna Redwyne and her sweet granddaughter, plotting together, weary of the boy's cruelty. A cup of strangler, slipped in his wine."
"And we are to turn rumor into song," Lemon said, "and let the city carry it like wildfire."
The parchment burned in the brazier, curling to ash.
"We move fast," Lemon urged. "But careful. Angai, you said you saw a tongueless child?"
"Aye. Just before the bells. She could not speak, but her eyes…"
Lemon cursed softly. "They say the Spider keeps them as spies. Then our faces may already be marked. We must change lodgings at once."
"Later," Tom murmured, plucking at his harp. "First, Darren."
---
Dusk settled over Hook Alley, shadows swallowing the fine homes of merchants and guardsmen. Darren, the fat procurer of the royal kitchens, staggered home with welts still burning on his back. The Golden Cloaks had whipped him half-senseless after the king's death, until Tyrion Lannister and a false lady were named as culprits. Only then had they let him crawl away.
"Gods bless," he whispered, clutching his swollen face.
But the blessings ended in the next breath. A hand seized him, dragging him into an alley's dark throat. Cold steel kissed his neck, a thin line of blood trickling down.
Tom's smile gleamed in the fading light. "Well met, old friend. Did you think us so easy to cheat?"
Darren trembled. "Mercy! Spare me, Tom. I—I can pay you back—"
"No rush." Tom's voice was smooth as silk, his eyes hard as flint. "First, you will tell us everything that happened at the feast."
Darren's knees buckled. The blade at his throat pressed closer, and the shadows seemed to close in around him.
---
Full book àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)