CHAPTER 2: THE POISON CUP
Two days left. Forty-eight hours until exile.
Rider should have been packing. Saying goodbyes. Maybe praying to gods he didn't believe in.
Instead, he lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, calculating survival odds like an engineer trapped in a fairy tale.
Fifty soldiers—mostly criminals or disgraced men. Unreliable.
Two hundred civilians—starving, desperate, likely to turn violent.
Fort Despair—crumbling walls, no fresh water, a graveyard with a gate.
Valyrian ruins—maybe dragon eggs, definitely death traps.
Chance of surviving the year: twenty percent.
Chance of finding a dragon: five.
Chance of being poisoned before leaving the castle: ninety-five.
The math wasn't encouraging.
A knock broke the silence.
"Your Grace?" A servant girl's voice, thin and nervous. "Her Majesty requests your presence at dinner tonight. The royal family wishes to… say farewell properly."
Of course she does.
He sat up, pulse steady but cold. A farewell feast—public, emotional, perfect cover for murder.
"Tell Her Majesty I'd be honored," he called.
When the footsteps faded, he exhaled slowly. Alright. She's going to try it tonight.
He needed a plan.
---
The Kitchens
By the time Rider slipped into the castle kitchens, the place was chaos—steam, shouting, knives flashing in lamplight. No one noticed a small prince hovering in the shadows.
He scanned the room like a mechanic mapping a machine.
Cooking here. Plating there. Royal table dishes kept separate. Head cook tastes each before sending them up.
He found the head cook: red-faced, sweating, loyal. A good sign.
But then he spotted her.
A woman of about thirty, plain, invisible in a way that was almost deliberate. She moved smoothly, no wasted motion. Too smooth. Too careful. Her eyes flicked toward the royal table once too often.
New servant? Or assassin dressed as one?
When the cook turned his back, she slid a tiny glass vial from her sleeve and leaned toward the wine decanter.
Rider didn't think.
"Excuse me?" he said, loud enough to cut through the noise. "Is that the duck for tonight? It smells amazing!"
The woman froze. The vial vanished like it had never existed.
The head cook spun. "Your Grace! You shouldn't be in here!"
"I know, I know," Rider said, flashing an innocent grin. "I was curious. My last royal meal before the Grey Waste—I wanted to see the masters at work."
Laughter rippled through the kitchen. The tension broke. The woman slipped away.
For the next half-hour, Rider stayed visible—chatting, joking, asking about spices, inspecting bread.
Twenty witnesses, he thought. All of them saw me worried about the food. If I die tonight, no one will believe it was natural.
---
The Farewell Feast
The royal dining room was warm, candlelit, too small for the ghosts it held.
King Aldric sat at the head, drunk already. Selyse gleamed at his right—composed, graceful, venom hidden behind the smile. Dorian sulked beside her, stabbing idly at the tablecloth.
"Rider!" Selyse's voice was sugar. "Come, sit. We're so glad you could join us."
"Thank you, Mother," he said deliberately. Her eye twitched at the word.
Servants entered bearing the dishes he'd watched being prepared—duck glazed with honey, buttered roots, warm bread, crystal decanters of wine.
Aldric raised his goblet. "To my son. May you bring honor to House Draymore—and return alive."
Selyse added, "To family."
To murder, Rider thought, lifting his glass but not drinking.
Selyse noticed immediately. "Not thirsty, dear?"
"Just nervous," he said lightly. "Big day tomorrow. My stomach's unsteady."
"Then at least eat," she urged. "This is your favorite. The cook prepared it specially."
I bet he did.
Rider carved a slice of duck, then glanced at his father. "You always said you're the expert on duck. Try this—see if the cook still deserves his position."
The king blinked. "What?"
"Please. Tell me if it's perfect."
Selyse's smile tightened. "The food is safe, Rider. The cook works under the strictest—"
"Oh, I know," he said cheerfully. "I watched him myself earlier. Half an hour in the kitchen. Everyone saw me there."
Silence.
Then Aldric shrugged and speared a bite from Rider's plate. "Delicious. Cook outdid himself."
Rider smiled, pretending to relax, while Selyse's hand trembled slightly on her wineglass.
She's recalculating, he realized. I've ruined her certainty.
He chewed carefully, ate little, and watched her more than his plate. She barely touched her food.
When dinner ended, she rose smoothly. "Let me walk you to your chambers."
Every instinct screamed trap.
"That's kind, Mother, but Maester Colwyn wanted to see me first. Some medical supplies for the journey."
"At this hour?"
"You know maesters," he said. "They don't sleep. Goodnight."
He left before she could answer.
---
The Assassin
The corridor beyond was empty—until it wasn't.
Footsteps followed, soft but precise. Not a guard. Not random.
Rider's hand tightened on the small knife he carried more for comfort than use.
"Your Grace," a voice called. Female. Calm.
He turned. The plain-faced servant from the kitchen stood in the shadows.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Someone trying to keep you alive," she said. "We don't have much time."
"You tried to poison me."
"I tried to poison the duck. The Queen's orders." She gave a small, humorless smile. "You ruined my timing."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because I'm done working for her." She stepped closer. "My name's Mira. I'm a specialist. The Queen hired me to handle problems quietly. Your brothers were problems."
Rider froze. "You—"
"I didn't kill them. Another did. I buried the evidence." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I thought I was protecting the realm. I was wrong."
She pulled a leather pouch from her cloak. "Inside—samples of the poison, written orders, the other assassin's name. Enough to damn her if you live long enough to use it."
He stared. "Why give this to me?"
"Because once you're dead, I'm next. She's cleaning house. If you want revenge, survive. If I want redemption, helping you live is the only way."
"She'll notice if I vanish."
"Then make it look like cowardice," Mira said. "Ride tonight. Before her trap closes."
"What trap?"
"The kind that ends with you hanging from your ceiling beam. A grieving boy who couldn't face exile. Tragic. Convenient."
Rider's stomach turned. "If I run, Father will call me a coward."
"If you die, he'll just call you gone."
She pressed the pouch into his palm. "Live first. Explain later."
Before he could speak, she melted back into darkness.
---
The Escape
An hour later, the gates of Stormhearth cracked open for a lone horse.
Rider wore dark leathers, cloak pulled tight. The evidence pouch lay warm against his chest. Mira's diversions had cleared his way—guards reassigned, patrols distracted. Not luck. Design.
He mounted, glanced once at the castle towers—his home, his cage—and whispered, "You'll regret not killing me tonight."
Then he rode.
The wind tore at his cloak. Behind him, alarm bells had yet to sound.
Ahead, the Grey Waste waited—death, exile, and the faint hope of dragons.
Day one of survival: complete.
Only a thousand more to go.
No pressure.