The White Sword Tower of the Red Keep pierced the sky like a jagged bone, its pale stones shimmering under a merciless midday sun. In the broad courtyard below, the light was blinding, reflecting off the white sand until it stung the eyes.
Ser Kaden Storm stood with his spine stiff, his left hand gripping a shield whose grain was worn from a thousand blows. With a grunt of effort, he slammed the rim into a training dummy—a grotesque thing of straw and timber. Thud. Dust billowed into the stagnant air. As the dummy rocked, Kaden's right hand lashed out with a short-sword, a steel viper striking for the belly.
The rhythmic thud-hiss of his training was a lonely war-hymn. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping into the grit of the yard where it vanished instantly.
"Captain Kaden!" a soldier from a neighboring squad called out, walking over with a wide, eager grin. "The boys are heading to a tavern in the Eel Alley tonight. Word is there's a new bard who knows the songs of the Riverlands and the miracles of the Sun-Monks. You coming?"
Kaden exhaled, resting his hands on his knees. He offered a weary, bitter smile. "Not tonight. Go on without me."
The soldier shrugged, his voice lowering with concern. "Ser, you can't hide in the Red Keep forever. Why not find a patron to speak for you? Ralf Koch is a dog, but even dogs can be muzzled with the right word."
"Just go," Kaden muttered, waving him off. "Bring me back a skin of mead."
As the soldier departed, Kaden felt his legs go soft. He slumped to the dirt, his chest heaving. He wasn't a man who loved the training pits, but these days, he had little choice. Ever since he had risked his life to liberate the two Alliance Lords from Ralf Koch's private dungeon, he had become a marked man.
To avoid Koch's hired knives, Kaden spent his days behind the thick walls of the Red Keep, leaving only in disguise to pass intelligence to the High Sparrow. It was a life of stifling boredom, where every hour felt like a year.
He was preparing to stand when he saw a splash of brilliant white. Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, was walking across the yard. Loras was usually a vision of youthful energy, but today his face was a mask of simmering fury, his steps heavy with purpose.
"Hail, Ser Loras," Kaden said, rising and offering a respectful nod.
Loras paused, his brow furrowing as he looked at the sweating Gold Cloak. "Ser Kaden. Why are you not in the city with your brothers? I thought the Watch lived for the bottom of a flagon once the sun dipped."
Kaden shrugged. "A knight who abandons his steel for the ale-house soon forgets how to hold either, My Lord."
Loras nodded, a flicker of genuine respect softening his gaze. "A true knight never forgets his vows, regardless of his surcoat." He turned toward the White Sword Tower—the quarters of the Kingsguard—but stopped at the threshold. He looked back at Kaden. "Ser Kaden. Care to join me for a drink?"
Kaden's eyes widened. "Where, My Lord?"
Loras let out a sharp, impatient breath. "Somewhere clean. Somewhere quiet. You lead the way."
Loras was notoriously arrogant, rarely deigning to speak with those below his station. As a Kingsguard, he was usually little more than a marble statue in the Throne Room. To be invited by the Knight of Flowers was an opportunity Kaden couldn't ignore.
Not even a beast like Ralf Koch would dare strike while I'm at the side of a Tyrell, Kaden thought.
Kaden led him to a small, nondescript tavern tucked deep within Eel Alley. The alley was a narrow crevice between leaning timber houses, but the tavern inside was well-kept. Sawdust covered the floor to soak up spills, and the air smelled of roasting meat and heavy wine.
This was a sanctuary for the Seekers of the Light in the capital. While Aldric forbade alcohol in the Gods Eye to preserve grain for winter, he was less rigid with his agents abroad. The tavern keep was a secret devotee of the High Sparrow, and he treated "Friends of the Sun" with a warmth that gold couldn't buy.
"You must try the sour vintage, My Lord," Kaden said, gesturing to a secluded corner. "It comes from the Riverlands. A survivor of the war."
"There are vineyards left in the Trident?" Loras asked skeptically, but he took a sip. His eyes brightened. "It has teeth. I like it."
As the wine began to work its magic, the color returned to Loras's cheeks, and his guard began to slip. He wasn't looking for a subordinate; he was looking for an ear that wouldn't judge him.
"Cersei," Loras hissed, his voice a low venom. "Does that woman truly believe she can rule? Her mind is a labyrinth of shadows and spite. The Ironborn have taken the Shield Islands. Their longships are in the Whispering Sound. Margaery begged her to release the Redwyne fleet from the siege of Dragonstone to defend the Reach. And do you know what the Queen Mother said?"
Kaden leaned in. "What, My Lord?"
Loras mimicked Cersei's haughty, cold tone with terrifying accuracy: "Storm's End is worth a hundred Shield Islands. And as for Dragonstone... as long as it sits in Stannis Baratheon's hand, it is a dagger at my son's throat. Lord Paxter stays until the castle falls."
Loras slammed his cup onto the table. "A dagger! The only daggers that woman knows are the ones she keeps in her jewelry box!"
Kaden hid a smile behind his wine. Loras was twenty-one, the third son of Highgarden, and currently the most frustrated man in the Seven Kingdoms. He realized Loras hadn't chosen a Kingsguard brother to drink with because he needed someone who was as much a 'nobody' as Kaden to vent his grievances.
"Women should mind the hearth and the cradle," Kaden added, playing the part of the disgruntled soldier. "They have no stomach for the hard choices of steel."
"The Small Council is full of her lapdogs," Loras continued, ignoring the casual sexism. "The Reach is bleeding. My father's host is in the south, and the fleet is tied to a rock in the Blackwater. Cersei doesn't care. She treats our people like copper stars on a betting table. So... when Margaery wept last night because the Queen refused her again, I stood up. I offered to end the siege of Dragonstone myself. And the bitch agreed."
Kaden gasped. "Dragonstone is a fortress of Valyrian design, My Lord. It will not fall easily."
"I know the risk," Loras said, his eyes burning with a terrifying, desperate light. "But I will not sit here while the Ironborn trample my brothers' lands. I will take that rock, or I will die on its shores."
Kaden understood. Loras was chasing the shadow of Jaime Lannister. With the Lord Commander away in the Riverlands, Loras felt he had no victory to call his own.
"I wish you the Father's strength and a swift return, Ser Loras," Kaden said sincerely.
Loras touched his cup to Kaden's. The heavy gloom that had hung over the young knight had lifted, replaced by the grim clarity of an impending battle.
As they returned to the Red Keep and reached the base of the White Sword Tower, Loras paused. He turned to Kaden, his hand resting on the gem-encrusted hilt of his sword.
"Kaden. You're rotting in the Gold Cloaks. I can see the rust on your soul. Come with me to Dragonstone. You've got the look of a man who knows how to use a breach. When we return with the castle keys, I'll see you restored to your Captaincy. Ralf Koch won't be able to touch a hero of the King."
Kaden stood frozen. "You... you know of my trouble?"
"There are no secrets in the Watch, Ser Kaden," Loras laughed, his voice echoing in the stone stairwell. "I'll see you at the docks at dawn."
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