The candles had burned low enough that their wicks bent like old men, yet Arthur still walked the length of the chamber. Stone, carpet, hearth, window, and back again.
Night had long swallowed the city. Even the harbor bells had grown sparse, their sound dulled by distance and tide. By his reckoning Donnel should have returned with her hours past.
The mission she had was simple in design, which meant it was dangerous in truth. Such errands either concluded swiftly… or never. But Arthur still told himself she was merely delayed, he told himself that more than once.
If she had been seized, the word of that would have reached him already. King's Landing did not keep secrets long, not even if it tried to. Which left them with only one other possibility.
No, Arthur turned sharply and dismissed the thought before it finished forming. Marie had done such things before, slipping through hidden ways, trading danger for knowledge with the stubborn certainty of a girl who believed purpose alone made her worthy.
Arthur had forbidden it more times than he cared to count. Each time she had listened with lowered eyes… and ignored him the next day. He knew none of this would have happened if they hadn't gotten close. She would have lived a simple life, had simple dreams.
Proud little fool, Arthur thought of Marie, And he the greater fool forlovingher.
"My lord, you should rest a while." The voice was soft. Alayaya sat near the hearth upon a cushioned seat, hands folded in her lap as though she feared they might betray her worry. Her usual playfulness was absent tonight.
Across the chamber, Chataya stood at the window, a dark silhouette against the night beyond. Her lips moved silently. Prayer, perhaps, to any god of the world who would listen, whether they were named or nameless. A mother's love for her child rarely cared for doctrine.
Arthur watched her a moment, and realized he had seen the same prayers before on the docks of White Harbor, when wives and mothers watched the ships vanish into fog. He felt something twist within him, the sea heard no such prayers, nor did the gods.
"I'm fine," he said at last, more curtly than intended.
Alayaya dipped her head and leaned back against the cushions. For a brief instant guilt brushed him. They feared for her as he did, yet he wore command like armor and left them only silence. A lord who shared every worry soon became a man others must comfort, and he could not afford that, not tonight, not ever.
Arthur moved to the desk, setting both hands upon the wood. Maps lay there still, half rolled, ink weights holding corners that insisted on curling. War plans, fleet tallies, supply accounts, matters that normally steadied him. Tonight the markings blurred into meaninglessness.
Arthur studied a parchment beneath the candle's wavering light, Aurane's hand was unmistakable, neat, almost vain in its precision. The fleet had made it to Driftmark without incident and now sailed toward the harbor at Tarth. Where they will await the king's arrival, mostly his arrival.
He also wrote that the Myrish crossbowmen would make port at Tarth, too. Sellswords with discipline, coin-loyal rather than oaths. Arthur trusted that sort more than he cared to admit.
Two major isles of the Stepstones had been promised to Myr for their support in this war. Costly, yet cheaper than war with them in the future. Arthur preferred that in truth, gold was easy to give when it served a purpose.
The document of his own making, a contract written and ratified that divided the lands and income between all parties. It was already signed and sealed by Tommasino Bardio, the new Gonfalogniare of Lys, and the magisters of Myr. They still awaited signs of Pentos and Volantis.
The trade tolls were to be divided into fifths. Lys one part. Myr one part. Pentos and Volantis sharing another. Two parts to House Manderly. Protection of the trade would be shared in the same measure.
On its face, it was a balance. In truth, it is leverage. The Free Cities would now guard what they profited from. They would bleed for their coin before they let another take it. A man who hires one sellsword must keep his eyes upon him, but he who hires four of them keeps their eyes on each other.
Arthur let out a faint sigh. The plan would hold, so long men remained predictable enough. Yet they rarely did.
A soft knock broke the stillness. His eyes lifted at once. "Enter," he commanded. The door opened, and Donnel stepped inside. Before the man spoke, Arthur already knew, one look at the knight sufficed.
Donnel's shoulders carried defeat more honestly than words ever could. Mud clung to his boots, cloak unfastened and soaked wet, breath uneven from riding hard through the rain, shoulders drawn inward, and eyes that did not meet his lord's. A man returning with success always stood straighter, even when exhausted. Hope always stiffened the spine, and failure did the opposite.
Before Arthur could speak, Chataya crossed the chamber with sudden speed, silks whispering around her ankles.
"Where is she?" she demanded, seizing Donnel by the arm. "Why do you stand here empty-handed? Did you find her?"
Donnel looked almost relieved to be questioned by her instead. "We searched everywhere we could without drawing notice. We searched the Street of Silk, the harbor, and the alleys behind the perfumers—"
"Answer me plain." She cried out.
"We didn't find her," he said softly.
The words lingered in the air longer than they should have.
Arthur watched them in silence. The bond between the woman and the girl had always struck him as… inconceivable to his understanding of the world. Marie had once told him she'd been left there as an infant, barely past swaddling. Chataya had given Marie her milk beside her own daughter, raised her in the same rooms, under the same roof, with no gain to be had from it.
Blood, Name, Inheritance and Duty, these were supposed to bind loyalty.
Yet here stood a woman of the pillow houses with a mother's fear plain upon her face, while noble ladies spoke of honor and kept their hearts guarded even from children beneath their roof. Arthur thought, briefly, of Winterfell, of the bastard boy who had grown beneath his lord father's roof yet never received such a mother's warmth.
Arthur turned back to Donnel before the thought lingered further. "Did you check the safe houses?" His voice remained even, placed carefully between command and restraint.
"Aye, my lord," Donnel answered, hoarse from riding and from failure both. "All of them. The cooper's loft, the washerwoman's cellar, the apothecary near Cobbler's Square. We even asked the watchmen of the barracks in our pay. None claim they saw a girl that looked like her."
Arthur's fingers curled once against the table's edge.
Alayaya asked fearfully, "Do you think they were lying?"
"No, girl, they swore it," Donnel muttered, "They weren't lying about her."
"Men swear most earnestly when they wish to hide a crime." Chataya said softly, the defeat in her voice rang clear.
Donnel lowered his head slightly. "Mayhaps, yet if she was taken by the Watch, word would've reached us. And if it were something else…" He hesitated. "There's been no body found, either."
Chataya turned away, one hand pressed to her mouth. Alayaya had risen silently and now stood beside her, holding her mother's arm as though anchoring them both. She steadied herself against Yaya's arms, though her hands still trembled.
"What of Tom, the barman?" Chataya asked, forcing calmness into her voice. "She meant to go there tonight."
Donnel nodded. "Aye, she did. Dressed as a boy, like she's done before. The barkeep remembered her as that, and we kept up the ruse. He said the lad left the inn with company…"
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "With whom?"
"The informant," Chataya replied softly, "She was going there to meet the one who'd give us Janos."
"Aye, a watchman. Or one claiming to be." Donnel frowned as he searched his memory. "A serjeant with the name of Kettleblack. At least that's what the barkeep said he knew."
Arthur muttered. "Kettleblack."
The name meant nothing to him. In King's Landing, the City Watch bred like flies and lied more often. Still, a name like that could lead somewhere, even if it were a name unused.
Chataya shook her head faintly. "There is no officer by that name; if there were, I would have heard it before."
Arthur looked to Donnel. "Did you find this man?"
"No, my lord. Tom said, the watchman served at the Dragongate. The men of the barracks said they'd never heard of any Kettleblack or seen someone like him." Donnel said with a frown, "I even spoke to the captain of the gate, Humfrey Waters, he said there were no serjeant of that name serving under him."
Silence followed, heavy and unwelcome. The absence of the man entire was worse than a fake name. Whoever had taken her had prepared the ground beforehand.
Chataya swayed and fell, Donnel and Alayaya caught her before she struck the floor. Arthur rushed and reached them in two strides. Up close Chataya seemed smaller than he remembered, the careful composure she wore like silk stripped away, leaving only a grief-stricken mother. She had always been cautious, calculating in the quiet way of survivors, yet now she was barely holding on.
Chataya's eyes met his, measuring even through tears. There was no rage in them as Arthur feared; he thought there would be anger, instead he only found exhaustion.
"She is gone, she is truly gone then, my girl," Chataya whispered defeated, voice breaking into her native tongue, "O nkosazana yami yasehlobo."
Arthur shook his head once. "No." The word came softer than he intended. "Not gone. You know Marie. She's always careful. She has slipped away from dangers before. She might be hiding somewhere until morning."
"Aye, we will continue the search," Donnel said determinedly. "I'll find her no matter what it takes."
"It is my doing," Chataya said, tears slipping freely now. "You warned me. I should have kept her close."
Arthur straightened and returned to command and duty, they were always simpler than guilt and regrets. "Donnel," he said, calm and firm, "take her home."
"My lord—" Alayaya began, voice tight.
"You as well, Yaya," Arthur said, gentler. "Stay with her and get some rest. I promise I will find Marie."
Alayaya nodded, tears falling down her cheeks. She and Donnel helped Chataya to her feet. As she leaned into him as they started to walk away, her strength spent at last. She halted at the threshold of the hidden door, and turned back towards him. Arthur saw that her face had regained some measure of its usual composure.
"If she is not found, my lord," Chataya said, voice steadier than her eyes, "I would have you place Jayde in my seat. The girl has been trained beside Marie since childhood. She will keep the house as it must be kept."
"You mean to go away from here?" he asked calmly.
"Yes." The word came soft, but certain. "I will take Alayaya and return back home to the summer isles again. King's Landing has taken enough from me. I will not wait for it to claim my last child as well."
There was no plea in her voice, nor defiance, only tired defeat. Arthur regarded her in silence, even now she worked loyally for him, setting up the future, setting the pieces in order while her heart bled.
He answered gently. "Very well, If it comes to that, Jayde will have my protection."
Chataya searched his face for a moment, as if she could see through his mask. And whatever she found there seemed to suffice. She gave a small nod, then turned and passed through the secret door with Donnel's arm steadying her and Alayaya close behind.
They were gone, and the chamber felt larger for it. Silence settled thick upon the stone, broken only by the soft gutter of candleflame and the distant murmur of rain beyond the shutters. Even in grief they protected his name, leaving the chambers through shadows, all of them serving a purpose, yet still their lives mattered no less.
Too many matters were slipping beyond his grasp, Arthur thought angrily, and even more were hurt, first Barney and now Marie.
Then there were the unknowns. A faceless killer whose purpose he could not name. A killer with a Valyrian dagger to end little Bran's life in his sleep. Varys and Littlefinger's secret games with the Lions and the Wolves. And now Lady Stark had seized Tyrion Lannister in open defiance of the crown.
Each thread pulled another loose, and the designs he had woven began to sag beneath its own weight. Ambition always birthed chaos, and chaos could not be controlled, no matter how much one tried.
Am I guiding myfate, Arthur wondered, or merely sailing across theocean blindly?
Did he truly have any power at all if he could not protect his loved ones? And even if he did, was the power truly his, or merely borrowed for a season?
The question lingered longer than he liked. At last, Arthur moved, crossing to the shuttered window. Beyond it King's Landing slept uneasily, the city breathing through its alleys and wine sinks. Somewhere within those streets Marie might be dying or worse.
Steel and gold could not reach everywhere, yet there remained another path he had long refused to walk. A path that could find her, an art he neither trusted nor wished to perfect.
Skinchanging.
He disliked even the word. It belonged to the oldest tales of the North, spoken beside heart trees and never beneath sept domes. A gift, the singers named it. A curse, the wiser men called it.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly; he had avoided that road for good reason.
Skinchanging was not like the runes he carved. Runes were measured, deliberate, bound by renewal and price. Those were tools, harsh but controlled.
Yet this was surrender. To enter another living creature was to loosen the walls of the self. Wounds could follow. Madness too. Some never returned whole. A man who forgot the boundary between flesh and fur did not remain a man for long.
Yet those were not his fears, no, that was another. The Three-Eyed Crow, as it first named itself in dream, though Arthur now knew it only as the red-eyed shadow.
He had seen the crow first on the night that smelled of blood. After Arthur had taken his first life upon the isles, the crow appeared in a dream at the edge of waking, black wings against a pale sky.
It came back at Winterfell, beneath the whispering leaves of the godswood, when waking and dream no longer kept their distance. In the darkness behind his eyes the bird would perch, patient as winter.
Knowledge, it promised, and Greatness.
Night after night it waited upon the heart tree's pale face, speaking without sound yet clearer than any voice.
You wish to see the truth, it told him. Then open your eyes.
The crow spoke then of greater things, sight beyond sight, a godhood built not on prayer but on certainty.
YourDestiny, it whispered, BringDivinity
Arthur had listened and nearly believed. The crow did not offer it all at once. For many nights it spoke only of memory, how the trees watched, how the earth kept every step men had taken upon it. Greensight, it named the visions, fragments of what was, what might be, and how to find it.
Sight is not given, it told him. It is taken. Submit yourself, and the world will kneel in turn.
Then it offered more, absolute command, not through symbols, but through the being. To enter another mind. To wear its skin. Arthur had felt the pull of it, the promise of certainty. No lies, no deception, only absolute loyalty. The sort of power kings pretended to possess and never did.
His runes bent men. A word carved, blood given, and its will could be measured. Yet there were limits to such bindings. Without fresh offering the marks dulled, their hold loosened, like a knot left too long in wet rope.
Skinchanging was not so. It was dominion, it was breaking. The crow had shown him that much, in whispers and half-dreamt visions, pressing always at the edge of his thoughts.
Take them, it would murmur No man resists once you wear his skin. Not truly.
Soon, Arthur had started to lose himself, to feel his thoughts slipping away, even his name growing strange to him. The creature had been seeking a door to a body. It was not a master looking for an apprentice, it was an owner looking for a slave.
Arthur felt the familiar coil of dread tighten in his chest. He had barely survived that brush with the creature's power once before, had wrestled with it until his own mind bled. The struggle left him fevered for days, his thoughts not wholly his own.
Even now Arthur sometimes woke unsure whether he was still himself or someone else. Since then he had barred that door, yet she was still missing.
"If you wait," he murmured softly into the empty chamber, "you shall be disappointed." Whether Arthur spoke to the crow or to himself, he did not know.
Yet Arthur would risk facing the darkness again, tonight. For her, he would.
Arthur closed his eyes, steadying his breath. "Only a moment," he murmured. "Only enough to find her."
A knock came at the door, sharp enough to slice through the dense haze of his focus. Arthur opened his eyes at once and composed himself.
"My lord," came the steady voice of Ser Tristan Woolfield beyond the door.
"Enter," Arthur said calmly.
The knight stepped in, cloak still damp with night mist. He bowed stiffly, yet Arthur noticed the haste in him. "There is an emergency, my lord. Lord Stark was attacked by the Kingslayer, and he was wounded. King Robert has summoned you to the keep."
"How?! Did Jaime attack him inside the keep?" Anger flickered across his face. Will this day have any more surprises? Arthur thought, and then asked at once, "Where is Lord Stark? Sansa and Arya, are they okay?"
"They are fine, my lord. The girls are in the keep. And so is Lord Stark," Tristan hesitated, jaw tight. "But the boys that were with him died fighting the Lannister men." The Sergeant looked at Arthur, grief clear in his eyes and said, "My lord, they killed Jory."
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