Garin held the badge up so the others could see. Several of the men around the fire grinned—excited, almost cruel smiles. The black iron gate had become their shared badge of a dangerous game.
A big man missing a front tooth chuckled low in his throat. Another, fresh scratch marks across his cheek, licked his lips, eyes glittering with violence.
Andrey watched the badge turn in the firelight. The cold iron pattern and dancing flames reflected in his dark eyes, but his face stayed blank.
The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. Only the fire popped and hissed.
Then Andrey flicked his wrist. The longsword slid silently back into its sheath, so fast the motion blurred. The killing chill against Garin's throat vanished with it.
He picked up a soft piece of deerskin from beside the whetstone and began wiping the hilt and guard with slow, careful strokes, as if the moment of lethal threat had never happened.
"Sword's ready."
He sheathed the blade at his hip in one smooth motion, then brushed grass and dirt from his clothes. His cold gaze swept over Garin's pale, shaken face and the uneasy looks of the other men by the fire.
Finally it moved past them all, toward the deep, lightless forest beyond the camp.
"I'm leaving," he said, no trace of farewell in his voice. "I need to reach the shallow ford on the Blackwater before dawn. There's a boat waiting."
"Clean this place up as fast as you can. Follow the plan we went over before we left—leave in stages. Meet at the rendezvous point and be ready for the next phase. Don't be late."
He didn't look at anyone again. He simply turned and walked into the thick darkness.
Morning.
Mist clung to the hills on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood.
Corian reined in his horse and looked over the clearing Oliver Chesed had called the bandits' nest.
Empty.
Completely empty.
No fire pits, no discarded gear, no horse droppings. Even the ground looked too clean, as if someone had swept it on purpose.
Oliver's hopeful expression drained away into embarrassment. He opened his mouth to explain, but only managed a few awkward sounds.
"Ser, I swear they were here. My hunters saw them more than once…" His voice grew smaller until it was almost a mumble. He couldn't meet Corian's eyes.
Corian didn't scold him. He simply gestured. Irgo swung down from his horse.
The big Dothraki didn't search with his eyes like the others. He dropped to a crouch, pressed his palm flat to the earth, and closed his eyes.
A moment later he stood, pupils narrowed. He began moving across the clearing in a strange, rhythmic pattern—sometimes bending to smell the soil, sometimes brushing his fingertips over faint scratches on tree bark, sometimes listening to how the wind moved through different patches of vegetation.
This was the tracking art of the grass sea. Nothing like the hounds and boot prints southern lords relied on. Dothraki believed the land remembered everything, the wind told everything, and only the sharpest hunter could hear nature's secrets.
"Here."
Irgo stopped beside a patch of ordinary-looking moss. His voice was low. "At least twenty men. They stayed more than half a month."
He nudged the moss aside with his boot toe, revealing hard-packed, discolored soil underneath. "They were careful. They buried the fire pits and swept away most of the trash before they left. But the smell is still here. The footprints haven't all been erased."
He walked to the edge of the clearing and pushed into a thick stand of bushes.
What lay beyond made Oliver suck in a sharp breath.
A small hollow, clearly used as a latrine. Filthy, swarming with flies. Worse, scattered through the weeds at the edge were several pieces of ragged, stained clothing—coarse wool tunics, patched trousers, worn-out boots. The kind of things poor hunters or smallfolk wore.
"They took the victims' clothes," Corian said, dismounting and walking closer. His voice stayed calm and analytical. "Not to wear them. For disguise? Or just because they like taking things?"
Irgo didn't answer. He shook his head and pointed deeper into the hollow.
The soil there was a different color—freshly turned.
Several Black Hand men moved in with short knives and started digging.
The first body came up quickly. Then a second. A third. In the end they uncovered eight half-rotted corpses, buried in a shallow, careless line along the filthy edge of the latrine like garbage.
All male. Different causes of death—throats cut, hearts stabbed, skulls crushed. But Corian, with his surgeon's eye, saw the common thread: every wound showed deliberate, excessive cruelty.
The man with the slashed throat had been nearly decapitated. The one stabbed through the chest had a dozen extra holes. The one whose head was smashed in no longer had a recognizable face.
"This wasn't robbery," Corian said, crouching beside one of the bodies and pulling on leather gloves. "This was butchery. They killed for the fun of it."
He was perfectly calm. Oliver had already collapsed to the ground, hands over his face. The two Chesed men with him looked ready to be sick.
Irgo kept tracking.
He moved like he was following an invisible thread, leaving the latrine and heading toward the dense tree line to the northeast. He stopped beside a thick patch of ferns, crouched, and carefully parted the broad leaves.
Then he went still.
"My blood of my blood."
There was an unusual weight in Irgo's voice. He stood slowly, turned, and opened his hand. Lying in his palm was a small iron badge.
The edges were worn smooth from long use. Dirt and dew clung to it. But in the strengthening morning light the symbol stamped in the center was unmistakable.
A closed black iron gate.
Corian took the badge. The cold metal pressed against his fingers. His pupils tightened.
"Ilenwood…"
The name left his mouth in a low murmur. His mind pulled up everything he knew.
House Ilenwood.
One of the strongest houses in Dorne after the Martells. Their seat, Ilenwood, guarded the end of the Stone Way, earning them the title "Wardens of the Stone Way." Since the days of the First Men they had ruled the valleys and green hills along that road, calling themselves "Blood of the Princes," "Lords of the Green Hills," and "Lords of the Stone Way." At their height they had ruled half of Dorne.
Even after House Martell took power, Ilenwood remained formidable. They had always been rebellious, never truly giving up the dream of replacing the Martells. After Dorne joined the Targaryen realm they had joined three Blackfyre rebellions.
Their relationship with the Martells in Sunspear was complicated—outward loyalty, constant quiet defiance. It had only eased a little more than ten years ago when Prince Doran sent his eldest son, Quentyn, to be fostered with Lord Anders Ilenwood as a gesture of peace.
And now a band of cruel "bandits" carrying the Ilenwood sigil had appeared in these poor hills on the edge of the Crownlands?
They had slaughtered local smallfolk but left the weak, nearby Chesed Castle completely untouched?
It didn't make sense.
None of it made sense.
Corian's hand closed tight around the badge. His thoughts raced. Suddenly a wild, reckless face flashed through his mind.
If this had anything to do with House Ilenwood… the target was almost certainly Oberyn.
Years ago, when Oberyn was sixteen, he had been caught in bed with Lord Edgar Ilenwood's mistress. The two men fought a duel. Because of Oberyn's rank and age they agreed it would end at first blood. Both were wounded. Days later Edgar died when the wound turned septic. People said Oberyn had poisoned his blade.
Oberyn had fled to the Free Cities. Later, Doran had sent Quentyn to foster with Edgar's grandson, the current Lord Anders Ilenwood, precisely to smooth things over.
Was this revenge?
No. Too many years had passed. If they wanted Oberyn dead they could have done it in Dorne. Why here? Why now?
"Irgo." Corian's voice sharpened. "Which way did they go? How long ago?"
Irgo was already back in tracker mode. He knelt, brushed aside leaves to study a faint print, then lifted his head and scented the air. "Northeast. They left sometime last night."
Last night.
Corian's brow furrowed. He had only decided to come to Chesed Castle yesterday afternoon. Even if someone had been watching, word shouldn't have reached this remote place so fast.
Coincidence?
Or did they have eyes inside King's Landing?
No time to dig into that now.
"Ser Oliver," Corian said, turning to the shaken lord still sitting on the ground. His tone left no room for argument. "Take your men and return to Chesed Castle immediately. Bar the gates. No one in or out until we come back. Stay on high alert."
"Irgo, take the men and go after them. These aren't ordinary bandits. Everyone—mount up!"
Oliver looked up, dazed. "What about you, Ser?"
Corian swung into the saddle in one clean motion.
He tucked the black iron gate badge carefully inside his coat. "I'm going back to King's Landing."
At his command the eleven riders spurred their horses and vanished into the misty hills like arrows loosed from a bow. Hoofbeats echoed through the silent morning forest, startling flocks of birds into the air.
Oliver stood frozen, watching them disappear. A cold weight settled in his chest.
He had only wanted his hunting grounds back so his people could survive the winter.
The bandits were gone. He should have been relieved.
Instead he felt as if he had accidentally pulled back a corner of some grand, blood-soaked curtain and glimpsed the terrible stage behind it.
Was this good fortune… or the beginning of something much worse?
At the same moment, King's Landing, the Street of Silk.
Outside a lavish suite at the Hummingbird brothel, two Dornish guards stood on either side of the carved wooden door.
They wore light studded leather and carried curved Dornish blades. Their posture was correct, but the sharp edge in their eyes had dulled after long hours of waiting.
From inside came the sounds of women's laughter, clinking cups, and Oberyn Martell's distinctive lazy, magnetic voice. The Prince was in high spirits, loudly reciting something—poetry or some crude song he was making up on the spot. Ellaria Sand's laughter and the giggles of the prostitutes wove through it.
Karen rolled his stiff neck. The leather gorget creaked softly. He glanced at Mallos beside him.
Karen was older, a thin scar across one cheek from years of fighting bandits on the Dornish marches. Mallos was younger, from a village near Ilenwood. Three years ago his skill with a sword had earned him a place in the Prince's guard.
Right now Mallos was fighting to keep his eyes open, but his lids kept drooping.
This kind of duty, Karen thought with an inward sigh, was easier than marching through the desert and safer than battle. But it was more exhausting than both combined.
You had to stand there awake, listening to the music and moans and smelling the food and wine drifting out, while staying completely alert—because the man inside was Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, Prince of Dorne, and their lord.
At the far end of the corridor, half-hidden by the edge of the carpet, lay a leather-bound booklet. Dark red wine stains had soaked into the pages, making the cover buckle and warp.
If anyone picked it up they would find detailed notes on a giant warrior's fighting habits, possible weaknesses, and anatomical observations.
It was the "gift" Corian had sent.
Now it lay forgotten, as if Prince Oberyn would never need it.
Footsteps sounded from the stairs.
Karen and Mallos snapped to attention, hands dropping to their hilts, bodies leaning forward slightly.
When they saw who it was they relaxed a fraction, though they kept the proper wary posture.
It was Daemon Sand.
He had once been Oberyn's squire. The Prince himself had knighted him. Daemon was strikingly handsome—strong jaw, bright blue eyes, light sandy-brown hair cut short. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and carried the easy smile of a man who knew exactly how good he was with a sword.
The young knight moved lightly up the corridor. Behind him walked a second knight, fully armored, face hidden inside a massive bucket helm.
"Karen. Mallos," Daemon said as he reached the door, greeting them by name in a pleasant voice. "Is the Prince still enjoying himself?"