GUEST PALACE – MAIN HALL – BRAAVOS – DAY
The double doors creaked open.
Caesar stepped through first—his cloak trailing behind him. His face was hard now, gaze fixed, jaw clenched. Two Templar escorts walked at his sides.
Behind them followed Kartiga, silent.
At the palace threshold, the knights posted at the entrance stepped aside without a word, sensing the storm.
The moment Caesar entered the wide marble hall, he halted.
The soft breeze from the high balcony fluttered a loose curtain.
He turned slowly.
His eyes met the knights who followed.
And he gave a look.
Not loud. Not wild. Just a cold command.
The knights didn't hesitate.
They grabbed Kartiga before he could blink.
SLAM—
They pinned him hard to the wall, the loud thud behind him from the force.
Kartiga gasped. Not from pain—but from confusion.
"My lord?" he said, eyes wide, breathing sharp. "What is this?"
Caesar approached.
Slow. Heavy.
"Kartiga," he said—quietly, but full of edge.
Kartiga tried to speak again. "My lord—"
But Caesar held up a hand.
"Don't."
A moment passed. Tension thick.
"You're loyal," Caesar said. "And you're a good man."
He stepped closer.
"But sometimes… you're too smart for your own good."
Another step. Close enough now to see the confusion in Kartiga's eyes.
"So tell me—what did you do behind my back this time?"
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"How did I lose more of my men?"
Silence.
Even the knights waited.
Finally, Kartiga lowered his eyes.
"…Brynden Tully," he said.
Caesar's brow knit.
"…The Blackfish? Of Riverrun?"
Kartiga nodded once.
"He and his men caught up to the network."
Caesar stood still. His hand slowly dropped from Kartiga's chest.
The knights loosened their grip.
Caesar murmured, "So that's how they died…"
But Kartiga raised his head slowly.
"No, my lord…"
Caesar looked at him again—eyes narrowing.
Kartiga bowed his head deeper.
"I gave them the mission. A suicidal one. They may have… succeeded."
Caesar's face darkened. His hands curled into fists.
"Raise your head," he said coldly.
Kartiga did.
Just in time for the blow.
CRACK—
Caesar's fist met Kartiga's jaw in one clean punch.
Kartiga staggered back, dazed. Even as an elite Jonin, he hadn't expected it. Not from his lord. Not like this.
The knights remained still.
Caesar stood over him, eyes like blade.
"I warned you," he said—voice low, bitter. "I warned you once…"
He paused. His mouth opened. The next words came harder.
"…F**k," he muttered. "I valued you."
He swallowed the anger.
Steeled himself.
"You are no longer fit to walk beside me."
He turned away, voice colder now.
"From this moment… you serve in silence. At the lowest rung. Never show me your face again."
He walked.
The two knights followed him, without a glance back.
Left alone, Kartiga dropped to his knees.
Bowed.
His voice was barely a whisper—more breath than sound.
"…Thank you, my lord…"
And though his face throbbed, and his place had been stripped—
He bowed as if it were a gift.
But smiled in the end, he smiled as he seen his Lord growth.
-------------------------
CASTLE BLACK – TRAINING YARD – DAY
Snow drifted lightly over the yard.
Jon Snow and Grenn circled each other, wooden swords in hand.
Jon moved first.
Knocked Grenn's blade aside.
Stepped in.
Drove the hilt into Grenn's face.
Grenn went down, clutching his nose.
Alliser Thorne stood nearby. Arms crossed.
"If that were a real sword," he said, "you'd be dead."
Grenn groaned.
Alliser didn't wait long.
"Lord Snow here grew up in a castle," he said, pacing. "Spitting down on the likes of you."
He looked around.
"Pyp. Let's see if Ned Stark's bastard bleeds."
Pyp stepped forward. Swung. Missed.
Jon dropped him in one clean turn.
"Next."
Another recruit tried.
Jon disarmed him easily.
Up on the balcony, Jeor Mormont and Tyrion Lannister watched.
Neither spoke.
"Next."
The voice was sharper now.
Another recruit rushed forward—lean, fast, dark-haired.
Renji.
Jon blinked.
Something felt off.
They clashed.
Jon struck cleanly—Renji took the blows, barely defending, retreating without a word.
Then he stepped back.
And another stepped in. Taller. Older.
Eyes like glass.
Toru.
He didn't wait.
Steel swung.
Wood met wood—fast.
Jon stepped in, tried to press.
Toru moved smooth. Precise. Too precise.
Jon slashed.
Toru dodged.
Countered.
They clashed.
Hard.
CRACK.
Jon stumbled.
He caught himself. Came again.
Toru didn't flinch. He stepped with him. Matched every beat. Every breath.
The yard began to shift—boys stopped talking.
Even Grenn, even Pyp.
Watching.
Waiting.
The rhythm changed.
Footwork shortened. Breathing deepened.
Jon grit his teeth.
Then—
THUD—
A sharp kick from behind, Renji.
Jon crashed into the snow.
Laughter exploded.
"That's one for the rest of us!" Grenn called out, still clutching his nose.
"I think I saw his eyes roll," Pyp laughed.
Jon rolled over, wiped his lip.
Blood.
He looked toward the line—Both Toru and Renji had already stepped back in.
Expression calm. Hands folded.
Alliser smirked.
"Well," he said, satisfied, "even Ned Stark's bastard falls.
.....
BALCONY
Tyrion didn't smile. But one brow lifted.
"You've gotten sharper recruits lately," he said. "That pair—fast hands. Don't move like blacksmiths' sons."
Jeor didn't look at him.
"Not trained for swordplay," he murmured.
Tyrion turned. "Hm?"
Jeor's eyes stayed on the yard.
"Trained for something else."
He didn't explain.
Didn't need to.
He watched a moment longer.
Then turned away, cloak trailing behind him.
"Wouldn't be the first time killers wore black.".
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