The chest contained thirty-seven letters.
Twenty-nine were lies.
Tywin discovered that before breakfast.
I discovered why before lunch.
We had moved everything from the abandoned workshop to the Tower of the Hand. Each letter rested separately across a long table while two trusted Lannister scribes copied every word.
No Gold Cloaks.
No royal servants.
Tywin had become very particular about who entered the room.
Rhaegar stood beside me, reading one of the letters.
"This says Lord Darklyn is paying smugglers."
I looked up immediately.
Darklyn.
Duskendale.
My mind supplied memories I didn't want.
Aerys imprisoned.
Barristan rescuing him.
Executions.
Paranoia worsening afterward.
But not yet.
That mattered.
We were still years too early.
"What date?"
Rhaegar checked.
"Last year."
I took the letter.
It claimed a man connected to House Darklyn had secretly paid captains to move weapons through Duskendale.
Interesting.
Also dangerous.
Not because I believed it.
Because Aerys might.
Another letter implicated House Velaryon.
Another mentioned merchants from Braavos.
Two suggested Dornish nobles were communicating secretly with enemies across the Narrow Sea.
One named Lord Tywin.
I read that one twice.
The lion gathers coin while the dragon sleeps.
Below it:
When the hour comes, the west will close its gates.
I handed it to Father.
"Subtle."
Tywin read it.
His face didn't change.
Rhaegar leaned over.
"Someone wants my father to believe you're preparing rebellion."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"That," Tywin said, "is the useful question."
I looked across the letters.
Different handwriting.
Different seals.
Different supposed conspiracies.
Too many enemies.
That was the problem.
I'd been thinking about the chest incorrectly.
Someone hadn't left us information.
They'd left us targets.
"What if none of these are supposed to convince us?"
Tywin looked at me.
"Explain."
"Who was the trap meant for?"
"You."
"No."
I pointed at the chest.
"The fire was meant for whoever opened it."
"Likely."
"But if the trap failed?"
Rhaegar understood first.
"The letters survive."
"Exactly."
I picked up the Darklyn letter.
"And who would eventually receive them?"
Rhaegar's expression hardened.
"My father."
Aerys.
A king already looking for enemies.
Someone had prepared thirty-seven reasons for him to find them.
Tywin's eyes moved across the table.
"Burn them."
Rhaegar looked at him.
"All of them?"
"After they are copied."
"Shouldn't Father see—"
"No."
The answer was immediate.
Rhaegar stiffened.
Tywin didn't care.
"If His Grace sees thirty-seven accusations, he will not conclude that thirty-seven men are innocent."
Rhaegar didn't argue.
Because he knew his father.
I did too.
"What about the eight?" I asked.
Tywin looked at me.
"The eight what?"
"You said twenty-nine are lies."
One of the scribes stopped writing.
Tywin's gaze sharpened.
"Which means eight aren't."
Silence.
Then Father dismissed the scribes.
When the door closed, he pulled eight letters from the table.
"These contain information independently confirmed."
I smiled.
Rhaegar didn't.
"What information?"
Tywin handed us the first.
Payments.
Ship names.
Dates.
Nothing dramatic.
Then I saw one familiar name.
Tommen.
The servant who had carried my cup.
Another contained a description of the gray-cloaked man.
Another mentioned Renn.
Alive.
At least at the time the letter was written.
I stopped.
"Renn survived."
"Apparently," Tywin said.
Rhaegar took the letter from me.
It was dated three years earlier.
The street rat remains useful. Move him west before the boy returns to court.
The boy.
Me?
Or Rhaegar?
"West where?" Rhaegar asked.
"No location," Tywin said.
I reread it.
Before the boy returns to court.
Three years ago.
I hadn't known when I'd return.
Tywin hadn't known.
Aerys hadn't summoned me until recently.
Unless someone had expected it.
Or the boy wasn't me.
"Could mean you," I told Rhaegar.
"Why would I return to court? I live here."
"Exactly."
I read it again.
That line bothered me.
"Who knew Aerys would summon me?"
Tywin's expression became colder.
"His Grace."
"Anyone else?"
"Anyone he told."
Which could mean half the Red Keep.
Or one person.
Rhaegar looked at the remaining letters.
"What's in the last one?"
Tywin didn't answer.
That immediately made it the most interesting letter in the room.
"Father?"
He handed it to me.
Only four lines.
The king remains easy to turn against the Hand.
Do not push too quickly.
Pride works better than fear.
The friendship must die naturally.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Rhaegar didn't speak.
Neither did I.
This was different.
Not kill the king.
Not kill Tywin.
Something smarter.
Make them hate each other.
Someone had spent years feeding a crack that already existed.
The disturbing part was that they didn't need to create much.
Aerys and Tywin were perfectly capable of destroying their friendship themselves.
All someone had to do was help.
"Is it real?" I asked.
"We don't know."
"Then why is it among the eight?"
"Because someone has been doing exactly what it describes."
Tywin walked toward the window.
"Rumors reach Aerys. Remarks I make in private return to him distorted. Decisions become insults. Advice becomes challenge."
"How long?"
"Years."
Rhaegar looked sick.
I thought of the gray cloak five years ago.
Renn.
The poisoned cup.
The broken dragon.
Someone wasn't trying to change history with one dramatic murder.
They were pushing people.
Small movements.
Small fears.
Small insults.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I recognized the method.
It was exactly what Tywin had taught me.
Power wasn't always commanding someone.
Sometimes it was arranging the choices around them.
"Someone understands your father," I told Rhaegar.
He looked at me.
"And mine."
We found the first real mistake that afternoon.
Not in the words.
In the paper.
I was reading the letters again when I noticed two sheets felt different.
Thicker.
Smoother.
"These aren't from King's Landing."
One of Tywin's scribes examined them.
"No, my lord."
"Where?"
He held one toward the light.
"Could be Myrish."
Rhaegar groaned.
"More foreign merchants?"
"Maybe."
I looked at the writing.
Then at the other letters.
Different hands.
Different ink.
Different paper.
Someone wanted them to look unrelated.
Which meant similarities mattered more than differences.
I lined them up.
Rhaegar watched.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for laziness."
"Laziness?"
"Nobody creates thirty-seven perfect lies."
Tywin had taught me to study men.
Creylen taught me accounts.
Accounts had patterns.
People did too.
I started counting.
Dates.
Words.
Spacing.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the folds.
Every letter had been folded three times.
That wasn't strange.
But the final fold always placed the writing inward.
Still not strange.
I took another.
Then another.
The bottom edge was slightly shorter.
Same on every one.
"Look."
Rhaegar did.
"I see paper."
"The fold."
He frowned.
I demonstrated.
"Whoever prepared these folded them the same way."
"So?"
"So thirty-seven different conspirators supposedly wrote these."
Understanding appeared.
"But one person prepared them."
"Or one group."
Tywin approached.
I showed him.
He checked five himself.
Then ten.
Same.
"Good," he said.
I enjoyed that far too much.
"Can we identify who folds letters like this?"
"No," Tywin said.
Rhaegar pointed toward one of the copies.
"Maybe we don't need to."
He took a quill.
"These letters had to reach the workshop somehow."
Exactly.
"Couriers."
Tywin nodded.
"Find the route."
That was harder.
King's Landing swallowed information.
Thousands entered every day.
Sailors.
Merchants.
Riders.
Ravens.
But thirty-seven letters over several years created repetition.
And repetition created witnesses.
We began with the workshop.
Neighbors remembered the dead metalworker.
His name had been Hal.
Quiet.
No wife.
Worked mostly at night.
A baker remembered a boy delivering packages.
Different boys.
Always children.
Cheap.
Invisible.
We questioned street children.
Not by threatening them.
By feeding them.
That was my idea.
Tywin gave me twenty silver stags.
I spent four.
"Efficient," he said.
"I learned from a Lannister."
Within two hours, we had six descriptions.
Within four, a name.
"Old Nan."
I stared at the little girl who'd said it.
She couldn't have been older than seven.
"Who is Old Nan?"
"Not old."
Rhaegar looked confused.
"Then why call her Old Nan?"
The girl shrugged.
"She pays."
Fair enough.
"Where?"
"Different places."
"How do you find her?"
"She finds us."
I gave the girl another copper.
"How?"
She pointed toward her ear.
"A bell."
Interesting.
"What kind?"
"Little one."
She mimed ringing it.
"Three times."
I looked at Rhaegar.
He was already smiling.
A real lead.
Then the girl added:
"She has six fingers."
That was better.
We found her that evening.
Not because six-fingered women were common.
Because children were everywhere.
Word spread faster through King's Landing's alleys than through any raven network.
A woman matching the description had been seen near Fishmonger's Square.
Tywin ordered me to remain in the Tower.
I argued.
He won.
Mostly.
Rhaegar and I waited with Barristan near the square instead.
Technically, I had remained nowhere near the arrest.
Tywin would appreciate the distinction.
Probably.
The market was closing.
Fish guts covered the stones.
The smell made the Red Keep seem pleasant.
Then—
A bell.
Three soft rings.
I saw children turn.
Not all.
Three.
One boy walked toward an alley.
Barristan saw him too.
"Stay here."
He followed.
Rhaegar looked at me.
I looked at him.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face doesn't—"
A scream.
We ran.
Apparently neither of us had learned enough.
Barristan reached the alley first.
A woman was running toward the river.
Gray cloak.
Her left hand flashed beneath it.
Six fingers.
"Stop!"
She didn't.
Two Lannister men closed from the opposite end.
She changed direction.
Fast.
Very fast.
Then she threw something.
Not a knife.
A clay pot.
It shattered against the wall.
Flame exploded.
One guard screamed as his cloak caught.
Chaos.
The woman climbed a stack of crates.
"She's going for the roofs!" Rhaegar shouted.
Barristan ran after her.
I looked at the alley.
Buildings.
Crates.
A narrow street beyond.
And remembered being seven.
Chasing the servant had nearly put a knife through my face.
Don't follow the person.
Follow where they need to go.
I turned around.
"Tycen!"
Rhaegar followed me.
We ran back through the market.
"Where are you going?"
"River!"
"She's on the roofs!"
"Why run toward roofs unless she needs to cross something?"
The Blackwater lay ahead.
Ships.
Docks.
Escape.
If she had prepared fire, she'd prepared a route.
We cut through a butcher's lane.
People shouted as we shoved past.
I heard Rhaegar laughing behind me.
"This is your plan?"
"I'm developing it!"
"Wonderful!"
We reached the riverfront.
Ships lined the docks.
Too many.
Which one?
Think.
She had expected pursuit.
She wouldn't choose a large merchant vessel.
Too many witnesses.
Small.
Fast.
Ready.
I scanned the docks.
One boat had its sail already raised.
Two men aboard.
No cargo being loaded.
"There."
Rhaegar saw it.
We ran.
A figure appeared on a rooftop above the dock.
Gray cloak.
She jumped.
Not toward the street.
Onto an awning.
It tore.
She crashed through.
I winced.
She rolled onto the ground and kept moving.
Impressive.
She saw us.
Stopped.
Recognition.
"Prince."
Damn Rhaegar's hair.
She pulled a knife.
Rhaegar drew his sword.
So did I.
Real steel.
For the first time outside training since I was seven.
The woman smiled.
"Two lions."
"I'm a dragon," Rhaegar said.
She looked at him strangely.
"No."
Then she attacked.
Fast.
Her knife came for Rhaegar.
I intercepted.
Steel struck steel.
Pain shot through my wrist.
She turned the knife and slashed.
I stepped back.
Rhaegar attacked from her side.
She dodged.
Good.
Too good.
Not a courier.
Trained.
She kicked Rhaegar in the knee.
He fell.
I attacked.
One.
Two.
She blocked neither.
She moved.
Harys's voice entered my head.
Stop trying to hit where they are.
I feinted high.
She ducked.
Expected.
I changed direction.
My pommel hit her mouth.
Blood.
She stumbled.
Rhaegar swept her legs.
She fell.
I put my sword against her throat.
"Don't."
She froze.
My breathing was heavy.
So was Rhaegar's.
She smiled through bloody teeth.
"You've grown."
Everything inside me went cold.
"You know me."
"I knew you when you were small."
"Renn."
Her smile disappeared.
There.
"Where is he?"
No answer.
"Is he alive?"
Nothing.
Rhaegar stepped closer.
"Answer him."
She looked at Rhaegar.
Then laughed.
"The dragon prince."
Something about the way she said it bothered me.
"Who do you work for?"
Her eyes returned to me.
"The same people you do."
"I work for House Lannister."
"No."
She smiled again.
"You work for history."
My grip tightened.
Impossible.
She couldn't know.
Could she?
Then I saw her jaw move.
Poison.
"No!"
I dropped my sword and grabbed her face.
She bit me.
Hard.
"Seven hells!"
Rhaegar seized her jaw from behind.
I forced my fingers between her teeth.
Something cracked.
A small capsule fell onto the stones.
She fought like an animal.
Barristan arrived seconds later.
He pinned her arms.
Alive.
We had her alive.
I stared at the tiny capsule.
Same method as the gray-cloaked man.
"Not this time," I said.
The woman's eyes found mine.
And for the first time, she looked afraid.
Tywin was furious.
Not because we'd captured her.
Because I'd fought her.
Again.
"Apparently five years of instruction achieved nothing."
"It achieved quite a lot. I won."
"You nearly lost a finger."
I looked at the bite mark.
"Still attached."
Tywin closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked genuinely exhausted.
Rhaegar wisely remained silent.
Then Barristan placed the woman's possessions on the table.
Knife.
Coins.
Bell.
No token.
And a folded piece of parchment.
Tywin opened it.
His face changed.
"What?"
He handed it to me.
A list.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
At the bottom was a location.
Kayce.
My stomach tightened.
Western coast.
Lannister lands.
Home.
Rhaegar read over my shoulder.
"Why Kayce?"
I knew one person from Kayce.
Ser Harys Kenning.
Coincidence.
Probably.
But beneath the location was another line.
The lion must be prepared before the dragon falls.
Silence.
Rhaegar read it twice.
"What does that mean?"
I knew what my old memories wanted it to mean.
The Trident.
Rhaegar dead in the river.
Rubies beneath the water.
But that was years away.
Too far.
And whoever wrote this could not know the future.
I forced the thought aside.
Evidence first.
"Maybe nothing," I said.
The woman laughed from where the guards held her.
Tywin looked at her.
She looked directly at me.
"Ask him."
"Ask me what?"
Her smile returned.
"Why Joanna Lannister's firstborn was worth watching before he could even hold a sword."
The room became completely still.
Tywin's face emptied of emotion.
That was when I became afraid.
Not of her.
Of the answer.
Father stepped toward the prisoner.
"Everyone out."
No one moved.
"Now."
Even Rhaegar left.
I didn't.
Tywin looked at me.
"You as well."
"She was talking about me."
"Out."
"No."
For a moment, we simply stared at each other.
Twelve-year-old body.
Older mind.
His heir.
His son.
Whatever secret Joanna had taken to her grave was somehow tangled in this.
I wasn't seven anymore.
"You taught me information is power."
Tywin's jaw tightened.
"You taught me not to let other men decide what I know."
"Tycen."
"If this is about me, I stay."
Silence.
Then the woman began laughing again.
Tywin turned toward her.
And this time, he did not order me out.
"Start talking," he said.
The woman looked at me.
Not Tywin.
Me.
"You really don't know."
I hated the satisfaction in her voice.
"Know what?"
She leaned forward as far as the guards allowed.
"Ask your father what happened at the Anniversary Tourney in King's Landing."
Tywin went pale.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
For the first time in my life, I saw Tywin Lannister afraid of a question.
And suddenly, the mystery wasn't somewhere beneath King's Landing anymore.
It was inside my own family.