Getting into Harrehal was easy. They were recruiting men by the dozen, and slipping in among the workers wasn't tricky.
Lyanna wouldn't be the first high-born lady he'd killed. He had experience. The Unsullied were always around her. That was a huge problem. He'd been in the castle for almost a month and still couldn't find any gaps in their defenses.
The lords' mansions were well defended. He tried to sneak in and almost lost his life. He remembered the Unsullied's spear sticking into the wall where his body had been seconds before. The ball-less bastards were annoying.
He stalked for days. He has to maintain his facade as a worker. They made him prepare mortar and carry it during the day. At night, he was too tired, but he managed to find time for his main task.
After a long time, he finally saw an opportunity. The she-wolf went alone to the godswood, without the little princess, whom he was ordered not to touch, and without guards.
He entered stealthily. He prepared the small dagger in his hand. He watched her kneel in front of the weirwood tree. Exposed to him. He started to run, but his body fell to the ground. Soon, he looked up at the queen above him, staring at him.
"Looks like we found him, Torrhen," he heard her voice, cold as ice. "Should we interrogate him?"
"Qyburn will make him talk; no need to waste saliva," said the man's voice. After that, he just stared at the sole of his boot before losing consciousness.
The next time he woke up, he was tied to a table. His limbs were stretched out. The room was empty, except for a desk with glass jars on it. He tried to free himself, but couldn't. For hours, no one visited him. Paranoia began to take hold of him.
"Ah, I'm sorry I neglected you. I'll attend to you right away," said the old voice that greeted him. He was carrying another stretcher with a man on it.
The old man in question was Qyburn—another of his targets. The king believed that this man was the one who would bring about change, not Prince Jaehaerys.
He was not afraid to die; R'hllor would protect him. Although inside the castle, his bond with the red god had weakened.
"You are a healthy man," the maester looked at him with narrowed eyes as if he were a book for him to read. "The prince asked me to extract information from you if possible. But he already knows who sent you, so that is secondary," said the man. "The main thing is, of course... science!" He watched as the man took out a metal tool with a black crystal at the tip.
He did not know what that man would bring him. But with Rhllor's help, he would endure it.
"See this?" Qyburn showed him a jar. He didn't recognize what was inside; it was a reddish-brown color. It was shaped like a beech, although much larger. "It's a kidney. It helps filter the blood. Sometimes men get sick, and you have to replace the kidney." The killer trembled. "But the body remembers and knows how to recognize what isn't its own. All the patients I've had so far have failed to accept the kidney. Jaehaerys said it was unlikely unless they were related. But you... You'll help me prove that it can happen, right? You'll live, I promise. I want to say the same for the other man, but I can't do two operations at once," the man sweated cold with fear. "But I guess he'll live through you."
The maester did not look at him as a human being, but as an experiment. He did not care about his suffering or his well-being; he just wanted to get information from him, no, not him, from his body.
"But using it like that out of the blue could kill you very quickly," said the old man. "I would like to experiment. But the trauma could cause you to reject the organ even more strongly..." He seemed to hesitate, as if he wanted to try something else. "Ah, I guess I'll have to get straight to the point. Your body will serve one way or another," the man took a glass jar with a white liquid in it.
'R'hllor, save me,' the man closed his eyes, waiting to die by the flames of his lord.
"Open your mouth." The old man's hand was strong. "Ah, you have no tongue. That explains why you didn't answer. Never mind, the poppy milk will put you to sleep."
'My R'hllor, My R'hllor, why have you abandoned me?" He thought before sinking into a deep sleep.
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Jaehaerys did not fear common assassins. Only faceless men. That is why he sent an informant to Braavos. All he had to do was watch to see if anyone from Westeros entered the House of Black and White. So far, he had received no signal.
It was no guarantee, but it was something he could do. He did not fear poison; he knew that crystals could neutralize it. And if anyone got close enough with a weapon, the necklace would warn him. He gave his wife a dagger to defend herself in case the last line of her own protection depended on her. He taught her how to use it, and she did well.
Thinking of the faceless men, the best assassins in the world, he wondered: how much is his head worth?
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"A man has asked," a dark-haired man with empty blue eyes looked at the man in front of him.
Jon Connington was on a mission for his silver king. Rhaegar had tasked him with inquiring about the price of the lives of the princess and the prince. The king's two siblings had committed treason.
"And what is the price of his head?" the griffin asked impatiently. Looking at the man with that stoic gaze made him nervous.
"His life does not belong to the god of many faces," replied the flat voice.
"What?" Jon couldn't believe his ears. "What do you mean by that?" But the voice remained silent. "And what about the princess?"
"Seven kingdoms," Jon simply snorted and turned away.
He would have to find other assassins to do what the Faceless Men dared not do. He wanted to return to Westeros as soon as possible. To warn his silver king about the existence of his bastard brother.
He needed to organize the deaths of the younger siblings so that he would not return to King's Landing anytime soon. After the Faceless Men, the best were the Sorrowful Men. Jon heard that they were known for whispering, "I am so sorry," before killing their victims.
The Griffin could send an informant to Rhaegar to tell him about his half-brother, but he wanted to be the one to break the news himself.
Jon returned to the inn where he was staying for one last night. He heard the men whispering about the Manderly fleet. Apparently, the Fat Lord had sent his fleet out to trade. Connington sneered.
'The fucking northerners shouldn't be allowed to leave their cold lands,' he thought angrily of those who had betrayed his king.