I follow the warm vents like a trail of crumbs.
Kitchen smoke. Furnace heat. The line climbs and I climb with it, skimming shadow, hugging stone. Two guards pass under me in a narrow run, laughing at nothing brave. I flatten to a beam. They don't look up. They never do. Good religion.
The heat sharpens near the heart of the keep. I squeeze through a slit, scrape along a dusty ledge, and find a high crack that stares down into the Throne Room.
"Perfect," I think. "Great view. Terrible life choices."
Below, torches spit and pop. The Iron Throne squats like a dare. Aerys sits on it, robe hanging off him like it would rather be anywhere else. He's all sharp angles and bad nails. Mouth wet. Eyes bright with the wrong light as last time. No change.
Pyromancers cluster to his right in their stained red robes. One with a pointed beard and the smug look of a man who thinks King is his friend, Rossart stands closest. He smells really stink.
White cloaks ring the floor. Spines straight. Faces carved. Swords easy in their scabbards. One looks away when he doesn't have to. The tiniest mercy or the smallest cowardice. Hard to tell at this height.
Courtiers stack along the walls. Silk, sweat, and silence. One watches too long, like his thoughts were somewhere else.
In the center: a metal stand. A man bound above a brazier. Green liquid on his skin. Older, lean, stubborn and bewildered in eyes. Rickard Stark.
To the side: a cord looped around a younger man's neck. Hands tied. Face already purple at the edges. Brandon Stark. He fights instinct with instinct, pulls, chokes harder, pulls again. There is no winning in that knot. Only struggle.
Every breath in the hall is on hold.
Aerys smiles. It lands wrong on his face. He says something I can't catch over the crackle, then leans forward like a child waiting on a frog to jump.
"So it's begins," I think, and hate every letter of it.
Flame reaches. Chemicals answers. Rickard tries not to scream. Then he does. He can't help it. No one can.
Brandon claws at air he can't reach. The cord bites. His knees fail and take him nowhere. The Kingsguard don't blink. The one who looked away keeps looking away. The courtier who watches too long doesn't stop.
Rossart tilts his head like he's judging a recipe.
I press myself flat to stone until my chest hurts.
I am a small bird.
There is no miracle in my body that stops this now, even if I wants to.
If I dive, I die. If I chirp, I just asking to die. Nothing changes
Smoke climbs toward me. It hits my eyes, blurring my vision. I keep still.
Aerys laughs at something only he hears. He rubs his fingers together like he wants a spark he can own.
The hall swallows the sound of a man breaking. Then it swallows the next sound. Then the next. When it lets noise back in, it's the pop of resin and the rasp of breath from too many throats at once.
I remember faces because that's what I can do.
Rossart: noted.
White cloak who looks away: noted.
Courtier who watches like he's starving: noted
.Aerys: burned into the memory forever.
Brandon sags. Cord stays taut. Men don't sag the same way after that.
Rickard goes quiet in a way that isn't mercy.
Aerys slumps back, pleased with nothing that matters.
I reverse out of the crack on shaking claws. My body wants to flee; I make it move slow. No noise. No scrape. The heat rises in my back with the attention of a bully who hasn't seen me yet.
Up into the vent. Along the hot run. Down the cooler turn where the air smells dull and moody. I don't breathe right until the torchlight is a memory and the only sound is my own heart being loud about it.
I stop in a pocket of shadow and let truth settle.
This place is a kiln.
It isn't going to heal.
There is only one plan for me now.
Not "save the realm." Not "fix the king." Not "warn the brave."
Get them out.
Get them out.
Get them out.
I hook my claws deeper into stone until the shake stops.
Then I go back to them, counting every step, because if counting breaks I might, too.
[
Hey guys, early chapters are available on my Patreon.
link: https://patreon.com/MorpheusGrey
]