Chapter 6: The Weasel in the Mud
Tension coiled in the plaza, sharp as the bitter herb bundle's acrid scent in Elias's hand. Joren's furtive glances gnawed at Elias's nerves, wheat fields rustling under a stormy sky. He's no refugee, he thought, recalling the Frey scout's locket, fingers tracing a frayed parchment. His analytical mind flagged Joren's lies, shoulders tense from sleepless nights. A rusted clasp on his cloak snagged, grounding him as thunder rumbled, marking time's urgency. A scratched lens in his pocket glinted dully, a reminder of scrutiny. The Free Folk strengthened us, but spies threaten, he mused, heart pounding. A villager's shout, a dropped basket, stirred the crowd, their murmurs a world-in-motion. A woman adjusted her bitter herb bundle, her mutter a micro-conflict, heightening tension.
"He's hiding something," Larra whispered at Elias's drafting table, parchments scattered.
"I saw him whispering to himself, staring at the relic houses. He's not a scared traveler, Elias. He's a weasel."
[THREAT DETECTED: POTENTIAL BETRAYAL. INITIATING ANOMALY SCAN. INCONSISTENCIES FOUND IN RECRUIT JOREN'S BEHAVIOR.]
Corax cawed, flying low.
"He's a weasel, all right. I saw him with a hidden piece of parchment tucked into his boot."
Frey's spy, Elias thought, dread spiking.
"Bring him to the Loyalty Chamber," he said, voice hard.
The chamber's rune-lined walls glowed, air thick with dread. Joren fidgeted, Larra's eyes narrowed. Stay calm, Elias thought, gripping his frayed parchment.
"Joren," he began, voice gentle.
"Tell me your story again."
Joren's tale faltered, hollow.
[LOYALTY SCAN: RECRUIT JOREN. ALLEGIANCE: FREY. PLOT: THE RED WEDDING. WARNING: RED WEDDING IMMINENT.]
The massacre, Elias thought, horror crashing over him. Larra bluffed.
"You said you fled war. But you don't talk like a man who's seen war. You talk like a man who's been paid to lie. What 'feast trap' are you waiting for?"
Joren flinched, his weeping sun locket trembling.
"You're a Frey spy," Elias said flatly.
"And you're here to sabotage this place. What's the plan? What are the Freys doing?"
Corax pecked the locket.
"Your lies are a worse stench than your fear."
A villager dropped a scratched lens, its clatter a mini-payoff, easing tension. A new sub-scene unfolded as a villager argued over Joren's presence, Larra silencing them with a glare.
"They… they told me to spy on you. To find a weakness. They're planning to kill Robb Stark at the feast. They'll kill his mother, his men… everyone. They're calling it the 'Red Wedding,'" Joren sobbed.
Elias grabbed the locket, its malevolent pulse chilling his fingers. A conspiracy, not just Freys, he thought, rage simmering. In his workshop, Eldon stared at the locket, eyes manic.
"I know this symbol," he whispered.
"It's a symbol of a forgotten cult. The Weeping Sun. Assassins, healers, poisoners who worshipped death. Thought extinct."
"This isn't a Frey trinket," Elias said grimly.
"It's a piece of a bigger puzzle. We need to analyze it. Find out who else is involved."
Corax poked the locket.
"Teary sun, eh? I told you this place was full of spies. You should have listened to me."
A recruit spilled herbs, sparking laughter, an Accidental Spill moment. Eldon's analysis revealed the locket's faint magical hum, a new sub-scene of arcane study. The Training Hall's sigils could counter this, Elias thought, gripping his rusted clasp. The plaza stirred, whispers of betrayal spreading, wind howling. A villager offered a bitter herb bundle, its scent grounding him, a mini-payoff.
"We need to scan everyone," Elias said, voice firm.
To the Twins, he mused, hands shaky, the locket's pulse a hook to a bloody feast, urging him to save Robb Stark before the massacre struck.
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