Fog rolled in from the river like a living wall.
Lanterns along the docks glowed faintly, their light swallowed by mist.
Aren moved silently between stacked crates.
Lysa followed above, leaping across roofs and rigging.
Always watching.
Always ready.
Ships creaked against wooden piers.
Water slapped softly.
Somewhere, a man coughed.
Too close.
They reached the far pier.
A lone figure waited near a moored vessel.
Cloaked.
Hooded.
Nervous.
"Petyr?" Aren called softly.
The figure turned.
Not Petyr.
A boy.
Barely sixteen.
Eyes wide with fear.
"He… he sent me," the boy stammered. "Said you'd listen."
"Listen to what?" Aren asked.
"Draven's ships," the boy whispered. "They arrive tomorrow night. Weapons. Gold. Men."
Aren's pulse quickened.
"Who's paying?"
"Petyr. And others."
Names followed.
Three nobles.
Two officers.
A priest.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed.
Dozens.
Shadows moved in the fog.
Crossbows raised.
"Ambush," Lysa hissed.
Bolts flew.
Wood splintered.
Aren dragged the boy down.
They rolled behind barrels.
"Valewood!" a voice shouted. "Surrender!"
Petyr stepped forward.
Smiling.
"You should've stayed in your manor."
Aren rose slowly.
Sword drawn.
"Traitor," he said.
Petyr laughed.
"Survivor."
Lysa fired.
One man fell.
Then another.
Chaos erupted.
Steel clashed.
Men screamed.
Fog filled with blood.
Aren fought like fire.
Fast.
Precise.
Angry.
He reached Petyr.
Blades met.
Sparks flew.
Petyr stumbled.
Aren's sword pierced his chest.
Petyr fell into the river.
Gone.
Guards arrived at last.
Late.
As always.
The traitors fled.
Some escaped.
Some floated.
The boy survived.
Shaking.
Alive.
Aren wrapped him in his cloak.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Tom," the boy whispered.
"Stick with me," Aren said. "You'll live longer."
Above the water, smoke drifted.
War had entered the city.
Quietly.