Harald sat listening as Aerion, the primarch of the Spectres, delivered his report.
"We did find their camp. There are about seven septons and twenty well-armed knights protecting them."
Harald chuckled. "Seven septons. Of course they send seven."
"My men had scouted the forest thoroughly, even before the tourney began," Aerion continued, his expression troubled. "There was nothing suspicious. I do not think there is another camp."
"No, there is," Harald said firmly. "I believe a dark artifact is hiding their true encampment."
Aerion's expression shifted, a hint of fear creeping in behind his professional composure. "My liege…"
"I made a mistake," Harald admitted, standing and moving to the table. "I was too narrow in my approach. I only looked for one specific signature of magic, but I forgot that the enemy we face has access to artifacts that have been stolen or copied from his siblings."
Aerion did not seem to fully understand what Harald meant, and Harald did not elaborate. The fewer people who knew about the Daedric Princes in precise detail, the better.
Harald reached down and picked up a round piece of metal from the table, an enchanted disc he had prepared earlier, its surface etched with runes. He handed it to Aerion.
"That will help you find their true camp. Send a small group to search, perhaps even a single, very skilled infiltrator who knows how to move unseen." Harald paused, thinking. "I believe the true camp is in the southwest of the Forest of Whitemore, near Justman's Lake. Start there."
"I would go myself, but I need to be at the melee. If you do find something, send word immediately. I will deal with it myself once we know what we're facing."
Aerion turned the metal disc over in his hands, studying it with wary respect before carefully pocketing it.
"The maesters and the Faith are working together," Harald continued, then paused and laughed softly to himself. "Well, the maesters are using the Faith. That is more accurate. You need to find out what the maesters truly intend for them."
Aerion nodded, his expression grim.
Harald's voice hardened. "We cannot allow any innocent blood to be spilled, Aerion. Whatever plot they have laid, the smallfolk must be protected above all else. I am entrusting you with the defense of the innocent in this. Whatever happens during this tourney, whatever trap they have set, I need you to make sure that my people are safe."
Aerion straightened, squaring his shoulders. "I will not break your trust in me, Your Grace."
"You never have," Harald said with genuine warmth. "Now go. Time is short."
Aerion bowed and left, the door closing quietly behind him.
Harald leaned back in his chair for a long moment, exhaling slowly.
It had been a stupid mistake on his part to focus only on Hermaeus Mora's specific magical signature and his artifacts. He should have cast a wider net from the beginning. Harald was now sure that Hermaeus had given the maesters copies of other Daedric Princes' artifacts, or perhaps even originals from his vast collection in Apocrypha.
No, he would never part with the most valuable pieces of his collection, Harald thought. The Prince of Knowledge valued his treasures too much for that. Copies of other artifacts, those of his princely siblings, perhaps. This was Hermaeus making Harald's life harder, throwing obstacles in his path for his own amusement. Not a full attempt to kill him. No, this was not that.
He stood and began to pace, his mind working through the problem methodically.
He needed to expose Flowers. That was the most immediate priority. Torrhen, Loren, and Argella all needed to be made aware of the secret order of maesters. Flowers could be made to confess fully. The evidence Elsa had gathered was damning enough for Harald's own purposes, but to convince the other monarchs, he needed a confession.
The Starks were also involved in the plot somehow. He was sure of it.
Serena Stark especially troubled him. He had observed her carefully since their strange encounter in the corridor, watching for signs of that yellow-eyed shift he had glimpsed. But he had found nothing. No magical disturbance, no unusual behavior beyond what could be explained by a young woman in an unfamiliar court. It was strange. He had been so certain he had seen her eyes change that day.
And then there was Brandon Stark, the Crown Prince. He hated Harald openly. There was no hiding behind a mask of courtly behavior. It was genuine ideological opposition, the resistance of a traditional man against change, a man who was afraid of the unknown.
He could not simply accuse the prince and princess of the North of conspiracy. He had asked the earthsingers, especially Dew, who had been in Winterfell, if she had noticed or felt anything unusual, but she had not. Even peering through the heart tree in Winterfell yielded nothing. Something Hermaeus had given the maesters was obstructing him.
Perhaps he needed to spring the trap and see what happened.
Damn politics.
Dammit all, Harald thought, running a hand through his hair.
Exposing one part of the plot would help, though. Flowers, specifically. Then the dominos would fall.
One step at a time, he thought.
Just then, the door opened and one of the Spectres stepped in. "Your Grace, the melee is about to begin. Kings Loren and Torrhen are waiting for you so they may leave together."
Harald nodded, pushing the tangled web of conspiracies to the back of his mind.
"Yes," he said, straightening his tunic and moving toward the door. "Let us be off."
.
.
.
Bram watched the melee from the viewing gallery set up for the smallfolk, pressed in among hundreds of common people who had arrived early enough to claim a good spot. The mood around him was festive and loud, people cheering and jeering with equal enthusiasm.
The melee grounds were enormous, a wide expanse of packed earth large enough for dozens of knights to fight simultaneously. High platforms had been constructed on all sides for the lords and their families, draped in the colors of their houses and decorated with banners that snapped in the morning breeze. At the center of the northern platform stood the royal box, elevated above all the others, a grand structure of polished wood and purple silk where the three kings sat in prominent view of the entire crowd.
King Harald sat in the largest chair at the center, flanked by King Loren on his left and King Torrhen on his right. Even from this distance, Bram could see that they were laughing about something, Loren gesturing animatedly while Torrhen shook his head with what appeared to be amused exasperation. Queen Argella sat in the adjacent box.
Bram was out of his legionnaire attire today.
He had to be.
For the duration of the tourney, he had been conscripted into the service of the Spectres. His squad had been the first to report the suspicious septons and their guards to the Primarch, and they had even located their camp in Whitemore Forest. Their diligence had not gone unnoticed.
That morning, he had been called into the Primarch's office before the sun had fully risen.
Aerion Whiteflame had not wasted words. He had explained the situation: there was a hidden encampment somewhere in the southwest corner of Whitemore Forest, concealed by magical means. The septons and their Warrior's Sons escorts were planning something during the tourney, something that could endanger lives, possibly including the lives of the three kings themselves.
The primarch had given him a round metal disc. He had said that it would help him find the hidden encampment.
Now he stood among the crowd, dressed in common clothes, watching the melee's conclusion while keeping one eye on his target.
The contest had been whittled down over the course of the morning from dozens of combatants to just two. A knight from the Reach had been the last to fall, beaten convincingly by a mystery knight in plain gray armor. The mystery knight had fought with remarkable skill, efficient and precise, dispatching opponents without unnecessary showmanship.
And now the mystery knight faced Centurion Jonnel Blackwood, the centurion of Bram's century.
The crowd hushed as the two circled each other.
Jonnel attacked first, his sword coming in a diagonal slash that would have taken a lesser opponent across the chest. The mystery knight sidestepped with fluid grace, letting the blow pass inches from their side, and responded with a sharp counter that caught Jonnel on the pauldron and staggered him.
Jonnel recovered quickly, as Bram knew he would. The Centurion was not a man who was easily beaten. He pressed forward with a combination of strikes, each one technically excellent, forcing the mystery knight backward toward the edge of the fighting ground.
But then the mystery knight did something unexpected. Rather than continuing to retreat, he absorbed one of Jonnel's blows on his shield and used the momentum to spin inside his guard, driving an elbow into his jaw and sweeping his legs at the same time.
Jonnel hit the ground hard.
The crowd erupted.
The mystery knight stood over the fallen Centurion, the tip of his sword hovering near Jonnel's throat in the traditional gesture of victory. Jonnel, to his credit, laughed from the ground and raised a hand in acknowledgment of his defeat.
The applause was thunderous, rolling across the tourney grounds like a wave.
Bram watched as the mystery knight walked to the center of the grounds, stopped before the royal box, and reached up to remove his helm.
A handsome man was revealed, perhaps thirty years of age, with blonde hair and sharp features. His face was open and earnest as he looked up at the royal box. He turned and knelt specifically before Queen Argella rather than the kings.
"My Queen," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet. "My name is Ser Finnigan Mertyn of House Mertyn. I am one of the few knights who has not forgotten who the true ruler of the Stormlands is."
He then gallantly asked to be taken into service by the queen and lowered his head in complete deference.
Queen Argella rose from her seat with graceful dignity, her expression composed but clearly moved. "Rise, Ser Finnigan. Your skill honors House Mertyn, and your loyalty honors the Stormlands. I accept your service gladly."
The cheers that followed shook the ground.
Bram watched as King Harald stood and said a few words, examining Ser Finnigan with evident approval. He spoke briefly but powerfully about true knighthood, about the kind of honor that did not bend to political winds.
Then Harald said something that made the crowd roar louder than ever before.
He, alongside King Loren and King Torrhen, formally recognized Argella Durrandon as the true and rightful Queen of the Stormlands.
Bram left shortly after. He had seen what he needed to see, and more importantly, he had seen his target move.
The knight, a broad-shouldered man with the look of a veteran soldier, had been standing at the edge of the smallfolk viewing area throughout the melee. He had arrived with the septons' visible company, identified earlier by Bram's squad as one of the Warrior's Sons traveling in disguise.
The grounds beyond the melee field were alive with activity. A football match was about to begin on the field that had been laid out to the east, and a substantial crowd was already gathering. Two teams warmed up on the grass, one from Cyrodiil itself and the other from Fairmarket. The winner of this match would advance to the final. The smallfolk were intensely invested, arguing loudly about which team would prevail and placing bets as well.
Bram watched as the knight stopped at the edge of the football field, observing the teams while a frown deepened on his face. He stood there for perhaps two minutes as players practiced passes and the crowd cheered around him.
Then the knight shook his head in evident disgust and turned away from the field.
Bram followed, keeping his distance, never getting closer than twenty paces and always keeping at least two or three people between himself and the knight as they moved through the grounds. The knight stopped occasionally to observe different events, never lingering long. He watched the archery competition for a while, his eyes moving less toward the contestants and more toward the layout of the grounds, the positions of the legionnaires, and the flow of crowd movement.
By evening, the knight had joined three others near the theater that had been constructed at the eastern edge of the tourney grounds. It was a modest but well-built open-air structure with tiered seating that could accommodate several hundred spectators. A troupe of mummers was performing its most ambitious production.
Bram took a seat several rows behind the four men.
The stage was elaborate, with painted backdrops depicting the Riverlands in autumn colors, the Gods Eye glimmering in the background. Torches lined the performance area, casting dramatic shadows across the stage.
A narrator stepped forward as the crowd settled.
"My lords, my ladies, good people of the Heartlands! Tonight we present: The Dragonborn's Triumph! The tale of how Harald Stormcrown freed the rivers and river people from the clutches of the sea and its monsters!"
The crowd cheered enthusiastically.
The play opened with a depiction of the Ironborn occupation, mummers in gray rags shuffling across the stage under the whips of others wearing crude iron armor and kraken symbols. The subjugated Riverlanders were made to look pitiful and downtrodden, which drew sympathetic murmurs from the crowd.
Then a figure appeared at the back of the stage, tall and commanding, wearing gleaming armor of purple and gold. The mummer playing Harald strode forward with confidence, his sword raised, and the crowd immediately recognized whom he was meant to represent.
The cheers were immediate and loud.
The battle scenes that followed were creative and inventive. The crowd gasped and cheered at the appropriate moments, children pointing excitedly at the staged fighting.
But the best was yet to come.
The stage darkened dramatically, and from behind a painted backdrop emerged the most elaborate costume Bram had ever seen in a performance.
"I AM DAGON GREYJOY!" the mummer bellowed. "I have come to end this rebellion of Riverlander scum!"
The crowd recoiled in theatrical fear, many genuinely startled by the sudden appearance.
"And now," Dagon continued, his voice dropping to something more sinister, "I will become ONE with the Drowned God!"
Through some clever stage mechanism, Dagon seemed to transform, the costume shifting and expanding, turning him into a monstrous figure.
"WHO CAN STAND AGAINST THE CHAMPION OF THE DROWNED GOD?!"
The crowd was absolutely rapt, completely silent.
Then the Harald mummer stepped forward again.
Gasps rippled through the audience.
"I STAND AGAINST YOU!" the Harald mummer proclaimed, his voice carrying easily. "I have the Old Gods with me, whose roots reach down into the bones of the earth! I have the New Gods with me, whose light illuminates all darkness! And I am strengthened by the Nine Divines, those who stand against the darkness that would consume all things!"
He raised his sword, which had been treated with the same glowing compound, blazing gold in the torchlight.
"I AM THE HERALD OF ALL THE GODS! AND YOU. WILL. FALL!"
What followed was the best battle the troupe could manage, the large, costumed mummer playing Dagon nearly falling at one point and accidentally drawing a great deal of laughter from the crowd. In the end, the Harald mummer's sword struck Dagon.
The crowd erupted.
People were on their feet, screaming their approval.
The Harald mummer turned to the crowd and raised his sword once more. "And now! We ride to Harrenhal! To free the good people of these lands from their chains!"
"TO HARRENHAL! TO FREEDOM!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Bram found himself grinning despite his mission. He was so caught up in the spectacle that he almost lost sight of his quarry.
Movement at the corner of his eye snapped him back to attention. The knight and his three companions were rising, slipping out of the theater while the crowd was still on its feet celebrating. Bram waited a moment, then followed, weaving through the standing spectators.
They moved deeper into the tourney grounds, away from the lights and noise, toward the darker edges where the forest began. Bram followed at a greater distance now, using the trees at the forest's edge for cover.
Then a new figure joined the group.
Bram stopped, pressing himself behind a broad oak, and watched.
Maester Flowers, he recognized immediately, the gray robes and chain links visible even in the dim evening light. With him walked two septons, their expressions grave.
He moved closer, picking his way silently through the undergrowth.
"…all is in place," Flowers was saying.
One of the septons spoke, his voice troubled. "Only twenty of the faithful came to us. The rest are lost. The heretic has completely poisoned their minds—"
"All will be well when the anathema dies. They will all be free of the spell he has cast, and you will need to be here to shepherd the freed people back to the light of the Seven," Flowers said firmly.
"Yes, yes, you are right," the second septon replied.
Bram continued following as the group moved deeper into the forest. He remembered how his squad had followed two knights along this same path earlier, tracking them carefully, only to lose them completely in a single moment when every member of the squad had simultaneously looked away, blinked, or found their attention drawn elsewhere. It had been unnatural, that collective lapse in awareness.
But now, with the metal disc warm and growing warmer in his pocket, Bram felt no such compulsion. His eyes remained fixed on the group ahead with perfect clarity.
He watched as they walked toward what appeared to be an unremarkable stretch of forest, trees and undergrowth like any other. The group simply continued forward and then, between one step and the next, seemed to pass through something invisible.
Bram approached carefully, his hand closing around the disc in his pocket. It was hot now, almost uncomfortably so.
He stepped forward.
The concealment broke around him like walking through a waterfall, a brief moment of disorientation, and then he saw it.
An encampment sprawled through the forest, hidden by whatever dark magic had concealed it.
Bram pressed himself behind a tree at the camp's edge, his mind racing as he tried to count.
Rows of tents, each holding perhaps six to eight men. He counted the rows. Counted again. Divided the cooking fires among the sections, estimating numbers based on the equipment stacked nearby and the movement of bodies.
Nearly three hundred men. Perhaps more.
They would have arrived in small numbers over days and weeks, filtering through unnoticed. With the concealment hiding the camp, they had amassed this force completely undetected.
Three hundred, Bram thought. Against over a thousand well-trained legionnaires.
The numbers did not add up. Three hundred men could not hope to overcome the legion, even with the element of surprise. They would know this. So why were they confident?
What was he missing?
He needed to find out.
His eyes moved to the camp's eastern edge, where the trees grew thicker and a single guard stood watch, his attention directed outward toward the forest.
Bram watched him for several minutes, timing his patrol pattern. The guard moved in a small circuit, twelve paces in one direction, turned, then twelve paces back.
On the guard's next circuit, when his back was turned, Bram moved.
He covered the distance in silence, coming up behind the man with his arm already moving. He locked the guard's throat in the crook of his elbow and felt the man go limp within seconds. He lowered the body carefully, stripped the man of his outer garments, and put them on. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the camp.
Bram moved through the camp with the pace of a man who belonged there. He kept his head down enough to avoid direct eye contact, but not so low as to seem suspicious.
Conversations drifted to him as he passed.
"…the heretic's days are numbered. The Seven have suffered his blasphemy long enough…"
"…the gods are with us. How could we fail when we do the work of the Father and the Warrior both…"
He passed a group of four men sitting around a small fire, their voices lower but still audible.
"I don't trust these grey rats," one of them muttered, jerking his chin toward the larger tent at the camp's center. "Maesters serving the Faith? Since when do those godless scholars care about the Seven?"
"Since the gods brought them into service of the faithful," another replied with simple conviction. "The Seven work in mysterious ways. Even the proudest must bow before their will eventually."
"Still don't trust them," the first man repeated, poking at the fire. "There's something off about that one."
Bram moved on.
He found the largest tent at the camp's center.
He circled around to the back of the tent, moving into the narrow shadow between it and the next structure, and crouched behind a stack of supply crates.
He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a small bottle, no larger than his thumb. The Primarch had pressed it into his hand that morning along with the metal disc, his expression grave.
"The King made this himself," Aerion had told him. "You will know when you need it. It will make you invisible for a short time. Use it wisely. Do not waste it."
He unstoppered the bottle and drank it.
The effect was immediate and deeply unsettling. He looked down at his hands and saw nothing, only a faint shimmer in the air where they should have been.
He took a steadying breath, then moved.
The guards at the tent entrance did not react as he slipped past them, close enough to feel the warmth of their bodies. He eased through the tent flap and into the interior.
Flowers stood at a table. Two septons flanked him, along with the knight Bram had followed from the tourney. Several other men stood at the edges of the tent.
One of the septons was holding something: a large vial of red liquid that pulsed with light like a visible heartbeat.
"Are you sure this will work?" the septon asked, his eyes fixed on the vial.
"Yes," Flowers said smoothly, spreading his hands in a gesture of reassurance. "This is the only way we can properly counter the Anathema's magic. It will ensure that his magic has no effect on you or the knights. It will also make them stronger, faster, capable of fighting through the Anathema's forces."
He is lying.
Bram could always tell when someone was lying, and he would have sworn to King Harald himself that the maester was lying.
What was in that vial? What would it actually do?
The second septon waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! They do not need strength from any potion. The gods are with us!" His voice rose with fervent conviction. "We will not even need three hundred men. Fifty would be enough. The blessing of the gods flows through us. We could smite a thousand heretics with the men we have!"
"They are heretics of the highest order. Damned Leonites, every one of them! The gods have judged them, and we will be their instrument. Their divine instrument of righteous fury!"
"Prepare yourselves," Flowers said, cutting through the septon's rant. "We will strike tonight, during the joust."
Then Bram felt it. A warmth spreading through his hands that had not been there a moment before, a tingling sensation across his skin.
The invisibility potion was wearing off.
He moved immediately, turning and slipping back through the tent flap before the effect faded completely. He was three steps past the guards when he felt himself become visible again, the strange sensation of his own hands reappearing before his eyes.
He did not stop moving.
He walked out of the camp. He was almost there now. The only thing he needed to do was return to the primarch.
"You there."
Bram kept walking.
"I said you there. Stop."
Three knights were following him.
"Who are you?" the lead knight demanded, his gaze moving over Bram's borrowed clothing. "I know every man in this camp. I do not know your face."
Bram's mind worked quickly. "Ser Flowers," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I'm Ser Flowers. A new addition. I only arrived this morning."
The lead knight's eyes narrowed slowly. "Ser Flowers, you say."
One of the others stepped closer. "Come with us. Septon Garth will want to speak with you if you arrived today."
Bram glanced past them toward the camp's edge. They were some distance away now.
He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, letting his shoulders drop, his posture becoming compliant and nonthreatening. The lead knight relaxed slightly, reaching out to take Bram's arm.
Bram moved.
His knife cleared its sheath and opened the lead knight's throat before the man could react, a single smooth motion that dropped him silently. Bram pivoted immediately to the second man, driving his elbow into his nose with crushing force and following up with the knife across his throat. The man cried silently and crumpled.
The third knight was fast. He stepped back rather than forward, creating distance, and drew his sword.
The blade caught Bram across the stomach before he could fully deflect it.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a burning line of fire across his abdomen. Bram staggered but did not fall. He could not fall. He would not allow himself to fall. He lunged forward inside the sword's reach, drove the knife upward into the third knight's throat, and felt the man go limp against him.
He lowered the body carefully and quietly.
Then he ran.
He could feel blood soaking through his shirt, warm and wet against his stomach.
Not good. Not good at all.
But he kept moving, weaving between trees, heading in what he hoped was the direction back toward the tourney grounds. The sounds of the camp faded behind him. No alarm had been raised yet, but it would come.
Bram pushed through a tangle of undergrowth, his breathing growing ragged. His legs felt strange, heavier than they should.
The descent came out of nowhere.
One moment he was running on level ground, and then the earth simply vanished beneath him and he was falling, tumbling down a steep embankment, branches and roots clawing at him as he rolled. He struck the bottom with a jarring impact that drove the air from his lungs and made the wound in his stomach scream.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the stars beginning to appear between the forest canopy.
No. No, he had to move.
He pushed himself upright, swaying badly. The world tilted at an uncooperative angle. He took one step, then another.
The people. The people were in danger. The kings… The Queen… King Harald.
Need to keep moving.
He managed perhaps twenty more paces before his legs betrayed him completely. He dropped to one knee, then caught himself against a tree trunk, breathing in shallow gasps.
The edges of his vision were going dark, soft and insistent, like curtains being drawn.
No. Not yet.
Then he heard footsteps, coming toward him through the darkness.
Damn, he thought, his hand tightening uselessly where the knife had been, no longer with the strength to raise it.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
Bram's legs gave out completely.
The last thing he remembered before the darkness claimed him entirely was a hand on his shoulder and a voice saying something he could not quite make out through the roaring in his ears.
Everything went black.