At the same time, Stokeworth.
Gray stone walls climbed with ivy like deep wrinkles. The castle had stood for a thousand years—through Aegon's Conquest, Robert's Rebellion, and the War of the Five Kings. House Stokeworth's bloodline had endured on this land, generation after generation, unbroken.
Osney Kettleblack walked the corridor, boots ringing on the flagstones. The three Kettleblack brothers had never been much with a sword, but their looks were decent enough. Right now Osney's collar was open, showing a lean chest, his hair neatly combed. He looked almost handsome.
If he hadn't still been wearing the silk "cloak" he'd wrapped around himself when he fled the Queen Regent's bedchamber, the effect would have been better.
He didn't have time to change.
The news that Tyrion Lannister had been grabbed by mistake was eating at him. He hadn't even managed to carry out Cersei's order to contact Ser Taubert Hetherspoon yet. He needed to fix this. Fast.
He stopped in front of a door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
Candlelight flickered inside. The air smelled of heavy perfume. A woman sat at a dressing table, back to the door, brushing her hair.
She wore a nightdress so thin it was almost transparent.
From behind, the body wasn't bad.
From the front…
Osney quietly looked away.
He had seen plenty of women, but Falyse's face was a challenge even for him. It looked like a fish. Features crammed together, lips almost nonexistent, eyes small as green peas, yet painted with bright red lipstick and thick powder. She looked like an egg someone had let a child scribble on.
Osney kept his expression neutral.
Falyse was useful.
Stokeworth was their waystation. The children they snatched were held here until there were enough to move through the secret tunnels and sell to slavers across the Narrow Sea. That revenue stream depended on her.
The door had been left ajar.
Falyse heard it open and turned sharply. When she saw Osney, her fish-face lit up with a smile.
"Osney!"
She stood and threw her arms around his neck, lips coming up for a kiss.
Osney turned his head just enough to avoid it and gently peeled her hands off him.
"Not now, my lady."
Falyse's smile froze for a second, then slid back into something cloying.
"What happened? You said you weren't coming tonight."
"Tyrion Lannister."
Osney spoke clearly. "My idiots grabbed him in Flea Bottom tonight. They thought he was a child."
Falyse went still.
"Tyrion Lannister? The dwarf?"
"That's him."
"Where is he now?"
"Locked in the cellar with the other children."
Falyse was quiet for a few seconds. Then a strange, ugly smile spread across her face.
"What's the problem?"
She waved a hand. "Have someone kill him and dump the body in the Blackwater. Done."
Osney shook his head. "Kill a Lannister? Are you mad?"
"No one will know," Falyse said. "By the time the Hand realizes his son is missing, it'll be days later. The fish in the Blackwater will have picked the body clean."
"Pity, though. It would give that bitch Cersei exactly what she wants."
Osney still shook his head.
"No. The dwarf reports to the Gold Cloaks every day. If he misses even one day, people will notice. And more importantly…" He met her eyes. "He was taken in Flea Bottom. You know whose territory that is now."
Falyse's smile died.
She had the nerve to scream at the Queen Regent in public, but even she wasn't stupid enough to ignore Vito Corleone's reach. House Stokeworth had held these lands for a thousand years. The Queen Regent or the Hand would need real proof to move against her.
The Black Hand didn't need proof. Just a name.
She thought for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then they lit up.
"Then we blame Balman."
Osney felt a spark of satisfaction.
Blame Balman?
That had been his plan all along. He just hadn't wanted to say it first.
He kept his face troubled. "Your husband?"
"Yes." Falyse lifted her chin. "He's the captain responsible for Flea Bottom. If the dwarf disappears in his district, he's the first person anyone will suspect."
"That man has always done exactly what I tell him. He'll believe whatever story I give him. He'll take the blame."
Osney pretended to hesitate. "But he's still your husband. Are you sure?"
"Husband?" Falyse let out a short, ugly laugh. "When I was young I only married him because he was handsome and my mother spent three thousand gold dragons on the dowry. Now he's old, fat, and balding. Every time I finish fucking him I go to the sept and pray he dies in his sleep."
She stepped closer and ran her hands over Osney's chest.
"You're young and handsome. The captain's position in Flea Bottom should have been yours all along."
"When Balman is dead we'll marry. Then my family, my castle, everything will be yours."
Osney felt his stomach turn, but he kept the gentle smile on his face and kissed her forehead.
"Good plan. I'll go deal with the dwarf right now."
Falyse wasn't satisfied. She grabbed his collar and pulled him closer, eyes dark with lust.
"So the problem is solved, ser."
Her voice dropped. "There's still time. Forget the dwarf for now."
She ran a finger down the silk wrapped around his shoulders. "This new cloak of yours is very… appealing."
Osney swallowed the nausea rising in his throat. He knew if he didn't give her something tonight she would make things difficult. He let her pull him toward the bed.
They were just starting when the door exploded inward.
Bang!!!
Falyse screamed and spun around.
Balman Byrch stood in the doorway, breathing hard. His hair was wild, his face flushed, the stink of wine rolling off him. But his bloodshot eyes were sharp and furious.
"You… you were supposed to be on Pickled Meat Street tonight," Falyse blurted.
Balman didn't answer. He just stared at the two of them pressed together.
Osney forced a smile. "This… this is a misunderstanding, ser. I was only bringing Lady Falyse some fruit—"
"You think so?" Balman's voice was thick with drink but every word was clear.
He stepped into the room, unsteady but moving forward.
"Falyse." He looked at his wife. "Paying Willis to clear the streets. Trafficking children. I thought that was the worst thing I would hear tonight."
Falyse's eyes went wide.
"You… how do you know—"
"Twenty-three years, Falyse."
Balman kept walking, voice low and bitter. "Twenty-three years ago your mother, Lady Tanda, walked into my father's hall with three thousand gold dragons and asked for me as your husband."
Falyse stared at him, thrown.
"My father told me I was a second son. No lands, no inheritance, no knights who would follow me. Marrying a daughter of Stokeworth was the best I could hope for. Otherwise I'd be begging the king for a place in the Kingsguard."
"I hated it at first. I blamed my father, blamed my birth. But later I accepted it. I learned to live with your cruelty and your mother's. I told myself this was marriage. This was life."
He stopped a few paces away. His once-handsome face was heavy now, but the eyes beneath the bloodshot whites were cold.
"I even told myself it was enough. Until tonight."
He looked at her. "You didn't just betray me with other men. You tried to frame me for your crimes."
Falyse took a step back. Osney moved to stand beside her, hand on his sword.
Balman's gaze shifted to him.
"You want to draw that blade, ser?"
Osney hesitated, then pulled his sword free. The steel caught the candlelight.
Balman drew his own sword. Despite the wine and the years, his grip was steady.
"Let's do this properly then," Balman said. "Two knights. Fighting over a woman. No honor in it, but at least we'll die like men."
Osney lunged.
He was younger, faster, and he knew it. One clean strike should end this.
Balman stepped aside with surprising grace for a man his size. His left hand shot out, caught Osney's sword wrist, and twisted.
Crack.
Osney screamed as bone snapped. His sword clattered to the floor.
Before he could recover, Balman's blade flashed once.
Osney's voice cut off.
He stood there for a heartbeat, eyes wide with disbelief, then crumpled. Blood poured from the deep gash across his throat and chest, soaking into the fine silk still wrapped around his shoulders.
Balman stood over the body, breathing hard. Blood spattered the new deep-blue velvet coat he wore.
Falyse stared, frozen.
Balman turned to her.
"From this night on, you are no longer my wife," he said quietly. "Stokeworth is yours. The lands, the title—everything. I want none of it."
He sheathed his sword.
"But you had better pray this doesn't come back on you."
He turned and walked out.
Falyse stood there, shaking. Then panic flooded her face.
He would talk.
He would tell Corleone. He would tell the Gold Cloaks. He would tell everyone.
She couldn't let that happen.
Her eyes fell on Balman's discarded sword. She snatched it up and ran after him.
The corridor was dark, lit only by moonlight through the high windows.
Balman walked slowly ahead, one hand pressed to his side where Osney's blade had grazed him.
Falyse crept closer, sword raised.
She was almost on him when he suddenly stopped and looked up at the portrait at the end of the hall—the first Lord Stokeworth, whose face looked exactly like hers. A fish.
Perfect.
Falyse lunged and drove the sword into his lower back.
Balman stiffened. The blade sank only a couple of inches—Falyse didn't have the strength for a killing blow.
He turned his head, eyes meeting hers.
Falyse kept pushing, face twisted. "You can't leave. You know too much—"
Balman's right hand closed around her throat like an iron vise.
She dropped the sword and clawed at his arm, gasping.
"Balman… please… I'm your wife…"
He looked at her for a long moment, face calm in the moonlight.
"Twenty-three years ago," he said softly, "I stood at the gates of my father's castle and watched you arrive. You wore a blue dress. The sun was bright. I thought it was the beginning."
He smiled, small and tired.
"Now I know it was the end."
He pulled the sword from his own back with a wet sound. Blood poured down his side, staining the velvet coat darker.
"You gave me one stroke," he said. "Now I return it."
He drove the blade straight through her chest.
Falyse's eyes went wide. Her legs kicked once, twice, then went still.
Balman let her body fall.
He stood there in the moonlight, blood running down his side, and looked at the portrait of the first Lord Stokeworth.
"This rotting house should have ended long ago."
He turned and walked back into Falyse's chamber. Osney's body still lay in the spreading pool of blood. Balman stepped over it without slowing.
He picked up a candlestick from the table, its flame guttering low, and knocked it onto the heavy curtains.
Fire caught instantly, hungry after so many dry years. It raced up the fabric and began to spread across the ancient tapestries and wooden beams.
Balman watched the flames for a moment, face lit by the growing light. Then he turned and walked out into the night.
Behind him, Stokeworth began to burn.
He didn't look back.
He had one more thing to do before the night was over.