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Chapter 89: Shadows in the Dark
The iron-studded gate loomed before them in the moonlight, cracked open just enough to allow a man to slip through. Daeron Targaryen adjusted the heavy woolen cloak draped over his shoulders and shifted the battered sword at his hip. His simple brown tunic and worn boots completed the image of a road-weary sellsword, a face half covered with with a beard that just started coming in before the war started made it so that the guards barely glanced at him.
At his side, Ser Arthur Dayne, stripped of the shining armour, his sword Dawn and clad in similarly rough clothes, played the part of another anonymous sword-for-hire. Only the keenest eye might note the way he moved—a little too balanced, a little too precise. But no such sharp eyes watched them here.
The third member of their party was the true deception. Ser Barristan Selmy, once the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, now wore the robes of a traveling merchant, complete with a walking stick and a medium white beard he had grown naturally during his months away from court. He looked every inch the cautious old man seeking fortune in a troubled city.
Daeron felt a flicker of admiration for the old knight. Few could shed their pride so completely in the service of duty.
They moved in single file under the torchlight, passing through the Iron Gate without a hitch. Ser Barristan's carefully laid connectios inside the city had seen to that. The Gold Cloaks barely raised an eyebrow, more concerned with staying awake in the dull hours before dawn than scrutinizing weary travelers.
As they passed into the streets of King's Landing, Daeron caught the scent of the city: the sharp salt of the Blackwater, the heavy stink of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and smoke. He wrinkled his nose but pressed on without comment. The city slept uneasily, its taverns quieter than usual, the tension of looming war weighing heavy in the air.
It didn't take long to reach their destination. They navigated the crooked alleys and narrow, filthy streets until they came to the side of a brothel owned by Littlefinger. Daeron could still hear faint laughter and music leaking from within. Life went on, even as armies camped outside the walls.
Behind the brothel, half-hidden by a leaning stack of broken crates and broken barrels, lay the opening they sought: a small, weathered door sunken into the foundation of the building. To any casual glance, it was just another forgotten part of the city's rot. But Ser Barristan knew better.
Ser Arthur slipped forward first, checking the street for any watching eyes. Then, with practiced hands, he pulled the door open. The hinges groaned softly—too loud in Daeron's ears—but no shout of alarm followed.
One by one, they slipped inside, closing the door behind them. Darkness swallowed them whole.
The secret passage stank of damp stone and old, stale air. It was cramped, the ceiling low enough that all of them hat to stoop slightly. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, echoing like the drops of rain falling in the distance.
Their boots made only the faintest whisper against the stone floor as they advanced. Daeron led the way, his senses stretched thin, every breath tasting the air, every footfall measuring the sound. His blood sang with tension. It was a dangerous dance they played, but it was a dance he had prepared for his whole life.
They walked for what felt like an eternity, weaving through the spiderweb of tunnels that snaked beneath the city. Once or twice, they paused to listen to the distant sound of movement above them—scores of men making their patrols, oblivious to the danger slithering below their feet.
At last, they reached a crossroads deep in the tunnels. Up ahead, the tunnel curved sharply to the right—toward the cellars beneath the royal kitchens. From there, it would only be a few corridors and stairwells to reach Renly's chambers.
Daeron was just about to signal them forward when a prickle raced down the back of his neck. His body stiffened.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan halted instantly, falling into a ready crouch, hands near their weapons despite the narrow quarters. They trusted his instincts without question.
Daeron inhaled deeply through his nose, filtering the stagnant air for the faintest hint of threat. For a moment, there was nothing—just the smell of mildew and wet stone.
Then, he caught it: faint but undeniable — the scent of oiled leather, iron, and sweat. Multiple men. Armed men.
Daeron raised his hand in a silent warning. He crouched lower, one hand brushing the hilt of his sword. His mind raced through possibilities—Had Ser Barristan's men been found out? Or had Littlefinger left more traps behind than expected?
He turned his head slightly to murmur low enough that only Arthur and Barristan would hear.
"Trouble ahead," Daeron said.
Arthur's lips thinned into a grim line. Ser Barristan merely nodded once, his face as calm as if he were taking a stroll in the garden. But they all understood the implication.
This was no random patrol. Littlefinger was few steps ahead of them. He must have told Renly about this passage. Mostly likely to show his loyalty or earn favour with Renly.
The way forward was barred.
Daeron stayed low and pressed himself against the side of the passage. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with cold, clear focus.
They could go forward and risk an ambush—or they could find another way.
A choice had to be made, and it had to be made now. Daeron closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching into his mind for the instincts that had never led him wrong
He turned to Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, speaking barely above a whisper.
"We can't reach Renly through here. We have to find another way."
Ser Arthur nodded grimly. Ser Barristan looked frustrated but composed.
This wasn't over — not yet. The Red Keep was riddled with secrets. If one door was barred, they would find another. They had to.
They would find another way to end this tonight.