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Chapter 90: Draughts and Soft Cords
The tunnels beneath King's Landing were a maze of damp stone and whispered history. The scent of mildew and rot clung to the air as Daeron, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan carefully retreated from the dead-end they had just encountered. Daeron took the lead again, ears perked, senses sharpened beyond the limits of any normal man. The low torchlight flickered against the walls, casting dancing shadows as they moved silently back through the narrow corridor.
Daeron's mind raced. There has to be another way. There must be. The Red Keep was old, older than most remembered, and full of forgotten paths used by spymasters and kings alike. He focused, trying to feel the subtle shifts in air currents, the echo of voids behind stone walls, the faintest draft curling through hidden cracks.
After several tense minutes, just as Daeron was beginning to doubt there was another way towards Renly's chambers, something changed. He stopped again, holding up a clenched fist to halt the others.
"There," he whispered, eyes narrowing at a section of wall to their right.
It didn't look like much—just worn stone and cobwebs—but the scent of fresh air was different here. Cleaner. More open. Daeron pressed his hand against the wall, running his fingers over the seams until he found the catch. With a gentle push, the panel shifted inward with a low groan.
"This way," he said quietly.
The three of them slipped inside. This passage was narrower than the last, dustier, and older by the look of the cobblestones. Twice they passed old torch sconces that hadn't held fire in decades. The path twisted downward, then back up again, and branched once before Daeron steered them with sure instinct through a series of forks. Each step closer, he could feel it: they were moving beneath the royal quarters now.
The last stretch was miserable. The tunnel narrowed so much that they had to crawl on their hands and knees, their weapons scraping softly against the stone. Even Ser Barristan, old and proud, pressed on without complaint.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Daeron raised a hand and stopped. They had arrived.
Through a thin gap in the wall ahead, Daeron saw a wooden door with golden handles—the entrance to Renly's chambers. Only two guards were posted, both wearing Tyrell colors. Daeron frowned. No Kingsguard? Or the Rainbow guards as Renly likes to call them. Odd...
Renly should have at least two Kingsguards and multiple guards guarding his chambers. So why are there only two guards, and why Tyrell men? Where are the Baratheon men?
He considered the possibilities. Either Renly was overconfident, or he hadn't expected any threats within the walls. Either way, Daeron wouldn't complain.
He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a smooth stone he'd pocketed earlier, and hurled it with practiced precision. It struck the farther guard in the temple with a dull thwack, sending the man crumpling instantly. The second guard stepped forward, confused.
"What in the seven hell—?"
That was as far as he got before Ser Arthur was on him, silent and swift. With a firm blow to the back of the man's head, the second guard dropped like a sack of flour.
Daeron's eyebrows lifted. Arthur Dayne, even without Dawn, is a force to behold.
Then they opened the door carefully not to cause any noise. Then they crept slowly into Renly's chambers. The room smelled of lavender and summer wine. Moonlight spilled through the high window, casting a silver glow over the ornate bed. What Daeron saw there made him stop short.
Renly lay asleep, snoring lightly. And beside him, nestled under the same covers, was Loras Tyrell.
Daeron blinked. So the rumors were true...
He had always assumed it was just Lannister's ways meant to undermine Renly's claim. But seeing it for himself left no doubt. Loras's arm was draped loosely across Renly's chest, their breathing in sync. Daeron had no time for judgment. They were here to get Renly, getting Loras alongside him is a blessing.
Silently, he pulled two folded cloths from his belt—each soaked in the potent sleeping draught given to him by Archmaester Marwyn. Daeron crept forward, cloths in hand, his footfalls silent on the polished floor.
Just as he neared the bed, Loras stirred.
The knight's eyes fluttered halfway open, but before he could fully awaken, Daeron pressed the cloth firmly over his mouth and nose. Ser Arthur did the same to Renly.
Loras squirmed weakly, his limbs struggling, but within moments his resistance faded and he slipped back into unconsciousness. Renly had hardly stirred at all. Marwyn hadn't exaggerated—the potion worked fast and thorough. These two shouldn't wake up for the next few hours.
Daeron exhaled and stepped back.
"It's done," he whispered.
Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur nodded and began preparing the bindings. They had brought softer cords rather than rough rope, careful not to cause marks or bruises—Renly still needed to be presented alive and relatively unharmed.
As Daeron helped secure Loras's wrists, he looked down at the once pretender king and his lover, now subdued and harmless.
He thought, So this is how the war ends—not with fire and blood, but with shadows and sleeping draughts.
The room was quiet again. Only the whisper of night wind stirred the curtains.
Daeron allowed himself one brief smile before they began the journey back.