Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
POV: The Masked Man
Location: King's Landing – The Black Vaults
Deep beneath King's Landing, where the air smelled of parchment and old stone, the masked man read the message again.
The assassination had failed.
He set the raven's scroll down, sealing it with a heated iron pin until it curled into ash. Across from him, the Silent girl watched without blinking.
"The boy intervened," he said aloud, though the girl made no reply. "Lord Rickard lives. The meeting continued."
His fingers tapped against the table. Behind him, the shelves were stacked with histories, family trees, and sealed reports from every corner of the realm—most of them obtained without consent.
"Every plan we set into motion relies on timing. This was not the time."
He reached for a separate scroll, penned in cipher. A list of lords and bannermen. Some marked, others crossed out.
"He is just a bastard. One generation removed from obscurity. Yet he places himself in the path of influence."
He paced, stopping beside a wall-mounted map of Westeros. Thin red threads stretched across it, from Oldtown to Gulltown, from Pyke to the Dreadfort. At the center, a heavy pin sat over Winterfell.
"Winterfell should remain stable," he murmured. "Too much unrest now, and it draws eyes. From the East. From the South."
He looked toward the Silent girl.
"Send a message to the Mistress in the capital. Inform her the attempt failed. Tell her not to pursue a second so soon. Let the North believe this was the act of a lone traitor. They will turn inward—search among their own."
His voice darkened.
"We do not need another martyr. Not yet."
He turned, lifting a plain iron mask from the table and placing it back over his face.
"There are other ways to shift power. Quiet ways. Rational ones."
He strode to the window slit carved high in the stone. Morning light had begun to break across the rooftops of King's Landing.
"Continue watching the boy. But do not interfere. If he becomes valuable... we'll decide then."
Oldtown – The Citadel Archives
A candle flickered inside a sealed study. A different man—older, hooded, with more links on his chain than most had fingers—scanned a newly arrived report.
He made no sound. Only dipped his quill and crossed out one name on a chart of heirs and titles.
Then, with slow care, he circled another.
Arthur.
He closed the ledger.
And pulled another scroll from the flames.