It began with a promise.
Not the kind you speak aloud to a crowd. No. This one was quieter, sharper, meant only for the mirror.
"My Revenge Starts Now."
Eustass stepped out of his chamber, the door shutting behind him with a click that sounded almost ceremonial. He adjusted his tunic cuffs, shoulders straight, expression unreadable. Servants along the corridor parted like water as he passed, whispering nervously. He noticed their eyes darting away. Fear. Suspicion.
And he almost laughed. Fear is useful.
"Ser Dwayne Cliffmond," he murmured under his breath, words like a curse, "you thought you could poison me. Wrong move. You don't play with me and walk away clean. You made yourself my project."
The first domino was waiting.
---
The treasury smelled of ink, dust, and sweat. Clerks hunched over ledgers like monks praying to their gods, quills scratching across parchment in endless columns. The air was heavy with candle smoke and the faint rustle of pages turning.
"Your Highness," a nervous scribe stammered as Eustass leaned casually over a stack of records. "These… these aren't for—"
Eustass silenced him with a smile that was far too calm for a boy of ten. "Relax. I like numbers. They don't lie. People do."
The man froze, knuckles whitening on the quill.
Eustass traced a finger across mismatched entries. One page said the castle had enough grain for the winter. Another page showed the storerooms already half-empty. Gold was marked as spent, but no one knew on what.
Sloppy. Amateur work. His lips curved faintly.
He closed the book gently. "Interesting," he murmured, loud enough for three clerks nearby to hear.
---
Later that day, he lingered in a shadowed hallway, pretending to study a tapestry. Two older stewards walked past, heads bent in hushed conversation.
"…strange movements in the coffers lately. No one dares question Ser Dwayne, but—"
"—but the young prince was seen in the records room today."
Eustass smirked to himself. A planted seed. Rumors grow when watered with silence.
At supper, he sat quietly at the long oak table, his fork scraping against the plate in a rhythm almost deliberate. He barely touched the food, and when his mother, Elizabeth, noticed, she frowned.
"Eustass," she said gently, "is something wrong with the stew?"
He lifted his eyes to hers, sharp and knowing. "Nothing's wrong with the stew, Mother. Not today, at least."
Her fork stilled. Around them, a few servants glanced at each other uneasily. The words slipped through the room like smoke. He didn't need to explain. The imagination of others would do the rest.
---
But cleverness alone wasn't enough. He needed proof—something more concrete than whispers. That night, while the castle dimmed into silence, he crept back toward the treasury wing.
Two guards blocked the door. They straightened when they saw him.
"Your Highness," one said stiffly, "the treasury is closed at night."
Eustass tilted his head. "Of course. You're only doing your duty." He paused, studying them like pieces on a chessboard. "Tell me… when Ser Dwayne comes to sign the books, does he arrive before you open the doors, or after?"
The men exchanged looks.
"After," one admitted.
Eustass smiled, a small, satisfied thing. "Good. That means he can't touch them in secret. Thank you."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving the guards staring after him. They didn't realize they had just given him exactly what he needed: a timeline.
---
The next morning, Eustass appeared in the library. Stacks of books towered around him, and he pulled one heavy tome after another onto the table. Servants whispered in confusion. What was a boy of ten doing buried in accounts and records?
Hours passed before the old librarian finally asked, "Young master, why study this? These books are… dry, even for grown men."
Eustass looked up, eyes gleaming. "Because thieves hide best in details. If you don't know the rules, you don't know where they bend."
The librarian blinked, then nodded slowly, impressed despite himself.
---
By midday, Eustass had found a pattern. Food shipments that were said to arrive… never did. Taxes villagers claimed to pay… never reached the castle. And at the end of every page, every missing coin, there it was: Ser Dwayne's sweeping signature.
He leaned back, tapping the page with a finger. "Caught you," he whispered.
---
But information without an audience was powerless. He needed people to draw their own conclusions.
So, when he passed a cluster of servants polishing silver, he stopped just long enough to murmur:
"Curious… the gold meant for winter grain never reached the granaries. But Ser Dwayne says it did."
He left before they could reply. By evening, half the servants were whispering of shortages and empty storerooms.
The whispers traveled faster than he ever could.
That night, Elizabeth entered his chamber. Her eyes were tired, her movements tense. She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"Eustass… you've been speaking strangely these days. Dropping hints. Stirring things." Her voice wavered with worry. "You're only ten. Why involve yourself in this?"
Eustass met her gaze calmly. "Because if I don't, Mother, no one else will. The adults are too blind. They see armor and titles and think it means truth. But lies leave footprints. You just have to follow them."
Elizabeth's throat tightened. For a moment she saw not a boy but something far older, sharper, burning behind her son's eyes.
She pulled him close, whispering, "Just… don't let this war swallow you."
He smiled faintly against her shoulder. "It won't swallow me, Mother. I'll swallow it first."
---
By the next dawn, the castle hummed with unease. Stewards muttered about shortages. Scribes eyed the ledgers with suspicion. Guards shared stories they weren't supposed to repeat.
And somewhere in the east wing, Ser Dwayne Cliffmond paused mid-step when he overheard two maids whispering behind their hands:
"…the prince said his name, you know. Said the gold vanishes when Ser Dwayne signs the books…"
His jaw clenched.
Eustass, sitting at his window, watched the sunrise with a smile.
The whisper had become a storm.
And storms, once born, could not be silenced.