Dawn crept over Blackwater's Reach in sullen gray bands, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise. Aurelian had not slept. The encounter with Ser Alric Vayne lingered like a hook in his thoughts—careful, intelligent, and dangerous in a way brute force never was.
Elayne packed quickly, efficient and silent. "Vayne won't move against us openly," she said. "Men like him collect truths before they strike."
"He will follow," Aurelian replied. "Not with feet. With ravens."
They departed with the first wagons, blending into the flow of merchants and smallfolk heading toward King's Landing. Aurelian wrapped his glamour tighter now, dulling the unnatural edge of his presence. To most eyes, he was merely another traveler—tall, reserved, forgettable.
The road grew crowded as the day wore on. Talk was louder here, rougher, filled with rumors sharpened by fear. Dragons. Pretenders. A queen reborn in fire. Each tale grew larger with every retelling.
By midday, the capital appeared on the horizon.
King's Landing rose like a wound carved into the hills, its walls stained by smoke and time. The Red Keep loomed above it all, harsh and angular, as if the city itself strained upward toward power it could never quite grasp.
Aurelian felt it immediately—the weight of the Iron Throne's influence. Not magic, but obsession. Ambition pressed into stone and flesh alike, a hunger that never slept.
"Welcome to the belly of the beast," Elayne muttered.
The gates swallowed them whole.
Inside, the city assaulted the senses. Heat, noise, stench, life piled atop life with little care for order. Aurelian moved through it like a shadow slipping between cracks, watching everything.
He felt watched in return.
Somewhere within the city, the Veil Anchor pulsed—not in warning, but recognition. Another fragment was near.
They found lodging in Flea Bottom, where questions cost more than rooms. As dusk settled, Aurelian stood at a narrow window overlooking twisting alleys.
"The crown's hounds will scent us here," Elayne said. "Why come at all?"
"Because whatever they are seeking is already in this city," Aurelian replied. "And because if I do not claim it, someone else will."
Night fell heavy and hot. Lanterns flickered to life like dying stars.
Aurelian slipped into the streets alone.
He followed the pull through alleyways and broken stairwells, deeper into the city's forgotten bones. The air changed—cooler, older. Stone here predated the Targaryens, predated even the Andals.
Beneath a collapsed sept, hidden behind cracked statues of forgotten gods, he found it.
Another Veil Anchor.
This one was embedded in the wall itself, bound with crude iron and scratched with holy symbols meant to suppress what men did not understand. It throbbed weakly, wounded but alive.
As Aurelian reached for it, steel whispered behind him.
"Don't," said Ser Alric Vayne.
Two gold cloaks flanked him, tense and sweating.
Aurelian straightened slowly. "You were faster than I expected."
Vayne studied the exposed Anchor, awe breaking through his discipline. "So the rumors were true."
"This city sits atop bones it pretends not to see," Aurelian said. "Remove this Anchor, and the Veil thins further."
Vayne hesitated. He was not a fool. "The Small Council believes controlling such things will secure the realm."
"Control is the lie power tells itself," Aurelian replied. "Balance is the truth."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the Anchor screamed.
Not aloud, but in magic—raw, panicked. The air cracked. Shadows lashed outward, extinguishing lanterns. The gold cloaks cried out, stumbling back.
Aurelian seized the Anchor, tearing it free in a surge of emerald light.
The Veil snapped shut like a wound cauterized.
Silence followed—thick and final.
When the light faded, Aurelian stood alone in shadow. Vayne and the gold cloaks lay unconscious, unharmed but shaken.
Aurelian vanished before dawn touched the sky.
Back in Flea Bottom, Elayne looked up as he returned, eyes widening as she felt the change. "You did something big."
"Yes," Aurelian said, securing the Anchor.
"And now the capital knows fear."
High above the city, in the Red Keep, a candle flared green for a heartbeat—then went out.
The Iron Throne had been pricked by a thorn.
And it was bleeding.