Chapter 12

Thomas stood over the table in his private chambers. Though the sun had barely crested the eastern walls, the room held a gray light. But he wasn’t looking at the sunrise; he was looking at the road.

A sheet of parchment lay flattened under an iron dagger. Not a heraldic scroll or royal proclamation, but a simple map of the realm’s veins, the roads and rivers that bound the kingdom together. Thomas traced the black ink with a calloused finger from Virden to the first relay station at Oak Haven: eighteen miles.

His finger moved to the river crossing at Wellspring’s ford, and the water rushed loudly in his memory. He recalled the narrow banks and the broad, shallow riverbed, wide enough for four horses abreast, a natural ambush site. If the rains had been heavy in the highlands, the ford would have been impassable, forcing them through the Low Woods. At that thought, his shoulders tightened: the Low Woods were a tangle where the trees grew too close, a trap for anyone predictable enough to keep a schedule.

Thomas tapped the parchment twice against the wood. He wouldn’t take the Low Woods; if the ford was impassable, they’d double back and take the ridge road. It would add a day, but the ridge offered clear views of the valley below. He committed the fallback points and elevations to memory, letting the land settle into his mind until he could feel the rise and fall of earth beneath his boots. This wasn’t a royal procession; this was a patrol.

To his right, a letter to King Edward sat sealed with the crest of the Mycroft wolf. It was a brief acknowledgment of his orders, with no complaints about the timing, nor pleas for more men. He set the block of wax aside, finished with words.

Thomas turned to the bed. He passed over the velvet doublet his valet had suggested, ignoring the silk surcoat embroidered with the wolf. He pulled on heavy traveling leathers instead, dark from use. Horse sweat and woodsmoke rose from the grain; he breathed it in and fastened the greaves, feeling the familiar weight settle on his shins.

Then he turned to the steel.

Dragon hummed faintly as his hand found the hilt; his father’s Valyrian blade always knew when it was needed. Thomas maneuvered the scabbard onto his back, checking the angle of the draw, which had to be perfect; if he needed Dragon, he’d need it fast.

He picked up the soul blades next, slotting Fang and Striker into the loops on his belt; warmth spread against his hip, a second pulse beneath his own. Pressure woke in the back of his mind from blades that were aware, a hunger, old and patient: they wanted blood, and he had a grim feeling they’d get it soon.

His reflection stared back from the polished silver mirror. He didn’t look like a prince, just like a man expecting trouble.

Thomas grabbed his thick leather gloves, reinforced with steel studs, but didn’t put them on; he still needed his fingers for the papers that required attention. He walked out of the room with the heavy, flat-footed stride of a man carrying a great weight, his boots clapping against the stone. He didn’t look back.

The air was chill, thin, and sharp in the lungs, with low clouds pressing down on the castle towers. The courtyard was filled with the clamor of men and beasts; the clouds trapped the din of the gathering crowd against the flagstones.

Thomas stood at the top of the main stairs, scanning the scene below. It was supposed to be a farewell ceremony, but to his eyes, it was a field of threats.

City officials stood in polished helmets, their breastplates gleaming dull gray under the overcast sky. They were positioned by rank, a rigid hierarchy that told him exactly who was winning the internal struggles for prestige. To the left, merchants had set up trestle tables laden with crates. They weren’t selling; they were displaying fealty.

Thomas descended the stairs, hands loose at his sides, his weight forward.

Behind him, a low vibration cut through the murmur of the crowd, caused by Frost.

The direwolf didn’t trot; she moved down the stairs like a ghost of the forest, massive and silent. She took a position on his left, pacing him, four feet back, staying clear of his sword arm but close enough to strike.

The courtyard rippled as a cluster of minor nobles, edging forward, suddenly found the pavement interesting. They stepped back, creating a wide channel; men pulled their elbows in and turned sideways, as if presenting a smaller target would make them invisible.

Thomas stopped near the horses. Stormfoot’s head was up, surveying his surroundings, looking eager to get moving.

The Rangers were already mounted or standing by their stirrups. They weren’t looking at him; their eyes scanned the upper windows, the gatehouse roof, and the shadowed corners of the colonnade. They held their horse bows, arrows nocked but not drawn. Frost’s presence had confirmed what they already sensed: that the danger was inside the walls.

A man in a heavy velvet robe stepped out from the cluster of merchants. Thomas recognized the guild stamp on his chain: Grain and Tallow.

“Your Highness.” The merchant bowed low, but his eyes stayed up, calculating. “On behalf of the Worshipful Guild of Victualers, we offer these supplies for your journey. Salted beef, cured in the southern style, and three barrels of winter ale.”

He gestured to the crates; a scribe stood by with a ledger, quill hovering. The trap was obvious: accept, and the guild bought his favor; refuse, and the guild would claim that the crown had insulted the city’s generosity.