The Wolf in the Dark

Ronan found Cersei in the royal apartments with Tommen and Myrcella clinging to her. The children stared at him with fear too honest to hide. Cersei's face held no softness now, only hate.

Ronan extended a hand toward the children.

"No," Cersei snapped. "You have taken everything from me. Will you take them too?"

"I will not hurt them."

She laughed without believing him.

Ronan signaled the gold cloaks forward. Before they reached her, Cersei made a quick, brutal motion toward herself. She would rather wound her own body than let guards drag her in front of her children.

That was Cersei. She would not leave humiliation in another person's hands if she could claim it first.

Ronan ordered the men out and stayed alone. Without soldiers watching, Cersei's breathing steadied, though the hatred did not fade.

"Why?"

"Because of you."

She stared at him, then laughed again. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you want. I will not harm you or your children. You may keep comfort, servants, and your place in these rooms. I ask one thing."

"Only one?"

"Do not harm yourself."

"Why?"

"That answer is mine."

He left her with the question. Curiosity was poison to Cersei Lannister. She knew she should not drink, and would taste it anyway.

Alyne came when Cersei called. Shaking, the girl described what she had seen outside: white cloaks dead, royal guards cut down, resisting court officials dragged away or killed, servants spared only if they bent quickly enough.

Cersei listened until the shape of Ronan's rule became clear. He had not staged a rebellion. He had begun a conquest.

Then she looked down at her own stomach. Do not harm yourself. For a heartbeat, grief and fury parted. Something like secret triumph flickered through her eyes before she buried it beneath rage again.

...

The first work of the coup ended faster than expected. Men who lived by words did not usually die for kings. They surrendered, hid, or changed voices with the weather.

Ronan sat in the Hand's Tower when Rovyn entered with the look of a man about to deliver bad news.

"What is it?"

"Joffrey is dead."

Ronan's stare hardened. He did not care for Joffrey. He cared that someone had killed a prisoner after he gave an order. Rovyn hurried on. "Commander, it was Arya."

"Arya."

"You ordered no one to enter the black cells. The guards obeyed. She was already inside."

The explanation did not improve Ronan's mood. They descended together. Torches had been brought into the black cells, pushing back just enough darkness to reveal Joffrey's body. His throat was torn open. Blood had spread across the stone.

In a corner beyond the firelight, a pair of eyes watched Ronan with something wild behind them.

Some matters had to end face to face.

"Forget what you saw," Ronan told the gold cloaks. "All of you. Leave."

Rovyn glanced from the corpse to Ronan and finally learned wisdom. He took the men out and sealed the passage. Arya stepped from the dark.

Blood marked her mouth. The cheerful northern girl was gone. What remained looked small only until the eyes found you.

"How did revenge taste?" Ronan asked. "Was it sweet? Do you still want to kill me? If you do, this is your chance."

Arya's voice was cold in the hollow space. "I want to know who else was part of it."

"You have not wasted your time in the dark."

"Tell me."

The growl in her voice was more animal than child. It was the Stark blood, perhaps. The direwolf under the skin.

"I will tell you," Ronan said, "if you agree to one thing."

"Say it."

"Kill a ghost for me."

Her eyes narrowed.

"A white walker," he said. "The Night King. When the time comes, use this."

He gave her a Valyrian steel dagger that carried a thin trace of his firecraft. Arya almost dropped it when it burned her palm, but under his gaze she held on until skin and steel accepted each other.

"Better than Needle," she said.

"It needs to be."

"What if I break my word?"

"You will not. And if you do, someone else will put you on the same road. I only lose time."

Arya accepted that more easily than comfort.

"Now tell me."

"Petyr Baelish."

"Anyone else?"

"Not likely. Littlefinger is too careful to leave loose threads. And since you should know it early: the blade sent after Bran also came from his game."

Arya watched him for a long moment. "And you? Did you ever mean to kill my father?"

Ronan snapped his fingers. Fire bloomed across Joffrey's corpse, hot and clean. In moments, the body collapsed into ash.

"Do you think I needed to?"

It was the first time Arya had seen magic so close.

"What is that?"

"Firecraft. Magic, if you prefer. Power shaped against other power."

"That is why you want me to kill the Night King with this dagger?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps some paths are stubborn."

"Do you believe in fate?"

Arya shook her head. Ronan smiled.

"Neither do I."

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