Chapter 8: Ripples and Predators

Chapter 8: Ripples and Predators

Year: 296 AC

King's Landing was a city built on secrets, and I had just thrown a boulder into its murky pond. The ripples spread with astonishing speed. The Rosby estate massacre, as it was quickly dubbed, became the sole topic of conversation from the grand halls of the Red Keep to the louse-ridden taverns of Flea Bottom.

My mornings were now dedicated to sifting through the torrent of information Malko's network funneled to me. The official narrative, pushed by a flustered City Watch, was that of a gang war gone horrifically awry. They claimed a rival smuggling crew had ambushed the delivery, resulting in a bloodbath. But the details didn't fit, and the story was full of holes.

The whispers in the underworld told a different, more compelling tale. The lone survivor, the smuggler I had allowed to escape, had babbled a terrifying story to his associates before vanishing, likely executed by his own employers for his cowardice. He spoke of a demon, a single entity that moved through the smoke like a phantom, tearing men apart with unnatural strength and speed. He said it left nothing but husks.

That word—husks—sent a cold thrill of victory through me. My legend was bleeding out of the pit, acquiring a new, more terrifying context. The name they had given me for sport was becoming a city-wide horror story. This was psychological warfare, and it was devastatingly effective.

Malko, my unwilling spymaster, was a wreck. He delivered his reports in a shaking whisper, his eyes wide with the dawning, horrifying suspicion that the demon of the Rosby courtyard and the monster he kept as his champion were one and the same. He never dared to voice it, but the thought was there, a palpable aura of terror that I savored. His fear made him efficient.

He brought me news that Lord Rosby had sealed his manse, tripled his guard, and sent a raven to Casterly Rock, pleading for aid from his distant Lannister patrons. The Serpent's operation was clearly shaken. Their local distribution point was compromised, and a cloud of supernatural dread now hung over their activities. They would be forced to adapt, to change their routes and contacts, and in that chaos, they would be vulnerable.

The true test, however, came four days after the raid. A summons arrived, not by note, but by a silent, grey-robed figure appearing at Malko's door. It was the agent, the "scribe." His impassive face was as emotionless as ever, but my enhanced senses detected the tension in him—the faint, sharp scent of adrenaline, the rigid control in his posture. The Serpent was rattled, and they wanted answers.

The meeting took place in the same smoky room at The Salty Wench. This time, there was no pretense of civility. The scribe stood, his hands clasped behind his back, while Malko and I remained standing before him. It felt like an interrogation.

"A tragedy at the Rosby estate," the scribe began, his voice a flat, cold stone dropped into a still pool. "A shipment was lost. Men were killed. The City Watch calls it a gang war. Others speak of demons." His eyes, like chips of obsidian, fixed on me. "What do your ears in the pit hear, Void?"

This was the fulcrum moment. A single misstep, a flicker of an eye, and my entire world could unravel. But I was not the same man who had first met this agent. I had the iron discipline of a knight, the predatory calm of a Shadowcat, and the mendacious soul of a master thief. I was ready for this game.

I let out a low, humorless chuckle. "I hear that someone is clumsy," I said, my voice a low rumble. "Someone is drawing the attention of the Gold Cloaks and the Hand. It makes business difficult for everyone."

I met his gaze directly, projecting an aura of bored, annoyed confidence. I was a simple monster, concerned only with my own bloody business. Politics was a nuisance.

The scribe's expression didn't change, but I caught the faintest tightening around his eyes. "This was no common gang. The survivor spoke of a single attacker. A butcher of inhuman skill."

"There are many skilled men in this city," I countered, shrugging. I decided to throw a stone of my own, a calculated piece of misdirection based on the knowledge absorbed from the smuggler captain. "I hear the corsairs from the Stepstones are growing bold. The Pirate King's men are said to be recruiting in Flea Bottom. They have no love for your patron's control of the trade routes. Perhaps they sent a message."

I saw it then—a flicker of uncertainty in his cold gaze. I had given him a plausible alternative, a known enemy to focus on. The idea that the Pirate King of the Stepstones would send a single, elite champion to conduct a terror raid was just as plausible, if not more so, than a pit fighter orchestrating it.

"We will look into it," the scribe said after a long, tense silence. He slid a small, but heavy, pouch across the table to Malko. "For your troubles. My patron values discretion. He trusts that you and your... asset... saw nothing and heard nothing regarding this unfortunate business."

It was a warning and a payoff, all in one. Stay quiet, and stay rich.

"My only business is in the pit," I said, sealing the lie.

The scribe gave a curt nod and departed, leaving behind the scent of suspicion and a pouch full of blood money. I knew I hadn't fully convinced him. I had merely given his paranoia a new target. The Serpent would be watching me, but they would also be watching the sea. I had bought myself time.

But the encounter left a bitter taste in my mouth. I was still on the defensive, reacting to the Serpent's moves. My raid had been a success, but it had also painted a target on my back. To survive what was coming, I needed more than just incremental gains from killing guards and smugglers. I needed a quantum leap in power and skill. I needed to hunt bigger game.

My thoughts turned to the elite of this world, the true warriors. The men whose skill was the stuff of songs. My gaze, as ever, drifted towards the Red Keep. Within its walls were the finest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms. The Kingsguard.

For days, the idea took root, a seed of magnificent, terrible ambition. To kill a member of the Kingsguard… the thought was intoxicating. They were the pinnacle of Westerosi martial prowess. Sworn brothers, trained for a lifetime in combat, armed with the finest steel, and clad in the iconic white enamel armor. To absorb one of them would be to absorb a legend.

But which one? The Kingsguard of 296 AC was a mixed bag. The Lord Commander was the venerable Ser Barristan Selmy, "the Bold." He was a living legend, perhaps the greatest swordsman of his age. But he was also constantly at the King's side. An impossible target. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was a prodigy of immense skill, but he too was a high-profile target, always surrounded by Lannister influence. The others—Ser Boros Blount, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Mandon Moore—were of varying quality.

Trant and Blount were political appointees, bullies and bootlickers. Their skills were secondary to their loyalty. Oakheart and Greenfield were competent, but unremarkable. But then there was Ser Mandon Moore.

I remembered him vividly from the books. A man with pale, dead-looking eyes, "like two grey stones." He was utterly silent, without friends or history. He was considered one of the most dangerous men in the Kingsguard, not for his flashy style, but for his cold, silent, and unpredictable deadliness. He was the one who had tried to kill Tyrion during the Battle of the Blackwater, likely on Joffrey's orders. He was a skilled, silent killer, unburdened by honor. And, crucially, he was a loner. A perfect target.

My goal was set. I would hunt and consume Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard.

This was not a job. This was an ascension. The planning required a level of meticulous detail far beyond any of my previous endeavors.

Phase One: The Hunt.

For two weeks, I became Ser Mandon's shadow. This was the ultimate test of the Ghost's skills. I used the tunnel network to emerge near the Red Keep, then spent my nights lurking on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, my Shadowcat senses focused on a single man. I stalked him through the city on his rare excursions. I learned his habits, his guard rotations, his solitary routines.

He was exactly as the books described. He rarely spoke. He had no companions. While other knights caroused in brothels or drank in taverns, Ser Mandon would walk the castle ramparts alone or spend hours in the training yard, practicing his deadly, efficient style. He was a creature of duty and solitude. His only predictable vulnerability was a patrol route he walked alone once every three nights, along the outer sea wall of the Red Keep, a lonely stretch of stone overlooking the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. It was a place of shadows and secrets, where the cries of gulls could mask the sound of a struggle. This was my chosen battlefield.

Phase Two: The Trap.

I couldn't simply attack him. He was a Kingsguard knight, alert and armed. I needed to create an advantage. I would use the terrain itself as my weapon. On the night of his patrol, I used the Ghost's skills to access a small, disused storage alcove built into the thick sea wall itself, right along his route. It was cramped, dark, and smelled of salt and decay. I would wait there, a spider in its web.

The night I chose was dark and stormy, the wind howling off the bay, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The weather would be my accomplice, masking sound and movement. I settled into the alcove, my body perfectly still, my breathing slow and controlled. I entered a state of predatory patience, a fusion of the Shadowcat's stillness and the knight's discipline.

Hours passed. Finally, I heard it. The steady, rhythmic crunch of armored boots on stone, growing closer. My senses went on high alert. I could smell the rain on his white cloak, the polished steel of his armor, the cold, emotionless scent of the man himself.

He passed my hiding spot. His back was to me.

Now.

I exploded from the alcove. I was not a man; I was a force of nature. In the instant before he could react, I slammed into him with the full weight of my body, a tackle powered by Gurn's raw strength.

My target wasn't his body; it was his balance. We were right on the edge of the sea wall. The impact sent him stumbling, his arms flailing as he fought to stay upright on the slick, wet stone. He was a master swordsman, but in that moment, he was just a man fighting gravity.

He was too good to simply fall. He twisted, roaring in surprise, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. But I gave him no quarter. I didn't engage him in a duel. I pressed my advantage, a relentless storm of brutal, efficient violence. I smashed my fist into the side of his helmet, the sound a dull clang of metal on metal. The blow would have killed a normal man. It only served to daze him, making his head ring.

He staggered back, drawing his sword, a beautiful, castle-forged longsword that glittered in the stormy darkness. He brought it up into a defensive stance, a perfect example of the Kingsguard form.

But I was not there to fight his sword. I was there to kill him.

I ducked under his desperate swing and drove my shoulder into his midsection. We crashed to the stone together, a tangle of white cloak and dark leather. He was incredibly strong, his armored limbs like bands of steel. But I was a monster forged from the essences of many men and beasts.

We wrestled on the edge of the precipice, the storm raging around us. He tried to drive the pommel of his sword into my face. I twisted my head, the blow glancing off my skull, and countered by grabbing his helmet with both hands and wrenching it sideways with a vicious, neck-snapping torque.

There was a sickening crunch of bone and vertebrae. The legendary knight of the Kingsguard went limp beneath me.

In the screaming wind and crashing waves, I began the most profound absorption of my new life.

It was a tidal wave of pure, refined power. It was like drinking liquid steel. The vitality of a man at the peak of physical perfection, honed by a lifetime of the best training and diet, flooded my system. It was a hundred times more potent than Ser Emerett. But the skills... the skills were a divine gift.

The complete, unadulterated martial knowledge of the Kingsguard poured into me. Not just swordsmanship, but mastery of the lance, the mace, the warhammer. Horsemanship that would make me one with any steed. The intricate details of courtly etiquette, the precise way to address every lord and lady from Dorne to the Wall. The full history of the Kingsguard, their oaths, their traditions, their secret duties. I felt the weight of the white cloak settle on my soul.

When it was over, I was kneeling in the rain over the hollowed-out suit of armor, the corpse within a shrunken, weightless thing. I was panting, not from exertion, but from the sheer, overwhelming ecstasy of the transformation. I was reborn.

I wasted no time. I stripped the iconic armor and cloak from the husk. I bundled the husk itself in the white cloak, weighted it with several heavy stones from the rampart, and heaved the package over the edge into the raging, unforgiving waters of Blackwater Bay. It would never be found. The sea would claim Ser Mandon Moore.

I donned the armor. It fit as if it had been forged for me. I slid the helmet over my head, and the world became a framed view through a narrow slit. I picked up the longsword. It felt like a part of me.

I stood up. I was no longer Void the Husk, God of the Pit. I was Ser Mandon Moore, Knight of the Kingsguard.

I walked back along the rampart, my armored stride steady and sure, my mind a blazing supernova of new knowledge and power. I had just committed the most audacious act of my life. I had murdered one of the king's sworn protectors and had taken his place.

The risks were unimaginable. If my deception was ever discovered, every hand in Westeros would be turned against me. But the rewards… the rewards were limitless. I now had access to the highest levels of power in the realm. I could walk the halls of the Red Keep, listen to the secrets of the court, stand guard over the king himself. I could protect or kill with impunity.

The pit was behind me forever. The great game was no longer something I observed from the shadows. I was on the board, wearing the white cloak of a king and hiding the black heart of a god.