ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Three days later, Casterly Rock dressed itself for joy with the grim determination of a fortress pretending it had not recently changed masters through blood, treason, and gold. Lanterns were hung from galleries. Banners were cleaned or replaced. Flowers were brought from Lannisport and nearby gardens. Music echoed through halls where men had died not long before. Westeros had no shame about decorating over stains.

The Great Hall filled with nobles from across the Westerlands, envoys from the North and the Reach, household knights, prominent merchants, and every ambitious person who believed proximity to power could become profit if timed well. The air smelled of wine, roasted meat, wax, flowers, perfume, and fear hiding beneath good manners.

Arthur Greyoak stood at the center of the dais in formal clothing that mixed Battanian practicality with Westerosi noble fashion. It suited him well enough, though he would have preferred armor. Beneath the fine fabric, he carried a short blade. He also wore light protection worked into the garment. He had not survived the Twins, Lannisport, and Casterly Rock by trusting ceremonies. Ceremonies were where men stood still and gave assassins a clear target.

His smile was polite. His eyes remained calm.

The marriage was political. No one with a mind worth feeding could pretend otherwise. Alianna Spicer stood beside him in white, beautiful in a fragile way, her face pale and controlled. She was young, frightened, and clever enough to understand she had become more than a bride. She was House Spicer’s bond to the new Lord, a symbol for the surrendered Westerlands nobles, and a way to make Arthur seem less like a foreign conqueror sitting on stolen gold.

Arthur would treat her with courtesy, protection, and respect. Warmth was another matter. Ena still lived somewhere between breath and silence in Newroot, and even without that wound, he had not married Alianna for love. The world had many cruelties. Pretending politics was romance seemed an unnecessary addition.

The High Septon, invited through Reach channels from Oldtown, officiated with solemn length. Vows were spoken. Tokens exchanged. The gods were invoked often enough that even they might have grown bored. Arthur kissed Alianna gently and briefly when required, and when the High Septon announced them husband and wife, the hall erupted in cheers.

That was when the flames changed.

Several great candles along one side of the hall flickered violently. Their light stretched too long across stone pillars and walls. Shadows that should have swayed with the flame instead twisted inward, gathering like ink poured into water. From those dark seams, three shapes lunged out.

They were almost human. Almost. Black, formless, edged by faint firelight, moving faster than sight wanted to allow. Their blades were made of darkness, condensed into killing points. They crossed the distance toward Arthur in less time than most men needed to gasp.

The Toad Witch moved first.

She had been curled near the side of the dais like an old woman half-forgotten by the room. In that instant, age left her. Sybell Spicer sprang forward with a shriek and spread her arms between Arthur and the shadows. At the same time, she spat a black mist thick with the stink of herbs, blood, and something bitter enough to make the air recoil. Her yellow eyes narrowed into reptilian slits, locking on the attackers’ path.

Three dull sounds struck almost together.

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The shadow blades pierced her body and burst from her back in lines of bright blood. Sybell shuddered but did not fall at once. She had used her own flesh as a shield and blocked all three strikes meant for Arthur.

The black mist closed around the assassins. Their bodies hissed where it touched them, smoke curling from their edges. Their movement slowed for less than a heartbeat. Less than half a second, perhaps. It was nothing for ordinary men. For elites, it was a door.

“Protect the Lord!” Kator roared.

Beland’s voice followed like thunder. “Shields!”

The Battanian honor guard erupted into motion. Grey Shadow’s men, disguised among servants and musicians through Sybell’s arrangements and Arthur’s quiet precautions, drew blades and hand crossbows. Shields stacked in front of Arthur and Alianna. Diana dragged Alianna back with two guards. Smith began shouting orders to lock the hall.

The shadow assassins flickered, their failed strike already turning into retreat. Their forms began dissolving back into wall-shadow and candlelight.

Arthur moved.

He drew the short sword hidden beneath his formal clothes and stepped through the narrow gap Sybell’s sacrifice had created. The leftmost assassin had become slightly more solid where the mist burned it. Arthur saw the shape. Not clearly. Clearly enough.

His thrust was straight, without flourish. All force, no wasted movement.

The blade entered the shadow’s chest.

A sharp, inhuman hiss rang through the hall, like metal dragged across glass. Dark red fluid, thick and glowing like cooling lava, burst from the wound. The assassin twisted violently, then unraveled into smoke and stain. A shadow dagger fell to the stone and began melting before it finished landing.

The other two vanished into the walls.

Only then did the hall remember to panic.

Screams burst from every side. Guests overturned benches. Women cried. Men shouted for guards, gods, or horses, depending on what they trusted most. Soldiers sealed the exits. Crossbows turned toward every dark corner. Servants were forced to the ground. Musicians, who had done nothing except choose poor employment, were searched at blade point.

“Seal all exits!” Smith shouted. “Search every passage and every shadowed wall. No one leaves without my command.”

“Protect the Lord and his lady,” Diana ordered. “Inner guard, with me.”

Arthur ignored most of it. He stood over Sybell Spicer, short sword still low in his hand, its tip stained with strange dark red. The old woman lay in a spreading pool of blood. Her body had been pierced through in three places. Her breath came wet and shallow.

Her yellow eyes opened.

For once, there was no calculation in them. Only pain, fading, and a strange satisfaction.

Her mouth moved. Blood foam gathered at her lips.

“Promise,” she rasped. “Green... Prophet...”

Then her head turned slightly, and she stopped breathing.

Arthur watched her in silence.

Sybell Spicer had been greedy, cunning, dangerous, and absolutely willing to use everyone around her to raise her house. At the end, she had placed herself between him and death without hesitation. Whether that sacrifice had been for family, prophecy, faith, or one last bargain did not matter as much as the result. She had saved his life. Men had been given lordships for far less.

Arthur raised his voice.

“In the name of the Lord, Lady Sybell Spicer will receive a grand funeral. She will be buried with the rites of a hero and loyal servant. The service of her house will not be forgotten.”

The hall quieted enough to hear him. Fear helped. Blood helped more.

He turned to the guests, to the guards, to the trembling nobles who had just seen shadows crawl out of light. His arm went around Alianna, who stood pale and shaking beside Diana. The gesture was protective and public. Both mattered.

“The wedding stands,” Arthur said. “The feast is over. The celebration is canceled. But today, I, Arthur Greyoak, and Alianna Spicer became husband and wife. She is Lady of Casterly Rock. Anyone who seeks to destroy the peace of my lands or harm my wife and me, whether they come with swords, shadows, gods, or fire, will pay a hundredfold.”

His gaze lifted toward the high windows, past the stone, toward the sea and the distant lands beyond it.

The shadows of the Lord of Light. Clearing a path for their prince. Wonderful. As if visible enemies were too easy.

Alianna trembled under his arm. Arthur held her steady, because symbols mattered and because she had nearly died beside him on their wedding day. The marriage had begun with blood, which made it very Westerosi. The gods must have been delighted.