The Red Keep had never felt colder. Cersei's death was no longer a tragedy whispered in corners—it was a storm roaring through every corridor. Guards doubled. Servants watched their shadows. Blood would answer blood.
And Jaime Lannister was out for vengeance.
His rage was controlled but barely caged, like a lion pacing behind steel bars. He refused food. He refused comfort. All he wanted was to find the ghost who had slit his sister's throat without a trace.
> "Whoever did this…" he growled, gripping his golden sword hilt, "will die screaming."
Varys approached cautiously, robes rustling like dead leaves.
> "Ser Jaime," the eunuch began with his usual calm, "the king demands restraint. You are not to harass the smallfolk—"
Jaime slammed him against a pillar with one arm.
> "Restraint? You want me to restrain myself after what's been taken from me?" His voice was venom. "Tell your spiders to search harder. I'll burn the city if I must."
Meanwhile, Köinzell watched from the shadows of a rooftop above the Red Keep's gardens. His cold elven eyes narrowed as he observed Jaime's fury.
> "Emotion clouds the senses," he murmured. "Even lions forget to watch their flanks when roaring too loud."
He turned and melted into the night. He had no intention of being caught—not yet. Not until the next piece of rot was carved from the capital.