THE IRON THRONE OF ICE AND FIRE

Long tables stretched across the hall, laden with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and pitchers of wine and mead. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling fat, spiced cider, and the sweet aroma of berry tarts. Shadows flickered along the stone walls as firelight danced in the iron sconces.

Green watched the young maids flit about, refilling goblets and serving trenchers, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

The Whispering Castle's maidservants traditionally wore long skirts that trailed behind them like funeral shrouds, gathering dust and threatening to tangle underfoot at every turn. He had tired of the clumsy spectacle—maids tripping, skirts dragging, dirt clinging to the hem like a second skin. So, he had ordered the skirts shortened to just above the knee, claiming it was Kalea's suggestion. He had no interest in earning a nickname like Baron of Skirts in Westeros, where lords were mocked as easily as they were beheaded.

The Dragon Queen with her endless titles… he thought wryly. Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains... And me? Baron of Skirts? Gods forbid.

Thus, the credit belonged to Kalea, a small price to pay for dignity.

Laughter and the clinking of cups filled the air as the feast carried on, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the cliffs.

At the high table, Green sat alone, his goblet untouched. Kalea stood beside him, dutifully refilling his cup, though her eyes flickered toward the other maids.

"Put the bottle down," Green told her. "Go enjoy yourself. Your little sisters are waiting for you."

Kalea hesitated. "I should stay—"

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Go. I'll call for you if I need anything."

She hesitated a moment longer before curtsying. "Then… I'll just take a look. I'll be back soon!"

Green watched her scamper away, her face flushed with excitement.

No sooner had she left than another pair of hands took up the wine bottle, pale fingers filling his goblet with practiced ease.

"My lord, you spoil her."

Green smirked without looking up. "Lady Surana, you always appear when I need you."

She inclined her head, her lips quirking in amusement. "A talent of mine. Perhaps if you reduced my workload, I'd appreciate you even more."

Hershel and Surana had been run ragged these past weeks, overseeing logistics, managing supplies, and implementing Green's many decrees.

"Trouble?" Green asked, swirling the wine in his cup.

Surana sighed. "Witch doctors." She made the words sound like a curse. "Do they not cut their nails? Or bathe? The stench alone ruins my appetite. The city's healers refuse to work alongside them, and honestly, I don't blame them. I've half a mind to draw my dagger just to get some compliance."

Green chuckled. "It seems they've yet to learn their place."

Surana scowled. "They're prisoners, but they don't act like it."

"They will," Green said. "We need their knowledge of herbs and wounds. Kleb soldiers need healers, and the more doctors we have, the fewer men we lose."

Surana exhaled sharply, but nodded. "You have foresight, my lord. Still, I'd rather not have to endure the stench another day."

Green smirked. "Then line up a few soldiers with swords at their throats while they scrub themselves clean. I expect they'll find a bath far more agreeable."

Surana's lips twitched. "Thank you for your wisdom, my lord."

Her eyes, however, wandered toward Kalea, who sat among the maids, her cheeks flushed as she giggled at something one of them said.

Green followed Surana's gaze and smiled. "She learns quickly."

Surana's expression softened. "That she does."

Green raised his goblet. "Seedlings must grow, Lady Surana."

Across the hall, Amparo and Reina, the only two members of the Thorns Corps invited to the banquet, were drinking heavily. At first, they had been stiff and reserved, but after a few cups of strong wine, they had joined in the revelry, laughing loudly and swapping stories.

Surana arched a brow at Green. "I heard you're particularly… satisfied with her figure."

Green chuckled into his cup. "Amparo is a fine warrior."

King's Landing—Somewhere in the Dark

In a chamber veiled in shadows, a man sat alone. His dark gray robe was immaculately pressed, his thin fingers steepled beneath his chin. Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, wore his usual enigmatic smile, his gray-green eyes betraying nothing.

"Baron Greene Kleb," he murmured, tasting the name. "Unfamiliar."

A hooded figure before him inclined his head. "Yes, my lord. Her Grace seems to have taken an interest in him. He's a boy of fifteen, a half-savage noble from the Crab Claw Peninsula."

Baelish's smile did not waver. "A loyal Targaryen bannerman, I suppose?"

The hooded man hesitated. "That is what the records claim."

Littlefinger chuckled softly. "Records are often more fiction than fact. King's Landing is a city of whispers, and those whispers change with every breath."

"Shall I send men to investigate?"

Baelish waved a hand dismissively. "No need. If our Queen is interested, the boy will find himself in King's Landing soon enough. There are no secrets in the Red Keep."

The smile on his lips did not reach his eyes.

"Chaos," he murmured, "is a ladder."

One Month Later…