After ensuring the camp’s affairs were in order, Lynd approached Malora's tent and handed her the ornate box he had retrieved from the dwarf assassin.
Malora’s gaze fell on the box in his hand, and she chuckled. “Are you trying to woo with gifts, my dear lover?”
Lynd ignored her teasing. “This was on the dwarf assassin who tried to kill Willas. I suspect the box contains a Manticore.”
Rather than showing fear, Malora’s expression lit with curiosity as she took the box and inspected it. “What makes you think it’s a Manticore?” she asked.
Lynd explained, “There’s an ancient assassin organization from Essos called the Sorrowful n. They specialize in deception, using dwarfs to masquerade as young girls to evoke sympathy, then exploiting that trust to poison their targets with Manticores.”
“Sorrowful n?” Malora mused, her interest piqued. “I’ve read about them in a Citadel to—an ancient order, indeed.” She raised a skeptical brow. “Even on Essos, they’re shrouded in secrecy. Yet you identified them from a single assassination? You’re full of surprises, Lynd Tarran.”
Her lips curved into a mischievous smile as she placed a hand on Lynd’s breastplate and leaned close. “A man with secrets is terribly attractive. You’re becoming more irresistible by the mont.”
Lynd frowned and stepped back, creating a noticeable gap between them. He said nothing, but the action spoke volus.
Malora shrugged nonchalantly, her expression veering toward boredom as she turned to her workbench. Placing the box on the table, she asked lazily, “So, what do you want to do with this?”
Lynd’s tone turned serious. “You’re skilled with poisons. I need you to study the toxin and antidote of this Manticore.”
“There’s no need,” Malora replied, shaking her head. She crossed the room to a dicine cabinet, retrieved two small bottles, and set them on the table. “The square bottle contains the antidote. The round one is the poison. Apply it to a weapon, and even a minor scratch will suffice to kill.”
Without further hesitation, she opened the ornate box. A Manticore sprang out, its barbed tail poised to strike.
Malora showed no fear. Instead, she regarded the creature with an almost maternal fondness, reaching out to stroke it.
“Careful,” Lynd cautioned, though he doubted she was in any real danger.
Malora smiled as her fingers touched the Manticore. Rather than attack, the creature recoiled, curling up as if in submission. She picked it up with ease, cradling it like a cherished pet.
“This one’s well-bred,” she remarked, holding the Manticore up to examine it closely. “Much better than the ones I used to keep.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “But Lynd, I think you’re mistaken. This isn’t a Sorrowful n’s Manticore.”
“How can you tell?” Lynd asked, skeptical.
She gestured to the carapace on the Manticore’s back. “I’ve never seen one of theirs in person, but books describe them in detail. The Sorrowful n use a specific thod to enhance their Manticores’ venom. It results in a distinctive marking on the carapace—patterns resembling faces that shift under different light. These are called Many-Faced Manticores, sacred beasts of the Many-Faced God Church. So believe the Sorrowful n originated from that faith.”
Lynd examined the spot Malora pointed out. “Can you determine where this Manticore ca from?”
“With certainty,” Malora replied confidently. “You were wise to bring it to .”
She returned to her workbench, extracted a sample of the Manticore’s venom, and began mixing it with a series of liquids. As she worked, she explained, “Thirteen species of Manticores are docunted, each with unique venom due to habitat, prey, and even feeding thods. Their toxins serve as markers of origin.”
Malora’s concoction changed color as she spoke. The murky brownish-gray liquid grew clear and then shifted to a pale lavender.
“Braavos's Sealord's Palace?” Malora repeated, her expression shifting as the potion changed color. She seed genuinely surprised. “This Manticore originates from Braavos's Sealord's Palace.”
Lynd stared at her, montarily speechless. “Braavos's Sealord? Why would the Sealord want to assassinate the heir to Highgarden?”
“How would I know?” Malora shot him an irritated look. “I’m only telling you where the Manticore is from. That doesn’t necessarily an the assassin was sent by the Sealord. The Sealord's Palace is known to keep Manticores. They're not exclusive to assassins—both servants and n-at-arms there have access to them. These Manticores aren’t typically lethal, but their venom causes excruciating pain, lasting until death.”
Lynd’s brow furrowed as he considered her words. “So, the goal wasn’t to kill Willas outright but to leave him in agony. Pain of that magnitude could warp a person’s character over ti. Even soone as noble as Willas could eventually break under such tornt and beco... unpredictable. Twisted, even. Like the Mad King.”
Malora’s sharp mind followed his reasoning. “And if he believed his suffering was tied to Godsgrace and Dorne’s protection, his hatred for Dorne would fester. The Reach, under his leadership, would grow increasingly hostile toward Dorne. Eventually, the tensions could escalate into outright war.”
Lynd’s frown deepened. “Could that really be the intent?” he murmured to himself.
As he pieced the situation together, the assassination appeared more intricate than a simple act of vengeance. Multiple factions could have reasons to orchestrate such a plot. The Iron Throne, for instance, might have engineered the attack. While Dorne had ostensibly submitted to the Iron Throne, anyone paying attention knew the Martells’ opposition simred beneath the surface. A conflict between The Reach and Dorne could serve as a convenient way to neutralize Dorne without direct involvent.
The Reach itself couldn’t be ruled out either. Many of its nobles had opposed Willas’s peace plans from the outset. While they had publicly agreed to his proposals, there was no guarantee their support was genuine. If Willas’s condition rendered him incapable of implenting the peace agreent—or if he beca a Highgarden lord consud with hatred for Dorne—those nobles would have justification to retaliate against the Martells.
Even Braavos’s Sealord might stand to gain. War between Dorne and The Reach would create lucrative opportunities for the Iron Bank and Braavosi rchants. Few business opportunities were as lucrative as war.
These possibilities weighed on Lynd’s mind as he left Malora’s tent. He had to warn Willas.
As Lynd departed, Malora turned her attention back to the Manticore. She placed it into a small glass bottle, adding a few drops of a liquid from another vial before sealing it tightly. Almost imdiately, the Manticore began to writhe in agony. Its body trembled violently, and its hissing cries filled the tent as it thrashed against the bottle, desperate to escape. Malora watched its suffering with unnerving fascination, a faint, twisted smile playing on her lips.
Lynd arrived at Willas’s tent and relayed the information he had gleaned from Malora, along with his suspicions. Willas listened intently, his expression growing increasingly grim. The complexity of the plot shocked him, leaving him feeling vulnerable in a way he had never experienced before.
Lynd’s tone was resolute. “This might only be the first attempt on your life. You must take every precaution. Any etings with Dornish nobles should be held under heavy guard—no less than ten n-at-arms at all tis. And under no circumstances can you participate in the Tournant of Champions. It would be the perfect chance for an assassin to strike.”
For once, Willas didn’t argue. “I’ll follow your advice, Ser Lynd.”
Lynd imdiately reorganized the camp’s security. Knights and n-at-arms were assigned to Willas in shifts, ensuring he was never left unguarded. Every al and drink he consud was ticulously inspected. Lynd left nothing to chance.
News of the assassination attempt spread quickly, becoming the dominant topic of conversation in Godsgrace. The incident even overshadowed the excitent surrounding the upcoming Tournant. Lady Delonne, accompanied by her son, visited the camp to et with Willas. Despite the tension, her deanor as she left suggested that no lasting animosity had developed between the two houses.
In the days that followed, Willas carried on with his diplomatic duties, eting Lords and nobles from across Dorne. His composed and gracious behavior left a strong impression on all who t him, a testant to his maturity despite his youth.
Careful observers noticed a significant increase in Willas’s security. Whenever the heir to Highgarden ventured beyond the Reach camp, Lynd, the legendary Bear Hunter, was always at his side, accompanied by his infamous beast, Glory. This heightened protection did not go unnoticed, particularly among Dorne’s knights and warriors, though their interest was less in Willas’s safety and more in Lynd’s reputed prowess.
The tales of Lynd, immortalized in The Song of the Bear Hunter, had spread to Dorne via the ships of King’s Landing. Stories of his unmatched feats, including the incredible claim of defeating hundreds in a single tournant, were t with skepticism. Most assud the bards had exaggerated for dramatic effect.
However, recent events made these legends harder to dismiss. Witnesses to the aftermath of the assassination attempt described the scene in awe. More than a dozen assassins had been slain by Lynd in re monts, as though they were no more than stalks of grass. Witnesses swore it was over in the blink of an eye. The knights and warriors of Dorne, though reluctantly impressed, found it difficult to accept such a claim outright.
To test Lynd’s ttle, challengers began stepping forward, confident they could debunk the exaggerated rumors. However, Lynd had no interest in engaging these challenges. Instead, it was the Red Viper who intervened. When one such challenger insulted Lynd, dismissing him as a fraud and coward, the Red Viper himself took up the fight, declaring, in front of all, that he had been bested by Lynd.
“If you want to challenge Lynd,” the Red Viper declared, “you’ll have to go through first.”
What followed was a spectacle. The Red Viper began issuing challenges to knights from every Lord’s camp near Godsgrace. Before the tournant even began, he had achieved complete domination in foot combat, defeating every opponent who stepped forward. His victory streak culminated in his formal entry into the upcoming lance competition.
So noticed, however, a particular pattern in the Red Viper’s fights. Knights from the Red Mountains, those aligned with Lords openly opposing Willas’s peace proposal, seed to suffer the worst of his wrath. Most of these knights did not leave the battlefield alive. When questioned, the Red Viper would rely shrug and say, “They were so skilled I couldn’t hold back.”
But those who witnessed the matches knew otherwise. The Red Viper’s fights were displays of calculated playfulness; he toyed with his opponents, clearly in control from beginning to end. The suggestion that he couldn’t restrain himself rang hollow.
Rumors spread that his aggression stemd from the attempt on Willas’s life. The assassination, though targeting the heir of Highgarden, also tarnished House Martell’s honor, as they had personally guaranteed Willas’s safety in Dorne. Lacking a clear lead on the assassins’ mastermind, the Red Viper seed to have redirected his fury toward the Lords of the Red Mountains—many of whom were staunchly against the peace agreent. By killing their knights, the Red Viper sent a pointed, if silent, warning.
anwhile, security in and around Godsgrace Castle intensified. The city’s patrols swelled with garrison soldiers and knights of the Lord’s Guard. Streets that had once been chaotic grew orderly under this increased vigilance. The specter of assassination had changed the atmosphere of the city.
In the midst of all this tension, the Godsgrace Castle Tournant officially began.
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