Chapter 721

Oldtown, once the largest city in Westeros and now its second, was naturally covered in a dense web of overlapping intelligence networks, each serving different factions. The most powerful, of course, belonged to the ruling Hightowers, while the second most influential was largely sustained by the grain of their overlords, House Tyrell.

As for the third? That had once been an open question. But after the successive collapses of Aerys II Targaryen, the "Mad King," and Robert Baratheon, the "Usurper," the spies loyal to both dynasties found themselves leaderless and without a cause. Into this void stepped the Iron Bank of Braavos, claiming the third rank among Oldtown’s clandestine powers.

The Iron Bank’s web had not been woven for the same purposes as those of its local rivals. It existed not to maintain control over the city but to monitor the research of the Citadel, track the movements of the Faith of the Seven, and oversee the economic activities of Oldtown—especially its banking institutions. Any sign that these might threaten Braavos’ financial dominance or the interests of the Free City was to be swiftly reported, and, if necessary, neutralized. Unlike the defensive and usually neutral information networks of native factions, the Iron Bank's was an offensive, foreign operation, its structure designed to remain hidden at all costs.

Most of its higher-ranking members were dispatched from Braavos rather than recruited from Oldtown’s established circles, and even its lower-tier informants and operatives were carefully chosen to avoid entanglement with other factions. It was the most discreet intelligence network in the city—at least, in theory.

But no wall was without cracks. A plot as elaborate as an assassination and large-scale explosion should have, at the very least, drawn some suspicion from the city’s foremost powers. And yet, it had gone unnoticed.

The reason? Aegor’s arrival in Oldtown had upended the balance. He had swiftly placed House Hightower under house arrest, cutting off their ability to relay information. With the city’s foremost intelligence network leaderless, the Tyrells, second in command, rose unchallenged. The top two powers were now at each other’s throats, and between the clash of royal authority, religious influence, and noble feuding, the Iron Bank had slipped through the chaos unseen.

In short: it was Aegor’s storm in Oldtown that had provided the perfect cover for the assassins coming for his life.
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Smoke filled the streets, drowning the air in the panicked screams of fleeing townsfolk.

Unlike Aegor, whose carriage was reinforced with thick wooden layers for protection, his guards—both mounted and on foot—had taken the full force of the explosion. Those not killed outright by shrapnel and flying rubble were hurled against the walls by the shockwave, left dazed and broken on the cobbled streets. Even the Unsullied, those fortunate enough to have survived with their bones intact, barely had time to stagger to their feet before bolts from second-floor crossbows cut them down.

Ernst Ubi reloaded his crossbow with practiced efficiency. Through the shattered window frame, his eyes remained fixed on the overturned carriage below, now shrouded in white smoke. He waited in silence, watching for a sign of movement.

None came.

Either the target was dead, unconscious, or had the sense to hunker down and wait for rescue. But uncertainty was unacceptable. The Iron Bank’s Special Affairs Division had no tolerance for loose ends.

The Prime Minister’s convoy was divided into three parts: the vanguard to clear the road, the rearguard to prevent pursuit, and the central escort to protect him. The latter was now in ruins, but the other two groups would react soon enough. And with the Western Expeditionary Army patrolling the city, time was against them.

"Move downstairs," Ernst ordered. His voice was curt, his actions precise as he secured his weapon and descended the staircase with swift, measured steps. Two of his men followed close behind, moving toward the wreckage of the carriage.

Then—BOOM! BOOM!

Two more explosions erupted at either end of the street, lighting up the night with fire. The Special Affairs operatives assigned to delay reinforcements had engaged the convoy’s front and rear guards. Ernst had to confirm the kill and leave before the noose tightened.

According to plan, a crude wildfire bomb was handed to him. Without a second glance, he hurled it toward the carriage. The fragile glass shattered, and a foul-smelling green liquid splattered across the wood.

Rumors claimed the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch could rip White Walkers apart with his bare hands. Ernst had no intention of testing that legend. "Open the door and check" was a fool’s order—tools existed for a reason.

If the flames consumed the carriage and no one emerged, the job was done. If Aegor did make a desperate escape… he would be met with three poisoned crossbow bolts.

A torch was passed into Ernst’s hand. He had made it clear from the start—this was a hunt unlike any other. A kill worthy of the greatest bounty of his career. He wanted the final strike to be his.

But just as he stepped forward to ignite the fire, the carriage door burst open with a deafening crash.

A dark figure rolled onto the ground and, without hesitation, charged straight at them, steel in hand.

Two sharp twangs echoed as his subordinates loosed their bolts. One shot went wide in the chaos, the other struck true—but Aegor did not slow.

Ernst exhaled a short, amused breath. Without wasting a moment, he tossed the torch aside, raised his crossbow, and fired straight at Aegor’s chest.

For a brief moment, he feared his target would pull off some legendary warrior’s feat—dodging the bolt or swatting it aside with his sword. But the bolt struck squarely, only to rebound with a strange metallic clang, falling uselessly to the ground.

He was wearing armor beneath his black robes.

A laugh burst from Ernst’s throat. This was no ordinary target.

But armor would only make the kill more satisfying.

"Shoot his legs!" he barked at his scrambling men. There was no honor in assassination.

Ernst let his crossbow fall from his grasp, drawing his twin Valyrian steel daggers with lightning speed. His hands moved so fast it seemed as if the blades had leapt into his palms of their own accord.

With a fluid motion, he severed the cord that had kept his crossbow slung around his neck. Before the weapon had even hit the ground, he kicked it away, shedding all unnecessary weight.

Twin daggers in hand, he met Aegor’s charge head-on.