The clamor that had begun like the pattering of rain suddenly rose into the sounds of a storm. Esen felt a deep unease swell up within her along with it, her mouth setting into a thin line as she strode quickly to the curtained windows shielding the sun from mother and child. Shouldering aside the cloth, she peered through the intricate panes of tinted glass. It made it hard to see clearly, distorting the image of the outside world, but the assassin did not need to see to hear the sound of death—the sound as familiar to her as the lullaby of the canals.
“Nasira? Is something going on?” Ruwena queried from Mheagen’s side. Her pretty face was scrunched up in a frown, one hand placed reassuringly on her friend’s shoulder.
“Stay here,” was what Esen said instead, punctuating the words with a firm look as she departed from the window. “I’ll be back.”
“Wait, what—Nasira!” Ruwena stammered after her, but she was already out the door. As she descended the stairs, she could hear the baby start up a thin, wailing cry. The girls on the first floor looked frightened and unsure, but Esen moved through them deftly, pulling her veil closer to her face before she opened the door and slipped out.
The street that had looked nothing short of normal a little while ago had exploded into chaos. Pressing herself against the wall, her eyes darted quickly throughout the bodies of the dead and the ones still fighting—she recognized Eddard Stark and his handful of men, fighting against armored guards. However, the hulking figure of the Mountain was difficult to miss as he tore through guards as if they were nothing but straw dolls, spraying gore out into the air. Murderer of children, rapist and pillager of the helpless, her masters had taught her. However, it was not hard to see he was attacking those who were threatening Lord Stark. But why would the Mountain…?
Her question was answered immediately when her gaze finally found the two at the core of the battle—lion and stag, locked in combat. The Kingslayer’s golden-blonde hair glimmered like an angry sun, his wildfire green eyes fixed on the princeling himself. What was he doing here? He shouldn’t be here, was all she could think for a moment.
“For God’s sake Lyan,” Jaime Lannister snarled at his nephew, as he shoved the younger man back. “You’re a Lannister!”
“I’m a Baratheon!” the princeling shouted back, his ocean-blue eyes like a raging storm. Ours is the Fury, the Baratheon stag declared, and with his ink-black hair and piercing blue eyes—yes, the world would know him to be a true Baratheon. This recognition did not seem to curry any favor with the Lannister lion, however, who rushed at the prince with a renewed edge in his movements.
Esen began to lurch forward, her fingers at the hilt of her dagger, when someone caught her by the arm. “Nasira!” Ruwena cried, terror in her eyes and voice.
“Ruwena! What are you doing here? I told you—“
“No, what are you doing?!” Ruwena’s voice cracked with a mixture of fear and anger. “It’s dangerous! Have you gone mad?!”
“Go back inside, Ruwena,” Esen replied grimly, shrugging off her friend's hold on her arm. She couldn’t have the warm-hearted girl’s blood on her hands—she had to take shelter, fast. “It’s not safe for you.”
“Like it’s safe for you!” the redhead railed back, her face turning almost as red as her hair. “I’m not going anywhere until you come with me!”
Grimacing, Esen took the girl by the arm, tugging her along towards the door back into Chataya’s. Ruwena made to resist, but she was surprised by the unexpected strength in the raven haired girl. Esen grasped the doorknob, only for it to stop halfway without opening. She tried again. It was locked. “Seven hells,” she hissed. The girls had no doubt seen the fight outside and locked the door. The assassin pounded loudly on the door, a tinge of desperation in her voice. “Open up, it’s for Ruwena!” There was no response, even when she knocked again.
“What do we do?” Ruwena asked, her voice quavering. Esen searched the chaos for the princeling who was still holding his own against the Kingslayer. She had seen him train, seen him disarm his father like a child, but the assassin knew better than anyone that a fight to kill was different than any spar. His opponent was a famed member of the Kingsguard, hailed as the best sword in Westeros. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—last long. She shouldn’t have cared, and she knew it…but what was this icy feeling clutching at her?
Nevertheless, she had to get Ruwena to safety. “Take the back streets. Get back to the Red Keep, Ruwena,” she instructed her friend.
“You’re coming with me.” Despite the tremble in her voice, there was iron behind her words as the motherly girl clasped her hands with her own.
Esen knew it would be the right thing to go with Ruwena. This wasn’t her fight. This had nothing to do with her, or her mission. If anything, if the princeling was killed here, it was one more obstacle out of the way. It was best she left before she was spotted by anyone and outed. And yet…
“I can’t,” she heard herself saying, and she could recognize fear in it—not fear for her own life, but another’s. Her heart was pounding furiously in her ears, chanting the same words she had thought when she had seen him with the wine. Not him, it went. Not him not him not him.
