As night fell, the man known as the Hound of the Gods lowered himself into the Blackwater. The water was cool, but not cold. Nonetheless, he had taken care to grease his body, lest he freeze in the water. A pair of daggers, honed razor-sharp, were strapped to his waist, and he wore a tunic. Warmer clothes would be waiting at his destination. He had qualified as Septon, years ago, but had discovered that his true calling was to kill. But never for himself; only for the Gods. He was their chosen instrument. Over the years, he had taken the lives of heretics, blasphemers, fornicators, all those whom the Gods had deemed unworthy of life. Tonight, the Gods willing, he would take the life of the worst. He doubted if he would survive the attempt, but that mattered little. The High Septon himself had assured him of a place a mong the blessed martyrs. Slowly, he swam upstream, making little more noise than a fish, passing the lines of the besiegers. At last, he swam to the bank, and hauled himself up on the muddy shore. All was as his master had arranged. Inside a hollow willow tree, was a large basket, containing bread and ham, a flask of spirits, dry clothing, a pair of boots, and a vial of poison. He dried himself off, before donning the clothes and boots, and eating his meal. Finally, he drew out his daggers, coating them with the poison, before slipping them back into their sheaths. It was time. He returned to the river bank, and smeared his face and hands with mud to render himself less visible. It was a cloudy night, with little moonlight. Good, that would make his task easier.

Daenerys laughed in Sansa's pavilion, as Arya told her of Septa Mordane getting drunk and passing out at her father's tourney. She was enjoying a flagon of wine with the Stark sisters and Lord Baelish before retiring to bed for the night.

"A holy Septa getting drunk in public? Wasn't she disciplined by her order?"

"Of course not, your Grace, " replied Littlefinger. "You can hardly expect them to obey their own rules. They just impose them on their flock. Why, Septa Mordane barely kept to her vows of chastity."

"I should never have told you that, husband" chided Sansa. "Besides, she was never technically in breach of her vows."

"Tell me more" said the Queen, amused.

Sansa blushed before replying "She favoured her own sex. "

"Isn't that considered a mortal sin? Outside Dorne of course. So, Lord Tyrion has told me."

"Well, the Faith condemns unchastity among women. But, by unchastity, they mean coupling with a man other than one's husband. The Seven Pointed Star has much to say about men who couple with other men, none of it good, but nothing at all to say about women who prefer their own sex. It's hardly a secret that there are holy Septas who ...cherish one another. The Most Devout may not approve it, but they rarely condemn it. "

"There is no risk of a bastard, and therefore no risk of scandal" commented Baelish smoothly. "Better this, than they breach their vows with a man. It's the Septons I feel sorry for. Whichever sex they favour, they'll be in breach of their vows. Not that it stops them, of course."

"Just when I thought I was getting to know this realm, I realise I know nothing at all" remarked the Queen, dryly. "Still, I'm in no position to criticise others for unchastity". Littlefinger looked at her enquiringly. "A story for another day, once we've taken Kings Landing. I'm going to sleep now." She said good night, and went out into the night, accompanied by her bodyguards.

The assassin crouched in the ditch that had been dug around the camp, observing the two guards above him, intently. They were bored, lazy, and, he suspected, rather drunk. Good. They were meant to be guarding one of the entrances, but were plainly just waiting to be relieved. He crept up the side of the ditch, making no noise, then pulling himself onto the small bridge that led into the camp. By the time the first guard sensed something was amiss it was too late. The assassin swiftly grasped the man's head, and sliced his throat, cutting off his cry. There was a sudden stench as the man voided his bowels. The other guard turned in puzzlement, only for the assassin to drive his blade into the man's heart, who likewise fell without a cry. He smiled. The Gods were with him to night. He dragged each body to the side of the bridge, before toppling them into the ditch. Stealthily, he made his way forward into the camp, slipping from tent to tent in search of his prey. The Dragon Queen had been very foolish to show to the world where her pavilion was located. From the battlements of the city, they could all see the the banner of the triple-headed dragon, fluttering above it. Well, tonight, she would pay for her folly. At last, he reached his destination. He stared at the pavilion intently. There was a single guard on duty. Foolishness piled upon stupidity. A single guard to protect a Queen! He glided over soundlessly, and lunged as the man looked up at him, taking him through the eye. He held him as he slumped to the ground, and then he entered the pavilion. In the blackness within, he could hear the breaths of a woman in deep sleep. Stealthily, he reached the sleeping figure, and crouched down by the bed. He pressed one hand down on the sleeper's mouth, and with the other, brought the knife down hard, repeatedly. A sudden moan was cut off, and the jerking body fell still. In the blackness, he could not see the Queen's face, but he must be certain. He struck a quick spark from a flint, and cursed. This was not the Queen! He guessed it must be her little whore, the Naathi girl she had bought in Astapor. Of course, she would share the Queen's bed. He shuddered inwardly, as he imagined the unnatural acts that the pair must have practised together. Damn her! He got up, and left the tent, slipping back into the darkness.

Varys had encountered the Queen as she returned from Sansa's pavilion. There were matters he wished to discuss with her, relating to the siege. They talked as they walked. She had been drinking wine, but not enough to impair her judgement, and then he hissed, "Halt. Guard the Queen!" He had smelled it. Spilt blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man springing out of the shadows, at Daenerys. Fortunately, one bodyguard blocked the man's blow, while another prepared to finish him. Quick as a snake, Varys darted low with his own dagger, slicing the hamstring behind the assassin's left knee. As the man slumped he shrieked "Keep him alive. He must be questioned!' Varys kept his knee firmly in the small of the man's back, as he was trussed, the guards giving him several kicks for good measure. The man snarled and cursed, warning them of the judgement of the Gods. Well, he'd be singing a different tune, quite shortly. Few men were as skilled as Varys, at extracting information from unwilling subjects. His thoughts were interrupted by an unholy shriek from within the tent. He rushed in to find Daenerys cradling a dead body on a bed. Oh Gods, Missandei! The Queen loved her like a sister! She keened and screamed, as more people crowded into the pavilion, Tyrion, Zengi, Arya, and Rakharo among others. The Queen ignored them as she sobbed, for over an hour. At last she raised her head from the body, and turned to them.

"How many prisoners are we holding in this camp?" she hissed.

"Perhaps two hundred" Zengi replied.

"Then I want them returned to their friends in Kings Landing. By trebuchet. In pieces."

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