Chapter 719

The streets outside buzzed with life, but inside, all was silent.

Ernst Ubi stood by the second-floor window of a townhouse overlooking the street, a book in one hand and a Valyrian steel dagger in the other, flipping the blade idly as he observed the outside world through a narrow gap in the shutters.

Not far away, the Hightower loomed over Oldtown, its presence undeniable. Below, the streets teemed with merchants, townsfolk, and travelers, the flow of people and carts a constant hum of activity. But beyond the ordinary rhythm of life, the city’s air was thick with talk—discussions of the High Septon’s recent downfall and the upcoming election of his replacement. Strangely, most voices carried excitement and anticipation rather than fear or outrage. No one seemed troubled by the fact that the Crown had crushed the Faith’s authority, or that a single man had proven himself above both nobility and clergy alike.

Even a week ago, Ernst would have scoffed at the idea. Who in their right mind would have believed that someone could storm the Starry Sept—the very heart of the Faith in Westeros—drag the High Septon out of his own sanctuary, parade him through the streets, and somehow face no backlash? No uprising from the faithful? No retribution from the nobles?

Lord Mace Tyrell had seized the High Septon’s illicit wealth, splitting it neatly: half returned to the Faith to fund the Seven’s worship, repair temples, and aid the poor; the other half funneled into the newly established Oldtown Autonomy Council to stabilize prices and improve public infrastructure.

The result?

The whistleblower was a Faith insider. The enforcer was House Tyrell, devout followers of the Seven. And the beneficiaries were the common folk of Oldtown.

A seamless web. A perfect maneuver. Even if someone sought vengeance for the High Septon, how could they blame Aegor?

A masterstroke of politics. A ruthless display of power. A demonstration of military pragmatism that only a true soldier could wield—swift, brutal, and efficient. Even as an enemy, Ernst couldn’t help but admire it.

If the tales of Aegor’s victories—the Night’s Watch crushing the Others, the Gifted Army’s march south, the Western Campaign’s devastation of the Reach—seemed distant and mythical to those who had not witnessed them firsthand, then this? This was undeniable.

Here in Oldtown, Ernst had seen it all unfold. He had watched as Aegor dismantled the foundations of House Hightower as effortlessly as a grandfather disciplining a disobedient child. He had witnessed Aegor turn the Faith’s own attempts at pressure and provocation against them, striking back with such force that even the High Septon had been replaced.

Ernst had always known his mission was difficult. But only now did he truly grasp the enormity of it.

Even if Braavos allied with Volantis and rallied the other Free Cities into war, could they truly stand against a man who controlled the Seven Kingdoms? Even if they somehow won, the cost would be unfathomable—half the known world left in ruin.

No. There was only one path forward.

Assassination.

Only by cutting him down could they prevent catastrophe.

A man dies when he is killed.

It was that simple.

No matter how powerful, how cunning, how victorious—once the heart ceased to beat, once the lungs no longer drew breath, even kings and conquerors crumbled into dust.

Ernst Ubi was no mere mercenary or common assassin. He was the Deputy Minister of Special Affairs for the Iron Bank of Braavos, the leader of its First Strike Division. If his name was unknown, then the world was as it should be—for he was one of Braavos’s greatest military secrets.

His ancestors had been killers for generations, their name a relic of a dead language from a long-forgotten land, where "Ubi" meant "assassin." His skills were not learned but inherited, passed down like an unbroken chain. And in the Iron Bank’s hierarchy, his division was reserved for only the gravest threats—those beyond the reach of diplomacy, economics, or conventional warfare.

Only the most formidable enemies were placed on his list.

Only the most dangerous of those ever warranted his personal involvement.

And for over a decade, no such enemy had emerged.

When Gordon Gallonier, the aging director of the Iron Bank, had summoned him and given him his mission, Ernst had been skeptical. At the time, he had thought it absurd that in the chaos of war—when the Faceless Men had defected and vanished—he, one of Braavos’s finest operatives, should be sent across the sea to kill a rogue Night’s Watch commander.

Aegor was trying to start a bank. That was the reason? That was why they needed to kill him?

It felt like overkill. A dragon-slaying spear to kill a common chicken.

But now, he understood.

Now, he knew why this operation—codenamed Dragonslaying—was not only necessary but vital.

Now, he knew why Aegor had been assigned a higher priority than even Daenerys Targaryen, the last true heir of House Targaryen.
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The Iron Bank had already known about Aegor’s planned Western Campaign before Ernst had even left Braavos. His orders had been simple: sail directly to Oldtown, the inevitable final battleground, and prepare the kill.

A month ago, he had doubted whether Aegor would even make it that far. What if the Reach lords won? What if they repelled his army? What if Ernst had wasted his time?

But no.

As always, Aegor had defied expectation. He had shattered the Reach’s defenses, crushed its armies, and arrived in Oldtown exactly as predicted.

And so Ernst had begun his work.

But the more he watched, the more he realized: this was no ordinary man.

Aegor’s paranoia bordered on the absurd. According to reports, the man couldn’t even relieve himself without a dozen guards standing watch. Ernst nearly believed it.

Aegor rarely appeared in public. He conducted his affairs from the shadows, issuing orders remotely. His most trusted followers had been with him since the beginning—loyal beyond question, immune to bribery or persuasion. His retinue included a high-ranking Red Priestess, an expert in magic and deception. Even if the Faceless Men had not abandoned Braavos, even they would have struggled to get close to him.

All visitors—regardless of rank—were subjected to thorough searches before meeting him.

Ernst had considered poison. It was always the simplest method.

But someone else had tried that before. And now Aegor’s kitchens were locked down tighter than the Iron Bank’s own vaults.

Some of his men had begun to doubt. Was this assassination even possible?

That was why Ernst had come. This was what separated him from lesser killers.

Aegor’s security was too tight for a silent kill.

But who said an assassination had to be quiet?

If a dagger in the dark was impossible, then why not a hammer in broad daylight?

If he could not kill Aegor the way his great-great-grandfather had slain the Rogare brothers, then he would simply find a new way.

And the key to that was the very thing Aegor himself had introduced to the world—gunpowder.

When the Hightowers had been forced to flee, they had abandoned their alchemists and their laboratories. Gunpowder—raw, refined, and experimental—sat untouched in the storerooms of the Hightower, waiting to be reclaimed.

All it would take was a little effort. A little patience. And a well-placed explosion along Aegor’s path.

If the plan succeeded, Ernst’s name would go down in history, just as his ancestor’s had. The Dragonslaying operation would be remembered as one of the Iron Bank’s finest successes.

And what could be more poetic for an assassin than that?