16-This is a Sham!

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Mirxae and AshestoDusts. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

Linktr!ee/gladiusx - Links to all my relevant stuff is now available here. (Replace the ! with a .)

***

Jon Stark

He had made it on time. The funeral was a sombre affair. Only him, Sansa and the rest of the northern nobles attended. Having no body in either case made things even grimmer. He had managed to reduce his anger from raging fury to flickering embers in the godswood but it was diminished, not extinguished. During the funeral, the embers were reignited. This time, instead of a raging fury, there was a silent, yet deadly flame that never wavered, ever present. The last two days had been intense, and by the time the funeral was over, the evening had come. He grudgingly postponed the executions by a day. He couldn't leave for Torrhen's Square without dealing with a few things first.

The next day was not any less hectic. It took hours to find a proper steward for Winterfell. Few survived who knew how to run a keep. In the end, only a man named Dale from a nearby village had any idea what to do, so he obtained the position. After that, he forced himself to spend some time in the library again. Laws, duties, obligations - all things that he had to know by heart as a king.

Jon had so many things to do, and so little time. Hopefully once he got the main issues out of the way, he could start delegating to capable people he trusted. He would just have to find them first.

The only reason why a childless Barbrey had managed to stay in Barrowtown after the death of her husband was due to part of the Widow's Law, which forbade anyone from kicking a Lord's Wife from the Castle after its demise. As women would often outlive men, the new Lord would often expel the widow, reducing her to poverty. Should the Lord die, his closest relatives had an intrinsic interest to get rid of the Lord's sons and daughters so they could claim the Lordship. In this case, it meant having the mother as a regent was essential. However, after the law was passed if there were no living children and a clear heir, the woman oftentimes took control of the lordship until her death.

While well-meaning, this law could spectacularly backfire in its current form. The widow in question did not produce any kids, she would be in charge of the Lordship with no care for its future. The widow could even legally syphon wealth, manpower and funds towards her birth House, and leave the lordship destitute after she passed away. She could pretty much do anything she wanted without any care for the consequences such as starting feuds and making long-term enemies. Why would she care what happens after she was gone when the next lord would not be of her blood?

This is something he would amend later on. He had one last thing to do before the trials tomorrow.

After a rather short walk, he and Ghost were at Barbrey's cell. The Dustin Widow looked thoughtfully at him but backed off to the wall at the sight of the direwolf.

"Do not worry about Ghost, he is practically harmless," Jon said as he rubbed the direwolf's soft neck. She visibly relaxed at his words and he continued seriously, " Your trial will be on the morrow. Your guilt is indisputable and your life is forfeit. But I have a question for you, Lady Dustin."

"So I am to lose my head then. Why would I answer your question, Lord Snow?" she asked curiously. Even on the cusp of death, she had some bite left. The last time he had been called Lord Snow was when Alliser Thorne was mocking him.

Jon took out a small box and showed it to Barbrey. "There is sweetsleep inside. You can take it and pass away painlessly in your sleep, should you answer my query."

"And why would I do that? Mayhaps you want me to die before I can shout to the world of your parentage?"

"It makes no little difference to me whether you die in your sleep or I take your head on the morrow. But if I have to behead you, House Ryswell might be unwilling to bend the knee and I would have to...replace them," he lied through his teeth. Oh, she was right. He did not want that version of his parentage coming out in the open in such a way. Few would outright believe it, but given enough time, it might gain traction. It was also bad to start his reign by chopping off the head of a noblewoman like a common criminal, guilty of high treason or not. If she took the poison, he'd hit two birds with one stone.

Barbrey's eyes widened at his insinuation. Jon placed the box right in front of the Dustin Widow.

"Ask away then."

"Did you know that Rickon Stark was in the dungeons of Winterfell, and that his bones were thrown to the dogs after his demise?"

"No, how could I have known? Why would Ramsay tell me?" Barbrey scoffed after a short silence.

She was lying. Ghost could sense it. The old bitch had the audacity to lie to his face. She probably knew of everything that happened to Rickon and took great joy in it, but did not dare to speak it out loud. The simmering anger underneath made its presence known again. Rising desire to grab Barbrey by the throat and squeeze the life out of her bubbled in his gut, but was ruthlessly suppressed. He could be petty and cruel, but it would be in his best interest for her to die in her sleep.

He wordlessly turned around and left together with his direwolf without looking back. The sweetsleep had been left in the room as she did answer his question, truthfully or not. As much as he would enjoy chopping her head off, some things were more important than petty personal vengeance. He had already shown himself in a somewhat cruel manner by executing two hundred men-at-arms, something done never before in history. It would not do good to push that further by beheading a northern Lady. In the end Barbrey would be dead anyway.

***

Shireen Baratheon

Shireen was on her way to the King's Solar. Jon Stark had called for her, and she had been escorted by a servant. The last few days Shireen felt as if she was witnessing one of the fairy tales that she had read about. She had not watched the battle yesterday, but even if a third of the rumours about it were true, he would easily fit to be a character straight out of the Age of Heroes. Slaying a dozen enemies with a single swing of his blade. Cutting through armour as if it were butter. Not to mention how a bastard managed to avenge his fallen family and become King. Only the beautiful maiden was missing for the story to be complete.

It wasn't all a simple tale though. Shireen knew Jon Stark was decisive and ruthless, and the execution of two hundred Bolton men-at-arms by his hand proved that. Her father Stannis had long taught her the importance of duty and justice, and Shireen had read about the First Men's ancient tradition of meting out justice by one's hand. She was impressed. All the heads were then arranged on the spikes around the entrances of Winterfell, reminiscent of how Theon Stark dealt with the Andals who dared raid the North.

She looked around after she entered the solar. Jon Stark was sitting on a desk looking through rolls of parchment. Next to him, the giant white direwolf was sleeping quietly on the floor. Even strewn over the floor, Ghost's body was taller than her knees. Shireen barely resisted the urge to go to the direwolf and bury herself in the silky looking white fur.

Jon dismissed the servant that led her here with a gesture and said, "Take a seat, Lady Shireen."

"You called for me, Your Grace?"

Being Lord and King would make one extremely busy, and Shireen couldn't figure out any reason why the king would have called for her so quickly.

The king looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments. "I believe I can maybe help with your greyscale, My Lady."

"How? There is no cure for it, Your Grace. My father called learned men and sorcerers from every corner of the known world and none of them could do anything against it!"

When she was younger, Shireen read up everything on the topic only to end up despondent-every book said that the disease could not be cured, only stopped. She had learned to accept the greyscale as part of herself long ago.

"Certain...powers awoke in me with the hatching of my dragons. I am not sure I can cure you, but I'm willing to try if you agree," Jon Stark's eyes gleamed.

Magic. Shireen's heart began to beat faster. He was speaking of magic, and it was said that the greyscale originated from the curse of a Rhoynar Prince. Stannis Baratheon's promises of rich rewards had attracted even Warlocks from Qarth, but their skills were dubious at least... Jon Stark however was said to have resurrected himself from his funeral pyre, unburnt by the flames and with dragons in his arms. The wildlings even called him a skinchanger. Him being capable of magic...would explain a lot of things. But Melisandre could do magic too, and the Red Priestess was...terrifying.

Maybe he could help... it would not hurt to try. Shireen had a feeling that Jon Stark would not harm her, no matter what. She shyly nodded, unable to voice her words at that moment.

"This might feel a bit unpleasant, Lady Shireen. Tell me if there is any pain," he spoke softly. She watched with trepidation as the king cut and took out a bronze dagger with black veins spread through the length of the blade. Jon Stark pricked three of his fingers and carefully raised his hand. She felt a rush of warmth underneath the greyscale, as his bloody fingers brushed along her scarred skin. Similar to the last time Jon Stark touched the greyscale. Her eyes widened-Shireen realised that he most probably checked the sickness with magic back then. The king simply smiled at her reaction and focused.

Shireen could only sit still and look...straight into Jon Stark's eyes. The dark purple colour was simply mesmerising and reminded her of amethysts. She suddenly felt very hot. The king's eyes started glowing with power. The air around her felt heavy. Meanwhile underneath the greyscale, the heat started pulsing. It felt weird, but not unpleasant. She preferred it to the feeling of numbness that the stony skin had otherwise. Shireen had no idea for how long they stood like this, but eventually, the king withdrew his hand.

"Did it work?" she fidgeted nervously. Shireen felt much…lighter and full of energy, but she wasn't sure if that was just her imagination.

Jon Stark simply handed her a small mirror. She blinked in surprise-there was no trace of blood or any cuts along his fingers. There were multiple runes that she did not recognise drawn in crimson over her greyscale. Shireen had seen and memorised some of the First Men runic script and High Valyrian glyphs, but the symbols were not part of either of those writing systems. She then noticed that the edges of where the stony scales met the skin were looking red and feeling itchy. Shireen hesitantly touched that area and gasped. The greyscale simply started peeling off and fell, revealing raw skin underneath. Slowly, all of it was gone, and she began feeling a strong stinging sensation instead of the cold numbness. Shireen could feel her left cheek again! Tears of joy started to appear in her eyes.

"I think it did," the king replied with a smile.

She couldn't help but crash into Jon and hug him as tightly as he could.

"Thank you..." she mumbled quietly. She realised she was alone in the King's Solar near the evening, hugging him. Her face flushed, but she did not let go. Words could not express the gratitude she was feeling, so she tried to pour all of it into the hug. After a few moments, a strong hand patted her back gently and she reluctantly separated.

"You should still go to the maester for a check-up, Lady Shireen. I might have removed the greyscale, but some of the skin was gone with it. It is a wound that should not be left untreated. If someone asks, tell them that you simply woke up with the greyscale gone, " Jon Stark uttered quietly. Then he returned to his seat and resumed reading his documents.

Shireen realised that she was being dismissed and quietly left. She wouldn't want to intrude on the king anymore. Everything around her looked vibrant and vivid in her eyes, as she headed with a spring in her step towards the maester's tower. The future was more uncertain than ever, but Shireen felt happy.

***

Jon Stark

Removing the greyscale proved much easier than he expected. Jon had expected to go through a few different methods before achieving success. He had used a modified ancient Gaelic cleansing ritual with his blood as the medium and it had proved incredibly potent. The inactive curse had simply melted away. The scaly flesh had also been cleansed. Shireen Baratheon would no longer carry the burden and stigma of greyscale.

Early in the morning, Jon sat on the winter throne. The high seat of the olden kings of the North was made out of grey stone, its massive arms were decorated with snarling direwolf heads. Below him, the tables had been moved to the side, leaving a wide space open in the middle of the Great Hall. While rather small, the Court of the Winter King had been assembled once again for the first time in three centuries. The lords and ladies were seated around the tables together with the surviving wildling chieftains. It was an odd sight, but both groups were relatively peaceful after fighting together against a common enemy. Only Maege Mormont was missing as she took three hundred men with her yesterday, and headed to take control of the Dreadfort.

The Blackfish entered the hall and hastily approached him.

"Your Grace, Barbrey Dustin has been found dead in her cell," he spoke in a hushed tone. Jon's face remained impassive, but he smiled inwardly. She had chosen to take the sweetsleep and saved him the headache. One problem less.

"Send her remains back to House Ryswell with an escort. And bring in the accused, Ser Brynden. Let us get this over with," he responded just as quietly.

Soon, guards brought in Hother Umber, Roose Ryswell, and Harwood Stout. Their hands and feet were bound in chains. The surrounding chatter quickly died down.

"Hother Umber, you are accused of treason. How do you plead?" Jon spoke loudly from the high seat. The old castellan of Last Hearth was probably loyal to House Stark, but the circumstances had forced him to choose between a small boy from a fallen House and his own family. Jon would not hesitate to make the same choice if he was in Hother's shoes, so he felt little anger at the old man.

"Guilty, King Stark." Replied the old Umber. He simply looked tired and his eyes had no flame left in them. The court looked at Jon with rapt attention, awaiting his verdict.

"I give you a choice. Take the Black and serve honourably at the Wall which now needs capable men more than ever men. Or lose your head on the block," Jon spoke evenly.

He thought that the old man would decide to die here. There was little desire to live in the Umber before him. But after a few moments, a small spark appeared in Hother Umber's flinty eyes, and his face was soon filled with determination.

"I'll take the Black," he uttered simply. Jon nodded, and the old man was then led away by the guards to join the fifty Bolton men-at-arms who had chosen to take the Black.

"Roose Ryswell, you are accused of treason. How do you plead?"

"Innocent, your Grace," the man spat loudly. He was only about five years older than Jon and had an average face with dark auburn hair. His brown eyes were full of anger. Which was completely understandable, considering that Roose lost his father and brother two days earlier to House Stark. And he had no way of knowing it, but his sister too passed away in her sleep last night.

"Is House Ryswell not one of the bannermen sworn directly to House Stark?"

"Aye, but House Stark was gone. When Robb Stark called for us, we answered! Sansa Stark was wed into House Bolton, and you were just a bastard sworn to the Watch!" Roose replied with venom in his voice. The yard exploded in murmurs. He was...not wrong. And as a third son, he had little choice but to follow his father, so he had no guilt for the decisions of House Ryswell. But Rickon Stark was alive and in Winterfell, and by all rights-his liege lord. Whether Roose knew if Rickon was even here was irrelevant. Regardless, Jon could not let such a slight fly, and it was unwise to let off someone with such hatred in his heart free to plot revenge.

"And yet you were here and did nothing, when your rightful liege lord, Rickon Stark, was tortured to death in the dungeons of Winterfell. The Iron Throne did not hold the Lord of House Ryswell or any of his kin hostage in the Twins, unlike they did with House Umber. Take Lord Roose outside, "Jon ordered firmly and grabbed his sword that was resting on his left. The man's eyes in front of him widened, realising that he was being directly sentenced to death.

Just as the guards grabbed him, he shouted, "This is a sham! I am innocent! I demand a trial by combat!" The hall stilled for a moment. The men around Roose looked at Jon, waiting for his command.

He could not deny it legally. Jon was king, sure, and could just execute the Ryswell, but it would look as if he was encroaching on the rights of the nobility. Every lord, lady and knight had the right to trial by battle. But he had no reason to decline it, especially when he could butcher his enemy in seconds.

"Granted. Get him his arms and armour. I will represent House Stark. We will fight here in half an hour," commotion instantly filled the previously silent hall at his words.

Men went to get Roose a fitting suit of armour. Brynden moved to Jon and spoke in a hushed tone so only he could hear, "Your Grace, why did you not pick a champion to represent the crown? You'd undoubtedly emerge victorious, but should something happen, you have no male heir and the North would be torn apart once again."

"Aye, you're right, Ser Brynden. But it is the First Man tradition to swing the sword that takes the life of the guilty. If I was too young or too old, nobody would have said anything if I appointed a champion in my stead, true. But I trust my sword arm more than I trust those of others, and by personally fighting my own battles, I gain more respect. " Jon replied and took off the resistance bracers he was carrying underneath his clothing. He could use the time before the fight to get used to moving unburdened again.

Thirty minutes later, the court had gathered around in the yard outside. Everyone had moved towards the walls, clearing a wide space in the centre of the yard. Across him stood Roose Ryswell wearing an arming doublet underneath a half-plate. On top was a surcoat emblazoned with the black horse head of his House. He was armed with a longsword and a kite shield. Jon was wearing only his chainmail and gambeson despite the protests of the Blackfish. He saw no point in putting all of his armour into a fight that would hardly last more than half a minute.

He drew his sword and advanced toward his opponent quickly. There were only thirty yards between them. Ryswell realised he was more than a head shorter than Jon and subconsciously raised his shield. In just two breaths Jon was now in range and wasted no time. With all his speed lunged to the left and delivered a fierce strike. The bronze sword easily sliced through cloth, steel, flesh and bone. The shield hand of his opponent had been cut off in an instant. Before the now-removed appendage and the shield attached to it could fall to the ground, Jon's blade sang through the air again. The head of Roose Ryswell rolled down, just as his face was beginning to contort in a pained grimace.

"The gods have spoken, His Grace Jon Stark is victorious, and Roose Ryswell was guilty of treason," the Blackfish's voice split the surrounding silence after a few moments. Jon had moved so quickly, that the duel was over before the audience could even react. After this performance, Jon doubted that anyone would try their chances with a trial by combat against House Stark any time soon.

But this raised another problem. The current Lord Ryswell just lost two brothers, a sister and a father fighting against House Stark. While he would be forced to bend the knee, Jon doubted he would be ever truly loyal.

"House Ryswell is hereby attained on the charges of treason. Any living male is to be sent to the Night's Watch, and the women to the Silent Sisters in White Harbour. From this day forth, as a reward for their loyalty to House Stark in our hour of need, House Mazin will become rulers of the Rills, and be principal bannermen of Winterfell!" His voice boomed in the silent courtyard.

Lord Mazin immediately knelt, swearing eternal fealty to House Stark as Lord of the Rills. Jon graciously accepted and turned to the last prisoner.

"Lord Stout, you are sworn to the Dustins of Barrowtown, so I can forgive you for fighting against us, as it was ordered by your liege. Kneel and swear to never bear arms against House Stark, and you can walk free."

***

A few minutes later, Harwood Stout walked away a free man. Jon had a few things to take care of before riding out towards Torrhen Square.

"Ser Brynden, arrange an escort of twenty men to send Hother Umber and the remaining Bolton men-at-arms to the Wall," the Blackfish bowed and left.

Jon headed to where the wildling chieftains were gathered. While the rest of the northerners did not avoid them, they were particularly inconspicuous as they stood right next to Wun Wun and the second giant, who was called Dag the Black for the colour of his fur. About half of the clan leaders had survived the battle. The Free Folk had the most casualties, as few among them had proper armour or arms. Those that did wore either bronze or whatever they had managed to scavenge from the corpse of a night's watchman they had slain beyond the Wall.

"Thank you for the help against House Bolton," Jon bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I have heard that some of you want to settle here in the south."

"Aye, you heard correctly, King Snow. It is much warmer here than at the Wall or north of it." Soren Shieldbreaker nodded while fiddling with his ear.

"You do know that if you want to stay here, you have to become...kneelers?"

"Aye, King Crow. None of us would mind kneeling to you," Tormund's voice boomed and the rest nodded.

"You are worthy, and we follow," Sigorn Thenn nodded gruffly. Ever since the battle two days ago, he had been seen around Winterfell, lost in thought.

"There is plenty of space around here and I can grant you a strip of land. But aside from swearing fealty to me, you would have to follow the laws of the realm, learn how to work the land, pay a yearly tribute, and answer House Stark's call to arms, should one be made. Your sons and daughters would be fostered with me and the other lords to learn how to govern and to create connections with the rest of the North," Jon calmly explained. The last thing he wanted was for the wildlings to think they would get special treatment, or that they could act the same way they did beyond the Wall.

"You ask a lot, King Crow," Soren frowned.

"No more than is required from any of my bannermen. And in return, you gain House Stark's protection and justice. You have a sennight to decide until I return from Torrhen's Square. Ask the clan heads here why they follow House Stark, and what they get in return," Jon finished and turned around to leave.

"Wait, King Crow!" Jon turned around at the feminine voice. The blond wildling beauty Val was looking at him expectantly. She led no men or women, but the Free Folk respected her skill, courage, wit, and fierceness. She had fought in the battle, and while he had no idea how she had fared, Val was good enough to remain visibly unscathed.

"What of my sister's son? You sent him away with the fat crow because the Red Woman was dangerous. But there is no danger now. In front of you, she's as harmless as a deer."

Jon frowned for a moment and tried to remember what plan he had cooked up with Sam Tarly. If he recalled correctly, Sam would go to Oldtown and send Gilly to Horn Hill, claiming Mance's son as Samwell's bastard. But he had no idea what happened. And had given his word that the babe would be taken care of.

"I will look into it. Samwell Tarly is far away in the south. I will send word, but it will take some time before we can get an answer. You can stay in Winterfell until the babe is returned."

She gave him a strange look before nodding gratefully.

***

Petyr Baelish, Casterly Rock

He tiredly rubbed his face. Losing the Eyrie and his hold over the Vale had been an enormous setback. Everything had been perfect, but the blasted boy had to die and ruin all of his plans. After Sweetrobin died of an infection, he had no way to directly influence the Lords of the Vale. He held the debts of a few of them, but he suspected that some would try to simply dispose of him to void said debt instead of paying it. He might have slipped off the ladder but only by a few steps, he hadn't fallen all the way to the ground. The situation of the North had been unclear as ever, so he had no other choice but to rejoin King Tommen's Court in Casterly Rock.

"Someone has killed every single soul in the Twins, Your Grace," Petyr reported dutifully. He hated it. He had been so close, and did not have to bow or scrape to anyone, yet now he had to tiptoe around Cersei again, lest she decided he was more trouble than he was worth.

He had made the wrong gamble with Sansa. He should have wed her to Harrold Hardyng directly, and now he would be in control of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. Instead he was back on the small council, with the measly title of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, which was dead weight at best. Cersei held him with less esteem and trust now that he had lost the Vale. Yet Petyr knew that she had to rely on him and his network and intended to use this to his utmost advantage. Since Varys killed Pycelle and Kevan, the small council had been greatly understaffed. Petyr had taken the position of Master of Whispers for now, and Ser Daven Lannister served as temporary Hand. The man was more of a warrior than a ruler, but he was capable and cunning enough to be decent at it.

"Good Riddance. The old weasel was about to croak anyway. What news of my brother?" Cersei asked impatiently. She did not seem to care about the demise of the late Lord Frey. She was not the only one. Anyone who had heard the news was either impassive or joyful. Walder Frey was never a popular man, and after the Red Wedding, he was outright hated.

"Jaime fought for a bit before retreating. This Aegon has about twelve thousand men more. The Golden Company is battle hardened, while the crownlords and the dornish have fresh forces, and more cavalry than us. But we have control of all the holdfasts between the Red Fork and the God's Eye. The Targaryen cannot truly threaten Casterly, nor can we defeat him on the field of battle as we are," Daven Lannister replied, rubbing his face tiredly.

"And have the rest of the Lords Paramount answered Tommen's call to arms?"

"No, your Grace. Highgarden is busy dealing with the Ironborn, or so they claim. The High Road has been blocked by the snow already, and we will not see any armies from the Vale before spring. House Bolton does not reply to our missives at all, and we have no idea what is happening in the North beyond hearsay from a couple of merchants," Petyr answered evenly.

The news from the North had been very unreliable. The spy that he had planted in Winter town long ago was killed when Ramsay Snow sacked Winterfell. Ever since, he had to rely on rumours coming from White Harbour and Barrowtown, both of which were quite far away from Winterfell. The only reason that they knew Stannis was dead in the first place was because Roose Bolton had sent a missive of his victory. However, they had gotten only silence ever since, boding badly for House Bolton.

Oh, he had plenty of rumours, and each one was more crazy than the rest. Jon Snow had mobilised a hundred thousand wildlings and had retaken Winterfell, and all the lords that resisted him were eaten by the savages. Jon Snow was an unmatched warrior, and defeated the Bolton army single handedly in the field. With each swing of his sword, a hundred men died. Or that Jon Snow had been the fruit of an affair between Eddard Stark and Rhaella Targaryen, and could conjure fire with a wave of his hand. Petyr couldn't stop laughing for a dozen minutes when he heard that particular rumour for the first time. None of this was something that he could report with a straight face to Cersei, who had little patience for nonsense.

"Surely, the realm would not let this Aegon Targaryen go unpunished for burning King's Landing? Many a lord lost kin there, " Daven Lannister stated incredulously.

"Traitors, the lot of them. They wouldn't answer the call of the rightful King without incentives. The Tyrells swore fealty to Tommen, but now that they no longer have their Queen, the cowards refuse to leave Highgarden," Cersei scoffed.

This Aegon would not entertain him, as Petyr had little to offer. He would have to start from scratch if he ever managed to insert himself in the Targaryen court and that wouldn't do. He had thought long and hard on how to salvage the situation of House Lannister as his last vestige of power depended on it. In the end, all he could think of was to once again entice a House from the Reach. House Lannister had made too many enemies. The longer they stood, the more fighting and chaos would ensue. Petyr may have fallen, but he could make the climb again.

"We have plenty of free positions on the small council. We can give lord Ellard Crane the position of Master of Laws. House Rowan of Goldengrove has an unwed daughter only three years older than Tommen. Between Houses Crane and Rowan, they have more than sixteen thousand men and are nearest to Lord Commander Jaime," Petyr proposed.

The chamber fell into silence as people started ruminating upon his proposal.

"See to it immediately, Lord Baelish," Cersei's hand shot up to where her golden locks used to lay on her shoulder. It found none however, and she simply fiddled with the collar of her gown. The Queen regent's golden hair was barely reaching her neck. Ever since the Walk of Shame, she had been more…ruthless than before. Her first decree was to rescind the right of holy men to bear arms on the pain of death. A local septon was preaching to the smallfolk in Lannisport and attempting to recruit them to the cause of the Seven. That Septon and a few Poor Fellows had quickly ended up on the gallows.

Petyr bowed and left the chamber. The climb had begun again.