The Reach remained as warm as a lingering spring. Greenery draped the rolling hills of Horn Hill, branches bowed under the weight of ripening fruit, and the fields were a vibrant carpet of tender shoots. Across the vast grasslands, herds of cattle and sheep wandered lazily from slope to slope, their slow movements keeping pace with the sun.
"Father, are you going?"
Dickon Tarly looked up at his father's stern, weathered face. He quickly shifted his gaze back to the horizon, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the stone of the castle wall.
"Of course not."
Randyll Tarly crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the stagnant water of the moat. It was a letter from King's Landing, bearing the seal of the black tower and the golden sun.
As the water soaked the paper, it slowly unfurled, the ink blurring into the murk: "Lord Tarly, King's Landing has been captured by me. As per our agreement, come to the capital to discuss the Warden of the South with Stannis Baratheon. I will personally return 'Heartbreaker' to you."
"Dickon," Tarly said, his voice a low warning. "This is a cake with poison in its sweetness. You must never touch it, and you must never speak of it to anyone."
Dickon's excitement vanished. "Then… what about the sword?"
"Let him hold it for now," Randyll said, his expression like granite. "If we go to retrieve it, whether we join Stannis or not, the Tyrells will name us rebels. The Reach would fragment into three pieces, Tarly, Tyrell, and Hightower. We would never stand together again. It is a treacherous scheme, coming from a Karstark."
Recalling the two hundred giants and the lightning he had seen at the Crossing, Tarly's apprehension deepened. He had studied Eddard's habits: the boy favored decapitation, killing Prester, the Mountain, and capturing himself.
"Tarly is an ancient house, Dickon," Randyll said. "We are warriors, but a lord cannot only be a warrior. One misstep leads to extinction. Now, we wait."
King's Landing. The Red Keep.
Through the high, narrow windows of the Throne Room, the setting sun spilled across the floor, staining the hall the color of old blood. The Iron Throne, a grotesque mass of twisted blades and jagged spikes, stood alone on its dais.
Eddard Karstark sat on the steps below it, looking up at the chair with visible disgust. He had tried sitting on it once and immediately moved. It was hard, cold, and a tetanus hazard.
"My Lord, this was vengeance!"
Hogg Staunton, the Lord of Rook's Rest, knelt below the platform. He was defending the massacre of civilians his men had carried out during the confusion of the Karstark entry. He spoke of his daughter, Avril, a thirteen-year-old who had been killed in a Flea Bottom riot.
"She was nobler than a hundred of those commoners!" Staunton spat, his eyes red with a desperate, localized madness.
Eddard looked at Varys, who stood in the shadows. The eunuch stepped forward, his voice a soft purr. " Miss Avril's retinue whipped two urchins to death for staining her dress, Ser Hogg. The riot was the people's response. Your 'vengeance' was merely a slaughter of the innocent to hide your daughter's cruelty."
Staunton's face twisted. "Their lives were worth nothing compared to her silk gown!"
"Enough," Eddard waved a hand, interrupting him. "I am the Prince of the Trident and Regent of the Riverlands. You tried to pin your crimes on my name. That makes it my business."
Eddard turned to Karas Snow. "Karas, execute him and his sellswords. Use 'Heartbreaker.' Put their heads on pikes outside the Lion Gate. Let the city know that Karstark justice doesn't distinguish between a lord's silk and a beggar's rags."
"Yes, My Lord," Karas said, dragging the screaming Staunton from the hall.
Eddard stretched and looked at the Master of Whisperers. "Did Robert and Joffrey do this every day?"
"Renly would have fined him," Varys replied. "Tywin would have put him in the vanguard to die for a purpose. You, My Lord, are... more direct."
The dining hall of the Red Keep smelled of oxtail soup and roasted suckling pig. Eddard was enjoying a crab pie when a figure even more corpulent than the royal chef entered.
The newcomer wore a crown of gold thread and crystals that caught the torchlight. It was the High Septon, the "Chief Bishop" of the Faith.
"Lord Eddard!" the man bellowed, his oily face trembling with indignation. "Your soldiers are monsters! They must be punished!"
Eddard didn't look up from his pie. "What did they do?"
"They gambled before the Father! They urinated on the Warrior! They blindfolded the Stranger with dirty socks!" the High Septon shrieked. "They brought prostitutes into the Great Sept! It is an abomination!"
Eddard shrugged, wiping roe from his lip. "My men are from the North and Beyond the Wall. They worship the Old Gods. They have no reverence for your Seven-Who-Are-One. There is nothing I can do."
The High Septon went silent, his mouth agape. This wasn't the response he expected from a ruler of the capital.
Varys stepped into the light, a small smile on his lips. "Chief Bishop, it is best to be polite. This young Lord is not easily swayed by scripture."
The High Septon took a breath, his eyes flickering with a greedy realization. "Then, Lord Eddard... what do you require to make your soldiers cease their insults to the gods?"
Eddard looked up, his grey-blue eyes cold and piercing.
"Three million gold dragons."
The High Septon nearly choked on his own tongue. "Three million? That is impossible!"
"You have the gold of the Reach and the Lannisters in your vaults," Eddard said, leaning back. "Call it a 'hospitality tax.' I have an army to feed and a King to install. If the gold doesn't arrive by dawn, I'll tell the giants that the Great Sept is full of wine and silver. I doubt the Warrior will be able to stop them."
[System Notification: Extortion of the Faith initiated.]
[Strategic Resource: 3 Million Gold Dragons (Targeted).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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