"Fight!" I shouted when my men, positioned at different ends of the square, signaled that the place was fully encircled and sealed.
I deliberately chose one of the smaller squares for our meeting. I wanted no unnecessary victims, and the swiftest loudmouths and the most devoted followers of His Sparrowness fit here perfectly. If there happened to be any random onlookers among them, then that was their lot.
And I deliberately did not involve the Holy Order or the newly formed Honor and Valor. Such tasks were not for them, and there was no need to sully their hands.
The slaughter was considerable. His Sparrowness himself—the stubborn, thickheaded old goat—once he realized they had been lured into a trap and were being killed right there, dropped to his knees and began to pray.
You should have done that earlier, old man! Perhaps the Gods might have managed to shove a sensible thought into that obstinate skull of yours, and everything would have turned out differently.
Many were killed—that was the outcome of that day. The very flower of His Sparrowness's new movement lay strewn across the dust-covered reddish cobblestones. That day buried, for a long time to come, any hope that one might jest with authority—let alone challenge it.
I looked over the carnage. Grief slowly crept into my heart, and a lump rose in my throat. There was nothing here to boast of—on the contrary, things had turned out so that I had committed a terrible deed. Only there had been no other way.
Had I ever thought myself capable of such a thing? Would I have agreed to take part in all this, had I known I would have to do something like this?
Questions—nothing but questions… How easy and pleasant it is to live when you know all the answers and can foresee your fate!
"Remove the bodies and bury them," I ordered, and, weary as though I had taken part in the slaughter myself, made my way toward the Red Keep.
Hundreds of soldiers' faces lined my path. Astonishment, fear, disbelief, horror—and even satisfaction—all flashed past in a single, motley ribbon. I could not tell how most of them judged what had happened: did they approve, or did they condemn it?
***
That same evening, we ceremoniously released the High Septon from prison. The old man was glad—ecstatic, even. We reached an agreement quite easily and quickly: he would return to his undemanding yet highly honorable office, and in return he would issue an official decree on behalf of the Faith of the Seven, condemning the actions of His Sparrowness and all those associated with him.
And indeed, such a decree was issued, and ravens carried it to all the major cities. It declared that His Sparrowness had attempted to organize a sect, and that his fanatical followers had defied the will of the Seven and dared to rise against the lawful authority—an authority blessed by the Gods themselves!
I harbored no illusions and knew that a single piece of parchment would not soothe my own conscience. But I had provided moral justification and spiritual support to others. And now, seeing that secular and spiritual authority marched hand in hand, it became easier for them to live with what had happened.
Moreover, the High Septon also agreed, in honor of his restoration and return to his former office, to forgive the Crown's debt of one hundred thousand gold dragons. I could have squeezed more out of him, but I chose not to push my luck. The Master of Whisperers and Orm's service had already reported, in unison, that the people were beginning to think King Joffrey's frugality bordered on miserliness. I would not have some fitting nickname stuck to me.
Generally speaking, most people are plainly blind and see no farther than their own noses. They want only bread and spectacle, and care nothing for the rest. After the drunkard Robert and his mad years of extravagant spending, after the early Joffrey and Cersei, who also knew no restraint with money, it was extremely difficult for people to adjust and understand what truly mattered and what did not. What was their true good—merry tourneys or the repair of roads? Bloody spectacles or the building of sewers?
I had to sweeten the bitter pill for certain parties. I promised the High Septon that after the war, within the capital, in one of the poorer districts, I would build a solid stone sept. Of course, it would not compare to the Great Sept, the architectural masterpiece of the Targaryens, but neither would it be a small, obscure little building.
We parted almost as the best of friends. No, I still do not understand how—or, more importantly, why—Cersei had wished to remove him.
***
Today, another ceremony was held in the Great Sept: two new Kingsguard were swearing their oaths of loyalty to their king.
Upon reflection, I introduced a new custom—the guards would swear not merely to the monarch, but to the monarch before the eyes of the Seven, and specifically before one of them: the Warrior. Now, should they ever contemplate betrayal, the Gods themselves would be displeased. And they do exist—I knew that.
The first of the two was the recently arrived son of the lord of Oldtown, Garth Hightower, called Greysteel—a tall, powerfully built knight with long dark hair and a prominent nose. He smiled rarely and did not care for idle talk. Yet in the three centuries of the Kingsguard's existence under the Targaryens, not a single Hightower had given cause to doubt his loyalty. So we sincerely believed that Greysteel would not falter either.
The second newcomer was Jon Cafferen, the White Stag of the Stormlands. The Cafferens were bannermen of House Baratheon and held Fawnton Castle, situated at the headwaters of the Cockleswent River, often called Stag's Town. Many tales were told of Jon's physical strength. And everyone knew of his martial prowess—and of his fondness for the battle-axe.
(End of Chapter)
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