Bran cleared his throat with a few rasps. The Great Hall, which had been buzzing with debates over development strategies and civil welfare, suddenly fell into a dead silence. King Benelli leaned away from his throne, glancing behind him.

  Behind a hazy veil, the High Septon was whispering something to a messenger. Quickly, the King turned back to face the crowd below. Nobles, knights, and the Royal Council waited in silence; not even a whisper could be heard.

  The messenger stepped out from behind the veil and took his place beside the throne. He tilted his head toward Benelli, then looked down at the assembly, raising his voice: "Glory to the Old Gods."

  Immediately, the crowd below placed their hands over their hearts like puppets, speaking in unison: "Glory to the Old Gods."

  The messenger nodded and continued, "Two months ago, ten envoys and five hundred Faith Militant were ordered by the High Septon to march North to apprehend heretics. The King in the North, Tracy Stark, along with Prince Kenvin Stark, has committed treason. They have conspired with heretics and slaughtered every representative of the Faith of the Old Gods. This is an act of war against the Faith and the Capital."

  A sudden wave of commotion erupted. People looked at one another in bewilderment before fixing their collective gaze upon the King.

  "How can this be?" one knight gasped; he had a close friend who was a master swordsman in the North.

  "It is impossible. There must be a misunderstanding," remarked a nobleman dressed in cerulean blue, wearing a gemstone-encrusted belt and a gold ring on every finger.

  "Excellent!" Jarion Lannister smirked, muttering to himself. The young Lord’s hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of his sword, Widow’s Wail, stroking it gently.

  "Westeros is about to have many more widows, isn’t that right, Lord Lannister?" Lanna Tyrell whispered into Jarion’s ear as she watched him caress the Valyrian steel blade. Lanna wore a green gown with a plunging neckline that revealed her pale, firm chest. Around her neck, the Lady of the Reach wore a red necklace featuring a shimmering moonstone rose.

  Jarion shot her a quick glance before resuming an air of indifference. "My esteemed Lady Lanna, I find myself regretting that my ancestor Jaime did not uproot the rosebushes at Highgarden long ago. And how sad for the descendants of Sir Bronn—may his soul rest with the Old Gods."

  Lanna curled her lip in a sneer. "Do you know that young lions often become prey for hyenas when they wander too far from their parents, Lord Lannister?"

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  With that, the Lady Governess glided away, drawing many lustful gazes from the knights and nobles. Lanna Tyrell was herself a widow; her husband had been the Lord of the Reach and a descendant of Bronn Blackwater. The venerable old Lord had married three times without producing an heir. Lanna was his fourth wife, and since his passing two years ago, she had become the ruler of the Reach. Somehow, the young widow had reclaimed the Capital’s recognition for House Tyrell—a fact that infuriated the Lannisters.

  King Benelli’s ears rang; he could not believe the words he had just been told. Fidgeting, he tried to turn around, seemingly wanting to hear it directly from the High Septon’s mouth.

  "Your Majesty, do you not believe me? I am the bearer of the High Septon’s message. To doubt me is to doubt the High Septon himself," the messenger replied coldly, his hands crossed behind his back, not deigning to look at Benelli.

  "No! I..." Benelli’s face went pale. He sat up straight so abruptly that the crown on his head nearly tumbled off.

  Adjusting his crown, Benelli took a breath and said, "The North’s slaughter of the envoys and the Faith Militant is unacceptable. This is an insult to the Capital, an act of sacrilege against the Gods."

  "Sacrilege against the Gods has only one end: annihilation," the messenger interrupted before Benelli could finish, his voice dripping with animosity.

  The King looked up at the messenger, his heart boiling with resentment. This throne meant nothing; these messengers showed no respect for the King whatsoever. Benelli clenched his fists until his knuckles popped.

  The messenger looked down at Benelli coldly. "The North has angered our King so much that he clenches his fists in such a manner," he said flatly.

  Below, the Lord of the Vale sat as if on a bed of nails. What would happen to the thousands of Vale knights he had lent to the North under Ser Antony’s command? The Lord of the Vale was perhaps the most stressed man in the room, caught in the middle of this conflict. His heart hammered against his ribs, his eyes darting furtively toward the curtain behind the throne.

  "Lord Arryn, send ravens to the Vale. Mobilize your cavalry and prepare for the Northern Expedition. Lord Lannister, the command of the Royal Army for this expedition is granted to you. Lord Tyrell, as for logistics and provisions, you shall see to them," the messenger announced.

  The declaration made Benelli want to find a dagger to plunge into the man’s heart. But in that moment, the King wished only for a hole to crawl into. His face turned as red as a ripe apple. His blood boiled.

  Benelli let out a choked sound and collapsed from the throne, rolling down the stone steps. He lay still on the cold floor, surrounded by nobles and knights who stared in shock at the King’s body. They did not understand what had happened.

  "The King!" a servant cried out, rushing down. The crowd snapped out of their stupor, hurrying to lift their monarch. Benelli had fallen into a coma; his rage had caused him to faint.

  The envoys of the Faith stood on high, watching the chaos below without a shred of emotion. As servants carried the King out of the Great Hall, the crowd remained in a state of flux—some worried, some silent, others smirking.

  "The King lost his composure due to his anger toward the North. Do not be alarmed. After a few days of rest, His Majesty will be well," another messenger spoke coldly.

  "When do we march North?" Jarion asked impatiently, looking up.

  "As soon as possible, Lord Lannister. You are the commander of this campaign; the decisions are yours to make. The Old Gods will protect us," the messenger replied with a nod.

  "Glory to the Old Gods!" the entire hall shouted in unison.

  In the curtained room behind the throne, Brandon tilted his head back against his seat, his eyes milky white and soulless.