Summer sunlight, golden and thick as honey, stretched across the main thoroughfare leading from the city gates to the Wolf Tower. The Tower had been rebuilt by the first Stark King—Brandon Stark—atop the ruins of the Red Keep nearly three hundred years ago. This followed the destruction of the city and the original palace by Daenerys Targaryen, the "Massacre Queen," and her dragon, Drogon.

  In the modern history of Westeros, Daenerys Targaryen is depicted as a bloodthirsty tyrant who was willing to sacrifice millions of innocents. It was Jon Snow, the Protector of the North, who slew her, delivering the realm from misery.

  The capital teemed with people and horses, a city truly worthy of being the seat of the Six Kingdoms. Compared to the era of the Lannister queens, the capital had expanded several times over, its walls extended to accommodate its status as the economic and political heart of Westeros.

  Two structures dominated the skyline: the Wolf Tower and the Temple of the Old Gods. The Temple stood on the very ground where the Great Sept of Baelor once sat—the site Queen Cersei Lannister famously leveled with wildfire, burying the leadership of the Faith of the Seven. The Temple's architecture resembled a gargantuan tree towering over the city. Carved into its facade was a weathered, ancient face representing the Old Gods—the supreme deity of the Westerosi people for the past several centuries.

  The Church of the Old Gods became the official faith of the majority of commoners, nobles, knights, and kings over a hundred years ago. It rose to prominence when the "Wheeled King," Bran Stark, abdicated his throne to his adopted son and founded the order. Since that day, Bran Stark has been known as the Pope.

  From the direction of the Temple, a procession moved slowly down the boulevard toward the Wolf Tower. Along the road, the bustling crowds fell silent and retreated to the waysides. They knelt in unison, bowing their heads as the group passed. No one spoke; they kept their faces toward the earth, holding their breath as they stared at the milky-white paving stones. Some closed their eyes, murmuring: "Glory to the Old Gods!"

  The procession marched with solemn precision. At the front was the Holy Guard, clad in polished armor featuring the face of the Old Gods on the breastplate. At their hips hung pitch-black longswords with pommels shaped like three-eyed ravens. Every guard was equipped identically, and their blades were forged from Dragonglass. The most skilled smiths in Westeros had discovered a method to temper dragonglass into blades as sharp and durable as Valyrian steel.

  At the rear followed monks in black robes that covered them from head to toe, their faces hidden behind masks of the Old Gods. They paced slowly behind a massive palanquin carried by ten men. This palanquin was the centerpiece, resembling a miniature room with windows draped in thin veils. If one looked closely, a vague silhouette could be seen within. It was the Pope of the Old Gods.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The gates of the Wolf Tower stood wide open. A red carpet stretched from the entrance to the Council Chamber. The Church procession walked coldly across the carpet. On either side, soldiers stood in straight ranks; the silence was so profound one could hear the faint sound of breathing and the thumping of nervous hearts.

  The doors to the Council Chamber swung open. Officials, nobles, and lords of the Six Kingdoms lined the hall to welcome the palanquin as it approached the throne. The King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the North did not sit upon the throne; he stood to one side, waiting. Behind the main throne, there was a small alcove without a door, screened by a heavy curtain. Behind that curtain sat another throne, seemingly larger than the King's own.

  The bearers carried the palanquin directly into that alcove and lowered it. Everyone bowed, avoiding direct eye contact with the room, and the King stood with his back turned to it.

  Once the Pope was settled behind the curtain, he spoke softly: "Let us begin."

  Below, the assembly bowed in unison, chanting: "Glory to the Old Gods! Long live the King!"

  Benelli Stark, over fifty years old with black hair streaked with silver and the characteristic brown eyes of his house, bowed toward the alcove before taking his seat upon the throne.

  "Westeros shall no longer know peace; the people shall no longer be safe. Heretics have brazenly entered the lands protected by the Old Gods for centuries. They pillage and slaughter the innocent as sacrifices to dark gods," an envoy in black robes and an Old God mask proclaimed loudly to the hall.

  A ripple of unease spread through the room. Nobles and knights exchanged glances. The lords of the Small Council looked toward Benelli Stark, then stole quick glances at the curtain behind him.

  "My lords, knights of Westeros, will you sit idly by while heretics march to the foot of your beds, drink your wine, ravish your wives and daughters, and—forgive me—slaughter your dogs for meat?" Jarion Lannister stepped forward from the crowd. With golden hair like silk and a face as beautiful as an angel's, he wore gold armor embossed with a lion. His voice was thick with mockery.

  "Lord Lannister, you go too far," King Benelli interrupted, his tone displeased.

  "Forgive me, Your Majesty," Jarion bowed, his eyes darting toward the curtain.

  Jarion Lannister, a descendant of Tyrion Lannister, was the youngest Lord of Casterly Rock in history and the youngest member of the Small Council at twenty-two. House Lannister took great pride in him, claiming their lord possessed the martial prowess of Jaime and the brilliant mind of Tyrion.

  "Lord Lannister is young and impetuous, having only recently joined the council. I hope the Pope and His Majesty will not take offense. The young require time to learn," a voice as clear as a silver bell rang out. All eyes turned to a woman with a striking figure and auburn hair flowing down to her slender waist. Her eyes shone like stars, and her lips were as red as a rose of the Reach. Lanna Tyrell, Lady of the Reach.

  Lanna’s comment sparked a flurry of whispers. King Benelli nodded slightly toward her, offering a knowing smile.

  "How do we know Lord Lannister has gone too far?"

  The entire hall fell dead silent. The voice was as gentle as a breeze but carried the weight of a mountain. The speaker was none other than the Pope of the Old Gods: Brandon Stark.