Many within House Harlaw desired Nightfall, but given the trial by combat, the elderly Rodrik willingly stepped aside. Watching Theon wield the ice-forged weapons with skill and an unyielding expression, he couldn't help but lament that the relationship between their families was truly beyond repair.
Rodrik's sister, Alannys, had married Balon Greyjoy and borne four children: Rodrik, Maron, Asha, and Theon. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, due to a minor factor—Wright—all the adult members of House Greyjoy were executed, including Theon's mother, Alannys.
Asha and Theon grew up in Winterfell before journeying to Essos. With their mother, the last link to House Harlaw, gone, the two families had long ceased any contact. Now, to Rodrik's kinsmen, a distant relative like Theon was nothing compared to a famed Valyrian steel sword.
A stir ran through the Harlaw contingent as several men vying for Nightfall gathered, clasping shoulders and shaking hands. After a discreet contest of strength, the victor emerged—"Humpback" Hotho stepped forward to face Theon.
Hotho Harlaw was not truly a Humpback; he merely walked with a habitual stoop, which had earned him the nickname. However, as he hefted one of the ice-forged weapons, the tight, bulging muscles beneath his clothing became evident.
The arena was vast, and King Renly had provided an array of weapons for the combatants to choose from. Once both men took up arms and faced each other, it signified mutual acceptance of the trial.
"Boy! I was butchering men at sea when you were still squirming in your mother's belly!" Hotho taunted, brandishing a longsword in one hand and a battle-axe in the other.
Ignoring his words, Theon picked up an ice-crafted spear, its tip aimed straight at Hotho's throat.
"Scum! I'll mount your head above my castle gates."
"Theon, if you beg on your knees, I'll settle for just cutting off an arm."
Hotho circled Theon, but when he saw his words had no effect, he fell silent. Further taunting in front of so many would only make him look foolish.
Theon remained still, spear in hand, eyes locked onto Hotho. Only when the man moved behind him did he quickly turn.
"Haah!" Hotho bellowed as he lunged, his sword slashing diagonally toward Theon's chest, the axe swinging down from above.
Theon crouched slightly, gripping the spear in a defensive stance. When Hotho was still seven or eight paces away, he thrust forward.
"Hah! Is this Dornish spearplay? Have you forgotten the ways of the Ironborn? You're unworthy to be one of us!" Hotho scoffed, easily dismissing the attack due to the spear's insufficient reach. He charged ahead, weapons raised.
Theon, seeing the opening, swiftly retracted his spear and thrust again—only this time, he let go.
Thud! The seemingly fragile, crystalline spearhead pierced straight through Hotho's throat. A wave of cold seeped into his flesh, and as the weapon's weight forced his head downward, blood streamed along the shaft to the ground.
"Too much talk." Theon spared no further glance at the collapsing man, striding toward the dais to reclaim Nightfall and fasten it to his belt.
Hotho dropped his weapons, clutching his throat with both hands, but darkness swiftly overtook him. His final thought was a bitter one—weren't Dornishmen supposed to never part from their spears?
"Nooo!" A young woman rushed from the crowd, throwing herself over Hotho's body—his daughter.
From atop the dais, Renly raised his voice: "The Seven have rendered their judgment—Nightfall belongs to Theon Greyjoy!"
---
Beyond New Barrel in the Reach, along the Rose Road that connected Highgarden and King's Landing, thousands of common folk had gathered.
Clad in simple linen and hemp garments, they sat along the roadside, fervently singing hymns to the Seven in unison.
Trailing behind them, only a hundred or so men pushed three wooden carts out of New Barrel. At the rear of the procession, the High Sparrow maintained a composed expression, though inwardly, he was deeply troubled. Three carts of food were woefully insufficient for thousands of followers.
The smallfolk of the Reach were relatively well-off, each household possessing surplus grain. However, those who had chosen to follow the High Sparrow on this journey had done so on impulse—only a few had packed provisions. The majority, knowing of the High Sparrow's generosity, had simply brought their families along, assuming their sustenance would be provided.
The High Sparrow wore the same patched robe as always, but now, around his neck, hung a golden pendant featuring the seven figures of the Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger. In his hands, he clutched a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, a symbol of his position as the divine representative of the Seven in the mortal realm.
But even gods could not conjure food from nothing. The High Sparrow pulled aside a follower.
"Have you searched New Barrel thoroughly? Ser Jon Fossoway and his household—are they truly absent?"
"Your Holiness, the Fossoways have all gone to King's Landing, taking many knights and retainers with them. Their castle is sealed shut. The town's workshops offered only this small portion of grain."
Though deeply anxious, the High Sparrow's expression remained calm. "King's Landing is still far ahead. Without provisions, our people will never make it to Bitterbridge."
"The Caswells of Bitterbridge have likely departed for King's Landing as well," the follower murmured.
The High Sparrow shot him a glare, his eyes flashing coldly. "You will take men into New Barrel again to find food. I will lead more people into the city shortly. If you fail, we will break down the castle gates!"
"Huh?" The follower's mouth hung open. He was just a simple farmer—storming a noble lord's castle was a crime punishable by death.
Seeing the restless crowd, the High Sparrow stepped onto a small stone pedestal and raised his voice.
"For the sake of preventing Stannis's tyranny from consuming the realm, our pilgrimage to King's Landing is the will of the Seven! The nobles along our path must provide us with food and clothing—we are the messengers of the Seven!"
"For the Seven!" The crowd erupted in fervent cheers once more.
The High Sparrow led a few hundred followers into the city. The remaining guards, few in number, made only a token resistance before relenting, allowing the followers to break open the gates and storm the castle in search of supplies.
"Rest assured, we will take only food from the cellars—nothing else," the High Sparrow assured the guards.
The captain nodded and stood at the gate with his men, keeping watch. Sure enough, the frenzied believers emerged carrying nothing but sacks of provisions.
"You shall earn the favor of the Seven. The gods would be even more pleased if you joined the ranks of the Humble." As they prepared to leave, the High Sparrow bestowed a blessing upon each guard.
"If not for my duty, I would follow you without hesitation—but I cannot forsake my knightly vows. Forgive me." The captain's face was solemn with devotion.
The other guards echoed his sentiment. The High Sparrow blessed them once more and departed. Soon, the cheers along the Rose Road resumed.
Once the High Sparrow was out of sight, the captain's devout expression vanished, twisting into one of disgust. He spat. "Tch! Damn zealot!"
"The gods-damned fraud!" The other guards joined in his curses.
The captain wasted no time. "Gather wood and repair the gate. You—go up the tower and watch for their return. The rest of you, follow me into the castle!"
New Barrel's gates were resealed, every window shuttered. Before long, metallic clanks echoed through the halls as furniture was overturned. Brass, iron, silver, and gold were stuffed into sacks. The clothes of House Fossoway's lords and knights were strewn across the floor—luxurious garments bundled up and taken, cheap ones trampled underfoot. Chaos reigned within the castle walls.
Meanwhile, on the Rose Road, the faithful finished their meal, stuffing leftovers into makeshift bundles before continuing northward.
"Have you heard the tales about the High Sparrow?" Thousands marched in a long column, idly chatting along the way.
"Of course! He bested a hundred septons in debate at the Starry Sept. That's why we follow him," a farmer replied.
"Not that," the man beside him said, lowering his voice. He glanced around warily before leaning in. "I mean how he was driven out of the Stepstones and the Stormlands while preaching."
The farmer was astonished. "A septon of the Faith? Driven out? Impossible!"
"A normal septon is welcome anywhere. But those people—" the man's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "They don't truly preach the Seven. They demand that the faithful surrender their wealth to the High Sparrow."
"And that's not even the worst part. If he deems you a truly devout follower, he will go further—he will ask you to offer your wife and daughters to serve him. Many of his most loyal followers lost their minds. They ran naked through the streets of Storm's End and Tyrosh, raving like madmen… until they were caught and—" The man made a slashing motion across his throat.
"This..." The farmer struggled to believe it. The High Sparrow was such a kind and selfless man—how could he commit such atrocities?
"I'm only warning you. Keep your wits about you. But don't spread it too much." The man patted the farmer on the shoulder and moved on, seeking another listener for his tale.
Throughout the thousands-strong column, similar whispers spread like wildfire.
That night, when the faithful made camp, those without tents huddled together for warmth, murmuring about the rumors. Sleep did not come easily.
Yet the High Sparrow remained unaware. The stories only circulated among the newly converted, as if carefully orchestrated, with the storytellers skillfully avoiding his most devoted followers.
Late into the night, when the camp was quiet but for the chirping of insects, a dozen shadowy figures emerged from the woods near the pilgrims' encampment.
Not long after, dozens more figures slipped out from the camp to meet them.
They exchanged a series of animal calls before approaching one another in silence.
"How many?" One of the newcomers opened a burlap sack, inspecting its contents.
"About eight hundred pieces."
Burlap sacks filled with copper, iron, silver, and gold objects, along with luxurious clothing, had been taken from New Barrel and transported here.
"Alright, hurry up and retreat. We need to distribute everything at night." The two groups quickly dispersed.
Piece by piece, the items were slipped through the tent flaps, tucked under the blankets of the followers, or placed right in front of those fast asleep—ensuring they would notice them the moment they stirred or woke up.
Those who took nothing from the noble lords were the true believers of the High Sparrow. The rest were farmers and their families. If a bag of rice was placed before them, they wouldn't claim it as their own. A small iron knife might make them hesitate, but a pure silver spoon from a noble lord? That would vanish in an instant.
By dawn, it was as if nothing had happened. The followers packed their belongings and continued along the Rose Road toward King's Landing. In about two weeks, they would reach the next town—Bitterbridge.
---
King's Landing was brimming with music and revelry. The Tyroshi nobles were still busy managing the Northern resettlement, while the old Westerosi lords indulged in their pleasures without restraint. The young Tyroshi aristocrats found such a lifestyle wasteful—they were already accustomed to working during the day and resting after supper.
The men busied themselves with work, while their wives and family members reunited with kin. However, after nearly a month in the capital, many grew restless. The Queen's banquets were too formal, so the ladies quickly turned to the Lady of Tyrosh, Princess Nymeria of Dorne.
Seeing the familiar faces, Nymeria graciously took the lead. She gathered the noblewomen and stormed the Street of Steel, securing the finest pleasure house in the city—Robert's only surviving legacy. They rented it for seven days straight, barring all men, even the male attendants.
After King Robert's death, he had left behind only one daughter, and his famed Valyrian steel warhammer had been reclaimed as part of the Baratheon family's armory. It would be granted to a suitable heir in the future.
During the Small Council's review of royal finances, they discovered the treasury was deep in debt. Stannis, Renly, and Wright were each owed at least five million gold dragons.
Robert's personal assets? Not even enough to settle his debts. After painstakingly balancing the accounts, the three lords found that the only unaccounted-for asset Robert had secretly purchased—using embezzled funds—was a high-end pleasure house.
To honor Robert's legacy, the three decided to keep it as shared Baratheon property. Stannis, who already ran a gambling house next door, would oversee its management, with all profits going to former Queen Doris Rowan and Robert's daughter, Jocelyn Baratheon, to maintain their lavish lifestyle.
The two former queens, along with Jocelyn and Stannis' daughter, Shireen, retained their titles as Queen and Princess. Their guards and attendants remained unchanged. The Baratheons could afford such expenses.
For the past few days, the grandest pleasure house in Westeros had been filled with nothing but women.
Nymeria got out of bed, walked to the liquor cabinet, and picked up a goblet of solid gold to quench her thirst.
"If my Lord Gunthor knew what we were up to, I wonder how he'd react?" Jeyne Fossoway stretched her legs lazily.
"Garland would probably cry his eyes out, hahaha." Leonette Fossoway sat up and gazed at Nymeria.
Nymeria's body was lean and strong, her exotic beauty captivating. Her sun-kissed skin had bewitched the Fossoway sisters for days.
Jeyne, wife of Gunthor Hightower, and Leonette, wife of Garland Tyrell, had lived in Tyrosh long enough to have heard the rumors of Nymeria's indiscriminate tastes, but they had never had the chance to get close to her. Now, with time to spare, they quickly succumbed to Nymeria's charms.
"Jeyne, Leonette, is everything arranged in New Barrel?" Nymeria handed them two cups of wine.
"Our cousin, Ser Jon has followed the plan—everything valuable in the castle has been distributed," Jeyne replied, taking a small sip.
"After the dust settles, the King and Wright will compensate him double," Nymeria assured them, jumping back onto the bed.
Garland and Gunthor were Wright's most trusted advisors. Wright helped them advance in their careers, while Nymeria took care of their wives, keeping their households harmonious.
Nymeria hadn't seduced the Fossoway sisters merely for pleasure. The passing of the Faith Militant through New Barrel required careful orchestration, and the House Fossoway's cooperation was crucial.
Convincing someone to give up all their wealth was no easy task. Wright had to persuade Ser Jon Fossoway, while Nymeria fanned the flames among the Fossoways in Tyrosh.
Next, the Faith Militant would pass through Bitterbridge. The Lord Caswell had two daughters… but they were only eight years old!
All for the cause!
"Fortunately, the Lord Caswell has four sisters," Nymeria perked up again.