Torrhen Dustin, City Sewers – Below King’s Landing.

“Move your asses, dogs! This Andal filth isn’t going to hunt itself!” the man barked, as he and his Northmen began descending into the disgusting sewers of the city.

“I thought the Dragon King had gotten rid of the smell of shit,” one of his men complained, grimacing in agony at the putrid stench of the place, making several of the men mutter among themselves in agreement with Lorik’s words.

“The city doesn’t smell like shit, but we’re in the fucking sewers, so the smell is inevitable. Just remember to use the flower bags the Prince prepared for us. We’ll move quickly and get out of this place as soon as possible,” Torrhen barked, gripping his axe tightly, a ravenous thirst for blood in his eyes.

“Come on, damn it! Lady Lyanna already did the hard part! Gathering all those bastards in one fucking place!” Torrhen said as they began venturing deeper into the place, making certain to follow the Prince’s instructions to the letter.

“The Prince was clear. We walk left until we find a double junction. From there, we take the right side until we find the damned barrels,” his second-in-command said as they began walking through the place.

“This fucking place is enormous, and a damn labyrinth. No wonder these disgusting southern rats get lost down here,” one of his men spat as they began making their way toward the meeting point.

Torrhen merely nodded while carefully observing everything around him with curiosity.

To say the place was decadent would have been a considerable understatement. Filthy water slowly flowed through the stone channel, black and thick, accompanied by one of the most repulsive odors the Dustin warrior had ever smelled, carrying waste, rotten leaves, and who knew what else from the bowels of the city. The air was heavy with moisture, mold, and a sour stench that clung to the throat. Every stone seemed diseased, covered in moss, grime, and years of neglect.

The corridors stretched far beyond what the eye could see, disappearing beneath successive arches and almost absolute darkness. Dripping water could be heard in the distance, and yet Torrhen noticed something unusual.

There were torches burning.

There were only a few, and their light was swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel, but they were there.

Which meant someone had passed through here.

And recently.

But those sewers were much more than simple drains. Beneath every street, plaza, and district were tunnels, passageways, and chambers connected to one another, forming a city hidden beneath the city.

Knowing the proper routes, a man could enter there and emerge practically anywhere in the city without a single guard ever knowing where he had escaped.

“Follow the torches, but be extremely careful,” Torrhen said as they followed the trail of torches, making certain to remain hidden among the shadows.

The Northmen knew they were running short on time. The Dornish should already have cleared the upper section of the Sept and should be placing their own barrels, so it was important that Torrhen and the Northmen hurry.

The path was shorter than he had expected. The torches became increasingly frequent, while a large number of voices began to echo through the tunnels.

Torrhen raised his fist, ordering all his men to remain silent, while he cautiously peeked around the corner of the passage, carefully observing the corridor where they had heard the voices.

And he listened.

“Can you believe the audacity of those disgusting incestuous foreigners? They dared to use the rightful gold of the Faith to repair the city! That gold belongs to His Holiness by divine decree! The Crown and the Lords should repair all the damage with gold from their own pockets!” an idiotic southron spat, hidden in the shadows of the place and covering his body with a ragged brown robe, one that every Northman knew perfectly well.

“The Faith Militant,” the old man spat, his face contorting with fury and hatred at the filthy sight of the forbidden order.

“Apparently, the obese Septon has been behaving rather badly,” Marlon, one of the oldest guards who had accompanied him south, said.

That was an understatement, at least in Torrhen’s opinion. The Faith Militant was an organization that had been forbidden since the days of the Conciliator, brainless fanatics who were more than capable of burning the entire kingdom for their stupid beliefs.

If the outbreak of this plague was not brought under control, things could truly spiral out of control. Thank the Gods, the Silver Prince would put an end to this today. If the Gods were just, the Faith would never be able to recover from this blow.

That would be best for everyone.

With the Starry Sept lying in ruins in Oldtown after the savage Ironborn attack, the Faith was in absolute chaos, truly vulnerable for the first time in the history of Westeros, an opportunity House Targaryen apparently had no intention of wasting.

Torrhen knew the winds were changing in the Seven Kingdoms. The southrons believed them to be savages, and in a way they were right, but they were far from stupid. Both Torrhen and the rest of the northern Lords could predict, to a certain extent, the movements of the Dragon King.

Aerys Targaryen, unlike his predecessors, ruled in a very different manner. Since the days of Cregan Stark, no Northman had been present at the Dragon Court. No Dragon King had treated them with the respect and humanity Aerys Targaryen had shown them, both directly and indirectly.

And although he had done some questionable things, such as dissolving the Night’s Watch, he had also been the King who had helped the North more than anyone since Aegon V.

And in the latest letter from his nephew William, the changes had already begun to become visible.

Desmera Bolton, Lady of the Dreadfort and the King’s not-so-secret lover, had begun distributing an absurd amount of food from the fertile lands of the Crown at practically ridiculous prices, although that did not mean the surplus gold could be spent on stupidities or trivialities.

The Dragon King was just but relentless. The food caravans were cheap because, in exchange, the Lords of the North had been given very specific assignments. Some had been tasked with constructing fishing docks and farms. Others were responsible for repairing and expanding the Kingsroad. Even old Rickard had tasks ahead of him.

The construction of Whiterun and Frost Fort was expensive.

But one thing was certain: life was improving in the North.

There was work.

There was food.

And gold was flowing.

The King had done his part.

And the North would do the same, as it was doing now.

Torrhen silently gestured with his hand, making two of his men respond with solemn nods before preparing their axes and throwing them with lethal precision toward the throats of the two unsuspecting men.

“AAAHG!”

A pair of muffled screams were the only indication that life had been extinguished from the pathetic men. Torrhen hurried toward the bodies. He had to dispose of them as quickly as possible.

The last thing he needed was for them to be discovered before the ocean water flooded this damned place.

“My Lord, we have a message from Marlon and Daren. The northern and western floodgates are closed. The section of the sewers where we are is isolated, awaiting your orders,” the man said, making Torrhen nod solemnly.

“Perfect. Then hurry the hell up. We’ll make certain the stupid Septon is down here before we leave this damned place. We have to—”

However, before he could finish giving the orders, something caught the Northman’s attention.

A solitary and apparently abandoned corridor, illuminated by a diffuse and almost imperceptible reflection of orange light, apparently coming from deeper within the sewers.

Torrhen approached the corridor in question, completely alert, not really knowing what he would find down there.

But he was not prepared for what he saw.

“Fuck,” one of his men said, staring in astonishment at the immense secret chamber beneath them.

From the upper passageway, hidden among shadows and old stone arches, they had a perfect view of what was happening below.

Hundreds of Warrior’s Sons were gathered around tables. Some whores were dancing on top of them, while others were already being fucked in the laps of several men as they enjoyed a fucking feast.

There was laughter and merriment.

It was obvious they were celebrating something.

One of them, dressed in the filthy robes of their False Gods, climbed onto a table, one hand gripping the mane of a prostitute, who grimaced in pain from his painful grip.

“BY THE SEVEN! REMEMBER THAT THIS IS A BLESSING FROM THE HIGH SEPTON! AND TOMORROW WE BEGIN OUR DIVINE WORK AGAINST THE DISGUSTING INCESTUOUS FOREIGNERS! DEATH TO THE TARGARYENS!” shouted the apparent leader of the men present, making the rest of the “men” present begin celebrating and cursing House Targaryen.

As usual, from the fucking shadows, like the cowards most southrons were.

“We have to drown them all,” Torrhen whispered, making all his men nod with determination.

Apparently, the Iron Lioness’s intelligence had been correct. The Faith was preparing to move against the Royal House, and judging by the words spoken tonight…

It would happen sooner than expected.

To be honest, Torrhen was not surprised in the slightest. He knew these vermin were cowards. They would never dare attack openly or do anything while the Dragon King was in the city.

They had undoubtedly thought that, because of his reputation as a scholar, Prince Rhaegar would be easy prey compared to his father.

Torrhen snorted at that absurd notion, knowing perfectly well that the young Prince was just as ruthless as his father.

He simply hid it better.

These men’s hours were numbered.

“Let’s go. We must find the High Septon before flooding the tunnels. The last thing we need is for that piece of shit to survive. Don’t pay any attention to these animals. The water will take care of them,” Torrhen said, more than ready to continue the search.

When…

It happened.

The doors to the lower chamber flew open, revealing a group of disgusting septas accompanied by several men in ridiculous robes belonging to the Faith, all escorting the obese man.

To Torrhen’s disbelief, the man was wearing a white robe with a ridiculous crystal crown. He was so obese and fat that he made old Wyman look like a slender maiden.

“Looks like we found our target,” Marlon said with obvious pleasure, looking maliciously toward all the men and women below, a sentiment Torrhen shared.

Until the obese man opened his mouth.

“Warrior’s Sons! As I promised! Feasting, gold, and pleasure for your bodies! May these gifts from the Seven give you the strength to bring ruin upon and expel the incestuous invaders! May the divine Light of the Seven guide you! This will only be the first of many blessings!” the obese man roared, making an indifferent gesture toward one of the septas.

She nodded with complete submission and left the immense chamber, her expression severe as she began shouting and giving orders to an unknown group that was still outside the room.

“HURRY! NOW! THE LIGHT OF THE SEVEN WILL GUIDE YOUR ACTIONS! YOU ARE THEIR INSTRUMENT!” the woman roared.

And then, to the horror and growing fury of Torrhen and the rest of his men, a group of boys and girls entered the chamber.

All of them naked and completely terrified, unable to control the trembling of their small bodies, they remained together, looking around at all the men with the most primal fear.

“Fucking degenerates,” Marlon spat behind him, his gaze filled with fury.

“And they dare call us savages, disgusting Andal scum!”

“Death to the False Gods!”

Whispers of fury and hatred threatened to spiral out of control, so Torrhen silenced his men immediately.

“Silence, damn it!” he snapped, looking firmly and fiercely at every one of his men.

Although they obeyed, it was more than obvious that they were absolutely furious.

Good.

It would serve them well in the fight.

“Change of plans, northern dogs. There are hundreds of southern scum down there. The safety of those children is paramount. We attack immediately,” Torrhen ordered before looking toward the greenest of his soldiers.

A fourteen-year-old boy.

Almost a fucking child.

The seventh son of a farming family, whose parents could no longer feed him, so they had sent him south with Torrhen and his men.

Cruel?

Perhaps.

But it was the life the boy had been given.

“Olaf,” Torrhen said, making the boy in question look at him with surprise and determination, gripping his shield and axe tightly, prepared for battle.

Alas, Torrhen would not send some green boy to die.

At least not today.

“Run back toward the stairs we came through and inform the Martell Guards of the change in situation. The Dornish may be sons of bitches, but they do not harm children in Dorne. Have Prince Oberyn mobilize his men and come to our aid,” the man said in his typical gruff voice.

It was obvious that the boy disagreed with the order, but he had enough sense not to challenge a direct order from Torrhen.

So the young man merely nodded and returned the way he had come, determined to carry out Torrhen’s command.

“Good, dogs. Death looks us in the eyes today!” he said solemnly, watching as his men nodded with solemnity and excitement at the thought of the battle before them.

“Let’s make her wait,” he whispered with a bloodthirsty smile, tightening his grip on his axe.

The North was on the hunt.

Oberyn Martell, High Septon’s Office – King’s Landing.

“It is here, my Lord,” the timid girl said with extreme submission, undoubtedly a result of the abuse suffered at the hands of these fucking animals.

Oberyn noticed that the young woman was practically trembling merely from looking at the door, undoubtedly overwhelmed by the memories the place brought back.

So, looking directly into her eyes, the Prince spoke solemnly.

“You do not have to enter, and I give you my word as Prince of Dorne that you will never again be under the authority of these animals. I will personally take you to Dorne if necessary. Your torment is over. You have my word,” the Prince said solemnly, making the beautiful but broken young woman silently nod, her eyes filled with uncontrollable tears.

Oberyn gently caressed her head, although he made certain to do so rather quickly and while maintaining his distance, before entering the office of the Obese High Septon.

The place was…

Enormous and extremely luxurious.

Silk sheets, the most expensive wine, and more food than a single person could ever eat in one day.

However, all of that was forgotten the moment Oberyn focused his gaze on the enormous and luxurious desk in the room.

To the Prince’s delight, it was covered in opened letters.

“Well, well,” Oberyn whispered, beginning to read some of them superficially, feeling increasingly disgusted by the man in question.

He used orphan girls and septas as sexual slaves, selling them to the highest bidder in exchange for gold or favors. When they became too rebellious or too old, he simply sold them to Essosi slavers.

One of his most profitable businesses.

A business that had been stopped ever since Aerys Targaryen had gutted the slavers several months ago.

The obese man was losing money rapidly and was becoming desperate.

However, there was one particular letter that caught the Prince’s attention.

The handwriting was practically perfect.

Handwriting that undoubtedly belonged to a Lord.

Although Oberyn was unable to identify the sender, much to his annoyance.

The message was short and simple.

Gold, weapons, and resources for the Warrior’s Sons in exchange for causing trouble for Aerys Targaryen.

A death sentence, in Oberyn’s humble opinion.

He quickly began gathering all the letters, knowing perfectly well that they would be important, before focusing his attention once again…

On a mysterious letter.

One that, unlike the others, had been written by the Septon and addressed to Essos.

It had no recipient.

Only a single fucking sentence, whose meaning was unknown to Oberyn.

“It is impossible to get rid of the Dragons. I request the support of the Black Lady,” Oberyn whispered to himself, lost in thought over what he had just read.

It was obvious that the Septon had been in contact with enemies of the Dragon House.

But before Oberyn could investigate further, the scream of the young orphan caught his attention.

The Prince immediately gripped his spear tightly and left the room, prepared to defend the girl with the ferocity of a viper.

He found a sight…

Hilarious, to be honest.

The orphan girl was holding an old torch above her head, her hands trembling as she stared at a young Northman on the floor, who was clutching his head in obvious agony.

“For fuck’s sake, brat, what the hell is wrong with you?” the young man spat, struggling to his feet, making the orphan prepare to strike him again.

Until Oberyn intervened.

“Enough, dear,” the Prince said, making the young woman blush and nod softly, taking a step backward and allowing the young man to stand with difficulty, still disoriented.

“Who are you, boy? I assume you are one of old Dustin’s men,” Oberyn said curiously, his face displaying calculation as he looked the Northman up and down.

The young man quickly straightened himself before rapidly shaking his head, focusing his gaze on Oberyn and speaking.

“I… I’m Olaf of Barrowtown, m’Lord. Lord Dustin sent me with a message. We found the High Septon in the sewers, along with hundreds of Warrior’s Sons, having a great feast. Apparently, they were planning to attack the city in the morning. We were going to flood the sewers and finish them all when we saw him bringing a group of boys and girls into the chamber… Lord Dustin will attack head-on to save them and requests your assistance,” the trembling young man said, making the fury inside Oberyn grow stronger and stronger.

“I’ll gather my men and we’ll both go down. Apparently, we have some scum to hunt,” Oberyn spat with tremendous fury.

Olaf nodded, took his axe, gave one last glance toward the now-calm orphan girl, then turned around and began his descent.

“I’ll go down and rescue the rest of the orphans. You’ll be safe with the others. We’ll see each other soon,” Oberyn said with a smile, making the young woman look at him with tear-filled eyes before merely nodding.

“Be careful, m’Lord. Those tunnels are… dangerous,” the young woman said in a whisper, making Oberyn nod and begin descending.

There was no time to waste.