The chapel of Castle Black can be found on the second floor just above the throne room. Bishop Gerard lacked the courage to dismantle the idols and burn the holy books when indoctrinating grandfather and seizing massive amounts of control over Lutom but over the years he resided within Castle Black the chapel suffered numerous suspicious infestations, mould outbreaks and on one occasion an effigy crafted from two pigs, one cow and some unidentified breed of large bird was nailed to the altar. Bishop Gerard claimed these were the thorn god's punishment for our heathenism, grandfather agreed with this and no one questioned it any further. Now the chapel is disused, the holy texts are brittle and some of the pages may crumble when turned, the benches are infested with dry rot and the sacrificial pot is rusted. I stand behind Martin -or Sir Martin as he insists on being called by those lesser than him- as he's locked in prayer. Martin rode off to battle years before Gerard invaded Castle Black and on the battlefield, he found the gods. According to him the stab wound in his side opened his eyes but I suspect he found his love for the gods in his love for violence. I often consider informing him of this thesis but whenever I do I remember that time he beat a man to death with a mailed fist over a lewd song about Martin and several prostitutes. He has always been a violent fellow, when he was a boy of six he could be found cracking the skulls of lesser lords for fun, when I was ten and he twenty-five he broke five of my ribs with poker, now at the age of thirty-two he spends his days butchering men like cattle in duels and brawls while he waits for another war. Eventually, Martin finishes his prayer and rises from his knees, his size makes one wonder how he didn't kill our poor mother when clawing his way out of the womb.

"I heard about your little gutter bonfire the night before last," he says turning to face me, the soldiers of northern Scaf didn't treat his face too well when trying to slit his throat. It's forever marked with burns and slashes, there is a large scar on his forehead, his left eye is missing and someone damn near hacked his jaw off but unfortunately for everyone with ears the surgeons were able to save it, only cursing him with a hideous, undisguisable scar.

"Good morning to you too brother," I say smiling.

"What is it you want, Harold?" Martin asks, clearly not too fond of my presence.

"Can I not visit my dearest brother?"

Martin stares at me without a trace of humour in the one remaining green eye.

"Martin, grandfather drove a great wedge between us did he not?"

"No your whoring, drinking, beating and generally being a backstabbing knave drove a wedge between us," Martin spits.

"I don't recall whoring when I was eight years of age," I state, "or drinking and my knavery was just beginning back then."

"You were born common scum," Martin says, "always have been, always will be."

"Was I really?" I ask, "or is that just what you told yourself as grandfather ordered pieces carved off of me-"

"I'll ask you again," Martin snaps, "what is it you want?"

"Well dear brother it's in relation to grandfather's pet bishop," I say smirking, "regardless of our opinions of each other, I'm sure we can both agree that he should be disposed of immediately."

"Give me permission and he'll be sent back to the north in many pieces," Martin growls.

"If I was an unimaginative fellow like you dear brother I'd simply give you that permission and watch the bloodshed," I reply, "but that would be terribly boring don't you agree?"

"How do you think we should deal with the heretic then?" Martin snarls. "With sharp knives in the dark corners no doubt."

"On the contrary dear brother," I say with a grin, " we just have to wait until my crowning and then he shall be dealt with blunt axes in bright forests."

Martin just stares at me blankly waiting for me to further elaborate. I sigh and begin to explain the plan in greater detail, I cannot remember one incident where Martin ever smiled in my presence but on this day he graces me with such an unnerving sight.

I sit in my chambers awaiting company. It's not an incredibly impressive room but then again nothing in Castle Black is, the floor is made of cold stone, the walls are a dull grey and rather bare, a single small bookshelf sits beside my bed which was also rather tiny. Beneath my bed, there's a small cast iron chest locked with a code that contains most of my worldly possessions. A desk sits three meters away from the room's entrance, there's a chair on either side of it, I sit facing the door. I've been waiting here for almost two hours now, fortunately, I had nothing better planned.

Someone bangs on the door five times rather roughly, prompting me to say, "enter!"

The door opens silently and the chief of the city watch enters. He's wearing the finest clothes he could acquire, a dress tunic and some black breeches as well as a pair of spectacles which make the man look almost mild. The little finger on his left hand is missing while his right hand bears several scars of varying shapes and sizes, he hasn't a single hair on his head and the shiny skin is crisscrossed with dozens of fat, long, ugly scars. He's a rather small man and despite his scarring, he appears rather tame.

"Good afternoon Mr Johnson," I say, gesturing towards the chair in front of him.

"I wish the same to you, my prince," Mr Johnson replies, taking the seat.

"You've been summoned for two reasons," I begin, "to confirm something and to make some orders."

"I'll assist you in any way I can, my-"

"Firstly the little corpse burning at Saint Gregor's Street was in fact my doing," I say, "apparently the letter I sent yesterday morning only led to fear of conspiracy somehow."

"Might I ask why you performed such an act?"

"My mind was clouded by tiredness which assisted in the prompting of the action," I sigh, "but it was not complete folly."

"Forgive me my prince but how could that burning be anything else?"

"Well Mr Johnson when I arrived back here that night, before retiring to my bed I did some research. Do you know what is done with criminal corpses?"

"Nothing overly special last time I checked."

"Close," I sigh, "nothing at all is what is done. They are left to swing for a week, two if there's a deficit of criminals and if by some miracle they haven't been snatched for or by the necromancers you just cut them down and throw them in a river."

"What of it, my prince?" Mr Johnson inquires.

"Mr Johnson," I sigh, "do you know where the nearest five rivers all flow?"

He doesn't answer and looks down in shame.

"They all head to the black hallows," I answer for him, "tribes like the skinners, crows and silent ones grab most of the corpses thrown in those rivers, the black hallows swallow up whatever remains."

"The crows and skinners are no more than painted savages my prince and the-"

"Do you read Mr Johnson?"

"No, my prince."

"You should try it," I suggest, "you may learn that in total the skinners torture, flay, kill and use two hundred and fifty men, women and children in Lutom every year, the crows have caused several plagues and famines in the past two decades that have ended the lives of thousands and it is speculated that the silent ones are responsible for the fall of Cruentia."

"I apologize for-"

"Apology accepted," I cut across him, "now you can probably see why feeding these threats up to a thousand criminals every week isn't a good idea."

"Yes, my prince."

"So this will lead to my first order," I sigh, "every criminal hung in the city is to be incinerated no more than six hours after their death except those in these districts." I pull a list out of my pocket and hand it to Mr Johnson who inspects it thoroughly, I don't comment on how he's holding it upside down.

"Why these districts, my prince?"

"This leads to my second order," I inform him, "these districts are renowned for the speed at which the corpses are snatched. I want at least two guards hidden near the gallows in those districts at all times, if someone lays so much as a finger on a corpse they are to be arrested immediately."

"It will be done my king," Mr Johnson assures.

"They are not to be harmed," I say, "ensure they make it to the castle dungeons safely, not Mount Jeremy, keep them fed and watered until they get here."

"Are you sure my prince?" Mr Johnson asks, "it'd be much easier just to-"

"Very sure Mr Johnson," I say.

"It's just that-"

"Mr Johnson your story is an impressive one," I cut across him, "you were born in a gutter, your father could be practically anyone, your mother is no one. You joined an urchin gang at eight, creatively called the hammers I believe. A rival gang -the tailors- caught you and asked you a few questions. They took a finger and carved that game board onto your head in the process and you not being an imbecile gave them the answers they wanted. When the hammers found out they took a ball pein hammer and smashed your hand up a bit giving you those scars there before exiling you. You, being young and alone in a city full of murdering scum, went to the city watch for shelter. They helped you, fixed your hand, fed you, employed you, allowed you to grow and become a man and after twenty years of faithful service to the city you achieved the prestigious rank of chief of the city watch."

"All true my prince," Mr Johnson confirms.

"Well, wouldn't it be a shame if your story were to end with a knife in your ribs because you were hesitant to trouble yourself with a few body snatchers?" I ask.

"It would be my prince."

"Then find the snatchers, arrest them, keep them alive, send them here and I'll fucking deal with them."

"It will be done, my prince."

"Then you may leave Mr Johnson."

He rises silently and leaves my chambers, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the process.