Rather unsurprisingly, the castle dungeons are not a particularly pleasant place. The cells are two meters by two meters and covered in filth, tools of torment are neatly arranged on racks or in shelves. The important felons would go to the creatively named 'black pit’ to have information extracted by the finest torturers in the whole kingdom, prisoners here however aren't really cared for, most are failed assassins, spies and conspirators who've already exposed all the information they have. Occasionally someone might remember to feed them and supply water or a bored guard might take a hot poker to one every now and then but other than that they're just left to rot in the darkness. This poor treatment and filthy environment leads to the dungeons mostly being populated by the insane and corpses but today however almost half the cells are occupied.

Mr Johnson was incredibly effective, within just two days the city watch rounded up thirty body snatchers lurking around the gallows or graveyards and shipped them straight to Castle Black's dungeon. They suffered a few missing teeth and headaches at worse. Now they all complain in the gloomy cells, some yell about the smell, others yell about the yelling and one man claims he is a noble lord and demands immediate release lest there be consequences. I smile widely as I walk down the hall to the first cell to the left, Titus -the kennel's most vicious hound- walks beside me and two royal guards trail behind me silently, their hands never leaving their sword hilts. The prisoner in this cell is rather similar to Mr Silver, he's covered in so much filth that I initially presume him to be a dead man. I bang on the bars of his cell causing him to flinch.

"What you want?" He snaps, he sounds like he grew up on the streets of this city.

I open the cell door and walk in, the stench is even worse inside here than in the hall. The two guards hesitate before entering and standing either side of the filthy man and Titus stands at my side tilting his head slightly.

I pull out a notepad, pen and say, "name?"

"What do you care you noble born prick sucking-"

I nod to the guard on my right hand side who picks up the snatcher and smashes a mailed fist into his dirty nose, I hear it break.

"Your name please?" I repeat.

"I'll rape your fucking corpse you little-"

The broken nose adds a comical tone to his threats but I lack time so I nod to the guard on the left. He draws a long knife, grabs the snatcher by the hair and begins to saw through his ear. The comical tone does not make the screaming any less headache inducing.

"Name please?" I ask after the guard throws the severed scrap of meat onto the floor.

"Fucking Richard you sadistic-"

"Well Richard here's how this will go," I say over his yelling, "I'll ask a question and you'll answer that question to the best of your abilities. Should you refuse to answer something, Thomas to my left will break something. Should you show disrespect, Ryan to my right will remove something. Should I feel you're lying or just feel bored, Titus here will rip your throat out."

Titus gives a bark of enthusiasm.

"However, should you satisfy my questions with answers that are true," I continue, "I shall be merciful and within a week you'll suffer a much more reasonable punishment."

Richard stares at me, the whites of his eyes contrast starkly with the filth of his face and the blood pouring from his broken nose and severed ear mix with the grime to form a strange brownish substance.

"Now Richard, you are a body snatcher are you not?" I ask.

"You have no right to do this!" Richard yells, "there's no law that-"

"Kill," I say calmly, dropping Titus' leash. The hound immediately leaps for the filthy man, there's much more irksome screaming and growling before blood sprays all over the dull grey cell walls and Titus' black fur, all the other noise in the dungeons stops abruptly. I bend over, gently pick up Titus' leash and bring him to the adjacent cell. The prisoner occupying this one is pale, wiry and there isn't a single hair on his head. He wears a grimy shirt that still possesses some unstained patches. He backs into a corner trying to distance himself from Titus as much as possible.

"He was right!" The man claims, "you can't do this! We've broken no laws! We're being-"

Titus lets out a low growl which silences the man.

"I can do this," I state calmly, "even if I wasn't prince Harold you're guilty of the vandalism of the crown's property for which you could be beheaded.*

"I've never touched a thing that weren't mine-"

"You cut the rope to get the corpse," I yawn, "the rope belongs to the crown."

The man stares at me for a second before repeating, "you can't do this!"

"Kill," I sigh, letting the leash fall to the ground. Blood sprays onto my shoes but this man's death isn't much different to the last.

The next cell is occupied by a rather clean, well groomed young man who's filth only appears to be obtained from the dungeons.

"Your name?"

"Rodger!" the word rushes from his mouth as if he can't get it out fast enough.

"You're a body snatcher, no?"

"I am!"

"Who did you sell to?"

"Anyone who would buy!"

"More specific please."

"Surgeons, degenerates, quacks, fucking anyone!"

"Would necromancers be one of your customers?"

"No, I swear!"

Fear can make certain people excellent liars; apparently Rodger does not qualify as certain people.

"Thomas," I say calmly. The guard grabs the man's hand, forces it open and snaps a finger like a twig. The scream rings through the dungeons which are only occupied by whimpers of fear now.

"One man," Rodger gasps, "paid good money for bodies, wasn't a surgeon and he didn't look like a lord!"

"And you now presume him to be a necromancer?"

"Yes."

"What was his name?"

"Never said but his eyes didn't look right."

"Well isn't that an excellent description!" I exclaim mockingly, "Thomas send word to the city watch that I want every man with eyes that don't look right to be found and brought here!"

"He was tall, pale, thin lips, he spoke funny too."

"Funny isn't a good enough description."

Thomas moves towards Rodger again prompting him to say rather hastily, "like he had bitten his tongue or something!"

"And where would you meet this man to make the exchange?"

"Saint Johnson's street, just outside the hospice, every fifth day."

"If a single word of this is a lie you'll face much worse than the dog," I state calmly.

"It isn't, I swear."

I leave the cell without another word and move onto the next.

Titus ripped out four more throats before I finished. What I learnt from the interviews was that several prestigious universities around the kingdom are purchasing any corpses they could get their hands on, three of the lord's in my grandfather's court prefer necrotic bed fellows and there are apparently three individuals in Griaz whom all appear to purchase corpses for neither educational nor romantic reasons. The tall one with strange eyes appears to be the most popular buyer but there's mention of a small man wearing a queer mask who doesn't say a word and something in the sewers that takes corpses and gives jewels. The one who doesn't speak hides in a plague afflicted district and the sewer thing is obviously in the sewers. Now I return Titus to the kennels, the hound master rubs his head affectionately glad to have the dog back, I wonder if he'd still do so had he seen the zeal that creature had ripped open the throats of men with.

"Thank you," I say, flipping a copper ring to the man. I then turn on my heel and walk off. Grandfather's death was no longer on anyone's mind, servants now scrub the floors, smoke out rats, steal silverware, prepare and serve meals. The halls of Castle Black are decorated by the occasional painting depicting a war or a suit of armour that some hero allegedly wore into battle. Very few people actually occupy the castle permanently when compared to those of other kingdoms, last time I checked it was twelve noblemen, forty royal guards, forty servants and three royalty including myself. Our southern neighbor Ild has almost double that amount of staff alone and Pacc has eight times our number. Then again when compared to others my kingdom often turns out to be inferior. The population is just over three million, it's sixty-three thousand square kilometers though only thirty-thousand don't belong to dukes or lords and only twelve thousand is occupied by our citizens, the soldiers are average in skill and equipment at best and the only number where the kingdom truly excels is the amount of savages that occupy the northern forests, southern mountains and western bogs. Fortunately these savages deter most from bothering to invade my scabby kingdom.

A royal guard blocks my wanderings and says, "I am to escort you to the throne room, my prince."

"For what reason?" I inquire.

"Sir Simon requests your immediate presence, my prince."

"Duke Simon requests or demands?"

"It's hard to say, my-"

"It's really not," I cut across the man, "you say 'requests' if he requests it or 'demands' if he demands it."

The guard stares at me unsure of what to say.

"I'm sure you've heard the story of lord Stephen the second but believe me if you don't answer the question you'll suffer much more than a severed ear."

"Demands, my prince," the guard admits hesitantly.

"Well it'd be a shame to disappoint our favourite sycophant," I say smiling widely, "to the throne room."

The throne room is rather plain. Banners have been put up to hide most of the cold grey walls, several pillars prevent the ceiling from crashing down and on an elevated podium sits the throne and upon that throne sits Duke Simon with the iron crown in his lap and four guards armed with steel shortswords in their right hand and in their left crude handguns only good for one shot before they have to be disassembled and reloaded stand at his sides.

"Prince Harold," the duke says rather glumly.

"Duke SImon," I respond.

"Might I ask why there's a sudden spike in the population of our dungeons?" He asks rather bluntly.

"Well I have rounded up all those guilty of destruction of crown property and put them in my dungeons because they're corpse stealers who fund necromancer savages who I consider to be our enemy thus making the denizens guilty of treason as well as vandalism."

"The skinners are made up of twelve separate primitive clans only five of which are suspected of the practitioning of foul sorceries," Simon states. "It's far more likely these degenerates supply other degenerates or surgeons-"

"Why do you care?" I inquire. "The dungeons are close to empty on a monthly basis unless there's a civil war or attempted revolution. Had I pardoned them for these crimes you'd question my sanity."

"These degenerates could quite easily be stored within the Red Rope Prison or-"

"While we're on the subject of degenerates I would like all the properties of Sir Anton Thorn, Sir Damon Steel and Lord Oswald Renauld searched," I cut across Simon growing bored of his pedantic whining.

"What has prompted you to conclude that two of my dear friends and my cousin are guilty of anything except perhaps the occasional overindulgence?"

"Thorn has bought several female corpses in good condition, paid silver for them, Steel has ordered fifty in the past two months though he's only bought heads, hands and hearts, only cared for the quality of the last and paid eighty gold which is thrice of what he should be earning in a year. Your dear cousin Oswald bought the bodies of anything bipedal with a suitably sized orifice."

"And who's spread these rumors?" Simon asks mockingly

"Street scum," I answer proudly, "the abandoned, those uncared for, those who don't care-"

"So in other words liars, thieves and deviants who would sell their mothers for their next meal," Simon points out.

"Just so," I say.

"And you're challenging the reputations of good men because of what these lessers said to you when threatened with hot pokers?"

"If they're not in possession of such things then they'll have no problem with their properties being searched," I say cheerily.

"Every man is entitled to privacy my prince," Stephen claims, "you can't just break down their doors because-"

"Actually no man is entitled to privacy should I demand it," I point out, smiling. "Should I order it I can know every detail about the lives of your servants, your associates, your friends, your family and even you dear, dear Simon."

"You grossly overestimate your current position my prince," Simon says, the first signs of his frustration beginning to crease his forehead and whiten his knuckles. "You have no-"

"As do you," I counter, "you believe that grandfather's fondness of your lies and flattery will protect you despite his departure from this world. You assume the pretty title of crown holder actually makes you equal to me."

"Until your crowning I am your equal," Simon is visibly struggling to avoid yelling.

"On paper yes in reality no," I yawn. "These guards will stop me should I try to drive a knife through your eye and vice versa. Should I succeed in murdering you before they can stop me however then they're codes or oaths or whatever they call them don't allow them to kill me and no one can order me imprisoned or question my fitness to rule. I can just pardon myself after my crowning and it's likely you'll be forgotten in a week, possibly less. Should you end my life the guards' oaths don't apply to you, you'll be guilty of regicide and will die very unpleasantly.."

"That's a very interesting scenario my prince," Simon mocks a yawn, "but unfortunately despite your skill with blades you'd never get past the guards."

"Except I have the unfair advantage of being royalty," I say calmly, "I kill them all I suffer is becoming a figure of scandal, they're codes strictly disallow the killing of royal blood under any circumstances and should they ignore these foolish codes then they get declared killers, men without honor, scum, oathbreakers or some other insulting term for man who didn't want his throat slit by prince Harold. We both know what happens to these men after a few years."

"Is that what happened to King Harold the First?" Simon asks mockingly. "Wasn't butchered by his own soldiers because their oaths prevented it?*

"You raise a good point, Duke Simon," I say. "A very good point indeed."

I fall silent for a moment before yelling; "Good royal guards! The first man to take his weapon and end this petulant sycophant's life will be embraced by me like a brother and receive fifty gold rings."

"Prince Harold if this is supposed to amuse-"

"Oh you can safely bet every organ in your bloated body that this is not. Now good sirs I notice the Duke's head is still upon his shoulders, why is that?"

"That is quite enough. Please depart-"

"Are you afraid of the consequences?" I inquire. "No one but you are here, you kill him, you'll be rich enough to buy a small island and no one will ever know a thing about what you did to earn it."

"Perhaps they have sense unlike you, you insolent wretch!" Simon bellows. "Perhaps they have noticed you'd be a pitiful excuse of a ruler who'd piss away the dwindling contents of the crown's vault on whores and wine while the-"

Simon's ranting is cut off rather abruptly by an incredibly loud explosion. It takes me a moment to realize the Duke no longer possesses a face. The nearest guard to the newly made corpse's right is still pointing his smoking weapon at it. Two other guards stare at the corpse while one just continues looking straight ahead as if nothing had happened. The killer's face is hidden behind a steel helmet but his hands shake hard enough that his armour creates a rather comic rattling noise.

"Bravo!" I cry. "Bravo! Good sir, you've saved me many hours of preparing execution papers for that little inconvenience."

"Fifty rings," the soldier says, almost whispering.

"You may have sixty as a token of my magnanimity, good sir," I declare.

"This never leaves this room," he whispers, showing no sign of hearing what I just said.

"I assure you it won't even graze the ears of the gods," I promise. "What are your names?"

"Jeremy Black," the killer answers.

"Christopher Glover," the one who's staring blankly says impassively.

The other two are too engrossed with the dead duke to speak.

"Names gentlemen!" I yell to grab their attention.

"Robert Ven!"

"Iben White!"

"Well good sirs if I hear a single word of this little incident I'll hunt you down and carve you into many, many pieces," I state. "Is that understood?"

"Yes my prince!" They all answer in unison albeit somewhat halfheartedly.

"Good," I say calmly. "Jeremy I will see to it your reward is placed somewhere you and only you will find it. Once the coin is in your pocket you're free to leave and buy your small island should you so wish."

"Thank you, my prince," he says monotonically.

"Now what happened to dear Duke Simon?" I inquire.

"Suicide," one answers after a long period of silence. "He couldn't handle the stresses of ruling."

"So he decided to convince a guard to give him a pistol, pointed it at the side of his head risking damaging his mind while maintaining a twisted half-life when he could have easily pointed it between his mandibles and painted the roof or even easier just taken a letter opener and opened his throat."

There's another period of silence before a different guard answers; "hunting accident."

"When was the last time you used a pistol to kill a deer or any animal you didn't wish to be reduced to duser for that matter?"

"Nothing," one guard finally answers. "Nothing happened to him that I know of."

"Good answer!" I exclaim. "Duke Simon left to relieve himself and never returned. So what happened to the good duke?"

"Left for the privies and has yet to return my prince," they repeat.

"Well he's been pissing for an awful long time, don't you think you should go see if he's okay?" I prompt.

They all silently walk by me and to the door. I grab Jeremy's pistol out of his shaking hand before he leaves the throne room, its barrel is splattered with blood.

"You lost this," I inform him. He nods and leaves the throne room.

I'm all alone with the corpse of Duke Simon.

I watch the men fill in the mass grave just outside of the city. Twenty sacks lie in that ten foot deep pit, within nineteen of those sacks are the bodies of those who died without families, friends or money, within one there's Duke Simon's body with all the shards of skull and shrapnel I scraped up and all the rags I used to mop up the blood and brain. I incinerated his clothes and transferred some of his valuables to the crown vault. It will be presumed that the dear Duke took some of his riches and fled the kingdom for reasons that can only be speculated. His wife will fake a tear or three before filling her purse with all the gold he left behind and visiting my dear cousin Terrence's

bed. His daughter will follow a rather similar path though last time I checked she preferred cousin Serah's chambers over Martin's. This fun little activity took thirteen hours and granted me all the benefits of being a king except the right to wear the crown, if I did this the legal way I would have had to wait a few more days until my crowning to have the annoyance executed and after I'd made the order I'd have to endure the whining of six or seven petulant nobles and deal with the guilt of tearing two good women from riches and putting all of Simon's wealth into the crown vault or the annoyance of dealing with several accountants urging me not to transfer most of his wealth to his family. This way was much simpler and much more fun.