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Chapter 182: Caught in the Crossfire
🕑 Added 2025-03-02 13:47:16 +0000 UTC"Kas, after you're done cleaning the rookery, head to the feed storehouse and bring some meat to feed the birds."
The rookery overseer of Summerhall Castle handed out tasks to his subordinates, and Kas always got the heaviest and dirtiest ones.
"Yes, my lord."
Despite the obvious attempt to make things difficult for him, Kas showed no resistance. He simply acknowledged the order and obediently picked up his tools to begin cleaning.
Laughter and jeers followed him as he walked away, but he paid them no mind. As long as he could work in the castle, it was still far better than being a slave in Lys.
There were seven rookery workers at Summerhall Castle. The other six, including the overseer, were all from the Vale, forming their own clique and excluding Kas, the lone outsider from Essos.
Karatz was well aware of this dynamic. He knew he had no advantage over these Vale men, so he endured their treatment in silence, careful never to give them an excuse to cause him trouble.
The Vale men, in turn, understood there were limits to how far they could go. Discriminating against outsiders wasn’t a serious issue, but if they pushed too hard and attracted Lord Lynd’s attention, they would be the ones in danger of being dismissed. There had already been more than one such incident in the past. As a result, the worst they did was assign more work to outsiders, making things easier for themselves.
They believed their actions were discreet, leaving no excuse for anyone to call them out. But in reality, the castle guards saw everything and reported it daily to the steward, Mus. Every name was recorded in a ledger, each with a score beside it. If a worker's score reached a certain threshold, they would be reassigned—usually to an undesirable post.
However, next to Kas’s name, there was no score. Instead, the word "foreman" was written, circled in ink.
Kas had no idea he had already caught the attention of Castle Steward Mus. Even if he had known, he wouldn’t have given it much thought. He was a man of simple desires—being a free man with a steady job and decent pay was already enough for him. His next goal was to save up some money, find a wife, and adopt a child. That, to him, was the perfect life.
While thoughts of his future happiness filled his mind, his hands never stopped working. He swiftly cleaned the perches, scraped away the droppings, changed the water basins, and repaired the damaged support beams.
Once the rookery was spotless, he released the messenger hawks from their cages, allowing them to stretch their wings while he cleaned their enclosures. By the time he was finished, the sun was already lowering in the sky.
Just as he was about to prepare food for the birds, a red kestrel flew into the rookery, landing gracefully on one of the perches.
Karatz paused for a moment before recognizing it. This was not one of the hawks he had just released—it was a kestrel from Miracle Harbor. The brass message tube attached to its leg was unmistakable.
Without touching the message himself, Kas immediately hurried downstairs to the overseer’s office.
"My lord, kestrel—from Miracle Harbor," Kas reported in halting Common Tongue.
The overseer hesitated briefly before understanding Kas’s meaning. He quickly rose to his feet and made his way to the rookery. Upon spotting the kestrel, he carefully approached, retrieved the brass tube, and instructed Kas to look after the bird before hastily leaving.
...
The rookery was built into the western cliffs of the castle, with the entire chamber carved from the rock face. A narrow stone walkway led from the rookery to the castle’s main courtyard—a broad platform at the very heart of Summerhall Castle.
In the middle of the courtyard stood an ornate fountain, its design inspired by Braavosi craftsmanship. Fresh underground water flowed from the spout of the sculpted pitcher, cascading into channels that directed it to a nearby reservoir.
Beside the reservoir lay a hanging garden, filled with exotic flowers from all over Westeros and beyond. A small gazebo sat among the greenery, and just past the garden stood Lord Lynd’s study, which doubled as a temporary council chamber.
Inside, aside from the bookshelves and writing desk, the most prominent feature of the study was a massive conference table.
The table measured roughly eight meters in length and two meters in width, capable of seating twenty people. Its surface was inlaid with an intricately carved stone relief—a detailed map of Westeros, depicting its cities, mountains, rivers, and notable landmarks.
This stone map was not the work of Lord Lynd’s artisans. It had been unearthed during the construction of the Redemption Sept, hidden beneath the ruins of a collapsed basement in Summerhall. According to Maester Thorne’s research, the carving was likely a reproduction of the famed map-table on Dragonstone, commissioned by King Aegon V. However, for reasons unknown, it had never been used and was left to gather dust in the underground vault—until now.
The slate map was already broken into seven pieces when it was discovered, and the number seven seemed to carry a sense of fate. After Maester Thorne repaired it, he transported it to the castle at the mountain’s peak and placed it in Lynd’s study, where it became one of his most cherished possessions.
Most routine matters were discussed here, while only significant affairs requiring the presence of all department heads and military commanders would be handled at the council hall in the Town of Redemption.
Though Summerhall’s castle was still unfinished, its key facilities—such as the eyrie, the study, the bedrooms, the dining hall, and the kitchen—had already been built. The remaining structures, like warehouses and the library, were secondary and could be constructed over time.
Lynd had moved into this castle, perched atop a hundred-meter-high pillar-like mountain, six months ago and had since been managing affairs from within its halls.
At first, the adjustment was difficult, as anyone needing to report to him had to take the lift, which was quite a hassle. However, this inconvenience actually streamlined operations—mundane issues were handled at the town’s administrative offices below, leaving only more pressing matters that the governing council couldn’t resolve to be brought to Lynd directly.
Like now, with this particular issue, personally delivered by Nymeria—one that required his direct intervention.
“Has he been High Septon for so long that his brain has turned to stone?” Lynd’s furious shout echoed from within the room. Servants passing by outside lowered their heads and hurried away the moment they heard who was being cursed, fearful that lingering too long might drag them into trouble.
Nymeria tapped her fingers on the edge of the conference table, her voice calm but firm. “Cursing the High Septon now is pointless. The moment he petitioned His Grace to revoke the agreement between Jaehaerys I and the Faith that prohibited the Church from arming itself, he dragged us into the fray. The only reason he dared make such a demand was because our growing influence has given him the illusion that he can get away with it.”
Lys Falwell, who had just returned from the Town of Redemption, arrived at the castle to report what he had witnessed in King’s Landing. “His Grace has ordered the High Septon back to the Great Sept of Baelor and issued a decree forbidding him from leaving.”
“How could His Grace do such a thing?” Septon Hullen shot up from his seat, his face tense with emotion. “Is he declaring war on the Faith of the Seven? Just like Maegor the Cruel?”
The room fell silent. Everyone turned to stare at Septon Hullen.
“Sit down. If you don’t know what to say, then shut up,” Lynd snapped coldly. “You represent not just the Redemption Sept but also my Summerhall. Do you even realize the consequences if your words spread? Think before you speak. Some mistakes, you won’t be able to afford.”
Realizing his blunder, Septon Hullen lowered his head and sat back down without another word.
“When I returned, I heard news from the Red Keep,” Lys continued. “His Grace has approved the Hand’s proposal to impose additional taxes on the goods we sell across the Seven Kingdoms. There will also be a levy on the currency we mint. I’ve also heard whispers that he intends to reclaim control over the Stepstones we were recently granted. In short, out of the dozen new decrees, nearly half are aimed directly at us.” His expression was grave. “It seems His Grace now sees us as one and the same with the Church.”
Bert Falwell, who had accompanied Nymeria to Summerhall for official business, turned to his father, puzzled. “But hasn’t His Grace always admired Lord Lynd? Why would he…”
“Idiot,” Lys cut in sharply, not sparing his son despite his higher rank. “In the face of royal power, even blood brothers will betray each other—what’s a mere lord’s admiration compared to that? The High Septon’s demands threaten the Baratheon dynasty’s authority. Of course, he’s now an enemy. And we’ve aligned ourselves too closely with the Church, so naturally, we’re a target as well.”
Lynd’s expression darkened as he listened. From the moment he chose to use the Faith’s influence to bolster his own power, he had anticipated its risks and prepared countermeasures—such as establishing the Redemption Sept and Miracle Sept, institutions under his direct control.
But before he could fully implement these plans, the situation at the Great Sept of Baelor spiraled out of control. His rise as the Chosen One had led the High Septon to believe that he could restore the Church’s militant arm, reclaim lost privileges, and once again position the Faith above the nobility.
“My lord, I have received the latest reports from other regions.”
Ser Balin, now the Master of Whisperers, took out the intelligence he had received that morning and handed it to Lynd. “The Vale, Riverlands, Westerlands, Stormlands, and the North have all responded to King’s Landing, imposing an additional tax on our goods. There’s no word yet from Highgarden or Sunspear, but it seems unlikely that they will comply.”
“Well! The High Septon causes trouble, and we end up paying the price.”
It was unclear whether it was sheer frustration or a moment of clarity, but Lynd suddenly chuckled and muttered before asking, “What about the Starry Sept and the Great Sept? Any news from them?”
“Nothing at all. They haven’t raised any objections to the High Septon’s house arrest in the Great Sept of Baelor,” Balin replied, shaking his head.
“It seems they’re all waiting for your decision.”
Nymeria, having spent considerable time in the political council, had grown adept at maneuvering through such matters. She had already surpassed Lynd in this regard, easily discerning the intentions of the Septons of the Starry Sept and the Great Sept.
Lynd, however, was still a step behind. Frowning in confusion, he asked, “My decision? What do you mean?”
“You underestimate your position in the Faith of the Seven,” Nymeria explained. “Even though you don’t hold any official role within the Church, your influence has long surpassed that of the High Septon of the Great Sept of Baelor. You’re effectively the Faith’s spiritual leader. Now that the High Septon has caused such an uproar, the Septons of various Septs are waiting to see how you respond before they make their own decisions.”
“Am I really that influential?”
Over the past year, Lynd had spent most of his time assisting Malora with researching new alchemical compounds and refining his abilities from the Dragon Communion Ritual. He had entrusted most external affairs to Nymeria and his subordinates, leaving him somewhat unaware of his current standing.
Septon Hullen quickly reassured him. “Yes, my lord. You are already the Faith’s de facto leader. The holy men of the Septs maintain close correspondence with us—our connections are far stronger than outsiders might assume.”
As he spoke, he placed a stack of letters before Lynd. “These arrived after word of the High Septon’s actions spread. Each Sept is inquiring about how we intend to respond.”
Lynd picked up a letter from the Starry Sept. The message was simple, merely asking how the Redemption Sept planned to handle the matter of the High Septon. The other letters contained similar inquiries, though some were phrased in notably more deferential terms.
“The Church governs faith, while kings and lords govern the realm,” Lynd mused, setting the letter aside. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Septon Hullen, tomorrow, you and Septon Joseth will issue a public statement on behalf of the Redemption Sept and the Miracle Sept. Make it clear that the High Septon has overstepped the Church’s authority and that we do not support his actions. Emphasize that this was a personal act, not one sanctioned by the Church.”
“Yes, my lord. I understand,” Septon Hullen responded promptly.
Mus frowned. “If we do that, we’ll make an enemy of the High Septon. The Great Sept of Baelor might cut off financial support.”
“Are we short on money?” Lynd asked in return.
Mus hesitated, then fell silent.
Nymeria interjected, “Should we release a separate statement of our own?”
Lynd shook his head. “No need. Septon Hullen’s statement will speak for us.”
Mus pressed on. “What about the new taxes from King’s Landing?”
“Pay what we owe. No need to make an issue of it,” Lynd replied with a dismissive wave. Then, turning back to Mus, he asked, “How much of an impact will the additional tax have on us?”
“Our revenue will drop by about thirty percent,” Mus said, glancing at the documents in his hands. “More merchants will opt to do business in King’s Landing to avoid the additional tax. That said, our trade with Essos will remain largely unaffected. Things will continue as they have.”
After a brief pause, he added, “Actually, we could use this as justification to raise our prices—perhaps by ten percent. That would offset—”
“No price hikes,” Lynd interrupted, his voice firm. “The prices stay the same. Instead, increase our arms exports. Send envoys to negotiate arms trade agreements with Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr. Offer them discounted weapons, and in return, we’ll get cheaper goods from them. Not that the goods matter—what matters is ensuring that everyone in those cities has a weapon made by us.”
With the invention of the hydraulic hammer, Lynd’s hidden forge deep in the mountains had become Summerhall’s most vital industry. Where traditional smiths might take months to craft a single weapon, his forges could produce thousands in less than a day. And they didn’t require skilled blacksmiths—only apprentices with basic knowledge, or even common laborers trained for a few days.
Of course, these mass-produced weapons had their drawbacks. They lacked the balance and craftsmanship of custom-forged blades and were more brittle due to their rapid production. In a fight, a forged masterwork sword would easily break a mass-produced blade. But the key advantage was price—one handcrafted longsword cost ten times as much as a weapon from Summerhall’s forges.
“What about armor?” Mus asked.
“As before, we don’t sell armor. Not a single piece.”
Lynd turned to Lothor Brune, who was seated at the end of the table. His tone was serious. “Your Blood Armored Men must keep watch. Anyone caught smuggling armor—anyone—is to be arrested immediately.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lothor Brune replied, nodding gravely.
Lynd continued, “Ignore King’s Landing. Let them impose their taxes, let them set up checkpoints. Do not provoke them, and do not concern yourselves with the Great Sept of Baelor. Our focus for the coming years is singular—unifying the Stepstones and igniting war between Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr. That is our priority. Everything else is secondary.”
Nymeria frowned. “What if King’s Landing and the northern kingdoms continue to pressure us? What if they demand we, as representatives of the Faith, submit?”
Lynd smiled. “If they keep pushing, I won’t hesitate to throw the Seven Kingdoms into chaos a bit early.”
Just then, the steward of the ryrie entered, led by an attendant. He presented a sealed bronze tube and informed them that the message had been delivered by a kestrel.
At this, the atmosphere in the chamber grew tense. All eyes turned to the bronze tube.
Lynd opened it, pulled out the letter, and quickly scanned its contents. His expression turned strange.
“What is it?” Nymeria asked urgently.
Lynd handed her the letter. “Sea Dragon. A Sea Dragon has appeared in the Dornish Sea.”
