Dont forget to Vote,Review, Comment, its makes me happy ..
read lotsstoryinpatre** : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
His words kept getting more outrageous until the septon finally couldn't hold back. "Ser, this is—"
"Shut your mouth!" the old man snapped, cutting him off. "You've sold yourself out, playing messenger for these two tongueless women who pretend to be mute. What right do you have to argue with me?"
The septon's face flushed crimson, but he only managed to stammer a few words before falling silent. He clearly knew the old man and knew he couldn't win against him.
Not just in words—probably not in a fight either.
"You people," the old knight went on, jabbing a finger at the two Silent Sisters. "You spend every waking hour claiming to speak for the Seven. But the Seven gave you mouths so you could eat, drink, and praise Their glory—not so you could stand there like statues while someone else does the talking for you."
He let out a short, bitter laugh. "I've prayed in this sept for decades. Never once did the gods speak to me. Even the High Septon himself admitted he's never heard Their voice. So what makes you lot any different?"
The septon opened his mouth to protest, but the old man had already turned away. He bent down, grabbed the wooden cross from the floor, and lifted it with one hand like it weighed nothing.
The cross stood nearly as tall as a grown woman and weighed a solid forty pounds. Cersei had carried it seven times already, every step grinding her shoulders raw and her feet to bloody ruin. Yet the old knight held it easily, one-handed, and thrust it toward the septon's face.
Only then did Cersei notice the man's age didn't match the strength in his arms. He wore heavy plate armor, battered and scarred from real battles. No fancy sigils, just the dents and scratches of a man who had actually fought.
"Look at this thing!" the old knight roared, shaking the cross in the septon's face. "Forty pounds of solid wood. You made a woman who's already given birth to three children carry it back and forth until her shoulders bled and her feet were shredded. And you call that penance?"
He slammed the cross down onto the stone floor with a heavy thud that made the septon flinch.
"This isn't penance. This is torture. You dress it up as holy work, but it's just cruelty. You're no better than those street fanatics who whip themselves bloody. At least they do it to their own damn selves!"
The septon's face had gone the color of boiled crab. The two Silent Sisters behind him stood rigid and silent, as always.
Cersei watched from where she knelt, blood still dripping from her feet onto the cold stone. Even through the pain she felt a small, vicious spark of satisfaction.
So the old bitches can be afraid after all.
Under the old knight's furious tirade the septon finally found his voice again. "Ser, I must remind you—this was the decision of the Silent Sisters themselves. They act under the guidance of the Seven and the orders of the High Septon—"
"Bullshit guidance!" the old man barked. "The Mother teaches mercy. She commands every believer to protect women. You lot have turned the doctrine into dung and shit it out as holy writ!"
He jabbed a finger at the septon. "When the Seven want to speak, They'll open Their own mouths. They don't need you playing translator. I've prayed here for forty years and never heard a single word from the gods. Not even the High Septon claims he's heard Their voice. So where the hell do you get off?"
The septon tried to speak but the old knight had already turned away. He scooped up the cross with one hand and held it out like a club.
"Get out," he growled. "While I still feel like letting you walk. Otherwise I'll show you what it means when the Warrior speaks to me in the night and tells me to clean the filth out of His house."
The septon didn't need to be told twice. He spun on his heel and fled down the corridor, the two Silent Sisters hurrying after him like frightened shadows.
The hall fell quiet.
Cersei looked up at the old knight. He stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, staring after the retreating figures. Sunlight from the high windows caught the scars on his armor and the hard lines of his face.
He was tall and lean, every inch of him radiating the quiet authority of a man who had lived by the sword his whole life. When he finally turned around, Cersei saw the deep wrinkles around his eyes and the sun-browned skin of someone who had spent decades outdoors. His back was still straight as a blade.
For a moment his face overlapped with the stern statue of the Father at the end of the corridor.
"Father…" she whispered without thinking.
The old knight blinked, then a surprising grin cracked across his weathered face.
"I'm not your father, Your Grace," he said. He pressed his right hand to his chest and gave a proper knight's bow. "Bonifer Hasty, at your service. I had the honor of fighting alongside your brother Ser Jaime Lannister in the Riverlands with the brothers of the Warrior's Sons."
Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly. She knew the name. Bonifer Hasty, the pious knight from the Stormlands, captain of the hundred-man Warrior's Sons. A man who had served under Renly, then Stannis, then bent the knee to Joffrey. Jaime had once spoken well of their discipline.
"Jaime…" she murmured.
That irresponsible bastard had left King's Landing without a single word to her. Not even a letter. She didn't even know where he was.
"Ser Jaime is a true knight," Bonifer said quietly. "I saw him fight in the Riverlands. Skill and courage both. Even after he was captured… he remained a warrior worth respecting."
He said it plainly, without flattery or evasion. Cersei hadn't heard anyone speak of Jaime that way in a long time. Most people only remembered the Kingslayer or the queen's brother.
She looked at the blood on the stone around her bare feet. "Why are you here, Ser?"
Bonifer glanced down at her ruined feet and frowned. "I come every day. Before dawn. I pray before the Father's statue. I ask the Seven to protect my brothers and keep this kingdom from another war."
Cersei's mouth twitched. "Every single day?"
"Every single day," he answered. "For more than forty years. I know every stone in this sept. I know every septon. That's why I know this place isn't supposed to be like this."
He gestured at the blood on the floor. "The Father's house should be a place of comfort. The poor should find hope here. The sick should find courage. The lost should find direction. Instead Tywin Lannister turned it into a prison for his political enemies."
Cersei's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at the old knight. His back was still ramrod straight, like a sword that would never bend.
"Aren't you afraid someone might hear you?" she asked.
Bonifer turned and gave her a cold, contemptuous smile. "Afraid of what? The Seven forbid lies. I've never spoken a word against Their teachings. Everything I said is plain fact. Why should I be afraid?"
Cersei had seen fear in many men—fear of Tywin, fear of Corleone, fear of the Gold Cloaks, fear of the Kingsguard. She had never seen a man who feared nothing at all.
"Why did you help me?" she asked.
Bonifer looked at her with eyes that held nothing but stubborn, pure conviction.
"I didn't help you," he said. "I helped the Seven."
"The Seven don't need help," Cersei said.
"The Seven don't," Bonifer corrected. "But Their house does. If someone throws filth into your home, someone else has to throw it back out."
He held out his hand. "Come, Your Grace. I'll walk you back to your room."
Cersei hesitated, then reached up and took his hand. Together they walked slowly down the corridor, leaving bloody footprints behind them.
When they were alone she spoke again, voice low. "Do you think the name 'Warrior's Sons' fits the Seven's teachings better than some other titles, Ser Hasty?"
Bonifer glanced at her but didn't answer right away.
The next evening the Street of Pickled Meat glowed under the autumn dusk. Lanterns flickered to life along the cobblestones. The air no longer stank the way it used to. Even though the street technically lay outside Corleone's district, the change was obvious.
Barristan Selmy pulled his hood lower and stepped into Old John's Kitchen. Dust from his gray cloak drifted onto the threshold.
He stopped just inside the door and felt something tighten in his chest.
Everything had changed.
He remembered this place from years ago—greasy tables, firewood piled in the corners, floors that never came clean no matter how hard anyone scrubbed. The customers had been dockworkers and porters who squatted on benches, tearing into salt fish and black bread with dirty hands while cursing the king or their lord.
Now the tables were clean and straight. Small clay pots with dried flowers sat on every one. The walls held simple sketches of the street, the docks, and the statues of the Seven. The customers were a mix of armed sellswords, foreign merchants, and ordinary folk eating quietly.
This wasn't the Old John's Kitchen he remembered. It felt more like a respectable place on the Street of Silk.
"Welcome!" a cheerful voice called from behind the bar.
Barristan turned. A short, stout middle-aged man leaned over the counter, smiling. Old John. The years had added weight and lines to his face, and gray to his temples, but the eyes were the same—shrewd and honest.
"Table by the window," Barristan said, keeping his voice low and his accent deliberately rough.
"Right this way!"
John led him to a clean table near the window and pulled out a chair. "What'll it be tonight? The stew's good—beef from the docks this morning, been simmering all afternoon."
Barristan sat and tugged his hood lower. "Stew. And a cup of ale."
"Coming right up!"
John turned to leave, but Barristan spoke again.
"John. Your daughter… Ally. She still around?"
John paused and studied him. The hood hid most of Barristan's face, showing only the graying beard. The tavern keeper's smile stayed friendly, but caution crept into his eyes.
"You know my girl?"
"She's done well for herself," Barristan said. "Works in the laundry over in the Hall of Order now. Takes orders straight from Lord Vito Corleone himself."
John's chest puffed up a little with pride. "That she does. Her mother passed five years back. I thought it'd be just the two of us forever. Turns out the girl's sharper than her old man."
He said it with obvious affection, but Barristan caught the careful way he dropped Corleone's name. Smart man. No one in King's Landing wanted trouble with the Black Hand these days.
John brought the stew and ale. Barristan ate slowly, watching the street through the window while he listened to the chatter around him.
Everything felt different. Cleaner. Safer. Even the food tasted better than he remembered.
He was halfway through the bowl when the door banged open and a sturdy young woman strode in carrying a heavy wooden tub. She set it down on the bar with a solid thud.
"Got the meat, old man!" she called out.
She looked about twenty, strong arms, practical clothes. Barristan recognized her at once—Ally, John's daughter. She had grown up.
John poked his head out from the back. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think the Gold Cloaks grabbed you."
Ally waved him off. "Streets are crawling with soldiers today. I had to go to three different butchers just to find decent beef."
She started unpacking the meat while she talked. "Red cloaks everywhere. They stopped me twice. Searched my basket like I was smuggling wildfire. Dropped half the meat in the dirt and didn't even apologize."
John frowned. "Gold Cloaks didn't do anything?"
Ally snorted. "They stood there watching. Later I asked one I know. He said these aren't Gold Cloaks. They're Lannister men. Fresh from Casterly Rock."
Barristan's spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
Lannister soldiers inside the city.
He kept his head down and kept eating, but his mind was already turning over what that meant.
Ally kept talking while she worked. "It's not just me. Half the street got stopped. Down at the docks they're shaking down merchants, demanding extra taxes. One of the captains tried to argue and nearly got himself arrested. People are saying Tywin's tightening the noose."
John shot her a warning look. "Watch your mouth, girl. That's the Hand of the King you're talking about."
Ally rolled her eyes but lowered her voice anyway. "I'm just saying what everyone else is saying. Things were finally getting better around here. Now these red bastards show up and act like they own the place."
Barristan finished his stew in silence. When John came to clear the table, Barristan spoke quietly.
"Another ale. And keep the change."
He stayed a while longer, listening to the low murmur of conversation around him. The fear was new. People spoke of Lannister soldiers the way they used to speak of bandits—quietly, with wary glances at the door.
By the time he left, night had fallen. The lanterns along the Street of Pickled Meat glowed steady and bright. Barristan pulled his hood lower and walked south, toward the docks.
He had come back to King's Landing looking for an ally for his queen.
What he was seeing instead was an old lion finally baring its teeth.
And somewhere in the city, Vito Corleone was watching the same thing happen.