ABIGAIL

Abigail was late.

"Better run, sister!" Septa Emily called out across the yard, friendly laughter in her voice. "Septa Orla is on the warpath and looking for lost little sparrows like you!"

"Then I'll stay out of her way until I can find a really big stick!" Abigail called back. She grabbed the handles of her plastic carrier bags tighter and ran as fast as she could right across the yard, up the steps and into her quarters.

Quickly throwing down her bags and the wrapper for the sandwich she'd had on the train, she stripped out of her Lay Clothes and pulled on her grey septa gown. She tucked her light brown hair away beneath the hood and straightened herself up.

She took a deep breath.

Abigail Frost had gone away again for the time being. Septa Abigail was back.

Blasted train, Abigail thought. Why can't Riverlands trains ever run on time?

At least she'd had a pleasant conversation with that very handsome hottie. Very cute, he'd been. But haunted. And - she thought with disappointment and no small distaste - clearly part of the Problem, not the Solution. It was written all over his face.

She got to her classroom just ahead of the trudging caravan of students. Septa Emily walked past as Abigail's class began to fill. She threw her friend a sly wink.

See? Made it. No problem.

"Okay, you useless lot, calm down," she smiled as her twenty-one students took their places. They were actually one of the better behaved classes in the school. That was down to her. She'd been with them from five years old. Now, they were fourteen and on the brink of their PGE's. All her hard work was coming to fruition.

"I really hope every last one of you did your homework," she said, closing the door after the last child had sat down.

"I did mine twice." Angela Tully grinned. The rest of the class either laughed or rolled their eyes depending on whether they believed her or not.

"SWOT!" Garath Fletcher coughed into his hands. Another ripple of laughter tracked across the room.

"That swot is probably going to be your boss in a few years time," Abigail said. "You should be trying to make a good impression now, Fletcher."

"Yes, miss," grinned Garath, "sorry, miss."

Abigail stood at the front of the class, in front of her desk, not behind. Her hands were clasped. When she stood there like that, her kids knew she meant to say something important. They shut up and sat straight.

"I jest, of course, Garath," the young septa said, "you can achieve whatever you want to achieve if you put your mind to it. Of course, if all you want to achieve is to be Angela's toilet scrubber then that's fine too. The point is, children, that in a few short months, you will be sitting your PGE's. And just a couple of years after that, your AGE's. And then…?"

She pointed to the window. Outside, the city of Riverrun - bathed in burning, bright sunlight - sat waiting.

"If you want to make a Westos we are all proud of, you must start working now. The world is doing its best to beat you down, make no mistake. Even now, before you're properly in it."

"I know you say this often, septa," said Randolf Gaits, "but I don't really see anything wrong with it. Neither does my father. He says we're lucky to live in the greatest age Westos has ever seen. We're in the middle of the Long Summer, we're rich, we're healthier than ever, our scientific achievements know no bounds…"

"And yet, we still have poverty in our country," Abigail said, "And yet, there are still defenceless left at the mercy of the powerful. And yet predators still stalk and kill all the innocents that are just trying to make an honest life for themselves. Winfell may grab all the headlines when it comes to crime and poverty but trust me, if you look around, you'll notice it on your doorstep, too. Make no mistake - despite that lovely, memorable TV jingle, the government is not your friend. It will not help you. It will mould and shape you and make you a piece of it's infernal jigsaw. Whether you like it or not."

The class was silent as Abigail's words sank in.

"Westos is baking like a fruit left out in the sun. It gets more rotten by the day. If anything is to get better, it will be down to you twenty-one in here. And the twenty-one in septa Emily's class. And the twenty-one in septa Krista's class. And all the other twenty-ones in this school. And all the other Schools of the Seven in the country. And all the other non-Faith schools as well. You must set to making this land whole again. Or by summer's end, there'll be nothing left to save. And, I am really sorry - but it will be nobody's fault but yours."

"That's not exactly fair, is it, septa?" Garath. "We didn't mess things up."

"Fate and History don't give a damn about 'fault', Garath. Things may be your fault or they may not. If you fail to take control, Fate and History will gobble you up just the same."


Septa Abigail knocked on the heavy, wooden door.

"Come in."

Abigail entered the office of the head of the school, Septa Orla. To say the room was sparse was like saying the summer was hot. Septa Orla kept whatever papers she needed to keep and the rest she trusted to the Seven. Her school was one of the biggest and best performing Faith schools in Riverrun. In Westos, even. So her approach could hardly be argued with.

"Close the door, please, sister."

It was a running joke with the sisters that septa Orla always told you to close the door, even when you were already doing it. They had decided they would try to close the thing as fast as possible to see if they could do it before she asked. So far, it was a challenge that remained unaccomplished.

"How is your father?" the old septa asked, "I take it your visit to King's Landing was productive?"

"He's well, thank you for asking," Abigail replied. "As well as can be expected considering his job, anyway."

Septa Orla nodded. Smalltalk was over. "I was just looking over your exit evaluation papers." The folder was in front of her. The rest of the desk was bare. "They make for interesting reading."

"With respect, do you mean that in a good or a bad way?"

"Your position on the state of the country is well known," the Head Septa carried on as if Abigail hadn't spoken. "It is largely a position I agree with. Every year, more and more people are turning their back on the Faith in droves. I doubt most children could even recite the names of the Seven anymore. Schools such as ours are on the way out, I'm afraid."

"It goes deeper than that, sister Orla."Abigail said. "There's something deeply wrong with society. Something not easily seen. Something rotten…"

"Which is why you are needed here, sister and not up in Winfell."

Ah, now we get to the point.

"I've already accepted the position, sister Orla. Winfell High School is expecting me."

"A secular school!" sister Orla all but sneered. "Winfell has never been a place the Gods have smiled on, sister," Orla said more insistently. "For time immemorial, the Seven have never been properly accepted up there. The northerners' allegiance to the old gods was always too strong with their godswoods and their carved trees. And now, in a time of such faithlessness, you want to go into the wolf's jaws?"

"I go where the Seven call me, sister," Abigail said, a steel appearing in her voice. "The Faith is one way to fight this disease and I believe it is a good way. But, forgive me, sister, it's not the only way. Things are deeper than just religion. These problems haven't come because people have abandoned the Gods. They abandoned the Gods because of these problems. They will tell you it's simply the march into civilisation but there is a sickness borne of the sun-"

"Have a care, sister," said the high septa, a warning tone on her voice. "It sounded almost as if you were raising your voice to me."

"I apologise." Abigail took a calming breath. "I simply mean to say that in a time of financial hardship, the poor feel it first and hardest. In a time of moral hardship such as we're facing now, it's the children. I believe the Seven are calling me to Winfell to help the children there. Beause if nobody does it, then by summer's end, we simply won't have a world left in which to live."


"So?" septa Emily said as she watched her friend pack her life into a box. "How did it go?"

"You mean, did she convince me to stay?" said Abigail. Emily nodded. Abigail motioned to the box she was packing.

"What do you think?"

Emily sighed a sad sigh. "I can understand you wanting to get away from old trout face. But why there? Why Winfell? In the midst of the long summer, Winfell is the only place in Westos that's actually cold."

"It's not cold, Emily, don't exaggerate. It's just less hot. It's farther north, though. What do you expect?"

"If it's crime and danger you're looking for, you can get it right here in Riverrun."

Abigail cocked an eyebrow toward her friend.

"I'm serious!" Emily said. "Just last night there was another beating. An accountant or something. Minding his own business and jumped by some assailant and beaten to within an inch of his life."

"Sounds like someone out there hates accountants."

"And teachers and builders and computer programmers and more if the other beatings are all the same person."

"As enticing as you're making Riverrun sound, I'm afraid my future lies up north. Don't worry, I don't leave for a couple of days. We'll make sure we go out for a few lemonades."

Emily checked her watch. "Make sure we do," she said, getting up. "I have a class I have to get to. I suppose if you're leaving, we need someone to take over the mantle of always being late to lessons."

Emily hugged her friend and left. Abigail continued packing her books and clothes. By the time she finished, the sun was setting. She was glad. There was just about time for another walk through the city.


Back in Lay Clothes, Abigail wandered the crowded, twilight streets of the city of Riverrun. It was a beautiful city, really. Possibly not the tallest buildings in the country but certainly the most elegant. Compared to the other major cities, it was certainly the nicest place to live.

In dark jeans and a thin, navy top, Abigail carried a black hoodie over her arm. It's getting hotter. She shook her head. How can that be when the sun's going down? This cursed summer was going to get much, much worse before they'd be treated to the cooling breeze of autumn. Or even, Gods be good, winter.

There had only been one winter in Abigail's lifetime and she reckoned she could just about remember it. Most of the time it had been cold but she remembered it actually snowing one day. She'd built a snowman with her father before going inside to warm up where her mother had pie and chips waiting.

The people swept and bustled around her and she swam slowly along, like a reed on the water. Though her eyes were open, she was no longer seeing just with them. The eyes gave you the surface of things. But the real filth of Westos wasn't on the surface.

She swept her gaze around her, slowly, purposefully. It was in the clothes. The way people walked. What they said. What they didn't say. There was a life that rose out of the people and had an identity all its own. Individuals were perhaps unaware of it but they fed it. And it fed them back. If you pulled yourself away from your TV or your phone or your video game, if you really looked, you could see it. Swirling around and between everyone. And every so often, it would coalesce and harden around certain people. People who were feeding it more than everyone else. People who - whether they knew it or not - were among the most responsible for the decay.

People who were part of the Problem and not part of the Solution.

"Just close the deal."

They were the only words she heard. But she heard the way he'd said it. The tone. And the way he hung up the phone right away. He was one. He was definitely one.

Just close the deal.

He turned up Hoster Road and Abigail followed. She slipped her jacket on and pulled the hood up. Hoster Road linked two main streets but there was just one woman at the far end, coming towards them.

Abigail pulled the baton from her belt and with a practised flick, it was extended.

Just close the deal.

The first blow was to the back of the man's head and Abigail could actually hear the skull crack. Not the sound of the stick hitting bone but the sound of bone actually coming apart. The man crumpled to the ground like a sack of turnips and didn't move.

The woman at the far end of the narrow road screamed and ran the other way.

Abigail didn't wait to see who might be drawn to the woman's screams. She brought the stick down on the still figure at her feet again and again and again. She broke every bone she could find. There was blood but not on her.

And then she was gone.

By the time any kind of alarm was being raised, she was streets away, hoodie draped over her arm, baton hidden in her belt. Her strides were casual. Her gaze had returned to Riverrun's beautiful architecture. She could hear the police sirens and cries of fear. She hated it. It made her feel sick.

Violence, pain, despair. It was everything she taught her kids to stay away from. But the sickness in society had its eye on them and it would bring violence, pain and despair to their doorstep. The only way to stop it was to slip beneath the skin of the city, find the rotten flesh underneath and burn it out.

Abigail set her jaw and walked back to the school, putting the sirens and screams behind her.

There was a lot of rotten flesh in Winfell. And it all needed to be burned out.