Late May, 304 AC


Tommen couldn't sleep.

Ser Pounce curled against his belly, the cat's warmth even better than the hot bricks the servants used to warm his bed. Tommen buried his face in the soft white and ginger fur, sniffling as he tried and failed to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks. He was thirteen now, too old to be crying like a baby. So what if his lady mother had been too busy to come see him before bed? She was Queen Regent, with all the cares of the realm on her shoulders.

Sometimes, when he was little, Myrcella would share his bed. Not always, of course, his big sister had her own chambers. But on days when Mother and Father screamed at each other, when Joffy pinched and hit and called him names... on those days his sister would sneak into his rooms. Myrcella's septa didn't dare argue with the princess. His sister would cheer him up saying rude but funny things about Joffy, and then they'd think up ways to avoid their big brother the next day.

Now his sister was on Dragonstone, and though they sent each other ravens every few sennights, it wasn't the same. Myrcella's letters were all about the eerie old castle, and cyvasse, and her betrothed Trystane, and sometimes complaints about Trystane's mother Lady Mellario, who didn't like Myrcella for some reason. Tommen couldn't imagine why, his sister was clever and sweet and beautiful, just like their lady mother.

Mother didn't like to talk about Myrcella. Maybe it was because it made her sad; his mother had red eyes for days after his sister sailed away to Sunspear. Oh, his mother would skim Myrcella's letters from Dragonstone, and sometimes write a reply, but that was it. As Queen Regent she was always busy with court and council meetings and the like.

That started bothering Tommen more and more as he grew older. He was the king, not his lady mother. Why should she have to do all the work? It was better when Uncle Kevan was alive. Uncle Kevan was faithful and clever and Mother trusted him with all her heart. Family mattered more than anything, she said. That made sense, cousin Willem and cousin Martyn were his best friends, until Uncle Kevan died and they went back to Casterly Rock to bury their father in the Hall of Heroes.

Tommen had cried himself to sleep for a sennight after his great uncle died. Mother had come to him the first few nights. She stroked his hair and kissed his brow, like when he was little, and promised him that all would be well, that Lord Tarly would be almost as good as Uncle Kevan, that his son Dickon would be Tommen's truest friend.

Tommen wasn't so sure about Lord Tarly. The lord hand was stern and cold even on a good day, and grew even colder whenever Tommen dared speak up during one of the endless, dull council meetings. But his son Dickon was a good friend, even if he hit too hard when sparring in the training yard. And he didn't like applecakes at all, and thought cats were only good for catching rats. Dickon preferred hounds, like the ones his lord father kept for hunting.

Tommen thought that was silly. Hounds belonged in the kennels with their pack, where they could play together. And hounds would bark and howl and jump all over you, not like cats. Cats were quiet, solitary creatures. If they bothered you at all, it would be with a soft meow or brushing against your legs. Then you knew you could pet them, even pick them up and cuddle them, if they were as friendly as Ser Pounce.

Even Mother allowed herself a laugh sometimes, when Ser Pounce sat up on his haunches to paw at a ribbon dangling over his head. Tommen liked seeing his mother's smile light up her face. When Father was alive, most of her smiles were brittle and didn't reach her eyes. Sometimes when she tucked him in at night, her bedrobe would shift, baring part of her shoulder or arm, and he might see a pale blue bruise hidden beneath a coat of powder. Being king was hard, and father had a temper, the same one he gave to Joffy.

But Father only yelled in public, he never hit. Joffy would hit Tommen and his friend Robert Arryn right in front of their septas, and then tell Mother that nothing had happened. The septas wouldn't say anything, not against the crown prince, so Tommen had to pretend Joffy was right, and Robert was making things up. Poor Robert. It wasn't his fault he was so sickly, or that his counselors in the Vale who ruled for him were evil men.

Not as evil as the men who ruined mother's masked ball. Mother had been so excited about it too, as if it were her nameday, not Tommen's. He'd never seen her so happy, so radiant, all her words soft instead of sharp. And the ball had been ever better than he'd dreamt, at least at first. All the costumes were beautiful, though he could barely see them through his stag mask. Tommen was allowed to take it off during the feast, and he'd stuffed himself silly on the most delicious food he'd ever tasted. It was hard to give Margaery the finest morsels that were her due as his lady wife.

It still felt strange, having a lady wife. The wedding was as grand as befitted a king, far more elaborate than the little wedding mother had thrown for the lovestruck Ser Olyvar Sand and poor mad Lady Sansa Stark. There were seventy-seven courses instead of seven, the tables groaning beneath the finest foods of the Westerlands and the Reach rather than those of Dorne.

But at the end of the feast, there was no bedding. Of course not, Mother said Tommen was much too young for that, and Grand Maester Pycelle agreed. So the king and queen had kissed once, then gone off to their separate chambers, Tommen escorted by Dickon and a gaggle of squires, Margaery by her cousins and a pair of septas.

Tommen hoped Margaery was safe, wherever she was. When the servants helped him get ready for bed, they had softly told him all that he had missed after Ser Addam Marbrand took him back to his chambers, leaving Pate in his place. Mother's dance with Lord Mace had been beautiful, graceful, a vision of loveliness, until the northmen attacked, and the masked ball became a massacre.

Now jolly Lord Mace, who always encouraged Tommen to speak up in council, was dead. The northmen had murdered right in front of Mother, who wept as she clasped Lord Mace's hand and comforted him in his dying. Old Lord Tremond Gargalen was dead too; never again would he be able to wheedle the gruff Dornish lord for tales of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Ser Garrett Fossoway with his terrible japes, Ser Jon Wylde, with his constant flattery, Ser Morgon Banefort, with his pride and his unsettling sigil, all had been slain, and Queen Margaery and Ser Loras had vanished without a trace. And where was Tommen? Safe in his chambers, like a helpless baby.

"I saw Lord Gyles die," Pate had whispered, when a gaggle of red cloaks led by a red cloak in white Kingsguard armor brought the whipping boy to Tommen's chambers. "One slash of a sword, and his chest burst open, like a pig rotting in a gutter. I almost threw up, it stank so bad."

Tommen shuddered. Lord Rosby always smelled rotten, but mother said he was imagining things, that old men often had a queer scent. He supposed that must be true, but Tommen had never seen an old man with such grey skin. It was if Lord Gyles were dead already, a hollow shell who barely spoke nor ate.

Even small Ser Pounce ate more, especially when the servants brought him chopped meat. Tommen asked them to, just in case Ser Pounce wasn't getting enough rats to eat. Lady Stripes and Lady Cinders also haunted his rooms, as did Ser Whiskers, when he wasn't in the Maidenvault, following people through the halls. Ser Loras found it amusing, the lord admiral Aurane Waters less so, but he'd been grumpy for months.

Perhaps he was feeding Ser Pounce too much. The tom cat had lean limbs and a noble face, but a paunch dangled from his belly, swaying and jiggling whenever he ran across the room. That always made Tommen smile, and sometimes the servants too, though not as big as they smiled when he gave them an extra coin on holy days.

Today is a holy day, Tommen remembered as he heard the bells toll four. There were seven holy days for each of the seven, and today was the Father's Fast, a day for solemn prayer and for hearing weighty petitions. As Hand of the King, Lord Tarly would hold court all day, handing down judgments whilst Tommen sat upon the Iron Throne to listen and learn.

Maybe the Father would bless them by making all the northmen repent of their evil and surrender. If they did, he could ask Lord Tarly to be merciful and send them to the Wall. Even if the stories about the Others were made up, surely there had to be something wrong, for Lord Varys to act so nervous during council.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Startled, Tommen bolted upright.

"Come in!" Tommen called.

There was no need to shoo away Ser Pounce before he received whoever it was; the cat had abandoned his place at Tommen's side when he sat up. There would be plenty of cat hair on his shift, but it wouldn't show too badly, not with the room dark. It brightened only a little when Ser Addam Marbrand entered, a torch in his fist, his white armor shining.

"What is it, ser?" Tommen tried to keep his voice calm, like a king's should be. "Is there word of Queen Margaery and Ser Loras?"

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace, but no." Ser Addam drew closer. The Kingsguard stood tall as ever, but he was worried, Tommen could tell by the furrowed brow. "I should have gone to the queen regent, but she commanded she was not to be disturbed, not even for her morning prayers, and sent away all her maids. With the horror of last night, I thought it best to leave her be."

"You did right," Tommen assured him, thinking of how angry his mother grew when one was foolish enough to disobey her. Besides, his lady mother needed her rest. Her sleep would be plagued by nightmares after witnessing such awful bloodshed, a sight no lady should have to see. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Ser Addam hesitated, as though his tongue had suddenly grown too thick for his mouth. "Your Grace... there is a crowd of smallfolk at the gate, led by Ser Bonifer Hasty. He calls himself Brother Bonifer, and begs leave to present a petition to the king himself upon this holy day."

Tommen threw off the covers, the stone floor cold against his bare feet as he stood. He knew what he must do, just as he knew the Father's prayers and the duties expected of a righteous king.

"Your Grace?" Ser Addam had not moved, but watched his king with troubled eyes.

"I must go and hear their petition," Tommen said. With a grunt he opened the heavy lid of a chest, considering what he should wear. A king must always dress in fine regalia when in public, but not too fine, Margaery said, and today was the Father's Fast. Something somber, then, and suited to the bitter cold outside.

"Your Grace, I am not sure if that is wise. Lord Tarly is scouring Flea Bottom for the men who attacked last night, it is not safe to leave the Red Keep."

"Yes it is," Tommen insisted, proud that his voice did not crack. Everything would be fine, he knew it. Not like the day of the bread riot. That day had haunted his nightmares for months; the scream of the poor beggar woman, his lady mother's panicked wail. But that was when he was a boy, only eight. Things were different now that he was almost a man grown.

"I shall have an escort of gold cloaks, twice as many as usual. And we can bring Ser Daemon Sand—" he faltered when he remembered that the gallant Dornish knight was gravely injured, and growly Ser Boros Blount was dead. For a moment he paused to think, trying to recall the lords present in the Red Keep who were fiercest in the training yard.

"I mean—" Tommen cleared his throat, trying to sound more kingly. "We shall bring Prince Oberyn, and Lord Crakehall, and Ser Ronnet, and all their men-at-arms. It will be no different than our rides through the city, and my lady mother lets me take them almost every sennight. Besides, I am thirteen now. Daeron the Young Dragon was only a year older when he set out to conquer Dorne."

Ser Addam's face cleared; he almost looked proud. "You are the king, Your Grace," he agreed. "And as brave as your Uncle Jaime."

Tommen felt his chest puff up a little at that, a warmth spreading through him that did not ebb as he summoned his valet to help him dress. Smallclothes, two pairs of hose, black cashmere breeches, a yellow cashmere tunic heavily embroidered with lions and stags. All of them were lightly dusted with cat hair; the valet plucked them off one by one with a wry smile, knowing he would get a silver stag for his trouble.

Once that was done, Tommen broke his fast with applecakes and sausage, careful not to let Ser Pounce hop into his lap. He did allow one of the servants to approach, a lanky pot boy who bent to whisper in his ear. Mother would punish such impertinence, especially if she didn't like what she heard, but Tommen liked hearing all the rumors and gossip from around the keep, even if half of it wasn't true.

This morning's gossip was promising. A Cafferen man-at-arms had seen Queen Margaery and Ser Loras leave the the Queen's Ballroom before the massacre began, and a kitchen girl swore she saw them heading for the Maidenvault. Alas, his hopes soon proved as unfounded as the gossip, for when Tommen sent a red cloak to the Maidenvault, he returned to report that he had found Ser Loras's rooms empty.

That made Tommen's belly clench in a tight knot, but he ignored it. He finished every bite of his breakfast, then checked himself in the looking glass one last time, brushing the crumbs from his collar. His reflection looked back, his face still slightly plump despite his training with Ser Addam, his curls shining like gold, his eyes green as grass.

Mother said he favored her and his Estermont grandmother, just as the Starks all favored Catelyn Tully. That wasn't quite right; Lady Arya and the bastard Jon Snow had looked just like Lord Eddard. Tommen wished he looked more like his father King Robert. If he had black hair and blue eyes, or if Myrcella or Joffy shared their father's look, then men wouldn't dare make up nasty lies about his lady mother and his brave uncle.

Mother wouldn't speak of Uncle Jaime either, not since he disappeared after lord grandfather died. Uncle Kevan said Jaime must be dead too, after so long with no word of him, but Mother couldn't bear to admit it. Ser Addam agreed, as did Lord Mace, and most of the court.

Not the Dornishmen, though. They tried to make mother feel better by talking of Viserys the Second. Everyone thought Viserys had died during a battle, only for the prince to return years later when it was revealed he still lived in the lands across the Narrow Sea. Prince Oberyn had told the tale more than once when dining with the king and his lady mother, his voice as smooth as his silk robes.

When Tommen rode through the gates of the Red Keep, it was with Prince Oberyn and Lord Crakehall at his side, and Ser Ronnet behind, all of them armed and armored. They looked almost as splendid as Ser Addam, who rode before the king with the king's banner on his lance. His coat of arms was halved, with his father's crowned black stag on gold and his mother's golden lion rampant on crimson. Their fierceness helped Tommen keep his head up despite the weight of his antler crown.

The further they rode down Aegon's Hill, the more smallfolk they saw in the streets. Some were angry, some confused, but all of them yelled about northmen and holy brothers and bread. As always, Tommen carried a purse filled with copper pennies, groats, and stars, with a few silver stags mixed in for good measure. He threw them all before they even passed the Street of the Sisters; too many faces in the crowd were pinched by hunger and red with cold. Snowdrifts lined the streets, deep as a man's thigh, and few of the smallfolk had thick cloaks or a quilted coat like the one he wore under his ermine cloak, the bright yellow cashmere blazoned with his noble stag.

It was sad that the lord mayor and the patricians could not do more. Baelor the Blessed and Daeron the Good had both made ample provision for the poor during winter, but his lady mother said there was not enough money in the royal treasury that they might do the same. Maybe he could ask Lord Tarly about it; the King's Hand met with the lord mayor every moon, to ensure the city was kept in order.

The city was not in order at the moment. The streets grew more crowded as Tommen drew near the Gate of the Gods; he even saw a band of ragged men shoving their way through the press. They passed by the king and his train with barely a glance, though they kept a good distance away from the goldcloaks and their spears. An unfamiliar captain led them; Ser Jacelyn Bywater had been busy at the harbor.

It was a relief when Tommen finally reached the Gate of the Gods. The faces of the Seven graven in stone over the arched gate looked down upon him, their holy faces stern yet kind. He needed their strength as he listened to the captain of the gate, who sweated despite the cold as he made his report.

Brother Bonifer and his followers had appeared in the middle of the night, having walked the long leagues betwixt King's Landing and Harrenhal. Most of them were courteous, if coarse, but some of their number were bold and brash, those who followed a smith who had led them from Duskendale. Brother Bonifer had been content to await the king outside the gates. Jack the Smith and his men had been less patient, charging again and again, making vile threats, until a band of frightened goldcloaks let them in, their captain having ridden off to fetch reinforcements.

"That was ill done," Tommen told the captain, trying to look stern from his seat atop his golden stallion.

A captain should never abandon his gate, just like a lord should never abandon his seat nor a king his throne. He supposed Ser Jacelyn Bywater would take the man's gold cloak and exile him from the city, but there would be time for that later. For now, he must treat with Brother Bonifer; Jack the Smith and his men had entered the city already and disappeared into the crowd.

Ser Bonifer Hasty had always been pious, so everyone said. Still, it was strange to see the lanky old knight in roughspun pink robes, with a small iron sword hanging from the leather thong about his neck. But Brother Bonifer's narrow, wrinkled face lit up when he saw the king ride through the gate, flanked by his courtiers and his escort of goldcloaks. He dropped to his knees, as did the rest of the men who followed him.

He had brought no herald; he did not need one, not with Ser Addam by his side.

"All hail His Grace," the Kingsguard cried. "Tommen of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Tommen looked down upon a sea of bowed heads, their eyes lowered as the gazed at the ground. Only when Brother Bonifer rose to his feet did the rest slowly follow. Their eyes were uncertain as they beheld their king astride his horse just outside the gate; he must show them that he was a lion, bold and unafraid.

"Well met!" He cried, his voice echoing over the crowd. Most were smallfolk, but among them were holy brothers and sisters, the colors of their robes signifying to which of the Seven they pledged their devotion. "May the Father's blessing be upon you, as he balances his scales upon this sacred day."

That drew some murmurs of agreement from the crowd, though he saw neither loyalty nor love in their dull eyes. Still, it was enough to begin.

"Your Grace," said Brother Bonifer, with a frown as if speaking pained him. "We come before you seeking redress for the grievances your people have suffered. Winter falls dark as the Stranger's cloak, and grows colder every day; bloodshed, plague, and famine sweep over the land to chastise us for our sins, and the poor cry out for succor with no one there to hear."

"I am here," Tommen said. "We will hear you."

Brother Bonifer drew forth an oilcloth pouch from beneath his robes, and from the pouch drew forth a parchment.

"This," he said, holding out the parchment to Ser Addam, "is our petition. Your Grace is young, and misled by unworthy counselors. Humbly we beg you to set the realm aright, for though all men are sinners, through the Seven all things are possible, and no wrong cannot be set right."

Tommen nodded, and accepted the parchment from Ser Addam. The ink was smudged, but the penmanship was clear enough.

A Petition to the Iron Throne

Seeking That the King Should Cast Off His Faithless Counselors and Rule According to the Teachings of The Seven-Pointed Star

There were a lot of words after that, all about how loyal and true the smallfolk were, or would be, were it not for their suffering. Tommen was not so sure about that. The folk before him seemed gentle enough, but the ravens from Casterly Rock spoke of robbery, rape, and murder, sins which no suffering might render needful. Impatient, the king skipped ahead to the list of demands.

First, that the condition of serfdom, though an honorable one before the Seven, should no longer be imposed upon babes at birth, but only as punishment for most grievous crimes;

Second, that the poor be permitted to hunt game and fowl, and take fish from the rivers, for many lords lay claim to all the Mother's bounty, rather than sharing it with their fellow men;

Third, that the poor be permitted to cut firewood from the forests of the realm, so that they might keep their hovels warm in winter, and live to toil when spring returns;

Fourth, that there be more meadows and pastures set aside for common use, as they were in the days of King Aegon the Fifth;

Fifth, that those owe labor to their lords should not be made to toil in the fields upon holy days owed to the Seven, which has been the law of the land since the days of King Aegon the Third, but which has been disregarded by many lords and knights greedy to take more than what is owed;

Sixth, that either the Faith or the crown should take measure of the rents owed by the poor, and adjust them according to the Father's scales, for many pay in excess of what is just, and their wives and children go hungry;

Seventh, that the practice of taxing widows and orphans be prohibited, until they should find employment or come of age, as it is done in the fiefs ruled by godly lords and knights;

Eighth, that no longer shall brothels, which exist as fonts of corruption, be suffered to remain open should they serve adulterers, rather than turning them away and informing the proper authorities, nor should brothels be permitted to offer boys and unflowered girls for fornication; further, that all fallen women should be required to attend senmorn services, that they may repent of their sin and be cleansed upon their death;

Ninth, that The Seven-Pointed Star requires that all free men, from the lowest churl to the highest of lords, should have no judgment meted upon them for their crimes, but that they should be publicly arrested, tried by a panel of their neighbors of equal rank, and only then given over to their liege lord for the King's Justice;

Tenth, that—

Tommen rubbed his eyes, then scanned down the page. The sun had come out from behind a cloud, light shining on the parchment. There were fourteen demands in all, and the rest of them were even lengthier than those he had read. What on earth was he supposed to do? For now the crowd was quiet, waiting for the king to finish reading, but soon he would have to say something.

A few of the demands seemed simple, almost reasonable, but that was just his ignorance talking. Mother said local lords knew best how to rule their people, and that the crown should leave them to it, so long as they paid their taxes and called their banners promptly at the king's behest. Father used to say much the same, come to think of it. King Robert had no patience for lords who came to him for every little squabble. What did Tommen know of the thousands of fiefs spread across the realm, each one different from the next? Wait, that was it!

"Good people!" Tommen shouted, rolling the parchment back up. He had to shout; there was some clamor behind him. "We have read your petition, and heard your prayers. But such weighty matters cannot be judged in one day. You have my leave to enter the city; I shall call a council of learned men, lords and knights, septons and maesters, and with their aid, we shall—"

There was a scream; Ser Addam and his lords drew close; the goldcloaks formed a circle around the king, pointing their spears outward. When Tommen turned to look, he saw a throng of men clustered by the inside of the gate. Four of them held the High Septon over their heads, his golden robes ripped and torn, his face a mass of blood and bruises as he whimpered and begged for mercy through broken teeth.

For a moment the king wanted to vomit, until shock and outrage saved him.

"How dare you?" He roared over the clamor. At first they did not hear him, but when Tommen spurred his horse toward the High Septon, they scattered before his knights and goldcloaks.

"He's a Frey!" Bellowed a balding man, who seemed to be their leader. He clutched a massive cudgel in a fist the size of a ham, his muscles bulging through his sleeves. Jack the Smith, he realized, aghast, as the man brandished his cudgel. "Not fit t' step foot in Baelor's Sept, nor wear t' Seven's crown!" He spat. "All o' them must die, afore the Stranger slays us for their sins!"

For a moment Tommen's tummy lurched. Lord Gyles' ward was Olyvar Frey, and Rosby was between Duskendale and the city. Had they slain Olyvar too, and his poor simple wife Lollys?

"Put him down," Tommen bellowed, the cold air making his lungs burn.

To his dismay, they obeyed by letting go of His High Holiness. He dropped to the ground, gasping and wheezing and clutching at his belly, whilst Brother Bonifer and a pair of holy sisters rushed to the injured man's side.

"Men are responsible for their own sins, not those of their kin," Tommen shouted. "Dragging His High Holiness from the sept and beating him half to death is not justice, and—"

This time it was the thunder of hoofbeats that silence him. Dark clouds blotted out the sun as trumpets blared, horns blew, and Lord Tarly charged into the fray, his sword in his hand.

"Treason! Goldcloaks, defend your king! Arrest the traitors, slay all who resist!"

Lord Tarly swung Heartsbane, the blow as vicious as his voice. His sword was valyrian steel, and his victim was a peasant clothed in roughspun. There was a shriek of pain, then a severed arm went flying through the air, spraying blood upon the snow.

"No!" Tommen cried.

Lord Tarly did not seem to hear, but drove his stallion toward Brother Bonifer. The old knight bore neither sword nor shield; it took only an instant for Tarly to run him through.

A few of the smallfolk dropped to their knees to yield, but the rest tried to flee, and knights and men-at-arms in the livery of House Tarly charged after them. Some bore lances, some spears, some swords, but all soon ran red with blood.

Tommen could only watch, his mouth agape, unable to stop the slaughter. A man fell to his knees and was trampled beneath the hooves of a goldcloak's horse. Another man cried out for mercy as he banged on the closed door of a house, only to be pinned to it by the thrust of a Tarly knight's lance through his back.

"ABOMINATION!"

And suddenly Jack the Smith was clubbing his way through the goldcloaks. There weren't as many as before, with so many gone chasing the smallfolk with Ser Ronnet. Ser Addam was trapped by the press; by the time he cut Jack down, the man was a mere yard from the king. The body fell to the ground with a thud, and Tommen's stallion reared, screaming. The reins slipped from his grasp; he would have fallen, if not for the sudden aid of Prince Oberyn, who shoved him back in his seat with a lock of shock upon his face.

"To the Red Keep," the Dornishman bellowed at Ser Addam.

The Kingsguard nodded and began shouting orders. The remaining goldcloaks drew tight around the king; Lord Tybolt was so close Tommen could almost see the whites of his eyes through the slit in his helm.

I want Ser Pounce, Tommen thought helplessly as they galloped up the road toward Cobbler's Square. I want my mother. His eyes burned as he tried not to weep, his nose filled with the stench of blood and death. It was different this time, but not the way he hoped. Seven, why have you forsaken us? I meant for it to be better, not worse.


Sweet summer child, I feel so bad for him can't wait to hear what y'all think in the comments.

Yeah, so... Olyvar VI was supposed to be next, and is already half-written, but then I ran into an issue. You see, this was supposed to be a side oneshot, until I realized that it really didn't work as a stand alone. Also, since it's IMMEDIATELY during/after Cersei V, it didn't make sense to post Olyvar VI first, not to mention Olyvar VI goes straight into Jaime III.

Long story short, last night I had to re-number ALL my chapter lists and outlines for Part IV and V. Also, I wrote this entire oneshot today, because it's so short/simple. A chapter that's a single morning??? What???? (Meanwhile, Olyvar VI is May-September, gahhh)

Up Next

Chapter 144: Olyvar VI

Chapter 145: Jaime III

Chapter 146: Arya VII

Chapter 147: Sansa VI

NOTES

1) There are many differences between what Tommen notices/knows versus what Cersei notices/knows. It was a really fun exercise to get inside Tommen's head and see his perspective on the court and the city. Note that he's been influenced by his upbringing; Tommen has a sweet nature, but a lot of misconceptions about the plight of the smallfolk and the realities of life in the Seven Kingdoms, not to mention the, er, overall moral standing of House Lannister.

2) This oneshot was loosely inspired by Wat Tyler's rebellion, aka the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. Brother Bonifer is analogous to John Ball, Jon the Smith to Wat Tyler. Tommen is a much better person that Richard II, though. Poor kid.

3) As I mentioned previously, for the list of smallfolk demands, I took inspiration from the Twelve Articles written in 1525 during the German Peasants' War. The meeting held to draft them is considered the first constituent assembly to be held in what is now Germany.

4) To my mild surprise, the medieval Catholic Church viewed prostitution as a necessary evil. Why? Well... basically to protect the virtue of nuns and unmarried women, to provide a release for the violence caused by men suffering from excess sexual energy, and because brothels were great sources of revenue. Also, prostitutes were expected to rat out married men who sought their services, and only tend to the needs of bachelors and widowers.

In ASOIAF, a lot of characters are MUCH more negative about sex work. Baelor the Blessed scourged all the whores from the city; Stannis wanted to ban brothels (???); Ser Bonifer calls Pretty Pia a "font of corruption" who "flaunts her parts" etc.