I sit by my grandfather's withered, rotting body. I've been waiting for weeks now, he's been making the slow journey to the catacombs for almost eighty-four years now. To his credit however he's been covering the remaining distance in record speed. Father Gerard shares the distasteful room with us. He prays every morning and every night for grandfather's safe journey to his thorn god, I merely wait. He also glares at me every time I mock and jest at my dearest grandfather's woes. The incense that burns in an attempt to veil the reek of corruption fails horribly. The sweet stench infects every corner of the room, clings to surfaces like a parasite and makes one wish to bathe in fire to rid themselves of the odour. Grandfather moans in discomfort, opens his milky eyes and fixes his gaze on me.

"Harris!" He exclaims, his voice barely louder than a whisper but still filled with joy.

"Close," I reply neutrally, not looking up from my book, "Harold."

The look of joy upon his wrinkled face sours almost immediately.

"Why are you here?" He asks, his tone growing weary and impatient within seconds.

"You asked that question yesterday, the day before and every day since this bed became your life," I state, "the answer still has not changed."

"You lying scum," grandfather hisses, spitting a gobbet of phlegm laced with traces of blood onto my boot in a rather unkingly manner.

I sigh and say, "I am the heir to the throne, your throne, therefore it's in my best interest to be able to know the exact moment of your death so you can be speedily disposed of and I can be crowned come the end of the week."

"Your father will inherit the throne not you, you hound-"

"Father is dead," I say, scratching my face, very familiar with this routine, "and has been so nearing ten years now."

"Liar!" He repeats, spitting again but this time the mucus just lands on his pillow a few inches away from his head.

"And even if he wasn't he swore holy vows which would prevent him from taking the throne," I further.

Grandfather opens his mouth but promptly closes it remembering all of father's many virtues.

"Your brother Martin will take it then!" He eventually concludes.

"He has also sworn vows," I say, turning to the next page.

"Your cousin Terrence-"

"Is craven, moronic and profligate, this list goes on quite a bit," I point out.

"Bartholomew!" Grandfather yells, smiling as if he's successfully delayed my ascension.

"Was rendered simple ever since he was kicked in the head by that horse you gave him," I state.

"Mary-"

"Strangled at the apex of fathers madness, defiled by every knight in the capital long before then."

"Or-"

"Grandfather, every creature with a drop of your blood in it is dead, shackled by some holy vow, shackled by actual chains in some foreign prison, simple, a deviant or a coward," I cut across him growing bored of this little game, "not only am I the natural heir I'm also the only capable one."

"There must be a better, the fire worshippers will find a better. The agreement still stands with those-"

"The 'fire worshippers' only care that I am the natural heir, they won't care much for my long list of sins," I remind the old man, "and you had them chased out of my kingdom four years ago because your precious bishop told you they were depraved heathens who should be whipped with wires of ice. Only reason my great uncle's agreement still stands with them is because they hold hope that I am an irrational man who will want to spite you after your death. ."

"They were scum my king!" Gerard pipes up, his deep voice could easily allow the illusion that he's a courageous and unyielding individual.

"Speak another word and I'll rip every tooth out of your irksome mouth." I say calmly.

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Gerard is a backwards luddite of the most annoying breed but he's at least smart enough to remain silent.

"The people will overthrow you!" Grandfather declares.

"You were just a fat bastard on the throne demanding borderline extortionate taxes," I say, "and yet somehow you weren't tossed out. You put effort into crafting a character that should be dreaded, feared and that legacy shall lubricate my way into the good graces of my citizens."

"You underestimate the heinousness of your sins-"

"My sins are whoring, drinking, brawling, thievery and disrespect," I say, "and I only thieved from the man whom I disrespected who was an overzealous prick. You however are guilty of whoring, drinking, murder, cowardice, accessory to regicide, assault, torture, rape, extortion, deviancy, mass poisoning and the list goes on and fucking on and these are just the things you've done to your own fucking kingdom."

"I've repented for my sins, what have you-"

"No you paid your little bishop to run along and tell his little thorn god that you're really, really sorry and that you'll whip some peasant's bastard son to death for him for forgiveness," I say, "which in all fairness you did but that most certainly did not help your standing with any of the classes."

"I hope you are dragged through the briars by the great wardens," grandfather spits. "I hope the thorns will rip your flesh from bone, expose muscle-"

"I once hoped king Harold the First would rise from his tomb and strike you down," I respond, "but both those hopes are just childish fantasy."

Grandfather reaches out and grabs my wrist weakly.

"You're not fit to be king," he hisses.

I close my book and gently set it on the ground beside my feet before laying my hand on grandfather's.

"Neither were you," I say softly, smiling thinly, squeezing his hand tight enough to snap his oh so brittle bones like dry twigs. Grandfather tries to scream but all that comes out is a pathetic choking sound. I release his now misshape, bloody hand and it immediately goes to his throat.

Bishop Gerard shoots up and takes two brisk strides before I calmly say; "lay a finger on him and you'll be assaulting the king, for that I'll take a lot more than teeth."

He pauses before returning to his seat staring at me wide-eyed with what could be rage but I ignore him and just continue watching grandfather struggle. He turns a rather impressive shade of blue within seconds but gurgles for minutes before finally falling still and the rancid stench somehow gets worse.

"Well," I say cheerily to Gerard, "aren't there some words you're supposed to say?"

It took Gerard twenty minutes to pray for grandfather's safe journey to the paradise of his briar god, ten minutes for the royal surgeon to conclude the old man had bitten a piece of his tongue off and choked on it. Finally a further six hours were spent on attempting to transport his fetid corpse from the king's chambers -one of the second-highest points of Castle Black- to the underground catacombs. The process of getting the thing down the stairs and through crowded corridors could almost be described as comedic if it didn't take so long and the body didn't reek of shit.

Now in the dimly lit tunnels they struggle to stuff grandfather in his stone coffin, the idiots somehow manage to let the corpse slip and fall face-first onto the hard stone floor, his skull cracks like an egg. They look towards me worriedly but I just grin at them. They fumble the body back to its feet with little difficulty, leaving a few cold sticky droplets of blood on the floor and manage to position it in a standing position long enough for Gerard to slide the lid into place and hammer the long masonry nails home. Gerard suffers from many flaws, he's at least a touch simple, stubborn and prone to occasional fits of violence just to name a few things but he has at least one redeeming quality that I know of, strength. He could quite easily beat a horse to death with his oversized hands, allegedly he once did such a thing out of rage. He hammers fifty nails into the tomb, ensuring grandfather won't escape the cold stone box for many years. Gerard had taken it upon himself to chisel many thorn branches into the granite as well as dozens of runes and insignia many months ago.

I neglect to mention the absences of Martin, Terrence and every noble of grandfather's court and Gerard proceeds to hold a long and tiresome speech about what a righteous and good man grandfather was, occasionally his helpers recite a hymn or passage while I stand quietly and smile widely. When the raging river of lies finally runs dry I lightly clap my hands while Gerard and his confused helpers stare at me.

"Well said," I comment, "well said indeed."

"Your praise is appreciated my prince," one of the helpers says beaming with pride, Gerard clouts the boy's head soon after the words leave his lips, knocking him to his knees.

"Soon to be your king," I say ignoring the bishop's little outburst.

"We have no kings," Gerard states, "the thorns rule us not-"

"As long as you're in Lutom the king of Lutom is your king," I say, ending the religious nonsense where it begins.

I turn on my heel and leave the dusty catacombs before Gerard can vomit more of his idiocies. Many have vacated the castle halls to either quietly celebrate or mildly mourn the passing of grandfather, allowing me to wander the halls unaccosted.

My aimless travelling eventually leads me to the throne room. It was constructed so that one can walk through the castle's front entrance and continue straight to the throne. There are also several other more discreet entrances to the room for servants, guards and informants to use. I stand before the throne itself as if I was a citizen with a complaint to bring before the monarch. It's little more than a glorified chair, not even a comfortable chair at that, though that's probably because the main material used in its construction was granite. It doesn't seem to intimidate or terrify either, it's just a few carved stones held together mostly by gravity now that I inspect it in detail. Yet somehow it Is a chair only a monarch is worthy of sitting upon. I stare at it dully, I had a raven sent to the church of fire mere minutes after grandfather's burial, it should only take the bishop a week to come and place the iron crown upon my head. I've been waiting to sit upon that throne since I understood what power was, I could wait another week.