Septa Fallacia scanned the crowd from the steps of the Sept of Baelor with red-brown eyes, a deep fire smoldering within them.
"The Seven have punished this sinful, wretched land! The King is dead; a call to remind us of our iniquity! Repent, O wicked generation! Beseech the Mother for mercy, lest we all be judged harshly by the Father!" the young woman shrieked.
Chrys found her fascinating, as did many of the residents of King's Landing. He also found her frightening. She spoke harshly, relentlessly condemning the sins of her flock. Yet even so, she was popular amongst highborns and street rats alike, so much so that she was a top candidate for High Septon. Well, High Septa in her case.
Chrys preferred the gods of his home to the strange, strict ways of the Seven-faced God. The Old Gods of the Forest did not condemn in furious voices. They consoled on the breath of the wind, caressed in the gentle drop of rain.
"Repent unworthy people, and bask in the holy light of the Seven-in-One! Mother, grant them mer-"
"The night is dark and full of terrors!" A woman shouted shouted from the assembled crowd, cutting Fallacia off. The septa stared into the mass with predatory anger, her eyes the eyes of a hawk.
"What...what heretic spoke?"
"Over here, blessed septa!" A man called above the crowd and pointed to a hooded woman in a red cloak.
"Why don't you come and blaspheme to my face?" Fallacia called.
The woman in red pushed through the crowd. Her footsteps could be heard in the absolute silence and still. Her hooded crimson cloak hid her face, but her graceful footsteps and pleasing frame gave her an air of dangerous beauty. She climbed the pristine steps of the Sept until she stood only two steps below Septa Fallacia. Then she turned and faced the crowd and lowered her hood.
The white-blonde tumble of hair and pale flesh elicited a gasp from the crowd. The woman was only a little more than a girl, and her countenance was immediately recognizable. She was a Targaryen, namely Lady Visaenya Targaryen. A direct descendant of Queen Daenerys, Visaenya was beautiful beyond compare. Her wide violet eyes and full red lips were worthy of song, and betrayed her youth besides. For all her looks, it was well known that Visaenya was a priestess of The Lord of Light, now one of the largest cults in Westros.
"R'hllor is the only true and good god. Your 'Seven' are false idols, demons. The only way to be saved is by the light of the Lord," Visaenya proclaimed in her high, effulgent voice.
"Your 'god' is a pagan myth, nothing more. The Mother protects us, the Crone guides us, and when we die, the Stranger will lead us to the worlds beyond. No 'Lord of Light' will save anyone," Fallacia retorted.
"Let it be known, here and now. A day shall come when only those who bask in the light of the Lord shall be saved from the darkness. Those who stand with me shall not perish. Those who worship the Seven shall be fed to the flames of R'hllor himself!" Visaenya proclaimed. Then she drew up her hood, lifted her red silken gown, and padded down the steps and back through the crowd.
"May the Father judge you harshly, red witch!" Fallacia shouted to her back. Before anything else could be said, the bells of Baelor's Sept rang for the midday service. Septa Fallacia bid her flock a farewell before rushing up into the sept, her ceremonial skirts swishing.
A cold wind swept through the street and Chrys drew his black woolen cloak a little tighter around his slender frame. He wore a light satin tunic of grey, embroidered on the back with the direwolf, House Stark's insignia. He watched the crowd disperse for a while, then turned to head back to the Red Keep.
Chrys didn't trust any of the red priests of R'hllor. They were abhorred in the North, where not even the Seven had a strong prescence. To the Northmen, followers of the Lord of Light possessed foul and unnatural magics.
The Red Keep was bustling with lordlings, ladies, and knights. They were all gathered to hear King Josephys' will; or rather to hear who would inherit the Iron Throne. Chrys pushed past the nobility in their silk and satin finery, edging his way to the Great Hall, where he knew he would find his father. The further into the Keep he travelled, the higher status of the nobility he passed. Inside the Great Hall, the throne room of the king, the most wealthy and powerful lords argued in loud voices, the sound echoing cacophonously in the high ceiling.
Benjamin Stark stood before the Iron Throne on a raised dais, flanked on one side by the Grand Maester, Maester Vetus, on the other by the captain of the gold cloaks, a strong, hard younger man with a square jaw and cold eyes. He had a jagged scar across his left cheek. Lord Stark raised his arms above his head to silence the squabbling lords.
"My lords and ladies, please silence yourselves!" Chrys' father called in his low, gruff voice.
Before long the Great Hall was so silent that Chrys could hear the ruffling of clothing and sniffles of sick lords.
"Maester Vetus, if you could please read the will," Lord Stark said.
The Grand Maester broke a seal on a roll of fresh parchment. He cleared his throat, then began to unravel the scroll, which made a crisp crinkling noise.
The look on his face was one of abject shock.
"My l-lord..." The wizened maester stammered out. "There's n-nothing written here except 'I leave my throne for the buzzards'. I-I don't understand..."
A great clamor erupted in the Great Hall, and arguments broke out everywhere. Lord Stark tried to silence the outbreak, but it was no use. Chrys sighed and pushed through the crowd. The two white-cloaked Kingsguard at the exit to the Hall parted for the boy so he could leave.
It seemed days later when Lord Stark finally found his son amidst the books of the royal library. In the hours since the reading of the will, Chrys had read an entire history of House Blackstark, two hymnals of the Seven, and a bestiary of animals in Westros and the Free Cities.
"Get your things. We are leaving," Benjamin commanded.
"What?" Chrys asked, lifting his head from his book.
"My guards killed two assassins in my quarters. We aren't safe here, not with the king dead and the realm in chaos. Pack as quickly as possible, we haven't much time," Benjamin commanded.
Chrys nodded and made for his chambers. Once there he commanded his servants to help him pack. The two men silently filled trunks with clothing, wrapped books, and carried crates out of the room. Chrys grabbed his blade, a thin, light sword fit for a water dancer. He put his cloak back on, then rushed into the hallway to find his father.
Outside the door to his father's quarters stood Jon Blackstark, Benjamin's ward and squire. He was of a close age to Chrys, and the two were close friends.
"How goes it Jon?" Chrys asked amiably.
"Well enough, I suppose. Not anything too exciting happening. Unless you count fleeing King's Landing..." Jon jested.
"Shush you big oaf! The walls have ears!" Chrys feigned anger, although he couldn't muffle a laugh. "If you will let me pass, I must see my lord father."
Jon nodded and patted Chrys' shoulder, letting him through. Chrys pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the Hand's solar.
"Father?" Chrys called. He heard noise coming from the floor above him, Lord Stark's. He crossed the room to the cold stone stairs and ascended to the living quarters. At the top, the door was ajar.
Benjamin Stark stood looking out his window, a half-packed trunk open on his bed.
"Father..." Chrys said in a soft voice.
Lord Stark's body fell to the ground, his throat opened with blood spilling to the floor. A man dressed in all black stood where Benjamin had, his knife dripping with crimson fluid.
Chrys drew his blade and slowly backed out of the room and down the steps. From there he ran out into the solar.
"Jon! Quickly, open the door! Jon-" Chrys called to no avail. Jon's corpse lay in the open doorway, his sword flung next to him. His killer was nowhere in sight, but Chrys took caution nonetheless. He ran past Jon and down the hallway, making for some exit.
"M'lord, what's the matter?" One of Chrys' father's servants asked as he made his flight toward the stables.
"We must leave...now. Gather...the others," Chrys said between breaths.
Already servants and northern warriors filled the stables, packing their belongings for the long journey north.
"Quickly now! We must leave!" Chrys called to those packing.
"Where is Lord Stark?" One of the soldiers called.
"Dead. It isn't safe for us here anymore. We must leave," Chrys said.
"Shouldn't we find his killer?" The soldier asked.
"My father knew it wouldn't be safe here. We were leaving to escape the danger, and now it has found us. If we do not leave soon, we may all be lost," Chrys said in a tone that meant no more arguing.
The Northmen packed fairly quickly, and before long a large column of mounted warriors, knights, and servants marched towards the King's Gate. The captain of Lord Stark's honor guard, a young knight by the name of Galahad Frostcloak, rode his dappled palfrey next to Chrys' own white stallion.
"M'lord, we should have gone after the assassin. We have more than enough men-"
"Ser Galahad, I'd prefer to mourn in silence. I've lost a father and a friend today, and the road ahead will prove to be both trying and tiring," Chrys said and rode ahead of the knight. He already was tired, and on the brink of tears. Chrys had known Jon Blackstark since he was little more than a toddler. The large boy had been sent by his father to study and train with the Starks, and as he grew to be a muscular, strong young man, Lord Stark had taken him as squire. Chrys always found his aloof personality and ironic sense of humor quite amusing, but now he lay dead with his father.
A buzzing and thrumming noise snapped Chrys out of his thoughts.
"Archers!" One panicked soldier called out. An arrow took I'm in the chest.
"Where are they?"
"Right above us! Find cover!"
"It's in my leg! Oh gods it burns!"
Chrys' own horse was shot in the flank, driving it into a frightened haze. It charged down the street, past wounded and fighting Northmen. Finally an arrow ended the beast's misery. Chrys bonded off his saddle before his leg could be pinned to the ground, and he landed roughly in the dirt. He ran behind the cover of a crate. The King's Gate was only a few hundred paces away, yet he knew that with the threat of archers he wouldn't be able to make it far. Northern archers fired back at their attackers, and succeeded in hitting a few. Their ambushes wore the golden cloaks of the City Watch.
"How many are they?" Chrys called out.
"Four now... maybe five!" Galahad responded.
"I got one!" One of the Northmen called.
Before long the arrows stopped raining down and the survivors rounded back up. Only two lie dead and one wounded badly. Everyone else appeared unscathed.
"To the gate!" Galahad ordered.
Once outside the city walls, the group slowed their pace. Many of the horses had not been as fortunate as their riders, nearly half of the already scarce mounts had been killed. One of the mounted soldiers offered Chrys his gelding, which he was more than obliged to take.
At sunset the group of around fifty guards and eight servants settled at an inn further down the kingsroad. Chrys was given the loft room for bed, a humble room with a straw-filled bed and a large window. The boy lay face-up on his bed and then, only then, did he let his tears fall.
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How'd you guys enjoy the chapter? Who do you think sent the assassins? If you have critiques, please feel free to tell me! The submission are still open, but with restrictions: I need people older than twenty, as well as commoners. I also have received no Baratheons or their affiliates, so if you are interested, please abide by these rules!
