THE OLD FALCON

"I must confess," said the king, as they headed to the Small Council chambers, "Lord Chelsted has surprised me. When he sent me his first suggestions for reforms, I thought it might be simple favor-seeking, but as he keeps at it, I am starting to think it is zeal."

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Jon with a nod. "He is proving everything Lord Whent promised and more." He coughed. "Your Grace, I do hope I am not sounding peevish, but… well, it is good the new Master of Laws is coming. Still, I remain Keeper of the Great Seal at present and I fear the workload between that and Hand to be fast proving overwhelming…" To think I saw this as splitting the power of the Hand at first, thought Jon. His Grace has built a door where there was a wall, and people are thronging to get through...

"Relax, Lord Arryn," said Stannis. "I have… some hopes in this matter. But they will not be met today, I fear. His High Holiness has a petition not merely for the King but the King in Council." The king frowned, and ground his teeth.

"Another request to allow the Faith to speak to Highgarden, then?" said Jon with a frown.

"Of course," grumbled Stannis. "What else could it be?"

"I'm certain it will be no harm to listen to them," said Ser Brynden.

"Indeed," agreed Jon. Stannis managed a sullen nod in response. Such a prickly young man at the heart of you, Stannis. Sometimes, you seem wiser than your years, other times, I am reminded you are just out of boyhood.

"Mayhaps," said the king. "Whatever happens, I hope it will pass soon. I've things of import to deal with." They entered the chambers then. Pycelle and Lords Seaworth and Chelsted were already within.

"-skeptical of it," said Lord Rys. "There've been a dozen madcap attempts to break the Qartheeni's hold on the spice trade within my lifetime, and at best they've ended in failure." The Master of Coin gave a rueful shake of his head. "Still, if it were to work, the profits would be unimaginable…"

"Gentlemen," said the king, as he took his seat. "I hope I am not interrupting anything."

"Merely chatting with Lord Seaworth about the price of nutmeg and clove, Your Grace," said Chelsted, as Ser Brynden sat down beside him.

Davos nodded at the king. "There's a war going on in the Spice Islands. Between the Ivory King and the Spicers of Qarth."

"War between Qarth and the Isle of Elephants hardly concerns us," said Jon, sitting down.

"Not Qarth," corrected Rys. "Just the Ancient Guild of Spicers. The Tourmaline Brotherhood were involved, but the Shan bribed them to stay out."

Ser Brynden shook his head. "That blasted city is a riddle to understand."

Lord Chelsted gave a sympathetic nod. "My father always used to say that Qarth did not so much constitute a state as it constituted a collection of merchant interests that happened to be gathered in the same place."

"Some merchants have approached the Throne to underwrite a company that will trade with this 'Shan Rustam'," continued Davos, with a smile and shrug.

"Old Lord Lucerys," interjected Pycelle, "that is to say, the late Lord Lucerys' grandfather, was always trying to get funding for an expedition to the east, like his ancestor the Sea Snake's."

"Old Lord Lucerys managed to sink a dozen ships under his command once," said Rys. "While they were at port. There's a reason he was never Master of Ships. Not that his grandson should have been. The man was better suited to run a brothel than a navy." The Master of Coin sighed. "Though of course, he had a labored and obvious witticism that suggested these were similar occupations that I will not bother to repeat."

Pycelle stared off into the distance. "And Aerys would laugh at it every time he heard it, as if he'd never heard it before." He winced. "Him and Lord Merryweather."

"Lord Merryweather would laugh at almost anything," said Rys. "Save his debts. The realm was failing into war and he still spent most of his time as Hand trying to cozen money from the Treasury to pay them off."

"How goes his exile?" asked Ser Brynden.

"Well enough," said Lord Chelsted. "He's supposedly dead, though I myself would insist on digging up his corpse and verifying that if I could. Along with three-quarters the moneylenders in King's Landing for that matter."

"Gentlemen, may we get back to the matters at hand?" asked the king.

Rys managed a half-bow at that. "Apologies, Your Grace. Memories of the days of your predecessor linger, no matter how much we might wish otherwise."

"His High Holiness is going to address this Council today," said Jon.

"Which of his nephews has he brought with him?" asked Lord Chelsted. "That will tell us how grave matters are."

Ser Brynden raised his eyebrows at that. "Pardon?"

"We Crownlanders keep up with the doing of our neighbors, Lord Commander," answered Rys with a crooked grin. "It passes the time since we can no longer try and kill each other for building fences on one another's land in quite the manner we used to. Old Lord Rykker had a large family, and nothing else, not even a castle since Rykker's Rock collapsed. He had six daughters, who married a motley collection of lords just as poor as their father, and four sons, the last of which was deemed useful for nothing more than the Church. He became a member of the Most Devout, and then His High Holiness. And now the Rykkers sit in the Dun Fort that they used to cast envious glances from their house in Duskendale, while His High Holiness has given positions to his gaggle of nephews and nieces, and in quite a few cases, fine silver robes as well."

Jon stared at the Master of Coin. "And why does it matter which is with him?"

"Some of his nephews are clever, and some are not," drawled Rys. "His High Holiness enjoys having them around for comfort, and one can guess how seriously the Most Devout consider things by which goes with him."

Stannis glanced at his squire. "Balon, would you go and see who is accompanying His High Holiness?" Young Swann nodded and headed out. The king glanced at Lord Chelsted. "You seem remarkably well-informed on the Faith."

Rys shrugged. "As I said, Your Grace, in the Crownlands, we all keep an eye on our neighbors. When Baelor the Blessed moved the Faith here, he gave us something for our younger sons and daughters to do besides try and break their heads in tourneys and wed the louts trying to break their heads in tourneys, respectively." The Master of Coins gave a sigh. "I've dozens of relatives in the Faith myself. Why, my paternal great-uncle was High Septon, as was one of my maternal great-uncles. For about a year each before they died of a chill and too many lampreys respectively, mind you, but they were still each the Voice of the Seven in their turn."

Balon re-entered, panting. "There's three septons with His High Holiness, and three septas…"

"The septas are there for show," said Rys. "They'll stay outside the chamber and pray. Who are the men?"

"There's a big old man with a little beard, a little old man with a big beard, and a fat man, with no beard at all," said Balon.

Rys' eyes narrowed. "Is he very tall and very fat, or average height, and… well, somewhat fat?"

"The former, Lord Chelsted," said Balon, clearly somewhat surprised.

Rys slumped in his chair. "Oh, dear. It's Daeron Langward." He sighed. "He's the clever nephew. We are in difficulties. This means the Most Devout are taking this seriously."

Stannis frowned at that. "And what does that mean?"

"That you are no longer dealing with simply the wishes of one who, even if he is Voice of the Seven, is at the heart of him a fond old man," said Rys, as Lord Seaworth's eyebrows raised. "Now the Faith is starting to back him, and that makes His High Holiness' wishes dangerous."

Jon saw that Pycelle was stroking his beard. "Anything more on Septon Daeron?"

"You will get the measure of the man soon enough," said Rys. "An old family, the Langwards, and an odd one. Lords of a small bit of land on the Rush. Used to be kings of somewhere or the other, though no one's quite sure where. So perhaps they never really were." He shut his eyes. "Pious in their fashion. The present Lord Langward named his bastard son Hugor, which says so much about them…"

"And what happened to Hugor Waters?" asked Ser Brynden.

"Last I heard of him, he was a hedge knight of no especial esteem," answered Rys with a shrug. "More than that, I can't say. We keep an eye on our neighbors here in the Crownlands, but only so far."

Stannis nodded at his squire. "Have the High Septon enter." Balon nodded and went to get the man. Jon took a deep breath. It had not been so long ago His High Holiness had graced the Vale with his presence, in a celebration of his twenty-first year as Voice of the Seven and Shepherd of the Faithful. The Most Devout had visited the First Sept of Heart's Home, the Sept of Seventy-Seven Saints of Gullstown, and the White Sept of Wickenden. One had even chartered a ship and worshipped at the Simple Sept of the Paps. It had been a year of pilgrimages, thronging worship, and countless annoyances. And as he had that year, Jon Arryn felt the strange war between that sense of being in the presence of the High Septon, and the disappointment that the High Septon was a little old man, with a warty nose.

The difference being this time, the High Septon was holding a black cat in his hands, and stroking it fondly. Three members of the Most Devout followed him; a burly looking old man with clipped grey beard who seemed as he was more suited for a tavern fight than a sept, a short little old man with long wispy white beard, and a tall, plump man who looked to be in his late forties. The two older men kept glancing at the High Septon and the cat in his arms with mild alarm-the younger one seemed to ignore it in stolid indifference. Jon regarded the smooth, almost unctuous face. So this is Septon Daeron.

The High Septon looked at the king and beamed. "Ahh, Your Grace. Pardon." He lifted the cat gently to display it to the king, petting it fondly all the while. "This little fellow came up right to me, and I recognized him. Balerion! That is to say, the Princess Rhaenys' Balerion. Not my brother in the faith. Or the dragon, for that matter." The old man grinned at the cat. "Oh, she so adored this little thing." He sniffled, suddenly, and his lip began to tremble. "Poor… poor girl." And then the High Septon seemed close to tears.

Septon Daeron gave a gentle cough. "Our business here, Your High Holiness."

The High Septon blinked. "Ahh, yes. Yes." He cleared his throat and composed himself. "Your Grace, may I present three leading members of my Most Devout." He gestured to the little man with a long beard. "Septon Sefton, Primate and Preceptor of the South, Keeper of the Holy Robes and Attendant of the Word." The little man managed a bow. "Very odd name of course," continued the High Septon cheerily. "Got it from an uncle…"

"Great-uncle, Your High Holiness," corrected Sefton, fidgeting nervously. "Of a sort."

"Of course, of course," agreed the High Septon. "The uncle was a septon too. Imagine it! Two Septon Seftons. Ahh, me, what a world." He gestured to the burly old man. "And this is Septon Togarion, Primate and Preceptor of the West, Bearer of the Staff, and Herald of the Voice. Named for his famed ancestor, but not so terrible!" The man's lips moved along to the High Septon's statement of his name, and then he subtly rolled his eyes as His High Holiness burst into laughter at his apparent witticism. The High Septon turned to his fat companion. "And of course, young Septon Daeron here, Primate and Preceptor of the East, Bearer of the Purse, and Opener of the Gate." The High Septon's nephew nodded with the calmness of a man who has accepted that he will be called young into the dawning of old age.

Having introduced his fellows, the High Septon began to coo at the cat in his arms. "Who's a sweet boy? You, Balerion, you are a sweet boy! Yes, you are!" Daeron cleared his throat, and the old man collected himself. His High Holiness shot an apologetic gaze to his fellows and turned back to the king. "Three pillars of my house, Your Grace, come with me to beg you listen to my words." He nodded and then went back to fawning over the cat. Septon Daeron coughed again. The High Septon straightened slightly. "My words. Yes. The words of the Voice of the Seven. Which are… words. Words which…" He looked at Daeron and nodded slightly.

The Most Devout took a deep breath. "Your Grace, His High Holiness bids you consider the state of your realm, and begs you accept his aid, and the aid of the Faith in ending this abominable war which undermines the state of this, the most blessed of lands, the land where the Seven's precepts are as gold and silver." Daeron's voice was deep, and smooth as silk, and brought to Jon Arryn's mind the vision of a merchant hawking his wares. "This war grows more violent, and the people of these Seven Kingdoms suffer."

"They have sacked Lannisport, Your Grace!" shot out Septon Togarion. "Septs, septries, shrines, motherhouses-sacked and looted! They've left the Great Gilded Sept alone, and the House to the Mother in All Her Mercy alone, but dozens of lesser places have been ruined, their treasures stolen! The Glittering Star of Silk Square has been been pulled down, the pieces taken by Ironmen!"

Stannis glared at the man. "This is the doing of my foes, Septon. Not of me."

Togarion glared right back, and raised a burly arm. "Then let us tell them to stop, Your Grace! Gods be good, this is a city your wife knows well. She can tell you of these places I speak! Ask her! Ask her of the Motherhouse of Mercy, put to the torch! The Septry of the Beloved Father, smashed and burned! The Motherhouse of the Chaste, its chief septa raped on the altar! Ask her, Your Grace! ASK HER!" The man paused, tears in his eyes. Septon Daeron approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"There, there, my brother," he said softly. "There, there."

The High Septon looked around nervously, and bit his lip. "She showed him to me once. The Princess Rhaenys." His voice began to tremble. "She asked me if she thought Balerion was a good name for a cat, and I told her that it was a very good name indeed." The cat mewed, and the High Septon began to stroke it affectionately. "No, no, sweetling, all is well, all is well. There, there, my poppet."

Septon Sefton regarded the Small Council calmly. "Your Grace… it is as you say, this is the doing of your foes. But your foes are your fellows of these Seven Kingdoms. You are our king. You must be willing to bind up the wounds of this land, not merely cause new ones."

"I offered them terms," snapped Stannis.

"Terms so onerous they refused," noted Sefton. "Unbend. And if you cannot, allow us to do so for you. Peace is a blessing, Your Grace. Mercy is a gift."

Stannis leaned back, and ground his teeth. "I do not recall this sort of talk after Duskendale," he said.

"Duskendale?" said the High Septon. "Duskendale. Yes, Duskendale." He made a strange sort of choking noise and then leveled a finger at the king. "Oh you proud and haughty man!" he cried, and suddenly his voice was not wavering, but strong. "Would you rule over desolation? Would you make the wasteland your home, the ruins your seat? Most hated of all things to the Seven is the tyrant and the man of blood! Lay down the blade! Take up the staff of a pilgrim! Let mercy flow, so you may receive it! Repent, o, king! REPENT!" And then he squeezed the cat in his arms and it let out a yowl. The High Septon blinked, and then looked around. "What…? What…?" He glanced at the cat. "Oh, I am sorry, my child! I lost myself! I did not mean…" He began to stroke it, only for it to bat at his hand. "Ahhh! Oh, sorry, dear thing!"

Septon Daeron approached his uncle. "Give him to me, Your High Holiness."

The High Septon handed the cat to Daeron, nervous. "Don't be angry with him. I upset him, you see…"

Daeron began to gently stroke the little beast. "I understand this, Your High Holiness." He hummed softly, as the cat began to calm in his hands. "There, there, little fellow. All is well." He looked at Sefton. "You best get His High Holiness to Septa Rhaelle," he noted. "She can clean his hand…" Sefton nodded, and took the High Septon's arm.

"I… may I keep little Balerion?" he asked, staring at Daeron.

Daeron looked at the king. "I'm certain His Grace will allow it." Stannis managed a nod at that. "Now, go with Septon Sefton, and he will seen that scratch is looked after."

"It is a small thing," whispered the High Septon. "I'm sure the little fellow meant nothing. He was frighted, is all."

"Doubtless you are right," agreed Daeron with a nod. "Still, let us look after it for you." The High Septon smiled at his nephew, and patted his cheek.

"You are such a good lad, Daeron," said His High Holiness. "Such a good, sweet lad."

"I thank the Shepherd of the Faithful for his kindness," said Daeron with a gentle smile.

The High Septon gave a nervous smile, and then turned to the King and the Small Council. "I thank Your Grace, and Your Lordships for your time." And then Septon Sefton lead him out. As he did so, Septon Daeron turned to Togarion and handed him the black cat. The rugged old man took the little thing gently, and then followed His High Holiness and Septon Sefton out of the room. The door slammed shut.

Brynden Tully shook his head. "His High Holiness, the Voice of the Seven…"

"So he is," said Septon Daeron, frowning. He turned to the king. "Your Grace was very… ungracious to mention Duskendale. That is a sore subject for His High Holiness. A sore subject for many of us in the Faith. That sermon you heard was not impromptu, it was prepared. And it was not prepared for you, but for Aerys, after the Defiance."

Stannis frowned back at him. "And what did he think of it?"

"It was never delivered to him," replied the Most Devout. "We managed to convince him it would serve no purpose but to enrage a king growing more erratic by the day." Daeron's face seemed haunted. "The matter was finished, the dead would not come back, and we doubted any could make Aerys repent of anything at that point. Not even the Voice of the Seven."

"Would that you had done so today," said Pycelle stonily.

"His High Holiness… declines," said Daeron softly. "I think of him as a soul in transition from the realm of flesh to the pure realm of the spirit. Each day, he seems to move a little further from this world, into the next." He sighed. "He is… seldom so poor as this, however." He looked again on the king, and Jon noted that his voice seemed to have lost that almost cloying smoothness it had possessed earlier. "Your Grace, I will not ask you to consider what we have said because of the precepts and holy utterances of the Seven. Not least of all because I suspect we both know how much store you put in them. But I will ask you to consider them in the honor of a dear old man, filled with hope and with regret. Dear, old and frail, and soon to die." He bowed to the Small Council. "The Faith thanks this assembly for its time." And then he went to join his fellows.

The council chambers were silent for a long while after he went. Jon Arryn noted that Ser Brynden and Lord Seaworth both seemed close to tears. The king looked awkwardly around the table. "Well," he said at last, "that did not go as I expected."

"I recommend Your Grace be wary of accepting the advice of men in the habit of declaring the blind shall see, and the lame shall walk," noted Lord Rys, with a touch of bitterness. Jon Arryn swore he saw a faint smile at that from Stannis.

"If I may speak on this, Your Grace," began Pycelle, and then paused. Stannis motioned for him to continue. "I would likewise advise wariness." He took a deep breath. "I know Your Grace does not care much for my presence here. And yet I also know that despite the Citadel having declared me removed, you have ignored this. Because the Citadel lies in Oldtown, and Oldtown is under the thumb of the Dragons." The old man leaned forward. "Do not give your enemies weapons, Your Grace. No matter how worn, aged and harmless those weapons may seem."

Lord Seaworth frowned. "And if he passes, what will the next High Septon say of us?"

"What he will," muttered Lord Chelsted.

Pycelle ignored that. "That is a worthy concern," he noted, nodding at Davos. "And indeed is why what I caution is wariness. The king must consider things, and reach his own judgement."

Stannis nodded to himself, then looked at the Grand Maester. "Tell me, Pycelle, if after the war is over the Citadel stands by its judgement and declares you no longer Grand Maester, what will you do?"

"Retire from this post, and return to my studies," said Pycelle. He sighed and shook his head. "I was in the midst of a work on ravenry when I was selected. It would be good to take it up again, and speak with Walgrave again." He frowned. "His last letter to me seemed… disordered."

The king nodded and sat back in his chair deep in thought. "And what do you think, my Hand?" he asked softly.

Jon Arryn thought of his answer "That we have much else to speak of at the moment," he said at last.

The king nodded at this, and turned to Davos. "Lord Seaworth, hand me those reports of our navy on the Narrow Sea."