Crownlands

King's Landing has never appeared more queer than these past few weeks. Rodrik never lived inside the city; the smell and clamour are far too much for him. However, his house and farmstead is only a league away from its walls. The best businesses and merchants thrive there, and with the long summer, harvest has been quite bountiful for his family.

But those blasted lights.

The thing in sky is the first to appear, a terrifying streak dyeing the night in red. A burning star they say. It became the talk of the region, filled with fearful gossips and uncertainty. But a travelling merchant assured them that the thing is harmless, nothing more than a comet. He doesn't know what that is, but it apparently come and goes every few thousands of years or so. It'll probably be the same for this one after a few months.

But superstitions are hard to quell. With news of House Lannister spreading death and chaos across the Riverlands, the thing in the sky appears to him as a bloody streak. Lannister red. Is it really a coincidence that such omens are foretold?

Then came the lights from King's Landing. Dazzling, colourful rays piercing bright into the sky, cutting through the clouds. So curious he was that he took the time off to go into the city with his wife and watch it all at the Sept of Baelor. It was the first time since King Robert's crowning that he saw the High Septon, the Fat One as his wife called him. The bloated High Septon's appearance reminded him of tales of corruption present within the Faith. Rodrik was never a pious man; he prays but doesn't follow all of the Faith's rules. What he saw in the Fat One his trust in the Faith lowered, and yet...

The lights came on. Bursting with energy and movement, they shone from the crystal spires in seven colours. So colourful they were that entire swathes of the crowd were bathed in blue, red, and other dazzling colours. Their warmth enveloped him, like the embrace of the Seven. It was a holy miracle, a sight that brought tears to both him and his wife.

The Fat One was talking then, but he paid him no heed. It was only later that he heard the talk of the town: holy messengers of the Seven were sent from the heaven to lead them in these dark times. Dark times of what? Rodrik does not know, but he feels assured that someone is watching over them.

But over time, the lights have lost a bit of their glamour. Gone were his fascinations and wonder, leaving only a slight annoyance of the lights shining during the times he should be asleep. Every sundown, every sunrise, and at the hour of the bat; the High Septon is adamant in leading prayers. Those poor messengers, Rodrik thinks, yawning after waking up at midnight. He's treating those holy ones no more than entertainment for the masses. I've yet to see the Sept treat the sick and ill in the streets. Ah, why must they be so lost? Maybe that's why those messengers came: to be rid of them.

Rodrik steps out of his house, feeling quite parched. With the lights making the clouds above glow, it nearly outshines the Bloody Streak as some in the city have called it. But then what is that thing? The King returned from the hunt wounded from a boar, and talks of his imminent death are present even in those who are optimistic. Death and hope, shining brilliantly in the sky. Is this the Gods' way of waging war?

Rodrik sighs. Such theological thoughts are far too above him. Those are the matter of the Gods and the Sept, not some farmer in a field of vegetables. As long as they can assure his family's well-being, then he has nothing to fear.

He heads towards his well, just across his field. Luckily for him, the bright lights allow him to walk in the night without tripping. He throws down the bucket and hears a splash. Satisfied that the bucket might already be filled, he turns the crank to draw the bucket out. It's so quiet now, not a single chirp of insects or birds. When the Sept's prayers are finished, he's sure to get a peaceful sleep.

He turns the crank with two hands, feeling it to be quite heavier than usual. Ugh, I should've built a cover for the well. Don't tell me this is another rabbit? The last time one decided to jump into the well, the water was ruined for weeks and he had to use his neighbour's. Since they're not on friendly terms, their interactions were quite awkward. Maybe that's the omen, another dead rabbit in the well.

...

Did I oil the winches? It's not creaking as it used to.

Pulling out the bucket, he tips it out in the light of the Sept and sees... Nothing. Nothing? There's not even water spilling from it, yet it still feels as heavy as a sack of potatoes. Strange... He kicks the bucket over.

A bright flash blinds him, causing him to reel back and stumble on something large. He trips and lands on a multitude of sharp points, piercing his flesh and bones. He lets out a pained scream... But there's no sound. To his horror he can't make a sound. "HELP!" he shouts, but there's nothing. Not even the flailing of his arms cause a splash. But he can still feel his throat straining at the attempted shout. He tries to get up, but the points stabbing into his back secures him in place. He can feel warmth slowly draining from his body.

Weakly reaching behind him, he realises that he's stuck on his harrow. His newly sharpened harrow. Wha? Didn't I... Place it... The chirps and the blowing wind returns, filling the world with sounds of life. There's even a faint sound of laughter echoing within. The light from the Sept dims and disappears one by one. The time for prayers is over. Now, only sleep awaits him.

Sept of Baelor

"Your Holiness, our holy brother Septon Symon wants an audience with you. He has brought a guest."

"So early in the morning?" I haven't even touched my meat yet... Oh bother, might as well get this over with. "Oh do please let them in, fellow brother of the Faith."

The holy brother closes the door as the High Septon readies himself for this meeting. The sun has yet to rise and he still needs to prepare for the Dawn Hymns for today. However, feeling in good spirits, he allows this single interruption. Besides, he knows Septon Symon quite well.

Two men enter the room. One is the recognisable figure of Septon Symon, wearing his holy garb with seven colours and crystals adorning it. A high-ranking clergy must look the part after all, especially for serving the faith for so long. But following behind him is a smaller figure, looking no older than seventeen of age. He is quite dishevelled, his robes and breeches nothing more than cheap and brown fabrics. His hair is dirty and the face is full of freckles, hiding eyes full of fear. Walking barefoot, he tracks mud on the marble floor. But what stands out the most to the High Septon is the smell. It reeks! Just like those whorehouses in Flea Bottom!

But the High Septon keeps his calm; the boy looks to be a fellow Holy Brother, perhaps a poorer one. And the Sept has to accept all sorts of people. "Oh, Septon Symon, it is rare to see you so early in the day. Have you had breakfast yet, Septon Symon? It is the most important meal of the day. But, do tell me, I do not recognise the fellow holy brother by your side. Who might he be?"

Septon Symon bows along with the holy brother. "Thank you for seeing us, High Septon. This is Brother Wymar, hailing from the streets of Flea Bottom."

"I-It is an honour to meet you Holiness!" The boy bows again. He looks nervous and panicky, his eyes darting from the statues to the crystal windows and to others in the room.

Flea Bottom. The thought of that stinking place sends a shiver down the High Septon. A foul place, full of shit and whorehouses and pigsties. Of course that's where the boy comes from. So why did you bring filth to this holy place, Septon Symon? "It is always great to see a fellow of the Faith, Brother Wymar. O, you are shaking. Have you an important mattter for us to discuss, Brother Wymar?"

"Ye-Yes your Holiness," the boy bows again, fidgeting with his hands. At least he knows when to show respect, the High Septon smirks. "Some... Some foul things have been happening in Flea Bottom, your Holiness. P-People murdered left and right in the dead of night. Even the Healer of Flea Bottom c-couldn't heal the one who survived, your Holiness. We had... We had to put them down."

Oh, this issue. "Ah, those strange murders? Yes, I've heard of them, o holy brother. It is such a morbid affairs happening in King's Landing. First the murders and now the King's injuries... Truly, the Messengers of the Seven couldn't have come at a better time. Rest assured Brother Wymar, we pray every day to those who are suffering. Day and night, upon waking and sleeping. However," the High Septon leans forward in his seat, "this is the first time I've heard of a 'healer' in Flea Bottom. Tell me, Brother Wymar, who are they?"

"O-oh, um... They're a visiting healer, your Holiness. A foreigner from a far land. Been healing the sick and crippled, even make some of them walk again. They're-"

"Ah, healing the crippled did they? Tell me, Brother Wymar, could that not be trickery?"

"I'm sorry, your Holiness?" the boy asks, stepping back from the High Septon's gaze.

"Trickery, o Brother Wymar. You say this person is a foreigner, this healer. What do we know of their strange customs when they practice this art of healing? I suspect that they don't even follow the Westerosii manners or the Faith of the Seven. Tell me, Brother Wymar, have you ever heard of the Skagosii?"

"S-Skagos, your Holiness?"

"Yes. Skagos, o holy brother, is a part of Westeros. And yet they've refused our way of living and the Faith as well. They still practice the forbidden tradition of cannibalism, the eating of each other's flesh!" The boy tremble before the High Septon's descriptions. The imagery of such people is no doubt instilling fear in his head. "And if this 'Healer of Flea Bottom' have come from even further away, wouldn't you suspect them of being the killer you chase? Why wouldn't they be the ones carrying this monstrous attitude? A wolf in sheep's skin, as the Crone might say. Is it not?"

The boy looks flabbergasted, unsure on what to say next. The High Septon smiles at his work. "Um- Ah-"

"I think that's enough meandering for now, High Septon," Septon Symon interrupts, looking irritated from the little diatribe. "Boy, tell him what you saw."

"B-But-"

"TELL him."

"Y-Yes, Septon Symon," the boy bows again. This time, his face looks even paler than before. "Last night, I-I think just after the Midnight Hymns, I was walking down one of the alleys in Flea Bottom. Preaching, your Holiness, near a whorehouse named Silk Skin. I-"

"Did you go into the whorehouse, boy?"

"I-I-"

"High Septon, please do refrain from cutting off his story. Continue, and ignore his questioning for now." Septon Symon glares at his superior, much to the shock of the High Septon. Anger is beset in his steely grey eyes.

What is going on here!?

"I-I went down the alleyway, preaching for bread and copper like I usually do. Then, I heard this scream. Loud scream, your Holiness, from one of the off-shoot roads. I-I peer' round t' corner and... " The boy pauses, gulping. "I saw them. I 'eard a rustle and cats, and when I look over, I saw... I saw a dead man. Torn in two, your Holiness, but there ain't blood. And I saw the killers.

"At end of the street, hiding in shadows, there were two girls talking over the corpse. I-I couldn't tell what they were doing or talking, but I saw one wield a fire sword, you Holiness. The other..." The boy whimpers at the memory. "The other was eating t'arm. Long nails like birds. I-I pissed my breeches and came away screaming. They chased me down, tearing up doors, and, and-"

"He stayed over at my cousin's house at Flea Bottom," Septon Symon says, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Was pale as a corpse, like he had seen the Other. Luckily, I was there to visit family, and so I've come here."

"Yes, and so you've came," the High Septon sighs. He's still on edge for what might happen next. "However, I don't see how this is a matter of the Sept, Septon Symon. But, as you've come all the way to tell me of this, then I will make an exception. At the Dawn Hymns, I will lead the prayers to those whose lives are lost and those who are grieving in Flea Bottom. It will ease their hearts in mourning."

"That's not what we want, High Septon," Septon Symon steps closer to the desk. "What we want is for you to stop this ludicrous mummer's lights."

"...What?"

"You heard me. These lights that you're doing, they are unholy. They're not messengers of the Maiden, nor are they any other parts of the Seven, High Septon. They are DEMONS! Demons that pulled the wool over your damn eyes!" Symon shouts, slamming his fist onto the desk. The High Septon flinches, but relents.

"Nonsense! Complete and utter nonsense!" scream the High Septon, spittle dribbling onto the table. "They are Messengers of the Seven, Septon Symon. Not demons or ghouls or whatever you accuse them of. You've seen them; they're young maidens! Surely, the one with seven-coloured wings is a Holy Being? Their miracles and might?"

"Wings," scoffs the Septon. "More like gnarled twigs with shiny rocks than any sparrows I've ever seen. And how about the other girl? The one who wields a great flaming sword? Is she not like that Red Priest of Myr? A follower of the Red Demon? Isn't that right boy?"

"Y-"

"Septon Symon, are you calling the Messenger of the Maiden a fire demon? Don't you know that the words coming out of your mouth is blasphemy?" The High Septon have always known of Septon Symon's nature. That stubbornness and foolhardiness of his are acceptable for the man always carries his position with such care and love. But this? This is too much. "You've blasphemed against the Maiden in the Sept of Baelor, Septon Symon. I implore you to choose your words carefully."

"I'm not the one that needs to be careful, High Septon. And neither am I the first to blaspheme in this Sept. Tell me, was it a week ago that your 'Messenger of the Maiden' planted a fruit tree in the middle of the Sept? No, it was a seed. A seed that grew into a fruiting tree in a matter of days."

The High Septon clenches the edge of his desk, teeth grinding at the accusations. "That... That was a miracle-"

"No it wasn't. Stop kidding yourself; it was sorcery, your Holiness. You've brought sorcery into the holiest place in the Realm and you're expecting me to stay quiet!? And that damn tree. If that tree had been weirwood, I would've seen some sense in it but NO. It's just a random fruit tree! Peach!"

"S-Symon, calm-"

"And what? Do nothing? Sit back all day praying while a couple of demons lodge in our Sept? Do you remember how many holy brothers and sisters we lost when they arrived? And the terror they brought us! You said yourself, High Septon. A wolf in sheepskin."

"I -B, uh." The words can't come out of his mouth. It can't be! It must not be! The Messengers being demons... I- "Guards! Guards!" he shouts, ringing a bell on his table. All manner of holy brothers, having come from all over the Realm for the miracle of lights, enter the room with swords and spears in hand. "Detain them! They've blasphemed against our Holy Messengers!"

But before they could move, Septon Symon draws his sword and holds the High Septon by the neck. The point so close to his eyes that his eyelash is trimmed by the blade. "Make any movements and the High Septon's head will roll! Back the fuck off!"

He tries to fight against the hold, but the Septon has an iron grip. The blade cuts his face, causing him to bleed. His legs tremble, as if wanting to relief himself in front of the Faith's followers. "High Septon," Symon speaks. "I'm asking you once again to get rid of those demons. Do that, then all of us will come out unharmed. If not," the blade presses against him, "you will not see the end of it."

As faithful and pious to the Seven he might be, the High Septon still fears the embrace of the Stranger. He doesn't want to die here, surrounded by holy brothers with a sword to his face. None of it. Please, oh Father or the Maiden, please! "S-Symon," the High Septon gulps, "if you kill me, I will become a-a martyr. Many will rally under my death and the Faith will still recognise the Messengers. T-They will bring you to justice." He's not sure if the threat is enough. He knows that Symon is a hard man to push, but he has to try anything and everything if he wants to survive.

To his relief, the sword is lowered from his face. The High Septon sighs. Has... Has my call been answered? "Let me go now Symon, and I will assure you that none shall come to harm." The High Septon turns his head and sees-

"You're all a lost cause."

Symon throws the High Septon down, the man's fat body crashing on the marble floor. His crystal crown breaks upon the foot of the holy brothers. With the holy brothers helping him up, he sees the face of Symon, or the man he once knew as Symon. He looks so... Different now. Nowhere is the familiar man who taught young septons and septas the ritual procedures. Nor is anywhere the man who likes to jest during luncheon. All that remains is fury and disappointment. A traitor to the Seven, a blasphemer. And yet...

"Septon Symon," says one of the more rugged holy brother, "drop the sword or we'll-"

"That's enough, o holy brothers," the High Septon interjects. Not a good decision, but it's one that has come from his heart. "Let him and the boy go."

The two men stare at each other for a moment before Symon spits on the High Septon's shoes. "Craven," he says as he drags the boy out of the Sept. Dazzled and scared, the High Septon wipes his brow and cheeks with a handkerchief, brushing away the blood.

One of the holy brothers approaches him, confused. "Is this wise, your Holiness? Letting them go?"

"Symon is no longer with us for he has blasphemed. His title as septon here has been stripped from this point on." The High Septon rights himself, grabbing his broken crystal crown. "Tell the City Watch to arrest him if he tries to leave the city. For now, we must prepare for our Dawn Hymns. Call up the Messengers; we need whatever blessings we can for the future."

The High Septon eyes his holy brothers as they go about their task. Symon is not going to be the only one, will he?