Mid January, 305 AC
Edythe I
The gentle flame of the rushlight burned like a golden halo in the dark.
Though the bells had not yet tolled the Hour of the Smith, night had already fallen over Harrenhal. As she crossed the middle ward toward the Wailing Tower, Edythe held the rushlight's iron holder out in front of her, so the melted grease dripping from the pith did not stain her wool cloak or her soft yellow robes. Already flecks of brown stained the hem, thanks to the slush of melted snow and mud that squished beneath her wooden pattens.
By the time the bells tolled six, Edythe knelt in the Smith's Sept at the base of the Wailing Tower. Her pattens she had left at the door, beside dozens of other pairs. From the High Septon himself to the lowest of lay sisters, none would suffer filth to defile hallowed ground.
Outside the sept, the winter chill seeped into her bones. Inside the sept, Edythe felt as if she bathed in the summer sun. Dozens of lanterns hung upon the walls, filling the sanctuary with the glow of the Crone's holy light; even the air was warm as hundreds of faithful knelt together. All over Harrenhal, other holy brothers and sisters would be kneeling too, pausing their work to say prayers.
Usually, Edythe would be one of them. But since the solstice...
"Blessed Smith," intoned Septon Brynden solemnly from the pulpit, resplendent in his amber vestments. "Hear us, in our prayer. O mender of broken things, we beseech your aid, that we may be as your hammer, instruments of your will to heal this shattered world."
"O blessed Smith, do not abandon us in our hour of need. We are sinners all, yet even sinners may do penance, and turn from their evil ways. Though your wrath be just, let there be mercy too. Bind up the cracks that mar the Wall you built, and save us once more from the demons of the cold. Heal the fractured souls of the black brothers who stand their lonely watch, that they may be a shield for the realms of men."
Edythe's belly clenched, hard and hollow. Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered; gooseprickles raced up her arms, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It seemed as if she could not breathe, not until Septon Brynden turned to praying for the wounded of Oldtown.
Though the pretender High Septon Torbert and the Most Devout of the Starry Sept had strayed from the true path of the Seven's will, she still could not believe the fury which had been unleashed upon them. Euron Grey- the blasphemer was a hollow man, accursed and cruel, his heart of stone. Only such a man could turn dragonfire against the sacred wonder of the Starry Sept, against the temple of knowledge that was the Citadel.
Paul the Pious had sensed something amiss, even before the ravens and doves came. The solstice at the end of twelfth moon was the darkest night of the year, when demons strived against the Seven, eager to tempt men into evil and feast upon the souls of the innocent. It was a night for foul sorcery and fouler deeds, but none could ever be so foul as those of the blasphemer. Harrenhal roiled with turmoil as soon as the first news came from Oldtown, and when the ravens came from Dragonstone and from Winterfell...
Stop that, Edythe told herself firmly. Septon Mern had begun to play the pipe organ, the notes of the hymn as beautiful as his green silk robes and as familiar as her own callused hands. Resolutely Edythe joined her quiet voice to the singing, and thought no more of winter.
It was hard not to think of winter, when the prayers ended. To reach the kitchens, she must cross the middle ward again. Her feet ached as she trudged through the slush in her pattens, removing them once she was within Kingspyre Tower. Edythe walked half a circle around the base of the tower, into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths which butted against it, and finally through the passage that joined the great hall to the kitchens themselves.
The kitchens were as bright as the Smith's sept, thanks to the lanterns and ovens. Cooks bustled about, kneading bread and stirring stew and chopping meat. It was odd, seeing Sister Beryl stand quietly as she waited for Septa Utha's tray, knowing better than to chatter whilst in the Elder Brother's hearing.
Not that the kitchens were entirely quiet. A gaggle of scullery maids were humming The Fool and the Lady Fair to themselves as they scrubbed pots. Perhaps they imagined the steaming water to be Jonquil's pool, fresh with the scent of spring flowers rather than the harsh fumes of lye soap. An old cook with a white beard was singing too, ignoring the Elder Brother's scowl as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger with a garlic clove, then deftly plucked an egg yolk out of a bowl.
Edythe's mouth watered at the sight; to her shame, her stomach gurgled. But there were no eggs on the tray she received for His High Holiness, nor creamy butter, nor thick brown beer. As the winch cage rattled its way up Kingspyre Tower, her arms trembling from the weight of the tray, she stared longingly at the warm loaves of plain rye bread and smoked trout, wishing for even a dab of honey or a morsel of cheese. But so long as His High Holiness abstained, she was determined to do the same.
She found His High Holiness in his solar, kneeling before the altar. A fluffy cat and a stiff old mastiff attended him, both sitting on their haunches beside the holy man. Light shone off his bald head, crowned by the brown hair of his tonsure. There seemed to be more grey amidst the brown than Edythe recalled, though the change did not surprise her. Paul the Pious carried the burden of being the voice of the Seven Who Are One, no easy task at the best of times. And since the solstice...
His High Holiness would not divulge the vision which the Seven had sent him when he prayed upon the first day of the new year. But all Harrenhal knew that His High Holiness refused to break the fast which he had begun that same day. From dawn to dusk, not a scrap of food passed his lips; when night came, he took nothing but bread, fish, and water to wash it down.
Today marked the twentieth day of his fast. Edythe could only hope that the morrow would mark the last day. Three sennights were enough, surely. Blessed Baelor had vowed to fast for seven sennights, only to perish on the forty-first day. Poisoned by his uncle, some said; others said a king could starve to death as easily as a serf, if he had not the wit to eat.
When Paul the Pious rose from his knees, he showed no such reservations. He blessed and broke the bread, offering portions to Edythe and to Septon Pate, and then tucked into his own portion with a hearty appetite. The smoked fish was divided too, a third for each of them, though much of His High Holiness's fish was wasted on the cat and the mastiff, as if they could not feed themselves on mice and rats and kitchen scraps.
Once the meal was done, it was time for His High Holiness to attend to the letters which had come throughout the day, whether by dove or by raven. Whilst Septon Pate read them aloud in turns, Edythe listened carefully, committing each word to her memory.
First there was a letter from a sept in Appleton, bearing news that Lord Willas Tyrell and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen were now wed. Why the septon should include a list of the worthies in attendance, Edythe did not understand, but she paid close attention as Septon Pate named Olenna Tyrell and a host of other lords and ladies who saw fit to grace the wedding with their presence. And Lord Willas and his lady wife were already leaving Highgarden, following the rose road east. His brother, Lord Garlan Tyrell of Brightwater Keep, was leading a mighty host on the same journey, though he departed a month earlier.
The next letter was from a small motherhouse near Clegane Keep, not thirty leagues from Casterly Rock. Lord Mordryd Lydden's host of rebellious bannermen, freeriders, and angry smallfolk was close at hand. Rather than give battle, Ser Willem Lannister, the castellan of the Rock, was preparing for a siege; his twin brother, Ser Martyn, struggled to maintain order in Lannisport.
"Boys of twenty, if I recall aright," Septon Pate remarked, when he finished reading. "And no match for Lord Mordryd. We wait below, indeed. They say a badger will fight a bear, if it dares threaten his cubs. Small wonder he dared defy the lions, when his sister died so cruel a death."
Gwendolyn Lydden, Edythe thought sadly. A maid of nineteen, unjustly slain against the laws of gods and men. Each day they prayed for her during the Hour of the Maiden. Lord Lydden's generosity had paid for seven years of mourning for his sister, not to mention vast amounts of food and clothing for the poor.
The last letter was from the Eyrie, high atop its mountain. Lady Lysa Arryn begged His High Holiness to pray for her son Robert, for her children, for herself. The attempts to rescue them had failed, had ceased, her faithless bannermen had given their young lord up for dead. Only a month of food remained to feed too many mouths, the Seven must help her, the Mother must help her, please, please, it was not the children's fault that she had sinned, all she did was for her son, she could not lose him, she could not, the Seven must send a miracle, if His High Holiness would only ask—
A wave of Paul the Pious's hand, and Septon Pate ceased reading. To the altar His High Holiness returned, kneeling with a grunt before bowing his head in prayer. The dwarf's upper back had always been slightly hunched, yet it seemed worse than before. Or was she just imagining things?
With His High Holiness praying, when a knock came at the door, it was Septon Pate who answered. Brother Wat stood there, sheepish, his pimpled face pink. He held a tiny letter clutched in his hand; a brown and white speckled dove perched on his brown tonsure.
Coo, said the dove.
When it took flight with a flutter of wings, Brother Wat winced at the scratches it left on his head. His High Holiness paid no mind, not even when the dove landed on his knee and stuck its head in his pocket, sending grains of millet to the floor.
"Oh, for Seven's sake," Septon Pate muttered, examining the message.
"Is it urgent?" His High Holiness's voice was rough, almost ragged.
"No," Septon Pate declared after a moment, sighing as he ran a hand over the black hair of his tonsure. "The Motherhouse of the Sprouting Seed must have sent several doves, to be sure the letter about Lord Lydden came through. This is the same as the one I read earlier, writ in the same hand."
Edythe frowned. She hoped the motherhouse had sent only two doves. Even as fast as the lay brothers and sisters were breeding them with Septon Callum's guidance, they did not have birds to spare. What if some urgent news arose, before the doves returned home? Or what if both perished on the journey, and the motherhouse had none left until more could be sent?
Doves might be faster than ravens, but they were smaller and weaker too, prone to being eaten by hawks or blown off course by foul winds. Before the conquest, the Starry Sept had boasted of their thousands of doves, who carried messages to and from septs, septries and motherhouses across the Seven Kingdoms, most of whom could not afford a maester and ravens of their own.
After the conquest, the use of doves had slowly faded, discouraged by Aegon the Conqueror, and banned outright by Maegor the Cruel, whose men had slain every dove they could find, as well as their keepers. Jaehaerys the Conciliator had lifted the ban, but the High Septons during his reign had not bothered to restore what had been lost. Under Baelor the Blessed, the breeding of doves had briefly resumed, until the king lost interest, and commanded the birds be fed to the poor.
Or so Septon Timoth said. He had rambled about it at length during a dinner with His High Holiness when Septa Myriame and Septon Callum had first ventured the notion. Paul the Pious required little persuasion; it was meet that even the humblest septon be able to send word to Harrenhal at need. Especially those poor faithful whose septries lay within the bounds of King Tommen's realm, forced to do homage to Luceon Frey, a High Septon as false as his bastard born king.
Long months it had taken to build the dovecotes, to breed the birds, and to train them, and it took longer still for humble brothers riding mules and donkeys to carry their precious burdens near and far. Now that they had, it seemed the doves came almost every day, bearing tiny glass vials filled with even tinier rolled parchments. Each night after dinner Septon Pate would read them aloud, His High Holiness sitting very still, Edythe listening hard so she could recite them for His High Holiness when prompted.
Lord Farman caught Banefort ships off Fair Isle. Most sunk. Rest struck their banners.
Castellan of Cornfield yielded keep for lack of garrison. Crakehall and Silverhill threatened by uprisings, bailiffs beaten and slain.
Cerissa Brax returned to Hornvale from Deep Den. Refuses to call banners for either side. Lannisters have her nephew Lord Robert and his brothers at the Rock.
Garlan Tyrell marching east. Host like to reach King's Landing by second moon.
Battle in ruins of Summerhall. Host from Nightsong bound for King's Landing caught by host from Blackhaven. Lord Morgan Dondarrion slew Lord Philip Foote, sending head to Queen Cersei.
Dornish host has left Storm's End. Taking kingsroad north. Oberyn Martell in command.
House Penrose declared for Aegon Targaryen. Golden Company landed at Storm's End with five thousand men. Penrose host sore beset with fighting in the Rainwood.
Worst of all was the letter which came a sennight ago, from a septry near Bitterbridge. The septon had written so small that Septon Pate could not read without the aid of a Myrish lens, his face turning the color of cheese.
Green dragon sighted. Almost fell from sky, landed in a hamlet. Lord Caswell refused to send men until next day. Found hundred dead and one dying. Dragon rider was a madman, clad in armor. Arrows no use, dragon burned archers, ate them. Madman slew the rest, laughed as they cried to gods for aid. Blood, so much blood. Corpses desecrated for sorcery, to make dragon fly again. Left one alive to speak for the madman. Madman said end of gods is nigh, Starry Sept only beginning. Pray to Euron Greyjoy, Night's King, for he is the only god. Last words before dying man choked to death on blood.
Edythe shuddered. Grey- the blasphemer was a rabid beast, drunk on slaughter. He deserved to have his name forgotten. Paul the Pious had said little, when Septon Pate read that letter aloud, but he had forbidden the use of the blasphemer's name. Then he had stoked the fire, prayed, and gone to bed.
When the bells tolled nine times, Paul the Pious did not move. Septon Pate and Edythe sank to their knees behind him, bowing their heads as they prayed silently to the Warrior.
Warrior, please, Edythe begged. Strike down the blasphemer, as you struck down the unworthy pretender who claimed to speak in your name.
She prayed for the black brothers at the Wall, for the hosts of men marching to overthrow the bastard king, for the defeat of the king's hand, who so unjustly slew Brother Bonifer and the holy brothers and sisters who followed him to King's Landing. She thought of her favorite passages from the Book of the Warrior; she sang the most lucky hymns in her head, not daring to disturb the soft quiet.
By the time His High Holiness rose to his feet on unsteady legs, her own knees ached as badly as her own weary legs, but her heart once more was clear. Edythe readied herself for bed in a state of utter calm. She slept until the bells tolled the Hour of the Stranger, rose to pray with the other lay sisters with whom she shared a cell, then went back to sleep.
After such a peaceful night of rest, Edythe barely missed breaking her fast after the morning prayers to the Crone. As the bells tolled seven, she stood in the darkness of the outer ward, patiently waiting for the morning walk to Harrentown. Properly she ought to be helping load the wayns, but the other lay sisters would not let her. Sister Pia's influence, no doubt, aided and abetted by Third Sister Jonelle, who had a soft spot for the simple girl's oddities, as if she were an indulgent grandmother.
Edythe frowned. Third Sister Jonelle looked too pale this morning. She clutched her cloak about her, as if it could stop her shivering, or conceal that her scrofula had returned. A wimple might cover her neck, but in the bathhouse Edythe had seen what lay beneath. Swollen blueish-purple lumps grew over her wrinkled skin; some of the smaller lumps had broken, leaving sores that wept pus, her throat marred by an angry red streak.
When His High Holiness finally led the faithful forth from Harrenhal, Edythe kept a close eye on Third Sister Jonelle. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow dappled with sweat. Was it just the strain of their labors that troubled her? Third Sister was a woman near seventy, after all. She walked unsteadily beside Septa Utha's horse, just as Edythe walked behind His High Holiness's mule. Paul the Pious would have rather walked, she knew, if not for his short, bowed legs. His stubby fingers clasped his golden staff, the crystal gleaming dimly in the darkness when it caught the light of the rushlight lanterns.
They reached Harrentown as the bells were tolling eight, the sun just peeping over the horizon. As usual, supplicants already waited in the streets. Some faces were familiar, others new, those of smallfolk from far away who braved a journey to Harrentown for a glimpse of His High Holiness. Almost rapt, they waited as he rode closer—
"I'm not fucking lying!"
The woman's voice pierced the quiet like a knife. Every eye turned toward the sound, which had come from across the village square, where a wild-eyed woman stood, ignoring the folk desperately trying to shush her. Damina, that was her name; the village septon had to reprimand her thrice for quarreling with her neighbors. At present, she looked more mad than quarrelsome; her face was flushed, and there was an empty wineskin in each of her hands.
"A dragon, Seven strike me down if I lie," Damina shrieked. "Last night, at sunset, it landed on t' Isle of Faces-mmph!"
A man who shared Damina's look had come up behind her and covered her mouth with his hand, and with grim determination he dragged her inside one of the houses. But the quiet did not return; too many mouths were muttering as eyes darted side to side. Even His High Holiness was behaving strangely. His broad plain face was still as stone for a long moment before he began to speak, calming the tumult.
When the panic dimmed, supplicants began to cluster around His High Holiness's mule. Gravely he heard their pleas, and bade them join the prayers soon to begin inside the inn. Only once every voice had been heard did he allow old Brother Joseth and young Brother Dale to help him dismount. Paul the Pious leaned on his golden staff as he strode toward the inn, whose common room was the largest hall in the village. It was too cold to pray out in the square, and the air smelt of snow.
The bells tolled nine, and the Hour of the Father began. His High Holiness preached of the justice of the Father who balanced men's fates upon his scales, who was the giver of law and the defender of oaths. Though the wickedness of men might tip the scales toward evil, soon or late the righteous would always prevail. Edythe let the words flow over her, through her, let them sink deep beneath her skin and into her heart.
When the hymns were sung and the prayers were done, the lay brothers and sisters remained on their knees whilst the Most Devout rose to their feet. It should not take too long for the septons and septas to hear confession in the inn's empty rooms. There were fourteen Most Devout to hear the sins of a scant few dozen, not to mention His High Holiness himself.
A shadow fell over Edythe's heart as she watched the Most Devout leave, their brightly dyed robes a bloom of color in the daub and wattle inn. She knew each of them well enough, but she could not help missing Septon Timoth with his peculiar rambling and his poetry, Septon Josua with his quiet stare as he worked on a painting, Septa Myriame with her gentle courtesies.
All of them were gone, long gone. Their ship should have reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea near the end of the old year, if the Seven were kind. Storms wracked the Bite and the Shivering Sea; it would take the grace of the gods for them to survive such a journey, and deliver their precious burden to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
The other septons sworn to the Father missed Septon Timoth too. Their arguments lacked a certain something with him away, and they were always arguing of late when they joined His High Holiness for dinner. Mostly about Oldtown, and Lord Hightower and his daughter, and whether blood magic was ever permissible.
The Book of the Warrior and the Book of the Stranger forbade it, all agreed, though they quibbled endlessly over why and when. Then there was the Book of the Maiden, which said the Maiden once healed Hugor of the Hill from a terrible wound using her own blood. And there was the Book of the Smith, which claimed the Smith had once restored a barren field by sowing it with the offal of thousands of fish.
For her part, Edythe found listening to the pointless debates exhausting. She would have much rather looked at one of Septon Josua's paintings, frightening though they were, with their depiction of sin and punishment. That was why he had volunteered to sail north, so that he might paint all that he saw at the Wall as testaments to the Warrior.
Septa Myriame, meanwhile, had volunteered to go solely because she was one of the very few faithful to come from the North. One of the cooks had gotten flogged for daring to say the septa yearned to return to the harlotry of her youth, as the sworn brothers would appreciate the sight of any woman, let alone swiving one who hid a whore's heart beneath a septa's pure white robes. Edythe had not minded watching that punishment be doled out; if anything, she thought he deserved more lashes than he had got.
The other four other septons and septas Edythe had not known well, and thus did not miss. She did feel slightly bad for the lay brothers and sisters whose superiors were either brave enough or mad enough to venture into the wild godless lands beyond the Neck, let alone to the Wall. Paul the Pious had wanted to go himself, until he was talked out of it by several of the Most Devout.
Instead, His High Holiness had taken charge of the precious gifts being sent to the Wall. Grain and meat they could not spare, not in the vast amounts the Night's Watch would find of use. No, Paul the Pious could not fill their bellies, but he might offer them other gifts just as wholesome. The Most Devouts' ship was packed with jars, each one blessed by His High Holiness. And there were the chests, carefully packed with the fruits of months of toil by Septa Falena and the novices and lay sisters of the Widow's Tower.
A cold draft blew through the room as the inn's door banged shut. Edythe shivered, wishing the Most Devout would finish taking confession soon. She did not want to think about the Wall, nor the raven that came from Winterfell a sennight after the new year. The Wall is cracked, the King in the North had written. His host was marching north; it might be three moons before the northmen reached Castle Black, if the wind and snow remained foul.
The Wall is cracked.
Edythe's heartbeat thudded in her ears as she shifted uneasily on her knees. His High Holiness believed it, even though there had been no raven from Castle Black. Were the ravens lost, or had they never been sent? Even seven Most Devout could not fight a host of demons and dead men alone, not if the Night's Watch had fallen...
You cannot panic, she reminded herself sternly. Forcing herself to resume her silent prayers helped, at least for a while. Edythe could not say how much time had passed when a warm breeze wafted through the common room as a pair of serving maids emerged from the inn's kitchens. They carried trays, heavily laden with roasted fish and wheels of cheese and loaves of bread hot from the ovens. The scent made Edythe's mouth water; to her shame, her belly grumbled loudly.
When the maids set down the trays, it was on the table by the hearth. At least a dozen Most Devout sat there, warming their hands by the fire. His High Holiness was not among them. Paul the Pious might begin by taking confession from visiting lords and knights and merchants, but he always ended by hearing the sins of the lowly, who patiently waited their turn.
The Most Devout were waiting too, waiting for His High Holiness to be done. A few of them ignored the trays of food, those fasting from sunrise to sunset like His High Holiness. Others gladly tore at the bread, cut hunks of cheese, and stabbed bites of fish on their daggers.
Much to Edythe's annoyance, almost all of them were talking. The Most Devout were supposed to be above earthly matters, to have forsaken all the bonds of kinship which once bound them to the families of their birth. And today they were not even talking of the Seven, of prayer and charity, but of the affairs of lords and kings.
"The fleet landed at Duskendale, you say?" Septon Gunthor tugged at his amber sleeves, frowning. "But I heard the Golden Company was at Storm's End."
"Some of them," replied an unfamiliar septon in the red robes of the Warrior. "Not all. Aegon had remained at Dragonstone, with the rest of his ships, until now."
"What of Lord Tarly?"
The unfamiliar septon scowled. "Marching up the Rosby road, with fifteen thousand men."
Septon Gunthor clenched his jaw, a vein pulsing in his brow. "The white dragon will defeat them, surely."
"Oh, surely you do not believe the rumors? The news from Oldtown has made men see dragons in every cloud," Septa Prunella scoffed, flicking a crumb off her bright yellow robes.
Septa Prunella had not even believed there was a dragon at Oldtown, until His High Holiness himself declared the green dragon fact. Why His High Holiness refused to do the same for the white dragon, Edythe could not guess. To her confusion, Paul the Pious had bade both her and Septon Pate swear to secrecy upon the altar of the Seven. When His High Holiness told the Most Devout of the raven from Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, he said nothing of dragons, white or green.
"Whether or not this Aegon has a dragon, he is doomed," Septa Prunella went on. "Tarly may be a brute and a murderer, but he was the only man to best Robert Baratheon."
"Aegon has a dragon," the unfamiliar septon said firmly. "Why else would Tarly bother hauling scorpions in his train? Aye, and plenty of archers too, and wayns packed with wildfire."
"That worked so well for the defenders of Dragonstone," Septon Gunthor snorted. "How many ships set themselves ablaze? Besides, you can't burn a dragon to death."
"No," Septon Prunella agreed. "But you can burn the rider."
"Even if Aegon defeats Tarly, we are still in danger," Septon Brynden fretted. "No conqueror is content with half a realm. He will want to wrest the Three Kingdoms from Robb Stark's grasp. That will mean war in the Riverlands again, and at the Neck."
"He has to take King's Landing first," Septon Gunthor said. He glanced at Septa Utha. "That Dornish host... Princess Elia Martell has not left Sunspear in years. Does she come to denounce a pretender, or to claim her trueborn son?"
Septa Utha raised an eyebrow. "I cannot say. I left Dorne long, long ago."
"Oh, spare me," Septa Prunella sniffed. "As if we didn't know Lady Blackmont is your cousin."
Her aunt, Edythe thought but did not say.
At least Septa Prunella was not weeping over the Starry Sept. Septa Prunella had spent her youth there, had dreamed of rallying her friends to support Paul the Pious rather than the pretender Torbert. Now she did not even know whether any of them yet lived. And when she finally stopped weeping, she had turned to musing on where the blasphemer might strike next, as she was presently doing yet again.
"He burned the Red Temple in Volantis," Septa Prunella said, rather stridently. "Then the Starry Sept. What other prize remains that is greater than the Great Sept of Baelor?"
Edythe resisted the urge to rub at the gooseprickles rising on her arms. Why must they keep talking of dragons? Why couldn't they argue over Baelor again instead?
As a girl she believed Baelor the Blessed to be the holiest king to ever live. So did everyone in her village; everyone knew of his piety and generosity to the poor. Edythe could not believe her ears when she heard the Most Devout arguing over whether Baelor the Blessed was truly worthy of such devotion. As if dinner with His High Holiness was the place for such talk!
Septon Timoth was the worst of them. One night he had claimed, to her horror, that the Blackfyre rebellions would never have happened if Baelor had done his duty and sired heirs, rather than locking his sisters away in the Maidenvault.
"A king must have an heir," Septon Timoth had said. "But Baelor thought himself above his duty. Daena the Defiled would never have taken Aegon the Unworthy for a lover, if Baelor had given her trueborn babes to cherish rather than set her aside."
"Septon Barth did more for the Faith than Baelor ever did," Septon Mern had proudly agreed, scratching one of his enormous ears. "Forty years of peace and plenty he gave the realm. He came from the Reach, you know; he had a drop of the same Gardener blood that my ancestors shared."
Edythe had not known who Septon Barth was, but he kept coming up more and more of late, usually during arguments about Leyton Hightower and his daughter and blood magic. Septa Prunella said Barth was a sorceror, and Baelor had saved the realm from sin by burning the books he wrote. Septa Utha, meanwhile, took great offense to the very idea of books being burned. Edythe was not sure whether she agreed. All knowledge was sacred to the Crone, but wickedness could pretend to be wisdom.
"Septon Barth was a good man," Paul the Pious had finally said, when even he grew weary of the squabbling. "When Jaehaerys the Conciliator meant to meddle with the choosing of a new High Septon, Barth persuaded him that it was not the Iron Throne's place to interfere. Blessed Baelor was a pure spirit, innocent and holy, but all men sin, and his sin was pride, to think he could speak for the Seven."
A fist slammed on a table, and the memory was gone. Edythe knelt upon the cold floor of the inn, wishing the Most Devout would heed their own advice to their novices and be silent.
"Words and swords are the weapons of the righteous, not blood magic," boomed Septon Gunthor. "If men were meant to wield such power, the Seven would have let the Starry Sept be saved."
"Just as the Seven kept us from being driven out of King's Landing?" Septon Brynden shook his head. "Things are never so simple. Lord Leyton's net halted the dragon's rampage, all agree; the Smith must have leant his strength to the weaving. The damage would have been far worse if he had not. Seven help the Sept of Baelor if the blasphemer should descend upon it."
Had the Seven wanted the Starry Sept to burn? Edythe wondered. It was a holy place, but the pretender Torbert and his followers had profaned it with their corruption, with their refusal to acknowledge Paul the Pious as the gods' chosen.
The red robed septon shifted uneasily. "One of my lay brothers dreamt of Baelor's Sept, of stained glass melting as windows filled with green flame."
The very thought should have made Edythe shudder. And yet, if the Sept of Baelor burned... if the pretender Luceon Frey was cast down just as Torbert had been... why, no man could doubt that only Paul the Pious truly spoke for the Seven.
"Your lay brother was drunk or raving," Septa Prunella frowned. "Though I daresay the blasphemer will make for the Great Sept of Baelor. Seven be thanked, it was scorpions that drove the dragon away, not blood magic, and King's Landing has plenty of them. Alas that we do not. If the blasphemer were not a madman, and had even a drop of the Crone's wisdom, he might think to make for Harrenhal."
At that, the entire room fell silent. Behind her Edythe heard a lay brother give a little moan of terror, his hand shaking as he made the sign of the Seven. Septa Darlessa looked almost as grey as her robes; Edythe had not seen her so frightened since Septon Tim arrived from the Wall to tell the Most Devout all he knew of Others and the dead men they kept as thralls.
"Septa Prunella." His High Holiness stood in the hall. His crystal staff towered over his bare head, his eyes as weary as the frown upon his broad, coarse face. "What says the Book of the Crone, chapter eight, verse four?"
Septa Prunella stared at His High Holiness, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find the proverb. Paul the Pious waited a moment, then glanced at Edythe. No, please, ask Septa Utha instead, she'll remember, so long as she read it within the last two moons—
"Sister Edythe?" His High Holiness prompted, as she feared he would.
"Take heed of thy tongue, always, for careless words cannot be unspoken," Edythe recited. She should be glad to be of use to His High Holiness, yet she still wished she could sink through the floor.
"Thank you, Sister Edythe," His High Holiness said. He turned back to Septa Prunella. "I do not expect a learned septa who can read The Seven Pointed Star to memorize chapter and verse as we humble, unlettered folk often do. But I do expect you to follow its teachings, not cause a panic with idle words."
"I have erred, Your High Holiness." Septa Prunella bent her head. "I should not have spoken as I did."
"What if the dragon comes?" quavered a trembling lay brother.
"It won't," the red robed septon said brusquely.
"Peace, Septon Jonothor." Paul the Pious leaned heavily on his staff, the crystal sparkling in the firelight. "The future is known only to the Seven, and always in motion. No matter how dark things seem, we must trust that the Father's scales will tip toward justice, and do what we can to work his will."
Everyone looked as subdued as Edythe felt as they trudged through the muddy streets toward the almshouse. The Most Devout seemed to slump in their saddles, and when Third Sister Jonelle swayed and tripped over her pattens, a pair of lay brothers had to carry her the rest of the way.
The almshouse was in a state of chaos when they arrived. Edythe longed to join the other lay sisters charged with carrying baskets to the poor throughout Harrentown, even if it was starting to snow. Instead, whilst His High Holiness conferred with the infirmarian, she waited in an out of the way corner at the end of the hall, watching a pair of puppeteers set up a stage.
Usually, she would have ignored them. But Third Sister Jonelle was lying in a sickbed, sweating with fever, and she could not think of that. I must not panic. No, better to look at the puppeteers, who were paid to lift the spirits of the sick by performing shows, most of them based on the tales found in The Seven Pointed Star.
When Edythe spied the puppets laying on the little stage, she frowned. A golden queen in a crimson gown, a redhaired maid in white, a giant, and a knight. Not a knight, a squire.
"Strongspear again?" One puppeteer hissed to the other, his jowls quivering. "You said the dragon would be ready today!"
"You try making a dragon prop in a week, see how far you get!" snapped the second puppeteer, a youth of no more than twenty with a wispy beard. "They love Strongspear, it will be fine. Mebbe by the time the dragon's done, we'll have sommat more to go on."
"Who needs more? A Targaryen prince returns from the dead, ridin' a dragon no less, and takes Dragonstone! Stop fussin' over what the wings should look like, finish 'em, and pick a color to paint the damn dragon."
White, Edythe thought as the puppeteers continued arguing. Or so said the dove from the little sept on the outskirts of Dragonstone. Paul the Pious had prayed in his solar for the entire day after it came.
A few days later, the raven had come from Aegon, the Sixth of His Name. Two letters it had born, one seeking the blessing of His High Holiness, one declaring his intent to the lords of the realm. Edythe could almost hear Septon Pate read out the terms.
Those who rose for Aegon, the true king, were promised high offices, rich lands, and desirable marriages or wardships. Those who rose for no one but who later bent the knee to Aegon were promised their lives and titles, though they would not keep all of their lands and incomes. Those who rose for Tommen Baseborn were promised attainder, death, and dishonor, their women and children to be sent to the Faith or to the keeping of loyal kin, should they have any willing to petition on their behalf.
Edythe was not sure what she thought of all that. A prince returning from the dead was less absurd than all that had transpired in Oldtown. The Most Devout, on the other hand, had immediately begun arguing over whether Aegon was a prince or a pretender the moment the first rumors arrived of his fleet back in tenth moon. Or was it ninth? She could recall the rumors, but not when they had come; too much had happened since then.
To the fury of the Most Devout, and the stern disapproval of His High Holiness, many lords were rising for the monstrous Queen Regent and her brute of a Lord Hand. Septon Mern claimed some were good men, afraid of breaking the holy oaths of fealty they swore to Tommen. After all, they knew the measure of Cersei Lannister and Randyll Tarly, even if they did not like them. This Aegon could prove another Jaehaerys the Wise, or he could be another Maegor the Cruel.
As she watched the puppeteers continue to argue over their puppets, Edythe did not think she agreed. Good men did not lend their swords to foul causes. Tommen Baseborn might be beloved for his charity and sweet nature, but there could be no doubt of his bastardy. Even if he were trueborn, his counselors were men like Tarly, who slaughtered Brother Bonifer and hundreds of other holy folk in the street.
She almost wished the common people could rescue Tommen from the clutches of his captors. Some remote septry would suit him far better than a castle and a throne. The abominable stain of his birth could never be washed away, but a life of prayer and toil was open to even the worst of sinners. Not that every sinner was willing to repent; the treachery of Cersei Lannister was beyond belief.
The queen dared not leave the Red Keep, not since the Tyrells exposed her perfidy to the realm. A mob chanting for justice for Lord Mace Tyrell had almost dragged her off her horse, until Lord Crakehall and his men intervened. A pity, that. The mob had once driven out some Targaryen queen; why should Cersei Lannister not share the same fate?
Though Edythe wondered why His High Holiness had not yet sent a raven to Dragonstone. Should he not seek to better know this Aegon who sought his blessing? Or perhaps the Seven had already told Paul the Pious all he needed to know, or sent him visions. She could have sworn she heard His High Holiness muttering about dragons fighting, early one morning as he prayed alone in his solar.
"Damina saw a dragon," muttered the puppeteer of the wispy beard as he tied a broken string. "D'you think if I gave her a groat, she'd describe it?"
"Faugh!" spat the jowly puppeteer. "She didn't see nothin', no more than she saw a maid turn into a wolf. Stay away from her, and from them others with t' weirwood leaves."
Now that, Edythe agreed with wholeheartedly. The folk of the hollow hill were more than passing queer. She supposed she ought to be grateful that they had not abandoned the new gods for the old. Still, she could not approve of their strange beliefs.
There was nothing in The Seven Pointed Star about weirwoods, nothing at all. Yet for some reason, the folk of the hollow hill were determined to revere them as sacred to the Seven. All that grew from the earth was sacred to the Mother, yes, but just because weirwoods were white, that did not make them the white sprouts she grew from the earth. Nor did their red sap prove they were sacred to the Maiden, whose blood flowed through their veins. And as for claiming that sleeping beneath a weirwood brought wise visions from the Crone, why, that was just silly.
The heretics were even worse once word went round that somehow, inexplicably, Aegon's queen was none other than Sansa Stark. How that had come to pass, Edythe had no notion, but every altar to the Stranger had been filled with candles lit for Ser Olyvar Sand. The poor brave man must be dead, for his lady wife to wed again. Giddy as they were to learn their lady yet lived, and was now a queen, the folk of the hollow hill had taken the news of her savior's death particularly hard. So hard, indeed, that they had begged to pray for his soul before the weirwood that stood in the godswood of Harrenhal.
As was only proper, His High Holiness had refused. Letting a Blackwood or a Stark pray in the godswood would be one thing, but encouraging the oddities of a group of smallfolk straying from The Seven Pointed Star was quite another. Then the heretics had begged leave to go on pilgrimage to their hollow hill, whose crest boasted a ring of weirwood trees. Again, Paul the Pious had denied them, at least until the days grew longer and safer for travel.
When a lay sister fetched her from her corner, Edythe was relieved to return to waiting upon His High Holiness. She carried a basket for him, the vials filled with the seven oils lightly clinking as they walked from bed to bed. She prayed in silence for each soul His High Holiness blessed, from the mother suffering childbed fever to the boy with a broken arm to Third Sister Jonelle, still feverish as she tossed upon her bed. When His High Holiness laid his hands upon her bandaged neck, Edythe let out a breath she did not know she was holding. The scrofula went away last time, and it will go away again.
It was almost noon when the procession trudged back to Harrenhal. Flurries of snow swirled through the air, as white as the robes of the septas who led prayers for the Hour of the Mother. The service seemed to pass in a blur; she almost missed the beginning of the prayers for the dead. Thankfully, they began as they always did, with prayers for Catelyn Tully and Jeyne Westerling. Over two years remained until the seventh anniversaries of their deaths, when there would be a last service in their honor before the prayers ceased.
Edythe was glad she need not cease using the winch. His High Holiness insisted that she use it whenever she returned to the top of Kingspyre Tower. She should protest, she knew, but as she neared the end of her forties, climbing all those stairs made her legs tremble, even though she was used to long days of hard work.
His High Holiness could not manage so many stairs either, not with his bowed legs. Making rounds about Harrenhal and Harrentown on his mule tired him enough. When Paul the Pious wished to speak to his Most Devout, he summoned them to his solar, or, more often, to the council chamber one floor below where he held meetings or hosted them for dinner.
Seven be praised that Paul the Pious was somewhat fond of a consistent routine. Mornings were for charity or other business outside Kingspyre Tower, and afternoons for the Most Devout. At the Hour of the Smith, he would pray in his solar in solitude; each senmorn he donned his golden vestments and preached.
When His High Holiness stepped off the winch, he was deep in conversation with Septon Mern. Something about Oldtown, and Highgarden, and forestalling Lady Alerie. Edythe did not catch the rest, and scolded herself for letting her thoughts wander to Third Sister Jonelle.
Passing the afternoon in His High Holiness's solar with her fellow lay sisters did not help her stop fretting. It also did not help that her belly felt hollow and angry, yearning to break her fast. Edythe ignored it. While she stitched a simple seven pointed star on a hat for a babe, Sister Alys and Sister Maude spun thread, chattering away.
They began with the Wall, and the Others, and the reports Septon Tim had brought of Lord Commander Snow, the Woodcutter. Gelding men for rape was commendable, Edythe supposed, determined not to think of ice dragons or Others, but the man was still full young. A boy, really, from what Septon Tim said. And a heathen, alas, but he could not help that.
Edythe's mood did not improve when, after the bells tolled three and they paused to pray to the Maiden, the chatter moved from Lord Snow to King Aegon. They should not even call him a king, not when His High Holiness did not, but Edythe lacked the will to correct them. She stitched away, determined to keep her mouth shut, until Sister Maude began wondering whether King Aegon was handsome or plain. As if it mattered; besides, there was no one who could hold a candle to their Lord Edmure Tully.
Annoyed past the limits of her patience, Edythe began singing a hymn under her breath. Sure enough, Sister Alys soon joined in, then finally Sister Maude. The blessed peace lasted long enough for Edythe to finish the seven pointed star she was stitching. She had used all seven colors, and the thread was bright and richly dyed, too costly for most smallfolk to afford. The babe's hat would bring joy to the babe, and to his parents, to see such colors in the midst of the bleak winter. Pleased, Edythe started embroidering another hat.
Alas, it was not to last. The bells had just tolled five when Old Brother Joseth and young Brother Dale came in, their arms piled high with firewood. Even younger Brother Wat was with them too, his brown robes splattered with dung, his hands filled with messages from the dovecote and the ravenry.
"Have you heard?" Even for a boy of sixteen, Brother Wat was far too excitable. "Beryl caught us by the kitchens; His High Holiness has commanded Septa Falena to lay aside her needle."
"No," Sister Alys gasped, as though she were a green girl, not a sturdy woman a few years Edythe's elder. "Why, she barely left her chambers until themselves left for Eastwatch; she might have stitched half that chest by herself."
"So she did," grumbled Brother Joseth, his long whiskers twitching. "But—"
"—Beryl said she heard from one of Septa Falena's lay sisters, she was sewing through the night, ever since that last news came of Lady Lysa." Brother Wat shook his head, as if he could not believe it. "Why would she do that?"
"Septa Falena is a Grafton," Brother Dale sighed. "One of the children trapped atop the Eyrie is her favorite brother's granddaughter. As I told you just after we spoke to Beryl, and yesterday. Not that you were listening."
Sister Maude's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, those poor children," she sniffled. "Surely the Mother and Maiden wouldn't let them perish so cruelly?"
"Mayhaps," Brother Wat shrugged. "The Seven must be wroth with everyone of late. Why, the raven that just arrived from Sunspear was battered half to death. Oh, and Third Sister Jonelle passed away this afternoon."
Edythe stared at her finger, at the needle sticking into it. But His High Holiness laid hands on her. Her breaths were strangely loud, her chest fluttering up and down. If she were a girl, this would be when she ran home and hid in a corner of their hut, covering herself with her father's blanket, which smelled like lye soap and the bitter sourleaf he liked to chew. If she was lucky, and her father was nearby, he would hear her muffled screams and come to her, and rub her back and call her Edy-girl until she calmed.
"Sister Edythe?" Old Brother Joseth's voice was rough. "Are yeh well?"
"You are not well," said Third Sister Jonelle's familiar voice, old and cracked, faint as a whisper. "Edythe, listen to me. Listen to me, Edy-girl. Pick something close by, and focus on it."
Edythe stared at her lap, at the little babe's hat. Thus far the seven pointed star only had one point; she folded herself into it, counting the stitches she had sewn so carefully. As she counted, her breathing slowed; in the distance she could hear the Third Sister singing the soft strains of a hymn to the Stranger. When a calloused, gnarled hand plucked the needle from her numb finger, it did not bleed.
"There, now," Old Brother Joseth said gruffly, handing her the needle. "No harm done. One o' them women's fits, I bet. Water?"
Edythe nodded, resisting the urge to crawl under a table, or better yet, under the altar. Grown women must not act like children, she had learned that at the Motherhouse of the Lifted Lamp, more than twenty years ago. She was a fast learner; they had only had to cane her once for the lesson to stick.
"Do you think His High Holiness will bless King Aegon?" Brother Wat babbled as Brother Joseth handed Edythe a cup of water. She wanted to fling it at Brother Wat. Instead, she drank it.
"His High Holiness told the Most Devout he is waiting for a sign from the Seven," Brother Dale said.
"Surely the Seven must look favorably on King Robb," said Sister Alys. "He's won so many battles."
"Plenty o' bad men have won battles," Brother Joseth grumbled. "And he's a heathen."
"Not every battle," Sister Alys insisted. "And both his wives were raised in the Faith, just like his mother. Besides, my granny always said the Targaryens were all mad, some just hid it better. Her granny was a girl during the dance; a dragon burned her village down, aye, and all the fields around it, and all the folk in it. And Brother Cletus dreamt o' dragons again a sennight past, roaring and screaming and filling the air w' fire."
"Does that air feel warm to you?" Brother Dale scoffed, gesturing to the window. The shutters were cracked, as usual, letting in a cold breeze.
Dragons and kings do not matter, Edythe told herself.
Grimly, she picked up her needle. All that mattered was doing what she could. If that meant finishing a bit of pretty for a crofter's sickly babe, so be it. Babes needed hats, after all, especially in winter.
By the time she finished a row of stitches, Edythe almost felt herself again. Soon the bells would toll the Hour of the Smith; she would pray here, not in the sept. The other brothers and sisters had finally realized they could work in silence, thank the Seven. She could use some more quiet, before she went to the busy kitchens to fetch His High Holiness's dinner.
Outside the snow was falling thickly, the sun just starting to set over the waters of the God's Eye. Some peace at last, she thought gratefully. Edythe was just putting down her work when a piercing screech echoed over the world, shrill and sharp, followed by the sound of flapping wings.
Woooo, glad to have this one finished. Can't wait to hear what y'all think!
Last week was rough; we had guests who helped us with a ton of house projects, which was wonderful but exhausting. And then I had a case of the blahs and minimal spoons for several days. Hopefully the next chapter will take roughly a week; we'll see.
Next Up
Chapter 153: Olyvar I
Chapter 154: Sansa I
Chapter 155: Cersei I
NOTES
1) Someone over on AlternateHistory asked for more rushlights, and I was delighted to oblige. They're really neat, and rarely mentioned in medieval fantasy literature! A rushlight is made by drying rushes, a type of long reed, stripping the skin, and soaking the pith in animal fat to create a wick roughly 12-30 inches long; they were usually placed in simple holders of iron.
2) Pattens were tall overshoes worn in the medieval era. Usually made from wood, they were used to keep mud from staining shoes and clothes.
3) Yes, you can pick up egg yolks if you rub garlic on your fingers.
4) Look, ravens are cool as hell, but
pigeons are the original badass message carriers, and AWOIAF making fun of how stupid it was for Baelor to suggest using them instead of ravens annoyed me. Pigeons are amazing birds! Scientists still can't figure out how their homing instinct works, but they've been trained as messengers since ancient times.
Also, having a separate message network for the Faith pre-conquest totally makes sense, and Paul wanting to revive it makes even more sense.
5) Third Sister Jonelle suffered from tuberculosis, aka scrofula. The lumps became sores, which got infected; red streaks are a sign of blood poisoning. Disease sucks