Author's Note: Me again lords and ladies! Broke 1,000 reviews on this story during my hiatus from it; thank you all so much for that! Reviews are literally why I post works publicly, so always feel free to let me know what you think, be it good or bad.
New POV for the first half of this one, one you'll be seeing quite a bit of moving forward. I hadn't originally planned on using this character as a POV, but time and consideration made me like the idea more and more.
If it makes you feel better, I have a firm, written down plan for how this story goes and how it wraps up, barring a few details that will get sorted out or tweaked as we go. To counter that good news, I have no idea how long it will take IRL. This story has already changed a lot from where it was going originally, and while it may change again, I find myself writing parts of it that you guys won't see for many more chapters. While that makes the 'getting there' go slowly, it means we will actually make it.
Hopefully you folks share my excitement.
Sorry for the long note. As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update!
Oberyn didn't seem to like the High Sparrow. Neither did Arianne or Jon Connington or Laswell Peake or…well, anyone in Aegon the Sixth's inner council, save Septa Lemore.
Aegon liked him, though. The Seven knew the old man could make things difficult, but Aegon couldn't help himself.
His High Holiness was small and thin, with eyes as hard as stone and a heavily lined face. His age was somewhere between sixty and six hundred—no one seemed to know, not even the Sparrows who all but worshipped the man. His voice was not that of an old man however, instead a resonant bass far deeper than seemed fitting of a man of that size. Aegon swore he could feel it vibrating up through the stone beneath his knees, and he wondered if he would still be able to hear out of his right ear once the man finished his prayer to the Father for guidance.
The answer was yes, but certainly not as well as he had before.
Aegon, being young and spry, easily rose to his feet from before the altar. Septa Lemore, though in her forties, rose quickly as well. The High Sparrow, for all the power in his voice, took a bit longer, though Aegon had learned over the past few weeks that offers of help would be turned down. The fourth of their number, only a handful of years older than the king, rose alongside him, gray septa robes failing to hide the figure beneath.
Tyene can't help herself. I don't know her all that well, but I don't have to know her to know that.
Tyene Sand—or, as far as the High Sparrow was supposed to know, Septa Jeyne—nodded at Aegon subtly. He didn't know how he felt about all of this, this planned manipulation of the avatar of the Gods themselves. He also didn't think it was going to work, as the man had proved implacable of will and unimpressed with nearly two fortnights of attempts to win him over.
As it was, the king cleared his throat. "I still do not think I can approve of the refounding, Your High Holiness. I barely have a grip on King's Landing and the surrounding lands; it's not nearly enough to begin pronouncing laws of that magnitude." He glanced briefly at Lemore. "But if I had promises of the Faith's support for the Targaryen claim…"
The old man eyed him, his stare as intense as the burning sun. It had taken Aegon by surprise when he'd first met the High Sparrow, but the past moon and a half had gotten him accustomed to it. Though it's still bloody intimidating. "You have made it very clear, King Aegon, that you view the Faith as a tool of your conquest."
Lenore tried to intercede. "Your High Holiness, the king did—"
The Sparrow continued, ignoring her. "The Seven do not care for this game of thrones. I know past septons have entered deals with House Targaryen—the declaration of exceptionalism prime among their false doctrines—but they had neither the authority nor the right to alter the word of the Seven. Nor did those kings have a right to outlaw the Faith Militant."
Aegon grinned wryly at the older man. "I only see you as a tool of my conquest, eh? It sounds like you see me as a tool to a militarized faith."
The rumors were not true. The High Sparrow did smile, though rarely. "It is true enough, I suppose. I wail like a heartbroken mother that the Iron Throne has no right to deal with matters of the Faith, yet it is I who asks for crown recognition. A sin, one of many I must atone for."
"Not a sin, Your Holiness, merely pragmatism. Do the Seven begrudge men of reason?"
"Perhaps not, but they do not tolerate those who bend their teachings this way and that, to whatever suits them at the time." The Sparrow sank down at another altar, the trio surrounding him doing the same. When he rose sometime later, he continued as if he had never stopped talking. "One doctrine undenied by any is that you must protect those who cannot protect themselves. The smallfolk of Westeros have suffered years of war, and winter is setting in. The west is overrun with heathens, raping and killing their way from Flint's Finger to the Shield Isles. The Riverlands are overrun with brigands and deserters, with roads unfit for an honest man to travel. You cannot protect them, as there are also armies in those lands. Armies whose leaders want you dead."
The Sparrow's pitch rose a touch. "Do you know who suffers most from these wars between men of noble blood? Smallfolk. The common men and women, those of no blood worth remembering. The men die fighting for lords who don't know their names. The women and children die by the men, or in the winter when the food runs out because their husbands and fathers weren't home for the harvest. Over and over, generation after generation. We of no name outnumber you mighty lords ten thousand to one, yet we suffer the most for your petty squabbles."
Aegon did not argue. He had learned early that this matter was not one on which the High Septon would yield even an inch of ground. "I cannot fix these issues today, High Septon."
"But you can help them," the old man snapped, then knelt before another altar. Aegon held his tongue and followed suit, and was ready when they rose minutes later. "Reinstate the Faith Militant. Let them protect the poor of Westeros on the road. Let them stop the rape of septas and burning of septs. Give the people hope." He lowered his head, like an old bull sizing up a foe. "You ask me to bless your rule in the name of the Seven, but you do not rule with their teachings in mind. You think of yourself, not your people. Put them first, as your predecessors on that pointy chair never have."
Aegon held his temper as he had his tongue. I like the old man, but he can drive you to murder. "As you have pointed out, Your Holiness, I am a man. I am not one of the Seven, nor have I claimed to be. But you put a task before me that is better suited to a god. I cannot fix the injustices of the past against smallfolk."
"I never said you could."
The interruption made his forbearance break. "No, but you insinuated it heavily. I cannot fix those sins, High Sparrow. I can only promise to do better moving forward, once I have Westeros in truth. And if I am to do that, to have the chance to build a kingdom that protects the smallfolk as we both desire, then you cannot sit idly by, making demands of me but offering nothing."
The Sparrow's head rose. "I speak for the Seven themselves."
"And I speak for the Seven Kingdoms." Aegon took a deep, calming breath. "I will put the notion of a renewed Faith Millitant before my lords. But this is not a boon freely given. As we must work to earn heaven, you, High Sparrow, must work with House Targaryen to gain what it can provide." He nodded to the older man. "If you would excuse me, I must return to the keep. I would like to visit you again on the morrow if you are agreeable."
The High Sparrow returned the nod. We have an understanding, we two. Bluster, brag, bite, then agree to meet later as if it never happened. "The Sept of Baelor is always open to all of the Seven's children, King Aegon."
Ser Rolly Duckfield had the good sense not to speak until Aegon and Lemore were halfway down the steps, a heavy guard of men in Targaryen colors surrounding them. "I take it things did not go well today, Your Grace."
Lemore was blunter. "That was stupid, Aegon."
She was probably right, but Aegon had a feeling an outburst like that would go farther with the old man than any number of flowery words. It'd been flowery words for the past moon, to no avail. "Perhaps, perhaps not. The Small Council has discussed giving into the man for a week now. I see benefit and risk both in the maneuver."
"The backing of the Faith is key."
A great many things are key. Just which is the most important seems to vary from person to person. "I believe we can win the man to our side. I for one don't even mind whether he condemns Damon Baratheon or not, whatever Jon Connington says. So long as I have his blessing I am content, for now. Perhaps, if I offer to have him oversee my marriage…"
Septa Lemore cocked her head, not blinking an eye when Aegon forwent the carriage and continued walking. She was used to it by now; Aegon liked to walk the city of his birth, whatever the dangers it might present. It gave him a feeling of peace, of control. "Has the Small Council given their blessing, then?"
"No," he replied honestly. "But I don't need it, and I am tired of waiting."
"Lust is no reason for a marriage, Your Grace."
He laughed. "Oh there is plenty of that, Seven forgive me, but the entire Dornish army is making its way here aboard our fleet. I know Jon speaks of my aunt Daenerys and the rumor of her dragons, of how that has been his goal from the beginning for my future queen. But she is still in Essos, or at least we think she is, and has ignored all our petitions. The Dornish are here, dying for me. Without them, I don't hold King's Landing. And while I love the idea of dragons…well, right now they are an idea. Spears are here, physical, before me. Spears are what will truly win me my throne. If my aunt shows up eventually, months or years after we've already started the killing, she shall have a place of honor…but not the title of queen."
Lemore did not argue. Despite calling him stupid moments ago, she truly was the most even keeled and understanding of those who had raised him. I wonder if it's because she knew my mother. I wonder if I should let her know that I know she knew my mother. "And if she does have dragons?"
Aegon grinned at her. "Well…from what I have read of Targaryen history, she can only ride one."
"Your Grace."
Damon Baratheon, first of his name, walked into the towerhouse of Queenscrown without a word of acknowledgement. Emmon Peake rushed to take Widow's Wail, then the king's greaves, all but sprinting up the stairs to store them. Damon decided he liked that boy quite a bit; he never bothered the king with words. Margaery chose my squire well.
"Your Grace."
Damon looked to Elinor, who had been in the small ground chamber when the king entered, Tyrek on his heels. "Where is the queen?"
Elinor, not batting an eyelash at Damon's disregard of the voice asking for him, answered at once. "She is with lady Val at the edge of camp, Your Grace. You likely just missed her on your return from the Wall." Knowing his next question, Elinor continued. "Ser Loras and ten knights of House Tyrell are with her, as is Megga and Maester Kerwin."
Damon nodded. If Margaery was with Val, there had likely been an incident between the two forces, southron and wildling. Damon glanced up the stairs. I may need Widow's Wail again, and soon. He trusted Margaery to determine if he was needed or not; she had proven good at making some situations disappear before they ever reached him, while also making sure to defer to his judgement on those deemed important enough, such as the food theft a fortnight ago. Trust was a hard word for Damon after the revelations of late, but Margaery had earned a modicum of faith at least.
One of those behind his inability to fully trust anymore spoke for the third time, voice angry. "Damon."
The king of the Iron Throne looked to the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, face blank. He did not answer.
Jaime Lannister continued, voice exasperated. "You cannot ignore me forever, Damon. I have news you need to hear, and I will not pass it to Tyrek or Red Alex or bloody Emmon Peake as you've had me do for nearly three moons." There was anger in Jaime's voice, raw and fierce. Damon felt his own flare up like a blacksmith's billows, hot and heavy in his chest.
Fine. If you insist, uncle, we'll play the hand this way.
He kept his tone calm and even, though his eyes were burning bright as they locked with Jaime's. He did not look to the Tyrell girl as he spoke . "My lady, please intercept Emmon before he comes down. You are both to wait in mine and the queen's chamber until I call for you." She curtsied, then began to hurry away. Damon stopped her, tone unchanging. "I usually turn a blind eye, but I will not tolerate eavesdropping this time, Elinor. Not from you or anyone else. I suggest you heed my warning."
The king didn't see her blush heavily, or acknowledge her second curtsey. The young woman made better time up the stairs than even Emmon had.
The two golden men faced one another. A third, face carefully blank, wordlessly drew the bar on the towerhouse door, then checked each adjoining chamber thoroughly. He even climbed the stairs and checked the second level, assuring no one was in earshot, before returning to the ground floor. The two men had not moved, not their feet or their gazes. "We are clear. Shall I join Elinor and Emmon?"
"No," Damon answered. "I want you here in case I lose my temper."
Jaime snorted. "And what, Your Grace, kill me?"
Damon nodded once, hard and sharp, to Jaime's golden hand. "It wouldn't be hard."
It was a low blow, one the king immediately wanted to call back. However fierce his anger with the man before him, Damon loved Jaime. Uncle, father, mentor, whatever he was, Jaime had been Damon's sounding board and strongest supporter from the moment the king had been born. I want to hurt him, but I don't. I want to beg to his forgiveness, but I also want to beat him within an inch of his life. I want to ask him bloody why, but also forget I even know.
Damon did none of those things. He merely stood, stone-faced, and waited.
Jaime Lannister was hurt by the comment, Damon knew he was, but he was too quick witted to be stricken silent by it. "If you were going to do that you would have by now. You haven't, which means you won't, which means you cannot continue to ignore me. People notice things, Damon; there are already whispers around camp."
The king knew that was probably right, but he couldn't force himself to be logical. "What is it grandfather always says? 'A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.' I'm a lion times two; their opinions mean fuck-all to me."
Jaime gritted his teeth, then continued. "Steel can kill a lion, or a stag, or a bloody dragon. Hate me if you must but put on a show for your lords at the very least. Our family has too many enemies for us to show anything other than unity."
"How can we? Myrcella is in Dorne, maybe a captive. Tommen and grandfather are somewhere trying to fight them. Tyrion and…and mother are in Winterfell, and you and I are here. We're spread from the bottom of Westeros to the top."
Jaime's hand clenched. "Stop being petty, Damon. You are a king now, whether you want to be or not. Maybe you want your mother and I dead, but you won't sacrifice Tommen and Myrcella to do it. You think you are the victim here? If you are, so are they."
Damon slammed his fist down on the table, hard. "If? IF? I—"
The king stopped suddenly, as something battered at the edge of his hearing. He glanced to the window of the towerhouse and its closed shutter, then strode over to it quickly and threw it open. The sound of a distant horn blast faded away into silence, air thick with tension. Then, another mournful call began brought about a burst of sounds and activity in the camp.
All while the king's blood turned to ice in his veins.
Tyrek and Jaime were suddenly at his sides. His father spoke first. "Tell me a wildling scouting party is returning. Tell me that was only two."
Damon answered him without a trace of anger or pettiness. "No, uncle. That was three."
A/N: *tease* Exit light, enter night! Take my hand...off to never-never land!
Just to be clear, the Faith of the Seven is a made up religion with made up ideas. The idea of working your way into heaven, as referenced in this fic, isn't how following Jesus works. If anyone wants to know more about Him, my messages are always open.
See you around kiddos.