Mid April to Late May, 301 AC

Trigger warning: This chapter contains a brief scene of attempted sexual assault and a fade-to-black reference to past rape. I've run the scenes by multiple betas who thought the sitatuations were handled delicately, but please be advised.


It was noon when Edythe stopped beside the kingsroad, or near enough. She could not tell for certain, not with a bank of clouds dark as charcoal hiding the sun from view.

She was glad to leave the road behind, if only for a little while. Rain was a gift from the Mother, with a sweet scent that hung upon the air, but the blessing of rain also meant the trial of mud. Already the road was half a mire, dotted with hundreds of puddles that sucked at her weary feet.

Once she would have hesitated before kneeling in a damp meadow, afraid of angering the new Elder Sister, or even, Seven forbid, drawing the First Mother's notice. Then Edythe's cowled robes had been the soft yellow of the chamomile flowers used to dye them, kept clean by Clover and Lyrelle and the other lay sisters who washed and mended in the laundry. Now, after weeks of sleeping in hedgerows, the roughspun was torn at hems and seams, almost shapeless. Most of the yellow was gone, the top half stained sickly orange by the shirt of rusted mail she wore over her robes, the bottom half stained green from kneeling in grass and brown-black from walking along muddy roads.

Edythe sighed, ignoring the soft clink of mail as she drew a deep breath. Noon marked the Hour of the Mother, a time for prayer, not whining. She was no child but a woman past forty, a sister of the Crone, dedicated to humility and wisdom.

"Hail, Mother Above," she murmured softly, her head bowed. "Beloved of the Father, giver of life, protector of the innocent. Blessed are thy seeds, and gentle is thy mercy..."

By the time she finished her prayers to the Mother Edythe's knees ached. The discomfort was welcome and familiar as she stood, picking up her walking staff. She was used to kneeling on the hard stone floor of the motherhouse's chapel. What was not familiar was praying in solitude.

Droplets of rain tapped her head as the clouds released their burden. Usually she would have a coif and wimple to cover the brown hair she kept cropped short as befit a humble sister, but both were long gone, pressed against a wound that could not be staunched.

She had buried the Elder Sister in a fallow field, her bare hands her only shovel. It took long hours to cover the holy sister's body with a thick layer of black mud, carrion crows watching all the while. No sooner had she finished her labors than the first crow landed atop the mound, digging a sharp beak into the dirt. Praying to the Stranger did nothing to dissuade the bird from his meal, nor stop his fellows from joining him, but brandishing a throwing spear scattered the birds for a little while.

Edythe could not leave the Elder Sister to the mercy of the crows, so she combed the field for stones and built a small cairn. When at last her work was finished, she wrapped a stained scarf of red silk around a stone the size of her fist and placed it atop the humble tomb. The Elder Sister should have been buried in the lichyard of the motherhouse, with a gravestone carved in the shape of the Crone's lamp and a bed of chamomile flowers to mark her resting place, but Edythe could not carve, nor did she have seeds. All she had was a set of tattered robes, a sack empty but for a few crumbs of hard bread and salted meat, and the tiny, blood-stained coin purse she had taken from the Elder Sister.

Thunder clapped overhead as the drizzle turned into a downpour, the rain drenching Edythe's robes within seconds. It had rained almost every day since she and the Elder Sister left the motherhouse, but she had not seen such a storm since the day the Elder Sister died.

They had traveled for ten days, the Elder Sister riding on a mule, Edythe walking by her side. Wind and rain were their constant companions, but that day the wind had howled so loud it shook the trees, the rain a torrent that turned the road to a river of mud. Small wonder that the mule lost his footing and stumbled off the road only to be trapped waist-deep in a ditch. They could barely see him until the rain finally slowed to a trickle, and by then his hooves were stuck fast in thick wet clay.

That was how the swarthy Dornishman found the two holy sisters, Elder Sister waiting patiently on the driest patch of dirt she could find, Edythe covered in filth from trying and failing to pry a mule from the muck. He spoke them gently, leading them to a nearby hut where he had taken shelter from the rain. It was his notion to lay loose boards before the mule, his strong arms that yanked until the mule was free. His voice, suddenly cruel, that demanded they hand over every copper they had, his hand that slashed a long thin whip at the Elder Sister's face when she refused.

"The Seven damn the man who raises hands against a holy sister," the Elder Sister declared, imperious despite the blood trickling down her cheek. She was a younger daughter of a noble house, used to deference and obedience.

"Do they?" The man drawled, placing a thoughtful hand to his chin. "Do they damn a man for stealing from a sept?"

"Of course," replied the Elder Sister.

"What if a man stands aside as his fellows slay a septon?"

The Elder Sister's eyes narrowed. "The man who stands aside is as damned as he who deals the killing blow."

"Twice damned already, oh dear. What if a man sees a pretty septa and fucks her till she screams?"

Edythe's skin crawled, her mouth dry as dust; the Elder Sister stiffened. "I warn you, brigand. I was born Aemma Sweetdarry; my uncle is Lord of Sweetdarry, master of two score knights. Our purse holds naught but a few coppers, but my ransom would be paid in gold."

"Sweetdarry," the brigand considered. His eyes devoured the Elder Sister, lingering on the womanly curves revealed by her sodden robes. "A fitting name, for your sweet face and sweeter tits." He drew a dagger from his belt, tossing it idly with a wolfish grin. "But not a lucky one. I'd have to be mad to risk my neck returning north; it's my head on a pike if the bloody Blackfish catches me."

Edythe watched as one trapped in a nightmare as the brigand drew closer to the Elder Sister, placing the sharp blade of the dagger against the Elder Sister's cheek. "No. I'll take coppers now, and the mule, and a pair of maidenheads into the bargain."

One maidenhead, Edythe thought stupidly. Fear crippled her; she watched, helpless, as the brigand lowered the dagger, his hands grappling at the Elder Sister's robes. "Such soft skin," the brigand crooned.

Such soft skin, purred the voice that dwelt in her darkest dreams.

Something in her snapped. No. Edythe ran, her steps echoing the pounding of her heart. She could not wield whip or dagger, but there must be something… the loose boards lay abandoned in the muck, hardwood planks as long as she was tall and heavy besides.

Too heavy. Already they sank into the mud, stuck fast. She yanked at the closest board, mud squelching and sucking. In her haste she slipped, falling against the mule's hindquarters. The mule startled, giving a loud bray. By the time she clambered to her feet he was gone, bolting across the fields, clods of dirt flying beneath his hooves. Edythe ignored him, planting her feet and seizing ahold of the board again. She was still pulling when she heard the sound of a struggle, then a piercing cry.

She turned. Somehow the Elder Sister had gotten ahold of the brigand's dagger, clutching it to her chest as though it were a shield. But the brigand had a whip, and he cracked it again and again, laughing as the Elder Sister tried and failed to twist away from the blows. He snapped the whip at her face, at her chest, at her legs, a predator toying with his prey.

"I think we've danced long enough," the brigand jeered, snapping the whip at the Elder Sister's hands. The dagger fell to the ground, the brigand advancing on the Elder Sister. "Give us a kiss, and I'll make it gentle."

The Elder Sister spat full in his face.

The brigand roared, dealing a vicious backhand to the side of the Elder Sister's head before throwing her to the ground. With a desperate prayer Edythe returned to her board, pulling, twisting—

The board jerked free of the muck. The Smith must have leant her his strength; she barely felt the weight as she ran, the board clutched in her arms. The brigand had the Elder Sister pinned beneath him, her hands grappling in the muck as he yanked her robes up to her hips, revealing pale smallclothes and paler legs. "No steel for you," the brigand growled, spying the glint of metal first and snatching up the dagger himself. The Elder Sister grabbed for the dagger anyway, bucking her hips in an attempt to throw the brigand off.

The brigand had tackled the Elder Sister near the edge of the ditch. Another thrust of her hips sent them over the edge, rolling down into the clay. The brigand came up on top, snarling and swearing, and it was at that moment that Edythe brought the board down upon his head.

A terrible crack echoed through the air.

"Forgot about you, bitch," the brigand mumbled, stunned.

Edythe swung again. The third blow sent him reeling into the filthy water, the fifth split his skull. For a moment his long dark hair turned short and brown and bristly; she swung twice more, to be sure he was dead. Only then, after the seventh blow, did she let the board drop from her numb fingers.

The Elder Sister lay in the muck, a dark stain spreading across her middle. "I got the dagger," she said proudly, her face that of a young girl despite her twenty years. You did, Edythe thought, horrified. It was buried in her belly, a slim hand plucking at the hilt.

"Elder Sister, no—" The girl pulled out the dagger, her fading eyes staring down at the gash it had made.

"My robes," the girl whimpered. Blood and grime were smeared all over the Elder Sister's once pristine vestments. Edythe ripped the coif and wimple from her head, pressing them against the gaping red wound. "Mother will be so disappointed..." Tears dripped down the girl's face.

I might have a daughter her age, if I had wed. Although the rain had stopped somehow Edythe's cheeks were wet, her breaths ragged as she watched the blood drench coif and wimple, her fingers slipping in the pool of red.

"Shh, all will be well," Edythe soothed, a hard lump in her throat.

"I'm so cold," the girl sobbed.

"I know, sister. Be brave." She let go of the bloody cloth, taking the girl's soft hands in her callused palms. Edythe was no septon or septa, but she knew the Stranger's Last Prayer well enough. "Blessed Stranger, hear our prayer. Have mercy upon your daughter Aemma..."

The girl was gone by the time the prayer was finished. Edythe closed the girl's eyes, pressing a dry kiss to her cold brow. The coin purse was still tied to the inside of the Elder Sister's sleeve; Edythe took it and hid it in her breastband. She would have to finish this journey on her own, but first the Elder Sister had to be laid to rest.

There was no washing the ruined robes, but Edythe found the brigand's halfhelm in the abandoned hut. It was a poor bucket, but it was enough to carry water from the clearest of the puddles, washing the blood and mud from the Elder Sister's face and hands, locked tight by death's embrace. The brigand's throwing spear was long enough to serve as a walking stick; his whip she burned in the last embers of the fire sputtering in the hut's hearth. His dagger she laid in the Elder Sister's hands; poor Lady Aemma deserved to rest with her prize. The rusted chainmail shirt she stripped from his corpse; some protection was better than none. A stained red scarf of precious silk was wrapped around the halfhelm; she left it atop the cairn, a bloom of color amongst the grey stones and brown-black fields.

Enough of this nonsense, Edythe told herself firmly. With naught to do but trudge through the pouring rain, her thoughts wandered more than she liked. She should be focused on the road, on the hard work of slogging through the mud. A hymn or two would help to pass the time.

Her voice was sore by the time midafternoon brought the Hour of the Maiden. Again Edythe stopped beside the road, this time saying a prayer for the Elder Sister after the usual prayers to the Maiden. She had never liked the Elder Sister. She was as fussy as a cat, her sharp tongue serving as her claws. Even so, she had respected Aemma Sweetdarry. The Elder Sister was nothing if not dedicated to her duties, mindful of the responsibilities required of those chosen by the gods to rule over lesser men.

Some highborn sisters frittered money away on silken robes, on adorning the chapel for highborn sisters with golden lamps, with altars carved from woods so rare Edythe did not know their names. The Elder Sister of the motherhouse near Harroway was one such, a spoiled old woman renowned for her wastefulness. Her grandmother had been some Whent cousin, and the First Mother dared not rein her in for fear of angering Lady Shella Whent of Harrenhal.

Harrenhal and its blackened towers were long leagues behind her now, though how far she had come Edythe could not say. The Elder Sister had better knowledge of the kingsroad, having traveled to King's Landing several times before, in the days when she was a lord's niece. Edythe had never traveled so far; the motherhouse was only a few days journey from Ser Franklyn Heddle's lands, and once she arrived she'd never left. Her place was in the kitchen gardens, tending the herbs and the chickens; in winter her days were spent in the motherhouse spinning thread for the sisters' roughspun robes. She toiled and she prayed, and slept peacefully each night.

What would she do if she came to an inn? The Elder Sister had not bothered with them; she knew the keeps and holdfasts that dotted the kingsroad, and knew the knights and lords who ruled them. The Elder Sister dined with the highborn and slept on the featherbeds they kept for guests; for Edythe there was the warmth of the kitchen, a hot meal and a straw pallet with the servants. But Edythe dared not approach a keep or holdfast; she was no lord's daughter, to demand shelter from one the gods had raised so high above her. But how much would it cost to sleep at an inn?

Edythe drew the blood-stained coin purse from its hiding place, counting out the coins with hands that trembled. Seven silver stags, seven copper stars, seven copper groats, and seven copper pennies. It was the most money she had ever held, the most money she had ever seen. "A pittance, but enough to take you to King's Landing with some comfort," the First Mother had said when she handed the purse to the Elder Sister. The Elder Sister had accepted it, unimpressed, though even highborn sisters were not permitted to hold any coin but that entrusted to them by the First Mother.

A silver stag shinier than the rest caught Edythe's eye. She traced the antlers stamped onto the coin, her father's voice echoing in her head.

"A stag?" Her father gasped, clutching at the sill of the only window in their daub-and-wattle hut. Already the knight was riding away, his horse's bardings jingling merrily as he disappeared into the distance. "You're sure? Not a star or a groat or a penny?"

"I'm sure, da." The coin was worn and dirty, but it still shone silver when she passed it to her father, the roughspun curtain scratching against her arm. He took the coin with a shaking hand, his weight resting heavily on the fallen oak branch he used as a crutch.

"All I did was point the way to Castle Darry," Edythe said, still unable to believe the wealth her father held in his callused palm. "And I said his horse was the finest I'd ever seen." It was the truth. The only horses she knew were the common nags that belonged to Pate the plowman, beasts of burden who spent their lives bent beneath a yoke.

"By the grace of the Father," her father breathed, staring at the coin reverently. Sunlight poured through the curtain, casting a halo about his balding head. "The Seven have blessed us, child."

Edythe closed her fist, the silver stag pressing into her palm. The Seven had blessed her, her and her father both. Their harvest had been poor that year, a summer hailstorm shredding a third of their rye, and that was before her father lost half his leg to a cut that went to rot. But with the silver stag they were able to pay the rest of the rent they owed Ser Franklyn Heddle, the taxes they owed the king and the tithe they owed to the Faith. Even then there were a few coppers to spare, enough to buy chicks from Goodwife Nolla.

Yet every blessing had its price. For two years she raised her chicks into precious hens that laid even more precious eggs. But none of them were roosters, and she could hatch no chicks of her own without one. It was Goodwife Nolla who told her to flirt with Marq, Pate the plowman's plain son. "His granny raises fine roosters," the Goodwife said, "though you never heard it from me. She butchers the bad tempered ones, or gives them to her kin. A few blushes and smiles and he'll get you one, sure as silver."

She'd gotten more than a rooster from Marq. Edythe shuddered at the memory of clammy hands, of her body betraying her. "Such soft skin," he'd marveled as he removed her shift. She had cowered like a rabbit brought to bay; she never screamed, never raised a hand to defend herself. Only when it was over did she think of a paltry excuse to flee home, weeping the entire way.

Her father knew what happened as soon as she came through the door, though how she could not say. She sobbed into his patched tunic, a burly arm holding her close until her tears were finally spent. But they did not speak of it, not until the next day. Their days began at dawn, but the world was still dark when Marq came to seek her father's permission to take her to wife, as if the day before had not happened, or worse, as if he thought she had wanted it.

"She is already sworn to enter the Faith," her father lied, his voice gruff. "It was her mother's dying wish."

Marq turned cold then, damning her for a harlot, a whore, a fickle bitch. Her father let him rant and rave, then drove the base of his crutch into the tender place between Marq's legs, and Marq crumpled to the dirt floor, cursing.

"Young Septon Meribald should still be here," her father muttered under his breath, driving a foot into Marq's ribs. The youth whimpered, curling up in a ball, his short brown hair bristling like a hedgehog's prickles. "Get your things, Edy-girl."

Septon Meribald was already leaving the ramshackle barn when they caught him, Edythe clinging to the market basket of woven reeds that held her few possessions, her father huffing and puffing and leaning heavily on his crutch. The wind tugged at the septon's tufts of thick brow hair as her father spoke to him in a quick, low voice; in the distance a nightingale sang sweetly, announcing the approach of dawn.

"Will Ser Franklyn prove difficult?" The septon said at last.

Her father shook his head, glaring with wounded pride. "I pay rent," he reminded the septon. "My Edy is no serf, to go begging m'lords leave before she can step foot beyond his fields."

Septon Meribald turned to her, his face kindly despite the enormous bushy brows that hid his eyes and the ugly wen on the tip of his nose. "Is this what you wish, child? To swear your life to a motherhouse?"

"It is," she answered. An easy choice, and the best she'd ever made.

Carefully she slipped the coins back into the purse, tucking it safely beneath her robes. The Crone would guide her to King's Landing, just as the Seven had guided her to the Crone's motherhouse. She had not wanted to leave, not ever, but her vows required obedience, and the First Mother's word was law. So when Sister Rowyn commanded Edythe to pack for a journey and report to the First Mother's solar, Edythe had done as she was told.

The Elder Sister was already in the First Mother's solar when she arrived; at a gesture from the First Mother Edythe stood behind the Elder Sister's chair, bowing her head respectfully.

"— without delay," the First Mother told the Elder Sister. "The High Septon shall hear you, and the Lord Hand will hear His High Holiness and aid us in our need."

"Do you think the Brave Companions pose such a threat?" the Elder Sister asked. "They are scattered, leaderless, desperate to save their own skins now that Ser Brynden is on the hunt."

"Do not speak to me of Tullys," the First Mother said sharply. "There would be no war in the Riverlands if not for Eddard Stark's treason."

"Yet it is the Young Wolf the riverlords hail as king," the Elder Sister answered, oh so softly. "I know House Brax has suffered—"

The First Mother's face turned hard. "You forget yourself, Elder Sister. The northmen worship trees, not the seven faces of god. There are no septs in their frozen keeps, no voices raised in pious song."

The Elder Sister's lip twitched. "The Manderlys—" she bit her tongue, as if only now realizing that she had gone too far. It was not for the Elder Sister to question the First Mother's decisions, let alone argue with them.

"This sister is to attend me?" The Elder Sister asked, glancing at Edythe. A moment of awkward silence, then the First Mother jerked her head in a stiff nod.

"Sister Edythe. I thought it fitting that you have one of our older sisters to tend to your needs, should a night come when you find neither keep nor inn. Sister Edythe has served faithfully for over twenty years; Fourth Sister reports that she is one of our most dedicated lay sisters. She should be capable of foraging for sustenance and cooking a decent meal over a fire."

Edythe nodded, taken aback by the unexpected praise.

"I think I've seen her about the garden. Has she taken a vow of silence?" The Elder Sister asked, looking over Edythe the same way Edythe looked over the hens when trying to decide which was fit to be slaughtered for the First Mother's table.

The First Mother chuckled. "Sister Edythe, you may answer."

"No, Elder Sister, I have not taken a vow of silence."

Edythe saw little point in talking, unless necessary for her work. Sisters who chattered were sisters who drew attention to themselves. Someone had to listen to all that talk, and there was no risk of saying something stupid if she said nothing at all. A few years after Edythe arrived Sister Perine had suggested she take a vow of silence, but... she felt closer to the Seven when she said her prayers aloud, when she felt the holy words leave her lips, when she let the spirit of god enter her as she sang hymns in the choir.

"Very well," said the Elder Sister, smoothing the wrinkles from her robes as she stood. "Are you sure you would not rather go yourself? Our High Septon is a westerman, as is our Lord Hand. Surely they would look upon you with more favor than I could hope to win."

The First Mother pursed her lips. "My place is here; I will not abandon my sisters. Besides, you are young. You will enjoy seeing the city once more. A mule awaits you in the stable, his saddlebags already packed. May the Crone raise her lamp to guide your path."

"May it be so," the Elder Sister and Edythe echoed, their heads bowed.

That had been the fourth day of third moon. Now Edythe was not sure what day it was; clouds hid the moon as often as they hid the sun. It was still raining when she paused to say her prayers to the Smith, unable to determine whether the Hour of the Smith had come but unwilling to risk delaying too long. The Smith had been her father's god, and though she had sworn her life to the Crone she still harbored a soft spot for him. It was the Smith who watched over the serfs and peasants whose labors fed all the Mother's children, from the lowliest cripple to the king himself. When she had said her devotions and sung a quiet hymn she even said a prayer for the brigand. Only a broken man would defy the gods so boldly, and the Smith was the mender of broken things.

Every muscle in her legs ached as she resumed her steady gait, wet robes clinging to her legs at every step. The road was empty as always; no other travelers were mad enough to brave the storms. The few folk she had glimpsed on the road were humble crofters, more concerned with escaping the deluge than in bothering strangers.

On and on she walked, the sky growing steadily darker. Nightfall would be here before she knew it, and still there was no sign of an inn. A hedgerow would have to do, as it had since the Elder Sister's death. She was looking about for a likely hedge, squinting through the slowing rain, when the sound of song came drifting through the air.

Warrior, Warrior, stout-hearted and brave,

the souls of the slain we beseech you to save

Comfort the widows and orphans who grieve,

help them and hold them and grant them reprieve...

Edythe quickened her pace, her weariness forgotten as the hymn swelled, the melody shifting into six-part harmony. She knew this hymn, as well as she knew her own name, and she raised her voice to theirs, wobbly though it was as she broke into a run.

She knew there must be many singing, to make such joyous noise, but Edythe still stopped dead when at last she saw the source of the hymn. There were over a hundred of them, no, surely thrice the number, brothers brown and green and pink, sisters blue and white and yellow, even silent sisters and brothers in grey. Most wore roughspun, but amongst those at the head of the chorus she saw once-bright robes of costly silk, heavy with embroidery that glinted as if sewn with silver thread.

The hymn ended, the world darker without the holy music. To her horror Edythe delayed a moment too long, her voice suddenly loud without others to conceal it.

"Well met, sister!" Called a fatherly voice, that of a septon garbed in green silk. Others turned to look at her, faces old and young examining the stranger who had interrupted their prayers. Almost all those near her were septas and septons, the cloth of their robes the finest she had ever seen.

"Well met," Edythe answered, dropping to her knees. Curtsying did not seem adequate for such lordly folk. She bowed her head, her cheeks burning with shame. Unkempt as they were, she knew her appearance was much worse. What would these holy folk think of a sister traveling alone, and in a chainmail shirt?

"Do not hang your head, good sister," a coarse voice said gently. A pair of hands appeared before her, the short thick fingers raising her to her feet.

She blinked down. She was not a tall woman, but the holy brother was even shorter than she was, a dwarf, less than five feet tall. His nose was bulbous and veined, his neck as thick as a warrior's despite the iron hammer of the Smith dangling about it. Drops of rain gleamed on his bald head and dripped from the dark brown hairs of his tonsure.

"I am Brother Paul," said the dwarf. "Our food and fire are welcome to you; you look as if you have traveled far and faced many trials."

By the time night fell Edythe was warmer than she had been in weeks. Holy brothers in roughspun lit watchfires while holy sisters produced salted meat and soft bread from the satchels they carried, portioning it carefully so all might soothe their growling bellies. A sister led grace, thanking the Seven and praying for the soul of good Ser Willis Wode, whose cellars had provided much of the meal.

"Where are we?" Edythe finally asked when her portion was finished, the taste of bread filling her with momentary courage. "Are these the crownlands?"

"Nay, sister, and thank the Seven for that," answered an older woman who also wore the yellow of the Crone. "Where are you bound?"

Edythe explained the First Mother's orders as best she could, though her voice cracked and faltered when she spoke of the Elder Sister. When she was done a brother in grey began the Prayer for the Departed, joined by all those near enough to hear, the sound easing the pain that had gnawed her since she buried poor Lady Aemma in her pauper's grave.

"Things have changed since you left the motherhouse," a pink-robed brother said bluntly when the prayer was done. "The old High Septon was called to the Seven Heavens, and a new High Septon has been chosen to take his place." The brother spat. "The choosing was corrupt. That is why you see members of the Most Devout among us common sparrows; they were exiled for daring to protest. Now a gilded puppet bears the holy sceptre, his strings pulled by a godless Hand and a blasphemous queen."

"That's not what blasphemy means," objected a septon with the look of a Dornishman, his robes made of green silk. "Blasphemy is to speak against god."

The pink-robed brother frowned, but as his cloth was roughspun, he did not argue.

"Thank you, Septon Timoth," a woman's voice said dryly. The septa drew closer to the fire, raising an eyebrow at the septon. Her skin was darker than his, rich russet to his light bronze, and her robes were of golden silk. "Is there a more specific term I'm not aware of that encompasses adultery, incest, regicide, high treason, and murder?"

"Adultery?" Edythe asked, too bewildered to even comprehend the rest of the list. Nearly every brother and sister made the sign against evil.

"Did your motherhouse not hear of the rumors?" the golden-robed septa asked, surprised. "It is said that the Kingslayer fathered Cersei Lannister's children, not King Robert. When Eddard Stark threatened to reveal her crimes, she urged her father to provoke war in the Riverlands before using sorcery to summon a demon in the shape of a boar which slew the king. With the king dead she crowned her bastard boy and had Stark executed on the very steps of Baelor."

Edythe gaped. Her worst sin was smearing chickenshit on Sister Caryn's robes after the haughty woman reprimanded her for calling her "m'lady" instead of "my lady" for the hundredth time, even though nobleborn women were supposed to be addressed as sister. My lady Caryn had stunk for a week, thanks to Sister Clover deliberately failing to properly clean the robes.

"I thought the demon was in the form of a direwolf," a brown-robed brother asked.

The golden-robed septa tsked. "No, that was the spirit that carried away Stark's daughter."

"I must disagree, Septa Utha. The direwolf is obviously metaphorical," Septon Timoth argued. "Some northman must have survived the coup and taken her to safety."

Edythe soon lost track of the discussion, her poor head overwhelmed by the strange words favored by the lofty members of the Most Devout. So far as she could tell, no one could agree on how the Stark girl escaped, but the false king Joffrey had somehow been flung from the walls of the Red Keep in the process. No sooner was Eddard Stark dead than the northmen and riverlords crowned his son, the Young Wolf. Open war ensued between the Lannisters and the Starks, with the riverlands as the battleground. At some point King Robert's brother Stannis had tried to claim the throne, only to be routed by the Tyrells coming to the Lannisters' aid.

"Is Stannis the true king?" Edythe asked timidly. A chorus of outraged voices responded, all talking over each other; it seemed Stannis had forsaken the Seven for some foreign god, had even slain his own lords for opposing the destruction of a sept. Now he'd fled to the Wall, though no one knew why, since the northmen showed no sign of abandoning their King of Winter to support him.

No sooner was Stannis fled than the Lannisters captured Stark's missing daughter, a tender maid of twelve who had either been hiding amongst the smallfolk, kidnapped by outlaws, or held for ransom by some unknown lord. Much argument ensued over that point. All agreed that it was the Kingslayer who found her, losing his sword hand to the vicious red direwolf that protected the girl.

"I still say the direwolf is a metaphor," Septon Timoth objected, only to be shouted down by half a dozen other septons in green silk drawn to the sound of debate.

Edythe hung her head in her hands, dizzy with confusion. The Seven only knew why the Lannisters had put the Stark girl on trial for Joffrey's murder, but apparently it had not gone as planned. The maid declared the gods had killed Joffrey, recounted every one of Lord Tywin's sins at length, condemned the queen's blasphemy and the boy king's bastardy, and finished by demanding trial by combat.

"I was there," a rough voice interrupted. The brothers and sisters fell silent, even the ones in silk. Brother Paul stepped forward, the drizzling rain misting over his heavy brow.

If the Crone had blessed the Stark girl's speech with wisdom as Septa Utha said, it was the Warrior who had blessed her unlikely champion. Neither knight nor northman had stood for Sansa Stark that day, but a Dornish squire, the Red Viper's bastard son, a spear his only defense against the brute known as the Mountain.

"His spear was broken," Brother Paul said, his voice hushed. "The Mountain would have slain the brave boy if not for a flock of sparrows." The brothers and sisters hung on his every word; even the Most Devout seemed entranced as he spoke of the maid's scream of terror, the squire's desperate courage, the moment when it seemed both squire and Mountain would perish, the roar of the crowd when the squire conquered his monstrous foe.

"The Seven were there," the brother said. "I saw the Maiden's dove light upon the fair maid's shoulder and nuzzle at her cheek."

That was not all Brother Paul had seen. King's Landing was a horror, a half-starved ruin. Dead and dying lay in the streets, with hollow bellies and shrunken eyes. The sparrows gave what aid they could, aided by their allies among the Most Devout, but it was never enough. When Lord Tywin died suddenly, slain by some sorcerous assassin, the sparrows took to the streets, hoping against hope that the boy king's Lord Hand or queenly mother might take pity upon them.

Instead the Kingsguard had crushed the sparrows beneath their horses' hooves. Over three score holy brothers and sisters were dead by the time night fell, those not led to safety by the Maiden's dove who had warned Brother Paul and drew him away from the riot. Amazed by the miracle, Brother Paul had laid hands upon a pair of sickly beggars; within a sennight the beggars were healed. A third miracle occurred soon after, when the gold cloaks imprisoned the dwarf on false charges. The Smith broke the shackles that bound him, and the gaolers set him free, unable to resist the gods' will.

"Brother Paul should have been chosen as High Septon," Septa Utha declared when he finished his tale. "The will of the Seven could not be more plain."

"We journey to Harrenhal," an elderly sister in roughspun said timidly. "Brother Paul fasted for seven days and nights to seek the Seven's guidance, and the Crone sent him a vision."

"Five blackened towers beside a gleaming lake. We will find sanctuary there, a refuge for the holy." Brother Paul sighed. For a moment his shoulders slumped, as though he carried the cares of the world in a sack upon his shoulders.

"You should join us, Sister Edythe," Brother Paul said, his eyes kind. She did not recall telling him her name. "You will find no welcome in King's Landing. The High Septon exiled us, and allowed only three days to leave the city, but the queen meant to have the gold cloaks kill us all."

"They would have," Septa Utha murmured, her face half in firelight and half in shadow. "If not for the warning of a friend within the Red Keep."

Brother Paul bowed to the septa, then turned back to Edythe. "Over two thousand of our holy folk fled that very night; what you see before you is but the vanguard of our blessed company. The Crone shone her lamp, and showed us that we must divide ourselves into small bands, lest we become a blight upon our hosts. It will be a hard journey, but no harder than the path you have already traveled."

Brother Paul spoke truly. To turn northward felt like failure, and doubt plagued her. Would the First Mother be angry? Would she be isolated from the other sisters for a time, like Sister Perine and Sister Mared after they confessed to kissing by the honeybee hives? Or would she be caned, like Sister Lyrelle had been after she was caught stealing a bottle of wine from the small reserve kept for lordly guests?

Yet her doubts seemed to dim with every mile. It was so much easier to bear the pouring rain when there were others to share her frustration, to lead prayers and hymns and share the work of finding food and shelter. She still slept beneath hedgerows most nights, but now there were dozens of other sisters curled around her, sharing the heat of their bodies, whispering kind nothings when they rose at midnight for the prayers of the Hour of the Stranger.

Still, it would be good to see her sisters again, to sleep on her own straw pallet within the motherhouse's strong stone walls. The closer they drew to Harrenhal, the higher her spirits rose. Her spirits rose even further when a holy brother led them down a side road to an enormous inn near the shores of the God's Eye. There was no sign hanging over the door, but the courtyard boasted a heavy block of white stone veined with gold, misshapen but still beautiful.

"The Goldstone Inn," Sister Myrielle told her, squeezing the rain from her muddy blue robes before entering the common room. "It used to be called Butterwell's Folly, but some Butterwell hedge knight took offense and smashed the sign." The sister laughed. "I don't think he could be bothered with the marble."

The innkeep did not want them at first. His face was cheesy white as he stuttered that he could not afford to feed so many, much as he would like to shelter such holy folk. His distress vanished when Septa Utha and Septon Timoth explained that he would be paid for his trouble. His many daughters and one gawky son came running at his shout, bringing warm bread and freshly churned butter and a dozen other comforts Edythe had not realized she missed. It was the butter that doomed her, the creamy sweet taste making her bold enough to speak with a fisherman who was already there when they arrived.

"Have you heard any news of the motherhouse between Sweetdarry and the Ruby Ford?" Fisherfolk and rivermen always heard news before anyone else. Well, anyone except lords with their ravens.

"Between Sweetdarry and the Ruby Ford?" The fisherman asked, scratching his neck, his honest face troubled. "The one for the Crone or the one for the Mother?"

"The one for the Crone," Edythe said impatiently. "The Motherhouse of the Lifted Lamp."

The fisherman bowed his head. "I'm so sorry, sister."

"Sorry?" Edythe did not understand.

"Them Bloody Mummers hit her a few weeks back. Some of 'em, anyway. Sellsword scum." He spat on the floor. "The Merry Fools, they call themselves, led by some raper in a jester's motley. Blackfish caught 'em, though, near Harrenhal. I fancy he gave them to old Lady Whent to stick up on her walls."

"Old Lady Whent?" Asked a brother she did not know. "It can't be, the woman must be ninety if she's a day."

"Aye, and dying," the fisherman said curtly. His eyes softened when he looked back at Edythe. "I'll pray for your sisters, m'lady."

I'm not a lady, Edythe thought, too stunned to speak. I'm a sister of the motherhouse, a servant of the Seven. The Crone led me there, they kept me safe all these years, they can't be gone. Her sisters' faces swam before her eyes, Lyrelle's dimples and Clover's snub nose, Young Sister Eglantine with her crooked smile and Old Sister Eglantine who never smiled at all.

Sister Myrielle slipped an arm about Edythe's shoulders, holding her close as the others interrogated the fisherman. What did it matter if Lord Tully had a newborn son? Why should she care about the Vale and its armies and whatever they were doing? The motherhouse was her home, and it was gone.

Brother Paul himself led prayers that night for the Motherhouse of the Lifted Lamp. Dozens of sad eyes watched her, voices murmuring loud enough for her to hear.

"—her motherhouse—"

"poor thing. I wonder—"

"— the Seven will send a sign, have faith!"

Faith, Edythe thought a few days later as she trudged through drizzling rain. Harrenhal's towers loomed over muddy fields, dark and gloomy as death. Is this my test of Faith, blessed Crone? She barely noticed when the company came to a stuttering halt, septas and septons quietly arranging themselves so they stood with their fellows, seven bands of faded color in a sad mockery of the sacred rainbow. Somehow Edythe found herself near the front of the Crone's sisters, watching and waiting to see what would happen next.

Guards atop the walls shouted at each other and at someone down below inside the keep. There were heads on spikes, as the fisherman had promised; one of them even bore a floppy jester's hat. She stared at the heads as the company waited patiently, Brother Paul first among them.

She could not say how much time passed before the portcullis began to rise, shrieking angrily the entire way. More time passed before a litter emerged, its hangings of black and gold, just like the livery of the men who carried it.

"The ground is unsafe, m'lady," a young knight said loudly, almost shouting at the litter as the curtains fluttered.

"I'm half deaf, not blind!" An old woman replied from inside the litter. Unlike the knight, she was shouting. "The rain has almost stopped, I can manage. Now help me down before I tell your betrothed about that girl in the buttery."

The knight blanched, nearly tripping in his eagerness to help the old lady out of her litter. "Yes, my lady, of course, my lady."

Lady Shella Whent did not look to be ninety. Her eyes were still clear, her long white braid thick. But she swayed uneasily as she approached Brother Paul, sweat beading her brow despite the cool breeze that sent her banners flying.

"Well met, m'lady," Brother Paul said, bowing so low Edythe fear his bulbous nose would come up smudged with dirt.

"You have journeyed a long way, I hear," Lady Shella said bluntly, still shouting. "The High Septon's raven said you were a pack of mad heretics, dangerous to every true believer, even those unfortunate enough to kneel to a northron king."

The Most Devout shifted angrily, like a band of cats at the sight of a dog. "Foul calumny," Septa Utha said, her eyes steady.

"I know that," Lady Shella snapped irritably. "The last time I was in King's Landing even the lackwits knew Septon Raynard was more oft found in the brothels than the Sept of Baelor, and Raynard was too stupid to read his copy of the Seven-Pointed Star unless he had a whore to read it to him!"

"Lady Shella," the knight hissed, beet-red.

"What? The man's a whore-monger! And a lickspittle, too, always kissing the queen's boots as if they were made of honey."

"Great lady, we come to you in dire need," Brother Paul said in a loud clear voice. "For seven days and nights I fasted, begging the Seven to show me the way. In answer I was shown a vision of a ruined castle, empty and quiet, a cursed place. Then I saw the same castle again, buzzing with life, filled with holy brothers and sisters toiling and singing and giving glory to the Seven."

Lady Shella looked at the dwarf, grief and hope warring in her aged face. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the sky lightening as the clouds began to shift.

"I am dying, blessed brother," the lady said abruptly. "The Stranger calls me, just as he called my strong husband and my tall sons, the sweet daughter I raised and the brave niece I barely knew. I have no heirs of my own blood, except my niece's get, and they are far afield."

The rain stopped so suddenly that the old lady looked up, frowning. A chill wind nipped at the clouds' heels, sending them tumbling and whirling until the sun emerged, shining like summer. The old lady almost smiled as she turned back to Brother Paul.

"Well, then. I see clearly now. Harrenhal belongs to the Seven. Humphrey!"

The knight was at her side in an instant.

"Help me get down, I want the brother's blessing." Carefully she lowered herself to her knees, one arm gripping the knight for support. Both Edythe and the knight winced when the old lady's silk gown touched the muck.

Brother Paul stepped forward, placing one hand on the crown of the old woman's head as he bowed his own in prayer, every holy brother and sister bowing their heads in turn. Edythe joined them, mouthing the words silently. When the blessing was done she raised her head.

No other heads were yet raised. The world itself seemed to hold its breath. Confused, Edythe looked up.

A rainbow arched over Harrenhal, its colors brighter than any silks or jewels.

"Thank you, Crone," she whispered. Her mouth was dry; that would not do. She licked her lips, clearing her throat before shouting for perhaps the first time in her life.

"HIGH SEPTON!"

Eyes snapped open; heads jerked up. One by one the holy brothers and sisters saw what she had seen, the shining sun, the brilliant rainbow over Harrenhal, and the holy brother, the dwarf whose vision had brought them there.

"HIGH SEPTON!" Another voice cried.

"HIGH SEPTON!" Screamed another.

"HIGH SEPTON! HIGH SEPTON! HIGH SEPTON!" All of them were shouting now, Most Devout and common folk alike, Sister Myrielle and Septon Timoth, Septa Utha and Brother Randolf, all of them, every one, even old Lady Shella and her knight and the men who bore her litter.

A true High Septon, Edythe thought, triumphant, as she knelt before the wide-eyed dwarf. And in the light of the sun, she could have sworn she saw him glow.


Uh. This chapter was supposed to be SHORT. A quick Riverlands update setting up an Avignon Papacy-inspired situation, that's all. Then somehow Edythe came to life, grabbed me by the throat, and demanded to tell her story. Medieval religion! The life of the smallfolk! The way news gets twisted by time and distance and bias! God fucking dammit I love this chapter so much but how the fuck did this happen?!?? This is the longest chapter of this entire fic, for a canon OC whose POV I almost decided not to bother with, what the fuck is happening??????

NOTES

1) As per usual, instead of inventing an OC from scratch, I took an unnamed character from canon and expanded wildly. Edythe comes from AFFC, Jaime IV:

"Lord Lancel is asking the Father Above for guidance," said the third sparrow, the beardless one. A boy, Jaime had thought, but her voice marked her for a woman, dressed in shapeless rags and a shirt of rusted mail.

2) Let's talk about dye! While many shades were too expensive for peasants to afford, and sumptuary laws further limited their options, they still cared about looking nice! You can read more about medieval dyes here.

As for the garb of clergy: in canon, there is a reference to "brothers brown and dun and green, sisters white and blue and grey." But GRRM also references belts woven of seven colors, and the official art has the 7 pointed star depicted with red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and purple? It's also weird because "[m]edieval scholars [thought] there were seven colors: white, yellow, red, green, blue, purple and black."

Anyway, I assigned yellow to the Crone, for her lamp of wisdom. The Maiden's followers wear blue to represent purity, and Mother's followers wear white because...uh... white can become any color, yet it also holds all of them? Grey is for followers of the Stranger.

Green is for the Father because medieval people associated green with balance, which suits the Father sitting in judgement. Brown and dun are the same color! Why would one color stand for the Warrior and the other for the Smith???? So here followers of the Smith wear brown, the color of soil and wood and other things used in men's labor. I swapped dun for pink, and assigned that color to the Warrior, for blood. Low level septons and holy brothers sworn to the Warrior get pink because red dyes were expensive; a highborn follower of the Warrior would wear red.

3) The First Mother is the leader of a motherhouse. Elder Sister is a title of rank unrelated to age; highborn sisters usually hold all the high positions in a motherhouse. You can learn more about the daily life of a medieval nun here. In medieval England, where 90% of the population were peasants, clergy made up 2% to 4% of the non-peasant population.

4) The swarthy Dornishman was Timeon of the Bloody Mummers. He was one of the ones that captured Jaime and Brienne in ASOS in canon; Brienne killed him in AFFC.

5) I invented House Sweetdarry as a cadet house of House Darry, located nearby in the Riverlands.

6) Edythe's rape by Marq is unfortunately based on personal experience with rape in my early 20s. Despite sobbing my entire way home afterwards, I didn't process that what happened was rape and not bad sex until I mentioned it to a therapist several years later because I was still having nightmares about it. While the common expression "fight or flight" is often used to describe the panic response to danger, "fight, flight, or freeze" is more accurate, a fact I sadly did not know until after years of blaming myself for "letting" my rape happen.

According to RAINN, 1 out of every 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. If you or a loved one have suffered sexual assault and need support, you can call 1-800-656-HOPE to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

7) Regarding currency:

1 silver stag= 380

1 copper star= 54

1 copper groat= 27

1 copper penny= 7

The First Mother gave Elder Sister 3,276. In 1300, a peasant laborer might make 2 a year (1,418.06, or 1,719.26). However, that would be the value of the crops they produced, NOT an amount of coin paid regularly. Peasants had to work a lord's land AND pay rent for being allowed to work and live on the land. Peasants were so short of coin that they usually paid rent and taxes with crops.

8) I have a headcanon that when possible, hymns to the Seven are sung in six-part harmony. Sopranos for Maiden, mezzos for Mother, and altos for Crone, tenors for Warrior, baritones for Father, and basses for Smith. The Stranger's part is silent.