July, 303 AC


The bells tolled steadily, deep and clear. Each of the five great towers of Harrenhal boasted two bells, and their voices echoed over the vastness of Harrenhal as they called the Hour of the Crone. Even kneeling upon the floor of the sept, Edythe could feel the thunder in her bones as she bowed her head in prayer.

Septa Utha lead the dawn service, lamplight shining on her gold robes as she turned to a passage from the Crone's Book. Any septa might read from The Seven-Pointed Star, but the book resting on the pulpit was no common text. It was a great tome, bound in leather, encrusted with jewels, and said to be wondrously illuminated within. Only the Most Devout might handle the precious relic, one of a few saved in their flight. Septa Utha's chosen prayers were as uncommon as her text, and some of the sisters faltered when she bade them reply in answer. Edythe did not. Every word in the Crone's Book was graven on her heart, as familiar as old friends.

When the prayers were done it was time to make sacrifice. Septa Utha poured fragrant oil into a lamp wrought from precious gold. Seven spouts it had, each set with a crystal that flashed rainbows as the septa lit the seven wicks. Another prayer, this time for the soul of Lady Shella Whent, a hymn of thanks for the dawn, and then the sisters were dismissed to break their fast.

Breakfast was soft bread, hard cheese and thick beer. As the sisters quietly ate at their trestle table in the undercroft, Third Sister Jonelle read to them from The Book of Merits, Being an Examination of the Triumph of Virtue over Vice. The Third Sister was getting on in years, her voice scratchy and dry, but Edythe enjoyed how smoothly she read. Third Sister always paused at just the right moments, either to let the sisters reflect on the text, or so she might explain the meaning of a word.

After breakfast Edythe climbed the stairs, one more minnow in a flood of soft yellow robes, coifs, and wimples. While many of the sisters talked as they climbed, she contented herself with covering the yawn she'd been holding in. Of late she kept waking in the night, her chest and neck red and covered in sweat. No amount of prayer seemed to stop the discomfort, nor did fanning herself with her blanket until she shivered, only to awake a few hours later pouring sweat again.

Save for the sweats, every day was the same as the one before, thanks to the blessed Crone. Edythe rose, she prayed, and she worked, surrounded by the same small cluster of lay sisters. It was the will of the Seven that the faithful spend their days laboring, just like the Smith at his forge. So said the High Septon, the gods' own voice on earth. A few called him the dwarf High Septon, but most had taken to calling him Paul the Pious, lest there be any confusion betwixt His High Holiness and the lion's lapdog, Raynard, who desecrated the Great Sept of Baelor each day of his false reign.

Well. Harrenhal might not have been built by blessed Baelor, but it would be just as holy by the time the faithful were through with it. Kingspyre Tower, largest and tallest, was in the best condition, though only the lower third had been kept in good order. That was soon remedied. The faithful had scrubbed and sanctified every nook and cranny so it could house the High Septon, seventy Most Devout, and the septons and septas who attended them.

The High Septon had also ordained the arrangement of the other four towers soon after their arrival. In the Widow's Tower he established two motherhouses, one each for the septas, sisters, and sparrows sworn to the Mother and the Maiden. The Tower of Dread held two septries, those of the septons, brothers, and sparrows of the Warrior and the Father, whom His High Holiness judged best prepared to brave the tower's fearsome reputation. The Wailing Tower, with its storerooms and cavernous vaults, was a single septry, that of the followers of the Smith, who were the most numerous.

Last of all was the Tower of Ghosts, an utter ruin whose care His High Holiness entrusted to the motherhouses of the silent sisters and the worshippers of the Crone. It was there Edythe spent her mornings, toiling in rooms so big she felt as if they could swallow her whole. Today her orders from the Third Sister took her to the highest of the upper levels with a half dozen other lay sisters. Mounds of filth stubbornly caked the floors, and it was their job to remove them.

Yet again Edythe said a prayer of thanks for the pink-robed brothers of the Warrior, who'd removed the endless bats that once roosted in the rafters. At first the sisters had tried handling the beasts themselves, as the High Septon said they ought. The Smith's brothers supplied them with mortar to patch the cracked walls, and they used enough of it to fill a lake.

It wasn't enough. The bats still returned in the morning, by way of holes smaller than a silver stag. Then they had tried clanging bits of metal to drive them out, only to find it sent the beasts into a frenzy of flapping wings. Edythe slew two bats with her broom, and by the grace of the Crone she was not bitten or scratched like most of the sisters, one of whom soon died of a raving fit. That was when the High Septon finally gave permission for the brothers to slay the foul beasts, who were no doubt possessed by damned souls.

Even with the bats gone, Edythe wondered if their leavings were somehow cursed. Sister Harra and Sister Violet coughed as they scraped the nightsoil into buckets, and Sister Jeyne vomited once, poor girl. Edythe could not blame her; the stink made her belly curdle. That was why Edythe kept a thin scarf wrapped about her face, to protect herself from the stench. Fourth Sister Mela had praised her for the wisdom of the notion, a rare compliment given the sister's strict and exacting ways.

When the bells tolled nine times, they paused their labor to say prayers to the Father. Once finished, Edythe tapped Jeyne on the shoulder. It was the work of a moment to show her how to put on the spare scarf Edythe kept in her robes, an offering the young woman gratefully accepted.

As the morning wore on some of the sisters began complaining about sore arms or upset bellies. Edythe kept at her work, intent on removing a stubborn patch of nightsoil. She might go to bed exhausted, but she would know this section of floor was cleaner than it was when she awoke. While she scraped, her eyes wandered to the thin window. It looked down upon the middle ward, which was so big that the Motherhouse of the Lifted Lamp could have easily fit inside it with room to spare. She'd known every inch of the motherhouse, but even two years were not enough for her to learn the Tower of Ghosts, let alone Harrenhal itself.

Nor was Edythe used to over two thousand faithful sharing a single keep. The motherhouse had only three score women at most. She had found it frightening when a dozen widows and orphans took vows as novices in the short months after Robert's Rebellion ended, all of them strangers. At Harrenhal she might see a dozen new faces each day, if not more. Poor folk came seeking aid or work, riders came bringing messages or children to be taken as oblates, knights and lords came to meet the High Septon. Thankfully she saw none of them during the mornings; a strange face before noon would be more than she could bear.

As noon approached the women put up their tools. One might pray to the Father, Smith, or Warrior from where one worked, but for Crone, Mother, and Maiden, any pious woman must pray in the sept itself, even if she was only a lay sister, who knelt at the very back of the sept. That meant removing their filthy aprons, washing their hands, arms and feet with buckets of soapy water, and pulling on clean shoes.

Edythe did not remain clean for long. While walking to the sept another flash of heat came over her, sweat dripping down her neck. Thank the Seven that it was the end of autumn. Every woman's womb shriveled eventually, when the Mother gave her over to the Crone, but the gods must be well pleased with Edythe, to let cool winds soothe her suffering. Thank you, Mother Above, Edythe prayed as she waited for the midday bells to ring the Hour of the Mother.

Once they began, the Mother's prayers lasted rather longer than those for the Crone. Noon was the hour when it was customary for the sisters to pray for the souls of departed ladies who were under the Mother's protection. Their kin gave charity to the faithful in the form of land, grain, or coin, and the faithful beseeched the Stranger to grant peace to the dead.

Most highborn paid for seven weeks of daily prayer, perhaps seven months if they were particularly wealthy or devout. The Tullys, however, were both. Lady Catelyn Tully would remain in the sisters' prayers for a full seven years after her death, thanks to Lord Edmure and Ser Brynden Blackfish. That was only right and proper.

Less proper was the fact that King Robb Stark, an unbeliever, bade them do the same for Queen Jeyne Westerling. There had been rather a lot of fussing over that. Did the King in the North mean to repent of his false gods? Was he attempting to curry favor with the High Septon? Might he be luring them into a false sense of safety before seizing Harrenhal for himself?

The guessing was endless, as was the arguing. At one point Brother Randolf and Brother Delp came to blows over the matter, resulting in a broken arm and three black eyes. As punishment, the Elder Brother of the Warrior's Septry had the quarrelsome pair beaten, put on bread and water, and restricted to their cells for a month. A well earned punishment, given the sinfulness of brawling when there was work to be done. As for Edythe, she found the arguing rather tiresome. It was common sense that one should not let a wolf in the motherhouse, but if it dropped a fresh deer on their doorstep, it would be foolish not to take the meat.

When prayers ended it was time for everyone to resume her toil. Most of the warm, well-lit workrooms inside the motherhouse were set aside for the septas. In some rooms the septas prayed, copied holy texts, even wrote prayers of their own. In others they sang, practiced their skill at the flute or viol, and composed holy music. The largest rooms in the Widow's Tower and the Tower of Ghosts were set aside for spinning, weaving, and embroidery; the former Hunter's Hall near the main gate now served as an almshouse, where sisters devoted to the art of healing tended to the sick, elderly, and orphans.

A few lay sisters worked with the septas, fetching and carrying and running messages. Edythe thanked the Seven she was not one of them. True, they did not suffer the unpleasantness of scraping bat dung, but such luxury came at too high a price. Being around the highborn made Edythe nervous. One never knew what mistake or misunderstanding might cause offense. Septas never explained themselves, not like Third Sister Jonelle, who understood that Edythe worked best when given specific orders. And the septas kept the lay sisters running from dawn to dusk, here one minute and there the next. No, that was not for Edythe, who was content to spend long hours at the same tedious, repetitive tasks.

In the afternoons, that task was working in the kitchen gardens. Most of the lay sisters worked out of doors in the afternoons, when the sun's warmth made it easier to tolerate the cold of late autumn. Truly it was winter now, or so the maesters said, but the crops did not seem to know that. Carrots and parsnips, kale and spinach, all of them still grew happily in their fields despite the occasional frosty morning. The light dustings of snow that fell yesterday had already melted away; when Edythe began pulling carrots the soft ground yielded them up without protest.

Although the Seven frowned upon petty gossip, her fellow lay sisters still talked away as they worked. Lord Tully's wife was with child again, and faring poorly. Was her ill health merely common misfortune, or punishment for her Frey blood? The sisters were not sure, but all agreed Lord Edmure was not to blame. He could have had Roslin Frey charged with treason for her role in the Red Wedding and given her up to the axe or the silent sisters. Instead, rumor held that he was quite devoted to his lady wife. Not that there was talk of cruelty from the many wenches he tumbled before marrying, but even so.

"A true and godly liege, is our Lord Tully," Sister Harra said, to general approval. While some lords closed their gates to the smallfolk during the fighting and raids, Lord Edmure had sheltered them within the walls of Riverrun. While the Young Wolf hunted in the Westerlands, Lord Edmure defeated Tywin Lannister and sent him running for King's Landing with his tail betwixt his legs. While the King of North sat in his frozen keep so far away, Lord Edmure rode hither and yon, seeing what needed to be done so they might survive the winter.

"The northmen did rebuild out by Maidenpool," Sister Violet pointed out, scrupulously fair. "And their gold has helped fill the granaries. It's more help than we got from Lady Arryn."

Everyone made a rude noise at that, even Edythe. Lysa Arryn was born a Tully, good Lord Edmure's elder sister. She should have called the banners to defend the Riverlands, but what had she done instead? Sat on her mountain, weeping over her dead husband while crops burned and smallfolk died. And rather than take the burden of rule from a grieving widow, the lords of the Vale had sat on their hands, awaiting the chance to join the winning side.

"Not Lord Royce," Third Sister Jonelle said firmly, having overheard them as she drew near to inspect the sisters' progress. She glanced at the baskets with a beady eye, then gave an approving nod to Edythe's pile of carrots. "My kin are merchants in Gulltown. Yohn Royce near revolted over Lady Lysa's refusal to call the banners; it was him that finally made her do it."

Well, that was all very well, but why was such a cowardly lady still regent of the Vale? Edythe could not make sense of it. Rather than appoint a new regent, the King in the North had merely forced his aunt to foster children from amongst the high lords of the Vale. Seven save her, the frightened woman was still hiding atop her mountain, though the time was long past for her household to leave the Eyrie.

Hopefully Ser Brynden Blackfish would sort things out. When the famous knight stopped at Harrenhal to receive the High Septon's blessing, it was all anyone would talk about for weeks. Not that there was much to talk of; Ser Brynden had only stayed for a few days before continuing on his way to the high road.

"Maybe the Blackfish is the new regent," Sister Jeyne whispered once the Third Sister was gone again. "It would serve them Valemen right, having a good Riverman to put them in their place."

Edythe hoped she was right. The Vale paid tithes to Harrenhal rather than the Great Sept of Baelor, but... The lay brothers who worked in the granaries had heard their cellarer complain over Lord Grafton's stiff prices, Lord Corbray's tithe was far less than it ought to be, and Lord Redfort wasn't paying tithe at all.

Not that it came as a surprise. Harrenhal had buzzed with gossip the instant Ser Mychel Redfort arrived seeking an annulment. Highborn rarely broke betrothals, let alone marriages of over two years, even unconsummated ones. The High Septon had pondered the issue for a sennight, praying and fasting and seeking the word of the gods. Meanwhile, everyone else argued over sept doctrine and whatever a "precedent" was.

Edythe had ignored the fuss as best she could. When not at her labor, she hid in the godswood, the only place free from dozens of people yammering away. She'd only been disturbed once, by a simple girl who'd served in Lady Shella's household.

"It changed," Pia told her, shyly pointing at the awful white heart tree with its grim face. "I hid here, after, after the northmen left."

The girl hugged herself, shuddering. Small wonder. What Edythe had heard of Lord Bolton's brief rule over Harrenhal was enough to make a woman faint. It was a miracle Pia had survived months of torment without getting with child; the girl must surely be barren.

"It used to look angrier, before," she continued, unbothered by Edythe's silence. "The eyes scared me, they were so full of hate."

Edythe stared at the tree. It looked plenty angry to her. Did it know the old gods were no longer worshipped here? Was it to blame for the strange nightmares that plagued Septa Becca? She'd woken one night screaming about dragons dancing above the God's Eye, sending half the Widow's Tower into fits of hysterics before Septa Prunella assured them all that the skies were clear, the dragons were a hundred years dead, and nightmares were nought but indigestion caused by an excess of rich food.

Edythe wasn't so sure about that. Brother Cletus ate nought but bread and salted fish, yet she'd heard him at the well not long after, telling Brother Pate he'd dreamt of dragons fighting in a winter storm. Brother Pate thought it must have been Maegor the Cruel slaying his nephew Aegon the Uncrowned, or perhaps Aemond Kinslayer and Prince Daemon, who'd fought over the God's Eye during the dance of the dragons.

"What color were the beasts?" Brother Pate asked, stifling a yawn.

"I could not say; the snow fell too thickly." Brother Cletus frowned. "One dragon was darker and larger than the other; both riders were hooded and cloaked against the wind and cold."

Whether or not the weirwood was responsible for such visions, Edythe found the tree unsettling. Worse, there was no getting rid of it. The High Septon said upsetting the King in the North was the last thing anyone needed. Besides, only the Seven could perform miracles; any talk of weirwoods having magic was ignorant heresy. Chopping down a tree would not stop odd things from happening at Harrenhal. No, centuries of evil could only be cleansed by prayer and the will of the Seven, who worked in their own good time.

His High Holiness was right, of course, just as he had been right to annul Ser Mychel Redfort's marriage, both for lack of consummation and on grounds of consanguinity. Before the conquest, no lord would dream of wedding his son to his sister's daughter as Lord Redfort had. The Seven-Pointed Star forbade marriage betwixt cousins, a ban that had been set aside when the Targaryens crushed the Faith beneath their heel.

"Even High Septons may err, when faced with the slaughter of their flocks," Paul the Pious explained from the gallery as he began his sermon. The faithful listened from their places below in the middle ward, already on tenterhooks from the annoucement of the annulment of the Redfort marriage. "The Targaryens were not like other men, we said, desperate to save our skins. The abominable lusts of Valyria must be tolerated, when dragons bared their teeth at the Starry Sept. But even kings cannot defy the gods forever. Brother wed sister, and brother slew sister, and the last dragon died."

"The gods' warning did not go unheard. Some princes turned from the path of wickedness. Good King Baelor set his sisters aside, and the Seven blessed him with miracles. Viserys the Second wed a Lyseni, and the gods blessed him with years of peace and three healthy children. Aegon the Fourth wed his sister Naerys against her will, and the gods cursed the realm with blood and fire, not only during his life but in the years beyond."

Again and again the Seven showed the way, Paul the Pious told them, as a chill autumn wind tugged at his silk robes and turned his bulbous nose pink. When the Targaryens wed ladies of noble birth, they sired noble trueborn children like Jaehaerys the Conciliator or Aegon the Unlikely and the realm prospered. When they bedded their sisters, cousins, or nieces, they sired bastards and madmen and stillborn monsters, and the realm suffered war and strife.

And the longer such perversions were tolerated, the further the rot spread. The unnatural lust between Jaime and Cersei Lannister was proof no man could deny. The falsest of knights and the falsest of queens, born from a marriage between cousins that The Seven-Pointed Star forbade before the dragons came. Well, the dragons were dead, and those days were done.

"Septon Timoth, if you would," the High Septon called.

In a swirl of green silk robes, Septon Timoth stepped forward to read the High Septon's new decree. By the will of the Seven, septons were now banned from performing marriages betwixt close kin, whether they be the lowliest serfs or Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters come again. Any septon who dishonored the sanctity of holy wedlock by performing such a marriage would be removed from the order of septons until he did penace, if he erred in ignorance. If he erred knowingly, his removal would be permanent, and an anathema pronounced upon him.

"Just as the Seven cast down the Targaryens, someday they shall cast down the bastard who sits the Iron Throne," the High Septon declared. "Whomever the gods raise up in his place, let him know this! Never again shall the Faith bow to any king, nor set aside our laws at his whim. Let the will of the Seven guide our hands and our hearts, and they shall bless us with the summer that never ends!"

The memory of roaring and cheering brought a wistful smile to Edythe's face as she washed up, readying herself to prepare to the sept for the Hour of the Maiden. If the Great Summer ever came, she doubted she would be lucky enough to see it. Was she not blessed enough already? She'd not felt a flash of heat in over an hour, her pile of carrots was bigger than anyone else's, and last week the High Septon had given her a thoughtful nod when he passed her in the yard.

She was very glad His High Holiness would never know it was she who first acclaimed him, on that terrifying, wondrous day when the Seven used her voice to speak their will. No, she preferred to avoid notice. The High Septon intimidated her, even though he went about in roughspun more often than silk or cloth of gold. Paul the Pious radiated power and wisdom, whether in the fine vestments he wore when preaching to the faithful or meeting with knights and lords, or in the humble garb he wore when attending to more ordinary matters.

The new Most Devout, chosen after reaching Harrenhal, had taken to following his example. Many of the old Most Devout, who came from the Great Sept of Baelor, had not. As Edythe and her sisters crossed the yard to the sept they passed five septons of the Warrior, whose bright red damask robes were almost garish amongst their dull pink flock. And despite her discomfort with such spectacles of worldly pride, she could not deny being struck with awe when she beheld the shimmering blue silk robes of a septa to the Maiden, their hems embroidered with delicate silver flowers.

The altar cloth used during the prayers to the Maiden was of a similar shade, Edythe thought absently as Septa Falena droned on and on, reciting the exact same passage she'd read not three weeks ago. Not pale enough for the sky, nor dark enough for a lake, but somehow both and neither. Was there a name for that color? Only half-listening to the septa, Edythe considered the names and hues of every shade of blue she'd ever seen, comparing them against the altar cloth in her mind's eye.

By the time the septa finished making the sacrifice, Edythe had decided it was either forget-me-not blue or cornflower blue, though she wasn't sure which. She did make sure to give the prayers for the departed her full attention, which was good, as there were two new ones today. Together the sisters prayed for Constance Keath, who had drowned in the God's Eye, and for some poor maid named Gwendolyn Lydden, who had been unjustly slain against all the laws of gods and men.

Perhaps the sisters might have talked over the new names, after the hymn was sung and they were dismissed. Today, however, there was more urgent news afoot.

"I saw His High Holiness this morning," Sister Beryl said the minute they were back in the gardens. Sister Beryl spent her days working in the kitchens, which were run by an Elder Brother who believed lay brothers and sisters should only speak when absolutely necessary. On the rare days when Beryl was sent to assist in the gardens, she was always ready to chatter about everything she heard or saw. Despite her wagging tongue, she already had a tidy pile of parsnips in her basket. Frowning, Edythe picked up her pace, her chest sweating as another flash of heat swept over her.

"Sister Agnes was ill again, so I had to carry up His High Holiness's breakfast. Porridge, made with goat's milk, smoked fish, and a pot of chamomile tea with honey." Sister Beryl shook her head, appalled. "Well, I asked if I ought to fetch some bacon, or perhaps good fresh eggs, but Second Brother said our High Septon doesn't hold with such, not with winter coming on. 'Moderation, Beryl,' he says to me, as if I'd lost my wits entirely."

"Neither in abstinence nor in excess, but in balance hold all things," Sister Harra interrupted. That was from the Book of the Crone, chapter seven, verse seven, one of Edythe's favorite proverbs.

"I know, sister," Beryl tsked. "Anyway, when I brought it up— all those stairs! Agnes must be hardy as mule to climb them back and forth all day, my legs were aching halfway up— anyway, the High Septon was already in his solar, talking to a messenger. Green tunic, brown breeches, a rough patch where his lord's badge had gone missing. And two saddlebags on the table, stuffed so full of gold you'd think they were a pair of harvest pigs! His High Holiness thanked me for his breakfast— me, Beryl, whose mother was no more than a carpenter's widow— and bade me see the goodman down to the kitchens..."

Her patience at an end, Edythe tried to focus on pulling parsnips. Of course, she could not help but hear most of the rest. Goodman Pate was lately arrived from the Westerlands, which seethed with unrest. Twenty thousand men slain, lords and knights and peasant levies, and for what? There was no plunder from the Riverlands, no great victories for the singers to boast of, only crops to be got in and harvests to be planted, and fewer hands to share the load. Nor were those the only woes of the Westerlands. There was a pox in Lannisport, a drought in the Horn Vale, and a peasant revolt in Deep Den, where they'd slain their old lord and sent the new one fleeing.

On and on Beryl talked while the other sisters listened. Occasionally one even managed to get a word in edgewise, asking a question, tutting disapprovingly, or quoting a relevant proverb. Goodman Pate said ironborn reavers had sacked Fair Isle, along with every village between the Banefort and Feastfires. Even worse, Casterly Rock had raised rents again, doubling the amount of grain or livestock owed by the smallfolk.

"Double?" Sister Jeyne gasped, eyes wide. "With winter so close? Folk have rioted for less."

There had been no riots yet, not that Goodman Pate knew of, but the smallfolk had not sat idly by. Bailiffs sent out to collect rents on Lannister land had been found hanging from trees, with seven-pointed stars carved into their brows. Ancient Sister Violet smiled grimly at that, but her wrinkled face fell when Beryl told the sisters of the lions' revenge. Every village and holdfast within five leagues of a hanged bailiff had been burnt to the ground, artisans and smallfolk alike condemned to serfdom and taken to work at the Rock. Nervous septons preached against defiance of one's liege, but begging brothers preached against gluttony and greed, foretelling doom and death and the end of ancient lines.

"The Seven grow wroth when lords dine upon swan and smallfolk dine upon sawdust," Sister Violet said sharply, the first to manage an interruption in what felt like hours. "Twas Lord Tywin who set aside old King Aegon's laws. When I was a girl, lords couldn't raise rent if—"

Bong, tolled the bells, cutting off Violet as abruptly as she had cut off Beryl. They tolled five more times as the sisters got on their knees to honor the Hour of the Smith. As there were no sisters of rank present, they prayed in silence until a single bell softly sounded the quarter hour.

An afternoon well spent, Edythe thought as they walked toward Harrentown. She carried a heavy bushel basket full of parsnips, her tired arms straining from the weight. It was much easier when they were filling the storehouses within Harrenhal, the ones set aside for the Most Devout and the faithful. But every seventh day, their harvest went to the storehouses outside the walls. The last day of every week belonged to the Stranger; on his day all were equal before the god of death. In remembrance of that solemn truth, the day's harvest must be set aside for feeding the poor.

Most of Harrentown was poor. The accursed Lannisters had burnt it to the ground when they held Harrenhal, and slaughtered most of the villagers. Those who lived here now were refugees, survivors of a hundred scattered villages destroyed during the War of the Five Kings. As autumn ended more and more trickled in, lured by the offer of sturdy, newly built daub-and-wattle huts, the right to fish from the God's Eye, and to be fed so long as they labored for the Faith. True, they would be serfs, but only for seven years. At that time they would be made free, able to remain in their homes as peasants who paid rent, or to leave Harrentown if they so wished.

Today there were several new faces among the serf women who worked in the storehouses. As Edythe waited to hand over her bushel, she noticed a pair of them gossiping in while they packed dried carrots in sand. As they were out of earshot, it was rather hard to follow the conversation. The younger one kept pointing to a red splotch at the hem of her roughspun tunic, clearly frustrated by her blonde companion's lack of interest.

"Just you wait," the younger one fumed when Edythe drew near. Up close, the red splotch turned out to be a bit of embroidery, some sort of flower or leaf. "Ask Damina, if you don't believe me!"

"Give up, Shirei." The blonde replied. "Why should I bother? She said she'd rather fuck an Other than speak to you ever again, you or that husband of yours." Catching sight of Edythe, the blonde winced. "Beg pardons, sister."

"You leave Tarber out of it," Shirei said, blushing. "Aye, she hates me, so why would she lie? Ask her about the day the red wolf—"

Thud.

Edythe dusted off her hands, pleased to be done with the bushel's heavy weight. Whilst the rest of her sisters waited to hand over their burdens, she waited outside the storehouse, enjoying the hustle and bustle of Harrentown. A shepherd passed her, trailed by a flock of sheep and an eager black-and-white sheepdog. Unable to help herself, Edythe smiled. For though it is wasteful to keep idle beasts, a beast that aids men in their labors is to be treasured. Almost as if he'd heard Edythe's thoughts, the dog paused to sniff her hand.

"Oh, good boy," she whispered, scratching under his chin. Tail wagging madly, the dog flopped in the dirt and rolled on his back. Even the most hardhearted sinner could not have resisted rubbing the dog's soft belly, or praising him for being so good. "Yes, yes, you work so hard—"

"That he does, sister," the shepherd said, not noticing that she'd instantly gone silent at his approach. "A good 'un, is Sturdy, even if he is a shameless beggar."

A gentle tap of the shepherd's crook, and the dog bounded off, back toward the sheep. Thankfully, the shepherd soon followed, made uneasy by Edythe's refusal to answer his blathering. She could have spoken to him, if needs must, but idle talk was not worth tiring herself when polite nodding would suffice.

After first Beryl, then Harrentown, dinner with her sisters was mercifully quiet. Cups and bowls gently clattered on the tables, the fire crackled in the hearth, and Fourth Sister Mela read them a passage from atop her stool, Third Sister Jonelle having been called away for some reason.

To Edythe's nervous discomfort, Third Sister was still not back before choir practice started, nor did she return before it ended. She did her best to focus on the holy music, on the sacred words and pleasing harmonies, but the hymns sounded wrong without Third Sister playing her flute. It was almost a relief when the bells tolled the Hour of the Warrior and Brother Bonifer came to lead them in prayer.

It was hard to focus on praying for peace when the prayers were being led by an anointed knight. Ser Bonifer Hasty had come to Harrenhal to convince the High Septon to give up his crown and submit to the judgment of the lion's lapdog. Instead, Paul the Pious had convinced Ser Bonifer to join them, even though it meant being named a traitor by the Iron Throne. Not all of his men saw the true light of the Seven; Ser Bonifer had been forced to slay three of them when they attacked the High Septon rather than depart in peace.

Six months later, Brother Bonifer was still doing penance for spilling blood on holy ground. Rather than silk or steel, he wore a hair shirt beneath roughspun robes, and spent his days in manual labor with the lowliest of the Warrior's brothers. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been clutching a cudgel, his face and robes splattered with bat blood.

"Peace is sacred to the Warrior most of all," Brother Bonifer said. The solemn tone of his voice was rather undercut by the way he bobbed his head, looking even more like a stork than usual. "For who knows the cost of strife better than he who watches over the battlefield, who hears the cries of the wounded and the slain?"

Peace is all very well, Edythe thought that night as she curled up on her pallet. But could any truce last when made by those who held nothing sacred? The bitch queen was so vile she'd slept with her brother, born his children, and killed her king. Nor could they trust her uncle, the godless Hand, who saw nothing wrong with breaking guest right and condoning the murder of the faithful. The northmen were never weaker than during winter; it would be the perfect time for the Lannisters to invade. And if they did, they would go through the Riverlands, doubtless eager to rape and slaughter and destroy all that had been rebuilt...

Edythe woke from sleep suddenly, her nerves on edge. Third Sister Jonelle stood over her, one gnarled hand hovering by Edythe's shoulder. All her other sisters were still asleep; Jeyne snored, Violet mumbled to herself, Harra lay stiff as a stone. The Third Sister signaled for Edythe to get dressed, waiting patiently while she pulled on her coif, wimple, and robe. What was going on? It was still an hour before midnight, she could feel it in her bones.

Edythe's fear only grew as she followed Third Sister down the hall and up the stairs, her heart racing. This was not part of her routine. Was Edythe in trouble? What had she done? Edythe frantically tried to recall everything she'd done in the past few days, unable to recall any sin beyond perhaps using more butter than was warranted.

Unless... was she in trouble for not informing on Sister Beryl? Gossip was a sin, Edythe knew that, but it was a sin when wagging tongues spread slander, or when idle talk meant idle hands. Beryl wasn't idle, she'd picked almost as many parsnips as Edythe, and nothing she'd said had been cruel or unkind. Beryl wasn't like that, she was a good-hearted woman, even if her singing was so awful it would make a nightingale die from shame, she didn't deserve to wear a gossip's bridle, those were for the worst of sinners, like Septa Teora, who'd been caught in the ravenry while tying a letter full of the Most Devout's secrets onto the King's Landing bird—

"Breathe, Sister Edythe," Third Sister chided. "There's no need to sound like you just ran from Sunspear to Starpike. You are not in any trouble. First Mother wishes to speak to you, and then you will join your sisters for the Stranger's prayers as usual."

Edythe nodded, her breath still caught in her throat. Sighing, the Third Sister patted her on the arm. "You're not going to be very happy, I'm afraid, but I was overruled. The Seven sometimes ask much of us, perhaps more than we can give. Remember that, my child."

It was hard to remember the Third Sister's words once she stood in the First Mother's solar. It was the largest, most lavish chamber Edythe had ever seen. There were beeswax candles everywhere, their light flickering over the ornate tapestries that hung on the walls.

The First Mother was a handsome woman, perhaps forty, with poise that suggested she was born from the highest of noble families. She sat her chair like it was a throne, behind an enormous wooden desk with legs carved with beasts that were either bats or dragons. A gorgeously illuminated book lay open before her, next to a row of fine tipped brushes, quills, and jars of ink, each one a different color.

"I must protest against this one last time, First Mother." Third Sister glanced at Edythe, her jaw clenched tight. "Sister Edythe is a gentle spirit, well-suited to her place."

"I'm sure she is," the First Mother said, lifting a hand to her cheek. The edge of her little finger was smudged with ink, as was the tip of her thumb. "As I said, the decision was not left to me. Septa Utha commanded me to find her, and Utha's orders came from the mouth of the Seven himself. When the Seven speak, the faithful must take heed, even if their will seems… peculiar." She turned, her eyes appraising. "Sister Edythe, tell me about yourself."

Edythe blinked, her mind utterly blank. Tell the First Mother about herself? What did that mean? What did she want? At a loss, Edythe looked down, staring at the closest desk leg. Now that she looked more closely, the carving was definitely a dragon, not a bat. She could see its great wings, its gaping jaws and its flaming breath.

"Seven save us, I told you." Third Sister Jonelle sounded as exasperated as Edythe felt. "Yes or no questions, or questions with a single clear answer. Orders that are direct, not broad or vague."

"Watch your tone, Third Sister," First Mother said coolly. "Sister Edythe, how old are you?"

It was the first of many short questions that Edythe gave equally short, albeit respectful, answers. She was forty-six years old. The mid-year solstice marked twenty eight years since she became a lay sister. Yes, she had spent all of them at the Motherhouse of the Lifted Lamp near Sweetdarry. While there, she worked in the kitchen and in the gardens. No, she had not waited on nobility before, save for her brief journey with the Elder Sister, Aemma Sweetdarry. Yes, Sister Edythe preferred not to speak. Yes, she often listened to others while going about her work. Yes, she knew The Seven-Pointed Star by heart.

"A good memory, then," First Mother said, thoughtful. "And not dimwitted, as I feared. I suppose she will do well enough in Sister Agnes's former place. So be it. After midnight prayers, Edythe, you shall gather your things and take them to your new cell in Kingspyre Tower, there to begin your service."

The midnight bells were beginning to toll, their clangor like calls of doom. Sister Agnes was ill again, so I had to carry up His High Holiness's breakfast. First Mother couldn't mean that Sister Agnes, it must be some other Agnes, perhaps she had not heard aright— As I said, the decision was not left to me. Septa Utha commanded me to find her, and Utha's orders came from the mouth of the Seven himself.

Edythe stared at the First Mother, the bells echoing in her ears until at last their voices died, along with her last attempts at denial.

"I am blessed to serve the High Septon," she said, her eyes downcast.

It was not a lie. Edythe was blessed. She would also be blessed if gods made the dragon carving come to life and swallow her whole.


Well, I'm not as fast as I'd like, given the holiday chaos, but slow and steady wins the race :) I can't wait to see what ya'll think in the comments!

Good luck to all those dealing with finals :)

Next up, Dany V, Irri, and Cersei IV. Please pray for my soul as I wrangle the Essos plot, it's a bitch and a half. Only 17 chapters left in Part IV: Desert Wolf, and then we're in the endgame. Part V: Wolf Pack, will conclude the story.

NOTES

1) The ornate tome used by Septa Utha is based on The Codex Aureus of St. Emmeram from 870 CE, which is so gorgeous that I want to cry.

2) Nuns did often listen to religious works during meal times. The Book of Merit is based on Liber Vitae Meritorum by Hildegard of Bingen, an extremely influential nun from 12th century Germany.

3) Bats may be cute, but they also carry rabies. For the love of god, do NOT try cleaning bat guano without doing your research; it can make you extremely sick.

4) Yes, you can preserve root vegetables by drying them and packing them in sand.

5) Fun fact: many people in medieval Europe slept in two shifts! They would go to bed around dusk, wake up in the middle of the night for a snack, free time, chores, or a round of sex, and then go back to sleep until dawn. It wasn't a universal practice, but it was decently well known/popular. I've been dying to mention this for ages, but couldn't manage to fit it in.

6) The medieval Christian church did consider gossip to be sinful. The use of a "scold's bridle" or "branks" dates to the mid-1500s at the earliest. These awful torture devices were used to punish people (almost always women) for speaking inappropriately. The church immediately condemned their use, but they still were used as punishments by local magistrates. I used it here because it fits the more aggressive aspect of the canon sparrows, and much as we love Edythe, the medieval church did have a brutal side.

Also, it was a suitable (if brutal) punishment for someone caught serving as an informant; Teora, a woman from a noble house of the Westerlands, regretted joining the sparrows and began informing on them to Varys/High Septon Raynard. The punishment was not Paul's idea; it was a compromise proposed by one of the Most Devout as a "kinder" alternative to executing her. Still way better than Pope Urban VI, who once "caught wind of a conspiracy to depose him and had six cardinals arrested, tortured and ultimately executed. Legend has it he complained to the torturers that the cardinals' screams were not loud enough."

7) The ridiculously over the top dragon leg desk is meant to have once belonged to Rhaena Targaryen, who lived at Harrenhal for ten years at the end of her life. Someone found it in storage and First Mother immediately called dibs.