March-April, 304 AC


Edythe woke in silence, her heartbeat gently thumping in her ears.

Dawn would not yet break for hours yet, but still her day began. Edythe rose from her straw pallet, wincing at the stiffness in her knees as she stretched. While she donned her pale undyed coif, followed by her yellow wimple and robes, the other two lay sisters awoke, covering yawns as they reached for their own garb.

Edythe was stoking the embers in the solar's hearth when Sister Alys emerged from their small cell, clean as a spring day in her white robes as she fetched the kindling and fresh wood. Sister Maude had the task of shooing away the cats curled up in odd corners, frowning when one of them brushed against her legs.

"And I only just got the last of their hair off," Sister Maude sighed as she squinted at the hem of her blue robes.

The fire in the hearth was flickering away when His High Holiness emerged, attended by the three lay brothers who slept on pallets in his bedchamber. All towered above the holy dwarf, who stood less than five feet tall. Old Brother Joseth wore green, young Brother Dale wore pink, and even younger Brother Wat wore the same humble brown as the High Septon himself.

Paul the Pious did not hold with wearing lavish vestments at all hours of the day. Golden robes and a crystal crown were for senmorn services and meetings with high lords, not quiet prayers at the Hour of the Crone. As they followed His High Holiness into the winch cage, the light of their candles shone on his bare head. He was bald, save for a tonsure of brown hair; his bulbous nose and heavy cheeks were ruddy from hours out in the sun and wind.

Built for some lord with a clubfoot, the winch cage was a welcome reprieve from climbing and descending the many steps of Kingspyre Tower atop which the High Septon resided. Edythe's knees barely ached at all when she reached the back of the sept and knelt beside the other lay sisters. Still, serving the High Septon also meant she must kneel in the first row of lay sisters, under the curious eye of all and sundry. None were foolish enough to chatter at her, knowing she would make no reply, but the attention still grated at her as she listened to the High Septon lead the prayers to the Crone, assisted by Septa Utha.

When the prayers were over, it was off to the kitchens. Whilst the cook fetched His High Holiness's breakfast tray, Edythe broke her fast upon a thick slice of oat bread, well buttered, with weak beer to wash it down.

The High Septon's meal was also simple, porridge, smoked fish, and a pot of chamomile tea. Edythe covered the tray with a cloth, lest it grow cold. His High Holiness was deep in meditation before his altar when she returned; she made no sound as she placed the tray on a table, then took her place beside it, her hands clasped in front of her.

Meditation was the most peaceful time of day. No one might disturb His High Holiness with the cares of the earthly world; it was a time for contemplation of the heavens. Head bowed, stubby fingers pressed together, Paul the Pious opened himself to the voices of the Seven Who Are One, a humble vessel for their will. Quiet awe filled Edythe, as it always did; she was a peasant's daughter, who never thought to stand in the presence of the gods themselves.

Yet it was a man who ate the bowl of porridge she had brought, who slipped morsels of fish to the pair of cats who mewled beneath his chair, who poured a cup of chamomile tea for Sister Edythe, and anointed it with a touch of honey.

"'Twill be a long day, Sister Edythe," His High Holiness said kindly as he handed her the cup, taking no heed of Septon Pate as the scribe placed a stack of papers on the desk. "There are messages for you t' run this morning, about the folkmoot. After the Hour o' the Mother we'll be visiting Harrentown."

Most of the Most Devout would have expected a spoken answer. For His High Holiness, Edythe need only nod before she bowed her head. Thank the Mother for her mercy. She did not look forward to all the talking she would need to do today.

While His High Holiness led the services for the Hour of the Father in the sept, Sister Edythe and her fellow lay sisters prayed silently in his chambers before setting to their usual work. The linens must be changed, the featherbed fluffed, clothes taken to the washerwomen, dirty rushes removed and new ones brought in, and all the other small chores required to keep His High Holiness's apartments pristine as the Maiden's innocence. But today those pleasant chores were left to Sister Alys and Sister Maude; Sister Edythe's duties took her elsewhere.

Brother Wat ran most of the High Septon's messages. A boy of fifteen, Brother Wat was quick and tireless, but, as Brother Delp was wont to say, as observant as a rock at the bottom of a well. And so when His High Holiness wished to know how his messages were received, he had Edythe deliver them.

Thankfully, Edythe need not run all over Harrenhal like Brother Wat. With the Most Devout all sharing Kingspyre Tower, their chambers below those of the High Septon, she might walk at a sedate pace, to spare her knees for the afternoon. In her hands she clasped the messages, each marked with a dab of colored ink and a symbol to indicate to whom it must be carried.

Unlike Paul the Pious, whose birth was as common as the holy house near Maidenpool where he once served, all of the Most Devout were highborn. The highest born of all were those who had followed His High Holiness into exile. When the lions' lapdog expelled them from the Great Sept of Baelor, there were seventy. That was three years ago; the Stranger had called some of the Faithful to the heavens since, as age and illness took their toll.

Crone be praised, Edythe did not have to run messages to all sixty who remained. Only ten, the High Septon had said, but it felt like a thousand as she girded her loins and knocked on the first door. Edythe's nerves churned beneath a mask of calm as the lay brother or sister who answered at each door escorted her to the Most Devout whom they served.

Of course, none of them stopped their work to greet a lowly sister, even one who served His High Holiness. Septon Gunthor she found at his desk, a chisel in his hand and wood shavings on his amber robes as he carved the likeness of the Smith from a lump of wood. Septon Brynden bent over a leatherbound tome, squinting as he used an awl to dot out an intricate design of a hammer. Septon Timoth was in his solar, nose deep in a book of law; Septon Mern was in the largest sept, preoccupied with supervising the tuning of the immense pipe organ which had just arrived.

Septon Josua made her wait long minutes before giving her his attention, preferring to stare at the corner of the canvas which he was painting with a grotesque scene of sinners being punished in the seven hells. Septa Myriame saw her right away; it was hard to believe the softspoken, courteous woman had been sent to the Faith after a youth which would make a harlot blush. How wonderful, the Seven were, to redeem those fallen to sin and make of them holy men and women.

Septa Prunella's class of novices to the Crone all gawped at Edythe; Septa Falena's septas and lay sisters of the Maiden had better manners, keeping their eyes on their spinning and embroidering. Septa Utha was in the midst of copying a text, her penmanship as smooth and delicate as her hands; Septa Darlessa was in the midst of hearing monthly confession, the only time her silent sisters might speak.

Different though the Most Devout might be, Edythe watched them all the same. She took note of their expressions as they read the messages, the way they stood, whether they made her wait for them to speak privily with another Most Devout before scribbling replies on parchment or giving her a few words for His High Holiness's ears beyond their acceptance of his invitation to dine with him anon.

Edythe finished just before the Hour of the Mother, her steps as weary as her soul. To her shame, she was one of the last to enter the sept before the bells tolled noon. As penace, she made sure not to let her mind wander during prayers, though Septa Myriame was one of the poorest speakers among the Most Devout, her White Harbor accent stronger than her whispery voice.

When prayers ended, she returned to waiting upon His High Holiness. Unlike the sinful blasphemer in King's Landing, Raynard, who spent his days debauching whores, Paul the Pious devoted his days to holy toil. He did not only sit in his solar hearing reports from the First Mothers of the motherhouses and First Fathers of the septries, oh no. Paul the Pious visited the sacrists who kept the sacred texts and holy relics, the cellarers who had charge of the storehouses and slaughterhouses and granaries, the infirmarians who tended the sick and the almoners who had charge of giving alms.

This afternoon, they were bound for the almshouse in Harrentown. His High Holiness rode a placid mule, followed by a dozen Most Devout on horses whilst lay brothers and sisters followed afoot, carrying baskets filled with medicines too delicate to be jostled in the wayns which held clothes, shoes, and foodstuffs.

Edythe felt rather like a mother duck, with so many lay sisters of the Crone trailing after her. Among them was Sister Pia, who followed so close she almost trod on Edythe's hem. Simple minded and eager to please, Third Sister Jonelle had taken charge of Pia after finding her cornered in the buttery by some lay brothers with ill intentions. The men had been caned before being locked in their cells to do penace; no one could bear to cane the girl, not after seeing the marks left by Lord Bolton's men. Instead, she had been offered the chance to become a sister.

"His High Holiness should wear his senmorn robes every day," Pia chattered. "He looks so fine, so holy, in cloth o' gold and silk, and t' crystal crown sparkling. It would lift t' poor's hearts, t' see him all in splendor-"

"Sister Pia, hush," said Third Sister Jonelle, exasperated. "We visit the sick today; His High Holiness's robes shall be scalded upon our return like everyone else's, lest we bring sickness into Harrenhal. Cloth of gold cannot be treated thus."

Cowed, Sister Pia held her tongue, her eyes alighting on the staff His High Holiness bore. Six feet tall it was, made of gold, topped with a seven-sided crystal that fired rainbows whenever the sun came out from behind the clouds.

As they drew nearer to the almshouse, the sun seemed to disappear entirely, the day turning grey and cool. Every pallet in the almshouse was full; some pallets had been set outside, in hopes of a breeze to cool the fevers of those who lay upon them, sweating despite the chill.

With so many poor folk crammed together in Harrentown, it was no surprise that illness ran amongst them. Winter fever and grippe assailed the old, measles the young, and scrofula those of any age. Third Sister Jonelle had suffered scrofula in her youth which left her nearsighted, and which had returned a sixmonth past. After His High Holiness laid hands upon her, the swelling in her neck had gone down, though Third Sister Jonelle remained thin, tired, and ill at ease.

Long hours passed. Whilst His High Holiness and the Most Devout walked amongst the sick, Edythe and the other lay sisters gave their baskets of medicine to the infirmarian. Then they made for the wayns, where Septon Pate the almoner bade them fill their empty baskets according to the needs of the poor. The burly lay brothers delivered the bushels of grain; it fell to Edythe to deliver shoes to various widows for their children.

Edythe thanked the Crone it was not her duty to work with oblates and foundlings. Children were beloved of the Seven, and thus she must love them too, but it was much easier from a distance. Even as a child herself, she had little patience for sticky hands and screaming mouths, let alone the chaos so common amongst children whether happy, sad, or angry. Well behaved children were the worst of all; you never knew whether they would remain quiet or suddenly turn wild.

"Thank you, sister," said the last widow, Goodwife Liane. A boy of six clung to her skirts, his hand clutching a fraying toddler's tunic with a red leaf embroidered on the hem, the same as the one embroidered on the cuff of his mother's sleeve. "Pate, what do we say to the good sister?"

"Thank you, sister," the boy lisped through a mouthful of baby teeth.

Edythe was turning to go when the goodwife laid a gentle hand on her wrist.

"Sister," Liane pleaded. "Please, a moment?" When Edythe made no attempt to leave, the goodwife smiled nervously. "We hear so little from the fishermen, half of it false. I was told you serve His High Holiness; is it true?"

Unable to lie, Edythe nodded.

"Oh, Seven be praised," Liane sighed, giving her a look of near worship. "Please, sister, is there any word of Princess Sansa?"

Edythe blinked at her, utterly confused.

"Sansa Stark?" The goodwife tried again. "Lord Tully's niece, the Young Wolf's sister?"

Edythe shook her head; the goodwife's face crumpled. "Oh. Thank you anyway, sister."

The bells had not yet rung the Hour of the Maiden; there was still time for a quick trip to the backhouse before prayers. Unfortunately, the backhouse was already full, forcing her to wait outside with a dozen other lay sisters, one of whom looked near tears as she asked if anyone had a moon cloth handy. Edythe would have, before her courses stopped, but since then she did not carry any. Nor did the other lay sisters standing near, all of whom were too old for such things, save Pia.

"Sorry," Sister Pia shrugged when the sister turned to her. "I never got my blood." She frowned, then dug in her pockets. "Would a kerchief work?"

Problem solved, both Pia and the sniffling sister followed Edythe into the backhouse, and then to prayers. Not until she returned to Harrenhal was she able to shake her tail; their duties took them away from Kingspyre Tower, gods be good.

Several hours remained before the Hour of the Smith. After changing into clean robes untouched by sickness, Edythe spent one of them recounting what she had seen whilst delivering messages. His High Holiness listened thoughtfully, stroking his chin as Septon Pate the scribe jotted down notes with his quill. Paul the Pious could not read, no more than she could, but then, some highborn could not read either. There was no shame in relying upon scribes. If anything, it made the lay brothers and sisters love their High Septon more.

"Your High Holiness?" Edythe asked tentatively, when she had told him all that she could recall. "May I have leave to speak?"

"All that, and she wants to talk some more?" Septon Pate snorted. "If I went to the stables I'd not be surprised to find a horse riding on a man's back."

"Hush, Pate," the High Septon said, his voice coarse but kind. "Aye, good sister," he said, his eyes crinkled in a half smile. "Say on."

"Something odd happened in Harrentown," she told him. "A goodwife asked for word of Princess Sansa."

Paul pressed thick fingers to his brow, then sighed. "Did you happen to see a weirwood leaf on her clothes?"

Edythe nodded, confused. The High Septon sighed again; it was Septon Pate who took pity on her.

"When the princess escaped from King's Landing, she vanished for nigh on a year before the Kingslayer caught her. Some of the folk in Harrentown say she and Princess Arya hid in the Riverlands amongst folk who fled the fighting, protected by outlaws and wolves. They claim Princess Sansa ruled over a hollow hill as if it were a keep, and her a girl of twelve. They say the weirwood leaves were stitched by her as a mark of favor; her sister, even younger, taught ragged children how to escape unfriendly hands."

Were it not entirely improper, Edythe would have sat down.

"The Most Devout are rather upset," Septon Pate continued. "Because the smallfolk swear, every one, that the elder girl could skinchange into the form of a red direwolf, whilst the younger commanded not only her direwolf but a pack of common wolves who gelded rapers."

Edythe really, really wanted to sit down.

"Tales grow taller in the telling," the High Septon said firmly, much to her relief. "Unlike me. Princess Arya's direwolf is no more than a faithful dog writ large. As for Princess Sansa, while a red direwolf protected the girl, it was slain by the Kingslayer. I saw the Maiden's doves save her champion from the Mountain; one of them alighted on her shoulder at the trial by combat. The Seven would not so bless a beastling. Princess Sansa belongs to the new gods of her mother, not the old gods of the Starks."

"And now she belongs to Ser Olyvar Sand," Septon Pate said, yawning. "And neither has been seen for nigh on three years, since they sailed from Sunspear to tour the Free Cities." He sniffed disapprovingly, as if the very thought of leaving the Seven Kingdoms offended him.

Edythe was offended by having to serve at table that evening, after the prayers for the Hour of the Smith ended. The Seven sometimes ask much of us, perhaps more than we can give, the Third Sister had once told her, but even the honor of waiting upon His High Holiness could not make her relish enduring yet more company, with more talking to follow before bed.

Septon Pate could hardly sit at table and take notes whenever the High Septon dined with guests. Edythe, however, went completely unnoticed as she poured wine. Most Devout and lords and ladies, all spoke freely in front of her, never dreaming she would later recount all they had said, or at least as much as she could remember. This evening, the High Septon's guests from amongst the Most Devout spoke of everything except the messages which she had delivered in the morning, instead talking of troubles far away.

When the septons at the Wall first began writing to Harrenhal, their letters contained little beyond complaints of snow and cold and common illness. That changed after the end of year solstice, when His High Holiness received several letters all at once, all of them panicked.

The unbeliever Stannis Baratheon and all of his men were dead, burnt alive by his red priestess to hatch a dragon made of shadow. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had slain it, only to find an immense host of unholy demons gathered beneath the Wall, summoned by the witch's unholy sorcery. Wights, they called them, corpses risen with uncanny blue eyes and hearts empty of aught but hate.

Without the witch to aid them, the wights had abandoned the Nightfort. Now every castle along the Wall besides the Nightfort played host to an army of dead men, who stood silent vigil just beyond arrow range.

"Moonstruck madness," Septon Prunella grumbled under her breath, whilst Paul was occupied speaking to Septa Utha. "Or frostbite of the mind. When Septon Tim arrives, we'll see if he says the same after he's thawed out in a proper bathhouse."

"What happened to the daughter, that's what I want to know," said Septon Gunthor, a Stormlander by birth. "No one knows where Lord Snow sent her, really? Her claim to Storm's End—"

"War already plagues the Stormlands," Septon Josua said gravely, his silk robes as crimson as blood. "Let us pray no ambitious lord takes hold of Shireen Baratheon and weds her to press her claim. As for this talk of wights and Others... I have heard nothing ill of Septon Tim. The Seven's wroth must be great indeed, if it is their will to curse us with monsters out of children's tales."

The entire table made the sign of the Seven, save for Septa Darlessa. Her calm poise was infamous, even for a silent sister well used to handling rotting corpses.

"Even if the Others walk again, the King in the North will slay them where they stand," said Septon Brynden, crossing his arms. "Robb Stark's never lost a battle; let him sally forth beyond the Wall, it's hardly going to fall down."

"King Robb's problems are ours," the High Septon said calmly, Sister Myriame nodding her approval. "If these reports prove true, the entire realm is in dire peril. Should these demons slay him, we will find ourselves facing the dead men next. Unless we flee south, to fling ourselves upon Queen Cersei and Lord Tarly's tender mercies."

Even Septa Darlessa winced at that.

King Tommen might be king in name, but it was his queen mother and her hand who ruled. Ser Kevan Lannister was not even in his grave before the Queen Regent and her new Lord Hand turned from misrule to tyranny. Whilst Lord Tarly was slaughtering honest knights in Duskendale to defend the corrupt Rykkers, Queen Cersei was taking loans from the Iron Bank, turning the gold to ships and swords as she amassed a royal navy and an army of her own.

"Surely the small council must take her in hand," ventured Septon Mern. "Lord Mace is no coward, to stand by whilst the realm bleeds. The Iron Bank is calling in all their debts, now that the queen refuses to pay any usury on the gold they lent her, the mad woman."

"Mad?" Scoffed Septon Timoth. "More like cunning and greedy. What can the Braavosi do to her? Every merchant in King's Landing could go begging before that one would part with even a penny of Lannister gold. I supposed they might have backed Stannis, if he yet lived, or Daenerys Targaryen, if they were not violently opposed to dragons."

"Lord Mace will do nothing," said Septa Utha. "Why should he? Any gold not spent on swords is being sent on the feasts and follies to celebrate his daughter's marriage to the king." She pursed her lips. "It will be different once Lady Margaery has presented the bastard boy with his heirs."

"What heirs?" Retorted Septon Brynden. "Wedded but not bedded, all men agree. The Queen Regent would not have it; she has their chambers guarded night and day, with the king and little queen attended at all hours to keep them chaste."

On and on they went, Edythe doing her best to keep up despite being bored. She did not particularly care for whatever madness was going on at the Wall and in King's Landing; why should she, when she could do nothing about it? When the meal finally ended, it was almost the Hour of the Warrior. Edythe said her prayers alone before making her report to Septon Pate, then sank gratefully onto her pallet, only awaking briefly for the midnight prayers to the Stranger.

As if he knew how badly so much talking had worn on her, the High Septon bade Edythe spend the next few days in the kitchens and gardens. The familiar feel of kneading dough and digging in the dirt was a welcome solace, as was not having to say a single word for four days. Alas, her respite proved all too brief. For on the fifth day, near the end of third moon, a long expected and most welcome visitor arrived.

Lord Edmure Tully and his tail rode into the yard to find half of Harrenhal gathered there, eager for a glimpse of their beloved liege. Though of middling height, he was a handsome man, with striking auburn hair and eyes as blue as crystal waters, though dulled by care and sorrow. His young wife Lady Tully looked half a ghost beside him when she emerged from her carriage, shivering, her pale face wan, her big brown eyes wet with tears as she cradled her babe to her breast.

Whilst Lord Tully and the High Septon made their formal greetings, it fell to Edythe to escort his lady wife and suckling babe to their chambers. Lady Roslin Frey walked slowly, humming to the babe under her breath, as though the lullaby might give him strength. Edythe hoped it did; the babe was near the size of an infant, and him five moons old.

Not ten moons after the Red Wedding, Lady Roslin had delivered her husband an heir, Hoster Tully. The Mother must have smiled down upon her, for the babe was hale and hearty, all agreed. Her second labor was not so easy; a frantic raven from Riverrun had begged His High Holiness to pray for Lady Roslin, who labored three days to bring forth Perwyn Tully.

Thus far the Stranger had spared both mother and child, but the Smith had not seen fit to restore their health. That was why Lord Tully had come, so the High Septon might absolve his wife's sins and beseech the Seven to bless her and the babe.

Seven septas and seven lay sisters attended Lady Roslin when the day came for her to be cleansed of her sins. It was the first day of fourth moon, four years to the day since the Red Wedding carried out by her blasphemous kin of House Frey, whose very name had become a byword for treachery and disgrace.

Lady Roslin wept with shame throughout the ritual bath as a septa recited the crimes to which she had born witness, her thin arms hugging her knees to her breasts as milk leaked into the soapy water. That is a hopeful sign, Edythe thought as she brought the septa a jar of oil. The Mother has not withdrawn her blessing entirely, or she would have had no milk to nurse her babe.

The babe was worryingly quiet as he was carefully washed, dried, and dressed in a penitent's undyed gown. He was fast asleep by the time his lady mother brought him before Paul the Pious. The High Septon awaited them at the altar, his plain face seeming to glow as much as his golden robes. Nor did the babe wake during the service, not during the sermon about repentence, nor the hymns of forgiveness, nor the prayers and offerings made by his lord father and lady mother.

Only when the High Septon finished his blessing did the babe finally stir. As the High Septon raised his crystal high above the babe's head, it cast a rainbow over the child's face. The babe blinked in wonder, then began rooting against his mother, suckling at the air. Quickly Lady Roslin unlaced the front of her gown and pressed him to her breast, whilst Lord Tully looked on, tears in his eyes.

In the end, Lord Tully remained with them a fortnight. Whilst mother and child rested in the lord's chambers, sating their growing appetites with stew and bread for the mother and mother's milk for the babe, Lord Tully conferred with His High Holiness.

Edythe did not mind serving at table, not for such a one as Lord Tully, and especially when he dined privily with His High Holiness. It was a blessing to stand quietly in the corner, ignored save for when she poured wine for the two men. Patiently she served, and listened as the High Septon and the Lord of Riverrun spoke of the Riverlands, of the winter now upon them and the troubles yet to come.

Desperate though the winter might be at the Wall, here the hardiest of winter crops could yet be planted, poking up through the dusting of snow that covered the ground. There were fish in the rivers and lakes, and game in the forests and fields, but whether there would be enough to last a long winter was less certain.

Normally the riverlords might have sold some of their grain to the ironborn, but not this season. What grain they had they meant to keep for themselves, and besides, none wished to trade with the men who'd wreaked ruin upon the western coast of both the North and Riverlands alike. If the Iron Islands suffered a famine, that was their own fault, for cleaving to a demon of the deep waters.

"And a famine seems likely," Lord Edmure said, his noble brow furrowed. Rainbows arched over his cheeks, cast by the crystals in the High Septon's golden crown. His High Holiness disliked wearing such finery at table, but it was a burden which must be born in the presence of a high lord. "The Harlaws and the Farwynds have full granaries, but they're the only ones. Others are drowning rebellious thralls to save feeding them."

"The Seven have a long memory," the High Septon sighed. "So much holy blood has been spilt upon the isles, and now the debt comes due. The Greyjoys boast that they do not sow, yet they shall reap a terrible harvest all the same."

The Greyjoys were not the only ones who might soon feel the bite of winter's teeth. Lord Tully was grievously worried over his nephew, Lord Robert Arryn, and his elder sister, the Lady Lysa. Both remained atop the Eyrie, trapped by an avalanche which had broken the stone bridge which led to the world below.

"No one can climb the mountain now," Lord Edmure said, anguish in his large bright eyes. "If the fool would have just gone with Uncle Brynden... Lysa has perhaps a year before they starve, and the Citadel says this winter will last far longer."

"The good maesters are men of study, not faith," His High Holiness soothed, laying a coarse, stubby hand upon Lord Tully's arm. "Through the Seven, there is always hope."

Lord Tully snorted, one hand rubbing his chin and the soft, fiery red beard which covered it. "As you say, Your Holiness, though I cannot see it now. How are they to descend from the Eyrie? One of the mountain clans swore they could fetch my sister and her son down the mountain, no doubt eager to slit their throats at the bottom."

He spat into the rushes, his comeliness briefly marred by a scowl.

"Nestor Royce knows the Vale better than anyone, after running it for so long. Nestor says the Burned Men are the worst of the clans, godless savages; they stole Jon Arryn's niece years ago, and Alyssa Waynwood was never seen again. The Winged Knight is more like to descend from the heavens than a Burned Man is to prove worth trusting."

Alas, it was the will of the Seven that all good things must come to an end. Once Lady Roslin and little Perwyn both began to put on weight, it was time for Lord Tully to return to Riverrun, and to three year old Hoster, the son whom both parents so dearly missed.

With Lord Tully gone, the long, wearying, noisy dinners with the Most Devout resumed. It was almost time for the folkmoot to begin, and His High Holiness was determined to ensure that it would go well.

For months the poor had trodden to Harrenhal, drawn by word of the Faithful who had made the cursed castle into a blessed refuge. Some came alone, some in twos and threes, once there were a dozen from the same distant village. To Edythe's confusion, they came not to toil in the lands of Harrenhal, but to seek wisdom from Paul the Pious. His humility and charity were known across the realm, even in fiefs whose septons bowed to the lion's lapdog and slandered His High Holiness as a false prophet.

Holding a folkmoot so the supplicants might lay all their complaints before the High Septon was well and good, but Edythe did not know what His High Holiness was supposed to do besides share his wisdom. Most were from lands where the Queen Regent held sway, her edicts as cruel as the winter winds, and a constant topic during the dinners in the High Septon's solar. Edythe poured and served, and tried not to think of all the terrible news which they discussed at length.

No longer would lords in King Tommen's lands sit in judgment before condemning folk accused of a crime. Any common man who defied his lord or threatened revolt might be slain upon the spot. The punishments for the crime of idleness or disobedience were near as harsh. A churl would lose his few hides of land, a peasant the right to leave his lord's land without permission. Should a peasant be caught out of bounds, he would have the choice of losing his ears or becoming a serf. Rebellious serfs could not be threatened thus; instead, they were to be taken to the nearest quarries or mines, where they would labor until they died.

They said Casterly Rock had never had so many miners. Though the edicts applied throughout King Tommen's realm, the Westerlands faced more unrest than anywhere else, and the Lannisters most of all. Small wonder, when their lady was the daughter of Tywin the Faithless, an oathbreaking, murdering craven. False Queen Cersei seemed determined to match her sire's infamous deeds with her own. Incest, adultery, murder, high treason, regicide, it was if the woman wanted to spend eternity drowning in the depths of the deepest hell.

Of course, one could not say such things in the Westerlands, unless one wanted to lose one's tongue. Not that that stopped the commons from gossiping; if anything, it made them angrier. Septon Timoth said it was a miracle that Lord Lydden had gotten from Lannisport to Deep Den in one piece. Shortly after his ship docked in the harbor, a pair of begging brothers had been hanged for speaking treason. A riot had ensued, and the mob made off with much of the steel intended for Lord Lydden's many, many freeriders. The mob had also slain both the castellan of Casterly Rock, Ser Damion Lannister, and his son, Ser Lucion, along with many of their knights.

Of course, there were always more Lannisters, everyone knew that. Ser Willem Lannister now had charge of Casterly Rock, whilst Lord Lydden, having rousted out the rebels from his seat at Deep Den, was charged with raising the banners to smite the rest of the rabble.

Septon Josua found it very odd that the lord had not called upon the Marbrands or Crakehalls, some of the most powerful and loyal bannermen of Casterly Rock. Instead Lord Lydden had called upon the Farmans, Leffords, Brooms, and Estrens, who were all raising men. And Deep Den was playing host to Lady Cerissa Brax, whose brother Lord Flement Brax and his Frey wife had been slain by outlaws. Their three young sons dared not leave Casterly Rock, where they were fostering, for fear of sharing their parents' fate if they should return to Horn Vale.

"What did Lord Flement expect, with his wife so proud of her family's crimes?" Septa Utha scowled as Edythe poured her more wine, a sour red lightly watered. "And what does Raynard do? He makes Luceon Frey one of his most trusted advisers!"

"I daresay Luceon wrote most of that vile sermon," Septon Brynden replied, to general noises of disgust.

It was not enough that the lion's lapdog had banished half the Most Devout to the Starry Sept in Oldtown for daring to oppose his misrule. No, Raynard was determined to prove himself the worst sinner to ever bring shame down upon the Faith. Soon after the queen issued her edicts, he had preached a sermon so blasphemous that Septa Prunella had near shredded the parchment when she read it aloud to her novices.

Raynard cared not for the suffering of the poor. No, he condemned all of them as a godless rabble, rabid dogs who must be beaten and leashed. The queen's edicts were fair and just, he said, for the poor had violated their oaths of loyalty by rising against their lords. It was a crime against the Seven to steal and to kill, and an even worse crime to do so in the name of the Seven. All violence required to subdue the rabble was righteous; slain lords and knights were holy martyrs, for rebellion was the worst sin against the Seven.

Lies and blasphemy, all of it, so far as Edythe could tell. The poor were refusing to pay taxes with crops they could not spare, and the outlaws were robbing granaries, not almshouses. Lords were supposed to share their bounty with the lowly who worked their fields, not hoard it all to themselves, nor treat their subjects unjustly. If the commons made to defend themselves, that was no sin, no more than it had been a sin for Edythe to slay the brigand who tried to rape poor Aemma Sweetdarry.

Still, Edythe did not appreciate the High Septon commanding that she remain by his side throughout the folkmoot. She was a lay sister, not even a septa. It was one thing, to wait upon His High Holiness whilst he spoke with a dozen Most Devout, but it was another to stand behind him on a dais whilst hundreds of voices all clamored to be heard.

Seven be praised, when the appointed day came, Edythe awoke with a sickness of the bowels. Whilst Paul the Pious presided over a crowd of arguing supplicants, she hid in the privy, reciting prayers of penance. Edythe had known what would happen when she asked if she might have a few pints of milk from the dairy, and she had drunk it all anyway. If the Crone had wanted her to attend the folkmoot, she would have turned the milk to water; as she had not, the Seven could not be too angry with Edythe.

In the end, it took the smallfolk several days to hammer out the petition which they meant to present to King Tommen, in hopes that the bastard king would prove more merciful than his counselors. He was almost thirteen now; surely the gods would not have let an abomination born of incest hold the throne for so long, unless it were for a reason. And they had Brother Bonifer to lead them. The greying knight had friends in the goldcloaks and in the city who might rally to his holy cause, perhaps even Lord Tyrell, who once judged him victor of a tourney in his youth.

It would take at least a moon's turn to walk to King's Landing, through mud and rain and snow and crownlands plagued by robber knights. A difficult journey, but it was always hard to walk the righteous path. His High Holiness blessed Brother Bonifer and his followers on the day they were to leave. Edythe stood near him, swinging a censer full of sweet incense. The last notes of the last hymn were just fading away when Brother Wat came sprinting into the yard.

"Your Holiness!" Brother Wat panted. "Raynard—heart—" Brother Wat wheezed, grasping at a stitch in his side. "Seven save us—"

"Slow down," the High Septon chided him. "Breathe, my son."

The High Septon turned to Septon Pate, who had followed after Brother Wat at a trot. The High Septon's eyes narrowed as he took in the open letter in his hand and the inappropriate grin on his face. "Is it true?"

"It is," Septon Pate declared, still grinning. "I never thought the Stranger had a sense of humor. Raynard was—" he paused, shoulders shaking as he choked back a laugh. "He was atop a whore when his heart burst. The whole brothel went mad; half the city knew before the body was cold. The Queen Regent—" he shook harder, his face turning red as he finally burst into raucous laughter.

"Oh, give me that," snapped Septon Timoth. He snatched the letter, his eyes darting back and forth as he read. "The Queen Regent demanded the Most Devout name a new High Septon at once. They chose—" He blinked, his eyebrows leaping toward his hairline. "They chose Luceon."

The yard burst into chaos. Holy brothers and sisters alike forgot themselves; shouts and curses and wild laughter split the air, some fell to the ground in either mirth or outrage. All were in a tumult, save for the High Septon, who stood steady, a rock amidst the storm, and Edythe, who bent her head in silent prayer.

Thank you, Crone. There could no longer be any doubt that Paul the Pious was the gods' own chosen. From the Sept of Baelor to the Starry Sept to the Sept of the Snows, all the faithful would kneel before him, and with the Faith once more as one, the High Septon might begin to mend this broken realm.


Ah, a nice little breather. I love Edythe so very much. Sound off in the comments!

For those of you who are active on AH, I hope you'll vote for The Weirwood Queen for the Turtledoves.

Next Up

142: Cersei V, with those nasty Tyrells

143: Olyvar VI, with the departure from Meereen

144: Jaime III, with a lot of soul searching

NOTES

1) Paul's holy regalia is cloth-of-gold with silk embroidery and gems using the colors and symbols of the Seven. Ohnoitsmyra is a genius, her take on the High Septon's tall crown as "a glory of crystal and spun gold" is the only one I've ever liked. The canon art looks like someone just stuck a chunk of quartz on someone's head; their necks should be broken from bearing the weight.

2) Winter fever= pneumonia, grippe= influenza, scrofula= tuberculosis. Why are so many people named Pate? Because in the medieval era, everyone shared like six names spelled ten ways, and it's a terrible running joke that makes me happy.

3) I named the peasant conference a folkmoot because assembly and council both sounded wrong, and there's already usage of moot in canon for the kingsmoot held by the ironborn. The folkmoot and the petition they came up with is based on the Twelve Articles drafted by an assembly of Swabian peasants in 1525.

4) Even high ranking medieval priests had hobbies to occupy their time, when not fulfilling their administrative duties. I decided to expand on that in Westeros; a nobly born son or daughter could not degrade themselves by becoming a professional artist or smith etc, but pursuing such activities in the service of the Seven would be acceptable. Here's a fun article on leatherworking. Septon Josua is based on Hieronymus Bosch.

Also keep in mind, the Most Devout expelled from King's Landing were essentially the radical, reformer wing, plus less radical members who were originally from the Riverlands and North and were very pissed at the Lannisters and at Raynard, their blatant puppet. The Most Devout remaining in King's Landing are the most corrupt or cowardly, because they're the only ones willing to tolerate Raynard. The ones in Oldtown are a mix of the corrupt (but anti-Lannister) faithful that Raynard expelled, pro status quo, pro moderate reform, and a few radicals who secretly agree with Paul.

5) There's a ton of paintings of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding with one breast exposed; some of them include front-lacing gowns. While wet nurses are common in ASOIAF, many noblewomen are noted to have nursed their own children; I think it's plausible that the cult of the Mother would encourage pious mothers to breastfeed, with wet nurses as a last resort.

6) GRRM doesn't really set up ranks among the smallfolk. Basically everyone below a lord, knight, or rich merchant just gets called a peasant. Really there should be a WIDE variety of ranks among the commons. For simplicity's sake, I am using the following system:

serfs: those bound to the land with minimal rights; cannot leave or get married without permission. Most are field laborers, but could include craftsmen like millers, blacksmiths etc.

peasants: tenants who pay rent; they may leave the land (if they can afford it, which is unlikely), and marry without seeking permission; includes crofters. A knave would be a homeless peasant who wanders looking for work.

churls: those who own land (even a tiny, tiny parcel) and consequently have the right to bear arms, speak and be heard in the local court, and pay dues directly to the landed knight/lord rather than his bailiffs

7) Raynard's sermon is based on Martin Luther's screed against rioting peasants.