The sept in the Gates of the Moon was far grander than the modest sept his father had erected for his lady wife in Winterfell, here in the Vale the statues of the Seven stood twenty foot tall in a circle wider than the melee grounds, on the marble floor was engraved a golden seven-pointed star sprouting from every statue, the Arryns had been champions of the Seven for millennia and they would spare no expense in this regard.
Front and center were the figures of Father and Mother, the man stood tall and strong, his expression was stern and unforgiving, a cloak bellowed about him and in his hands, he held a scale, the symbol of his justice. The feminine statue in contrast was willowy and her posture docile, her expression was warm and matronly, and she held a newborn babe in her arms.
Both statues had their share of candles lit at their feet, but that number paled in comparison to the mountain of wax at the base of the statue standing to the Father's right, he was a younger man, adorned from head to toe in plate armor, in his hands, a sword and on his face, a look of unyielding determination, stronger still than his mail or weapon, he knew both Hardyng and Mychel had come earlier today to light candles to the man before the squire's melee, as had hundreds of other fighters over the course of the last week.
The Mother in turn was flanked by a younger, gentler woman in a more revealing dress, her hair was long and flowing and Jon had no clue how the sculptor had managed to make it so lifelike, engraved on her face was an innocent carefree smile, on the pedestal of her statue was another large pile of candles.
Both the Maiden and the Warrior were flanked by two wizened figures, the Smith was an older man, he wore an apron and wielded a hammer in his hands, the Crone too looked ancient, her figure was hunched over, in her hands was a lantern, she reminded him of the ghost he'd met in the Riverlands.
It speaks to what the Seven expect from their followers, justice, strength of arms and knowledge from the men, gentleness, romanticism and wisdom from the women. He realized. No wonder Arya is always butting heads with the septa, I could think of no three words which could worse describe her.
The Smith and Crone had a few candles lit in their honor, but even that humble number was far more than the last statue boasted, the hooded, faceless figure did not have a single candle to their name, their statue was the only one completely unlit.
And the Seven expect everyone to fear death.
"I did not expect anyone to visit the sept at this time." He heard a feminine voice speak out from behind him, she was young, closer to his age than Sister Mordane's back in Winterfell, and he would be remise if he did not notice the beauty of her features and her dark red hair. "And yet I doubt this is borne of piety, you are the blackfish's squire are you not?"
"Aye, Jon Snow, my lady." He said, offering a small bow. "And you are?"
"Sister Millicent, a pleasure." She said, returning a small curtsey. "But I am still surprised to see you here at this time, I would have expected you to be swinging arms in the squire's tourney."
"If I sought poor competition and hollow renown, my lady, I would have stayed North." He said. "I was... curious about your faith."
"As I am about yours ser, I would ask a few questions of you, and you of me if you so wish, it is not every day we have a northerner and a follower of the old gods in the Vale." She said, then raised her arms. "Do not worry, I won't try to convert you."
"I doubt you could if you wanted to, my lady." He said with a small chuckle.
"Is that so?" she asked.
"No offense met, but your faith seems to rely on these awe-inspiring statues of the finest marble to invoke reverence, and yet, I've felt more power from a simple, badly carved face on a tree." He said. Or even a weirwood stump.
"What are old gods? What is that power that you've felt?" She asked, "I've never understood it, nor have I ever met one who does."
"They're the gods of the trees and the lakes, speaking in distant gales and brushing leaves." He said. "It is unlike your Seven, your gods… they expect much of you."
"The Seven are only one god." She said, waving him off.
"What?" He asked. "What are the seven statues for then?"
"Each represents an aspect of the Seven, but most septons agree the Seven are one. I can't fault your confusion, most of the smallfolk, as well as good number of the lords and knights think of them as seven gods." She said, leaving him scratching his head. "But you are correct, the Seven do ask much of us, many commandments and demands, what do the old gods expect of you?"
"Honor your oaths, honor your guests, stay your blade from the flesh of your kin." He said, shrugging, "That is all."
"A life without doctrines must be a difficult, confusing one to lead." she said.
"Surely a good man, or good woman for that matter, would not need tenets to tell right from wrong." He said, but then suddenly remembered his conversation with the blackfish at the inn all those months ago.
"If only it were so." She said. "What do you make of Ser Arthur Dayne, ser? Surely an intrepid swordsman like yourself has heard tell of him."
"Of course." He said. "My father says he was a great knight, most everyone agrees he was brave and fair."
"Bravery and fairness are virtues, ser, the Seven are very clear on that, but bravery in the face of an enemy and fairness in times of peace are one thing, where was that bravery and fairness when his prince kidnapped your aunt? Where was the bravery of his brothers when your grandfather and uncle were murdered?"
"I…" He said, then stopped, her words catching him off guard. "I do not know."
"Then perhaps telling right from wrong is more difficult than you make it out to be ser, none should be more concerned with such matters than the men wielding the swords and yet I have seen many a knight sleep through his vigil." She said, then sighed and looked off. "Apologies for being rude ser, the festivities have worn me out, I must rest, but do stay as long as you wish."
With that, she nodded to him and retreated to the back of the sept, leaving him alone with her words and the seven indifferent faces surrounding him.
"Well?" He asked them. "Any clue?"
But they were as silent and solemn as ever, and yet, he still produced a candle from his pockets, lit it from one of the many already lit, then moved over to the only dim statue in the sept.
I'm no follower of yours, nor do I ever intend to be. He thought. But on the chance that you do exist, shepherd along any I send your way, and me, when my time does come.
With that, he left the statue of the Stranger behind him, and found that the sun had already set, and sky was soon darkening.
He found his armor and put it on his back, then covered it with a cheap cotton tarp and made his way to the blacksmith he had bought it from, in exchange for a few silvers, the man agreed to hammer out any of the dents that had been made, as well as have his wife wash his grey silk for him.
"You were extraordinary ser." The tall blacksmith said. "It was an honor to see a man wielding my steel dominate lords."
"You saw me on the lists yesterday?" Jon asked.
"Aye, and what a way to fight." The man said, a wide smile on his face. "The Ashen Reaver, you made quite the impression on the crowds."
"I would then appreciate if you kept my identity a secret then, till tourney's end at the least."
"Of course, ser." The man said, bowing his head. "Not a word will cross these lips."
He nodded and left the man at that, his purse somewhat lighter, he had won three gold dragons for his performance yesterday, not enough to make back for what he had paid for the armor, but if he was one of the seven men of the finals his winnings would then be fifty dragons, and three thousand if he won it all.
But for now, the sky had darkened, and the tourney grounds had fully sprung into life, lit by countless torches and campfires, the festive air he had grown used to returned, as many celebrated the end of the squire's melee.
I wonder who won the melee. He thought, though he did not have to wonder long, he found both Hardying and Redfort amid the merry crowds soon enough, but their sour moods were a stark contrast to those around them.
"What's the matter with the two of you?" Jon asked, moving to sit opposite them around the fire. "Bad luck at the melee?"
"For me at least." Hardying said, crossing his arms. "This idiot won it all, and a kiss from the Bronze Yohn's daughter besides and still he lowers his head."
"Mya was cross with me." Redfort said, exhaling and leaning back. "Really cross with me."
"What did you do?" Jon asked, but Hardying only threw up his arms.
"What's it matter what he did? He won and then lets some bastard girl spoil his mood." Hardying said. "Lift your head and let us find you a whore twice as pretty."
"Quiet down Hardying, before a bastard boy spoils your pretty face."
"Whatever, fuck the both of you." Hardying said, rising to his feet. "Fools and simpletons, one who refuses to pursue victory and one who cannot appreciate it."
With that he turned and walked away, leaving Jon scratching his head for the second time that day. What are these southerners always yammering about?
"He'll come around." Mychel said, looking after the other boy with a distant look on his face. "He's just upset to lose, he truly believed he had the melee won, especially after sparring with you."
"He said that?" Jon asked, the Redfort nodded, then why is he so hostile? "No matter, what happened between you and Mya?"
"I… fuck." The boy said, nervously bouncing his foot. "Years ago, I swore to marry her, I understood her… parentage, but I'm a fourth son, my father already has a spare for his spare, I thought he would let me marry for love."
"Love?" Jon asked. "How long have you known her to love her?"
"Since I was a boy of ten." Mychel said, staring up at the stars. "My family would pass by the Gates many a time and we would spend countless evenings together, I thought her the most dashing girl in the world, so crass and funny and beautiful, unlike any lady I've known, but then…"
"Then you grew up." Jon said, sighing heavily. "Does the love remain?
"I do not know; I think it does." Mychel said. "But my promise does not, my father… he insists on Ysilla Royce, he is a gentle and well-mannered man, but that makes his wroth all the more terrifying."
The silence stretched between them after that, drowning in the dim of the chatter around them and the crackling of the fire, he felt a little bad for Redfort, but nothing compared to the hole in the stomach he had for Mya. To get your hopes up for years…
"I'll talk to her, but not for your sake." Jon said, rising to his feet. "Do not give your word so lightly again Redfort, especially when you don't have the spine to see it through."
Finding Mya however, proved difficult, he ran up and down the grounds as both man and hawk looking for her, and yet he could find her brown hair and blue eyes among the endless merry bodies, he looked in the stands, he looked in the grounds and tents, eventually he relented to look in the castle, she was not in any of the halls, nor in the kitchens or even the sept, but eventually, he did find Myranda Royce, Nestor's daughter, and she quickly pointed him to the stables.
He smelled them before he saw them, filled to capacity with the horses of every traveling lord and knight and their retinues, and there she was off in a corner where they kept the pack animals, leaning despondently against a wooden post, her boots steeped in hay and shit, she was running a brush along a bison's hide, but her mind was elsewhere.
"Mya?" He said to her, moving to stand next to her. "Are you alright?"
Her expression immediately brightened at seeing him, but even he could tell it was not genuine.
"Why wouldn't I be?" She said, forcing a smile. "I missed you today at the tourney, you could have wiped everyone."
"Perhaps." He said, trying to return the smile. "But about Redfort…"
"What about him?" She said crossing her arms.
"He said that he's upset you, Mya." Jon said. "What happened?"
"It's petty…" She said but continued regardless. "I made him a favor to wear, it was a silly thing, badly made and sewn, the stag I tried to embroider looked more like ox, I didn't even want to show it to him, but… I did, and he swore he would wear in the melee. It sent my heart aflutter, I wanted nothing more than to see it, but a shit covered bastard like me couldn't get into the noble stands, so I had to let Myranda Royce stuff me in a dress and beg her to take me."
"Then when he walked out, he had a bronze-colored handkerchief on his wrist." Jon continued, Mya nodded, no tears formed in her eyes, but she leaned back against a post despondent, the sight of it broke his heart, she was always so happy, so carefree, he had never even seen her upset, but now she was downright depressed.
"Even worse than that, when he did win and they gave him a rose to offer to any girl he wished, he walked up to us, and gave it to Ysilla Royce sitting not five feet away."
"I'm sorry Mya." He said, moving to stand next to her if nothing else.
"He kept making excuses, my father this, my father that, where's my father then? Where's my betrothals and workless days? Where's my castle full of little brothers and sisters?" She said, he was confused for a moment, Mychel had no sisters or younger brothers that he knew of, then he realized she was referring to him. "I enjoy my life, three square meals for an honest day of work, the safety of the Gates and clean mountain air, friendships with you, Randa, Ossy and Carrot, and yet sometimes, gods forgive me, but sometimes I still find myself wishing for more."
"Everyone deserves a father, there is no shame in wishing for one."
What would have become of me if Lord Stark was not unlike his best friend? He wondered. Cobbling shoes in some nameless village in the Riverlands or Dorne or the Reach, dying at twenty as a levy in some skirmish, a spear I don't know how to use in my hands.
Whatever bitterness he had towards his father for denying him his name or not telling him of his mother seemed petty in comparison to all that Mya had been denied.
She leaned her head on his shoulder for some time before she spoke again.
"I just grow scared of tomorrow, one day, Mychel will have his own holdfast with the Lady Royce, you'll be a knight, a man respected, and I'll still be here, with no use to anyone but my mules until I grow too old to be of use to them either."
"That won't happen." Jon said, his voice was stern and had an air of authority to it. "I promise you, and I know you have been burned by them before, but I promise you, I will not let you rot here forever nor fade away to time, I do not care if it through Lord Arryn or your father the king himself, you will get a future you deserve, and it won't be through marriage or by anyone's pity."
"That's a nice dream, Jon." She said after a pause, she wiped away what tears had pricked her eyes and shook her head. "Thank you for being here."
"Always." He said, grinning. "And it's no dream Mya, it's what's going to happen."
Shorter chapter, i still don't know how to do pacing between scenes but join us in a week or two(or three) for the finale of the arc!