Sadog
"Bollocks," Sadog cursed softly. "That makes things more difficult, so it does."
Miru sat beside him, having just explained Jena's reaction earlier that afternoon. Matthias, who was still hoarse from his performance, had focused mainly on food whilst occasionally adding a word or two to enforce Miru's account.
Sadog's plate was almost completely untouched. As was his custom, he ate only a light breakfast in the morning and a light dinner in the evening, so that he did not become too fat for his one remaining leg. Despite his hunger, however, he could not concentrate on anything but this problem.
"Mayhaps Papa should have known that she wouldn't take it well," Baalun muttered. He held a leg of capon in each hand, taking alternative bites from each.
"It matters not," Sadog interjected, with no small measure of resigned antipathy. "We'll proceed without her help, and we'll pray that she does not betray our secret to Bloodraven."
"Have a care," Miru interjected hotly. "That is Jena of whom you speak!"
Sadog sighed. He knew he'd gone too far, but he was nevertheless irked to be made to answer for it. "Very well, that was unworthy. In any case, until Father and Leroya return, we have to find another way to delay the Great Council."
"We're all ears, brother," Matthias rasped.
Of course. Sadog felt his resentment and umbrage increasing tenfold. He'd long ago learned how to suppress such emotions around strangers, but his siblings were another matter. "I'll think of something, then," he muttered.
Miru frowned as she watched him rise from his chair. "Are you not going to eat?"
"I'm not hungry," Sadog retorted. He turned away and began limping down the narrow space between the long tables.
Eventually, Sadog left the Great Hall and trudged to the royal sept, as was his wont to do at least once per day since his return to King's Landing.
Thankfully, there were still many seats available, including one where he could look directly upon the Crone's statue as he sat. He made sure to pray to the others first, then focused his attention to the aspect which he'd adopted as his guiding spirit. Crone, grant me wisdom to see light in the deepest darkness. Shine my way forward as you've always done.
He had never thought himself very faithful as a boy; to put it more bluntly, he had resented the gods for all the evil which they'd seemingly inflicted on him. What had he done to deserve the injuries he'd sustained when his father's old bull had broken loose? Where was their kindness and mercy when the blacksmith had amputated the remains of his shattered leg? Why had the gods not intervened when his own father had led him into the hills, bade him sit by a creek with his fishing line and wait for his return, but then had never come back?
Although he'd been a boy, Sadog had made a crude crutch out of a tree branch and followed the sun and stars until he'd arrived at the Golden Tooth. He had sustained himself there as a beggar, until he'd crossed paths with Lord Titus Dondarrion on his way to Casterly Rock from Wayfarer's Rest.
From there, he had pursued every subject which he could learn, determined to become wise. He'd still resented the gods for all the hardships which he'd endured, and he had hated how everyone suggested he become a maester or a septon, for all they saw was an intelligent cripple with no purpose in his life.
He'd found a purpose, thanks to his father; not the one who had abandoned him, but the one who had cared and who had taken him in when he'd thought himself doomed to die young. He had travelled across the wide waters to the Summer Isles, then to Braavos. He had made himself essential, so that no man could so easily cast him aside.
Somewhere along the way to those ends, he had rediscovered his devotion to the gods. Titus' former wetnurse, Caris, had loomed large over that decision. She had been as good of a mother to him as anyone before Bellaria had wedded Titus. Like Miru and Sadog himself, Caris had been scathingly critical of the Faith, especially where mortal men were concerned. Grey-robed men had given her more than enough reasons to hate the gods whom they represented. It was not until they'd settled in such foreign lands, immersed in such a variety of different cultures, that Caris and Sadog had embraced their faith with renewed zeal.
If only you were here now, Sadog thought ruefully of Caris.
As he pondered the riddle, he noticed a man sitting down beside him. He was squat and broad-shouldered; his walnut brown hair and beard were neatly groomed, and his clothes were immaculate and spotless. He looked upon the Crone's statue with unfeigned reverence as he made a pious gesture with his hands.
Sadog recognised him. He had often sat to the left of Lord Gilbert Tully in the Great Hall. He hadn't directly spoken to the man, nor did he know his right name, but he recognised the sigil which was elaborately stitched on his jerkin. Two green dragons and two white towers, quartered.
After a moment, he noticed Sadog's curious glance. "Are you the son of Lord Titus Dondarrion?"
Sadog inclined his head respectfully. "One of them, yes. I am Sadog."
"I thought so. I was in the Great Hall when you first arrived."
A sour feeling grew in Sadog's stomach at this revelation. Did you laugh with the others when Bloodraven humiliated my father? Despite that, he put on an air of innocent curiosity. "And who might you be?"
"Rollant Vance of Atranta," answered the nobleman. "What brings you to this sept, if I may ask?"
"I wished to pray," Sadog replied. He gave a half-smile to take out any potential sting in his curt words. "There is a sept in Braavos. My mother was also Westerosi by birth, and we regularly attended services together."
"Indeed?" Lord Vance looked at him with astonishment. "That is intriguing. I had heard that your father had renounced the Seven."
"My father is his own man," Sadog answered curtly, "and when he dies, he will have no more to fear of the gods' judgment than you or I."
"Spoken like a dutiful son," Lord Vance answered with a smile which was surely meant to be warm, but which Sadog could only see as condescending. "But if I may ask you, does the Iron Bank have any preference for who should become king?"
"They have not mentioned any preferences with me," Sadog answered tactfully.
The riverlord's countenance became sly. "Does that mean they are waiting for your report on the matter?"
"I couldn't possibly imagine what sort of influence I wield," Sadog declared firmly. "Does a servant question what an effect his service has upon his master?"
"A question for the philosophers," Lord Vance replied. He inclined his head. "I shall pray to your mother's memory."
Sadog inclined his head in silent thanks, but the riverlord was already getting up from his seat. As he went to kneel before the Father's statue and light a candle, Sadog thought about their exchange.
It was clear to him that Lord Vance had not spoken to him by chance. Certainly, he was not the first nobleman who had approached Sadog with requests from the Iron Bank, but Vance had not made his wishes known. This was a different game, but the stakes had not yet been revealed.
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The morning sky was almost entirely bereft of clouds, at least from what little of it was visible through Sadog's windows.
Before he'd gone to bed the night before, Sadog had left one of his windows ajar. The weather had been warmer than before, even after the sunset. Now, the morning proved that it would be another warm winter day in King's Landing.
Presently, he sat on his bed. His thoughts were racing so rapidly that he could not latch on to a specific thought. Titus and Leroya had not returned, as far as he knew. Whether they would be back today, he was not sure. All he could do was try not to fret, but that was growing steadily more difficult.
As far as he could recall, Sadog had never enjoyed looking at his reflection.
The priests and priestesses at the Temple of Love had taught him many things, but self-love had been a lesson which had never fully sunk in. He had always struggled to see any beauty in his face, and not even his numerous trysts as an acolyte could undo that belief.
It was a strange struggle, for he knew that he was not exceptionally ugly either. He was not scarred like Miru, nor were his features out of proportion as Matthias' were. He was simply plain-faced, and no amount of time in Ebonhead had fully expelled that judgment from his mind.
He was also growing older. He was thirty-eight years of age, the same age that his father had been when they'd first sailed to the Summer Isles. He was relieved that he was not so grey as Titus had been, or mayhaps that was just his memory playing tricks to placate his apprehension over his aging features.
"Milord?"
Sadog turned to look at the copper bathtub which two servants had filled with warm water and sweet-smelling soap. As per Sadog's request, the tub had been moved close enough to his bed that he could reach it without needing his ivory leg back on.
Amabel was already in the tub, gasping in delight at the sensation of bathing in warm water. Even after several days in King's Landing, she was still possessed with girlish glee at these luxuries.
"Come in, milord," she urged. She stood up in the large tub to show him her nakedness. "You can wash my titties for me!" Her pale wet skin glittered in the light of the early morning sun. Amabel put her hands on her small breasts and winked at Sadog, even as she licked her pink nipples.
His member was already stiff as he made two undignified hops to reach the tub.
Giggling, Amabel held Sadog steady as he eased himself into the bath. Sadog sometimes wondered whether she was laughing at him, but he knew it was useless to think about such things. She would certainly never admit it if she were laughing at him.
"Gods," Sadog groaned as he sat down. Amabel straddled his leg and loomed over him with soap in her hands.
Sadog began washing her body as she moaned in response. Sadog had never fully shed his shyness on the subject of sex, but he recognised more than enough to acknowledge that Amabel knew her craft very well.
After they were clean and dried, Sadog sat on the edge of the bed whilst Amabel pleasured him with her hand, then her mouth. As per his wish, Amabel finished him quickly, cheekily allowing him the sight of his seed on her tongue before swallowing.
"Could you stay a little longer, milord?" She asked him as she helped him put on his ivory leg, then his robes of purple lined with ermine.
"It will be a busy day," Sadog reminded her.
"Might I see the city, then?" Amabel pleaded as she handed Sadog his three-tiered felt hat.
"Very well," Sadog allowed. "But wait an hour after I am gone." He gestured to the sundial which he'd brought from Braavos. He'd set it out on the balcony when he'd first moved into the apartment.
Amabel, who often went naked without shame when she and Sadog were alone, suddenly appeared uncertain as her face became flushed. She opened her mouth, but then quickly closed it and looked away as Sadog's incredulity grew.
Gods… does she not know how to read a sundial? Sadog bit back his frustration as he leaned on his cane. "Never mind all that. I'll arrange for an escort. They'll summon you when it's time to go."
For the briefest of moments, Amabel pouted at Sadog's decree. It reminded him once again that she was nearly twenty years younger than he. What was I thinking? Why did I bring her with me?
He'd first seen her when the Black Bolt had stopped in Gulltown for part of the day. Sadog had spent far too long away from land, and he wanted to breathe without smelling the sea for once. Thus, he'd gone for a stroll which took him away from the harbour and into the labyrinth of brick buildings that comprised the city.
It was cold weather, and the snowfall had driven most of the smallfolk indoors. Only the city watch and the desperate seemed to be out and about. The former's presence ensured Sadog's safety, so that only Amabel had dared to approach him.
No man would have hailed her as a great beauty; her nose was large and crooked, she was missing a few teeth, and her hair had been a wild mess of unkempt brown curls streaked with grey. Still, she was young - she later admitted that she didn't know how old she was, but she guessed that she was twenty - and her body was shapely enough when she'd opened up her meagre clothes and offered Sadog a view of her naked body.
That gesture alone had set her apart from the other whores that had prowled the streets of Gulltown. Misery and hunger had driven her to risk exposure in the cold just for the smallest chance to win him over. Sadog had certainly appreciated the sight of her, but it had been pity as much as lust which inspired him to take Amabel with him.
Much to his relief, Leroya hadn't made a jape when he'd approached her. She had simply offered a warm cloak for Amabel to wear, accepting her stammered thanks with a wave of her hand.
"We're taking on a band of northerners too," she had observed with a smile. "One more mouth won't matter."
It had certainly mattered to Amabel. She had clung to Sadog like ivy on a stone wall from then on. She called him "milord" despite his objections and accepted every order without question, especially his insistence that she stay well out of sight from the lords and ladies of the great council.
To disguise her role as a whore, Sadog had her act as his servant when others were around. She waited on him whenever others were present, just as a servant would do. If men suspected the truth, they said nothing about it. Only Leroya was so brazen as to smirk whenever she and Amabel crossed paths.
Worse than that, however, was the fact that after several days in King's Landing, Amabel was beginning to show some impatience for his strict rules. He could not blame her, since she spent much of her time hiding out in his chamber, but that did not avail to soften his resolve. He had more than enough on his mind as it was without worrying if word of his behaviour might reach back to Braavos.
The councils which presided over the Iron Bank demanded a strong sense of discreet decorum from those who worked within its walls. Keyholders were exempted, of course; no matter how lowly some families had fallen, their blood ties to the Iron Bank's founding ensured that they were always permitted their due honours. One of Sadog's first assignments had been to work as an underling to a low-ranking banker. He would never rise high within the bank, for he was a gluttonous wastrel. He would customarily have been dismissed long ago, but he was a Keyholder, and he had three kinsmen on one of the elite councils. Sadog had grown well-used to doing his job for him whilst he indulged his own whims. He'd occasionally needed to find the drunken lout within brothels just to place his seal upon important documents.
There was much less room for error when it came to Sadog, and he had spent years denying himself time for enjoyment. He'd distanced himself from his wilder siblings in case someone might espy him in some place of ill repute and report his conduct to the Iron Bank.
It would be worthwhile; he was a banker, now, and had just been given his first independent assignment as an envoy. For the first time, he was not being overseen by another. Sadog knew that this was no mere accident. This was a reward for all those years he'd devoted to the bank. But he was certainly no fool; this reward would quickly be stripped from him if he proved unworthy.
Indeed, he was already anxious over how invested he was in this plot by his father and siblings to disrupt the Great Council and possibly endorse Aenys Blackfyre for kingship. Still, he would not abandon them, especially now when they needed him more than ever.
For those twin causes - that of his family and of his own ambitions - Amabel's disappointment was a price he was more than happy to pay.
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He had intended to guide the others while keeping well away from any plotting. Thus far, he had maintained this balance, but Jena's renunciation was an unwanted agitation of their delicate scheme.
Now, as he sat down for breakfast, it infuriated and alarmed him that Titus and Leroya were not back yet. How am I to stall the council for a second time? The stunt with Baalun had done its work well, but it could not be repeated.
It was not long before Matthias, Baalun, and Miru joined him where he sat.
"So? Any ideas, brother?" Baalun asked after he'd taken a great bite of bacon on his plate.
"No," Sadog admitted bitterly. It was impossible for him to suppress his frustration; after his visit to the royal sept, he'd spent half the night studying books on the previous great councils, looking desperately for another way to delay this one from a final judgment. He had already needed to placate Amabel so that she would not do anything rash. Now he was being pestered by his siblings for a solution to this grave problem which shouldn't have been his concern to begin with. So much for being a neutral observer.
"The truth is," Sadog admitted angrily, "that if the Great Council makes its final decision today, then there is nothing we can do to stop it."
All of them were dismayed by this pronouncement, and only Miru seemed not to resent his pessimistic opinion.
"Mayhaps these councillors will not need our help," she offered quietly. "They have shown time and again that they do not agree over who should be king."
"There is nobody left," Sadog reminded her. "Aegon is the only candidate who hasn't been rejected."
"What of Aemon?" Matthias piped up in his sister's defence.
"Don't be absurd," Sadog admonished his younger brother. "He cannot set aside his vows to the gods."
He was getting very tired of this nonsense regarding Aemon. It was ludicrous that the council was continually ignoring this simplest of truths, and his siblings were little better because of it.
Sadog was still brooding over all this when two short trumpet blasts erupted across the Great Hall. Such was his shock that his heart seemed to stop beating. Miru gave a surprised shriek, as did many others who were breaking their fast. Baalun, who'd been drinking from his goblet, spat a mouthful of water all over Matthias.
"Order! Order!"
The speaker needed to roar that word out several times before the command was heeded by all. Many had arisen from their chairs, so Sadog had no clear view of who was speaking. After Baalun helped him to his feet, he eventually located the source of the invasive noises.
Halfway up the steps to the Iron Throne, a knight of the Kingsguard stood with a silver trumpet in one hand whilst his other hand was held up for silence. Sadog was too far away to see which of the knights it was, but his armour and white cloak were unmistakable. A throng of men-at-arms in Targaryen livery stood at the base of the Iron Throne, as if to protect the knight from an expected assault.
"Today," the knight declared, "is the holy day of the Lamp Holder. In honour of this, there will be no assemblance of the Great Council. It shall reconvene on the morrow. That is all!"
So many men and women began to mutter amongst themselves that the multitude of quiet voices rose to a din. The Kingsguard knight and his escort of men-at-arms were undeterred. They left the hall without a word, ignoring any who might waylay them with queries or comments.
Beside Sadog, Baalun burst out laughing. At first Sadog thought it was due to the state of Matthias, but then Baalun stood up and clapped Sadog on the shoulder. "Is that what you call a miracle, then? No need to worry about the Great Council now!"
Despite his fury whilst drying himself, Matthias also appeared to be tickled by this turn of events. "The holy day of the Lamp Holder? Who the ruddy hell is the Lamp Holder?" He glanced at Sadog. "You're supposed to know these things, brother, so tell us who that is."
Sadog leaned on his cane as he regarded Matthias sourly. "It's a minor parable in The Seven-Pointed Star. A shepherd boy guards his family's flock whilst his father is at war. He's leading the sheep home at sunset when a wolf-howl causes several to flee in panic. The shepherd boy leads the rest back home before running out to find the strays. He's just a little boy, so he must decide whether to take his father's old axe to protect himself, or the lamp so he can see where he's going. He chooses the lamp, and uses it to guide his way after the sheep in the darkness. His wise choice pleases the Crone, so she shines her own lamp down upon him. Thus, he finds his flock and eludes the wolves with her blessing."
"I don't remember that story," Miru remarked thoughtfully.
"It is seldom taught," Sadog answered dismissively. He misliked the cognizant expression on her face. She had known him long enough to recognise a story which resonated with him, and a story which he'd treasured since Maester Quincy had first told it to him.
"A lovely little tale, to be sure," Baalun mused. "But why didn't you say anything about today being a holy day?"
"Because there is no holy day for the Lamp Holder," Sadog hissed. "Or at least, none that I was ever told."
Matthias frowned. "So, what's that all about, then?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," Sadog remarked as he turned to leave.
Miru's call made him turn back. "You don't need to involve yourself, brother. You have your title to consider."
"My title is exactly why I should be the one to do it," Sadog replied.
Baalun folded his arms. "Then what can we do?"
"You can go down to the docks and inform us when Father and Leroya return," Sadog suggested.
Miru made a face, but it was Matthias who gave voice to their concerns. "You expect us to linger at the harbour for who knows how long?"
"The three of you made a spectacle of yourselves yesterday," Sadog reminded them sharply. "It was well done, to be sure, but now you had best lay low for a time. Let these lords forget your faces until you need to speak with them again."
"All well and good for you to say," Matthias observed testily. "Remind me which of us endorsed that action without taking part? Or is it you think that's all we're good for?"
Gods be good… "Must I explain everything to you? We cannot take action without word from the others! When the time comes, we will all be needed, I doubt it not. Until then, keep your bloody stubborn heads down!"
Sadog did not wait to see their reaction, but stormed off as fast and definitively as he could manage with his false leg and his cane. He ground his teeth to restrain the angry words buzzing inside his skull like hornets.
He'd never been as close with his younger siblings as they were with each other. Miru and Matthias were closer than if they'd actually been full-blooded siblings. As for Titus' children with Bellaria, they had always loved him and deferred to him as an elder brother, but Sadog suspected that the bond imposed by their parents was all that kept them together.
Leroya and Baalun were as wild as they'd always been, and Sadog had little taste for either of their antics. Much as they aggravated him, however, he was at even greater odds with Belakka, due to her arrogance and her vanity. Lately, it seemed as if she only ever sought his company out of familial duty or to further her own interests. Chatali had been the only one of those four with whom he could immerse himself in conversation, but marriage and motherhood had taken away what little time she didn't devote to business and commerce. Not to mention that his own work kept him preoccupied.
These were wicked thoughts, to be sure; he knew better than to give voice to them, especially in the presence of his mother or father. All the same, when he'd helped arrange Titus and Bellaria's wills, he'd been very careful to guarantee everyone's equal inheritances, in case there was any strife once both their parents were gone.
He did not have long to brood, however; he had a mystery to uncover. A knight of the Kingsguard declared this to be a holy day, so who gave him the order? And to what end?
"Sadog Dondarrion?"
Reflexively, Sadog halted and looked about, for he recognised the caller.
Sure enough, Lord Rollant Vance emerged from the crowd of people leaving the Great Hall. "Your pardon. Are you short on time?"
Which of us is not? "Not particularly," Sadog replied tactfully, waiting for Lord Vance to speak to his intent.
"Would you accompany me, then? I am on my way to a meeting."
"What sort of meeting is that, then?" Sadog asked, putting on an air of innocent curiosity.
"One which will include His High Holiness," Lord Vance replied with a smile.
Sadog was so astonished that he did not even pretend to ponder his answer. "Lead the way, my lord. I would never refuse such an honour."
Thus, he followed the burly lord down one corridor and then another. Sadog moved as fast as he was able, whilst Lord Vance courteously pretended that he was not slowing his own gait.
Seeing an opportunity, Sadog adopted an embarrassed tone. "Forgive me, Lord Vance, but I have been gone a long time from Westeros. Some twenty years at least. When was this holy day first declared?"
Something flickered in Lord Vance's eyes before he answered in a tone which was determinedly matter-of-fact. "I believe it was twelve years ago now."
Got you, Sadog thought triumphantly. He had accompanied his father back to Westeros twelve years before, spending nearly two months in Westeros. This same day had passed them by in that period, and Sadog had heard no mention of this new holy day.
Lord Vance is lying to me, he thought. But why? And what else is he lying about?
Still, he continued to speak amicably with Lord Vance until they reached a large solar atop one of the seven towers. It was lavishly furnished, and it was well-lit by large glass windows which afforded an incredible view of the castle, city, bay, and countryside beyond.
Sadog had spent too much time in the palaces of Essos to be astonished by this room, but the company within this room left him nearly breathless for a moment.
Lord Rycherd Tyrell sat on one of several couches in the room. He had the look of a warrior gone to seed; broadly built as Lord Vance, he sported a sizeable paunch and a double chin beneath his curly brown beard.
Tyrell was also accompanied by two of his most esteemed bannermen. The slender and stately Lord Symond Hightower stood by one of the windows, speaking with Lord Jasper Arryn and Lord Gorlim Redfort. Lady Carolei Merryweather, a striking woman who was beginning to enter middle age, sat at a small table and sipped from a goblet.
As Lord Vance had promised, the High Septon was present, occupying his own couch as Lord Tyrell had done. Grand Maester Piato was nearby, as were two younger septons. Lord Gilbert Tully stood before the High Septon, speaking to him as if he were a mere servant. Such is his power, Sadog thought with admiration. There was a time when kings knelt before this holy man.
When Lord Tully was finished, Lord Vance led Sadog forward to the High Septon. "Your High Holiness," he urged. "I present Master Sadog Dondarrion of the Iron Bank."
Sadog hastily lifted up his purple rose to reveal the bottom of his ivory leg. "Forgive me," he pleaded. "By the gods' will alone can I not kneel before you as I must."
The High Septon was neither fat nor thin, as it was with Titus. Beneath his ornate crown of crystal, his head was nearly bald, but for a thin ring of white hair around his ears. His moustache and beard were trimmed so close that they seemed almost a shadow of white across his jaw.
Now he smiled benevolently at Sadog and offered him his hand. "Blessings upon you, my son."
Sadog felt close to tears as his shaking hand took the High Septon's. Bending forward, he planted a soft kiss upon the ring.
As he stood straight once more, the High Septon spoke again. "I am told that you serve the Seven as well as the Iron Bank."
"I do, Your High Holiness," Sadog replied readily. "Just as men bow to their lords, and lords bow to their kings, so kings and queens must bow before the Seven Who Are One."
"Well remembered," the High Septon replied, looking pleased. "And how are my dear septons across the sea?"
Despite his euphoria, Sadog sensed that there was a test for him in that question. Thankfully, he was quite prepared to pass it.
"Septons Mortimer and Saxtus were in good health when I last saw them. As were the septas Bryony, Meriam, and Germaine."
The elderly man's smile widened. "May the gods ensure that this remains so. It is well for us that godly men can rise above corrupt temptations of the east."
Sadog hesitated at that, especially since Grand Maester Piato was present. He recalled what that holy man had done with Leroya in secret. Struggling to put that out of his mind, Sadog bowed again to the High Septon without speaking.
Whether the High Septon had more to say, he was interrupted by the door opening.
Elaborately dressed in various shades of orange, Princess Dido Martell practically floated into the solar. Younger than the other great lords, Dido's wide eyes were dark, her skin was the colour of light teak, and her garments did little to hide her shapely curves. Nevertheless, her smile and curtsy to the High Septon were as dignified as anyone else's.
Two other Dornish - a man and a woman - accompanied their princess into the room. Lord Allyrion wore red and black, with a large yellow hand embroidered on his front. His dark grey beard was forked, and his glance was imperious. Sadog, who had already stepped away from the High Septon to make room for Princess Dido, was more taken aback by the woman.
Lady Nisba Dalt was of a similar age to Dido, and similarly beautiful besides. Her heavy winter cape was purple as Sadog's gear, decorated with countless yellow lemons. She did not notice Sadog at first, but when their eyes met each other, her look of surprise quickly became hostile.
Sadog, who had heard his father's full account of why the Dalts would mislike him and his line, turned away from Lady Nisba without comment. It was Princess Dido's words which interested him.
After turning from the High Septon, the Dornishwoman approached Lord Tyrell as he clumsily arose to his feet. "When is he coming?"
"Shortly, Princess," Lord Tyrell replied stiffly. "Wylis' squire assured us he will see us after prayers are finished. That was quite some time ago, now."
"Good." Princess Dido took an unclaimed couch for herself. "May the Crone shine her light for His Grace."
Sadog felt himself turning cold. Reflexively, he turned to the High Septon, but he saw no sign that the man was going to correct Dido's mistake. Gods…
"What is he doing here?"
Lady Nisba Dalt had spoken. She was still glaring at Sadog, her arms folded beneath her breasts.
Surprisingly, it was the High Septon who answered her. "He is an envoy to the Iron Bank, and he is a man of faith. He has agreed to assist us in our cause."
Although Nisba was abashed and mollified, Sadog was even more alarmed than before. He had made no commitment of any kind, but he was hardly going to contradict the High Septon now. So that's what this is about. The holy day, inviting me to be present… He gripped his cane with both hands to stop them from trembling as he stared out one of the windows with glassy eyes. His ears were closed to whatever these lords and ladies spoke amongst themselves.
Eventually, the door opened once again, silencing all discussion. Sadog turned around as Lord Wylis Rowan - unmistakable thanks to the golden tree stitched across his tunic - stepped smartly into the room and spoke in a sonorous voice. "Prince Aemon Targaryen!"
All but the High Septon arose from their seats and bowed, even as a grey-robed man entered the room. He looked as discomfited as Sadog felt.
"Please," he urged quietly. "I have not been a prince for fifteen years!"
"On the contrary, my prince," Lord Tyrell urged in a sickly sycophantic tone. "The blood of the dragon has always flowed through your veins. It is unmistakable to anyone who can see."
Aemon's frown deepened, but he did not disagree. It was certainly true that he was a Targaryen; his pale hair and lilac-coloured eyes were proof enough of that. Those eyes were looking about the room, taking in everyone's presence.
"My lords," he began again cautiously, "my ladies, Your High Holiness… may I ask for the meaning of this assembly?"
Lord Tyrell stepped forward and held out his hands, palms towards Aemon.
"As you may or may not know, there is grave concern amongst the council that your younger brother is not suited for the Iron Throne."
Confusion and agitation gave way to a quiet, seething umbrage. "If you truly knew me, Lord Tyrell, you would not seek to flatter me at my brother's expense."
Sadog shuddered at the coldness in Aemon's voice. He felt an urge to look away, beg for Aemon's pardon, or even flee the room. Mayhaps he is kingly after all.
Tyrell's face nearly turned purple, and he hastily retreated.
Lord Arryn was next to break the awkward silence. "Your Grace, we did not come here to denigrate Aegon. He is a prince just as you are, but-"
"I am not a prince," Aemon interrupted. He turned to the High Septon. "When I swore my vows, I renounced all claim to land or title. It was my grandfather's wish!"
Daeron the Good. Sadog recalled the stories he'd heard of King Daeron II throughout his life. What he would have thought of this development, he dared not imagine.
Now, however, the head of that holy order stood up from his couch and clasped his hands together. "You speak truly, Aemon. Your devotion to duty is impossible to doubt. And your grandfather's reason was shrewd. But the realm has changed greatly since your grandfather's time. The King's Justice has become feeble with the death of your father, and we are at the mercy of corrupt men with no love for the true faith. The realm sees it, do they not? They see the sorcerer for what he is. And if men can see that, so too can the gods."
Sadog was appalled, but he forced himself to keep his face blank as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.
Aemon seemed to share his reaction to the High Septon's words. "Your High Holiness… The gods wished for me to take up their service…"
The old man shook his head. "Nay, my son, you said it yourself. Your grandfather wished to prevent kin-strife when he sent you to the Citadel. It was a wise decision for his reign, but mayhaps the gods wish something different."
Aemon went pale as he fell to his knees before the High Septon. "I beseech you," he protested, but he was too overwhelmed to speak again.
Sadog shuddered. Nowhere could he see a cheerful face; everyone was surprised by the lengths to which Aemon was resisting their wishes. As he looked about, however, his glance fell upon Grand Maester Piato. When the old man met his eyes, he quickly looked away again. Before he did, however, there was a strange twinkling in his eye. Gods… he is pleased. But why?
"My prince," the High Septon remarked in an unsettled tone. "Why do you speak to me as if I am about to punish you?"
"Because I have no wish to sit the Iron Throne," Aemon protested. "I am a maester, sworn to the gods' service. Not even you can release me from those vows."
"Can't I?" For the first time, the High Septon was effronted.
Aemon seemed to waver, but then he spoke again. "Respectfully, Your High Holiness, no High Septon has ever wielded such a power before."
Sadog found his respect for Aemon rising with every word he spoke. He might have been a worthy king after all. How strange that he proves as much by refusing the throne…
"That much is true," answered the High Septon, and not without some hesitation. "All the same, that power has never been denied to us."
"Has it not?" Aemon continued to kneel, but his back was straight, and his voice was clear. "I swore my vows to the gods, only they can release me from those vows."
Gasps broke out across the room. Sadog managed to restrain such an urge, but he was nonetheless shocked to hear any man speak thusly to the High Septon of all men.
The High Septon was no longer kindly in his demeanour. "You forget yourself," he declared, "and you forget my place on this earth. I speak for the gods as no other man can do. I am their mouthpiece."
"That may be," Aemon declared, "but you are not a god yourself. Do you deny that?"
Sadog's mouth flew open. One of the ladies nearby gave a cry of alarm.
The High Septon had turned pale at that question. His mouth opened and closed without uttering a word. Sadog did not blame him. If he denied Aemon's claim, then he was guilty of blasphemy. If he acquiesced, however, then he must concede his argument.
Slowly, reluctantly, the High Septon made his choice. "I… I would never equate myself to the gods," he murmured. "I have no such pride."
Aemon regarded him silently for a moment, then rose to his feet. "And to follow your just example," he said humbly, "I will not aspire to be anything more than what the gods wish me to be." He bowed low to the High Septon.
Sadog almost felt giddy to witness this triumph. Aemon had turned the High Septon's arguments against him, forced him to yield, and now he was speaking as if it was his idea all along. His jubilation was tempered by a melancholy which was growing within him. What a king you would have been. Just the sort of man to defeat Bloodraven himself.
As Aemon straightened again, his lilac eyes scanned the room before he gave another bow. "My lords and ladies," he stated in that simple and humble tone. Then, without further ado, he turned around and departed the room, leaving an aghast silence in his wake.
It was Lord Vance who broke it first. "Should we… should one of us go after him?"
Nobody even bothered to give him a reply. Princess Dido and her bannermen simply got up and followed Aemon out the door. Lord Tyrell collapsed back onto a couch and held his head in his hands. The High Septon walked listlessly to one of the windows and looked down at his own clasped hands.
Grand Maester Piato arose and approached Sadog. "If I may, I can provide you with the ointment you requested."
Sadog did not question those words. He was only too eager to depart from this room.
"Oh gods," Piato gasped when they'd gone a sufficient distance from the solar. "I thought Lord Tyrell would collapse from a fit!"
Sadog was still too dazed to jape about what he'd just witnessed. "Madness," he muttered. "Rank madness."
"Maybe so," the Grand Maester conceded. "But it has benefited us immensely. We have gained another day. And you heard the High Septon. They will support a pious man who counts Bloodraven as an enemy."
"True enough," Sadog agreed in a low tone. "But will that mean they support Aenys?" Do we even know if Aenys is worthy?
"Only the gods know," Piato answered in an equally quiet voice, "at least until Lord Titus and Leroya return."