Eleventh Moon of 69 AC
One Day After the King's Command
Oldtown, Reach
The winds of change were blowing through the Seven Kingdoms, and the people could feel it in their bones. From Winterfell to the Reach, from the crowded streets of the great cities to the quiet lanes of the smallest hamlets, talk of the king's command spread faster than any raven could carry it. Jaehaerys Targaryen had summoned the High Septon to King's Landing to answer for the unrest sweeping the realm, and the smallfolk whispered of it in taverns and inns and lordly halls alike. Many called it a declaration of war against the Faith itself. Farmers muttered it over their ploughs. Merchants traded the rumor like coin.
Jaehaerys, the beloved king, had always ruled with wisdom and a steady hand—but now he stood against the very institution that held the hearts of the realm in its grip. Lords and ladies from every corner of Westeros weighed what a war between Crown and Faith might mean for their own houses, and found the answer did not comfort them.
In Oldtown, the oldest city in Westeros, seat of House Hightower and heart of the Faith of the Seven, a secret meeting was already underway. Within sight of the Citadel and the Starry Sept, a gathering had convened that would decide the shape of the days to come.
Inside the stone halls of the Hightower, Lord Hightower sat in a dimly lit chamber with a chosen few. To his right sat three of the Conclave's Archmaesters, their faces drawn in careful thought. To his left, the High Septon—draped in white robes stitched through with gold—stared down at a letter from King's Landing, his knuckles gone white around the parchment. A creeping dread hung over the room, thick enough to taste.
Maester Soros cleared his throat, having just finished reading a second letter, this one from Grand Maester Elysar. "The King has summoned you to answer for the unrest," he said, turning to the High Septon. "What will Your Holiness do?"
The High Septon's face twisted with disdain as his eyes fell once more upon the summons. "I will go to that wretched place," he said, venom lacing every word. "But make no mistake—the Faith is in danger. We must set our plan in motion now. The dragon spawn cannot be tolerated a day longer, or within a decade our power, the power of the Faith itself, will wither and die."
Lord Hightower shifted in his seat, uneasy. "Going to King's Landing may put you in grave danger," he warned, his thoughts drifting back to the fate of House Gardener, burned to ash beneath Targaryen dragonfire centuries past. "The royal family still commands dragons. We would do well not to underestimate them."
The High Septon cut him off sharply. "The whole Faith is in danger, Lord Hightower! If we do not act now, we lose everything. We must fight while we still can—better to strike in the enemy's den than wait for them to come to ours. What will their dragons do in King's Landing? Burn down the Red Keep around their own heads? No. We strike in their home." He waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing aside the very concept of caution. "The Faith stands in graver peril than any man or beast. This is our last chance to stop them. Let the dragons multiply unchecked, and they will become unstoppable." His eyes glinted with something close to fervor. "Better to fight this battle in the enemy's home than wait for the dragons to bring the fight to ours."
Archmaester Pylos, silent until now, finally spoke. "If what our spy told us ten moons past of the 'heretic' still holds true, we must act swiftly, or risk losing everything." He chose his words with visible care, mindful of the High Septon's thinning patience. "But we must tread carefully. The Targaryens still have their dragons. One misstep, and we bring ruin upon ourselves."
The High Septon's eyes lit with an almost fanatical gleam. "The information is true, Archmaester. Our spy is a devout believer in the Seven—there will be no more debate on the matter. This is the only chance we will ever have to rid the realm of dragons." His voice climbed, thick with conviction. "The Father is angry. The Mother grows restless. The Warrior frowns upon our cowardice. We must strike now. We are the chosen of the Seven, and I will not let the scions of Valyria mock us a moment longer."
Lord Hightower opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. The chamber had gone eerily silent. He glanced toward the Archmaester, who seemed just as wary of the High Septon's reckless fire—but the time for argument had clearly passed.
"How did it come to this?" Archmaester Pylos asked, pressing his forehead into his palm with a heavy sigh, the weight of poor planning—and worse, reckless action—settling over him. "All we wanted was to weaken the dragons. Perhaps see a faithful queen rise from House Hightower, or from any house in the Reach, as the Seven will it."
"You speak true, Pylos," said Archmaester Melwy, "but we could not sit idle while a prince of the realm keeps company with a red priest. We all know those cursed fanatics wield the very sorcery and dark magic we have fought against for a thousand years of man. Let the Targaryens taste that power once more, and they will sink deeper into their ancestral blood magic, and further still from our faith."
"And before we know it," the High Septon finished, venom dripping from every word, "a new Valyria rises from the ashes, built upon the bones of our faithful, used as sacrifices by those incestuous savages."
"Is there truly no other way?" Lord Hightower asked, looking to each man at the table in turn. "We all know that if even one of them survives this, there will be a reckoning for us all."
"Nonsense," Archmaester Pylos said, too quickly, as though the words were meant to still his own uneasy heart more than to answer the question. "The involvement of the Citadel and House Hightower can be concealed with the right excuses. We may lose some trust with the dragons in years to come, but that is a wound patience can mend, and Citadel know patience better than anyone. The Faith, however, may not survive another Maegor. Or worse."
"We will not fail. We cannot fail," the High Septon said, raising his voice as though the very thought of failure were beneath consideration. "The Seven are with us. I will hear no more talk of it."
The other men at the table exchanged uneasy glances, each wondering privately where the septon had found such certainty.
"How long to reach King's Landing?" the High Septon asked Maester Soros, his tone suddenly indifferent, as if the argument moments ago had never happened.
"Four or five days, Your Holiness, if we leave at first light," the maester replied.
"And the heretic?" The High Septon's lip curled as he spoke the word.
Maester Soros shifted where he stood. "By Grand Maester Elysar's letter, three to four days' ride from King's Landing, and guarded by some two hundred men."
The High Septon nodded grimly, then turned to a man clad in knight's armor, the seven-pointed star of the Faith Militant emblazoned upon his breast. The Faith Militant was meant to have been dismantled, disbanded by decree, part of the old peace struck between Crown and Faith. But the Faith had gone on recruiting in secret, quietly, patiently, waiting for a day such as this one. Major recruitment happened after rumors started 10 moons back.
"Take five hundred men. Ride hard, and ride quiet. You know what must be done."
The knight knelt, his eyes bright with zeal. "Yes, Your Holiness. I will bring you the heretic's head."
A cruel smile touched the High Septon's lips. "Good. May the Seven guide your blade."
He turned back to the maesters and lords gathered around the table. "What word from our spy?"
Maester Soros shook his head. "Nothing new, Your Holiness. Ravens take their time. We should have word by tomorrow."
"We cannot wait on his word," the High Septon snapped, frustration sharpening his voice. "The Faith Militant rides today. We move now, or not at all."
Beside him, Archmaester Melwy sighed inwardly. This fool would lead them all to ruin if left unchecked. The Targaryens still had their dragons—strike at King's Landing without care, and they would all burn for it. For one brief moment, he wondered whether he ought to warn the king of the Faith's treachery and play a longer, colder game.
But the Citadel had always been wary of dragons. Of magic. Centuries of doctrine were not so easily set aside.
Reluctantly, he spoke. "Yes, Your Holiness. But we need the heretic alive. Kill him, and nothing will stop the king from bringing fire to Oldtown itself. We need him as leverage."
The High Septon's eyes narrowed. "Do you question my judgment? I am chosen of the Seven! I say he dies."
Melwy clenched his jaw and swallowed the anger rising in his throat. He knew better than to argue with an arrogant fool who would not be argued with. "Of course, Your Holiness. But it would be all the more fitting for him to be brought before you—executed here in Oldtown, a tribute to the Stranger."
The gleam returned to the High Septon's eyes. "Yes... yes, you are right." He turned back to the knight. "Bring him alive if you can. If you cannot, bring me his head."
Archmaester Melwy watched in silence as the plans were laid, one after another, each more reckless than the last. The High Septon was consumed by hatred, blinded by dreams of glory. But the danger of real dragons, and their fire, could not simply be wished away. Contingencies would have to be made—quietly, and without the High Septon's knowledge.
"Everything must be ready," the High Septon went on. "Smuggle the remaining Faith Militant into King's Landing, along with men from House Hightower. Have them disguise themselves as commoners, and use my own arrival as cover. Send word to the septons already in the city—tell them to keep rallying the people. They will know when the moment comes. We do this for the Faith of the Seven. May the Seven be with us!"
"May the Seven be with us," the others echoed.
As the meeting broke apart, Archmaester Melwy made his decision. The Faith Militant would move forward with their plan—but he would be ready for what came after. Whatever became of the High Septon's mad crusade, he meant to see the Citadel survive it, even if the Faith itself did not.
He only hoped their spy's information held no hidden variable that might unravel it all.
Their spy. Well.
…
Crownlands
Prince Baelon's Camp
Campfires flickered in the gathering dark as Prince Baelon Targaryen stood outside his tent, watching the first stars break through the evening sky. His thoughts would not settle. The unrest in King's Landing had grown teeth, and now a raven had arrived bearing news he had not expected.
"Caesar."
His secretary startled at the sound of his name. Baelon had caught him dispatching a raven—one Baelon had not authorized, and did not recognize the recipient of.
"Where is that raven bound?" Baelon asked, his voice even.
Caesar recovered his composure quickly, though not quickly enough. "To my father, my prince. Word of our journey to King's Landing, after ten moons away."
Baelon did not press further, though he marked the tension threading through Caesar's voice, the stiffness that had crept into his shoulders.
"See that arrangements are made for Lady Kinvara," Baelon said instead, his tone low. "She will travel with us back to King's Landing."
Caesar went rigid. "Is that wise, my prince?"
Baelon only arched a brow and said nothing further, though he did not miss the doubt written plainly across his secretary's face. His suspicions concerning Caesar were growing by the day.
Caesar's mind, though, was already elsewhere—weighed down by a concern far greater than his prince's silence, one that would need his attention, and soon.
Inside the tent, Kinvara was waiting. She had accepted Baelon's terms on behalf of the Red Temple, but had insisted on one condition of her own: that she remain at his side while in Westeros.
"Lady Kinvara," Baelon greeted her.
"I am no lady, my prince. Kinvara will do."
"Very well, then. Kinvara." He studied her a moment. "You are aware there has been unrest in King's Landing these past days? I suspect the Faith of the Seven sits at the heart of it, and my father has summoned the High Septon from Oldtown to answer for it. This is what happens when a faith begins to covet power for its own sake."
Kinvara's expression did not shift. "Power corrupts men, Prince Baelon. Even those who claim to be chosen by their gods."
"And how am I to trust your people will not do the same?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "We are bound by oath to R'hllor, Prince. We cannot bring harm to any Targaryen. Our magic ensures it."
Baelon said nothing, weighing her words in silence. He did not trust her fully—not yet—but for the present, she was an ally, and a useful one. If his suspicions proved true, there was a far larger game being played here than either of them yet understood, and the road to King's Landing would not be an easy one. He would need every advantage he could gather.
And if his recent instincts were right, he had already been careless. He had underestimated the hunger of the Faith, and the greed of the Citadel beneath it—both of them quietly working toward ends he had not yet fully mapped. That carelessness would have consequences. There was little to be done for it now but move forward and meet them.
He would remain steadfast. What was done could not be undone. In time—perhaps sooner than he expected, if his instincts held true—he would see the whole board clearly. He beckoned a nearby guard closer and murmured something low into his ear.
"We must make ready for the road," Baelon said, turning back to Kinvara. "I do not think the way ahead will be safe."
Kinvara inclined her head, firelight catching in her eyes. "The flames have shown me the path already, Prince Baelon. We will not fail. The gods walk with us."
Baelon said nothing more. He sat in the quiet dark, turning the pieces over in his mind, mapping the board that was Westeros—one move, and one enemy, at a time.
…