This matter reached back to a secret long buried beneath decades of silence.
In his youth, the man now known as Afuin had been no more than a humble servant of the Faith of the Seven, a devout septon whose learning and fervor set him apart, yet gave no hint of the power he would one day wield.
When Jaehaerys I Targaryen took his sister Alysanne Targaryen to wife, unease rippled across the realm. The Faith muttered. The smallfolk whispered. Even lords who had bent the knee wondered whether the gods would look kindly upon such a union.
To steady his throne and quiet the rising doubts, the king dispatched seven preachers throughout the Seven Kingdoms, charging them to defend the sanctity and necessity of his marriage.
Of the seven, Afuin proved the most eloquent.
For the sake of Jaehaerys, he journeyed alone from fishing villages lashed by salt wind to market towns thick with rumor, from remote hamlets hidden in mist to lordly septs heavy with incense. Rain soaked him. Dust choked him. Frost stiffened his fingers on the road. Yet wherever suspicion stirred, Afuin went.
He spoke of the king's clemency, of the queen's grace, of peace restored after bloodshed. He spoke until his voice cracked and his sandals wore thin.
In truth, a portion of Jaehaerys's renown for mercy and wisdom had been shaped by Afuin's tireless devotion.
More than that, it was he who planted a subtler seed in the hearts of the common people. When peasants balked at the thought of a king wedding his own blood, Afuin would fold his hands within his sleeves and answer with patient calm.
"The dragonlords of Valyria were never as other men," he would say softly. "They are the blood of Old Valyria, marked by fire and chosen by fate. What binds lesser folk does not bind those who ride the skies."
He did not raise his voice or argue. He simply repeated those words, village after village, year after year, until they took root.
Thus did the notion grow that House Targaryen stood apart from ordinary mortals, exalted by flame and destiny alike.
For such immense service and for his unwavering loyalty to the Iron Throne, Afuin was eventually elevated to the Most Devout and named High Septon.
"I ask your forgiveness, Prince Baelon."
Mattheus's voice was low, threaded with bitterness. He kept his gaze lowered, fingers worrying at the edge of his sleeve as though the cloth itself might shield him from what he must confess.
"It is not that I refuse you," he continued. "But the next High Septon has already been chosen."
Reluctantly, as if each word cost him, he unveiled the secret the Faith had guarded for years.
Long ago, King Jaehaerys had given a private assurance to Lord Hightower. Upon Afuin's death, the crystal crown would pass to a son of House Hightower.
There had been a condition.
The High Septon must continue to defend the Targaryen custom of wedding brother to sister, and name it lawful in the sight of the Seven.
"The High Septon Afuin weakens by the day," Mattheus said, lifting his eyes at last. There was resignation in them. "When he passes, Oldtown will claim the Starry Sept. And once that happens, even you may find your hand stayed."
Prince Baelon did not answer at once.
House Hightower might not command vast hosts like the great lords of the Reach, yet Oldtown held two pillars upon which the realm itself rested. The Citadel, where maesters were forged and sent to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Starry Sept, ancient heart of the Faith before the Great Sept ever rose in King's Landing.
So long as those two endured, House Hightower would never truly be powerless.
"House Hightower," Baelon murmured, almost to himself.
He leaned back slightly, studying Mattheus with a measured gaze. Surprise flickered behind his calm expression, though it did not linger. He had not known of Jaehaerys's promise.
But it mattered little. The Hightowers had long stood in quiet opposition to him. Their fall had already been weighed in his calculations.
Now there was merely one more reason.
"SeptonMattheus," Baelon said gently, folding his hands upon the table between them, "you have not yet answered the offer I placed before you."
Mattheus's shoulders stiffened.
"I will see you raised to the crystal crown," Baelon continued, his voice soft but unyielding. "You will become High Septon."
He leaned forward then, meeting the older man's eyes.
"And in return, you will ensure that the Faith answers to me. Entirely."
Silence lingered in the chamber.
"Well?" Baelon asked quietly. "Do you consent?"
Outside, septons and silent septas passed through sunlit corridors unaware of the storm gathering behind closed doors. They knew only that Prince Baelon and Septon Mattheus remained within until the hour of noon.
When at last the doors opened, the two emerged side by side, smiling as they spoke in tones of easy familiarity.
Never mind the gulf between their years.
One bore hair white and thick as winter wool, age lining his brow. The other stood in the full strength of his youth, princely and composed.
To an unknowing eye, they might have seemed grandsire and grandson reunited in cordial affection.
No one watching would have guessed that the fate of the Faith itself had just been quietly bartered between them.
"At that, I shall await your good news, Prince Baelon."
They stood beneath the carved archway of the sept's entrance, sunlight spilling in pale shafts across the stone floor. Mattheus clasped Baelon's hands in both of his own. His grip trembled, whether from age or emotion it was difficult to tell. Tears shimmered along the rims of his reddened eyes.
Baelon endured the grasp with practiced composure. The old man's fingers were cold and surprisingly strong.
"Have no fear," he replied, offering a measured smile. "When all is settled, you must not forget to attend my wedding, Septon Mattheus."
Mattheus's breath hitched. "Yes. Yes, of course."
His voice wavered.
He had seen more than seventy namedays. His body betrayed him daily. His knees ached in the cold, his sight dimmed at dusk, and his sleep grew thinner with each passing year. Long ago, he had told himself that ambition belonged to younger men. He had resigned himself to a quiet decline, content to serve until the Stranger called his name.
And yet now...
Now the crystal crown hovered within reach.
The design Baelon had unfolded within that shuttered chamber was audacious, even perilous. But he was a prince of the blood of the dragon. What seemed impossible to other men might yield before him.
More than the boldness of the scheme, it was the prince's manner that persuaded him. There had been no mockery in Baelon's eyes, no careless arrogance. Only certainty.
Once matters were secured, the prince would wed. And Mattheus would stand before him not as a mere archbishop, but as High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, anointing the union beneath the gaze of the Seven Who Are One.
But dreams required labor.
The office of High Septon would not descend from the heavens like sugared cake at a harvest feast.
Soon after Prince Baelon departed the sept, whispers began to ripple through the streets of King's Landing.
"Have you heard?" a baker murmured, leaning over his stall as he wrapped a loaf in rough cloth. "Prince Baelon has dreamt a dragon's dream. They say a darkness rises from the southwest. Black as ink. It swallows the city whole. Perhaps even all the Seven Kingdoms."
His customer snorted. "Is that all you know?"
The capital had grown strangely receptive to such tales. Ever since Viserys I Targaryen spoke of dreams that seemed to foretell fate, talk of dragon visions stirred fascination rather than doubt.
The dream of a promised heir.
The dream of ice and snow beyond the Wall.
And now, a shadow creeping from the southwest.
"Where did you hear that?" the customer pressed.
"From another man buying bread this morning," the baker admitted quickly. He nudged forward several misshapen loaves from beneath the counter, bread he had meant to keep for himself. "You know how it is. News passes from mouth to mouth. It changes as it goes."
The customer's eyes dropped to the extra bread. After a moment, he gathered it under his arm.
"Then you have only crumbs of the story," he said, lowering his voice. "Even the gutter rats know more."
The baker leaned closer, elbows planted on the worn wood of his stall. "Enlighten me, good ser."
Among tradesmen, knowledge carried weight equal to coin. A man who knew more was listened to more. And a man who was listened to sold more.
The customer glanced along the street to be certain no gold cloaks lingered within earshot. Satisfied, he cleared his throat and bent nearer still.
"Very well," he said quietly. "Listen closely."
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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