Eddard
- Location
- East Coast
EDDARD
Theo Wull scratched his heavy black beard. "So… the Blacktydes and the Harlaws… claim your Grey King fucked their islands?"
Urrigon nodded. "Yes. The Harlaws and the Blacktydes say their houses are the results of the Grey King coupling with the islands they now rule, with the first heads of the houses being born as a result."
The mountain clansman stared at the young ironman in surprise. "Gods' red eyes, how does that even work?"
"He was the Grey King," said Urri. "He lived a thousand and seven years, then went down below the sea to live with his father the Drowned God. Or turned to stone. Stories vary. He killed a sea dragon, he married the Merling King's daughter, stole fire from the Storm God, and he had a kraken pull his chariot. If the man wanted to fuck islands, I assume he had a way. They aren't even the worst thing the tales have him fucking."
"What's that?" asked Martyn Cassel.
Urri considered it for a moment, then sighed. "It's a corpse," he said bleakly. "Some tales say the Sunderlys were born when the Grey King fucked a corpse."
Wull and Cassel stared at him. "A corpse?" said Theo at last.
"If you think it sounds bad, remember, I'm supposed to be a descendant of that corpse," said Urri with a shudder. "The Sunderlys say it's a lie, but they say nearly everything people say about them is a lie, even the things everyone knows to be true."
Theo blinked. "Was it… a lady corpse?" he asked.
"The stories are conflicted on that fact," answered Urri bleakly.
Martyn shook his head. "How… why would he even do that?"
"Why would he fuck islands? Because he felt like it!" answered Urrigon. "In most stories of the Grey King, he just does things. The corpse story gets something of an explanation, but it's not a very good one. It involves a great deal of liquor and sometimes, a magic spell cast by an evil witch. It's not a story you tell around campfires, it's a story you mutter in port or a tavern while you give a Sunderly that just came in the side-eye." He shrugged. "If you met my grandfather Lord Sunderly you'd understand."
Ned glanced at Howland and Gerart, but both seemed completely absorbed in this talk. "So what of the Saltcliffes?" asked Howland.
"Ahh, that's an interesting one," began Urri. "It's a tale not involving the Grey King fucking an island, and by some accounts, not fucking anything."
Ned sighed. It was good to have them back, after their absence, but times like this reminded him that Buckets, Martyn and Urri were all very young men. Howland was probably the man he was closest to here. Though Ser Gerart seemed quite eager to force a bond, for some strange reason that Ned couldn't fathom.
They were in the outskirts of Stoney Sept. The pilgrims had been thronging the city earlier, and after the High Septon's arrival, they'd thronged it further. We will like be heading to Tumbleton soon, Ned thought. We will have to. It seemed almost comical to be driven out of a town by an old man with no armies who would be swiftly leaving himself, but there things stood. Ned looked to the side of the road and saw a fat septon in brown robes with a reed on his belt, as pilgrims in this part seemed fond of doing. The man was seated on a fence, eating a sausage. A few cats had gathered at the hefty man's feet, and he was on occasion tearing off bits of the sausage to feed them with, a deep smile on his face.
Ned turned to Gerart and gestured to the septon. "Might this septon be able to help me with that matter you mentioned? A relic for… that sept I mentioned." I almost said 'my wife', he thought feeling a touch of color come to his cheeks.
"I doubt it," said Ser Gerart, looking the septon over. "He looks to be a begging brother. The better sort, mind you, the sort who stay with landed knights and merchants on their travels…" He chuckled. "He'd doubtless be willing to sell you a relic. Whether it was anything other than chicken bones carved to resemble fingerbones is the question…"
The septon had finished his sausage and was now encouraging the cats at his feet to bat at a piece of string he'd produced. "Might he have visited the High Septon?" asked Ned, despite himself. There was something strangely calming about watching this man play with cats, a smile on his face.
"Again, I highly doubt it," said Gerart. "He might have enjoyed the charity of one of the Most Devout. Some like to treat begging brothers. Septon Daeron is quite famous for it. Has them and praying brothers and sisters at his table whenever he can." He chuckled. "It's quite a good table, I hear. From the look of that fellow he would enjoy it. Though I pity the cook who'd have to feed both him and Septon Daeron."
"Still," muttered Eddard, half to himself, as he began to move toward the septon, "it can do no harm…"
"So long as you do not buy the hand of Saint Ongolant from him," said Ser Gerart to him. Eddard ignored him, and walked to the septon's side. The man continued to play with the cats, utterly absorbed in their antics. Eddard coughed politely.
"Sir…" he began.
The cats darted away. The man watched them go with undeniable regret, then turned and saw Ned. His bright blue eyes went wide beneath the heavy black beetling brow. They were a startling blue, it seemed to Ned, the pure light blue you saw on thrush's eggs on occasion, and the only attractive feature on a rather ugly face. "Why, Lord Stark…" gasped the septon.
"You know me?" asked Ned in surprise.
A somewhat nervous smile spread over the fat man's face. "Not… not exactly… I know of you. I saw you a handful of times, in King's Landing." He gave a shrug. "I do not believe you saw me."
"Ahh." Something in what the septon was saying felt false, but Ned could not put his finger on what. None of that explains that look of alarm, he thought to himself. Still, he'd come this far. "I… you may know of my wife…"
"Lady Catelyn Tully," said the septon with a nod.
Ned gulped and nodded back. "Yes." He stared at the man, who stared back at him, and after a moment, gave a gentle smile.
"He hopes to build a sept for her," said Ser Gerart, approaching the pair with Howland and the rest following him. "And wonders perhaps if you have spent some time with the Most Devout recently…"
The fat septon's smile grew deeper. "I have spent the last thirty years of my life with the Most Devout, young ser, and for the last twenty-three have been quite unable to remove myself from their company." The man stood up. He was tall, and with his weight one was given the impression of a little hill that had somehow detached itself from the land and begun to amble about. He made a polite bow. "The Most Devout Septon Daeron, Primate and Preceptor of the East, Bearer of the Purse, and Opener of the Way, at your most humble service."
Ser Gerart stared in shock and then went to his knees. "Your Excellency… please forgive my tone… I did… I did not know you… I…"
"Oh, do get up, ser," said Septon Daeron with a yawn. "If I wished men to be genuflecting before me and addressing me as 'Your Excellency', I'd be in my silver and my jewels."
"Ahhh, yes, Septon," muttered Ser Gerart, rising awkwardly. He began to pat out the dirt that had gathered on his breeches.
"So, you wish to build a sept for your wife?" said Septon Daeron, turning to Eddard. "Well, obviously, I approve of this." He spread his hands. "I could hardly do otherwise considering my profession. If you wish, I will write to Wallyn and he will send you his most dedicated craftsmen…" He coughed. "My fellow Primate, in the North. He is in White Harbor. A cousin of your Lord Manderly, I believe…"
"That…," began Ned. "I was told you might… be willing to grant me some… relic or some such thing. For the sept."
"Yes," added Gerart. "By me. That is to say, I suggested it. I did."
Septon Daeron nodded, then glanced at Howland. "Doubtless I have missed many scintillating conversations between these two."
"The pair have only just met," answered Howland. He offered the Most Devout his hand. "I am…"
"Lord Reed," said Daeron, engulfing the crannogman's small hand in his own massive one. "You are even more identifiable to me than Lord Stark here, owing to your…"
"Exceedingly small size, yes," said Howland with a sigh.
"I was going to say 'striking features'," replied the septon, leaning forward in an effort to get his head level with Howland's. "Though, yes, you are quite small, especially to one such as myself who is exceedingly large." He released Howland's hand. He glanced at the others. "Now, these men, I do not know…"
The three looked among themselves, awkwardly. "Theo Wull," said Buckets, at last, with a nod.
Martyn managed a slight bow. "And I'm Martyn Cassell."
"Urrigon Greyjoy," said Urri.
"An Ironborn, four Northerners, and a Stormlander," said Daeron, with a smile. "My, my, this present tumult brings together such odd companions." He turned to Ned. "So, you wish a relic of some sort, mmm…? Yes, I think I can help you. If you and your friends would not mind adding a fat old Crownlander to your company for this afternoon, and going where I go… I can manage it." He spread his hands. "After all, that makes seven and as a man of faith, I cannot help but see that number as significant."
Eddard managed a nod. "We've nothing in particular to do at the moment, so that sounds reasonable…" He glanced down the road. "I suppose you will be heading to the Stoney Sept."
Daeron gave a soft laugh. "Oh, no, no. I've already been there. Several times. No. There's a different sept I wish to go to. But first…" The fat man darted off the road and began to stride across the field. "...I wish to examine a rock." Ned and the others found themselves rushing to follow the septon. Eddard found himself amazed how quickly the septon moved, despite his weight. It's those long legs of his, Ned thought. To his surprise, Howland was able to catch up to Septon Daeron before any of the others did. But then Howland had often surprised him with how quickly he could move. Urrigon came swiftly afterwards. When Ned and the others reached them, Septon Daeron was pacing around a large stone in the field, eying it critically
"So, this is your rock?" asked Urri, watching the septon.
"Mmm, yes, and no," answered Daeron. "That is to say, it is what I wished to look at, but as I suspected, it is not a rock. Note that it has sides. Seven of them, to be precise. This is a marker." His eyes kept darting towards the bottom of the stone. Eventually, he knelt at a spot and began to tug the grass out of the way. Eddard looked and saw that the stone was marked there by strange symbols.
"What are those?" he asked. "They look… almost like letters."
"That is because they are letters," answered Daeron. His hand rubbed over the symbols. "This is Old Andal. The version of the tongue that had not been softened by the influence of the Valyrians and changed by the tongue of the First Men. It looks very odd, to modern eyes."
"What does it say?" asked Gerart.
Daeron folded his hands before him. " 'In this place was Vonna, a sister of our faith, made a martyr'," he read. " 'May she dwell in glory with the Seven-Aspects for all eternity.' "
"One of your saints, then," said Martyn. "Who was this Sister Vonna?"
"That is a good question, Master Cassel," replied the septon. "And I cannot answer it. I have never heard of her." Daeron stared at the stone, then rested his hands flat on it, and closed his eyes. "Sister Vonna, I beg you forgive me, for I do not know you, and I feel I should. If you dwell in glory and grace with the Seven, then I humbly beseech you to lend me some small portion of your grace, to aid my own poor soul if I have need of it, to aid the sorrows of others, if I have not. And if it is you that need grace, in the place that comes hereafter, then if I have any to spare, I will grant you it, as I may wish others to grant me grace, when they live, and I am dead." He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. The man rose slowly from the ground. "Well, I have found a portion of what I wished to here, at least. Let us go on our way."
They walked away from the stone, back to the path, in silence. At length, Ser Gerart coughed. "So… what is the Sept we are going to?"
"It is has many names," replied Daeron. "They call it the Old Sept, the Wooden Sept, the Sept of the Seven In All Their Aspects…" He smiled and shook his head. "It is not one of the High Holy Septs, obviously, nor is it one of the Good Sacred Septs, but…" He coughed. "Well, there is a list, and it is on it." He gestured to a wooded path on the east side of the road. "Ahh, here we are." They turned onto the path, bordered by elms. The septon took a deep breath, and smiled. "Fresh summer air. Brings me back to when I was a boy in Godsgrove, romping in our godswood." He patted his plump stomach regretfully. "A much, much smaller boy." His bright blue eyes peered ahead. "There it is," he said, pointing at the end of the path to a building painted a faded white, ivy clinging to its sides. There were several smaller buildings before it that looked like several cottages and a stable. "The Old Sept." He ambled towards it.
"So this is the sept this place had before the Stoney Sept?" asked Urrigon. He glanced at Daeron. "What was the town called back then?"
"It had several names, Master Greyjoy," replied the fat septon. "Trout Run, Hillside, Fineview, None of which, alas, were unique. And that is how Stoney Sept won the day." Daeron turned his head. "Hmmm, what is this?" Eddard realized that a group of ragged people were scrambling out of the stable. There looked to be about nine of them, and while Ned felt a moment of fear it quickly vanished as he looked on the group. They were ragged, and thin, and many looked to be crippled. Three were children.
"Alms, pilgrims," stated the oldest man, who looked to be blind. "Alms for the beggars of the Wooden Sept. The Seven will favor you if you give to those in need." He stopped before Daeron and reached out his hand. "Alms."
"Grandfather," said a hooded woman scrambling to the blind's man side, "he is a begging brother…" Ned caught a glimpse of her face. It was scarred, as if she had been burnt by flames. She seemed to realize that he was looking at her and ducked her face. He politely looked away.
Daeron turned to her. "Those of the Faith take charity so we may give it in turn." He produced a purse, and began to hand them coins. "What is your name, my dear?" he asked the woman as he gave her a copper.
"Moly, sir," she said, ducking her head.
"Moly," said Daeron with a nod. "I will remember that. And I will pray for you, child." He turned to a trio of children among the beggars, and then knelt before them. "Well, hello there." The children stared at the fat septon, their expressions shy. Daeron pulled up his purse. "Ahh, my purse appears to be empty." The children nodded, seeming to Ned's mind to look not saddened but resigned. "But wait, what is this?" said Daeron. His hand darted out, towards one of the children's ears. He pulled it back and produced a coin. The boy stared in awe as he took it from the septon's hand. Daeron grinned and then repeated the action two more times. As the children looked at their coins in wonder, the septon laboriously rose to his feet.
The beggars looked at the rest of the group hopefully. Gerart coughed, already counting out coins from his purse. "I… naturally, will give alms… but these men are followers of the Old Gods…."
"And the Drowned God," added Urrigon.
Ned and Howland produced their own purses, with Theo and Martyn following. "...And the Old Gods make no objection if we give coins to the needy," said Howland reproachfully.
Gerart winced. "That was not…"
"Well, the Drowned God does," said Urri. Several of the beggars glared at him. "It is nothing personal. We do not give alms, we do not take alms."
"Nay, ye take gold at swordpoint," snapped one of the men.
Urri nodded. "That is how it is done, yes."
The blind man shook his head. "Leave him be, leave him be. 'Tis bad luck to take anything from a seventh man. This one's the Stranger's own."
The other man gave a grim chuckle at that. "And the Stranger can take him."
"Hello, hello, what is all this noise?" came a quiet voice. A little old septon emerged from a cottage, his head bald as an egg. His robes were simple, though Ned noted they bore a stripe of cloth-of-silver. The old man gave a great yawn.
Moly turned towards him. "Pilgrims, Septon. Or rather two pilgrims, and a group of Old God worshippers with them. Also an ironman. To see the sept."
The old septon blinked. "Oh, well, that is good. Everyone should see the Old Sept."
Howland nodded. "You are the septon of this place?"
The old man seemed startled to see Howland, but recovered it well. "Oh, no, no. Goodness me, no. The septon of this place… he is not here. He is a Most Devout. In King's Landing. I am the Sacristan of this sept. In addition to the keeping of the sacristy, I perform certain duties in his place. Hold services, maintain it, look after the indigent of the sept…" He coughed, and headed to the sept. "Well, come, come, you must see the Old Sept. It is a marvel." The old man smiled at them. "Do you know that Maegor the Cruel – Maegor! – when he came here after the Battle of Stonebridge, planned to destroy this place to make an example, but found it so beautiful he could not?"
"I may have heard that story," replied Daeron with a smile. He raised a bushy eyebrow. "But the name of the man who is telling it to me at the moment…"
"Ahh, yes," said the older septon quietly, as he opened the doors to the Old Sept. "I forget myself. Apologies, my brother. Septon Septimus, at the service of you gentlemen." He gave a soft chuckle as they entered the sept. "I know. I know. It is a most appropriate name. Almost astonishingly so."
"I've known men with just as appropriate names," replied Daeron. "One of them named for a great uncle by marriage of the same name and oddly enough, same profession."
"That must be a tale," noted Septimus, opening the door.
Dareon shrugged. "Yes, but a dull one, and not mine," he said. He glanced around the room. "My goodness…"
Septimus chuckled. "You see it, don't you? There's not many who can…"
Daeron's eyes continued to fly about the room in wonder. "The proportions are perfect. Precisely as put forth in the Book of Treasures."
The older septon nodded. "There are only four septs built in that manner. Here, the Sea Sept of Swordpoint, the Sandstone Sept of Vaith and…"
"The Simple Sept of the Paps," noted Daeron, nodding. "I have seen that one."
"Have you?" noted the old man with interest. "I always wanted to, but…" He sighed. "You'd think being born in the Vale, I might have gone easily, but, well, Hardying Castle is on the opposite end of the Vale, and when I studied at the Seventy-Seven Saints, 'twas such a busy time, and when it was not, the weather never suited…" He sighed. "And then I came here."
Ned looked around the room. He didn't know if it was some lack in himself, but he could not see what it was they found so remarkable about the ceiling was painted in seven colors, all converging into a seven-sided white shape at its center. It is pleasant to look on, I will grant it that. He looked to Ser Gerart, but the man seemed just as lost as he was. He looked around again. It was rather small, compared to other septs he'd seen. He wondered how they used it for ceremonies and the like, and then figured what with the Stoney Sept, they usually didn't have to.
"I do… I do hope the beggars didn't bother you too much," said Septimus. "They… a former Septon of this place began the custom of allowing the indigent to shelter here, many centuries ago. It has been kept. As… as it should be. All of us are the duty of all of us."
Daeron turned to smile at the man. "My goodness. I did not have you figured for a follower of Murmison."
Septimus gave an embarrassed cough. "This… this was his sept. It was here he served, until Aenys called him to King's Landing, hearing words of his miracles. If you pray here, you pray where he did." The man fidgeted nervously. "If… if you care for such things."
Daeron nodded. "I do, I suppose." He turned towards the altar in the center of the room, then paused. "Tell me, Septon Septimus, have you heard of a Saint Vonna? Some… local saint?"
The old man considered for a moment, then shook his head. "I… the name is not familiar to me." He bit his lip. "I am sorry."
Daeron shook his head. "No, no. It was… an idle question, in truth." He was regarding the altar again. "So, you are Sacristan for a member of the Most Devout…?"
"Indeed," said Septimus, beaming with pride. "A very great and pious one! Septon Daeron, Primate and Preceptor of the East, Bearer of the Purse, and Opener of the Way." He smiled broadly. "He's not the first Most Devout I have served in this fashion, but he is the finest! A very learned and worthy man!"
Daeron gave a bemused smile. "What has he done to earn your good favor so, my brother?"
"Why, what hasn't he done?" replied Septimus. "He sponsors this worthy sept generously, he orders ever so many blessings and prayers said, and… oh, yes!" The man pulled a sheet of paper from the fold of his robes. "He writes! At least once every three months! Usually more!"
Daeron's expression bore something that Ned couldn't help but identify as guilt. "Indeed?" he said, with a rueful nod of his head.
Septimus seemed incapable of recognizing this, and nodded enthusiastically. "Why look at this handwriting, my brother! Is it not the neatest you have ever seen?" He spread the page out, allowing Daeron to peer at it.
"I… see nothing particularly remarkable about it," he stated quietly.
Septimus frowned and folded up the paper. "Well, not all have the discernment to recognize such things. But rest assured, it is very fine. He is a great man! A great man! A future High Septon, mark my words!"
"You've never met him?" asked Urri quietly.
The old man turned. "Well, no, young sir. My duty is here. My service here. And so… here I stay."
Daeron nodded. "And a very great duty, and a very great service, my brother."
Septimus gave a nod at that, and began to head for the door. "If you have need of me, I will… well, if you have need of me, simply call."
Daeron watched him head out then paced around the altar. He stared at the images of the Seven, and shook his head. "Remarkable," he noted, pointing at the statues. "I have only seen the like in a few places."
Ned looked at them. They were strange images, molded of some odd red clay, their faces harsh and angular, with wide painted-on eyes and lips that curled in some peculiar half-smile. Ned had enough of an understanding of the Andal faith from his days in the Vale to at least make a guess which of the Seven each represented, but still they were strange inhuman things. Looking at the others, Ned could see that all, even Gerart, found them as eerie as he did. Daeron seemed to note their discomfort. "That is the old style," he said. "They've statues like this in the First Sept at Heartshome, though tucked in a corner, all but forgot. These could have been made in Andalos. At the very least, they were modeled after such." He glanced at one statue, the Smith Ned wagered from the hammer it held, and smiled. "Ahh, look at them. Other images of the Seven, I can tell you who they were modeled after, but these… They were meant to be all men, all women…" He paused before an indistinct figure in a cloak and gave a respectful nod. "All fates."
Daeron paced around the statues once more, and then moved forward, touching his hands to the base of one, a woman holding a lantern. Vague memories of Jon Arryn at worship made this seem strange to him. Ser Gerart made a mild gasp. Daeron glanced at him. "You do not begin with the Father, septon?" asked Gerart, with a hint of puzzlement.
The Most Devout shook his head. "Many do so from custom, Ser Gerart. Others because they pray for justice above all things. But when I pray to the Seven-Who-Are-One, I always begin my prayer with a wish for wisdom." He took his hands off the base and backed away, circling the altar once again.
"And then you wish for justice," said Gerart with a nod.
Daeron shook his head. "Nay. Not so." He stopped before the statue of a woman holding a child. "Next I pray for mercy." Ned watched him standing there, and thought suddenly of when he'd first learned he was going to be warded in the Vale. He'd rushed to the godswood then, and his mother had come to find him. She had hugged, and petted him, and told him to be brave, the way her sister had been when she had gone south to marry some lord there. She told me all would be well, he thought, and perhaps it had been for Ned, but it hadn't been for her. Only a few years later, and she was dead. As Daeron stepped back and began another circling of the altar, it occurred to Ned that was one of the few times his mother had ever mentioned her sister to him. His aunt had always been a strange presence in Winterfell, defined only vaguely by her absence. I wonder what became of her, he thought, as Daeron stopped before a statue of a young woman holding a flower. Ned shook his head. He had not the time for petty, personal mysteries such as this.
Daeron finished his prayer at the young woman's statue and continued his circuit. Next came the statue that had to be the Smith, then a near identical statue holding a pair of scales, then yet another near identical statue holding a sword. And then finally, the cloaked figure. He knelt there, for a long while. And then he rose, and took a deep breath. "Well, I thank you all for enduring the whims of a silly old man," said Daeron.
There was an awkward silence for a moment. "That is… it was…" sputtered Gerart.
"We have enjoyed visiting this place," said Howland. He glanced around the sept. "It is in its own small, subtle way a marvel." Dareon smiled and nodded.
Outside, Septimus was directing the sept's beggars in the tending of a small vegetable garden. He turned and beamed at them. "Ahh, there you are," said the old septon. "I do hope your experience was… hmmm, fulfilling…"
"It was, it was," said Daeron. He regarded the old man for a moment, then coughed. "I do not know if you are aware, my brother, but the High Septon…"
"Oh, yes, yes, I know," said Septimus. "I thought about… paying a visit, but… I am certain that there are more deserving souls than I to seek His High Holiness' presence… And besides, I've so much to do here…"
Septon Daeron bit his lip. "I think, my brother, you would be welcomed there. By the High Septon. And… yes, by Septon Daeron of the Most Devout. Should you go."
The old man looked Daeron in the face and took a deep breath. "Sir, as I said, my duty is here. My service is here. And so here I stay." He shut his eyes. "It is a good place. Septon Murmison served here, prayed here. He prayed here when Aenys called him to King's Landing. Came back to pray here, when Aenys offered him the office of Hand. And returned one last time when Aenys asked him to perform the marriage." The man looked at Daeron with tears in his eyes. "He had a Sacristan, did you know? When all the world was against Murmison, that man was for him, and when he was killed, that man mourned him. And for that… for that the Poor Fellows here seized him, and took him to the Swords, who ruled this town then. And he was flogged, and beaten, and ordered to declare Murmison anathema and he would not, and so they executed him, and hung his head from the city gates, where it was seen to weep tears of blood." Septimus fidgeted nervously. "I… I read the account as a boy, you see, and it affected me greatly. It is why I chose this sept to serve in. To… to serve as faithfully and well as that poor, good man did…"
Daeron nodded. "I understand." He knelt before Septon Septimus. "Brother, would you give me your blessing?" Septimus stared at him for a moment, then managed a nod. He placed his hands on Daeron's shoulders and then leaned forward, and kissed his forehead.
"Go with the gods," whispered the old man.
Daeron rose and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "And you as well, my brother." He made a stately bow to Septimus and began to walk away. Ned and the others fell in behind with a speed that Eddard found startling when he considered it. There is something that makes you want to see what he will do next. To his surprise, Urri darted up to join them carrying a basket of vegetables. Ned wondered briefly what the story was there, but decided it was none of his affair.
Gerart coughed. "So… Your Excellency, I suppose we will be returning to…"
"My uncle's camp, yes," said Daeron with a nod. He turned to glance at the group. "I am sorry if we have been a nuisance. We should be on our way in a few days. We are sending the special barges we use for trips such as these back to King's Landing, while preparing the special carts we keep here for trips such as these for use. Then we will set out down the Pilgrim's Way to Bushy, where we are already preparing the special barges we keep there for a trip down the River Bushy. That will take us down to the Mander where we get off those special barges and then get into the next set of special barges."
"You are saying special barges a great deal," noted Howland.
"We have a great many of them," replied Daeron. "All very large and comfortable and made of special wood, and given special blessings." He paused. "Which reminds me. Before setting out, the High Septon will give a special blessing to the company, and a special blessing to the town for hosting us. Unless he is indisposed. Then I will give them. This is to be repeated at each of our stops."
Theo Wull shook his head. "I will never understand the faith of you Andals, no matter how hard I try." Daeron glanced at Buckets, then threw his head back and laughed. "What is so funny?" muttered Theo, frowning.
"Oh, it is nothing, truly," said Daeron. "It is simply your declaration… 'you Andals'." He turned to glance at the group and gestured to himself. "I am not an Andal, Master Wull. I am a First Man, same as you."
There was a dull silence from the group. "What?" said Martyn at last. "Truly?"
"Oh, yes," said Daeron. "House Langward were kings in Langward before the Long Night. Which reminds me, none of you know of a River Lang, do you? In the North, perhaps?"
Ned found himself shaking his head with the others. "I… know of no such river, sir," he said.
Daeron sighed. "You see, that's the problem for my family. Our old castle was on the Lang, well north of the Blackwater Rush where we built Godsgrove, but where precisely that was…" He shrugged. "Ah, well. It was ages ago." He glanced at Howland. "I was greatly hoping you might have known. Quite a few of my ancestors married the daughters of various Marsh Kings."
Howland smiled at him. "That would make us relatives."
Daeron gestured to his face. "Faith, I would have thought the family resemblance would have told you that." The pair shared a chuckle. "My mother's family are of Andal descent, mind you, but all the Rykkers managed to conquer is one dismal rock they found themselves stranded on. After which they spent their time sworn to Duskendale, marrying Darklyns, Hollards,Darkwoods and Dalgoods for centuries. It was well over a thousand years before another dash of Andal blood was tossed in." He chuckled. "Though they will boat they are descendents of Hugor of the Hill. My elder brother is quite fond of the connection. One might imagine he was closer to our mother, and I to our father. Quite the opposite, oddly enough…"
"You don't think much of the connection?" said Gerart.
"If every member of every Andal House that boasted they were of Hugor's blood stood up at once, then every member of every Andal House would stand up at once," said Daeron with a snort. He glanced at Gerart. "Apologies, but we both know it is true."
Gerart gave a mournful sigh. "Oh, yes. You are right. Truth be told, we Rogers didn't exactly perform wonders for the Seven during the Conquest. Ser Oberyn Rogers fled the army of Drox Penrose, and wound up taken in by the Ambersons. Wed the Lord's daughter, and made his fortune that way. Wound up breaking one of the Corpsemaker's sieges of Storm's End." He shrugged. "Truth be told, we probably spent more time fighting against the Penroses than we ever did fighting for them."
"A very wise choice on your ancestors' part," said Daeron, smiling slightly.
Urri blinked at that. "Why did your family accept the Andal's gods if you all found the Andals so obnoxious?" he noted, balancing his basket of vegetables.
"Oh, one might object to one's neighbors while feeling they have a point on some matters," replied Daeron with a chuckle. "And the Seven-Who-Are-One may have revealed Themselves to the Andals first, but They are not the God of Andals. Their interests are greater than a simple tribe that learnt ironmaking from the Rhoynar and fled piecemeal from the Valyrians as they came on dragonback. They encompass all, embrace all, comprehend all and belong to all."
Howland chuckled. "Your sermons, septon, must be utter marvels if this is how you speak in ordinary conversation."
Daeron gave a rueful shake of his head. "I'm afraid they're a trifle… mmm, dry and dull."
"Then perhaps you should pattern your sermons more on your conversation," suggested Howland.
"I will consider that, Lord Reed," laughed Daeron. "I will consider it."
They were almost in the camp of the High Septon and his Most Devout. A sharp-featured septon in cloth-of-silver glared at them as they approached. "Listen," he stated, "this company has seen enough of you begging brothers and your companions to reach the Hills of Andalos and we do not need…" He blinked. "Septon Daeron. Pardons. I did not recognize you in your… garb."
Daeron smiled gently at the man. "Septon Raynard. My apologies, brother, for any deception of your eyes, and trying of your patience."
Raynard fidgeted nervously. "Yes… yes… I" He blinked as he took in the sight of the group. His eyes fixed on Howland. "Is… is that a crannogman?"
"Yes," said Daeron. "He is Lord Howland Reed of… Greywater Watch, I believe…" Howland gave a nod. "Yes, Greywater Watch." He smiled at Raynard. "A kinsman of mine, in fact." Raynard stared in disbelief at the massive Daeron and the small Howland.
"Very distant, of course," added Howland with a smile.
"Oh, yes," agreed Daeron with a chuckle. He glanced at Raynard. "We came across each other on our day's travels, and decided to travel together for a little while."
"Hmmph," muttered Raynard, as they walked by. "You are fortunate Septon Luceon isn't here."
"We are all fortunate our brother Luceon isn't here," replied Daeron levelly. "Including our brother Luceon. All of us should pray thanks for our deliverance." Raynard shook his head and began to pace away from them, something the group's own walking made happen even quicker. Urri turned to Daeron.
"He doesn't seem happy to be here," noted Urri.
"Raynard misses King's Landing," said Daeron. "Not all my brothers share my ability to find matters to occupy us in our travel to the Starry Sept." A woman darted by, covered only by a sheet, and carrying a jug of wine in her arms. Daeron sighed. "And others have… different methods of occupying themselves."
A burly man bounded out after the woman. He was at least dressed, but only in a nightshirt. "Ahh ha, my pretty," he declared. "You see you cannot esc…" He froze as he saw Daeron. "Ahh. Septon Daeron…" He fidgeted awkwardly before the older man.
"Septon Ollidor, my brother," said Daeron smoothly. He glanced briefly at the woman. "You have company, I see."
Ollidor coughed. "Ahh, yes, you see…"
A fat, short man slouched out of a tent, almost entirely naked, but thankfully covering his privates with a hat. "Ahh, Olly," he said with a yawn. "Have you got the wine from Doll? Polly is…" The man froze as he saw Septon Daeron there, and began to awkwardly shift his feet. "Ahh…"
"Septon Torbert," said Daeron calmly. "I should have expected you to be taking part in this merry little party as well." A slightly chubby woman peeked out of the tent. Daeron pinched the bridge of his nose. "May I ask what has brought on this… revelry?"
Torbert gulped and secured the cap to his groin while Ollidor continued to shift about nervously. "It… we were… A pair of… pilgrims came to us for guidance and… well… then…"
Daeron rolled his eyes. "Yes, I see, and the pair of you were filled with such holy zeal that you simply lost control, and forgot that you were members of the Most Devout on a pilgrimage of your own with His High Holiness to the Starry Sept."
Torbert coughed. "Uhh, that is… you see… you are being…"
"My brother, please get some clothes on," said Daeron with a sigh. "This conversation continues to the embarrassment of us both." Torbert scuttled back into the tent, while the second woman left it. She was wearing a shift, Ned noted, and nothing else. "And I kindly ask your… companions to leave this place."
The first woman looked at Daeron apologetically. "We… we meant no harm, sir… that is to say, Your Holiness, no your…."
Daeron smiled at her. "I am not the High Septon, my child. You may simply call me 'Septon Daeron' and I am satisfied." He leaned forward, to bring his eyes level with hers. "Now, what am I to call you?"
"I'm… I'm Doll, septon," she said nervously, adjusting the sheet. "It… it is short for Dorcas." She bit her lip. "Some at the Peach call me 'Sweet Doll'..."
"Well, I shall call you Dorcas," said Daeron. "If you do not mind." Doll gave a nervous little nod, as the chubby girl ambled to her side. "Now, if you and…"
"Polly," said the chubby girl. "It is short of 'Polyna', but you can call me 'Polly'."
"I will remember that, Polly," said Daeron. "Now, if the pair of you would be so kind as to return to the Peach…"
"We was promised a silver stag each," said Polly, her hands on her hips.
"And you shall have it," said Daeron, smiling at her.
Polly nodded, while Doll darted back into the tent. "That's fair."
"The Father asks all His children to be just, and to give to others what they are owed," replied Daeron. Doll rushed back out of the tent, pulling herself into a shift like Polly's. Ned glanced away, and noted most of his fellows were doing the same, though Urri and Theo seemed to be appreciating the view. Daeron however looked at both the young women without a hint of either shame or desire, handing them their coins. "So, that should settle things between us," he said. He considered things for a moment. "If either of you have any need of aid in the future, out of the Peach, the Old Sept… on the outskirts of town…"
"Oh, that," laughed Polly. "We all know about that. The old septon there, he handles funerals and the like for the Peach. Only septon in all Stoney Sept who will have anything to do with us." She snorted. "Well, that way at least."
"He's very nice," added Doll.
"He is," agreed Daeron. "And I leave you in his capable hands. And know, Polly, Dorcas, you shall be in my prayers."
Doll glanced at him. "Could you pray for Miss Tansy? And Mistress Moll? She… she's gone down to Tumbleton, you see…" She offered him the coin he had just handed her. "I… I could…"
Daeron pressed the coin into her hand. "There is no need. I shall pray for them, and for the pair of you with no cost. Go with the Gods, my children. Go with the Gods."
Ollidor glanced at Daeron nervously as the women headed away. "What of us? That is… Torbert and…"
Daeron arched one heavy black eyebrow. "Surely my brothers, you can pray for yourselves?" He glanced at Eddard and the others, and gestured for them to follow him. "My apologies for this… distraction. My duties to the Faith… are often unusual."
Ser Gerart coughed. "You seemed to handle that with… great calm…"
"As I am human, nothing human is alien to me, and nothing human disgusts me, save cruelty," replied the septon. "My brothers… are not bad men, I would argue. They are… simply weak in some matters. And I have my own weaknesses, and remember them, and thus I… make an effort for charity." He chuckled sadly, and patted his belly. "Truth be told, I rather think those affected by weakness would make a far worse account than those affected by theirs. If it were to happen, the ghosts of countless lampreys would arise, to accuse me."
"And… you do not think it is a major issue," muttered Ser Gerart. "The Most Devout… behaving in such a manner…?"
"I would hardly say I am pleased with it," replied Daeron. "It would be far more pleasing to me if the Most Devout were filled with pious souls who lived lives of perfect chastity as they sang the glories to the Seven. But it has never been that. And sometimes…" He shut his eyes. "Blessed Baelor chose two High Septons, and his choices were… unfortunate, and still spoken of with a certain measure of scorn, for all they were Shepherds of the Faithful. And yet… both of them were virtuous and kind and guided by the light of the Seven in all things. That young boy he chose sent himself to the grave trying and failing to pray Baelor out of it. And his successor… was like myself, Bearer of the Purse, prior to his elevation. He finished the Great Sept, he managed to reshape Baelor's ideas of caring for the poor of King's Landing into something more sustainable, he kept the peace between the Iron Throne and Dorne for his entire reign despite the efforts of Aegon the Unworthy. Great acts, good acts." The man sighed. "And yet, he was a lover of pleasure who built himself mansions with the Faith's coffers. The great statues of the Seven that so many kneel before were modeled after his mistresses and his bastard children. He committed naked bribery to gain his election, and… there are darker rumors as to his ascension. Very dark rumors indeed." He turned to the others. "What am I to take away from this man? What lesson am I to learn?"
There was a silence for a moment. "I… I am not of your faith," said Howland at last, "and so make of my opinion what you will, but it seems to me that surely, surely there is some middle distance for it between good, holy men who can accomplish nothing of worth and wicked, bad men who can accomplish a great deal?"
Daeron's face grew very grave. "I sometimes fear that the answer to that is 'no'," he muttered. But then he shook his head, and a smile appeared. "But no, no, that is the voice of despair. The voice of sin. You must surely be right, Lord Reed. You must be." The smile seemed to grow more fixed, and more forced to Ned's eyes.
"Septon Daeron!" came a woman's wail. "Septon Daeron!" A short, plump septa wearing a cloth-of-silver robe rushed up to them, panting.
"Sister Naerys," said Daeron. "Is all well?"
The woman shook her head as she recovered her breath. "It is the High Septon, Daeron," she said at last. "I was watching him and talking with him, like you told me to." Daeron nodded. "And we saw a bird. I thought it was a bluebird, but His High Holiness thought it was a blackbird. Well, I said it just looked black because of the distance and the dark, but His High Holiness said that the beak was all wrong, and he used to see both of them when he went out riding as a young man, and he knew, and then he started talking about riding, and then he started crying."
She shifted nervously. She looks old enough to be Mother's age, if she had not…, thought Ned. He shook his head. She does not act like that, though.
"I'm sorry I made Uncle cry," she said, biting her lip.
"It is all right," said Daeron. "I know you did not intend to." He turned to the others. "I… I would appreciate it if you would accompany me. Your presence would be… a comfort to me."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. "Where you go, we will follow," said Howland at last. Daeron managed a grateful nod, and began to walk towards a very large tent.
Naerys eyed Howland in wonder. "He is very short," she said. She turned to Howland. "You are very short. You are shorter than me." She nodded, as if she had said something profound.
"He is a crannogman," said Daeron. "Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. A distant kinsman of mine. Or perhaps it should be said I am a distant kinsman of his. The Reeds are a greater family than the Langwards."
"My family's castle has been built to float, septon," said Howland quietly.
"My family's castle consists of a holdfast with five rooms, and three crumbling walls that surround it," said Daeron. "It was four once, but four hundred years ago, flooding during the Spring knocked one down. The most noteworthy structure we have is our sept, and if you knew about our sept, you would understand that is a bitter joke. There's a pilgrim's house nearby my great-grandfather built with help from the Faith. My siblings and I helped keep it clean between visits. I always loved that. It had feather beds. I thought it was a marvel, a place where you didn't sleep on straw." He frowned. "Not a mattress stuffed with straw. Just straw." He shook his head. "Apologies. You've no need to hear of my childhood."
There was another silence at that, and Ned could see it then, growing among his fellows, the conviction that this man hurt in some way that was horrible and profound, and that none of them knew how to fix. "It is no problem," he managed to say, as they came to a great pavilion made of cloth of gold, with the High Septon's banner hung out front.
Daeron smiled at him. "You lie very well, Lord Stark, when you have a good cause to," he said gently, before heading into the pavilion. Ned glanced at the others, wondering if he should follow, when Howland headed in after the septon. Ned took a deep breath and followed.
The smell was the first thing to hit him. Various heady incenses were burning in the tent, the scents blending in a way that was far from pleasing. Ned noticed four old septons were standing before a rather small altar than had been set up in the tent, and praying. Much of the incense was being burnt there, though Ned saw various censers hung over a bed, where a pair of septas kept adjusting them to make sure they stayed alight. All wore cloth-of-silver. Daeron nodded at the old men. "Septon Baelor. Septon Baelor. Septon Philidor. And Septon Baelor." Each of the old men nodded at him in turn, apparently knowing just who he referred to with each name, even when the same name was uttered.
Daeron turned towards the bed, passing the septas. "Septa Maegelle," he muttered softly. "Septa Unella. I thank you my sisters for… for…" He pushed forward to the bed, and then knelt beside it. "Your High Holiness," he said. "I am here."
A small form was huddled near the pillows, so small Ned almost mistook it for a bundle of blankets until it stirred and twisted towards Daeron. It was an old man, a little old man who brought to mind Old Nan back in Winterfell. Ned understood that members of the Faith saw the High Septon as the Seven embodied. And yet all he saw was a man, frail and old, and clearly heading towards the end of his life.
"Daeron?" croaked the old man. "Daeron, is that you?"
Daeron nodded. "It is, uncle. I… I hear you are… in sorrow."
The High Septon took a deep breath. "I… I was recalling the days when I would ride through the Kingswood with my friends. Lord Hayford. Lord Darklyn… That is, Denys' father. Old Lord Cargyll… that poor man. He lost so much, ere he died, and his line ended. And good Ser Belford of the Green. Ah, such a fine man…" Daeron winced at that name. "I blessed his daughter, you know that? Me, a member of the Most Devout, and him, a former hedge knight, but I did it. I gave the little babe her name. Emalyn, for the saint. A sweet sounding name." And then the old man gave a great sob. "And he killed her! He ruined her and he killed her!" Eddard did not need to know who this 'he' was. Even in the North, they'd heard of Lady Emalyn. "I prayed with him, I opened his soul to the Light of the Seven… and he got worse, Daeron! He got worse! Somehow, that twisted mind of his turned every instruction it had been given, every precept that had been uttered into an excuse for more awfulness!"
Daeron leaned forward and offered the old man his shoulder. "Your High Holiness," he whispered, his voice filled with concern. The High Septon grasped his nephew's bulky arm, and leaned on it, weeping frantically.
"I took her confession, right before they came for her," the old man muttered. "She worried that she was to be denied grace. I told her that the Seven could forgive all sins and that she was one more sinned against than a sinner. Who was she to resist a man with such power, a king, when he made demands? I told her her heart was righteous. I told her that time was over. I told her… I told her that she need no longer live in fear." The old man raised his head, to look Daeron in the face. "And just moments later, Aerys' men came into her chambers, and bore her away as I watched, and I did not see her again until I saw her killed." Daeron embraced the old man as the tears came. "And then he did it again! They were my kin, Daeron! My kin! And he killed them! All of them!"
"You pleaded for mercy," said Daeron.
"With letters, Daeron," moaned the old man. "As if I were enquiring after their health…"
"Your own health…" began Daeron.
"It does not matter, Daeron," said the old man. "I do not care what the risks were, I should have crawled from my bed and plead on my knees, even if it had killed me! Oh, why have I let myself grow so old, if the added years do nothing? I tell you, lad, it is not the times when I am… vague and… distracted that I dread. It is the times like now, when it all comes back to me, when I see the waste and the folly that has been my entire misspent life."
Daeron placed a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "You yourself used to speak to me of the limitations of your office. That a High Septon should know his duty is to be a beacon, not a holy sword, to direct, not to compel…"
The old man stared at Daeron bleakly. "If that is the case then why have a High Septon at all?" he cried bitterly. "Have a golden statue, or a great shining gate, or… or a dog for that matter!" He threw himself back in the bed. "Oh, Gods, Gods, Daeron, I am so weary! Weary and alone in the darkness. I cry to the Seven, but They do not answer, I do not hear the Blessed Voice, I seek solace and am not granted it…"
Daeron gripped his uncle gently but firmly, and pulled him up so their faces were level. "You are in spiritual agony, Your High Holiness, and that is your right, but you must remember your duty to the Faith." The old man gulped but managed a nod. "Now, listen to me, uncle. We will go to Oldtown, you will see the Starry Sept, and you will be at peace! Do you hear me, uncle?" The old man nodded again. "Hear and believe?" Another nod, this one firmer. "Good. Good. Now how would you like some soup?"
"Soup would be nice," murmured the old man. Daeron turned to the others and nodded. In a moment, Naerys approached with a small bowl.
"Here you go, nuncle," she whispered. "Nice soup, with barley and carrots. It will make you well!" She lifted the spoon to the old man's mouth. He sucked at it weakly then moved his head back.
"It's too hot," he moaned.
Naerys blew on the spoonful, then put it back in his mouth. "Better?" she asked.
The old man nodded. "Oh, yes. Thank you, Naerys. You are such a good, sweet child." The septa beamed at his praise, and set to blowing on another spoonful of soup. He turned to Daeron. "And you too, Daeron. My dear, dear nephew."
Daeron made a sweeping bow. "I live to serve the Faith, and yourself, High Holiness. So I was raised and taught. By you." The old man grinned and then gulped down another spoonful. Daeron turned and began to walk out of the tent. He nodded at Ned and the others as he left – they fell in behind him, and followed him out.
Daeron walked on with a feverish determination for a while. They kept a slight distance from him, watching him move on. Ned glanced at Ser Gerart, whose expression seemed pained. But not so pained as the septon, who moved as if in agony. As he reached the shore of the river, he suddenly knelt and simply sat there, gasping quietly. Eddard took a deep breath, and walked towards the man. "Septon Daeron," he asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you… well?"
Daeron turned and smiled at him, taking Ned's hand in his own. "As well as can be expected, Lord Stark." He rose, and then turned to the others. "My friends… I must… apologize for making you see… all that. For dragging you along on my ordeal. I… when we met, there were six of you. Seven companions. I… had hopes for… something. I do not know what. It is… the affliction of my profession. We look for meaning. For signs. Portents. Prophesies. For anything." He shut his eyes, and Ned saw the tears drip out of the edges. "Again… my apologies for… wasting your time."
There was silence for a moment, as they all looked at each other awkwardly, and then Martyn Cassel broke it. "No apologies are needed, Septon," he said. "It has been an… interesting afternoon."
Daeron nodded at that, his face tired and sad. "I thank you for your courtesies, Master Cassel." He glanced at Ned. "Lord Stark, I… I promised you a gift for your wife. If you will come with me, I will get it for you." Ned started to make a stumbling declaration of gratitude, when Gerart suddenly pushed forward and knelt before the septon.
"Your… your Excellency… before we part, I…" He paused, and looked at "You are a worthy man. A virtuous man, and being with you has… I appreciate this, and… I ask you for your blessing."
Daeron stared at Ser Gerart for a moment, then stepped forward. "Very well." He placed a hand on Gerart's shoulder. "May the Crone grant you wisdom. May the Mother grant you mercy. May the Maiden grant you love. May the Warrior grave you courage. May the Smith grant you skill. May the Father grant you justice. And may the Stranger grant you entrance to that paradise that awaits all true believers when they pass from this world, to the next." He pulled away and gave the others a slight smile. "As for the rest of you, I will merely wish you the best and hope that you go with your gods."
Howland nodded at this. "I would say the same to you… but there is no need to hope this, I am thinking." Daeron smiled at that, as if he was thankful. The others began to head away, but each of them paused to regard them as they left that place. Eddard waved at them, and then he and Daeron headed off to a tent nearby. They were silent for a moment, and then the septon spoke.
"That man was a father to me," said Daeron, and Eddard did not need to ask who he meant. "More a father than my own father. You should understand that."
Eddard blinked. "What do you…?"
Daeron seemed momentarily surprised but shook his head. "Never mind. Only know… when I was a youth, he shined like a torch. He is perhaps the most profoundly decent man I have ever known. I bathed his feet when he was anointed Shepherd to the Faithful. And it has ruined him." He shook his head. "Keep to your trees, Lord Stark. Keep to gods who ask for little and say little. I know it may seem shocking, considering my profession, but…" He sighed. "When I was a young man I wished to be a great saint. A miracle-worker." He chuckled. "Balerion reminded me… bless him… that one of the greatest miracle-workers the Faith has ever seen prayed constantly that the Seven release him from the gifts with which They had afflicted him. I should have remembered that. Should have…" He paused. "I've always felt a great deal of… sympathy with the Starks, you know. And not simply due to my blood. My circumstances, as a member of the Faith. Torrhen Stark was not the only king to kneel to the Targaryens when they came." A smile came forced to his face. "Some men called the High Septons 'the Spiritual Kings of the Andals' in those days. It never amounted to much, but it was something. And then it was gone." He snorted. "Ahh, but now I'm talking like a Thorne, claiming a grandeur that had long passed even ere the dragons came. Foolishness, Daeron. Foolishness. That man was no more a true king than whatever Thorne ruled over the Brambles then was… There is nothing between him and Torrhen."
"I would not say that," said Ned, as they entered the tent. "He made the same choice my ancestor made, for the same reason. The price for resisting… was not worth it."
"Decent, wise men, who prayed to their gods, and listened, both of them," said Daeron. "And what good did it do them?" He bit his lip. "I was not honest with you, Lord Stark. When first we met. I…" He took a deep breath. "I recently… mmm, prayed to the Seven for guidance, let us say. There is… more to it, but that is the foundation of it. I prayed, and since then… I have had dreams. Strange and terrible dreams." He looked at Eddard, and once again Ned was struck by the startling blueness of his eyes. "I saw you in one of them. You and I were standing on the steps of Baelor's Great Sept together, before a great multitude. We were both many years older, and I, alas, was many pounds fatter." Daeron bit his lip. "I spoke to them. Then you did. And then…" He shut his eyes, and took another deep breath.
"And then what?" asked Ned.
Daeron opened his eyes slowly and gave Ned a nervous smile. "I do not recall," he said, nervously. "I think the dream ended then." Eddard nodded, vaguely certain the man was lying. "It was a strange dream. I knew things in it that… that were nonsense. Do not ask me what they were. Half of it faded on the waking." He shook his head. "And I've had other ones. Grimmer ones. I keep having a dream where I am the High Septon and the poor upbraid me for my lack of charity. They topple me from my litter, and they beg me for sustenance." He winced. "And then… they take it of me."
Ned stared at him, uncertain of what he should say now. "Perhaps… sir, your Gods are telling you that… when it is needed, you will provide to your people…"
"Perhaps," said Daeron, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Night after night, I keep dreaming that. I do not wake when you'd think I would. It goes on and on, that dream does…" He shook his head. "I am sorry. I am burdening you with worries and fears. You, who have your own…"
Daeron looked at him fixedly again. Ned was prepared to tell him to not worry about it, that all was fine, but all at once it struck him that he was miles and miles from his home, which he had not seen for months upon months… was it… was it stretching on to years now? That he had not seen his brother in all that time. That he had not seen his sister for longer, and did not know if she was alive or dead. That he had not seen his wife for weeks. That his father was dead, and his mother was dead longer, and he was the Lord of Winterfell, him, who had never supposed to be that, had never supposed to be anything…
Ned realized he was kneeling on the ground, weeping. The septon's hands were on his shoulders. "Lord Stark," said Daeron gently. "Lord Stark, what is wrong?"
"I… it is nothing," said Ned, and he sniffled, and he felt like a little boy, a silly little boy. "Do… I am sorry… sorry for…"
Daeron smiled and suddenly, Ned was reminded of Old Nan, for some strange reason. "Lord Stark," he said, "do you not recall what I said? I am human, and nothing human is alien to me, and nothing human disgusts me, save cruelty. Unburden yourself to me. I will not speak of it and I think it will do you good."
"I… I miss my home," said Ned. "I miss my kin. And I worry… that I will never return. I have a son. A son that… he should have been my brother's son, but now he is mine and I fear I will die here, and he will never know me, and I will be nothing to him, a name, and I will never see my brother again, and I will never see my sister again and I will…" The tears were falling fast now, well beyond his ability to control.
"You poor, poor boy," said Septon Daeron. "Burdens have been placed on you, Lord Stark, and you blame yourself for feeling the weight of them." He shook his head. "Do not do this. It is natural. It is how we are made, all of us. We are not creatures of stone or wood, but of flesh. That is our glory, Lord Stark. That we feel." He patted Ned's shoulder. "You are a kindly man. And that is good. It is… I have come to believe it is the finest virtue. All other virtues, faith, courage, even love, they may be turned to evil. But kindness… evil cannot corrupt it. At worst, it can only act against it." His face grew pained. "Render it impotent. And yet it remains itself, even then."
Ned felt himself calming. "I… I thank you, sir. For your kindness." He wiped his face on his sleeve. "Given to me, a man not of your faith."
"My duties are to all men, Lord Stark," said Daeron.
"These fears… they steal on me, sometimes," continued Ned.
Daeron looked him in the eye. "Listen to me, and listen well. You will live, Eddard Stark. You will survive all this, you will go to Winterfell once again, you will see your kin, you will see your wife, and you will see your son, and likely have some more. And some daughters, on top of that." He nodded. "Yes. Yes, this I am sure of. There are many things I am not. But this I know."
It struck Ned that he shouldn't have found this comforting, and yet somehow he did. "Again… thank you, sir."
Daeron chuckled. "In truth, Lord Stark, I should thank you. It has been… many months, since I felt useful. And… I feel deeply, for your generation. We have failed you so completely, used you so cruelly and left you such a mess to clean up afterwards. Anything we who still remain may do to ease the burden is… too little. But still, better than we have done previously." He smiled. "Now, as to that gift." He walked to a trunk near his bed, and opened it, producing a small set of books. "The Seven Holy Books. From The Seven-Pointed Star to The Benedictions and Lamentations of Hugor of the Hill. All copied by His High Holiness in… better times. With, alas, some commentary from a young nephew of his who fancies himself a scholar and man of insight in his weaker moments." He shrugged. "I doubt my writings will prove too distracting to your wife. I… Yes, you will likely need to be on the move soon, so I will send them to Riverrun for you." He shrugged.
"I… thank you, sir," said Eddard. His hand went to his coinpurse. "I… I was told…"
Daeron shook his head. "Do not think of it, Lord Stark." He smiled deeply. "As I said, this is a gift. From one First Man to another."
Theo Wull scratched his heavy black beard. "So… the Blacktydes and the Harlaws… claim your Grey King fucked their islands?"
Urrigon nodded. "Yes. The Harlaws and the Blacktydes say their houses are the results of the Grey King coupling with the islands they now rule, with the first heads of the houses being born as a result."
The mountain clansman stared at the young ironman in surprise. "Gods' red eyes, how does that even work?"
"He was the Grey King," said Urri. "He lived a thousand and seven years, then went down below the sea to live with his father the Drowned God. Or turned to stone. Stories vary. He killed a sea dragon, he married the Merling King's daughter, stole fire from the Storm God, and he had a kraken pull his chariot. If the man wanted to fuck islands, I assume he had a way. They aren't even the worst thing the tales have him fucking."
"What's that?" asked Martyn Cassel.
Urri considered it for a moment, then sighed. "It's a corpse," he said bleakly. "Some tales say the Sunderlys were born when the Grey King fucked a corpse."
Wull and Cassel stared at him. "A corpse?" said Theo at last.
"If you think it sounds bad, remember, I'm supposed to be a descendant of that corpse," said Urri with a shudder. "The Sunderlys say it's a lie, but they say nearly everything people say about them is a lie, even the things everyone knows to be true."
Theo blinked. "Was it… a lady corpse?" he asked.
"The stories are conflicted on that fact," answered Urri bleakly.
Martyn shook his head. "How… why would he even do that?"
"Why would he fuck islands? Because he felt like it!" answered Urrigon. "In most stories of the Grey King, he just does things. The corpse story gets something of an explanation, but it's not a very good one. It involves a great deal of liquor and sometimes, a magic spell cast by an evil witch. It's not a story you tell around campfires, it's a story you mutter in port or a tavern while you give a Sunderly that just came in the side-eye." He shrugged. "If you met my grandfather Lord Sunderly you'd understand."
Ned glanced at Howland and Gerart, but both seemed completely absorbed in this talk. "So what of the Saltcliffes?" asked Howland.
"Ahh, that's an interesting one," began Urri. "It's a tale not involving the Grey King fucking an island, and by some accounts, not fucking anything."
Ned sighed. It was good to have them back, after their absence, but times like this reminded him that Buckets, Martyn and Urri were all very young men. Howland was probably the man he was closest to here. Though Ser Gerart seemed quite eager to force a bond, for some strange reason that Ned couldn't fathom.
They were in the outskirts of Stoney Sept. The pilgrims had been thronging the city earlier, and after the High Septon's arrival, they'd thronged it further. We will like be heading to Tumbleton soon, Ned thought. We will have to. It seemed almost comical to be driven out of a town by an old man with no armies who would be swiftly leaving himself, but there things stood. Ned looked to the side of the road and saw a fat septon in brown robes with a reed on his belt, as pilgrims in this part seemed fond of doing. The man was seated on a fence, eating a sausage. A few cats had gathered at the hefty man's feet, and he was on occasion tearing off bits of the sausage to feed them with, a deep smile on his face.
Ned turned to Gerart and gestured to the septon. "Might this septon be able to help me with that matter you mentioned? A relic for… that sept I mentioned." I almost said 'my wife', he thought feeling a touch of color come to his cheeks.
"I doubt it," said Ser Gerart, looking the septon over. "He looks to be a begging brother. The better sort, mind you, the sort who stay with landed knights and merchants on their travels…" He chuckled. "He'd doubtless be willing to sell you a relic. Whether it was anything other than chicken bones carved to resemble fingerbones is the question…"
The septon had finished his sausage and was now encouraging the cats at his feet to bat at a piece of string he'd produced. "Might he have visited the High Septon?" asked Ned, despite himself. There was something strangely calming about watching this man play with cats, a smile on his face.
"Again, I highly doubt it," said Gerart. "He might have enjoyed the charity of one of the Most Devout. Some like to treat begging brothers. Septon Daeron is quite famous for it. Has them and praying brothers and sisters at his table whenever he can." He chuckled. "It's quite a good table, I hear. From the look of that fellow he would enjoy it. Though I pity the cook who'd have to feed both him and Septon Daeron."
"Still," muttered Eddard, half to himself, as he began to move toward the septon, "it can do no harm…"
"So long as you do not buy the hand of Saint Ongolant from him," said Ser Gerart to him. Eddard ignored him, and walked to the septon's side. The man continued to play with the cats, utterly absorbed in their antics. Eddard coughed politely.
"Sir…" he began.
The cats darted away. The man watched them go with undeniable regret, then turned and saw Ned. His bright blue eyes went wide beneath the heavy black beetling brow. They were a startling blue, it seemed to Ned, the pure light blue you saw on thrush's eggs on occasion, and the only attractive feature on a rather ugly face. "Why, Lord Stark…" gasped the septon.
"You know me?" asked Ned in surprise.
A somewhat nervous smile spread over the fat man's face. "Not… not exactly… I know of you. I saw you a handful of times, in King's Landing." He gave a shrug. "I do not believe you saw me."
"Ahh." Something in what the septon was saying felt false, but Ned could not put his finger on what. None of that explains that look of alarm, he thought to himself. Still, he'd come this far. "I… you may know of my wife…"
"Lady Catelyn Tully," said the septon with a nod.
Ned gulped and nodded back. "Yes." He stared at the man, who stared back at him, and after a moment, gave a gentle smile.
"He hopes to build a sept for her," said Ser Gerart, approaching the pair with Howland and the rest following him. "And wonders perhaps if you have spent some time with the Most Devout recently…"
The fat septon's smile grew deeper. "I have spent the last thirty years of my life with the Most Devout, young ser, and for the last twenty-three have been quite unable to remove myself from their company." The man stood up. He was tall, and with his weight one was given the impression of a little hill that had somehow detached itself from the land and begun to amble about. He made a polite bow. "The Most Devout Septon Daeron, Primate and Preceptor of the East, Bearer of the Purse, and Opener of the Way, at your most humble service."
Ser Gerart stared in shock and then went to his knees. "Your Excellency… please forgive my tone… I did… I did not know you… I…"
"Oh, do get up, ser," said Septon Daeron with a yawn. "If I wished men to be genuflecting before me and addressing me as 'Your Excellency', I'd be in my silver and my jewels."
"Ahhh, yes, Septon," muttered Ser Gerart, rising awkwardly. He began to pat out the dirt that had gathered on his breeches.
"So, you wish to build a sept for your wife?" said Septon Daeron, turning to Eddard. "Well, obviously, I approve of this." He spread his hands. "I could hardly do otherwise considering my profession. If you wish, I will write to Wallyn and he will send you his most dedicated craftsmen…" He coughed. "My fellow Primate, in the North. He is in White Harbor. A cousin of your Lord Manderly, I believe…"
"That…," began Ned. "I was told you might… be willing to grant me some… relic or some such thing. For the sept."
"Yes," added Gerart. "By me. That is to say, I suggested it. I did."
Septon Daeron nodded, then glanced at Howland. "Doubtless I have missed many scintillating conversations between these two."
"The pair have only just met," answered Howland. He offered the Most Devout his hand. "I am…"
"Lord Reed," said Daeron, engulfing the crannogman's small hand in his own massive one. "You are even more identifiable to me than Lord Stark here, owing to your…"
"Exceedingly small size, yes," said Howland with a sigh.
"I was going to say 'striking features'," replied the septon, leaning forward in an effort to get his head level with Howland's. "Though, yes, you are quite small, especially to one such as myself who is exceedingly large." He released Howland's hand. He glanced at the others. "Now, these men, I do not know…"
The three looked among themselves, awkwardly. "Theo Wull," said Buckets, at last, with a nod.
Martyn managed a slight bow. "And I'm Martyn Cassell."
"Urrigon Greyjoy," said Urri.
"An Ironborn, four Northerners, and a Stormlander," said Daeron, with a smile. "My, my, this present tumult brings together such odd companions." He turned to Ned. "So, you wish a relic of some sort, mmm…? Yes, I think I can help you. If you and your friends would not mind adding a fat old Crownlander to your company for this afternoon, and going where I go… I can manage it." He spread his hands. "After all, that makes seven and as a man of faith, I cannot help but see that number as significant."
Eddard managed a nod. "We've nothing in particular to do at the moment, so that sounds reasonable…" He glanced down the road. "I suppose you will be heading to the Stoney Sept."
Daeron gave a soft laugh. "Oh, no, no. I've already been there. Several times. No. There's a different sept I wish to go to. But first…" The fat man darted off the road and began to stride across the field. "...I wish to examine a rock." Ned and the others found themselves rushing to follow the septon. Eddard found himself amazed how quickly the septon moved, despite his weight. It's those long legs of his, Ned thought. To his surprise, Howland was able to catch up to Septon Daeron before any of the others did. But then Howland had often surprised him with how quickly he could move. Urrigon came swiftly afterwards. When Ned and the others reached them, Septon Daeron was pacing around a large stone in the field, eying it critically
"So, this is your rock?" asked Urri, watching the septon.
"Mmm, yes, and no," answered Daeron. "That is to say, it is what I wished to look at, but as I suspected, it is not a rock. Note that it has sides. Seven of them, to be precise. This is a marker." His eyes kept darting towards the bottom of the stone. Eventually, he knelt at a spot and began to tug the grass out of the way. Eddard looked and saw that the stone was marked there by strange symbols.
"What are those?" he asked. "They look… almost like letters."
"That is because they are letters," answered Daeron. His hand rubbed over the symbols. "This is Old Andal. The version of the tongue that had not been softened by the influence of the Valyrians and changed by the tongue of the First Men. It looks very odd, to modern eyes."
"What does it say?" asked Gerart.
Daeron folded his hands before him. " 'In this place was Vonna, a sister of our faith, made a martyr'," he read. " 'May she dwell in glory with the Seven-Aspects for all eternity.' "
"One of your saints, then," said Martyn. "Who was this Sister Vonna?"
"That is a good question, Master Cassel," replied the septon. "And I cannot answer it. I have never heard of her." Daeron stared at the stone, then rested his hands flat on it, and closed his eyes. "Sister Vonna, I beg you forgive me, for I do not know you, and I feel I should. If you dwell in glory and grace with the Seven, then I humbly beseech you to lend me some small portion of your grace, to aid my own poor soul if I have need of it, to aid the sorrows of others, if I have not. And if it is you that need grace, in the place that comes hereafter, then if I have any to spare, I will grant you it, as I may wish others to grant me grace, when they live, and I am dead." He took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. The man rose slowly from the ground. "Well, I have found a portion of what I wished to here, at least. Let us go on our way."
They walked away from the stone, back to the path, in silence. At length, Ser Gerart coughed. "So… what is the Sept we are going to?"
"It is has many names," replied Daeron. "They call it the Old Sept, the Wooden Sept, the Sept of the Seven In All Their Aspects…" He smiled and shook his head. "It is not one of the High Holy Septs, obviously, nor is it one of the Good Sacred Septs, but…" He coughed. "Well, there is a list, and it is on it." He gestured to a wooded path on the east side of the road. "Ahh, here we are." They turned onto the path, bordered by elms. The septon took a deep breath, and smiled. "Fresh summer air. Brings me back to when I was a boy in Godsgrove, romping in our godswood." He patted his plump stomach regretfully. "A much, much smaller boy." His bright blue eyes peered ahead. "There it is," he said, pointing at the end of the path to a building painted a faded white, ivy clinging to its sides. There were several smaller buildings before it that looked like several cottages and a stable. "The Old Sept." He ambled towards it.
"So this is the sept this place had before the Stoney Sept?" asked Urrigon. He glanced at Daeron. "What was the town called back then?"
"It had several names, Master Greyjoy," replied the fat septon. "Trout Run, Hillside, Fineview, None of which, alas, were unique. And that is how Stoney Sept won the day." Daeron turned his head. "Hmmm, what is this?" Eddard realized that a group of ragged people were scrambling out of the stable. There looked to be about nine of them, and while Ned felt a moment of fear it quickly vanished as he looked on the group. They were ragged, and thin, and many looked to be crippled. Three were children.
"Alms, pilgrims," stated the oldest man, who looked to be blind. "Alms for the beggars of the Wooden Sept. The Seven will favor you if you give to those in need." He stopped before Daeron and reached out his hand. "Alms."
"Grandfather," said a hooded woman scrambling to the blind's man side, "he is a begging brother…" Ned caught a glimpse of her face. It was scarred, as if she had been burnt by flames. She seemed to realize that he was looking at her and ducked her face. He politely looked away.
Daeron turned to her. "Those of the Faith take charity so we may give it in turn." He produced a purse, and began to hand them coins. "What is your name, my dear?" he asked the woman as he gave her a copper.
"Moly, sir," she said, ducking her head.
"Moly," said Daeron with a nod. "I will remember that. And I will pray for you, child." He turned to a trio of children among the beggars, and then knelt before them. "Well, hello there." The children stared at the fat septon, their expressions shy. Daeron pulled up his purse. "Ahh, my purse appears to be empty." The children nodded, seeming to Ned's mind to look not saddened but resigned. "But wait, what is this?" said Daeron. His hand darted out, towards one of the children's ears. He pulled it back and produced a coin. The boy stared in awe as he took it from the septon's hand. Daeron grinned and then repeated the action two more times. As the children looked at their coins in wonder, the septon laboriously rose to his feet.
The beggars looked at the rest of the group hopefully. Gerart coughed, already counting out coins from his purse. "I… naturally, will give alms… but these men are followers of the Old Gods…."
"And the Drowned God," added Urrigon.
Ned and Howland produced their own purses, with Theo and Martyn following. "...And the Old Gods make no objection if we give coins to the needy," said Howland reproachfully.
Gerart winced. "That was not…"
"Well, the Drowned God does," said Urri. Several of the beggars glared at him. "It is nothing personal. We do not give alms, we do not take alms."
"Nay, ye take gold at swordpoint," snapped one of the men.
Urri nodded. "That is how it is done, yes."
The blind man shook his head. "Leave him be, leave him be. 'Tis bad luck to take anything from a seventh man. This one's the Stranger's own."
The other man gave a grim chuckle at that. "And the Stranger can take him."
"Hello, hello, what is all this noise?" came a quiet voice. A little old septon emerged from a cottage, his head bald as an egg. His robes were simple, though Ned noted they bore a stripe of cloth-of-silver. The old man gave a great yawn.
Moly turned towards him. "Pilgrims, Septon. Or rather two pilgrims, and a group of Old God worshippers with them. Also an ironman. To see the sept."
The old septon blinked. "Oh, well, that is good. Everyone should see the Old Sept."
Howland nodded. "You are the septon of this place?"
The old man seemed startled to see Howland, but recovered it well. "Oh, no, no. Goodness me, no. The septon of this place… he is not here. He is a Most Devout. In King's Landing. I am the Sacristan of this sept. In addition to the keeping of the sacristy, I perform certain duties in his place. Hold services, maintain it, look after the indigent of the sept…" He coughed, and headed to the sept. "Well, come, come, you must see the Old Sept. It is a marvel." The old man smiled at them. "Do you know that Maegor the Cruel – Maegor! – when he came here after the Battle of Stonebridge, planned to destroy this place to make an example, but found it so beautiful he could not?"
"I may have heard that story," replied Daeron with a smile. He raised a bushy eyebrow. "But the name of the man who is telling it to me at the moment…"
"Ahh, yes," said the older septon quietly, as he opened the doors to the Old Sept. "I forget myself. Apologies, my brother. Septon Septimus, at the service of you gentlemen." He gave a soft chuckle as they entered the sept. "I know. I know. It is a most appropriate name. Almost astonishingly so."
"I've known men with just as appropriate names," replied Daeron. "One of them named for a great uncle by marriage of the same name and oddly enough, same profession."
"That must be a tale," noted Septimus, opening the door.
Dareon shrugged. "Yes, but a dull one, and not mine," he said. He glanced around the room. "My goodness…"
Septimus chuckled. "You see it, don't you? There's not many who can…"
Daeron's eyes continued to fly about the room in wonder. "The proportions are perfect. Precisely as put forth in the Book of Treasures."
The older septon nodded. "There are only four septs built in that manner. Here, the Sea Sept of Swordpoint, the Sandstone Sept of Vaith and…"
"The Simple Sept of the Paps," noted Daeron, nodding. "I have seen that one."
"Have you?" noted the old man with interest. "I always wanted to, but…" He sighed. "You'd think being born in the Vale, I might have gone easily, but, well, Hardying Castle is on the opposite end of the Vale, and when I studied at the Seventy-Seven Saints, 'twas such a busy time, and when it was not, the weather never suited…" He sighed. "And then I came here."
Ned looked around the room. He didn't know if it was some lack in himself, but he could not see what it was they found so remarkable about the ceiling was painted in seven colors, all converging into a seven-sided white shape at its center. It is pleasant to look on, I will grant it that. He looked to Ser Gerart, but the man seemed just as lost as he was. He looked around again. It was rather small, compared to other septs he'd seen. He wondered how they used it for ceremonies and the like, and then figured what with the Stoney Sept, they usually didn't have to.
"I do… I do hope the beggars didn't bother you too much," said Septimus. "They… a former Septon of this place began the custom of allowing the indigent to shelter here, many centuries ago. It has been kept. As… as it should be. All of us are the duty of all of us."
Daeron turned to smile at the man. "My goodness. I did not have you figured for a follower of Murmison."
Septimus gave an embarrassed cough. "This… this was his sept. It was here he served, until Aenys called him to King's Landing, hearing words of his miracles. If you pray here, you pray where he did." The man fidgeted nervously. "If… if you care for such things."
Daeron nodded. "I do, I suppose." He turned towards the altar in the center of the room, then paused. "Tell me, Septon Septimus, have you heard of a Saint Vonna? Some… local saint?"
The old man considered for a moment, then shook his head. "I… the name is not familiar to me." He bit his lip. "I am sorry."
Daeron shook his head. "No, no. It was… an idle question, in truth." He was regarding the altar again. "So, you are Sacristan for a member of the Most Devout…?"
"Indeed," said Septimus, beaming with pride. "A very great and pious one! Septon Daeron, Primate and Preceptor of the East, Bearer of the Purse, and Opener of the Way." He smiled broadly. "He's not the first Most Devout I have served in this fashion, but he is the finest! A very learned and worthy man!"
Daeron gave a bemused smile. "What has he done to earn your good favor so, my brother?"
"Why, what hasn't he done?" replied Septimus. "He sponsors this worthy sept generously, he orders ever so many blessings and prayers said, and… oh, yes!" The man pulled a sheet of paper from the fold of his robes. "He writes! At least once every three months! Usually more!"
Daeron's expression bore something that Ned couldn't help but identify as guilt. "Indeed?" he said, with a rueful nod of his head.
Septimus seemed incapable of recognizing this, and nodded enthusiastically. "Why look at this handwriting, my brother! Is it not the neatest you have ever seen?" He spread the page out, allowing Daeron to peer at it.
"I… see nothing particularly remarkable about it," he stated quietly.
Septimus frowned and folded up the paper. "Well, not all have the discernment to recognize such things. But rest assured, it is very fine. He is a great man! A great man! A future High Septon, mark my words!"
"You've never met him?" asked Urri quietly.
The old man turned. "Well, no, young sir. My duty is here. My service here. And so… here I stay."
Daeron nodded. "And a very great duty, and a very great service, my brother."
Septimus gave a nod at that, and began to head for the door. "If you have need of me, I will… well, if you have need of me, simply call."
Daeron watched him head out then paced around the altar. He stared at the images of the Seven, and shook his head. "Remarkable," he noted, pointing at the statues. "I have only seen the like in a few places."
Ned looked at them. They were strange images, molded of some odd red clay, their faces harsh and angular, with wide painted-on eyes and lips that curled in some peculiar half-smile. Ned had enough of an understanding of the Andal faith from his days in the Vale to at least make a guess which of the Seven each represented, but still they were strange inhuman things. Looking at the others, Ned could see that all, even Gerart, found them as eerie as he did. Daeron seemed to note their discomfort. "That is the old style," he said. "They've statues like this in the First Sept at Heartshome, though tucked in a corner, all but forgot. These could have been made in Andalos. At the very least, they were modeled after such." He glanced at one statue, the Smith Ned wagered from the hammer it held, and smiled. "Ahh, look at them. Other images of the Seven, I can tell you who they were modeled after, but these… They were meant to be all men, all women…" He paused before an indistinct figure in a cloak and gave a respectful nod. "All fates."
Daeron paced around the statues once more, and then moved forward, touching his hands to the base of one, a woman holding a lantern. Vague memories of Jon Arryn at worship made this seem strange to him. Ser Gerart made a mild gasp. Daeron glanced at him. "You do not begin with the Father, septon?" asked Gerart, with a hint of puzzlement.
The Most Devout shook his head. "Many do so from custom, Ser Gerart. Others because they pray for justice above all things. But when I pray to the Seven-Who-Are-One, I always begin my prayer with a wish for wisdom." He took his hands off the base and backed away, circling the altar once again.
"And then you wish for justice," said Gerart with a nod.
Daeron shook his head. "Nay. Not so." He stopped before the statue of a woman holding a child. "Next I pray for mercy." Ned watched him standing there, and thought suddenly of when he'd first learned he was going to be warded in the Vale. He'd rushed to the godswood then, and his mother had come to find him. She had hugged, and petted him, and told him to be brave, the way her sister had been when she had gone south to marry some lord there. She told me all would be well, he thought, and perhaps it had been for Ned, but it hadn't been for her. Only a few years later, and she was dead. As Daeron stepped back and began another circling of the altar, it occurred to Ned that was one of the few times his mother had ever mentioned her sister to him. His aunt had always been a strange presence in Winterfell, defined only vaguely by her absence. I wonder what became of her, he thought, as Daeron stopped before a statue of a young woman holding a flower. Ned shook his head. He had not the time for petty, personal mysteries such as this.
Daeron finished his prayer at the young woman's statue and continued his circuit. Next came the statue that had to be the Smith, then a near identical statue holding a pair of scales, then yet another near identical statue holding a sword. And then finally, the cloaked figure. He knelt there, for a long while. And then he rose, and took a deep breath. "Well, I thank you all for enduring the whims of a silly old man," said Daeron.
There was an awkward silence for a moment. "That is… it was…" sputtered Gerart.
"We have enjoyed visiting this place," said Howland. He glanced around the sept. "It is in its own small, subtle way a marvel." Dareon smiled and nodded.
Outside, Septimus was directing the sept's beggars in the tending of a small vegetable garden. He turned and beamed at them. "Ahh, there you are," said the old septon. "I do hope your experience was… hmmm, fulfilling…"
"It was, it was," said Daeron. He regarded the old man for a moment, then coughed. "I do not know if you are aware, my brother, but the High Septon…"
"Oh, yes, yes, I know," said Septimus. "I thought about… paying a visit, but… I am certain that there are more deserving souls than I to seek His High Holiness' presence… And besides, I've so much to do here…"
Septon Daeron bit his lip. "I think, my brother, you would be welcomed there. By the High Septon. And… yes, by Septon Daeron of the Most Devout. Should you go."
The old man looked Daeron in the face and took a deep breath. "Sir, as I said, my duty is here. My service is here. And so here I stay." He shut his eyes. "It is a good place. Septon Murmison served here, prayed here. He prayed here when Aenys called him to King's Landing. Came back to pray here, when Aenys offered him the office of Hand. And returned one last time when Aenys asked him to perform the marriage." The man looked at Daeron with tears in his eyes. "He had a Sacristan, did you know? When all the world was against Murmison, that man was for him, and when he was killed, that man mourned him. And for that… for that the Poor Fellows here seized him, and took him to the Swords, who ruled this town then. And he was flogged, and beaten, and ordered to declare Murmison anathema and he would not, and so they executed him, and hung his head from the city gates, where it was seen to weep tears of blood." Septimus fidgeted nervously. "I… I read the account as a boy, you see, and it affected me greatly. It is why I chose this sept to serve in. To… to serve as faithfully and well as that poor, good man did…"
Daeron nodded. "I understand." He knelt before Septon Septimus. "Brother, would you give me your blessing?" Septimus stared at him for a moment, then managed a nod. He placed his hands on Daeron's shoulders and then leaned forward, and kissed his forehead.
"Go with the gods," whispered the old man.
Daeron rose and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "And you as well, my brother." He made a stately bow to Septimus and began to walk away. Ned and the others fell in behind with a speed that Eddard found startling when he considered it. There is something that makes you want to see what he will do next. To his surprise, Urri darted up to join them carrying a basket of vegetables. Ned wondered briefly what the story was there, but decided it was none of his affair.
Gerart coughed. "So… Your Excellency, I suppose we will be returning to…"
"My uncle's camp, yes," said Daeron with a nod. He turned to glance at the group. "I am sorry if we have been a nuisance. We should be on our way in a few days. We are sending the special barges we use for trips such as these back to King's Landing, while preparing the special carts we keep here for trips such as these for use. Then we will set out down the Pilgrim's Way to Bushy, where we are already preparing the special barges we keep there for a trip down the River Bushy. That will take us down to the Mander where we get off those special barges and then get into the next set of special barges."
"You are saying special barges a great deal," noted Howland.
"We have a great many of them," replied Daeron. "All very large and comfortable and made of special wood, and given special blessings." He paused. "Which reminds me. Before setting out, the High Septon will give a special blessing to the company, and a special blessing to the town for hosting us. Unless he is indisposed. Then I will give them. This is to be repeated at each of our stops."
Theo Wull shook his head. "I will never understand the faith of you Andals, no matter how hard I try." Daeron glanced at Buckets, then threw his head back and laughed. "What is so funny?" muttered Theo, frowning.
"Oh, it is nothing, truly," said Daeron. "It is simply your declaration… 'you Andals'." He turned to glance at the group and gestured to himself. "I am not an Andal, Master Wull. I am a First Man, same as you."
There was a dull silence from the group. "What?" said Martyn at last. "Truly?"
"Oh, yes," said Daeron. "House Langward were kings in Langward before the Long Night. Which reminds me, none of you know of a River Lang, do you? In the North, perhaps?"
Ned found himself shaking his head with the others. "I… know of no such river, sir," he said.
Daeron sighed. "You see, that's the problem for my family. Our old castle was on the Lang, well north of the Blackwater Rush where we built Godsgrove, but where precisely that was…" He shrugged. "Ah, well. It was ages ago." He glanced at Howland. "I was greatly hoping you might have known. Quite a few of my ancestors married the daughters of various Marsh Kings."
Howland smiled at him. "That would make us relatives."
Daeron gestured to his face. "Faith, I would have thought the family resemblance would have told you that." The pair shared a chuckle. "My mother's family are of Andal descent, mind you, but all the Rykkers managed to conquer is one dismal rock they found themselves stranded on. After which they spent their time sworn to Duskendale, marrying Darklyns, Hollards,Darkwoods and Dalgoods for centuries. It was well over a thousand years before another dash of Andal blood was tossed in." He chuckled. "Though they will boat they are descendents of Hugor of the Hill. My elder brother is quite fond of the connection. One might imagine he was closer to our mother, and I to our father. Quite the opposite, oddly enough…"
"You don't think much of the connection?" said Gerart.
"If every member of every Andal House that boasted they were of Hugor's blood stood up at once, then every member of every Andal House would stand up at once," said Daeron with a snort. He glanced at Gerart. "Apologies, but we both know it is true."
Gerart gave a mournful sigh. "Oh, yes. You are right. Truth be told, we Rogers didn't exactly perform wonders for the Seven during the Conquest. Ser Oberyn Rogers fled the army of Drox Penrose, and wound up taken in by the Ambersons. Wed the Lord's daughter, and made his fortune that way. Wound up breaking one of the Corpsemaker's sieges of Storm's End." He shrugged. "Truth be told, we probably spent more time fighting against the Penroses than we ever did fighting for them."
"A very wise choice on your ancestors' part," said Daeron, smiling slightly.
Urri blinked at that. "Why did your family accept the Andal's gods if you all found the Andals so obnoxious?" he noted, balancing his basket of vegetables.
"Oh, one might object to one's neighbors while feeling they have a point on some matters," replied Daeron with a chuckle. "And the Seven-Who-Are-One may have revealed Themselves to the Andals first, but They are not the God of Andals. Their interests are greater than a simple tribe that learnt ironmaking from the Rhoynar and fled piecemeal from the Valyrians as they came on dragonback. They encompass all, embrace all, comprehend all and belong to all."
Howland chuckled. "Your sermons, septon, must be utter marvels if this is how you speak in ordinary conversation."
Daeron gave a rueful shake of his head. "I'm afraid they're a trifle… mmm, dry and dull."
"Then perhaps you should pattern your sermons more on your conversation," suggested Howland.
"I will consider that, Lord Reed," laughed Daeron. "I will consider it."
They were almost in the camp of the High Septon and his Most Devout. A sharp-featured septon in cloth-of-silver glared at them as they approached. "Listen," he stated, "this company has seen enough of you begging brothers and your companions to reach the Hills of Andalos and we do not need…" He blinked. "Septon Daeron. Pardons. I did not recognize you in your… garb."
Daeron smiled gently at the man. "Septon Raynard. My apologies, brother, for any deception of your eyes, and trying of your patience."
Raynard fidgeted nervously. "Yes… yes… I" He blinked as he took in the sight of the group. His eyes fixed on Howland. "Is… is that a crannogman?"
"Yes," said Daeron. "He is Lord Howland Reed of… Greywater Watch, I believe…" Howland gave a nod. "Yes, Greywater Watch." He smiled at Raynard. "A kinsman of mine, in fact." Raynard stared in disbelief at the massive Daeron and the small Howland.
"Very distant, of course," added Howland with a smile.
"Oh, yes," agreed Daeron with a chuckle. He glanced at Raynard. "We came across each other on our day's travels, and decided to travel together for a little while."
"Hmmph," muttered Raynard, as they walked by. "You are fortunate Septon Luceon isn't here."
"We are all fortunate our brother Luceon isn't here," replied Daeron levelly. "Including our brother Luceon. All of us should pray thanks for our deliverance." Raynard shook his head and began to pace away from them, something the group's own walking made happen even quicker. Urri turned to Daeron.
"He doesn't seem happy to be here," noted Urri.
"Raynard misses King's Landing," said Daeron. "Not all my brothers share my ability to find matters to occupy us in our travel to the Starry Sept." A woman darted by, covered only by a sheet, and carrying a jug of wine in her arms. Daeron sighed. "And others have… different methods of occupying themselves."
A burly man bounded out after the woman. He was at least dressed, but only in a nightshirt. "Ahh ha, my pretty," he declared. "You see you cannot esc…" He froze as he saw Daeron. "Ahh. Septon Daeron…" He fidgeted awkwardly before the older man.
"Septon Ollidor, my brother," said Daeron smoothly. He glanced briefly at the woman. "You have company, I see."
Ollidor coughed. "Ahh, yes, you see…"
A fat, short man slouched out of a tent, almost entirely naked, but thankfully covering his privates with a hat. "Ahh, Olly," he said with a yawn. "Have you got the wine from Doll? Polly is…" The man froze as he saw Septon Daeron there, and began to awkwardly shift his feet. "Ahh…"
"Septon Torbert," said Daeron calmly. "I should have expected you to be taking part in this merry little party as well." A slightly chubby woman peeked out of the tent. Daeron pinched the bridge of his nose. "May I ask what has brought on this… revelry?"
Torbert gulped and secured the cap to his groin while Ollidor continued to shift about nervously. "It… we were… A pair of… pilgrims came to us for guidance and… well… then…"
Daeron rolled his eyes. "Yes, I see, and the pair of you were filled with such holy zeal that you simply lost control, and forgot that you were members of the Most Devout on a pilgrimage of your own with His High Holiness to the Starry Sept."
Torbert coughed. "Uhh, that is… you see… you are being…"
"My brother, please get some clothes on," said Daeron with a sigh. "This conversation continues to the embarrassment of us both." Torbert scuttled back into the tent, while the second woman left it. She was wearing a shift, Ned noted, and nothing else. "And I kindly ask your… companions to leave this place."
The first woman looked at Daeron apologetically. "We… we meant no harm, sir… that is to say, Your Holiness, no your…."
Daeron smiled at her. "I am not the High Septon, my child. You may simply call me 'Septon Daeron' and I am satisfied." He leaned forward, to bring his eyes level with hers. "Now, what am I to call you?"
"I'm… I'm Doll, septon," she said nervously, adjusting the sheet. "It… it is short for Dorcas." She bit her lip. "Some at the Peach call me 'Sweet Doll'..."
"Well, I shall call you Dorcas," said Daeron. "If you do not mind." Doll gave a nervous little nod, as the chubby girl ambled to her side. "Now, if you and…"
"Polly," said the chubby girl. "It is short of 'Polyna', but you can call me 'Polly'."
"I will remember that, Polly," said Daeron. "Now, if the pair of you would be so kind as to return to the Peach…"
"We was promised a silver stag each," said Polly, her hands on her hips.
"And you shall have it," said Daeron, smiling at her.
Polly nodded, while Doll darted back into the tent. "That's fair."
"The Father asks all His children to be just, and to give to others what they are owed," replied Daeron. Doll rushed back out of the tent, pulling herself into a shift like Polly's. Ned glanced away, and noted most of his fellows were doing the same, though Urri and Theo seemed to be appreciating the view. Daeron however looked at both the young women without a hint of either shame or desire, handing them their coins. "So, that should settle things between us," he said. He considered things for a moment. "If either of you have any need of aid in the future, out of the Peach, the Old Sept… on the outskirts of town…"
"Oh, that," laughed Polly. "We all know about that. The old septon there, he handles funerals and the like for the Peach. Only septon in all Stoney Sept who will have anything to do with us." She snorted. "Well, that way at least."
"He's very nice," added Doll.
"He is," agreed Daeron. "And I leave you in his capable hands. And know, Polly, Dorcas, you shall be in my prayers."
Doll glanced at him. "Could you pray for Miss Tansy? And Mistress Moll? She… she's gone down to Tumbleton, you see…" She offered him the coin he had just handed her. "I… I could…"
Daeron pressed the coin into her hand. "There is no need. I shall pray for them, and for the pair of you with no cost. Go with the Gods, my children. Go with the Gods."
Ollidor glanced at Daeron nervously as the women headed away. "What of us? That is… Torbert and…"
Daeron arched one heavy black eyebrow. "Surely my brothers, you can pray for yourselves?" He glanced at Eddard and the others, and gestured for them to follow him. "My apologies for this… distraction. My duties to the Faith… are often unusual."
Ser Gerart coughed. "You seemed to handle that with… great calm…"
"As I am human, nothing human is alien to me, and nothing human disgusts me, save cruelty," replied the septon. "My brothers… are not bad men, I would argue. They are… simply weak in some matters. And I have my own weaknesses, and remember them, and thus I… make an effort for charity." He chuckled sadly, and patted his belly. "Truth be told, I rather think those affected by weakness would make a far worse account than those affected by theirs. If it were to happen, the ghosts of countless lampreys would arise, to accuse me."
"And… you do not think it is a major issue," muttered Ser Gerart. "The Most Devout… behaving in such a manner…?"
"I would hardly say I am pleased with it," replied Daeron. "It would be far more pleasing to me if the Most Devout were filled with pious souls who lived lives of perfect chastity as they sang the glories to the Seven. But it has never been that. And sometimes…" He shut his eyes. "Blessed Baelor chose two High Septons, and his choices were… unfortunate, and still spoken of with a certain measure of scorn, for all they were Shepherds of the Faithful. And yet… both of them were virtuous and kind and guided by the light of the Seven in all things. That young boy he chose sent himself to the grave trying and failing to pray Baelor out of it. And his successor… was like myself, Bearer of the Purse, prior to his elevation. He finished the Great Sept, he managed to reshape Baelor's ideas of caring for the poor of King's Landing into something more sustainable, he kept the peace between the Iron Throne and Dorne for his entire reign despite the efforts of Aegon the Unworthy. Great acts, good acts." The man sighed. "And yet, he was a lover of pleasure who built himself mansions with the Faith's coffers. The great statues of the Seven that so many kneel before were modeled after his mistresses and his bastard children. He committed naked bribery to gain his election, and… there are darker rumors as to his ascension. Very dark rumors indeed." He turned to the others. "What am I to take away from this man? What lesson am I to learn?"
There was a silence for a moment. "I… I am not of your faith," said Howland at last, "and so make of my opinion what you will, but it seems to me that surely, surely there is some middle distance for it between good, holy men who can accomplish nothing of worth and wicked, bad men who can accomplish a great deal?"
Daeron's face grew very grave. "I sometimes fear that the answer to that is 'no'," he muttered. But then he shook his head, and a smile appeared. "But no, no, that is the voice of despair. The voice of sin. You must surely be right, Lord Reed. You must be." The smile seemed to grow more fixed, and more forced to Ned's eyes.
"Septon Daeron!" came a woman's wail. "Septon Daeron!" A short, plump septa wearing a cloth-of-silver robe rushed up to them, panting.
"Sister Naerys," said Daeron. "Is all well?"
The woman shook her head as she recovered her breath. "It is the High Septon, Daeron," she said at last. "I was watching him and talking with him, like you told me to." Daeron nodded. "And we saw a bird. I thought it was a bluebird, but His High Holiness thought it was a blackbird. Well, I said it just looked black because of the distance and the dark, but His High Holiness said that the beak was all wrong, and he used to see both of them when he went out riding as a young man, and he knew, and then he started talking about riding, and then he started crying."
She shifted nervously. She looks old enough to be Mother's age, if she had not…, thought Ned. He shook his head. She does not act like that, though.
"I'm sorry I made Uncle cry," she said, biting her lip.
"It is all right," said Daeron. "I know you did not intend to." He turned to the others. "I… I would appreciate it if you would accompany me. Your presence would be… a comfort to me."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. "Where you go, we will follow," said Howland at last. Daeron managed a grateful nod, and began to walk towards a very large tent.
Naerys eyed Howland in wonder. "He is very short," she said. She turned to Howland. "You are very short. You are shorter than me." She nodded, as if she had said something profound.
"He is a crannogman," said Daeron. "Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. A distant kinsman of mine. Or perhaps it should be said I am a distant kinsman of his. The Reeds are a greater family than the Langwards."
"My family's castle has been built to float, septon," said Howland quietly.
"My family's castle consists of a holdfast with five rooms, and three crumbling walls that surround it," said Daeron. "It was four once, but four hundred years ago, flooding during the Spring knocked one down. The most noteworthy structure we have is our sept, and if you knew about our sept, you would understand that is a bitter joke. There's a pilgrim's house nearby my great-grandfather built with help from the Faith. My siblings and I helped keep it clean between visits. I always loved that. It had feather beds. I thought it was a marvel, a place where you didn't sleep on straw." He frowned. "Not a mattress stuffed with straw. Just straw." He shook his head. "Apologies. You've no need to hear of my childhood."
There was another silence at that, and Ned could see it then, growing among his fellows, the conviction that this man hurt in some way that was horrible and profound, and that none of them knew how to fix. "It is no problem," he managed to say, as they came to a great pavilion made of cloth of gold, with the High Septon's banner hung out front.
Daeron smiled at him. "You lie very well, Lord Stark, when you have a good cause to," he said gently, before heading into the pavilion. Ned glanced at the others, wondering if he should follow, when Howland headed in after the septon. Ned took a deep breath and followed.
The smell was the first thing to hit him. Various heady incenses were burning in the tent, the scents blending in a way that was far from pleasing. Ned noticed four old septons were standing before a rather small altar than had been set up in the tent, and praying. Much of the incense was being burnt there, though Ned saw various censers hung over a bed, where a pair of septas kept adjusting them to make sure they stayed alight. All wore cloth-of-silver. Daeron nodded at the old men. "Septon Baelor. Septon Baelor. Septon Philidor. And Septon Baelor." Each of the old men nodded at him in turn, apparently knowing just who he referred to with each name, even when the same name was uttered.
Daeron turned towards the bed, passing the septas. "Septa Maegelle," he muttered softly. "Septa Unella. I thank you my sisters for… for…" He pushed forward to the bed, and then knelt beside it. "Your High Holiness," he said. "I am here."
A small form was huddled near the pillows, so small Ned almost mistook it for a bundle of blankets until it stirred and twisted towards Daeron. It was an old man, a little old man who brought to mind Old Nan back in Winterfell. Ned understood that members of the Faith saw the High Septon as the Seven embodied. And yet all he saw was a man, frail and old, and clearly heading towards the end of his life.
"Daeron?" croaked the old man. "Daeron, is that you?"
Daeron nodded. "It is, uncle. I… I hear you are… in sorrow."
The High Septon took a deep breath. "I… I was recalling the days when I would ride through the Kingswood with my friends. Lord Hayford. Lord Darklyn… That is, Denys' father. Old Lord Cargyll… that poor man. He lost so much, ere he died, and his line ended. And good Ser Belford of the Green. Ah, such a fine man…" Daeron winced at that name. "I blessed his daughter, you know that? Me, a member of the Most Devout, and him, a former hedge knight, but I did it. I gave the little babe her name. Emalyn, for the saint. A sweet sounding name." And then the old man gave a great sob. "And he killed her! He ruined her and he killed her!" Eddard did not need to know who this 'he' was. Even in the North, they'd heard of Lady Emalyn. "I prayed with him, I opened his soul to the Light of the Seven… and he got worse, Daeron! He got worse! Somehow, that twisted mind of his turned every instruction it had been given, every precept that had been uttered into an excuse for more awfulness!"
Daeron leaned forward and offered the old man his shoulder. "Your High Holiness," he whispered, his voice filled with concern. The High Septon grasped his nephew's bulky arm, and leaned on it, weeping frantically.
"I took her confession, right before they came for her," the old man muttered. "She worried that she was to be denied grace. I told her that the Seven could forgive all sins and that she was one more sinned against than a sinner. Who was she to resist a man with such power, a king, when he made demands? I told her her heart was righteous. I told her that time was over. I told her… I told her that she need no longer live in fear." The old man raised his head, to look Daeron in the face. "And just moments later, Aerys' men came into her chambers, and bore her away as I watched, and I did not see her again until I saw her killed." Daeron embraced the old man as the tears came. "And then he did it again! They were my kin, Daeron! My kin! And he killed them! All of them!"
"You pleaded for mercy," said Daeron.
"With letters, Daeron," moaned the old man. "As if I were enquiring after their health…"
"Your own health…" began Daeron.
"It does not matter, Daeron," said the old man. "I do not care what the risks were, I should have crawled from my bed and plead on my knees, even if it had killed me! Oh, why have I let myself grow so old, if the added years do nothing? I tell you, lad, it is not the times when I am… vague and… distracted that I dread. It is the times like now, when it all comes back to me, when I see the waste and the folly that has been my entire misspent life."
Daeron placed a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "You yourself used to speak to me of the limitations of your office. That a High Septon should know his duty is to be a beacon, not a holy sword, to direct, not to compel…"
The old man stared at Daeron bleakly. "If that is the case then why have a High Septon at all?" he cried bitterly. "Have a golden statue, or a great shining gate, or… or a dog for that matter!" He threw himself back in the bed. "Oh, Gods, Gods, Daeron, I am so weary! Weary and alone in the darkness. I cry to the Seven, but They do not answer, I do not hear the Blessed Voice, I seek solace and am not granted it…"
Daeron gripped his uncle gently but firmly, and pulled him up so their faces were level. "You are in spiritual agony, Your High Holiness, and that is your right, but you must remember your duty to the Faith." The old man gulped but managed a nod. "Now, listen to me, uncle. We will go to Oldtown, you will see the Starry Sept, and you will be at peace! Do you hear me, uncle?" The old man nodded again. "Hear and believe?" Another nod, this one firmer. "Good. Good. Now how would you like some soup?"
"Soup would be nice," murmured the old man. Daeron turned to the others and nodded. In a moment, Naerys approached with a small bowl.
"Here you go, nuncle," she whispered. "Nice soup, with barley and carrots. It will make you well!" She lifted the spoon to the old man's mouth. He sucked at it weakly then moved his head back.
"It's too hot," he moaned.
Naerys blew on the spoonful, then put it back in his mouth. "Better?" she asked.
The old man nodded. "Oh, yes. Thank you, Naerys. You are such a good, sweet child." The septa beamed at his praise, and set to blowing on another spoonful of soup. He turned to Daeron. "And you too, Daeron. My dear, dear nephew."
Daeron made a sweeping bow. "I live to serve the Faith, and yourself, High Holiness. So I was raised and taught. By you." The old man grinned and then gulped down another spoonful. Daeron turned and began to walk out of the tent. He nodded at Ned and the others as he left – they fell in behind him, and followed him out.
Daeron walked on with a feverish determination for a while. They kept a slight distance from him, watching him move on. Ned glanced at Ser Gerart, whose expression seemed pained. But not so pained as the septon, who moved as if in agony. As he reached the shore of the river, he suddenly knelt and simply sat there, gasping quietly. Eddard took a deep breath, and walked towards the man. "Septon Daeron," he asked gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you… well?"
Daeron turned and smiled at him, taking Ned's hand in his own. "As well as can be expected, Lord Stark." He rose, and then turned to the others. "My friends… I must… apologize for making you see… all that. For dragging you along on my ordeal. I… when we met, there were six of you. Seven companions. I… had hopes for… something. I do not know what. It is… the affliction of my profession. We look for meaning. For signs. Portents. Prophesies. For anything." He shut his eyes, and Ned saw the tears drip out of the edges. "Again… my apologies for… wasting your time."
There was silence for a moment, as they all looked at each other awkwardly, and then Martyn Cassel broke it. "No apologies are needed, Septon," he said. "It has been an… interesting afternoon."
Daeron nodded at that, his face tired and sad. "I thank you for your courtesies, Master Cassel." He glanced at Ned. "Lord Stark, I… I promised you a gift for your wife. If you will come with me, I will get it for you." Ned started to make a stumbling declaration of gratitude, when Gerart suddenly pushed forward and knelt before the septon.
"Your… your Excellency… before we part, I…" He paused, and looked at "You are a worthy man. A virtuous man, and being with you has… I appreciate this, and… I ask you for your blessing."
Daeron stared at Ser Gerart for a moment, then stepped forward. "Very well." He placed a hand on Gerart's shoulder. "May the Crone grant you wisdom. May the Mother grant you mercy. May the Maiden grant you love. May the Warrior grave you courage. May the Smith grant you skill. May the Father grant you justice. And may the Stranger grant you entrance to that paradise that awaits all true believers when they pass from this world, to the next." He pulled away and gave the others a slight smile. "As for the rest of you, I will merely wish you the best and hope that you go with your gods."
Howland nodded at this. "I would say the same to you… but there is no need to hope this, I am thinking." Daeron smiled at that, as if he was thankful. The others began to head away, but each of them paused to regard them as they left that place. Eddard waved at them, and then he and Daeron headed off to a tent nearby. They were silent for a moment, and then the septon spoke.
"That man was a father to me," said Daeron, and Eddard did not need to ask who he meant. "More a father than my own father. You should understand that."
Eddard blinked. "What do you…?"
Daeron seemed momentarily surprised but shook his head. "Never mind. Only know… when I was a youth, he shined like a torch. He is perhaps the most profoundly decent man I have ever known. I bathed his feet when he was anointed Shepherd to the Faithful. And it has ruined him." He shook his head. "Keep to your trees, Lord Stark. Keep to gods who ask for little and say little. I know it may seem shocking, considering my profession, but…" He sighed. "When I was a young man I wished to be a great saint. A miracle-worker." He chuckled. "Balerion reminded me… bless him… that one of the greatest miracle-workers the Faith has ever seen prayed constantly that the Seven release him from the gifts with which They had afflicted him. I should have remembered that. Should have…" He paused. "I've always felt a great deal of… sympathy with the Starks, you know. And not simply due to my blood. My circumstances, as a member of the Faith. Torrhen Stark was not the only king to kneel to the Targaryens when they came." A smile came forced to his face. "Some men called the High Septons 'the Spiritual Kings of the Andals' in those days. It never amounted to much, but it was something. And then it was gone." He snorted. "Ahh, but now I'm talking like a Thorne, claiming a grandeur that had long passed even ere the dragons came. Foolishness, Daeron. Foolishness. That man was no more a true king than whatever Thorne ruled over the Brambles then was… There is nothing between him and Torrhen."
"I would not say that," said Ned, as they entered the tent. "He made the same choice my ancestor made, for the same reason. The price for resisting… was not worth it."
"Decent, wise men, who prayed to their gods, and listened, both of them," said Daeron. "And what good did it do them?" He bit his lip. "I was not honest with you, Lord Stark. When first we met. I…" He took a deep breath. "I recently… mmm, prayed to the Seven for guidance, let us say. There is… more to it, but that is the foundation of it. I prayed, and since then… I have had dreams. Strange and terrible dreams." He looked at Eddard, and once again Ned was struck by the startling blueness of his eyes. "I saw you in one of them. You and I were standing on the steps of Baelor's Great Sept together, before a great multitude. We were both many years older, and I, alas, was many pounds fatter." Daeron bit his lip. "I spoke to them. Then you did. And then…" He shut his eyes, and took another deep breath.
"And then what?" asked Ned.
Daeron opened his eyes slowly and gave Ned a nervous smile. "I do not recall," he said, nervously. "I think the dream ended then." Eddard nodded, vaguely certain the man was lying. "It was a strange dream. I knew things in it that… that were nonsense. Do not ask me what they were. Half of it faded on the waking." He shook his head. "And I've had other ones. Grimmer ones. I keep having a dream where I am the High Septon and the poor upbraid me for my lack of charity. They topple me from my litter, and they beg me for sustenance." He winced. "And then… they take it of me."
Ned stared at him, uncertain of what he should say now. "Perhaps… sir, your Gods are telling you that… when it is needed, you will provide to your people…"
"Perhaps," said Daeron, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Night after night, I keep dreaming that. I do not wake when you'd think I would. It goes on and on, that dream does…" He shook his head. "I am sorry. I am burdening you with worries and fears. You, who have your own…"
Daeron looked at him fixedly again. Ned was prepared to tell him to not worry about it, that all was fine, but all at once it struck him that he was miles and miles from his home, which he had not seen for months upon months… was it… was it stretching on to years now? That he had not seen his brother in all that time. That he had not seen his sister for longer, and did not know if she was alive or dead. That he had not seen his wife for weeks. That his father was dead, and his mother was dead longer, and he was the Lord of Winterfell, him, who had never supposed to be that, had never supposed to be anything…
Ned realized he was kneeling on the ground, weeping. The septon's hands were on his shoulders. "Lord Stark," said Daeron gently. "Lord Stark, what is wrong?"
"I… it is nothing," said Ned, and he sniffled, and he felt like a little boy, a silly little boy. "Do… I am sorry… sorry for…"
Daeron smiled and suddenly, Ned was reminded of Old Nan, for some strange reason. "Lord Stark," he said, "do you not recall what I said? I am human, and nothing human is alien to me, and nothing human disgusts me, save cruelty. Unburden yourself to me. I will not speak of it and I think it will do you good."
"I… I miss my home," said Ned. "I miss my kin. And I worry… that I will never return. I have a son. A son that… he should have been my brother's son, but now he is mine and I fear I will die here, and he will never know me, and I will be nothing to him, a name, and I will never see my brother again, and I will never see my sister again and I will…" The tears were falling fast now, well beyond his ability to control.
"You poor, poor boy," said Septon Daeron. "Burdens have been placed on you, Lord Stark, and you blame yourself for feeling the weight of them." He shook his head. "Do not do this. It is natural. It is how we are made, all of us. We are not creatures of stone or wood, but of flesh. That is our glory, Lord Stark. That we feel." He patted Ned's shoulder. "You are a kindly man. And that is good. It is… I have come to believe it is the finest virtue. All other virtues, faith, courage, even love, they may be turned to evil. But kindness… evil cannot corrupt it. At worst, it can only act against it." His face grew pained. "Render it impotent. And yet it remains itself, even then."
Ned felt himself calming. "I… I thank you, sir. For your kindness." He wiped his face on his sleeve. "Given to me, a man not of your faith."
"My duties are to all men, Lord Stark," said Daeron.
"These fears… they steal on me, sometimes," continued Ned.
Daeron looked him in the eye. "Listen to me, and listen well. You will live, Eddard Stark. You will survive all this, you will go to Winterfell once again, you will see your kin, you will see your wife, and you will see your son, and likely have some more. And some daughters, on top of that." He nodded. "Yes. Yes, this I am sure of. There are many things I am not. But this I know."
It struck Ned that he shouldn't have found this comforting, and yet somehow he did. "Again… thank you, sir."
Daeron chuckled. "In truth, Lord Stark, I should thank you. It has been… many months, since I felt useful. And… I feel deeply, for your generation. We have failed you so completely, used you so cruelly and left you such a mess to clean up afterwards. Anything we who still remain may do to ease the burden is… too little. But still, better than we have done previously." He smiled. "Now, as to that gift." He walked to a trunk near his bed, and opened it, producing a small set of books. "The Seven Holy Books. From The Seven-Pointed Star to The Benedictions and Lamentations of Hugor of the Hill. All copied by His High Holiness in… better times. With, alas, some commentary from a young nephew of his who fancies himself a scholar and man of insight in his weaker moments." He shrugged. "I doubt my writings will prove too distracting to your wife. I… Yes, you will likely need to be on the move soon, so I will send them to Riverrun for you." He shrugged.
"I… thank you, sir," said Eddard. His hand went to his coinpurse. "I… I was told…"
Daeron shook his head. "Do not think of it, Lord Stark." He smiled deeply. "As I said, this is a gift. From one First Man to another."
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