At first light on the following morning, Prince Baelon rode through the streets of King's Landing with Princess Helaena and Prince Aemond beside him. The city was only just stirring. Bakers drew open their shutters, and the bells of the septs tolled soft and solemn in the chill air.
Their destination rose pale and austere against the sky, its seven crystal towers catching the dawn. The Great Sept had not always stood as it did now. In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, a sept had crowned Rhaenys's Hill, the Sept of Remembrance. During the cruel reign of Maegor the Cruel, it had been burned and remade into a dragon's lair. Such was the fate of many things that defied House Targaryen.
The memory lingered in stone and smoke.
Inside, incense drifted thick as mist. Candles guttered before carved images of the Seven, and rows of septons and septas knelt in prayer.
"Your Grace," Baelon said.
He inclined his head toward septon Mattheus, septon of the Faith, who stood before the altar leading the morning devotions.
The old man was broad of frame and heavy in the belly, swathed in layered robes stitched with the seven-pointed star. His hair had gone the color of ash, and deep creases marked his face, catching the candlelight in their folds. He seemed carved from age itself, no younger than seventy.
Even in another life, Baelon reflected, such years would have commanded reverence.
Mattheus was no common septon.
In his youth, he had been among the Faith's most commanding voices. Some whispered that he descended from House Gardener, the ancient Kings of the Reach who had perished in their futile defiance of the Conquest. No true Gardener heir had survived the Field of Fire.
Now the Reach belonged to House Tyrell, once mere stewards to their former kings. Stewards raised high by dragonflame.
As a young man, Mattheus had served at the court of King Jaehaerys I. Yet he had openly condemned the king's marriage to his sister. Jaehaerys would suffer no slight against his queen. Mattheus had been commanded to hold his tongue or have it sewn shut.
His tongue remained, but his offices did not. He was stripped of rank and driven from King's Landing into exile.
His defiance earned him quiet admiration among the devout. Many believed he had dared speak truth before dragons.
When King Viserys later ascended the Iron Throne, Mattheus was permitted to return. In 54 AC, upon the death of the High Septon known scornfully as the Great Flatterer, the Faith was thrown into turmoil. Rivals vied fiercely for the crystal crown.
Mattheus led the first vote by a wide margin. Yet with each successive ballot, his support thinned. By the fourth, he had been overtaken by Septon Afin and denied the High Septon's seat.
Even so, none doubted he remained the second most powerful voice within the Faith.
Now he turned as Baelon approached, surprise flickering across his lined features.
"Prince Baelon. Princess Helaena. Prince Aemond." His brows lifted slightly. "What brings you to the sept? Does House Targaryen seek counsel from the Seven this morning?"
There was no accusation in his tone, yet neither was there warmth. It was no secret that the blood of Old Valyria did not kneel easily before the gods of Westeros.
Baelon smiled, faint and measured.
"I have come," he said, folding his hands before him, "to debate the doctrines of the Seven with Your Grace."
A hush rippled outward like a stone cast into still water.
Several septons straightened at once. One septa's fingers tightened around her prayer beads. Aemond's eye narrowed slightly, watching the room with open disdain, while Helaena tilted her head as though listening to some distant melody only she could hear.
Mattheus regarded Baelon for a long moment. His gaze was sharp despite his years.
"A debate," he repeated softly.
He descended the altar steps with deliberate care, his robes whispering across the marble floor. When he reached the final step, he stopped before Baelon and searched his face.
"In matters of doctrine?"
"In matters of truth," Baelon replied. His voice was calm, but his violet eyes did not waver.
Murmurs stirred among the clergy. Fear of dragons was one thing. Scripture was another. Here, they believed themselves unassailable.
At last Mattheus gave a low chuckle, stroking his beard.
"Very well," he said. "The Faith has ever upheld debate as a means to reveal wisdom and expose folly." His gaze sharpened. "Let us see which this proves to be."
He turned, lifting his hand toward the gathered septons.
"Since we are assembled in prayer already, we shall begin at once."
The candles flickered as if stirred by unseen wings.
Debate had long been an honored tradition within the Faith, a measured contest of scripture and reason by which disputes were settled and authority affirmed.
For a dragon prince who had never professed devotion to the Seven to challenge them openly was perilously close to insult. Not shouted blasphemy, but something colder. A public testing.
Several septons exchanged glances. One young acolyte's jaw tightened as though already forming rebuttals. They could not match a dragon in fire, but in doctrine they believed themselves armed.
Prince Baelon inclined his head with deliberate courtesy.
"Let us begin with something simple," he said. "The Seven-Pointed Star."
A faint stir passed through the chamber.
The Seven-Pointed Star was the heart of the Faith, its verses recited from Oldtown to the Wall. To question it was no small undertaking.
"Very well, Your Highness," Mattheus replied evenly. His hands folded within his sleeves, though his eyes remained keen. "Ask what you will."
He knew the holy text by heart. All septons did. In truth, he had already resolved to tread carefully. A prince embarrassed before witnesses might forgive a slight from a lord. From the Faith, never.
Survival required more than piety. It required prudence.
The Faith's own history bore the scars of miscalculation.
Once, they had roused the realm in righteous fury. The Faith Militant had marched beneath the seven-pointed star. The Poor Fellows and the Warrior's Sons had filled the roads with steel and zeal.
They had shaken Westeros.
They had nearly destroyed themselves.
Septs burned. Treasuries emptied. Thousands of brothers and sisters put to the sword. Had the struggle continued, the Faith might have been driven underground like rats beneath the cobbles of King's Landing.
So they had bent.
They had accepted the peace offered by King Jaehaerys I. They had laid down arms. Not from mercy but from necessity.
Baelon's voice carried clearly beneath the vaulted ceiling.
"The Seven-Pointed Star records that Hugor of the Hill was protected by the Seven."
He did not glance down. He needed no scroll.
"The Father drew down seven stars and forged them into a crown, placing it upon Hugor's brow. The Maiden brought forth a woman of surpassing beauty, whom Hugor took to wife as his queen. The Mother blessed her womb with fruitfulness. The Crone granted her the gift of prophecy."
Aemond stood rigid beside him, chin lifted, pale hair catching the candlelight. Helaena's fingers traced idle patterns along the sleeve of her gown, her gaze distant yet attentive.
"The Warrior gave Hugor forty-four mighty sons," Baelon continued. "The Smith forged for each a suit of shining steel."
"And thus Hugor became the first King of the Andals, ruling from the hills of Andalos to the southern plains, founding the first Andal kingdom beneath the blessing of the Seven."
Silence followed his recitation.
Baelon turned his gaze upon Matthäus.
"Have I spoken it correctly?"
The old Septon studied him for a long moment. There was no hesitation in the prince's voice, no misstep in the words.
"Yes," Mattheus said at last, inclining his head. "You have recited it faithfully."
The passage Baelon had chosen was among the most oft-quoted in sermons across the realm, invoked whenever the Faith spoke of divine favor and rightful kingship. Every septon present could have finished it from memory.
The question was no longer whether the prince understood the text.
It was why he had begun there.
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