Hugor was the first King of the Andals, the anointed figure around whom a wandering people gathered their faith and their future. In time, those same Andals would become the most numerous race upon the continent of Westeros.
In the present age, Westeros was home to three principal peoples: the First Men, the Andals, and the Rhoynar.
The First Men had been the earliest to set foot upon the continent. Tall, fierce, and tempered by ceaseless war, they once ruled from the Frostfangs to the shores of Dorne. Yet when the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea with steel in hand and the Seven upon their lips, the First Men were steadily driven back. Most of their descendants retreated beyond the Neck, where they endured as the ancient lords and hardy smallfolk of the North.
For that reason, among the Seven Kingdoms, only the North still kept faith with the Old Gods.
The Rhoynar came later. They hailed from the banks of the great river Rhoyne in Essos, a people shaped by sun and water. Slender of build, with smooth olive skin, dark hair, and deep-set eyes, they carried the warmth of their homeland in their blood.
One needed only to look to Dorne to see where that blood ran strongest in Westeros.
When the Valyrian dragonlords shattered the cities of the Rhoynar, Queen Nymeria led her people across the sea. They landed upon the Dornish shores and joined with the native lords, forging one realm from two. Thus Dorne entered the fold of the Seven Kingdoms.
To this day, House Martell styled its rulers Prince and Princess, preserving the Rhoynish custom in quiet defiance of Andal kings.
Aside from the North in its frozen vastness and Dorne beneath its burning sun, the rest of the realm largely claimed Andal descent. The Riverlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands all named themselves sons and daughters of the Andals.
Their blood might be mingled with that of the First Men or the Rhoynar. Yet identity, once embraced, shaped daily life more surely than distant ancestry.
They called themselves Andals.
"Indeed," Prince Baelon said, his voice mild as still water. "Hugor was the chosen of the Seven, the first man to witness their miracles. They granted him dominion in Essos and promised him the right to found kingdoms upon distant shores."
Septon Mattheus inclined his head. He had already conceded as much.
Prince Baelon's fingers drummed once upon the carved arm of his chair before stilling. His eyes never left the Septon's face.
"If that is so," he continued softly, "is Hugor not the earthly representative of the Seven? Was he not, in truth, divinely appointed?"
The question settled over the hall like falling snow.
Septon Mattheus felt his throat tighten. By doctrine, the answer should have come at once. Yes. Hugor of the Hill was sacred. The Faith had long enshrined him as the foundation of Andal belief. To deny his sanctity was to shake the pillars of the sept itself.
And yet the prince's smile was too calm.
Too certain.
Experience, earned through years at court, stirred uneasily within the Septon's breast. This was no idle inquiry. There was design here, though he could not yet discern its shape.
If he affirmed it too eagerly, he might step straight into a snare. If he denied it, the Faith itself would stand accused of falsehood.
Rather than answer, he turned his gaze toward the cluster of septons gathered nearby.
They stiffened at once beneath the weight of his look. Robed in crystal and cloth-of-silver, they drew themselves up, exchanging hurried whispers behind raised sleeves.
At last, one stepped forward, palms pressed together.
"Hugor, King of the Hills, was the first monarch to behold the miracles of the Seven," the septon declared. "His person is sacred. His authority was granted by divine will."
A murmur of assent followed. The Faith had long proclaimed Hugor as the Seven's chosen voice upon earth. There was no danger, they believed, in affirming what had been preached for centuries.
Prince Baelon's lips curved.
"Very well," he said, rising slowly from his seat. His cloak whispered against the stone as he faced them fully. "If the Faith acknowledges the sanctity of Hugor, then surely it must also honor his blood."
He let the silence stretch, watching their expressions falter.
"Princess Rhaenyra," he said at last, his tone sharpening, "descends from Hugor of the Hill through the ancient lines of the Andals. Does she not, therefore, merit the full support of the Faith of the Seven?"
"What?"
Septon Mattheus felt the trap snap shut.
The prince's gaze swept across the septons, bright and unyielding.
He had led them precisely where he wished.
The hall erupted in startled murmurs.
"Princess Rhaenyra? How could she share the blood of the Hill King?"
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was of the purest Valyrian stock. Silver-gold hair. Eyes like amethysts in candlelight. The blood of Old Valyria was plain in her very bearing. What claim could she possibly have to some ancient Andal king?
In Westeros, blood was no idle metaphor. It was inheritance. It was destiny.
Andals were Andals.
Valyrians were Valyrians.
"Why not?" Prince Baelon replied at once, his tone almost curious. "From where did the Andals first descend upon Westeros?"
A few voices answered hesitantly. "The Vale."
"Just so." Baelon inclined his head. "And among the Vale's heroes stands Ser Artys Arryn, the Falcon Knight."
He began to pace before them, slow, the Seven-Pointed Star glinting in his hand.
"Ser Artys was counted among the forty-four noble bloodlines said to descend from Hugor of the Hill. Of all the Andal houses, House Arryn was long held to preserve the purest strain of that sacred line."
He stopped and turned sharply.
"Princess Rhaenyra is the daughter of King Viserys and his first queen, Lady Aemma Arryn."
He let the name linger.
"The blood of Hugor flows in her veins. As does the blood of the dragon."
Baelon lifted the Seven-Pointed Star high. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows behind him, catching the crystal facets of the book's cover and casting shards of light across his face. For a moment, he seemed haloed in radiance.
"Within Princess Rhaenyra," he declared, voice ringing through the chamber, "is joined the most sacred Andal blood and the ancient fire of Valyria. Two exalted lineages, united in one."
Several septons blinked against the glare. Others stared at him as if seeing him anew. A few, almost unconsciously, began to nod.
Septon Mattheus felt his breath hitch in his throat.
Fools.
On its surface, the argument was elegant. Hugor's blood through House Arryn. The dragon's blood through House Targaryen. Joined in Rhaenyra.
A perfect union.
Yet beneath that polished surface lay nothing but smoke.
Who could prove that Artys Arryn had truly been the son of Hugor? The tale was legend, preserved in song and septon's sermon. And even if it were true, the Faith had never bound itself formally to such lineage with doctrine.
Faith was teaching and Power was reality.
Sacred stories belonged in illuminated manuscripts, not in the grasp of ambitious princes.
They called themselves servants of the Seven.
But it was not gods they served.
It was influence.
The Seven did not descend from the heavens to meddle in succession disputes.
Men did that well enough on their own.
"Heh." Mattheus forced a thin smile, folding his hands into his sleeves to hide their trembling. "Prince Baelon jests. It is true that House Arryn of the Vale descends from the Andals, but-"
"Oh?" Baelon cut in lightly, one brow lifting. "Then perhaps this is false?"
From within his robes, he drew forth a parchment sealed in white wax. The seven-pointed star was impressed deep and sharp.
He handed it to the nearest septon, who accepted it with uncertain fingers.
The script was clear. The seal was unmistakable.
It proclaimed that the lineage of House Arryn from Hugor of the Hill was acknowledged by the Faith. It bore the signature of the High Septon himself and the sacred seal of the Starry Sept in Oldtown.
Mattheus leaned forward.
Seven save us.
Had the High Septon truly affixed his name to this?
To affirm House Arryn's descent so boldly was no small thing. Such recognition edged dangerously close to proclaiming divine right through blood. Was the High Septon seeking to weave a kingdom of his own upon the bones of legend?
Around the hall, septons and silent brothers exchanged stricken glances. A murmur rippled outward, low and uneasy.
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