"Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang!"
The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled seven times, the sound spreading into the ears of everyone in King's Landing.
The great bell only rang seven times when the most momentous events occurred: the passing of an old king, or the coronation of a new one.
In the past, many lived their entire lives without hearing the sept's sevenfold chime even once. Yet in recent years, the people of King's Landing had heard it once, twice, or even three times a year.
Still, no one ever grew weary of it. Each time the bell tolled, it meant something great had happened, and there would be spectacle to witness.
In these years of howling northern winds and ceaseless snow, spectacle had become the only pursuit for many.
Or rather, the laughter found in those moments of excitement had become the only meaning left in their lives.
The High Septon had warned that the White Walkers were real, that the Long Night was coming, and so the people of King's Landing no longer dared hope to live to see another summer of rich harvests and sweet fruit.
"Hurry, hurry to the Great Sept! The whore queen's trial by combat is about to begin. His Holiness himself will face the mysterious white knight, Ser Robert Strong.
By the Seven, never in history has the High Septon stood in for the gods and fought in trial by combat!" Strick from Flea Bottom pulled his ragged sheepskin tighter around him, his breath puffing white into the frigid air.
"Never in history has a queen bared her arse before the whole city either!" The butcher's face showed seven parts nostalgia and three parts obsession as he chuckled.
"Hush—may the Others freeze that foul mouth of yours!"
Strick's broad face tightened in alarm as he glanced all around. Only when he saw no gold cloaks nearby did he breathe out in relief and hiss at the bearded butcher:
"Are you trying to get yourself killed?
Those corpses sent to our shop the other week, the ones you handled yourself—didn't you recognize them?
Every one of them was some poor soul who mocked or insulted the whore queen during her walk of atonement.
Do you want to return to the Brown Soup Shop in a different way?"
"Plenty of people have spoken out. The whore queen can't have her white knight kill the whole city, can she?" the butcher muttered.
"You think she wouldn't if she could? If it were possible, that bitch wouldn't mind killing every last one of us who saw her shame!
It's been months since that day, yet still people die by Ser Robert Strong's hand every single day. That means her anger hasn't cooled one bit." Strick sneered coldly.
"Ah, I'm more worried about the High Sparrow," the bearded man sighed. "So many who lost friends and kin have lain in wait for that Robert in the alleys.
At the worst of it, nearly ten attacked him at once, and still Ser Robert returned unharmed to the Red Keep."
"Who do you think Robert Strong really is?" asked a pock-marked youth, about Aegon's age, shrinking his neck into his collar.
"Some monster who came from nowhere. I'd wager even Barristan the Bold couldn't best him," the butcher said, shaking his head.
"I'm not even sure he's human," Strick whispered. "I've heard no one has ever seen Robert Strong eat or drink—or even relieve himself."
The butcher shivered. "Then he must be either a god, or a demon," he muttered.
Talking as they went, the three men reached the end of Silent Sister Street, climbed Visenya's Hill, and like countless others hurrying there, became drops of water merging into the sea of humanity.
At the bottom of the steps leading up to the sept, they were stopped by grey-clad sparrows armed with axes and rusty swords.
"I'm Strick, owner of the Brown Soup Shop in Flea Bottom, invited to witness the queen's trial by combat," Strick called out loudly.
The leader of the sparrows recognized him, gave a nod to his fellows, and opened a way through.
"You may enter. Your companions must remain outside."
At the Iron Gate, Strick paused on the steps to smooth his haystack hair and tug at his worn goatskin coat.
He looked at Lord Tarly in his splendid velvet as the noble entered through the Warrior's Gate, then looked down at the grease-stained patches on his own coat. For the first time, the old hand from King's Landing felt awkward.
The Great Sept had seven doors. The septons entered through the Father's Door, the septas through the Mother's Door, the Silent Sisters through the Stranger's Door.
The faithful could choose their own door according to their devotions.
Beyond the gates lay a long corridor, the Hall of Lamps.
Strick had come to the sept many times. Except for his first visit, never again had the colored glass globes hanging from the ceiling distracted him.
Passing through two more doors, he reached the sept's inner sanctum—the Hall of Prayer to the Seven.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors. The seven-sided walls each held vast stained glass windows, and the arched dome above was wrought of glass, gold, and crystal.
Beneath the wall opposite the entrance stood seven altars, each crammed with burning candles, their glow reflecting on the statues of the Seven rising from the back of a dragon.
Though he had seen it many times before, Strick still found the sight of the Seven riding dragons unsettling.
Yet he had to admit that compared to the earlier statues, these looked far more imposing, imbued with a holy vitality that he could not describe but truly felt.
It was as if the earlier statues had been nothing but carved wood, while these were the gods themselves made flesh in the world.
This was no illusion; many others felt the same.
So, like Lord Tarly beside him, Strick walked reverently to the statue of the Smith, knelt, and murmured a passage from The Book of the Smith.
Afterward, he rose in silence and made his way to the place reserved for representatives of the common folk.
The Great Sept of Baelor was as large as three side-by-side ball courts, enough to hold thousands of worshippers at prayer.
By now, two or three hundred had already arrived.
About thirty people were like Stryke, ordinary men with local prestige in the districts of King's Landing. The rest were nobles or representatives of noble houses.
As an old hand in King's Landing, Stryke knew every one of the commoner representatives.
He did not know the names of the nobles, but he recognized most of their sigils.
For example, just three meters away stood a maester with a bull's neck, a jaw like a paving stone, and two tufts of white hair jutting from his nostrils.
Though he wore the gray robes of the order and the long chain around his neck, the blood-red three-headed dragon pinned to his chest revealed his identity. He was from Dragonstone, a maester in service to the Targaryens.
After the seven archmaesters had paraded through the streets, maesters in their gray robes and chains had nearly sunk to the level of public disgrace.
Yet the moment anyone saw the three-headed dragon on his chest, they would greet him with the warmest smile and the most courteous words.
Stryke also offered him courtesy, bowing with a humble smile. "My lord, you were invited as well?"
"What is this about?" Marwyn frowned.
"I am the owner of the Brown Soup shop in Flea Bottom, better known as 'Immovable as Ten Thousand Gold Dragons' Stryke," the square-faced man said proudly.
"I only came to Dragonstone less than half a year ago. I do not know the notables of King's Landing well. Tell me, what does 'Immovable as Ten Thousand Gold Dragons' mean?"
Seeing that both the High Sparrow and Cersei had yet to appear, Marwyn had the patience to indulge the big man in conversation.
"Once, there was a knight as kind as the Mother, as lovely as a maiden, and as wise as the Crone. She entrusted me with a gold note worth twenty thousand dragons.
I felt not a hint of greed and handed it in full to the Faith.
She praised me as a true knight, 'Immovable as Ten Thousand Gold Dragons.' When the High Septon learned of it, he too agreed with her judgment." Stryke's face glowed red with pride as he spoke.
Marwyn's heart stirred, and a guess began to form. In this world, a beautiful female knight so lavish as to donate twenty thousand gold dragons could only be one person.
"Was the note drawn from the bank of the Faith? And was there a tall old knight at her side?"
"Eh? How did you know that?" Stryke asked in surprise.
"Heh." Marwyn bared teeth stained red by sourleaf, smiling with meaning.
"You don't mean…" Stryke was not stupid. His eyes widened as realization struck. "She was—"
Marwyn smiled and nodded.
"Awooo!" Stryke howled, thumping his chest and stomping his feet. "I'm a fool, a true fool!
Why, that was Ser Barristan himself. He even lifted his visor, and I still didn't recognize him—though I've seen him hundreds of times, over decades!"
"Hush, keep your voice down." Marwyn stepped back a few paces, pursing his lips and hissing the reminder through his nose.
"Uh…" Stryke finally realized his outburst.
When he lifted his head to look around, he saw that the other commoner representatives, like Marwyn, had quietly distanced themselves, while the nobles, who had already kept their distance, were pointing at him with disdainful eyes, as if to say: Look, this is what a peasant is.
One man, however, was an exception. The Earl of Tarly, who had entered with him, wore a face as rigid as a granite seal, stiff and formal, hesitating as he moved closer.
"What business do you have with me?" Marwyn felt some fondness toward this old acquaintance of the Dragon Queen.
"I had business… but now, it's gone."
Stryke sighed and explained, "Besides the gold note for twenty thousand dragons, the Dragon Queen also entrusted me with twenty gold dragons, instructing me to aid a group of orphans.
I kept my promise and spent it all to take in the children wandering the streets. Now my home shelters a hundred or two.
I can no longer support them, especially as more and more children keep joining.
So when I heard of the Dragon Queen's vow—that joining the Night's Watch earns two silver stags in wages, and those who survive the Long Night would receive fifty gold dragons—I thought perhaps I could send some of the older children with families to the Wall. That way they could feed themselves and send coin home to their siblings.
But I was unsure whether such a good thing could be true, so I meant to ask you.
Since I now know that 'Ser Keisha Alexander' is none other than the Dragon Queen, I need not doubt it anymore. I will arrange for a group to go to the Wall."
"Mm. They may be sent to Dragonstone, to join our fleet," Marwyn nodded.
"Many thanks." Stryke glanced behind the short, stout maester and said softly, "Lord Tarly seeks you."
With that, he stepped back a few paces, giving space for the two men.
"My lord, you wished to see me?" Marwyn began.
Lord Tarly's iron-hard face softened awkwardly, as though he meant to smile, yet his muscles refused to move.
"My son… Samwell of the Night's Watch… my thanks… for Dragonstone's care."
It was as if two souls were struggling within the lord, trying to speak in two voices, each with the same meaning but a different tone.
Marwyn, ever perceptive, stepped in. "My lord, Sam is a worthy brother of the Night's Watch. His courage has even won Her Majesty the Queen's recognition."
A trace of a genuine smile tugged at Tarly's lips, but it froze at once, hardening back into cold black iron.
"Hmph. You need not speak well of him, Archmaester Marwyn. He has shamed both the Night's Watch and House Tarly."
(End of Chapter)
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