Chapter 255: A Visit to Harrenhal
The golden morning light spread like a thin veil over Harrenhal's towering, grim walls. The ancient castle's stone blocks seemed to groan under the weight of centuries, giving off a cold, hard grey-black gleam in the dawn.
Wild grass grew thick around Harrenhal's base. A few withered trees stretched their crooked branches, whimpering in the breeze.
Beneath the walls, Archbishop Clare and his escort stood in orderly ranks. Their metal helmets glinted coldly in the sunlight as the soldiers gripped their spears, their expressions solemn.
A scout galloped up and reined in sharply before Archbishop Clare. The horse reared, letting out a whinny.
The scout dismounted and reported loudly: "Your Grace! Harrenhal's gates are barred tight. No sign of opening!"
Archbishop Clare narrowed his eyes slightly. He raised a hand to bid the scout rise, then swept his gaze across the seemingly impregnable fortress before him. His voice was steady. "Captain Jeremiah, sound the Church's horn."
Captain Jeremiah gripped his horn, drew a deep breath, and blew hard. The note rang out sharp and piercing, cutting through Harrenhal's towering walls and echoing endlessly within and without.
Before long, a figure appeared on the battlements. It was Ser Bonifer Hastwyck. He wore a chainmail hauberk and an iron helm. His expression was tired, but it still carried an air of authority.
"Archbishop Clare—what are you doing here?" His voice came down from the wall, laced with surprise and confusion.
Archbishop Clare offered a gentle smile, one that seemed to dispel the gloom around him. "It is the will of the gods." His tone was light. "Won't you invite me in? It is a rare thing to meet an old friend in this troubled land."
Ser Bonifer frowned at the guards behind Archbishop Clare—men in black heavy coats. Hesitation flickered in his eyes.
It had been men wearing the same uniform as these guards who had routed the soldiers he sent to forage for grain, sending them fleeing back battered. They were the reason he was now trapped in this dark, damp, cursed castle of Harrenhal.
Inside the castle, the smell of mold hung in the air. Moss crawled up the walls. Rats scurried in the corners.
But Archbishop Clare was an old friend. And Bonifer truly needed a proper channel to negotiate with these unidentified armed men outside.
He thought for a moment, then ordered his men to lower a basket. "Your Grace, I am sorry, but I dare not open the gates. If you trust me, please get into the basket."
"Brother Clare—he clearly does not trust you. Perhaps we should forget it." Captain Jeremiah stepped forward, his voice low with concern.
Since the night before, when Archbishop Clare had awakened Solar Grace in the initiation ceremony presided over by the Lightbringer himself, Jeremiah had truly come to see him as a brother. Now, seeing how the other side was acting, he hurried to counsel against it. "We can report their attitude back to the Lightbringer. He will not mind."
Archbishop Clare shook his head slowly. His gaze was steady and calm. "There is no need. I know Ser Bonifer—he is a man of good faith and honor. If he has invited me in, he will not harm me. Let me try. If he truly means treachery, it is better that I die alone than that our brothers fall."
In the history of the Andal conquest of Westeros, many servants of the Seven had died on the battlefield. That was why the Faith, despite never displaying supernatural power, had sustained itself for so long south of the Neck.
Seeing that Archbishop Clare had made up his mind, Jeremiah stepped back reluctantly, his face full of worry. Archbishop Clare lifted his grey wool robe and climbed into the basket with awkward, careful movements.
Soon, the basket began to rise. As it climbed higher and higher, Archbishop Clare's heartbeat quickened despite himself.
He had awakened the power of the Light, but he was still unfamiliar with how to use it. In the memories that came with the awakening, there seemed to be mention of a spell called Levitation, but it required a feather as a component. He did not have one on him.
He gripped the basket's edge tightly, his knuckles white as he watched the ground fall farther away. He silently regretted his haste. He could have waited a moment, gotten a feather, and done this properly.
But soon the basket reached the battlements. Ser Bonifer Hastwyck was waiting for him, a complicated look on his face. "Your Grace, it has been a long time since King's Landing."
"Indeed it has. May the Seven bless you." Brother Clare smiled back.
"Come. Let us talk in the tower." Ser Bonifer turned and led Brother Clare toward the tower.
The walls of Harren the Black were immensely thick. Archbishop Clare followed Ser Bonifer past a dozen murder holes. They loomed darkly, like so many mouths waiting to devour life. Finally, sunlight burst forth—they had reached the castle's inner courtyard.
The hard-packed earth was overgrown with weeds. The bloodstained ground was thick with flies, their buzzing ceaseless. The air carried a nauseating smell of blood and rot.
A dozen of Ser Bonifer's men stood on the tower above, watching them. They all wore devout expressions, their lips pressed tight. Their eyes spoke of loyalty and reverence for Ser Bonifer.
Only such men had any future by Ser Bonifer's side. When he introduced them to the archbishop from King's Landing, the warriors knelt in unison, moving as one, and bowed respectfully to the archbishop.
"Rise, my children. Worship the gods with a pious heart, but do not worship me. I am a mortal, just as you are." Brother Clare spoke kindly.
"The Church is the gods' agent on earth. To honor its emissary is to honor the gods themselves," Ser Bonifer said.
But the Acting Castellan of Harrenhal had serious matters to discuss with the archbishop. He dispensed with further ceremony and soon led him to the tower's Lord's solar.
The Tower of Burning Kings was the tallest and largest in Harrenhal. Its original name had been lost when Harren the Black died during the Conquest.
When Tywin Lannister held the castle, he had lived in this tower. When Roose Bolton took it with the northern men, he had also stayed here.
And now, this lord's chamber belonged to Ser Bonifer Hastwyck.
Inside the solar, the furnishings were simple but dignified. A few ancient maps hung on the walls. A desk was piled high with documents and books.
"The Tower of Burning Kings. Not the most auspicious name. Did you not think of moving to another tower?" the archbishop asked with a teasing smile after sitting down in the lord's solar.
"Ha. What does it matter? The Tower of Burning Kings burns kings. I am not even a proper lord. How could it burn me?" Ser Bonifer laughed heartily, though a hint of helplessness passed through his eyes.
"True. But I am curious—why did you become the Acting Castellan? What did the Kingslayer promise you, to make you wade into this swamp?" Archbishop Clare's gaze sharpened, fixed on Ser Bonifer.
"It was not Ser Jaime. It was Queen Cersei. She believed Littlefinger had no interest in returning to rule this ruin. So she sent me. She said that if I did well, I might become a true lord. And even if I never became one, whoever took over would have to pay me a generous ransom for the castle. You know I have no wealth of my own. I have these hundred warriors to feed. I had to find a way to leave these lads with a future." Ser Bonifer sighed wearily, his face etched with exhaustion.
"So, in the end, Queen Cersei promised you no real reward?" Archbishop Clare pressed.
"Indeed."
Ser Bonifer's voice dropped.
"Ha. Queen Cersei. The queen's thoughts are always peculiar. She seems to believe everyone should be honored to serve her for nothing." Clare let out a dry laugh, one tinged with mockery. Then he continued, "But she has done one good thing."
"Of course. I am still better than the Mountain," Ser Bonifer said with a wry smile.
"No. I do not mean you." Archbishop Clare shook his head.
"Then whom do you mean?" Ser Bonifer asked, puzzled.
"Are you aware of the new High Septon?" Archbishop Clare smiled mysteriously.
"The new High Septon? I left King's Landing with Ser Jaime before the election was held. I only learned recently, from Ser Lancel Lannister passing through, that a friar called the High Sparrow had been chosen. But I have had no chance to meet him. As you can see, Harrenhal has no maester who knows how to raise ravens. The news here is terribly slow." Ser Bonifer shrugged helplessly.
"Yes. The Church has not only elected a new High Septon, but has also petitioned the Queen to restore the Faith's right to bear arms, in exchange for forgiving the Iron Throne's debts. In King's Landing, the Warrior's Sons have begun rebuilding under Ser Theodore. The Poor Fellows are arming themselves across the Riverlands. And the Order of the Golden Dawn, based at St. Maur's Monastery, has been formally sanctioned as the Faith's third knightly order." Archbishop Clare's tone was grave.
"They are truly men of the Faith?" Ser Bonifer frowned, the lines on his forehead deepening like gullies. "But—"
"But what?" Archbishop Clare pressed.
"When my men interrogated them, they claimed to follow the Path of Light. And those villagers and Lord Dondarrion's Brotherhood Without Banners are thick as thieves, giving them support on the sly. Are they not heretics of the Lord of Light?" Ser Bonifer's eyes were wary and suspicious.
Archbishop Clare's heart tightened. His expression turned stern. "Interrogated? You arrested men who follow the Light?"
"I arrested a few friars." Ser Bonifer sounded uneasy.
"Did you put them to torture?" The archbishop's voice was ice-cold.
Ser Bonifer swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I thought they were apostates—"
"Did you torture them or not?" Archbishop Clare demanded again.
"I did. But they are still alive." Ser Bonifer's voice faded.
The archbishop let out a breath. But his expression remained severe. "Ser Bonifer, you may be the Acting Castellan of Harrenhal, but you are not a man of the Faith. Temporal matters are yours. Spiritual matters are not within your jurisdiction. As long as these friars have not committed murder, arson, or broken the king's laws, you have no right to arrest them."
"But they preach heresy—" Ser Bonifer tried to argue.
"Whether something is heresy is a matter for the High Septon to decide, according to the commandment of the gods." Archbishop Clare cut him off without mercy.
He hesitated for a moment, then decided to lay his cards on the table. It was only a matter of days sooner or later.
"Bonifer, my old friend. You saw the corruption and decay of the Faith with your own eyes, did you not?"
Ser Bonifer did not answer. He lowered his head. A flicker of regret and helplessness passed through his eyes. His silence gave Archbishop Clare his answer.
"When I was young, I once hoped that after rising to a high position, I could reform the Faith from the top down. Restore it to a pure devotion. So I worked day after day, compromising my conscience and wallowing in the mud with those fat, corrupt swine.
"I told myself it was the price of setting things right. But not until I became an archbishop, and participated in three conclaves for the High Septon's election, did I realize that under the current system, the Faith's corruption was beyond repair.
"Just when I was so desperate I wanted to take my own life to atone for my past sins, I met the new High Septon. That day, he was in the refugee camp outside the Great Sept of Baelor, treating the sick and injured among the refugees flooding into King's Landing from the Riverlands. And the High Septon explained the Path of Light to me. He told me that the Church could not continue as it was.
"Under the rule of military aristocrats led by the king, the Church could never speak for the common faithful. Without strong faith as a restraint, the court, the Church, and even the Citadel would only become tools for one family or another to fight for power. Only by overthrowing the current system and building a political order centered on the Faith of the Seven could the true teachings of the gods spread across the world.
"That day, I saw the Light. Bonifer, the old Church was destroyed the day the new High Septon ascended. Now the brothers who share my vision are spreading out across the realm, bringing the Church's new message to those who could not come to King's Landing." Archbishop Clare spoke with mounting fervor, his eyes burning with conviction.
Ser Bonifer's eyes grew wary. He leaned back slightly, as if bracing himself. "You have fallen to heresy as well?"
"Have you never considered that the old Church was the one that strayed from the path? Have you never noticed that the old gods show signs in the North, that the so-called Lord of Light can conjure flames on a sword, but our Faith of the Seven, which stretches south of the Neck, which has a sept in every village—have you ever seen a miracle? Have you ever asked yourself why?" Archbishop Clare leaned forward, his gaze burning into Ser Bonifer.
"Speak. I am listening." Ser Bonifer crossed his arms, his expression still skeptical.
"Because the old Church lost its way. They were abandoned by the gods long ago. That is why no matter how devoutly the friars prayed, they could never call down divine grace." Archbishop Clare's voice was firm.
"But the friars told me the gods were testing us, filling our hearts with strength to overcome all evil," Ser Bonifer countered.
"Ha." Archbishop Clare smiled. "A poor minor lord never says he cannot afford meat. He only says he has eaten too much lately."
Ser Bonifer could not help but laugh. He had done the same himself. But he shook his head. "What you are saying is too incredible. I am sorry, but even though you are an archbishop, I find it hard to believe."
"It does not matter. Time will prove everything." Clare nodded. "But Bonifer, even from a purely military standpoint, you cannot now defeat the army of a thousand men the Lightbringer has brought outside your walls."
"A thousand men is not so many. The Warrior and his courage are with us. Lord Darry nearby has Ser Lancel's garrison. Lord Randyll holds Maidenpool. If the three forces join, they can sweep away the bandits and ruffians in this region. Once peace is restored, the Seven will guide the faithful back to their villages. They will sow, till, and rebuild their homes." Ser Bonifer's eyes were resolute, his voice full of confidence.
"With all due respect, the faithful of the Seven have already returned to their homes in the lands around Harrenhal. They have been living quite comfortably under the Order of the Golden Dawn's rule. It was only when you sent soldiers to harass them that they had trouble." Archbishop Clare spoke bluntly.
"That is a disguise. The Seven-Pointed Star says that evil always comes to us disguised as good. A wise man must learn to tell the difference." Ser Bonifer held his ground.
"The Seven-Pointed Star also says that when the signs appear, devout followers must seize them in time, so that they may bathe in divine grace." Archbishop Clare struck back.
Ser Bonifer seemed to waver. He traced the seven-pointed star over his chest with his right hand. Pain and confusion showed on his face. "Ah, may the Crone grant me wisdom, so that I may tell justice from evil."
Justice and evil? Who was just, and who was evil? Sensing Ser Bonifer's inner resistance, Archbishop Clare decided to ease the pressure.
"Ser Bonifer, it is nearly midday. Will you not offer me lunch?"
"Of course." Ser Bonifer spoke with relief. He called for servants to prepare the meal.
Soon, servants brought lunch. But it was clear that Harrenhal's supplies were running low. There was still bread and smoked meat, but no fresh vegetables. The bread was a little hard. The smoked meat had a strong, salty tang.
After making small talk about the weather, Archbishop Clare decided to begin with the moves of the true lord of Harrenhal, Petyr Baelish.
"Ser Bonifer, when you were young, you performed well at the tourney grounds?"
"That was long ago. Once I realized tourneys were just empty vanity, I stopped participating." Ser Bonifer's eyes flickered with memory, then grew dim.
"Indeed. But young knights must always find ways to make their names. Half a moon ago, I was at the Gates of the Moon in the Vale, observing the tourney Lord Petyr Baelish hosted." Archbishop Clare spoke slowly, his eyes carrying deeper meaning.
"Littlefinger?" Ser Bonifer asked in surprise, leaning forward involuntarily.
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