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SLW Chapter 90 : The Seven's Servant
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 22:51:47 +0000 UTCTHE GREAT SEPT OF BAELOR – KINGSLANDING
The last rays of the sun bled across the domes and spires of the Great Sept of Baelor, casting long, flickering shadows over its marble façade. Its massive doors stood closed, its square oddly quiet despite the usual bustle of the capital. Yet within that silence, a presence stirred.
Aeron stood before the Sept, cloaked in the shadows of twilight, his eyes aglow with that unnatural violet fire. He watched the steps in silence for a long moment before speaking, voice low and bitter:
“It’s coming from this place…” His gaze lifted toward the ornate dome above. “And based on the last few bastards I’ve slain, this temple this sept belongs to the worship of the Seven.”
His lips curled faintly in disdain.
“So I assume it has to be their Apostle.”
He reached into the air with a whisper of thought and the Mask of the Forgotten Faces shimmered into his hand, writhing like it lived, its form dancing between human expressions. Without hesitation, he pressed it to his face.
His features contorted… and then twisted into another form.
Tywin Lannister now stood before the doors, not Aeron.
He stepped forward, boots echoing sharply on the stone steps, and with a motion of his hand, the great doors of the Sept creaked open, seemingly by no force save his will.
GREAT SEPT OF BAELOR – MAIN HALL
The air inside was cool and still, lingering with incense and the heavy scent of melted wax. The towering pillars stretched upward into the gloom above, supporting arches of carved stone depicting the faces of saints, kings, and martyrs long gone.
But the Sept was nearly empty.
Only a few scattered priests in robes walked the aisles, heads bowed, murmuring soft prayers. A few aged maesters lingered at the edges of the chamber, their chains whispering as they moved. None dared approach the figure of Tywin Lannister, though they turned toward him in confusion, some even fear. Others crossed themselves quietly with shaking fingers.
Aeron’s voice, or rather Tywin’s voice cut through the silence, laced with sardonic amusement.
“This says a lot about the people of King’s Landing…”
He strode slowly forward, footsteps steady, echoing with cold finality. His eyes scanned the hollow chamber, the neglected corners of the once-sacred space.
“They speak of gods… the Seven… but look around.” He gestured. “Empty pews. Quiet halls. No offerings. No tears. No worship. They only remember their gods when fire swallows their streets or war threatens their gates. When death knocks at their door, suddenly, every man becomes a priest.”
A soft, bitter laugh escaped him.
He passed beneath the glassed dome of the Sept, the sun’s dying light casting colored shafts through the stained windows. Finally, he stopped at the center of the Sept, before the great semi-circle of statues the Seven themselves.
Towering effigies carved in marble: Aeron spoke calmy upon witnessing them
“The Crone, holding her lantern of wisdom.
The Warrior, swords crossed before him, always ready for battle.
The Mother, arms open in eternal mercy.
The Father, ever stern, scales of justice in hand.
The Maiden, bare and innocent, gaze cast skyward.
The Smith, grim and strong, hammer held low.
The Stranger, face hidden, death and the unknown.”
Aeron still wearing Tywin’s face stood before them in quiet contemplation. The shadows around him seemed to thicken “Should I expect seven foes?” he murmured to himself, tone unreadable.
He looked up at the statues, studying them like one might study a battlefield.
“Or one… with the vanity to use all seven masks?”
A long silence followed.
Then softly, barely heard. something shifted.
The shadows at the base of the statues stretched longer than they should have. One of the priests dropped his candle and stepped back in fright, staring toward the far end of the Sept where darkness now gathered unnaturally, thick and pulsing like a living thing.
Aeron’s eyes not Tywin’s eyes, Aeron’s eyes began to glow from within the borrowed face.
He turned his head slightly, alert. Listening..
From behind one of the tall pillars, a figure stepped into the light.
A man garbed in simple robes of coarse, unbleached wool. No gold. No rings. No crown of jewels. His face was lined by time and wear, framed by a grey beard and hollow eyes that glinted faintly beneath the colored light of the stained glass above.
The High Sparrow.
He moved with such calm, as if he owned the Sept not through wealth or title, but through conviction alone.
“I see,” he said softly, his voice like the turning of ancient pages, “that you are already familiar with our gods.”
He walked closer, unafraid, his bare feet whispering against the stone floor. Around them, the Sept remained silent. Even the priests in the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
“The Seven,” he began, stopping a few paces from Aeron, “are not like the gods of old Valyria… not cruel, not selfish. They are the Father, whose justice weighs all things; the Mother, who grants mercy even to the wicked; the Warrior, who shields the innocent; the Maiden, who shines light in the hearts of the pure; the Smith, who toils to build what others destroy; the Crone, whose wisdom guides us from cradle to grave; and the Stranger…”
He looked to the hooded statue, shrouded in shadow.
“…who reminds us that all must die, even kings... even those that claim to be gods such as yourself...”
His eyes turned back to Aeron. The smile was faint, but there was no warmth in it only knowledge, and the certainty of the devout.
“You stand among them… a man cloaked in lies and shadows, wearing the face of a dead lion. But I see you. The light of the Seven pierces every veil, every illusion. I know you are not Tywin Lannister.”
His voice did not rise, but it carried weight judgment and accusation laced in each syllable.
“An abomination upon this realm cannot hide itself from the truth.”
For a long moment, silence reigned.
Then… a flicker. A shimmer of dark mist. The illusion collapsed like dried paper.
The mask dissolved in Aeron’s hand.
Where Tywin had stood, now stood Aeron Grim his violet eyes burning like twin flames, skin pale as moonlight, and a cloak of shifting shadows coiling around his shoulders like living smoke.
His jaw tightened, his face visibly annoyed, not with fear but with the nuisance of wasted time. ‘his cult never rose into power here, so why is he...’
He stared hard at the High Sparrow.
“…You’re their dog, aren’t you?” His voice was low, cold as steel unsheathed. “The High Septon. Or rather, the High Sparrow. But that’s wrong you never ascended into power, so you are just an old man here. The sparrows aren’t a thing.”
The name tasted bitter in his mouth.
The old man did not deny it. He clasped his hands in front of him, his expression unchanging.
“I am but a servant,” he said. “And I stand where the gods will me to stand.”
Aeron stepped forward slowly, the shadows around him darkening the very floor beneath his feet.
“No,” he said, voice sharpening. “You stand where your delusion tells you to. But that ends today, I’m getting sick of you lunatics anyways.”
