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Fourteen
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 22:17:12 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 07)
Ilyn I
The ride was a dream woven in stillness, a sly quiet that masked its own motion. Subtle tremors, faint as a whisper, betrayed the truth of movement—born of forces beyond the carriage’s own frame. Ilyn was no stranger to such guile. He’d rolled through the realm in gilded wagons on smooth tracks before, as befitted the Faith’s highest servant.
But this ease? This plunge into splendour unmatched? Never had he tasted its like.
It stirred him, this first dance with such grandeur, and he wondered if this was the decadence the Free Cities’ heathens savored when they rode aught but their slaves’ bent backs. This carriage, after all, was a spark kindled two centuries past by their ilk—a wheelhouse unbound from the clunking woes of its forebears.
Nay, he reckoned it wasn’t so. This was no vain chariot of excess. It was a forge of brilliance and blessing, hammered out by a mind touched by the gods. A soul who’d poured days into months to birth a miracle: a carriage that channeled the divine. A gift singular, crafted for him, who’d toiled through years to cradle the Seven’s mercy in every heart—man, woman, and child.
“Remarkable, isn’t it, High Holiness?” The prince’s voice was sweet as it cut through his mind full of divine bliss. The ask was less a question than a truth laid bare, plain as the awe scrawled across Ilyn’s face. No mask of stoicism here; the High Septon let his joy blaze free, unhidden before this blessed lad.
“Took moons, near on years, just to scratch its shape to parchment,” Maelys went on with a voice that betrayed just a smudge of vanity. “The trees were the true battle. Seems I was the only one who grasped their worth.”
“Those that nearly dragged you to Sothoryos?” His mind snagging on the queer stuff cushioning the carriage’s wheels. The prince had spoken of it before—promised him shoes bound with the same odd material, for his own judgment.
Maelys tilted his head, a smile curling his lips. Ilyn knew the difference, having weathered the sneers of haughty men, septons among them.
“Not that plague-cursed pit, thank the Seven,” the prince assured, shifting to prop an elbow by the window’s narrow ledge. His fingers grazed his chin—smooth, kissed by the Maiden’s grace. “The isles nearby bore the trees I needed. Still, I’m not content with how close that was. I’ve plans to sow their seeds in… safer soils.”
Ilyn nodded with fervour owned to this triumph. Those jungles were a forsaken hell, untouched even by the gods’ gaze.
“Wisdom shuns testing the Seven’s mercy, my prince,” his advice was honest and true. “Triumph in chancy ventures mustn’t breed greed or pride.”
So spoke the Sacred Scripture—words that bound men to temperance, lest fortune’s fickle thread snap under reckless strain.
Unheeded, the Seven’s wisdom went by most—foolish men, sodden with their own swollen pride. A bitter shame, for too many had cast aside the truth that set man apart from beast, the divine-chosen from heathens doomed to the foulest hells.
The blessed prince leaned back, his pale violet eyes snaring the lantern’s flicker. Queer things, those eyes, touched by the unnatural sorcery that shaped them. Even cloaked in the Seven’s grace, Ilyn could near taste the heresy of their making, a faint tug of sin’s sly whisper.
With practiced grit, he shoved the tarnished thoughts aside, lest they sour his weathered face.
There was no wisdom in nestling scorn for a boy blessed by the gods he bent to, doing so could only condemn one to the fiery hells most damned.
The prince cleared his throat with a cough. “The wheels’ secret lies in that queer stuff,” he confessed to him in a whisper. “Tough as iron, yet it yields just enough to eat the road’s jolts. Took a dozen failures to get it right—blasted things kept splitting under strain.”
Ilyn’s brow arched up by curiosity’s sharp sting. “And you unraveled its secrets by your lonesome, my prince? No mean trick, bending such queer stuff from cursed lands to your will.”
He’d wager the Smith himself wrought through Maelys—wielding the tainted flesh of those dragon-riding heathens to bestow the realm of true men with the glory of fine craft and lives lifted high.
The lad gave a half-shrug. “Not alone, no. Smiths and alchemists lent their hands, though most called it madness till the first wheel rolled true. Faith in the notion kept me at it—that, and a stubborn streak.”
The High Septon’s lips softened his stern mask. Faith, the lad said. A word too often flung about by lesser men, but here it rang true. This prince, for all his eerie sheen and noble blood, spoke as one who’d knelt before the altar of purpose.
Pride did not hold his heart so.
“Faith,” Ilyn found guardianship in the word. “It’s a blade that carves both ways—sharp enough to carve miracles, yet heavy enough to humble. You wield it well, Your Grace.”
The lad’s face fell sharp, a shadow carving it into something heavy. His hand grazed his lap in a gesture that seemed fleeting. Ilyn held his voice and allowed the prince to ponder through the wisdom his words had imparted.
Divine sagacity. The gods had a mouth through him too, and he was not so afraid to allow them speak through it.
“So I strive, High Holiness,” Maelys did come out and say after a moment had gone. He nodded toward the carriage’s window, drawing Ilyn’s gaze to the world beyond. They’d rolled into Flea Bottom now—that wretched sink of sin and despair.
Shacks cobbled from scraps. Rags draped as garments. Filth scavenged for sustenance. Folk more bone than flesh, scarce human at all.
He looked and was unsurprised to find such. Paupers watched the splendid carriage in awe and disbelieve. Some ran beside it, shouting… gesturing. Faith was not lost in these folk despite the misfortune that was their fate.
“It’s not much,” the prince went on, “but I pour what fortune I’ve got into doing good, and that’s spreading the Seven’s wisdom above all.” His words carried a calm fervour. “For now, that’s feeding the wretched, sheltering them… giving them hope.”
Ilyn saw it then, the lad’s vision piercing past the glass, the guards, the veil of willful blindness most donned to dodge the shame of suffering laid bare.
As the carriage rumbled through the muck-strewn streets, smallfolk stilled. Some bowed low, pressing foreheads to grimy cobbles before daring to lift their eyes. A mother hoisted her babe to her hip; a knot of broken laborers crossed themselves. Soft murmurs—grateful blessings, whispered prayers—swelled and ebbed like a tide on a forsaken shore.
It roused his soul, this reverence—these embers of piety and devotion still smoldering. Nay, it wasn’t Ilyn’s first whisper of the royal twins’ quiet works in this forsaken city. Septas and septons, trudging the long roads, often brought tales from beyond Oldtown or the Reach’s green sprawl. They spoke of charities kindled here, of subtle shifts wrought by hearts brimming with untainted care, unshackled by pride.
Shelter raised from ruin, food to fill hollow bellies, garments to shield frail frames, and work offered that paid more than meager scraps.
Ilyn saw the grace in it, clear as dawn. These acts of mercy, sifted through the mesh of piety, could restore the Faith’s old sway, its iron grip on hearts. Men clung to their roots, after all. Stronger folk meant more hands to toil; more hands meant richer offerings; richer offerings built grander septs and kinder deeds; and a swelling tide of faithful would hoist the Faith’s authority high once more.
In a decade, mayhap three—if this fire didn’t gutter—the Faith could claw back the might it lost in Maegor’s cursed days. And Ilyn? He would be the one that set that cause, fated for greater history and legend carved in stone.
“Yet the court’s chains hobble your deeds from taking root deep in this city, aye?” His eyes tore from the grim world beyond the glass. “The Faith may kindle hope, but its slow burn leaves many to chase fouler, faster gains—desperation ever gnaws at hope’s heels.”
“Aye, true enough,” Maelys said, nodding swift, no trace of doubt there. “But such is man’s way, is it not? Words alone can’t spark hope or faith. Deeds, outcomes, chances aplenty—that’s the meat of it. So I wed piety to aid, for it’s the charge of the devout and blessed to show the rest the worth of the Faith’s mercy.”
Ilyn’s heart swelled in accord—the lad’s truth cut sharper than the prattle of septons thrice his age. Aye, it was man’s charge to kindle the Seven’s wisdom. Yet lords, blind and haughty, often missed this mark. They tried to bend the bond of noble and smallfolk into a farce of mortals and gods. Worship wasn’t a barter, nor faith a debt to be repaid. The divine owed man naught—it was the faithful’s burden to carry those hopes to fruition.
Maelys grasped it, Ilyn saw it clear as day. Yet for all the lad’s divine fire, the Seven’s blessing blazing fierce within him, he was but a man when the light faded.
And yet…
“What of your own domains, Your Grace?” Ilyn pressed with a spark of zeal sharpening his voice. “Would such works flourish freer there?”
Maelys eased back into his seat, lounging with a careless grace. No flicker of deep pondering crossed that god-kissed face, still as a winter lake. “That’s the aim, High Holiness—a hearth for the Faith, where its truth beats strong. A land where no soul lacks the gods’ wisdom, no hearth misses the sacred text. Septs rising thick as harvest wheat. But I’ll need the Faith’s hand—septas and septons, steadfast and patient, not wild-eyed zealots.”
Maelys lingered in his pause, unruffled, then pressed on. “I’ve kin bound for those lands, eastern folk. My father must’ve let the words slip to you. They need turning, gentle-like, to the Faith’s embrace. No scorn. No sneering. I want them to see the Faith at its purest—its holiest.”
Ilyn knew the tale. Whispers had reached him of the prince’s dealings with those slaver dogs—buying their wretched wares. The news had near set his blood ablaze, a fury to rival old legends. Yet the lad’s reasoning had cooled his wrath. Now, he saw the mercy woven into the act, though it gnawed at him that the Faith lacked the might to loose those wretched souls outright.
In his god-touched cunning, Maelys had deemed buying their freedom swifter, safer than waging holy wars—less blood spilled, less agony wrought. A path no highborn would grasp.
But Ilyn saw it clear as polished glass. Already, he’d set tongues to singing the prince’s virtues, bright and true. Prayers, too, rose for his health and triumph, for men of his like were rare as star-forged steel.
“Your heart mirrors your sister’s,” Ilyn said at last. “She, too, was radiant, brimming with compassion and soul. These deeds, these dreams of yours—they’d have warmed her fierce, had the Stranger not snatched her breath too soon. Aye, you’ll have the Faith’s hand in these holy works. I’ll see to it myself, picking septons and septas for your lands, Your Grace. Your domains will be haven in truth, a beacon against the sin that stalks this realm of men.”
The carriage eased to a hush, its grandeur stilling, and with it, the street’s din melted into a reverent quiet. Not true silence—never that. Coughs, shuffles, and murmurs lingered, but they wove themselves around a held breath, as if this scrap of the world dared not exhale.
A footman swung the door wide.
Ilyn stepped out, easy as wind.
Children swathed in rags huddled near the gate, eyes wide, awed by the divinity that wrapped gentle around his presence. Even the aged knelt, brows near kissing the dirt. The air was choked with rot and waste, thick and hot, but Ilyn drew it deep, unflinching. King’s Landing was sin made flesh, and to succumb to it was to surrender to the foulness of the pits.
He took it in, the seven’s chosen voice, and let it struggle against his.
Maelys alighted beside him, draped in humble shades—cream, ash, with gold thread woven spare. His hair, bound tight at the nape, caught the morn’s light like flax touched by flame.
“Forgive the crudeness of it,” Maelys murmured in a voice as low as prayer. “Efforts are being made to wash the filth that plague the streets sinful.”
He gave in to hum for a moment to shape thought and give it voice. “It’s a start, your grace. And you already have much on your hands as it is.”
They passed through the gate as one.
The feeding house stood plain, fired brick and salvaged timber patched with pale lime and quiet care. Above the door, a seven-pointed star, carved by a hand more earnest than skilled, crowned the lintel. Crooked, yet there was a truth in that.
Beacons such as these were needed to invite the Seven’s gaze on this thrice cursed city.
The smallfolk had formed lines. Faces, gaunt with hunger, leaned forward, tempered by awe. They stared not at the stewards with their ladles, nor the crusts laid out, nor the baskets brimming with lentil-broth. They stared at him. At them.
“Is it always thus?” Ilyn asked in all softness.
“Not always. But mercy leaves tracks, and word spreads.”
Maelys moved, straying away. Ilyn was lost to the scene.
Women dressed similar poured out the building, set to serving. Bread slathered with butter. Broth thickened with pulses and bone. No meat, that was still scarce. But this was still warm enough to give life beyond breath into these unfortunate souls.
More places needed this care.
The common folk moved to receive it, guided—patient. There was a whisper of history in their movements. Routine. And when they were served—portions generous—they bowed in thanks before spoons met lips.
By the side further, the prince sat humble. His men surrounded him, words passed in whispers with gestures towards the folks gathered.
Ilyn was awed, of course—how could he not be when opportunity and possibility played forth in front of him. He was moved, and his heart whispered hope. He shed no tears—such was not his way. But his heart knelt.
This was order. Piety born of quiet example, not the whipping of lash to skin. A deed that unmade and reshaped a room’s presence and life all.
“I must speak to them.” He said to himself, though the words bled off to the aids that surrounded him. “You must also aid in this act of soft benediction.”
He moved and stepped to the dais, where a humble shrine rested beneath open rafters. A rough-hewn altar bore the Book. He bowed low, then turned to face the chamber.
Eyes were at him, murmuring and pointing and awing much greater than before.
Ilyn felt the gods press against him, their mercy working through him.
“You came for bread,” his words started easy, face touched serene. “And bread you’ll have. But not only of grain and broth. Feast on hope, my children. Savour mercy. Let it fill the hollows hunger carved.”
He was heard.
“The Stranger stalks these streets, aye. But so do the Seven. They move in hands that serve, in feet that bear food, in voices that offer solace where silence once ruled. You are not forsaken. You are readied—for something greater.”
He raised his hands.
“You are the soil for a new harvest. Of faith. Of dignity. Of purpose. Seek not the sky for salvation. Look about you. Look—” he gestured to Maelys, who was sharing a chatter with an aged man “—and see salvation at work.”
A hush had fallen beyond the dull silent of hunger’s stupor.
That was the gods’ grace at work.
Ilyn lingered by a table heaped with trenchers, steaming with lentil-broth. Behind him, the septa’s voice curled through the hall. She had taken the floor after he’d left with a roar of appreciation from the folk gathered. Adoration and loyalty he’d not toiled for. Believe and hope anchored to the mantle of High Septon.
It was the Seven’s own grace shining through, he knew it true.
Before him, two senior septas—robes trimmed in the pale green and gold of Princess Gael’s gift—stooped to serve second helpings to an old laborer whose hands trembled fierce.
Wordless, Ilyn stepped forward, seizing a ladle to join the line. His robes whispered distinct from the plain wool about him; the seven-pointed star at his breast snared stray light, a quiet proclamation that the Faith’s vessel served as he preached.
They scurried to his side, the smallfolk, no doubt believing the gods’ benediction could spill out his hands. He did not discourage the false hope, passing each bowl with a silent blessing, moving on till the pots ran low and the clatter of bowls faded to the shuffle of feet.
The septa’s voice rose clear above the hush:
“…and the Smith shaped words as he did steel—through flame, through toil, till truth gleamed sharp and unyielding…”
A pulse of devotion stirred Ilyn’s chest. He watched a child, bowl forgotten, press close to a wall, eyes wide with wonder. His gaze swept the weathered faces of the grown.
Then Prince Maelys crossed from the dais’ far side, drawing eyes solely by the reverence the room held for him. He slipped toward an alcove, veiled by worn burgundy cloth and flanked by two lean halberdiers, their castle-forged steel glinting, the prince’s own guard.
Ilyn followed in step, setting the ladle aside, his voice hushed to match the sermon’s faint cadence drifting down the corridor.
They stood beneath the low lintel, torchlight dimmed, and Ilyn’s eyes caught the crate of books at Maelys’ side. Each spine bore a stenciled mark—a three-headed dragon wreathed in House Targaryen’s crimson banners.
“These,” Maelys said, lifting a volume, “are the first of a hundred. Birthed by my press—paper, type, oil, and gilt. A gift to the Faith.”
Ilyn’s fingers grazed the leather binding. The scent of fresh ink filled his breath. The pages lay even—not scribed by weary hands, but molded and pressed, so every soul could grasp the same truth, the Smith’s own gift.
“A wonder,” Ilyn murmured. His finger traced the Targaryen seal stamped red as blood. “To wed the crown’s mark to holy writ—a first, this union of Faith and throne in such plain labour.”
Maelys tilted his head. “Given is the proper term for it. I seek no mandate. Only to set the Word in more hands.” His gaze drifted to the hall, where stewards hauled bowls to the back, and the septa closed her passage:
“…for faith is kindled not by words alone, but by deeds made flesh. Let this be our age’s oath…”
A soft ripple of agreement stirred the benches.
Ilyn turned to Maelys. “The final touches?”
Maelys stepped nearer. “The dedication. I’d have the colophon read: ‘Printed by the grace of Prince Maelys Targaryen, for the Seven’s glory and the Faith’s service.’”
Ilyn weighed it. “Pride might curdle at naming oneself. Yet this bears no boast—’tis an offering, not a crow. The dragon’s mark needn’t choke the star. Let them stand side by side—crown and Faith bound in pact.”
The prince’s smile grew rich with warmth. “As you will. I’ll have the colophon recast to honor both. And the printer will add a prayer: ‘May this press run as faith runs in our blood—fierce, unbroken, eternal.’”
“A worthy vow.” Ilyn dipped a finger into the inkpot on a small lectern by the crate, swirling it lightly. “See the ink blessed by the septas at first light. I’ll stand with them.”
The gods needed to work more in them.
Maelys brushed the crate. “The binding? The leather’s soft. It’ll darken with years.”
Ilyn nodded. “Well and good. Spare the cord—no gilt save the seal. Let the faithful see the words first, the flourish last.”
They fell still as the halberdiers at the curtain dipped their heads, catching a sign from their prince. Beyond the alcove, the hall’s door creaked open, and a fresh band of septons swept in to clear the last trenchers. A septa lifted the Book from the dais, its cover shutting with a soft thud:
“…and in the shaping of words, the faithful tread a path unscarred by doubt…”
An old man, front row, rose shaky, broth clinging to his grizzled beard. His eyes met the septa’s, held, then dipped as he bowed, sinking back to his bench with a whispered prayer of thanks.
Ilyn’s chest trembled with a whisper of opportunity. “We cannot leave them hollow. These hundred scriptures—more must follow.”
Maelys steadied him. “A second press is near done. By autumn, two hundred scripture a month. But I’ll need your blessing on vellum grants, ink levies, labour exemptions. Let it not be my hand alone that works these wonders, lest the Faith’s true servants fade to shadows.”
Ilyn drew a slow breath. “I bless it now, in spirit. Draw the writ; my seal will bind it. Scribes from Oldtown will come, learn the craft of these blessed presses and inks.”
He’d need words with Leyton when he returned.
“Your Holiness,” Maelys’s words were near gold the way they rang reverence. “Your will honors us all.”
Ilyn tilted his head. “My will is the Faith’s. Hold that close.”
They stilled. From the hall, the septa’s voice lifted in a final verse:
“…and so the Word, once chained to clay, broke free on the wind, to root in every heart ready to hear…”
As the last note fell, the smallfolk exhaled as one. Then, like a miracle shattered, they clapped softly—rain on stone. Ilyn drank it in before the prince offered his arm.
“Shall we return?” the prince murmured.
Ilyn took his arm. “Aye. More awaits.” His gaze lingered—on the crate of books stamped with the crown’s dragon, on the steady line of servers, on faces kindled by scripture made flesh.
In ages hence, when the Faith’s truth rang in every corner of the world, when piety burned true in every man, woman, and child, his name would echo—etched in scripture, carved in far-flung stones. Ilyn of the Faith, the gods’ chosen voice.
He’d be a legend beyond all others, this he knew.
A/N: This chapter fought me tooth and nail. I’m still not happy with it, not by a long shot. Ilyn’s arrogance needed to be blatant without being generic. I didn’t want him to be all prideful and demeaning, but someone who believes himself superior without putting others down.
And Maelys, I wanted to show just how much of an asshole the MC is.
Comments
Lazybeep
Tftc
SuperbOwl67
I think you struck a good balance of showing how the High Septon is both a shrewd politician but also someone with genuine religious faith. Too often (maybe cause of GRRM) the Faith of the Seven is presented without regard for how religious belief was a fact of live in this time period akin to the law of gravity.
