If the bloodline of House Arryn were ever to receive formal certification from the Faith, then the men gathered within that sept would have no cause to linger beneath its vaulted ceiling. They could gather their books and vestments before nightfall and depart at once for the Vale.
Those who reached the Eyrie first would stand as the truest voices of the Seven. The septons who remained in King's Landing would be reduced to hollow vessels, chanting prayers that carried no more weight than dust upon the wind.
Better, then, to bend the knee early.
With fortune and discretion, some might secure honorable appointments in the Vale. Positions of comfort. Influence. Security.
From that hour onward, the Faith of the Seven would no longer serve as the spiritual heart of the realm. House Arryn would ascend in its place, enthroned not only upon the heights of the Eyrie but within the souls of the faithful.
And in time, each Lord of the Vale would become the Seven's acknowledged voice upon the earth.
Not a High Septon.
Not some foreign-sounding pontiff.
A spokesman chosen by blood and mountain.
Those who now styled themselves servants of the Seven would become precisely that and nothing more.
Servants.
The thought curdled in their stomachs.
They did not want such a world.
They most certainly did not.
Prince Baelon watched the tightening of jaws and the flicker of unease that passed from face to face. Only then did he allow himself the faintest smile.
The temptation had ripened. Now it was time to cut it from the vine.
"Oh dear," he said mildly, lowering his gaze to the parchment in his hand. "It seems I was mistaken. This is no letter of authentication from High Septon after all."
With deliberate care, he folded the document and slipped it back into his sleeve.
In truth, no such letter had ever existed. Even had it been written, no raven could have carried it so swiftly.
It had been a test.
A simple measure of conviction.
The result was plain.
The stories spoke of fire-eyed zealots who defied kings and dragons alike. Yet the clergy of King's Landing were no such men. Their faith, at least within the capital's walls, bent more readily than legend would suggest.
Perhaps that was only natural.
The truly devout had died in the last great rising. Those who survived had learned caution. They had learned when to bow.
And now the Targaryens commanded more dragons than they had since the dark reign of Maegor I Targaryen. Against such might, who would dare whisper of defiance?
It seemed Prince Baelon himself had erred, mistaking prudence for fanaticism.
Still, a display of strength was never wasted.
Mattheus gave a brittle laugh, his fingers worrying the beads at his wrist. "A jest. Prince Baelon jests."
The smile he forced did not reach his eyes.
Years in office had sharpened his instincts. He knew a warning when he heard one. He also remembered, with sudden clarity, that King Viserys had once inquired whether he intended to attend Prince Baelon's wedding. At the time it had seemed courtesy.
Now it felt like inquiry.
"The prayers are concluded," Mattheus said, straightening his robes. His voice carried once more, steady if subdued. "You may withdraw."
As the septons gathered their scrolls, he added in a quieter tone, "Guard your tongues."
There were no objections.
Glances passed between them, quick and wary. Each man would be mindful of the others. The chamber emptied without haste, yet without lingering.
When the last footsteps faded, Mattheus turned back.
He did not bow this time.
"Lord Baelon," he said evenly, clasping his hands before him, "what is it you truly seek?"
The shift in address was no accident.
He had no wish to see another miraculous parchment drawn from a princely sleeve.
The lesson had been unmistakable. The moment Baelon claimed written recognition from the Faith, not one of them had demanded proof.
They had chosen belief over resistance.
If the prince declared the letter genuine, then genuine it would become. Today they acknowledged the blood of Hugor within House Arryn. Tomorrow, perhaps, the Targaryens themselves might be proclaimed the Seven's chosen upon the earth.
Mattheus understood now.
This Dragon Prince feared nothing. Not even the Seven themselves were beyond the reach of his designs. And yet within King's Landing, Prince Baelon's renown stood higher than that of any septon who had ever mounted the pulpit.
"It is simple," Prince Baelon said, his tone measured, almost conversational. "I require the Faith to serve as the whip in my hand, to instruct my subjects."
Mattheus's fingers tightened within the folds of his sleeves.
"That… would prove difficult, Your Highness. We are servants of the Seven, not vassals sworn to the Iron Throne. By the covenant signed between His Majesty Jaehaerys and the Faith, every Targaryen is bound to show due reverence to the Seven and their holy institutions."
He did not finish the thought aloud. He did not need to.
Reverence, not mastery.
The refusal rose from him on instinct. He had expected ambition. He had not expected such naked candor.
Even Maegor I Targaryen had sought to break the Faith by force. Even Jaehaerys I Targaryen had chosen conciliation over coercion.
Neither had dared speak of holding it in hand.
"I hold the Faith in the highest regard," Prince Baelon replied, unoffended. "I have read the Seven-Pointed Star from beginning to end, more than once. In that matter, I suspect I rival many within your own ranks."
A faint flicker passed through Mattheus's eyes. It was no secret that not every septon in the capital could read the sacred text without stumbling.
Prince Baelon stepped nearer. The movement was unhurried, yet it drew the air tighter around them.
"I have no need to deceive you, Mattheus. As a septon of King's Landing, you must already feel the winds shifting across the realm."
His voice lowered, no longer meant for any ears but the man before him.
"In my design, the dragon is the sword. The soldiers are the armor. The Faith is the whip. Benevolent governance is the collar."
He held Mattheus's gaze, unblinking.
"None of the four may be absent."
Silence pooled between them.
"The realm needs you," Baelon said at last, his tone softening by a single degree. "It needs the Faith."
Then, with surgical calm, he struck.
"Tell me, Septon Mattheus. After all these years, do you truly understand why you lost to the high septon?"
The question slid between Mattheus's ribs like a thin blade.
The post of the High Septon.
The dignity that had eluded his grasp.
His jaw hardened. "My lord," he said carefully, "what are you implying?"
"It is quite simple," Baelon answered. "You never understood why you lost. Nor did you perceive whose hand stood behind his ascent."
He let the words settle before finishing.
"You were never meant to become high septon."
The color drained from Mattheus's face. His breath came shallow, though he strove to keep his posture straight.
His greatest humiliation had not been defeat in itself.
It had been losing to a sycophant.
But he was no fool.
He knew precisely who had lifted the current high septon above him.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen.
The Old King.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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