Chapter 481: The Armed Faith

Samwell gazed at the High Septon standing before him, dressed in coarse and patched robes, and his smile widened.

"Your Holiness, why are you dressed like this? What happened to your crystal crown and gold-threaded robes?"

"I sold them," the High Septon replied calmly. "The poor and destitute are starving. I have no right to adorn myself with gold and crystal while they suffer. I also sold the crowns, rings, tapestries, and all the other fineries stored within the sept."

"I can tell." Samwell's eyes swept over the other high-ranking septons, who were similarly dressed in plain attire, as his mind turned over the implications.

"The Seven created sheep, and their wool is enough to keep mankind warm," the High Septon continued. "Your Majesty, what brings you to the Great Sept of Baelor today?"

"I came to pray," Samwell replied.

"Then please follow me."

The High Septon handed his cleaning brush to one of the septons and led Samwell through the double doors into the main hall.

Their footsteps echoed against the marble floor. Multicolored light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting radiant hues across the room where countless motes of dust danced in the beams.

The hall smelled faintly of incense, and candles burned like stars before the seven altars.

Samwell approached the statue of the Father and knelt to pray, his head bowed.

Behind him, the seven Kingsguard knights also knelt, while the High Septon stood, silent and observant.

When the prayer concluded, Samwell rose to his feet and noticed that the High Septon's gaze had softened.

"Your Majesty, if I recall correctly, you have yet to be officially crowned," the High Septon remarked.

Samwell tapped the red-jeweled Valyrian steel crown upon his head.

"When I crowned myself on Bloodstone Isle, I had no need for another's hand to do so."

"That may have sufficed for the Stormlands, but to be recognized as the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you will need the blessing of the Seven."

Samwell's smile turned faint. "When Aegon the Conqueror took Oldtown, did he kneel before the High Septon for his crown? No. His authority came from his sword, his dragon, and his army—not from the gods."

The High Septon's expression darkened.

"Your Majesty, such words verge on blasphemy."

"I revere the Seven," Samwell countered smoothly. "When Aegon received the Seven's blessing three hundred years ago, it was a pragmatic gesture. Three centuries later, I can do the same if necessary. That is my concession."

The High Septon hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"I am willing to anoint you with holy oil, Your Majesty. However, there is the matter of the Iron Throne's debt to the Faith."

Samwell's brow furrowed.

"How much is it?"

"Approximately 900,000 gold dragons, plus interest."

"That debt was incurred by Robert Baratheon, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then you're speaking to the wrong person. Go ask the Baratheons to repay it."

"Surely, Your Majesty, wouldn't suggest I demand payment from young Tommen?"

"There's always Stannis on the Wall. He's a Baratheon too."

The High Septon shook his head.

"Your Majesty, please don't jest. The Iron Throne owes this debt, and as you now sit upon it, the responsibility is yours. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise, what?" Samwell's tone grew icy.

The High Septon gestured toward the doors.

"Your Majesty, you saw the people outside the sept—poor, desperate souls. And there are countless more like them across the Seven Kingdoms. You lords and nobles play your games of power, wage your wars, but it is the common folk who bleed..."

"They won't bleed anymore," Samwell interrupted. "The civil war is over. I will see to their welfare."

"But your armies remain."

"There is another war coming."

"Yes, endless wars," the High Septon said bitterly. "An unending cycle of bloodshed. And why not? You're not the one bleeding, after all."

"I've bled more than you can imagine," Samwell retorted. "And this war is not about power or wealth. If my armies fail, your faithful won't just bleed—they'll be annihilated. Winter and the Long Night are coming to sweep away all life. Has your god told you nothing of this?"

The High Septon's eyes flickered briefly.

"Your Majesty, if that is true, then the common folk need the means to protect themselves more than ever."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I am saying that with winter's approach, the Faith must raise its own warriors to combat the evils of the Long Night. If Your Majesty allows me to restore the ancient orders of the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows, the Iron Throne's debt will be forgiven, and I will anoint you as the true king of the Seven Kingdoms, under the gaze of the Seven."

As expected. Samwell concealed his thoughts behind a pleasant smile.

The High Septon had finally revealed his true intentions.

The Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows were the Faith's military orders.

The Warrior's Sons, also called the Knights of the Faith, were composed of knights who had renounced their lands and titles to serve the Seven. The Poor Fellows, or the Stars, were drawn from commoners, bound by their unwavering devotion to the Faith and loyalty to the High Septon.

Historically, these militant orders had caused significant trouble for both nobles and royalty, serving as powerful tools for the church to curb secular authority.

However, King Maegor the Cruel had waged a bloody war against the Faith, ultimately suppressing its militant orders through brutal means. He even placed bounties on the heads of the Warrior's Sons and the scalps of the Poor Fellows.

Though Maegor succeeded in disbanding the orders, he paid a heavy price, earning universal hatred and dying friendless upon the Iron Throne.

Without these militant orders, the Faith was a toothless tiger. With them, it could become a force to be reckoned with.

Samwell's smile grew wider.

The High Septon mistook the expression as approval and beamed with delight.

But Ser Barristan, who had been with the king these days, knew that when Caesar smiled like this, someone was going to be in trouble.

"Agreed"

"Blessed be the Seven," the High Septon exclaimed. "The rebirth of the Faith's militant orders is the answer to centuries of prayer. Your Majesty, you truly are the chosen king of the gods! I shall fast and pray for seven days and nights before anointing you with holy oil..."

"No need for that," Samwell interrupted. "Fast for a single night and anoint me tomorrow morning."

The High Septon frowned slightly but relented under the king's unyielding gaze.

"Very well, Your Majesty, as you wish."

The High Septon personally escorted Samwell and his retinue out of the Great Sept of Baelor.

As they descended Visenya's Hill, Ser Brynden Tully, the "Blackfish," couldn't help but speak up.

"Your Majesty, rearming the Faith's militant orders may not be wise at this time."

Samwell glanced at his Kingsguard knight and smiled.

"If you give a child a sharp sword, what do you think will happen?"

"They'll cut themselves," Brynden mused.

Samwell chuckled but said nothing more. Instead, he turned to an aide and ordered,

"Send Gavin Mander to see me."

(End of Chapter)