Chapter 489: The Son of the Seven

Thousands of faithful gathered outside the Great Sept of Baelor, their numbers bolstered by the newly formed militant orders: the Warrior Son's and Poor Fellows .

The faithful packed Visenya's Hill, their faces filled with anticipation. They eagerly awaited the High Septon's appearance and the divine guidance he was to deliver on behalf of the Seven.

Beyond the hill, King Samwell's army had encircled the area completely.

The elite forces of the Seven Kingdoms, assembled from every corner of Westeros, formed an impenetrable blockade around the Sept.

This display of force sent ripples of unease through the gathered crowd. Even the most ardent believers couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear. Few had expected that King Samwell would dare to encircle the holiest site in King's Landing.

The tension in the city was palpable, thick enough to ignite into chaos with just the smallest spark.

Meanwhile, inside the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon knelt before the statues of the Seven, praying silently.

He had been there all night.

If he could, the High Septon would have prayed for seven days and seven nights, much like the High Septon three centuries earlier, when Aegon the Conqueror brought his dragons to Oldtown. That High Septon had fasted and prayed for a week before claiming to have received a divine revelation, ultimately surrendering to Aegon.

The current High Septon often wondered: did his predecessor truly receive a revelation, or was it merely fear of the dragons that compelled his surrender?

This mystery, lost to the annals of history, would never be resolved.

What the High Septon did know, however, was that after an entire night of prayer, he had received no revelation of his own.

Despite his sincerest devotion, the Seven had remained silent—just as they had for countless nights before.

Once, the High Septon could excuse this silence by attributing it to his lowly station. But now? Now he was the High Septon, the chosen voice of the Seven in the mortal world.

If even he was unworthy of the Seven's guidance, then who was?

Or perhaps the Seven were nothing more than a beautiful lie.

The image of the previous High Septon, incinerated in the hall of prayer, haunted his thoughts.

That fiery demise was evidence enough: the Seven would not protect their so-called representative.

If Samwell wanted him dead, he would die just as easily.

Of course, there was always the crowd outside. He could rally the faithful and resist.

But once that path was chosen, there would be no turning back.

And what if an enraged King Samwell, with his mighty dragon, decided to reduce the Sept to ashes?

The High Septon did not doubt that Samwell was capable of such an act.

Perhaps surrender was the only choice.

The High Septon recalled his secret meeting with the King the previous night. Samwell had laid out his terms.

If the High Septon agreed, the Faith of the Seven would forever become subservient to the Crown.

He would no longer be the sole voice of the Seven in this world.

Samwell would take that mantle for himself.

Hurried footsteps interrupted his thoughts.

"Your Grace," a septon said, his voice trembling. "The City Watch is outside the Sept. They say they are here to arrest heretics."

The High Septon forced himself to remain calm. "Who are these heretics?"

The monk hesitated before replying, "They say it is Patrick, Stephen, Bryan, and Peake, the Grand Septons."

The High Septon understood immediately. These were the leaders who had most strongly advocated for resisting the King.

Samwell was forcing his hand.

Before he could respond, a louder flurry of footsteps announced the arrival of the accused.

"Your Grace!" Patrick, flanked by several other Grand Septons, strode into the hall. "The faithful have been waiting outside for hours! It is time to deliver the Seven's will!"

The High Septon knew there was no more time for hesitation.

He cast one last glance at the statues of the Seven, his gaze lingering as if hoping for a final miracle.

But none came.

The seven statues stood as they always had—lifeless wood and stone, offering no answers.

"Your Grace!" Patrick urged, desperation creeping into his voice. "You have nothing to fear. The Seven's light shines upon this city. Look outside! Thousands are ready to shed blood for our cause! Samwell's armies mean nothing. His soldiers are our faithful, bound by their oaths to the Seven. Stand and lead us, and the light of the Seven will illuminate all of King's Landing!"

The High Septon swallowed the bitter truth: there was no divine light.

If there were, the previous High Septon would not have perished in flames.

If there were, his own prayers would not have been met with silence.

"It is time," he said at last, composing himself.

The Grand Septons, buoyed by his apparent resolve, eagerly escorted him toward the doors.

They passed through the Hall of Lamps and arrived at the grand entrance of the Sept.

The day was bright and cloudless, the sunlight pouring down like a benediction. Its brilliance bathed the Sept in a golden glow, imbuing the scene with an almost divine aura.

The appearance of the High Septon was met with a thunderous cheer from the crowd.

Thousands of hands waved in the air, creating a sea of motion around the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, who gazed down upon the masses with a serene and sorrowful expression.

Ser Todd Flowers approached, flanked by a contingent of City Watch. He offered the High Septon a small bow before delivering his message:

"Your Grace, His Majesty extends his greetings. He bids me tell you: all that is sacred shall return to the mundane."

The High Septon frowned, trying to parse the cryptic statement.

Todd continued, "And you are surrounded by heretics. Be careful not to be swayed by their influence."

"Who are you calling heretics?" the Grand Septons barked indignantly.

Todd ignored their outrage, stepping back with a polite smile.

Steeling himself, the High Septon approached the steps of the Sept, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes upon him.

"Faithful of the Seven!" he called out.

The crowd immediately fell silent, hanging on his every word.

"I bring you the will of the Seven!"

The High Septon's throat felt parched, his vision seared by the intense sunlight.

"Winter's cold winds have risen! The Long Night approaches! Ancient evils stir, ready to bring fear and destruction to this world!"

A massive shadow appeared over the crowd, moving swiftly toward the Sept.

It was Samwell and his white dragon.

"But do not fear!" the High Septon's voice rose. "The Seven have prepared a path of salvation for us!"

The white dragon hovered above, its vast wings casting the hill into shadow.

"Samwell Caesar!" the High Septon proclaimed.

The dragon descended, its powerful wingbeats scattering the crowd below.

"He is the Son of the Seven!"

The High Septon pointed toward the man who had leapt gracefully from the dragon's back.

"He will lead us to salvation!"

The Grand Septons were aghast, their faces pale with shock.

The crowd, too, seemed stunned into silence.

Samwell strode forward, golden-haired and golden-eyed, emanating an aura of overwhelming authority and divine power.

"Bow before the Son of the Seven!" the High Septon cried, falling to his knees.

"Bow before the Son of the Seven!" echoed Ser Todd and the City Watch.

One by one, reluctantly or eagerly, the Grand Septons, septons, faithful, nobles, soldiers, and commoners all knelt.

The chant spread like a tidal wave through the crowd:

"Son of the Seven! Son of the Seven!"

(End of Chapter)