"Your Grace, a word of caution," Bennifer bowed slightly in respect. "Septon Mattheus previously agreed with us that he would travel to Oldtown to persuade the current High Septon to acknowledge Your Grace as Pope."
Septon Mattheus was the portly cleric who had spoken in the Hall of Conquest not long ago. Within the Faith of the Seven, he was one of the most powerful bishops to support the uprising.
After the fall of the White Party, the Faith's internal situation had grown tangled, splitting into three distinct factions: one, the bishops firmly backing the rebel cause; another, the Poor Fellows incited by men like the 'Moon Septon,' who clamored for the overthrow of House Targaryen and nursed a deep hatred of the dynasty; and lastly, a neutral faction, opposed only to Daemons and the Awakened, preferring to stand aside in this struggle for power. The High Septon of Oldtown belonged to this last group.
Duke Rogar's expression hardened at once, a cold gleam flashing in his eyes. His fist clenched slightly as he swung it back with resolve.
"The 'Moon Septon' encamped outside Oldtown and his rabble have become a grave threat to us," he declared with ruthless certainty. "They must be dealt with at once! The situation is urgent—we cannot afford delay. To waste time reasoning with such rabble is folly."
His tone was unwavering, without the slightest hesitation.
"Your Grace, let us have the soldiers pack their gear at once and march on Oldtown without a moment's delay!"
He let a cold, disdainful smile curl at the edge of his lips.
"Once we reach Oldtown, whether this 'Moon Septon' chooses to live or die will be his decision alone."
Aegon gave a firm nod, his eyes resolute.
"We had agreed with Mattheus to act three months from now—but that is far too late. The longer we wait, the greater the risk. Delay only breeds uncertainty.
The date is set. At dawn, one week from now, we march from King's Landing!"
His gaze swept over the gathered lords, radiating the decisiveness expected of a king.
"Furthermore," Aegon paused, his tone heavy with authority, "since the Great Sept of Baelor has been destroyed, I will hold my coronation in the Starry Sept, the present headquarters of the Faith in Westeros. There I will formally be crowned as Pope, proclaiming to the world my dominion over both crown and faith."
At once, the assembled ministers dropped to one knee, pressing their right fists to their left breasts and crying aloud in unison:
"As you command, Your Grace!"
Their voices rang strong and deep, echoing through the hall.
...
The following morning, sunlight bathed the streets of King's Landing as Aegon, alongside the kingdom's lords, led a great host out from the city.
The procession was vast, made up not only of courtiers but of a mighty army besides. Such a force would take more than a month to reach Oldtown, yet their spirits were high. The establishment of the new royal court and the rewards bestowed upon them had raised the morale of the rebel host to its peak.
As the long march carried on, time slipped quietly into the 50th year since the Conquest.
Aegon himself led the host, passing through Grassy Vale, Longfruit Keep, and Cider Hall before reaching Highgarden.
Though Highgarden, a royal seat, offered an ideal place of rest, Aegon allowed only a brief halt. His focus remained fixed—subduing the Faith's power was the true priority.
After leaving Highgarden, the royal army marched through Honeyholt, pressing toward Oldtown, the seat of House Hightower.
Few lords along the route offered resistance. Aegon was now the male with the strongest claim among the Targaryen line, and in the eyes of Westerosi lords, his authority was beyond question.
Moreover, wherever he passed, Aegon aided the local lords in purging demons from their lands. This earned him the gratitude of both nobles and smallfolk alike, making open defiance unlikely.
At last, the royal host reached the walls of Oldtown and made camp.
Within the king's tent, nearly all the great ministers of the realm were gathered. The Targaryen advisers assembled to deliberate the course ahead.
Presiding over the council, Aegon spoke:
"The matter of the 'Poor Fellows' beneath Oldtown's walls is thorny. Let us discuss—how should we deal with the 'Moon Septon'?"
Duke Tully considered a moment before voicing his thoughts.
"King Aegon, Queen Regent Rhaena, and Princess Alysanne all ride dragons. In my view, we might follow the example of Emperor Aegon and his sisters at the Field of Fire—using dragonfire to overawe our foes."
At this, Septon Mattheus's face darkened, and he sighed.
"Are we to begin another massacre? The rebellion has already cost too many lives."
Queen Regent Rhaena nodded in agreement.
"Indeed, we must use the dragons sparingly. The lessons of Maegor are still fresh—we must not repeat his mistakes.
If the King wishes to ascend as High Septon and secure the Faith's support, he must not employ cruel measures against it."
The Hand of the King, Lord Rogar, frowned slightly, deep in thought.
The Moon Septon's strength lay in the knights and soldiers of House Rowan and House Oakheart, along with remnants of the Poor Fellows.
Septon Mattheus hesitated, then slowly stepped forward, his round face touched with doubt.
"Your Grace, perhaps I have an idea… though I cannot say whether it will succeed."
"Of course, the final decision rests with you."
"Oh?" Aegon's expression flickered with surprise. He sat up slightly, his gaze fixing on Mattheus. "Tell me more."
The portly Septon did not respond directly. Instead, he stepped forward quickly, leaned close to Aegon, and whispered in his ear, "The Faceless Men."
His voice was so soft that only Aegon could hear it.
At those words, Aegon's expression stiffened at once, a flicker of astonishment flashing in his eyes.
Sending the Faceless Men to eliminate an enemy was indeed a clever strategy. Masters of assassination and secrecy, they could quietly rid him of the troublesome "Moon Septon" without raising a stir, avoiding any escalation of the already fragile tensions between crown and Faith.
As the thought settled, Aegon's fingers began to drum lightly against the armrest of his chair. His gaze grew distant as he sank into contemplation.
Bennifer noticed the shift in his expression and felt unease stir in his chest. He couldn't help but ask, "Your Grace, what is it…?"
His eyes darted between Aegon and Mattheus, trying to divine what had passed between them.
"Today's meeting is adjourned."
Aegon seemed to rouse himself from his thoughts. He lifted a hand in a dismissive wave, signaling the council to disperse. Then he gave a slight nod toward Mattheus, his eyes carrying a subtle, lingering meaning, before rising and leaving the tent under the watchful gaze of all assembled.
Thus ended that day's war council.
...
The lords departed with their own thoughts, yet the plan suggested by Septon Mattheus soon crumbled like smoke.
The cause was wholly unexpected: the Faceless Men, who had long maintained influence in Westeros, now refused to serve the Targaryen dynasty.
This turn of events only made an already difficult situation all the more complex.
When Aegon learned of it, his heart was filled with confusion and disquiet.
He secretly summoned Mattheus. Without preamble, he pressed him the moment they met.
"What is going on? Why will the Faceless Men not heed us?"
His gaze bore into Mattheus, as though seeking the answer written on his face.
A bitter smile touched Mattheus's lips. He shook his head helplessly.
"Your Grace, I must confess—many times I have hired the Faceless Men for tasks, and without fail, they succeeded. But this time… I never expected such a change.
Later, I discovered the truth. The Faceless Men have withdrawn from Westeros entirely. That is why they cannot serve us now."
His head dipped slightly, his voice carrying a note of self-reproach.
"The Faceless Men withdrew?!"
Aegon's eyes widened, his confusion only deepening. He could not fathom why the worshipers of the Many-Faced God would make such a choice.
In his understanding, the Faceless Men cared only for gold. So long as the price was sufficient, there was no task they would refuse.
"What could possibly have happened to make them abandon such vast interests in Westeros?" Aegon demanded.
Mattheus hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Your Grace, I have only heard rumors. It seems… their departure is tied to the Long Night."
His words were quiet, yet they struck Aegon's ears like thunder.
Aegon froze.
Unconsciously, he murmured, "The Long Night is coming…?"
...
One dusk outside Oldtown, the setting sun bled across the horizon, staining the earth an eerie crimson.
On a patch of barren grassland, a crowd of ragged folk had gathered, pressing close around a single figure, listening with rapt attention.
This man was the Moon Septon.
He stood barefoot, his beard wild and unkempt, his whole being radiating a feverish zeal as he delivered a fiery sermon to the Poor Fellows. Known as "the poorest fellow," he seemed never to tire, often preaching for hours on end, his every sermon revolving around a single theme—sin.
"I am a sinner," the Moon Septon always began.
And he truly lived up to the word. His desires were a bottomless pit—gluttonous for food, drunken on wine, and lost in debauchery. Each night he took a different woman to his bed, leaving countless pregnancies in his wake.
His sycophantic attendants even claimed his seed held miraculous power—that it could grant children to barren women, making wombs fertile and fruitful.
Amazingly, the ignorant masses believed it. Husbands desperate for heirs sent their wives to him. Mothers blindly gave up their daughters, hoping for a blessing. And the Moon Septon never turned any away.
Before long, this grotesque custom spread throughout his followers. Some hedge knights and soldiers even painted the symbol of the "Moon's Cock" on their shields, while wooden staves, trinkets, and pendants carved in its shape became wildly popular. The faithful whispered that to touch the head of such charms would bring prosperity and good fortune.
In his preaching, the Moon Septon railed endlessly against the "heinous crimes" of House Targaryen, while denouncing the "grand sycophant" High Septon for ignoring them. He declared that the true Father of the Faith was imprisoned in Oldtown, too cowardly to step beyond the gates of the Starry Sept—and cast himself as the true champion of the Faith and the people.
At last, after a long day of preaching, the Moon Septon, weary, returned to his tent to take his meal.
As always, the Poor Fellows guarded him closely—hulking, bearded axemen with savage faces.
That evening, a beautiful young woman, carrying a flask of wine, approached the tent with graceful steps. Her eyes shone with both shyness and anticipation as she softly asked to present the wine to the "High Septon," hoping to earn his blessing.
The guards exchanged knowing looks. They understood all too well what "blessing" she sought—that the Moon Septon might plant his seed within her. With no hesitation, they let her inside.
At first, only the sound of the Moon Septon's laughter could be heard from within—full of smug satisfaction. But soon strange moans followed, rising and falling in pitch, oddly unsettling against the silence of dusk...
Then, suddenly, a massive shadow streaked across the horizon. A three-headed red dragon, more than ten meters long, tore through the sky like a comet of fire, descending swiftly toward the Poor Fellows' camp.
Its form was colossal, every contour taut with power, its body lines flowing and natural, as though sculpted by the hand of nature itself.
Bone-hard ridges lay beneath its hide, overlaid with dense layers of keratinous scales that gleamed in the red twilight like armor, each one catching the sun with a cold, sharp brilliance.
From above the brows of each of its three heads, jagged spines jutted outward like blades, glinting with menace in the fading light, giving its visage a fearsome and brutal cast.
After two years under Aegon's careful care, Ghidorah had grown into a formidable juvenile dragon.
Enormous even at birth, it had outstripped ordinary dragons in size and growth from the start. Now stretching fifteen meters in length, it was strong enough to bear a rider aloft.
In form, Ghidorah resembled its mother, Tiamat—heavily armored in bone and scale, built with raw strength and resilience. It was, in every sense, a heavy-armored warrior dragon.
...
[Up to 20 chapters ahead for now]
p@treon(.)com/BlurryDream