Chapter 67 — The Sept of Remembrance
Leaving the Red Keep, Charles followed the main road onto Silent Sisters Street, then continued straight until he reached the road's end, where the Dragonpit stood.
Six soldiers accompanied him. As they marched, they kept a wary eye on their surroundings, alert for assassins or rioters who might spring out of the alleys at any moment.
In truth, they were being overly cautious.
Though King's Landing was tense, it had yet to descend into open daylight chaos. Nor did many people actually recognize Charles by appearance—certainly not well enough to attempt an ambush in public.
The unit halted near the Hill of Rhaenys, where the ruins of the Dragonpit stood.
Just like before, the moment Charles entered the area, the same overwhelming voice surged from every direction at once.
It sounded like the stern counsel of a father…
Like the prayers of a priest…
Charles turned his horse slightly and gazed toward the jagged structure atop the hill—a crown of stone against the sky.
His eyes narrowed.
"This isn't coincidence… I passed by here before when I rescued Ned, but I didn't hear this sound then."
"So what triggered it this time?"
"A god?"
Carefully surveying the surroundings and finding nothing amiss, Charles handed his reins to two guards. He then led the others up an ancient, winding staircase carved into the hillside.
A mysterious place, a mysterious voice—
Danger… or opportunity.
He felt no hesitation.
Risk and reward often walked together. All that mattered was whether one had the nerve to reach out and seize them.
Perhaps… this will bring me closer to the deeper forces of this world.
After climbing for some time, they reached the summit.
Before them lay a wide marble plaza—its slabs cracked, its statues shattered. From the arrangement of the ruins, it was clear this place had once known splendor.
Now it was abandoned.
Debris lay everywhere; broken divine statues lay half-buried; only a few corners still showed traces of former grandeur—the rest was little more than pockmarked ruin.
At the heart of it all rose a massive, round structure.
Its jagged dome resembled the gaping jaws of some colossal beast.
Yet on closer inspection, those "teeth" were broken and truthfully crumbling.
The Dragonpit.
Charles peered inside through the blasted-open gates.
Broken bottles.
Discarded clothing.
Human filth.
Blackened straw.
The interior was little more than a den of refuse.
"People still come here?" Charles frowned.
Plummer, the knight beside him, chuckled.
"Some prostitutes avoid paying their fees by sneaking off with clients. The Dragonpit's perfect for it."
"If you're interested, Ser Cranston," he added slyly, "Chataya's girls put them to shame. Westerosi blondes, trained courtesans from Lys, companions from Braavos, even Summer Island beauties. Chataya herself—her daughter too. They treat pleasure as art, and they're just nearby."
"Thank you for your concern," Charles replied.
"But no, I'm not interested."
Plummer sighed.
"Shame."
Then he noticed Charles move aside toward the edge of the plaza and quickly followed with the others.
"Did you find something?"
"Yes," Charles said calmly. "And I believe I've found what I came for."
The soldiers exchanged curious glances.
Ahead of them stood a simple, square white building.
"What's that?" Plummer asked, now alert.
One of the guards—a man raised in Flea Bottom—shook his head.
"I don't know, m'lord. Folks say the Dragonpit's haunted. No one comes up here if they can avoid it."
Plummer's expression tightened.
"My lord, allow me to go first."
Charles considered for a moment, then nodded.
Clad in full armor, Plummer led the way. The group reached the door of the white building, their weapons and armor clattering loudly.
A moment later, the door creaked open.
An elderly priest stepped out.
White robes.
Gray, tangled hair.
Clouded eyes.
"Good sirs," he said weakly, squinting, "may I ask your purpose?"
Plummer turned to Charles.
Charles stepped forward.
"We wish to take a look inside. I trust you will not stand in our way."
"This place is under the protection of the Faith," the old man replied firmly. "No outsiders may enter."
Plummer grinned.
"If you're counting on your fat High Septon to protect you," he said, patting the hilt of his sword, "then you're putting faith in the wrong god."
In the end, the priest could only step aside helplessly.
"Please," he pleaded, "this is where the faithful have slept for centuries. Do not harm anything within. They prayed for the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
"We're not interested in bones—"
Plummer paused awkwardly.
"—well… probably."
Charles slowed, staying beside the old priest.
"This is a burial site of your church?"
"Yes. Saint Kevin. Saint Chel. Torchbearer Tuqu. Defender Aleka…"
"They all rest here."
"Why bury them beside the Dragonpit?"
The old man gave a bitter laugh.
"Dragonpit? Child, before the Targaryens roasted this place, it was not a pit for beasts—it was a sanctuary."
"A sept?"
"The Sept of Remembrance. Once, the most sacred place in King's Landing. Only the Starry Sept in Oldtown surpassed it."
"Until Maegor the Cruel burnt it to ash."
"Baelor's Sept may be grander now," he scoffed, "but this was the true seat of faith in the capital."
Someone muttered softly, "Why not move the bodies to Baelor's Sept?"
"They died by dragonfire," the priest replied slowly. "They would never consent to rest in a temple built by the bloodline that destroyed them."
"Doesn't your faith preach forgiveness?" Charles asked.
The priest smiled faintly.
"Believe me, child… it did not always."
---
Passing through a narrow stairway, they emerged into an underground hall.
The earth walls were reinforced with timbers.
Moist, heavy air filled the space.
It was crude—yet clean.
From the tables and benches, someone still cared for this place.
At the back stood a stone statue.
Seven faces.
Behind it, beyond a doorless arch, lay row after row of sarcophagi.
Charles was certain now—
This was where that voice had come from.
Though the sound had vanished the moment he stepped inside… its presence lingered in the air like a held breath.
He stepped forward.
"Wait—don't—!"
The priest reached out in desperation.
But Plummer blocked him.
No amount of shouting or shoving could move the knight aside.
Powerless, the old man could only watch as Charles led the men into the resting place of the dead.
Stone coffins stretched before them…
One after another…
Disappearing into darkness.
Facing the dense forest of stone coffins, Charles paused briefly—then turned to the guards behind him.
"Open them all."
"Th-This…" one of the soldiers hesitated, but after being nudged by his companion, he swallowed hard and nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Three soldiers immediately set to work, carrying out an act that felt deeply sacrilegious even to them.
Heavy grinding sounds echoed through the crypt as one stone lid after another was forced open. From the outer hall came the furious shouts of the old priest, his curses ringing clearly through the passage.
Charles ignored them.
He walked slowly along the narrow aisles between the sarcophagi, peering down into each opened coffin.
One mummified corpse after another came into view.
Some wore expressions of peace, as though asleep.
Others were twisted in silent agony, their mouths agape.
Some had eyes stretched wide in eternal fury.
Others were charred black, as if fire had kissed them in death.
Once, they might have been tall or broad-shouldered… handsome… ordinary… even beautiful.
Time, however, had stripped all difference away.
What remained were only horrors in human shape.
---
[Mummified corpse with a contorted expression. Estimated time since death: over 500 years. He likely suffered a tragic fate.]
[Half of the face burned away by fire. Estimated time since death: over 500 years. His death was painful.]
[Facial expression remains calm. Estimated time since death: over 1,000 years. He does not appear to have feared death.]
---
Coffin after coffin…
Nothing.
No sign of anything exceptional.
Charles began to doubt himself.
Did I come to the wrong place?
But in the end—effort was rewarded.
At the far edge of the crypt, he stopped before a coffin no different from the rest.
Inside lay a body wrapped in brittle white robes, hands folded across its chest.
Yet instead of a sacred scripture or rusted blade, the corpse held something else.
A staff.
A plain-looking staff.
Its shaft was wooden.
At the top was embedded a cloudy crystal sphere.
Within the sphere, seven faint human silhouettes swirled in quiet rotation.
The Father.
The Mother.
The Warrior.
The Maiden.
The Smith.
The Crone.
The Stranger.
Six plus one.
Arranged in a seven-pointed star.
One in seven. Seven as one.
The symbol of the Seven.
At first glance, there was nothing particularly remarkable about it.
Yet the message from True Sight erased all doubt.
---
[A sacred staff filled with unknown spiritual power. Its origins are ancient beyond reckoning.]
[Its existence is tied to a certain entity of this world.]
---
Charles's breathing slowed.
He stared at the staff.
Then he smiled.
"Found you."