The Gods Eye was vast, a sheet of hammered silver stretching to the horizon. In its center, the Isle of Faces loomed, a dark knot of ancient trees where the Pact was signed.
As a boy, Brother John had rowed out there with his friend Barry, terrified and thrilled, hoping to see the Green Men. They saw no green men, only the faces carved into the white weirwoods—weathered, silent, watching. That feeling of being watched never left him. It drove him to the Seven, to a god who demanded prayers in stone septs rather than blood in the woods.
He returned now to St. Maurus Monastery, a fortress of faith on the southwestern shore. Once a knight's manor, it had been stripped of its towers by the Targaryens, but its walls remained thick, guarding the vineyards that made the brothers rich.
"John?"
The gatekeeper, a young novice with freckles, blinked at him.
"Brother John of Tree Rack Village," John said. "Brother Greller was my teacher."
"Greller passed," the novice said. "But... wait."
A moment later, the wicket gate opened. An older monk with thinning grey hair rushed out.
"John!"
"Thomas!"
They embraced, dust flying from John's robes.
"You're back from the Vale?" Thomas asked.
"From the North. From everywhere."
"Come in, come in. Put your bag down. Tell me everything later over wine."
Inside, the monastery was unchanged—the smell of beeswax, incense, and fermenting grapes.
"Your old cell is taken," Thomas apologized. "We have new brothers. I can put you in the guest quarters. You'll have to share."
"I don't mind."
Thomas led him to the East Hall, the old knight's quarters. He knocked. "Brother Sparrow? Are you in?"
"I am." The voice was raspy, dry as old parchment.
The door opened. An old man stood there. He was tall, thin, and hard, like a root pulled from dry earth. His robe was undyed wool, rough and stained with mud. His feet were bare and calloused.
"Apologies, brother," the old man said, his eyes sharp and intelligent. "I was praying."
"This is Brother John," Thomas introduced. "He is a carpenter and a servant of the Smith. He has been traveling. He will share your room for a few days."
The old man—Sparrow—looked at John. He didn't look at the robes or the face. He seemed to look at the hands, rough from work, and the eyes, weary from the road.
"A servant of the Smith," Sparrow said, a faint smile touching his thin lips. "Honest work. I am honored. Please, enter."
The room was sparse. Two cots, a basin, a wooden icon of the Warrior on the wall. It was cleaner than John expected, scrubbed raw.
John knelt by his bed to pray. Lately, he prayed often, not out of piety, but out of fear. He needed to drown out the voice in his head that whispered of An'she and golden light. He needed the Seven to be real, or everything he knew was a lie.
Sparrow knelt too. He prayed with a terrifying intensity, his lips moving silently, his knuckles white.
Later, walking to the refectory, Thomas whispered, "Glad he didn't come with us."
"Why?" John asked. "He seems devout."
"Too devout," Thomas muttered. "He preaches poverty. If he saw the roast mutton the cook prepared for your homecoming, he'd lecture us on gluttony until the meat went cold."
"Who is he?"
"Drifted in a few months ago. No name, just 'Sparrow.' Abbot Brian is terrified of him. The man stares at you and you feel like he's weighing your soul against a feather."
They sat in a private alcove. The food was good—Riverlands stew, buttered mushrooms, fresh bread.
"Brother Greller?" John asked between bites.
"Fell in the vineyard six months ago," Thomas said sadly. "Broke his hip. Never woke up."
John made the sign of the seven-pointed star. "May the Father judge him justly."
"And the Abbot?"
"Brian?" Thomas lowered his voice. "He's in King's Landing. Took our best vintages—the '96 and the '97—to grease the High Septon's palms. Wants to be a bishop. Greller wouldn't have allowed it, but with him gone..."
"The church is rotting," John murmured.
"The world is rotting," Thomas corrected. "Did you go home?"
"Empty," John said. "Neighbors say my father took the little ones to King's Landing. Fled the war."
"King's Landing is a cesspit, but it has walls." Thomas sighed. "The Lannisters are animals. I heard they stripped the sept at Muddy Way. Took the gold leaf off the Mother's statue. Killed the septons."
"I saw worse," John said, thinking of the severed head at Oxcross. "The Northmen are no better. War makes beasts of men."
"And the lords?" Thomas spat. "Edmure Tully is useless. Hoster is dying. We pay them taxes for protection, and when the wolves come, they hide in their castles and let us burn."
"Aye," John agreed. "I was with the Northern army. Saw Robb Stark. They say he turns into a wolf."
"Does he?"
"No. Just a boy with a big dog and a heavy crown."
Thomas shook his head. "Lion or Wolf, it doesn't matter. The smallfolk are just the grass they trample."
John nodded, fingering the dagger Aldric had given him—the Valyrian steel blade hidden under his robe.
The grass needs to grow thorns, he thought.