The dawn light filtered through the high apertures of the sept, but the shadows in the Great Hall remained deep. A vivid rainbow shimmered against the stone walls, swaying gently with the movement of the Sparrow's hands.
"A miracle!" A young man with a shaven crown leaped from his bench, throwing himself prostrate on the floor. "The Sparrow carries the favor of the Seven!"
The hall erupted in a chaotic scramble as others followed suit, kneeling in the dust. Only a few remained seated, frantically tracing the seven-pointed star across their chests. The Sparrow lowered his hands, gesturing for silence. The clamor died away like a receding tide.
"Brothers," the Sparrow began, his voice clear and resonant. "Many of you know me. I have walked the Seven Kingdoms, tending to hamlets too small to warrant a Septon. I have wed your sons, named your babes, and shriven your sins. But those hamlets are gone. Where gardens once bloomed, there is only briar and bone. The people I knew by name are ghosts, and those who survived have no hearth to return to. The stench of death is the only air the Riverlands breathes."
He paused, his eyes dark with memory. "The septs are cinders. The Silent Sisters have been despoiled, their cries reaching for heavens that seemed deaf. Do you remember Muddy Puddle?"
"I remember," a man in a rough brown tunic muttered. "My village sat but a league away."
"Benny," the Sparrow nodded. "Tell the brothers what the Sun saw at Muddy Puddle."
Benny stood, his voice heavy as lead. "The Lions' 'Bloody Mummers' came four moons ago. A hundred of them. They tore babes from their mothers and dashed them against the stones. Girls no older than eight were used until they broke. Any man who raised a pitchfork was butchered. The women fled to the sept, believing the gods would shield them. The sellswords didn't care. They broke the doors and slaughtered them where they knelt. They hanged the brothers from the rafters and tortured them for silver that didn't exist. Of the whole village, only five remained: a woman mutilated beyond recognition, a child hidden in a loft, two monks whose hands had been taken, and a man left for dead. When I arrived, the fires were still smoldering. Only the child lived long enough to see the week out."
The Sparrow stepped forward. "A moon ago, the same tragedy played out beneath your very feet. I watched as the Mummers used your own kin as human shields to trick the monks into opening these gates. Only John, myself, and two others survived the cull. The blood of the innocent is a river in this land. And it is not just the Mummers. It is Gregor Clegane, Amory Lorch, and a thousand knights who were anointed with holy oils in the great septs of the South. They trample the crops and murder the monks on Tywin Lannister's whim. Does the Seven-Pointed Star teach that the gods delight in the slaughter of the just? If not, why does the King—vowed to protect the Faith—not only permit these horrors but reward the monsters with lands and titles?"
The hall was deathly silent. The Sparrow scanned the faces of his audience. He saw the same hollow confusion he had carried for years.
"I thought on this until my spirit nearly broke," the Sparrow continued. "And I found the truth. The Seven have abandoned us—not because we have failed them, but because we have failed the source of their power."
An uneasy murmur rippled through the pews.
"We are the faithful!" the Sparrow bellowed, suppressing the noise. "We give our best wine and our sweetest grain to the Church. But what does the High Septon do? What do the Great Archseptons do? They feast with the lords. They trade church acolytes for noble favors and sell their bastard sons into knightly service. They play the 'Game of Thrones' in King's Landing while we—you and your families—are but the copper coins they bet with! The Church was meant to be the voice of the Gods. Instead, it is a tool for fat men to gather gold. The cry of the people can no longer reach the heavens because the Church has blocked the way!"
Refugees from the courtyard, drawn by the sound of the Sparrow's voice, began to crowd the doorways, filling every gap in the hall.
"We did not turn from the gods!" someone cried. "We kept the vows!"
"But the Seven did not answer!" another shouted.
"No," the Sparrow's voice boomed. "The Seven did not abandon us. They brought the true meaning of the Faith back to us from across the sea, from the far empire of Seres. Allow me to introduce the Apostle of the One, the champion of the Light: Aldric, the Lightbringer!"
Mors, the Sunwalker from beyond the Wall, began to clap. The sound grew into a thunderous roar. Aldric stepped onto the dais, his Solar Plate catching the first true rays of the morning sun as they cut through the sept's windows. He looked like a statue of living gold.
He did not speak immediately. He pressed his palms together and bowed his head. "Great Anshe, Sovereign of the Solar Flame, source of the Seven-fold Grace... bless these seekers that they may hear the truth."
He swept a hand across the room. Suddenly, a shimmering phantom of an ancient book appeared over the heads of everyone in the hall. It was the Mind-Grace; the crowd gasped as a sudden, sharp clarity washed over them. Their exhaustion faded, replaced by an intense focus.
"Brothers and sisters," Aldric began, his voice calm and commanding. "I am Aldric of Seres. I have traveled your lands for a year as a simple warrior, my power sealed by the divine will so that I might experience your suffering firsthand. From the Wall to the Gods Eye, I have seen the same rot: a people without the favor of the gods."
Aldric paced the dais. "I wondered why John and the Sparrow, men of such profound piety, walked in darkness. I prayed for an answer, and the Sun granted me a revelation: The Faith in Westeros has been led into the wilderness by a corrupt Church. The High Septons have betrayed the teachings, and thus the Light has left them. To hide their shame, they twisted the scriptures, concealing the true nature of the gods so that no man could call upon the Grace. It is a theft of the soul!"
He leaned over the pulpit. "There is no 'Seven.' There is only Anshe, the Sun-God! The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith... they are but the seven colors of the Sun's ray, manifestations of his glory in our world! The Church used the name 'Seven' to hide the Sun, ensuring you would never look up to see the one who truly judges and heals!"
"Liar! Blasphemer!"
A middle-aged monk named Rolf stood up, his face contorted with rage. "How can you let this heretic speak such filth in a sacred hall, Sparrow?!"
The Sparrow looked at him with profound sadness. "Brother Rolf, you have lived in a windowless room so long you think the dark is the world. I do not force you to believe, but for the ten years of our brotherhood, I ask you to listen. If the word brings you no peace, then walk away."
"I respect your soul, Sparrow, but this is madness!" Rolf looked around, but the crowd, touched by Aldric's Mind-Grace, remained silent and focused. He sat back down, muttering under his breath.
Aldric pointed to him. "Brother Rolf calls me a liar because he believes the Church owns the truth. But ask yourself, Rolf: why can no Septon in the Seven Kingdoms perform a miracle? Is it because the Seven are dead, or because they never existed as you were taught?"
Aldric held up the seven-sided crystal. "Why is the rainbow the sign of the gods? Why is the star of your faith seven-pointed?"
He raised his right hand. A bolt of pure, white radiance struck the crystal, and once again, the prismatic rainbow flooded the hall. "Because the Sun's light is one, but it contains all seven. The circle at the center of your stars? That is the Sun. It is the throne."
"A trick!" Rolf shouted. "A mummer's prism! A bit of light does not prove a god!"
"If it were only light, perhaps," Aldric said. He stepped down from the dais and walked to Rolf. He drew a dagger and, before anyone could gasp, sliced his own palm. Blood dripped onto the stone. "This is my blood, Rolf. It is real. But Anshe's glory mends what is broken."
A flash of gold light pulsed around Aldric's hand. When he opened his fist, the skin was whole.
"I... I don't believe it," Rolf stammered. "A hidden salve, a sleight of hand..."
Aldric turned to Rolf. "Then how shall I prove it to you?"
Rolf gritted his teeth. "Give me the blade!"
The crowd leaned in, expecting Rolf to test the knife. Instead, the monk hiked up his robe and slashed a deep, jagged wound into his own thigh. He hissed in agony, his face slick with sweat. "Heal this with your 'Sun-God,' foreigner! Or let my blood be the price of your lies!"
Aldric closed his eyes. "The Church has sinned greatly to drive a man of your courage to such despair. I pray to Anshe—the source of the Seven—to return your health."
Aldric waved his hand over the bloody gash. A surge of warmth radiated through the hall. Rolf's leg spasmed, the skin knitting together with a wet, popping sound. Within seconds, only a smear of blood and a patch of missing hair remained where the wound had been.
The monks sitting near Rolf scrambled to touch his leg, their eyes wide with terror and awe. Others, more fervent, took the knife and cut themselves, begging for the Sun's grace. Aldric healed them all, one by one.
He returned to the lectern. "Why did the Church hide this? Because they fear you. They fear that if you know you are born of the Sun, you will realize you are born free. Why is the Father just? Why does the Mother give life? Not because a Septon said so, but because those are the attributes of the Sun. The Sun burns itself to provide heat and light to all, without exception. It does not care if you are a high lord or a beggar. It loves us all equally."
Aldric's voice grew hard. "We are born equal under the Sun. We owe no natural debt to those who wear crowns. A lord is meant to protect; a farmer provides food in exchange. It is a pact of labor, a contract of equals. But the lords treat you as cattle. They take seventy percent of your sweat to pay for their finery. They start wars for pride and use you as fodder. They hide behind 'chivalry' to spare each other for ransom, while they slaughter the common soldier who dares to surrender.
"In peace, they kill you on a whim and call it 'Lord's Right.' The Church says nothing because they are in the lords' pockets. Is that the Sun's will? No. We have no path but to cleanse the Faith. We must organize. We must build a power of the people that can defend the truth. Purifying the source—returning to the Sun—is the first step toward a world where no sparrow is forgotten."