Arthur's manse upon Visenya's Hill had not known quiet since their arrival. Every corridor, every hall thrummed with the noise of swords, armor and boasts. A dozen landed knights of White Harbor and their squires filled the courtyard, hacking at one another in the heat like men at war. The clang of steel rang against marble and drowned out the city's hum beyond the walls.
Donnel stood in the doorway that opened upon the courtyard, watching a young knight in a green surcoat topple into the dust, helm askew. The crowd of onlookers laughed, and the fallen man laughed too, but Donnel only sighed. "Too eager by half," he muttered. "A proper foe would've gutted him before he got his footing."
He would rather have stayed there among the noise and sweat, but his place was in the solar, guarding Arthur from any danger. And that was where he found himself again, standing still as stone while Lord Manderly dined with Lord Baelish. Donnel wished he could be anywhere else in the world rather than this room.
The air smelled of spiced wine and honeyed lies. Baelish sat across from Arthur, draped in soft velvets of Vale blue, smiling that small, knowing smile that never reached his eyes.
"I would be happy to provide the loan to Lord Grafton," Arthur was saying, his tone smooth and soft.
"Excellent," said Baelish, his smile deepening. "He will be most pleased. I assume the bank's usual rates would apply?"
Arthur gave a slow nod. "And I'll require a pledge as well."
"Oh, of course! One couldn't gain much from a banker without promises," Baelish leaned forward with a genial smirk, "And what shall it be, my lord? His ships, his lands…. his daughters?"
Donnel hated Littlefinger and his sweetened voice. It always seemed to have a slipperiness along with it, like a knife drawn halfway from its sheath.
Arthur calmly answered, "Mountains."
That drew a pause, then a soft, incredulous laugh from Baelish. "Mountains? What mountains?"
Arthur inclined his head toward Halder, his steward, who stepped forward and spread a map of the Vale across the table. "Here," Arthur said, tapping the northern border of the Grafton lands. "The range that runs against the Royces' frontier. I'll have those mountains and whatever lies within them for the life of the loan."
Baelish arched a brow. "Queer choice. Those peaks are full of clans, savages, thieves. There's little there worth taking, unless you fancy a goat's company. I'm concerned you'd be making a loss, Ser."
As am I, Donnel thought sourly. Gods help us if Arthur starts collecting wildlings next.
Arthur smiled knowingly, "Mayhaps I do need mountain goats," he said softly. "Or mayhaps I simply like mountains. That need not concern you, Lord Baelish. You need only deliver the grain we discussed."
Baelish's smile thinned. "Of course. Your ships may collect the shipments from Gulltown whenever you wish. Though…" He paused and then smirked, "Fifty-six million bushels, my lord, is no small measure. You mean to hoard them, do you? Grains always are a wonderful item for trade. Everyone needs grains."
Arthur's voice cooled, "Aye, we do too, yet not for trade. Only to feed our people, winter is coming."
Baelish gave a little laugh, light and mocking. "It always is."
Arthur's reply came sharper than before, "That will be all, then, Lord Baelish."
Baelish rose, smooth as silk, bowing with exaggerated grace. "Yes, Ser. That will be all."
He turned for the door, and Donnel's hand itched toward his sword without knowing why. There was something in the man's gait that set his teeth on edge, too light, too untroubled, as if he were leaving behind poison and knew it.
At the threshold, Baelish stopped. "You know," he said, glancing back over his shoulder, "I heard the most curious rumor."
Arthur looked weary of him now, though he still indulged the mockingbird. "And what rumor is that?"
"They say the Sealord of Braavos mourns his only son," Baelish said, his smile as sweet as rot. "The poor boy vanished near the hills of Old Andalos. Such a tragedy. Vanished without a trace."
Donnel frowned, not following. What concern was that of theirs? A Braavosi lordling lost in Essos was no more to him than a snowflake melting in the Bite.
"Is that so?" Arthur smirked and said softly. "Then it seems you are still very much rooted in your heritage, Lord Baelish. Truly admirable."
For the briefest moment, Baelish's smile faltered and came back quicker and colder, "Yes, yes, I suppose I am," he said. "One can't ever reach too high and forget where one came from."
Donnel remembered grimly what Arthur had once said to him long ago, TheMockingbirdandthespiderwerethetwomostdangerousmenoftherealm.They keep their knives sharpand thin, while coatthem in honey,soyou'llneverseeitcoming.
Arthur's smile was smaller than Baelish's, but colder. "Then perhaps you should pay a visit to Braavos soon, my lord," he said. "And when you do, please do give my regards to the Sealord."
Baelish inclined his head, the faintest twitch at his lips. "As you wish, my lord." He bowed, and the door closed behind him.
"I don't like him," Donnel muttered as his gaze lingered on the door. "He is more of a snake than a man."
"You're not wrong," Arthur laughed, "Yet snakes too have their uses. They slither where men cannot."
Donnel frowned. "And then bite when you least expect."
The sound of their voice was broken by the faint clatter of a cup as Halder cleared the table. Donnel let out a slow breath and stood by the gate. Arthur stood by the window and gazed upon the world outside, sunlight falling pale across his noble features. Beyond the glass, the red roofs of the city shimmered in the afternoon haze, and the clang of swords from the courtyard below echoed faintly through the stone.
Donnel broke the silence first. "What was that about?" he asked, "All that talk of the Sealord's son."
Arthur didn't turn. "Nothing important," he said calmly. "Baelish seems to think we're having trouble with Braavos."
Donnel's brow furrowed. "We are having trouble, though, aren't we?" He recalled the faceless man and how calm Arthur had been that day. Even though Arthur assured him that the problem was taken care of. Yet Donnel still worried.
Arthur looked at the eyes of his own reflection in the window glass. He spoke softly, almost sad, "Unfortunately, we are, ser. The Narrow Sea is their blood and the world around it their body. Every ship that sails by my leave, every coin that passes through my ports, cuts into their veins. We are bleeding them, whether we mean to or not."
Donnel grunted, uneasy. He had no love for Braavosi or their strange gods, but he'd seen enough wars to know when a wound might fester. "And is that necessary?"
Arthur turned then. Whatever warmth had lingered in him was gone. His voice was low, deliberate, cold as the sea in winter. "It is, if we wish to provide a better future for the North and for Westeros besides. The old order must change, Ser, for it is inevitable. It's the only way forward."
Donnel met his gaze, saw there the same fire that had once burned before the boy's first battle in the stepstones. He wanted to say more, to warn, to temper, yet the words got caught in his throat.
He gave a slow nod instead. "As you say, my lord."
The bells of Baelor tolled as they crossed the square, long sonorous notes that rolled over the city like the slow beating of a heart. The air smelled of incense and hot stone; pilgrims knelt in clusters before the steps, muttering prayers to every face of their seven gods. Donnel kept his distance.
Donnel had no love for these septons and their shining halls. His gods asked for no gold, no feasts, no jeweled crowns. The old gods only wanted honor, bonds and the whisper of leaves. Yet here stood the grandest sept in all the realm, its marble domes gleaming so bright they near blinded him.
Arthur walked ahead, his cloak trailing behind him like a ripple of blue water. The septons bowed as they passed, their faces soft and smiling, voices murmuring blessings that Donnel doubted they meant. The boy bore it all with a calm grace that might have been piety or simply patience.
House Manderly's faith had always been a strange thing, half sept, half heart tree. When they came north, they'd bent the Seven to better suit the snow. Their septs owned no lands, their priests took no tithes but what the lord granted, and their sermons spoke more of duty than of dominion. The southerners called it heresy; Donnel called it sense. Still, the High Septon of Oldtown had never forgiven them for it.
They entered through the Hall of Lamps, where thousands of crystals hung on silver chains, burning with soft light. Donnel had seen battlefields lit by burning ships, and the glow was not so different, beautiful, aye, but cruel too, in its way.
From the far side came a man draped in silver cloth, his hair gone to grey, a small mustache neatly trimmed. A crystal coronal rested upon his brow. He walked with a train of younger septons behind him, their heads shaved smooth as eggs.
"Patriarch Luceon," Arthur said, bowing his head with practiced ease. "A blessing to see you again. How fares His Holiness?"
Donnel knew the man at once. A Frey once, and perhaps still one beneath the silk. He remembered him from White Harbor years ago, always courteous, always prying.
Luceon bent slightly, his smile the picture of humility. "His Holiness is well, Ser Arthur, and awaits your arrival."
Arthur inclined his head. "Lead the way, then."
They followed through a long corridor where the air grew thick with the scent of oils and beeswax. The marble beneath Donnel's boots was polished smooth, slick as river ice. He walked a half-step behind Arthur, hand resting near his sword out of old habit.
At last they entered the Hall of the Most Devout. The High Septon sat upon his dais, round and vast, swaddled in white silk and cloth-of-gold, a crystal crown heavy upon his brow. The sight of him reminded Donnel of a great pale toad perched on a lily pad. This was Hugor the Two Hundred and Twenty-Third, who called himself the Avatar of the Seven, though most men beyond the city called him simply the Fat One.
Arthur approached and went to one knee before the dais. The High Septon raised a hand thick as a ham, its fingers weighted with rings. Upon one finger gleamed the great signet said to have been forged by The Smith himself.
Arthur bent low and kissed it. Donnel stood behind, jaw tight, thinking how many lips that ring must've touched, lords and liars both.
"Rise, my son," the High Septon intoned, his voice heavy and wet. "The Seven smile upon your piety. Your gifts to the orphaned and the poor are known to us."
Arthur rose gracefully. "I do only as the gods will, Your Holiness, and I am but their servant."
The Fat One smiled, his cheeks folding like dough. "Such humility," he said. "Faith remembers such devotion."
Donnel watched the exchange in silence. Aye, he thought, they remember the coins more than the prayers.
Luceon inclined his head, his smile all silk and teeth. "Very humble and generous indeed," he said, "Yet….. it seems you haven't delivered upon your promises to us."
Donnel shifted his stance. He knew well what they were speaking of. Arthur had pledged to donate all his winnings from the last tournament. Half for the south, half for the north, he'd said, though not a copper would pass through the hands of these silk-swaddled priests. The winnings were generous enough to feed half of the slums of Flea Bottom for a year, but not if the sept and the corrupt officers took their share first.
So, Arthur had chosen another path, his own. The Holy Order of Saint Davos. Commonly known as the Hospitallers. Men sworn to service to the gods and the realm. They are not drunk in their office, not fattened by tithes. They live and serve the gods and their creations. They dedicated their whole lives to it. A strange sort of piety they had, Donnel thought, yet honest in its own way.
Arthur met the patriarch's eyes evenly. "Elder Brother Halrick is distributing the coins as we speak," he said. "Forty silver stags each for two thousand and five hundred households in Flea Bottom."
The High Septon blinked, his jowls quivering. Luceon's smile thinned.
"We were not informed you would distribute them through your order," the High Septon said.
"Aye," Luceon added, soft as a whisper, "King's Landing is the domain of His Holiness. The coins should've spread through our hands."
Arthur only smiled, courteous and cold. "The coins are being spread in the gods' name, Your Holiness, and in the name of our good King Robert, and of my house. So, the burden is mine to bear. And six hundred and sixty pounds of silver would take more hands than his holiness can spare."
"Aye, we needed ten strong men to carry the two heavy chests from the ship to the slums and a hundred footmen to guard them," Donnel muttered.
Luceon's eyes glimmered like wet stones, and the Fat One smiled again, his mouth curving with practiced grace. "Of course," he said. "We only meant to offer our assistance."
Arthur inclined his head. "Worry not, Your Holiness. We shall take care of it. If it pleases His Holiness," he continued, "I would speak of matters concerning the spreading of the Faith beyond our borders."
"Yes, yes, we remember our conversation. You wish us to send our septons to foreign lands to preach."
"Not to foreign lands, Your Holiness," Arthur said. "To our holy lands. The hills of Andalos, where Saint Hugor was crowned. The Gods and honor urge us to reclaim them for the Faith."
Donnel frowned. Reclaim? The word stirred unease in him. He had heard nothing of this before.
Luceon's smile did not fade, but his eyes hardened. "Those lands belong to the Braavosi now," he said softly. "Only foreigners and heretics live there now."
Arthur's voice remained even, though Donnel caught the flicker of something colder beneath it as he spoke again, "Aye, they do belong to the Braavosi and before them to the Pentoshi. One after another, our holy lands were ruled and desecrated by fire and death worshippers. There are Andals still left there, and they live under heathen oppression as slaves. Our kin, our blood, our brothers, long forgotten."
The High Septon shifted upon his dais, the crystals of his crown chiming faintly. "Our kin?" he murmured. "You speak of heretics, Ser Arthur. They refused to follow our ancestors when we arrived in Westeros. And they still refuse to acknowledge the divine authority of our crown."
Arthur's gaze did not waver. "They will, Your Holiness. If the gods wills those sacred lands to be ours once again."
The light of the candles caught Arthur's eyes, and for a moment, Donnel thought he saw something deep, endless, and cold. He thought of the Braavosi ships along the Narrow Sea, their oars cutting the waves like blades. To war with them was folly. Yet Arthur's tone held no hint of madness, only purpose.
Luceon's smile had turned sharp. "Gods will," he repeated. "Dangerous words, Ser Arthur. The Faith has not raised swords in a hundred years."
"The Faith need not raise it here either, only its voice," Arthur said. "And the servants of the faith will bear the burden, as they have before."
The Fat One's eyes half-closed, as if in thought, or sleep. "You speak of a holy work," he said at last, "and holy works demand holier faith."
"Then I pray we still have it." Arthur bowed his head. "Think of it your Holiness, call a council of the most devout. I shall speak with the king myself and together we can build a Kingdom of Heavens."
When they left the chamber, Donnel felt the weight of the incense still clinging to his breath. Outside, the bells were tolling again, slow and mournful. As if already praying for the lives that would be lost. He looked at Arthur walking ahead, sunlight glinting off the silver of his belt. Donnel wondered if he truly meant to remake the world. And how much blood must be spilled for that new world to be true.