The burden of choice pressed heavily upon Kaden Storm.
He had traveled hundreds of leagues from St. Maur's to King's Landing with the grand ambition of opening a market for "Sun-Steel" weaponry. But fate had veered sharply. Through a series of coincidences, he had joined the Gold Cloaks. At the time, he had reasoned that another channel for intelligence was invaluable, and with the High Sparrow's blessing, he had taken the plunge.
Initially, as a Captain, Kaden was frantic. He passed secrets, coordinated the rescue of Sparrows seized by the City Watch, and ran himself ragged. But following the Purple Wedding—merely for exchanging a few words with Sansa Stark—he had been demoted. Then, by rescuing Carlo and Marin from Ralf Koch's clutches, he had effectively made himself a pariah within the Watch, his status plummeting like a stone into a frozen well.
Once the High Sparrow was elevated to High Septon and began performing "miracles," the pious knights and noblewomen of the Red Keep swarmed the Great Sept. Kaden's own intelligence became redundant; he could barely compete with the elderly monks hearing confessions.
He had begun to think of returning to the Gods Eye. At least there he could swing a sword for a cause, rather than hacking at straw dummies in a stifling courtyard. But to return in defeat galled him.
Now, Ser Loras had offered him a key to restoration. Should I seize it or let it go? Kaden felt like a man walking a tightrope in a gale. Finally, he decided to seek the counsel of the High Sparrow.
The next day, Kaden spent two Silver Moons to bribe a fellow sergeant to take his shift. Disguised in the patched rags of a laborer, his face hidden beneath a floppy, moth-eaten hat, he slipped into a grain wagon leaving the Keep. After a bumpy ride through the city's winding veins, he reached the Great Sept of Baelor.
Since his ascension, the High Sparrow had cleared the plaza. The mud huts were gone, replaced by an austere, terrifying cleanliness. The bones of the martyred monks had been buried with honor. The Sept stood renewed, a monument of white marble and cold righteousness.
Inside, Kaden found the High Septon leading a group of brothers in scrubbing the floors. He noticed their soft, white fingers—these were the Most Devout, the elite of the Faith, reduced to scullery work by the man in the undyed wool.
Kaden approached and bowed low. "High Septon, I have news."
The old man looked up, a warm smile touching his face. "Brother Storm." He handed his brush to a nearby Bishop, who took it with a look of suppressed humiliation, and led Kaden toward the inner sanctum.
The Great Hall was a cathedral of light. Prismatic beams from the high dome lanced through the air, illuminating dancing dust motes. Thousands of candles flickered before the altar of the Mother; the Maiden's altar glittered like a shy eye; but the Stranger's corner remained a cavern of shadow.
Kaden knelt and recounted everything—the tavern talk, Loras's fury at Cersei, and the invitation to Dragonstone.
"Should I go, Father?" Kaden asked, his confusion manifest.
The High Septon gazed into the distance. "Aldric—the Lightbringer—prefers we do not drown in the squabbles of Lords. But... to rise within the Watch serves our Path. Yet the field of battle is a fickle mistress, Kaden. If you fall, your work ends. This choice is yours alone. The Sun shines on all paths, but it does not tell you where to walk."
Kaden offered a bitter laugh. "It would be easier if Anshe simply gave me an order."
"Indeed," the High Septon whispered. "It would."
Kaden spent the night on the battlements of the Red Keep, watching the lights of the city below. By dawn, his jaw was set. He would follow Loras.
He met the Knight of Flowers as he descended from the Small Council chamber.
"Ser Kaden. I feared you had lost your nerve," Loras said with a mocking glint. "The ship for Dragonstone sails within the hour."
"I am ready, My Lord. How many do we take?"
"The army is already there," Loras said, his voice tightening. "Lords of the Reach and their levies. Even the fleet is Redwyne's. I go to take command, not to bring a host. A dozen men of my own will suffice."
The voyage took them northeast, past the mouth of the Blackwater. As the jagged, volcanic silhouette of Dragonstone rose from the mist, Kaden felt a chill. The island was a bleak, charred rock.
"Stannis truly was a king of ashes," Kaden remarked as they neared the harbor.
"Do not speak that name," Loras spat, his face contorting with a sudden, sharp venom. "If I find that man, I will bury my blade in his chest to see if his heart is truly black. To use sorcery to murder his own brother... it is a sin for which there is no name."
"Renly... I heard the Maid of Tarth killed him," Kaden said carefully.
Loras looked away, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "No. I questioned her. Renly told me once... he kept her because others wanted titles, but Brienne only wanted to die for him. I would have died for him too. If I had been in that tent..." He trailed off, his hand gripping the rail until his knuckles turned white.
Kaden felt he had stepped into a private chapel of grief. He quickly changed the subject to the coming assault.
The harbor was a forest of masts—the Redwyne Fleet had the island choked. They dismounted at the main camp and entered the command pavilion of Lord Paxter Redwyne.
Paxter was a lean, balding man with tufts of orange hair. He was eating a steak when they entered.
"Loras! My nephew!" Paxter stood, embracing him. "Why have you left the little Queen in the capital to come to this rock?"
Loras's expression turned grim. "Bad news from Highgarden. The Ironborn have struck the Reach. A thousand longships under 'Crow's Eye' Euron. They've taken the Shields and are in the Whispering Sound. The Shield Lords are dead, and Lord Hewett is a prisoner in his own keep."
Paxter slammed his fist onto the table. "A thousand? Even half that is a nightmare! I must sail at once. Did the Queen order the relief?"
Loras shook his head. "Cersei thinks Stannis is behind it. She refuses to lift the siege. So... I have come to end it. I will take the castle tonight, so you may sail for the Reach by morning."
"Loras, you are a boy," Paxter sighed. "Dragonstone was built by the Valyrians. The walls are black stone, fused by fire. I intended to starve them out for a year to save our men. A direct assault is suicide."
Loras walked to the tent flap, pointing at the snarling, dragon-shaped towers of the fortress. "I will challenge Ser Rolland Storm to single combat for the keys. If he refuses, I will lead the breach myself. Either I return with the castle, or I do not return at all. The Reach is burning, Uncle. I have no time for caution."
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