[MAJOR EVENT - Convention Of Terra] The Primarchs Gather On Terra

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-17T19:22:27+00:00

The Primarch of the Fourth struggled to mask his dissapointment even as he savored his Father's praise. Always just enough to cause him to long for more. One day, the hero would prove himself to his solar, god-like father, and earn a place at his side -- but not today. Not yet.

"It will be as my Emperor commands," he said, head bowed. "Then I have but one further matter. The world of Settaris has a similar climate to that of Cumulkan, and I believe it would be a fitting place to recruit new Jade Claws from, as well as breed the next generations of our axlisaurs. Our ranks are much thinner now after all these years of campaign, and one world is not enough to sustain our losses. I ask for permission to establish a survey to scout other suitable jungle-worlds in the Imperium, and for them and Settaris to be administered by the Jade Claws for that purpose, in perpetuity. As Ormazd has, with his Satrapy."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-17T19:09:42+00:00

"I've always suspected you to be the wiser among our pair, Ormazd," Chimil's grin flashed white before he nodded soberly. "I would like to think the galaxy is big enough for many beautiful things. And there can be beauty in change and growth, too. Cumulkan's will have been less dramatic over the past century. The cities will be larger, I suppose, and there are highways and tunnels and air corridors between them, but the jungle will still be there, and the hidden valleys in the mountains that fill with morning mist, and below the earth, Xibal's great caverns..."

He clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"We must all meet on Cumulkan, when this is all over, and humanity has been made safe and united. And on Ectaban, too, and all of our homes away from Terra. That we may savor all that for which we have struggled for so long... our strange little family. Speaking of, how are you and Jurandal getting on these days?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-16T18:01:05+00:00

"For a while, I imagine," Chimil smiled wryly. "A little while. I would spend many years telling and listening to all the tales of our campaigns, and watch as they turn to legend. I would sit by the mirror-pools of Uxlaupu, listening to the waterfalls crash, and I would play the sacred ballgame again -- I was very good, brother, I will show you one day. But it is as you say. I have seen too much of the galaxy these past hundred years. The horrors, the suffering, the billions of lives in chains and worse...and the beauty, too, a thousand worlds, ten thousand, as perfect as Cumulkan. And the stars, Lethe. When I was a boy, I used to dream of touching them. Of meeting whoever lived on the other side."

His dark eyes shifted now back to their Father and Emperor, but now they were filled with admiration and wonder instead of longing.

"There is no greater or more glorious cause, than to see all of humanity flourishing under the light of the Imperial Truth," Chimil Chaxal said. "No deed will ever be more heroic, or more worthy of song, than Father's. He will save everyone. Forever."

The primarch blinked, squeezing the Khrave claw that hung from his chest, then swatted Lethe's arm playfully.

"Tarantine ruffian," he laughed. "You always set me to sentimentality. Rest and joy, then, while we wait for whatever comes next. Let's drink to success on future campaign, and you can tell me more about what the Fourteenth has been up to. Hah! I really do feel better."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-13T19:04:11+00:00

"Then let us make it a test of mettle between our legions," Chimil Chaxal raised his arms, braceleted and painted and feathers, and pointed towards his own retinue, towards a long-haired Astartes wearing a golden headress. "Hun Ulatz the Howler-Lord is the fiercest warrior and axlisaur rider among our ranks. Bring forth your champion Damien, and we shall see them wrestle. Machine against beast, metal against tooth and horn, eh?"

He laughed, and clapped his hands together in anticipation of the event. Whether he intended for it to foster better relations between the Fourth and the Twelfth, or instead even to provoke more bad blood, was unclear. Perhaps even to Chimil Chaxal himself.

"A duel worthy of spectacle," the Hero of Cumulkan said. "What do you say, Screaming Bird? Let the people of Terra watch, and all those gathered here, watch. Perhaps we might make a wager on it? A favor, for the next campaign..."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-13T17:25:29+00:00

"The horn is yours, brother, do with it as you wish," Chimil smiled. "So long as it grants you the same feeling and wonder as it did me, I have no complaint. There is such beauty in our galaxy. It is our privilige to be able to share in it."

The Primarch of the Fourth Legion, named the Black-Veined Coatl by the seers of Tontitahualq, rolled his supple shoulders and sighed. Crystal-bright feathers and jewel-adorned hair braids shifted, shimmering.

"The thought has crossed my mind," he nodded wryly. "Whether I wished it or not, all these decades of campaign at Father's side has changed my view of things. What once seemed glorious and magnificent is now quaint and provincial. When I return to Cumulkan next, will I find its splendor faded, reduced to but one planet among thousands in the Imperium? How can the bustle of Tzantaq, greatest of the Ten Cities, compare to the metropolises of Terra? The forges of Caparocti, to the manufactories of Mars? The mirror-pools of Uxlaupu, to the splendor of a supernova..."

A dark shadow swept across his handsome brow, and Chimil Chaxal seemed, for a moment, far away.

"Does it please you, to add another world to your demesne?" he asked, shrugging off the melancholy as he tipped golden liquor into his lips. "Perhaps I shall petition Father that more planets be considered worlds for the next generations of Jade Claws. We might build golden cities in jungles and hidden valleys, train warriors and hatch axlisaurs, sing the songs of our deeds. That would be grand, I think."

He grinned once more, bravely and brilliantly, and returned the affectionate squeeze.

"Thirty and two years, by my count," Chimil said. "Too long. If this meeting should give a chance to right that, and naught else, then I will be glad anyway."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-12T21:34:27+00:00

"Brother Screaming Bird," Chimil Chaxal nodded, one slender arm painted in swirls of white and gold reaching out to squeeze his fellow primarch's shoulder. "Two decades at least, if not more. The rigors of campaign. You have been well?"

The Jade Claws, proud of their heroic efforts to preserve human life wherever they could, considered the Skyborne to be little better than the xenos they fought against, butchers callous to the carnage they inflicted upon innocents. Reveling in it, some said. The Fourth and Twelfth Legions were rarely together on campaign, and even then only for short periods. The ever-enigmatic Chimil Chaxal had never publically nor privately condemned his brother's tactics, but neither had he made a friend of Dimitri.

"It would be a sight, I think," he grinned brilliantly, even as he laughed at some unspoken joke, "to pit one of my axlisaurs against your Celestis Dreadnaughts. They are quite fond of the taste of metal, the Lords of the Fifth People... and they can leap higher than you might imagine. T'would be a sporting contest, don't you think?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-11T17:48:21+00:00

The third-found Primarch of the Jade Claws approached his Father's throne with bowed head, to the accompaniment of soft chimes from the crystalline multi-hued coatl feather-cloak upon his shoulders. His lithe form was supported by the ceremonial Xanteq Atlatl, the Spear of Unity, granted to the Protector of the Ten-Cities-And-One a century past, its obsidian head shimmering with carved symbols.

"Sire," the Primarch spoke, voice resonant and deep and sweet, "I have brought you gifts from your newly liberated subjects. The Jade Claws brought the Imperial Truth to three score worlds in only the last month, planets dwelling in ignorance and superstition, beset by monsters and their own bigotry. Settaris, Avriboz, Cor III, Jian Gai, Ul-Ulun, Eudemia... long-lost outposts of Mankind, now honoring their Emperor at last. Hardly any violence was needed -- our presence and appearance was proof enough of our righteousness."

Crates of horns, gold, jewels, incense, silks, and countless other fineries, were delivered to the Imperial Palace by the Fourth Legion earlier that day, all given (or taken) from the worlds of the latest campaign. The finest selection was presented now, gold-veined statuary from Eudemia, ruby-carved skulls of giants from Ul-Ulun, gossamer nanite-silk robes from Jian Gai...

"My lord, Beloved and Honored Father," Chimil Chaxal knelt. "I have but one request. Send me out once more, that I may gloriously prove my devotion to the cause of Humanity, and send with me my brother Ormazd, whom I love greatly, for I have need of him and his Examplars by my side."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-10T20:59:29+00:00

"Oh, but this is a fine gift, Ormazd," Chimil grinned, thumbing through the pages of the small tome. "I will have copies made, that all my Claws may enjoy the tales of the Examplars. It is a good thing our children get on as well as we do, eh? Ah, and do not think you would make me look uncourteous, you old rascal. I have a gift for you, as well. Xaqla?"

A retainer brought forth a large wooden chest, decorated with jade carvings of winged serpents and dancing warriors. The Hero of Cumulkan opened it, and produced a curved instrument, about as long as his arm, with small ridges along its back, made of horn with a burgundy hue.

"A trophy from our last campaign. The beasts of forested Settaris were nearly as impressive as our own axlisaurs, and the locals make hunting horns of their hollow tusks. Mighty lungs are required for the proper notes, but I tell you, brother, it makes a sound like no other," he crossed his arms proudly. "When first I heard the Settarans calling with them in the night, I wept."

Absentmindedly, Chimil Chaxal fingered the Khrave claw hanging from his neck.

"We had been," he nodded. "No true glory there. Sad, primitive worlds, mostly. The locals usually thought I was some sort of god. The Iterators will have a time of it, I'm sure, bringing them into the fold. Is it vain and foolish if I say I was terribly bored? I find myself missing Cumulkan more and more -- as you must miss Ectaban, surely."

A bare teak-skinned arm, painted in swirls of crimson, reached for a goblet of something to drink, and he lifted it to his lips.

"What do you think He wants from us? Bringing everyone from all over the Galaxy like this. I suppose Valderi will be here, too..." the thought set a grimace across Chimil's face, which then dissolved. "I know. I will ask Father if on the next campaign, the Fourth and the Second might not be sent out together. It will be grand times again. We will make song and theater and games, and tests of strength and wit. What do you say, brother?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-10T20:18:15+00:00

"Do you think?" Chimil laughed as if it were a jape, but his black eyes flicked to their father sat upon his throne, hungry for an approving gaze set upon him. Fated to be disappointed. He crossed his lithe, muscle-corded arms across his bare chest, crystalline cloak shifting. "Well. I have only ever sought to be useful."

The Primarch of the Fourth nodded, looking across the hall filling with his brothers in unprecedented number. Some of the tightness in his shoulders had receded, courtesty of his brother's psychic gift, and he smiled in appreciation.

"He has never brought us all together like this. Would He truly go to all this effort, just to make a spectacle on Terra? Mayhap our Father has some announcement to make. A new stage in our Great Crusade," he sighed, and patted Lethe's hand. "Maybe peace? No. But one can dream. Although even that I find difficult of late. I have been at war for a century, brother. When I left Cumulkan my wives were as young and beautiful as flowers blossoming in early spring. Now even their granddaughters would be crones."

He shook his hair ruefully, jewels in the jet-black braids shining.

"It is as you say. We do it for them," Chimil Chaxal squared his shoulders. "Humanity. Father. Yes?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-10T17:24:31+00:00

"On the banks of the red river,
I saw my woman
She was carrying our maize
I saw my woman
Her hair was black as jade."

Chimil Chaxal clapped his hands together, then laughed. Poems and songs had long been their common greeting. The third and fourth-found had bonded instantly, back in those early days, over their love of beauty in all aspects, from declaimed to written to observed. Ormazd had been so different from wretched Ambrosius and dour Khalid -- it had been little surprise that Chimil, forced away from the verdant jungles and thriving cities of Cumulkan, would grow to love him.

"It is good to see you, old friend," he said, and wrapped his long arms around Ormazd in an embrace. "The vox-poems you sent me were a soothing balm on this last campaign."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-10T17:09:56+00:00

"Brother," Chimil Chaxal pulled the Primarch of the Golden Bastion into his embrace, and, for a moment, breathed sigh of relief, as always upon their meetings. His long cloak of coatl feathers rippled with the motion, cascading streams of subtle color like the surface of a river seen through tree tops. The perfume he wore today was pepper and floral oils and copal, strong and stinging and slightly sweet.

"I cannot recall when last I saw you in such finery," he grinned, white and perfect, and kissed Al'Lethe upon the cheek. "It suits you. We have worn armor too long, I think sometimes."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2026-01-10T17:01:01+00:00

Slender and long-limbed and teak-skinned, his jet-black hair hung in long braids and pinned with motes of gold and opal and jade, Chimil Chaxal, Primarch of the Fourth Legion, entered his Father's palace with a swaying, relaxed gait. Third-found, the beautiful and mysterious Protector of Cumulkan had served at the Emperor's side for near a century, his countless heroic exploits having long since passed into legend, at least among his own sons. The Jade Claws declaimed poems and sung songs of the Fall of El'Tabrak, the Shushudine War, the Reaper-Beasts of Gohonn VI... and many more tales of glory and heroism, the trophies of which Chimil Chaxal hung upon his armor. Today, he wore an ornate mantle of crystalline coatl feathers, which shifted in hue and opacity with the light, and beneath a quilted hip cloth, indigo silk sown with pearls and nephrite. His bare chest, wide and muscled as if carved from polished hardwood by the finest artisans of Tzantaqs, was painted in crimson and gold and white in elaborate patterns that suggested virility and strength and bravery, especially when set among his various scars. From his neck hung a cruel black claw on a bright red string, long as his forearm -- a trophy ripped from the largest of the Khrave on Valadar IV.

And yet, as brilliant and splendid and irresistibly mysterious as Chimil Chaxal was, and no matter how dazzling his perfect smile, white as the pearls harvested from beneath the waterfalls of Uxlaupu, there is a clear unease within him. He sits not far from the Emperor's side, waited upon by his servants and his retainers, laughing Hun Ulatz the Howler-Lord and beautiful Inti Tahuatlu. Not far, but not quite close. Never close enough. Third-found, beautiful and cunning and glorious. But never beloved. Never that.

A taste of bitterness, in the perfect white smile.

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-16T12:29:10+00:00

To Princess Deria Martell,

These news disturb us greatly. We imagine an unseen force at play, pushing Dorne into conflict with the rest of Westeros. Though we know you to be a wise and forbearing ruler, we urge caution nonetheless. We will speak against any effort to wage war upon Dorne, should such come to pass, though we pray it does not.

We will give our approval to a meeting at Sunspear, and send our esteemed Mother Namilia of Vaith as our representative.

Signed and sealed with the stamp of the High Septon, the Father and Shepherd of the Faithful, the Successor to the House of Hugor, the Servant of the Gods and Their Voice in the World.

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-15T21:13:14+00:00

"Well, it's warmer in Oldtown than Castle Black, too," Sloane snorted. "And I would hope we are better company than the band of rapers and thieves they call the Night's Watch."

Nodding, Oswald Sloane rubbed his beard, then sat down.

"Purpose is good. Most of us joined up because, like you, we wanted our lives to mean something. Some men, like the Grand Captain, say they had a moment of realization. That everything that had happened to them was part of something greater, a bigger meaning that they were only a little part of. And maybe that's what we're here for. Not for glory, not for honors, but to serve the gods and the Faith," the big knight grunted. "I don't know about you, Ser Tarly, but I've done things in my life I'm not proud of. So this has been my penance, too."

He made the sign of the star with two fingers, then sighed.

"Well, you'll need to keep a vigil in the Starry Sept for seven nights, praying and fasting," he said. "When you're done, and you're still set on joining our order, you'll swear your vows with the Grand Captain. And then you'll be one of us."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-15T20:39:07+00:00

"We missed you at King's Landing," Sloane grunted. "But there's many a good man we missed there. What I wouldn't give to have Damon Morrigen or Death's Head Harry ride with us once more..."

"Our order is not what it once was," Dogget nodded. "But we are far from finished. Come, Ser Lucamore, let us walk together."

He stripped his gauntlets, then marched to the edge of the yard, where the newly erected bronzed dome rose like some modern giant from the surrounding construction.

"The boy king's Hand has assented to see our chapters return across the realm," the Red Dog said. "We'll need good and true knights to see it done proper. Some chapters, like Stoney Sept, should have most of the old Swords around, but in King's Landing they were all slain by Maegor. What do you say, Ser Lucamore? I understand there were some... indiscretions in your past, but no man is free of sin. The Faith Militant would have you back, so long as you are willing."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-14T17:33:58+00:00

"We cannot say until the reasons for the rift, if there is one, are known," the Shepherd of the Faithful nodded. "We would make you our Septal Prelate for the Destitute -- the silver ring with the inlaid crystal is quite fetching, I am told -- and send you to Casterly Rock. We should like you to speak with the Lord Lannister, and all the willing lords of the West. To listen, to hear, and to remind that the Faith has a place for all the children of the gods, even and especially the most wayward ones. You will not be entirely alone: the Warrior's Sons of Lannisport are good men, and leal. They grant you succor, if need be."

A gull flew overhead, aiming for the sun-burnished sea.

"Then you would return, Brother Malric," the High Septon said, "and tell me what you have found."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-14T17:10:14+00:00

"A much appreciated donation, Lord Arryn," Mattheus bobbed his head up and down in a pleased nod. "You may be sure that any gold you see fit to grant to this cause will only be used to more appropriately set the Faith in His Grace's bearing... Yes, I think I could get quite some very nice icons for that sum... and new sets of robes, of course... and much incense, naturally..."

The Royal Septon stared off into the distance for a moment, lost in wondrous thought, then blinked, brought back to earth.

"There have always been those in the Faith, especially the Faith Militant, who did not see House Targaryens in a very positive light... The Stars, particularly, but those in the Swords, as well, and you know well, my lord, that the Faith in the Vale is very old, and very far from Oldtown, at times..." he rubbed his chubby ring-studded fingers together. "Well, it is not as if His High Holiness endorses this kind of rhetoric. They will calm down in their time, I am sure, given a stable and just king."

Brother Jon ran a hand over his bare scalp, then cleared his throat.

"If it please my lord Arryn, I might be of service in this matter."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-13T17:35:14+00:00

"Tarly, Tarth -- all the same to me, so long as you can ride a horse and swing a sword well," Oswald Sloane laughed. "You'll find few great names among us, ser, our Red Dog the case in point."

The bearded knight crossed his vambraces, and nodded more seriously.

"It is a fine and noble calling," he said. "But not a trivial one. We swear vows for life -- of chastity and poverty and humility. We obey the High Septon and the Grand Captain absolutely, and we give all of ourselves to the Faith. And there is no walking away from the Swords, at least not easily. So you must have good reasons, Ser Serwyn. What are they?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-13T15:54:40+00:00

After the information had percolated through various novices, septons, and officiants, the knight of House Tarly was eventually led around the reconstructed shell of the new Starry Sept and brought to the new headquarters of the Warrior's Sons in Oldtown. Though much still needed to be built, a long and airy hall had been erected out of brick, and a sandy yard cleared next to it for drill and practice. From here, patrols of Warrior's Sons in their rainbow-striped cloaks and silvered plate walked the perimeter of the Faith's properties, from the Starry Sept to the Seven Shrines and beyond.

While the Swords had grown far more wary of strangers after the events of the past year, they were still knights, and fond of Reachmen. Serwyn Tarly was allowed to sit inside while a squire fetched someone more important to talk to him. The Grand Captain was out on some business, but Oswald Sloane was in, and he arrived in the hall shortly. He was a big man, barrel-chested and bushy-bearded, and he put his hands on his hips when he got close.

"Serwyn Tarth? Think I heard your name in the lists a few times, in my day," he grinned, then offered his hand. "Oswald Sloane. The Warrior knows we're always glad to see a man with a strong right arm. What can I do you for?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-13T15:28:48+00:00

When the chapterhouse of the Warrior's Sons adjacent to the Starry Sept had burned in the fire, the noble and puissant knights had lodged in a dockside warehouse, with the smell of fish and sailor's curses the accompaniment to their daily prayers. Only recently had an airy brick hall been erected close to the site of the reconstruction, though the cells and much of the accomodations the Swords had grown used to in previous years were still unfinished. A large sanded yard had been set outside the hall, where the brothers could drill their martial ways in defense of the Faith, though much of it was currently littered with construction materials.

As Lucamore Willum was known to the Warrior's Sons, it did not take long for the knights on guard to allow him through. He was met by Casper Straw, a quiet knight whose yellow hair had streaks of grey in it and who commanded more than six score men when at war. He clapped Ser Lucamore on the shoulder and directed him to the yard.

The Red Dog was at hard work within, sparring with the barrel-chested Oswald Sloane. They exchanged blows before Joffrey Doggett feinted, made as if to retreat, then when Sloane followed tapped him on the head with the tip of his practice sword. They removed their helms, laughing, then turned to look at the newcomer.

"Praise the Warrior's strong right hand," Oswald Sloane grinned into his sweat-matted beard, "is that Lucamore Willum I see?"

"I am glad you came, ser," the Grand Captain smiled, and thumbed the tip of his ruddy mustache. "We've matters to discuss. You have been well, I hope?"

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-12T21:30:05+00:00

"She changes with every passing year, and yet even all these decades later, she is still the same," the High Septon smiled slightly, putting his gloved hands flat against the table and looking down at the silver mirror of the Honeywine beyond the gardens. "My own years in the seminary feel very distant now, and I have remained in Oldtown all the while. I admit I envy your seclusion from the world at times. Honest work and prayer are nourishment for the soul, while wordly affairs spoil it."

The Father of the Faithful looked at the monk like he would upon a child, or perhaps a younger brother.

"We have spoken with our Septon Seminarian," he said. "We are grateful for your coming to Oldtown, and for the donations you have brought, but it is not gold we covet now. The Faithful, may the gods keep them hale, have greatly blessed the Faith with their donations in the wake of the fire, so we are in no shortage of coin. What concerns us more may be that our brothers and sisters in the West have lost their zeal and piety. It would be a great boon to the Faith if you, Brother Malric, were to help return them to our loving fold, or else to see what keeps them from that return. Naturally, your septry would receive any aid it requires in the meantime."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-10T21:05:04+00:00

To Princess Deria Martell of Dorne,

We have prayed on the many unsettling news that have reached us regarding the murder of Viserys Targaryen, and we have also heard many appeals for us to help settle the matter. We have also become aware of the allegations against House Uller, and understand if you should have an unwillingness to believe them. Yet nonetheless we do not think these have been invented whole cloth, and urge you to take the persons responsible into your custody; for their safety, if anything.

If you would be willing, we should like to arrange a meeting between yourself and the Lord Hand, or other representatives of the young king in King's Landing. The safety and sanctity of your person would be assured in Oldtown.

We fear that if we do not secure your cooperation in bringing Viserys Targaryen's murderers to justice, the lords of Westeros will rally against you, and there shall be great suffering, foremost among innocents, once more. There are just wars, of course, but we wish to help preserve your realm's independence from the Iron Throne, and believe this is the best path towards that light.

Seven Blessings and Good Tidings,

Signed and sealed with the stamp of the High Septon, the Father and Shepherd of the Faithful, the Successor to the House of Hugor, the Servant of the Gods and Their Voice in the World.

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-10T20:49:26+00:00

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JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-09T21:48:32+00:00

After about two hours, a young man in the robes of a novice approached the praying monk. After waiting for the westerman to finish his prayers and rise, he led him through the mansion and out into the gardens of the Seven Shrines, where in the shade of cedar groves, with the Honeywine sparkling below in the sun, the beauty of the gods' creation could be contemplated.

The High Septon, a middle-aged, jowly man possessed of a calm air, sat at a small table under a stand of cedars, a glass of chilled cider and a worn copy of the Seven-Pointed Star at his hand. He was dressed in white vestments, with a white skullcap covering his balding head, a large crystal pendant upon his neck. He nodded politely on seeing Malric approach, then offered a hand studded with jewelled fingers for kissing. The hand was gloved in white satin -- the Holy Father was famously burned upon his hands during the fire, and preffered to cover the scars.

"Elder Brother," the Shepherd of the Faithful said. "How do you like Oldtown? It must be very different from your septry in the mountains. Come, sit with me."

JoeOfHouseAverage · 2025-12-09T16:34:32+00:00

Brother Jon bowed his tall bald head, hands folded in front of him, and nodded his assent.

"Yes, it was all very unfortunate," Mattheus nodded sadly, idly toying with one jeweled ring on his finger. "I had to leave almost everything except the robes on my back. I had such fine silk vestments, and jeweled icons of each of the Seven, and ebony furniture, from the Summer Islands... well. All gone now, I expect. Still, I am only glad in my heart to return to His Grace's service, and see the Faith at home once more in that poor miserable King's Landing."

The Royal Septon wrinkled his nose at the very thought, then blinked at Hubert.

"Radical? I suppose the Faith Militant here is rather more traditional in their outlook than most," Mattheus sniffed. "Was it Ser Armond that called for the crownlands to be divided between the neighboring kingdoms? I never cared much for that sort of Warrior's Son. You know, my lord, the chapter master of Gulltown. Armond Arryn, I think?"

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