"He is not Robb Stark either."
Cersei's performance continued.
"There are far too many people in this world who look alike. Just take that patricidal, regicidal, family-betraying little Imp as an example."
"You all know I am a dutiful daughter. To avenge my father, I offered an earl's title and a bounty of one hundred thousand golden dragons to hunt down that devil who deserves to fall into the seventh layer of hell.
Many mercenaries brought me dwarf heads—dozens, even hundreds.
Why?
Could it be that those mercenaries did not know that I, the Queen Dowager, am wise and powerful, able to discern truth from falsehood, intolerant of even a grain of sand in my eyes?
They all knew. But they had no intent to deceive their queen. Those mercenaries simply could not tell the difference between an ordinary dwarf and the Imp."
"If even that deformed little monkey has so many look-alikes, do you truly believe Robb Stark's face is unique in all the world?"
"And then there are those with sinister hearts who claim this is black magic, that necromancers must be summoned from across the Narrow Sea. Please, use your brains. Where are we?
The Great Sept of Baelor, the dwelling place of the Seven!
If evil truly existed here, why would the Seven not manifest their power?
Or is it that you doubt the sanctity and majesty of the Seven themselves?"
Cersei spoke with righteous fervor. The more she argued, the more convinced she became of her own words, her voice rising, her tone ever more assertive.
It seemed that once she convinced herself, the whole world would be convinced.
And in truth, most of the audience—even the septons and sparrows—were taken in.
Even the "sinister-hearted" Marwyn only stared blankly at her rapidly moving lips, neither refuting nor knowing how to refute.
"Unbelievable. The Dowager Queen speaks so convincingly, it almost sounds true. Could we have been wrong?" muttered the Great Bear, dazed.
"Eh, my dear sister has never lacked for cunning," Tyrion said with a bitter smile.
"Huh? What are those septons doing?" Aemon exclaimed.
Marwyn had turned his head, no longer watching Cersei. His gaze shifted toward the corpse of the High Sparrow, and with it, the scene changed.
There, a new transformation was underway.
While Cersei sparred with words, crushing dissent, several Silent Sisters and grey-clad septons moved forward, forming a circle around the High Septon's corpse.
The Silent Sisters, brides of the Stranger, were Westeros's morticians.
Mending broken corpses was their sacred duty.
Now, they set about their work with practiced skill: restoring dislocated and broken bones, placing the severed head back in its place, stitching torn flesh, cleansing the blood.
Meanwhile, the other septons, septas, and armed faithful knelt on the ground, chanting verses of the Seven-Pointed Star devoted to the Holy Mother.
Circle upon circle formed, as more and more faithful gathered—church members who had rushed here after hearing of the High Septon's death, commoners, and even some devout nobles.
As the assembly grew, the solemn, resonant chanting soon drowned out Cersei's silver tongue.
"Hey! The trial by combat is already over. Many people are waiting here. Announce the result first, then do whatever rituals you like!"
Cersei shouted at Archbishop Mathis, the one who had earlier shone a crystal at her face.
For Baelor's Sept housed not only the High Septon but also a host of archbishops.
Indeed, as one of the Faith's great centers, it served as a training seat for archbishops of the Seven (the other being the Starry Sept in Oldtown). At all times, over a dozen archbishops resided here.
The High Sparrow, as a participant, could not act as judge for the trial by combat.
Instead, Mathis—an obscure but devout man raised by the High Sparrow—served as host of the trial.
Not that much judgment was required. In trial by combat, the fallen lost, the standing won. Simple as that.
"Your Grace, you have won. Everyone saw it. No need to announce anything further," said Randyll Tarly, frowning.
He stood as Iron Throne's witness. Should the Faith renege, it was his duty to safeguard Cersei's rights.
All those present, having been invited to the trial, bore that same obligation.
Even Dragonstone was bound to recognize Queen Cersei's victory.
"Very well…" Cersei muttered with regret. With a sweeping motion of her embroidered sleeves, she lifted her head high, pride and triumph blazing across her face, ready to leave with her White Knight.
"Wummm—" Suddenly, a strange change erupted.
"Ah! The Holy Mother has manifested!"
As Cersei turned to go, a cry rang out behind her.
It was not only the voice of some random faithful—she heard her uncle Kevan, Margaery, and even Mace Tyrell shouting as well.
"The Holy Mother?" Cersei spun around—and froze.
There was no doubt: the High Sparrow was dead.
Ordinarily, even with his devotion as lofty as the "Son," death was death. Ascending to heaven was but an empty dream.
The Seven themselves were false—seven carved pieces of wood. To expect heaven was folly.
But this time was different. If the "Seven" were positions, then at this moment, someone had already filled one.
And once in office, duties must be fulfilled.
At the instant Robert Strong tore off his head, the High Sparrow died. His soul followed the thread of faith into the pool of belief.
Not only was Big Black bewildered, even the Dragon Queen—who claimed to have read countless web novels and boasted "rich experience with gods"—was left dumbfounded.
She had no idea such a thing was possible.
Yet now that it had happened, she had no choice but to act.
How should she act?
Her first thought was to burn the High Sparrow's soul with divine fire, converting it into essence to nourish Big Black's body.
A clean and final solution—like becoming the willing ox for the people, or turning into spring mud to nurture flowers.
But then she heard Cersei's arrogant tirade. In that moment, she realized something: This was the Great Sept, under the eyes of the Seven. The High Sparrow was the Holy Son of Light, Robert Strong a monster. If the Seven showed no response at all, then when the Long Night came, the Faith of the Seven would collapse like a breached floodgate.
She could not cast a massive fireball across thousands of miles to strike down the blasphemer Cersei. Even the true god R'hllor could not manage that.
So she could only reveal a miracle.
Dany suddenly had a thought: since the High Sparrow's soul had fallen intact into her hands, could she bring him back to life?
If monks could do it, why couldn't priests?
If R'hllor could, why couldn't the Seven?
Back in Gdohor, during the battle against the Crab King, Drogon had gained yet another divine aspect—the Mother.
At first, Dany thought "Mother = Mercy," which was completely useless.
Later she realized she was wrong. The Smith represented diligence but also bestowed the power of forging; the "Mother," unexpectedly, was tied to healing. She suddenly found herself with a vast amount of medical knowledge.
But like forging, all this medical knowledge came from the believers of the Seven Kingdoms.
Heaven help her, medicine in the Seven Kingdoms was still stuck at the stage of leeches and bloodletting. And the archmaesters of the Citadel hardly had any true devotion to the Seven (even old Aemon only had a devotion level of 1.0). She could not access their knowledge. At best, she could become an extraordinarily experienced village healer.
Other than a handful of bizarre folk remedies, the knowledge she gained was even less than what she had learned in school in her past life.
So she concluded that the "Mother" aspect was somewhat useful, but also a trap.
Until this moment. In the Pool of Faith, unexpectedly encountering the soul of the High Sparrow, she had a sudden inspiration. If the knowledge granted by the divine office was useless, then what about the divine power itself?
With the Justicar and the Smith, she could channel their powers into dragonflame, transforming it into platinum holy fire and radiant crimson glassfire.
That glassfire could even smelt Valyrian steel.
So what would happen if she channeled the Mother's power into a healing spell?
Could Drogon use healing spells?
No.
But Dany could.
After learning from Butian about the difference between Type A "Will-essence" and Type B "Vital-essence," she had created "Dany's Whisper" and "Will Enhancement" to replenish her Type A essence. She had also devised a healing spell.
The last time in Tolos, Little Green's wings had been torn to shreds, his legs gnawed like drumsticks by wyverns, full of holes and bleeding everywhere. The six wyverns themselves were in no better shape, wings ripped and unable to fly.
Did she not deliberately use Type B essence to repair their bodies?
She had long discovered that essence could heal her dragons' wounds, but this time her method was more precise.
In the past, out of 100 units of essence, only 10 would be Type B vital-essence. If healing required 100 units of Type B, then she would need to pour 1,000 units of total essence into a dragon.
Now, she could isolate the Type B directly. If she needed 100 units, she gave exactly 100 units.
For dragons, this hardly mattered, since they could endlessly absorb essence and she was more than happy to pour infinite resources into her children.
No matter how much essence she had, it all went to her dragons. Separating out Type B was irrelevant.
But for wyverns—
Sorry, Dany had to save her strength for her own children.
For ordinary people—
Sorry, their souls were already saturated, unable to absorb any more essence.
That was when a cheaper, more efficient healing spell became necessary.
There was just one problem: the pure essence-based healing spell worked, but it was painfully slow.
Nothing like in the games, where holy light would close wounds before one's eyes.
Now, with the High Sparrow's death, Dany had an idea: what if she used the Mother's power to drive the healing spell? What would happen then?
But no matter how powerful, a healing spell could not grow a new head out of thin air.
She would have to stitch the High Sparrow's severed limbs back together.
By coincidence, after his death, many septons and septas were praying fervently to the Mother in the Great Sept.
Those with devotion levels between 200 and 250 were saints. By that measure, the High Sparrow had over a dozen saints among his followers.
The devotion of saints was enough to open the Gate of Faith and directly commune with the Mother. It only depended on whether Mother Dany was free and willing to answer.
"Child, may you be at peace."
"Mother?!" Archbishop Mathis, with a devotion of 211, was struck dumb, unable to believe what he saw.
So holy, so noble, so merciful, so gentle, so majestic—
Wasn't this exactly the Mother he had "seen" a few times before?
Well, in this day and age, if a man had not retraced the steps of the saints a few times (fasting and praying like Saint Baelor), how could he become an archbishop?
"Sob… Mother of Mercy, the Holy Son, he…" Mathis fell to the floor, wailing in grief.
There was resentment, release from fear, and also relief and attachment at seeing the Mother.
"All suffering is part of glory. Do not grieve, do not hesitate. Go, stitch together the Holy Son's broken body."
Mother Dany waved her hand, sending Mathis' soul out of the Pool of Faith and back into his body.
Indeed, Mathis had only fainted for a short while.
His sudden collapse had startled the archbishops nearby, and because he was unconscious, Lord Tarly had been able to stop Cersei from bullying her way forward.
"I saw the Mother. She told us to sew the Holy Son's body back together," Mathis told his fellow clerics.
(End of Chapter)
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