JAIME
Lannisport was a symphony of ordered chaos. The smell of salt and fish from the harbor mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the bakeries and the sharper tang of the stables. The shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the groan of cart wheels over cobblestones created a relentless soundtrack to the city's life. And yet, amid this bustle, there were pockets of silence.
One of them was the Sept of Lannisport.
The moment Jaime stepped over the intricately carved threshold, the sounds of the city seemed to fade away, replaced by a solemn, echoing quiet. The air inside was cool and smelled of cold stone, long-burnt incense, and wax. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through seven massive stained-glass windows, each depicting one of the aspects of the Seven, casting a tapestry of color across the polished marble floor. The Father was bearded and judgmental, the Mother smiled with mercy, the Warrior raised his sword, and so on. It was a place designed to make mortals feel small and the gods feel near.
Behind him, standing as still as a statue, was Jon, a household knight assigned as his guard for today's journey. He was a quiet, dependable man, whose presence was more reassuring than a hundred chattering guards.
Jaime walked down the main aisle, his boots making soft, rhythmic taps that echoed in the vaulted ceiling. In his previous life, Steven Evans had not been the most faithful of men. Sure, he believed in the existence of God, a greater power that governed the universe. But for him, it was an accepted fact, like gravity or photosynthesis. He felt no need to attend church every week or recite memorized prayers.
His philosophy was simple: as long as he did good, God would be pleased, right? An omnipotent and omniscient being couldn't possibly have an ego so fragile that it required constant adoration. Steven felt that God didn't need worship. He just wanted humanity to do the job He had given them: to do good unto all things, to be keepers of their fellow man, and to leave the world in a slightly better state than they found it.
But Steven Evans was in a different world now. He felt so lonely, his old friends gone.
So, now, he came here. Not out of habit or duty, but out of a genuine need. He felt like a sailor stranded on an endless ocean, searching for a lighthouse in the dark. Perhaps, if he was sincere enough, if he truly opened his heart to the gods of this world, he would get a hint. A sign. A dream. Anything to tell him he was not alone in this madness.
He stopped before the altar of the Father, whose face was carved from white marble with an expression of stern justice. He knelt on the plush velvet kneeler, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. He did not recite the standard prayers. Instead, he spoke from his heart, a silent whisper meant only for the gods.
I hope my family back there is always healthy, may they be happy, and let Michael grow up healthy.
I do not know what I was sent here for, but I hope I can do something good. So for that, could you please give me a sign? What should I do?
He remained kneeling there for a long time, letting the silence of the sept wash over him. There was no celestial voice, no divine vision. Just the quiet of stone and colored glass. And yet, when he finally rose, he felt a little lighter. The burden was still there, but his shoulders felt a little stronger to bear it.
He walked over to an alms box set into a nearby pillar, an iron-banded oak box with a narrow slit in the top. He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a gold coin. A Golden Dragon. It was a staggering sum, enough to feed a family for a month in decent comfort. Without hesitation, he pushed it through the slit. The clink of it falling onto the pile of other coins below sounded impossibly loud in the quiet sept.
"A generous offering, young lord."
Jaime turned. Septon Orland was standing there, an old man with thinning white hair and a gentle smile that seemed etched into his wrinkled face. He was the head of this sept, a man known for his piety and kindness.
"The gods have given my House much, Septon," Jaime replied. "It is only right to give a small piece back."
The Septon nodded, his pale blue eyes full of sympathy. "You have been a frequent visitor of late, my lord. It warms my heart. I am sure your lady mother rests easy in the Mother's arms, seeing her son's devotion."
"I can only pray," Jaime said, and he let a genuine smile touch his lips, for a part of his words was true. He did pray for the woman he only knew through a child's memories, which were themselves being suppressed by the thirty-year-old soul of Steven. He felt a sorrow for the original Jaime's loss, a strange empathy for the boy whose body he was borrowing. "Septon," he asked, turning the conversation in the direction he had planned, "if we do good, the Seven will be pleased, will they not? And will they make our path easier?"
"Of course, my lord," Septon Orland replied warmly, his eyes twinkling. "The Seven are seven aspects of one divinity, and each aspect values virtue. The Mother smiles on acts of mercy, the Smith values honest labor, the Father judges us by the justice we show to others. By living piously and performing good deeds, we not only ensure our place in the heavens, but we also bring the blessings of the gods into our lives in this world. The path of the righteous may not always be easy, but its light will never be extinguished."
It was the expected answer, a comforting and orthodox one. It was the kind of answer any priest in any world would give.
Jaime sighed, as if contemplating a deep theological problem. "That is a relief to hear. And yet, something has been troubling me. Since I began spending more time in Lannisport, I listen to the common folk talk in the markets and on the docks. To many of them, the Father, the Mother, the Warrior… they are not just different aspects. They are different gods. A sellsword will swear by the Warrior, as if the Mother has no care for the life he takes. They splinter the unity of the Seven."
He paused, looking at the Septon with an expression of sincere concern. "It troubles me, and I was thinking, perhaps it is also due to a lack of media that can enlighten their thinking. They cannot read the Seven-Pointed Star. They only hear the stories passed down, which may have changed over time."
Septon Orland nodded slowly, his expression growing serious. "You have a keen eye and a sharp ear, young lord. It is a problem the Faith has long wrestled with. The faith of the smallfolk is often simple, sometimes to the point of superstition. They understand the gods through the lens of their immediate needs."
"But does that not weaken the true faith?" Jaime pressed gently. "Does it not make them more vulnerable to heresies or the influence of foreign gods?"
"It does," the Septon admitted with a weary sigh. "But the solution is not easy. Our holy books are difficult to duplicate. Each copy of the Seven-Pointed Star takes a learned brother months, even years, to copy by hand onto expensive vellum. It requires a great deal of manpower. And finding men who can read and write well, and who are willing to dedicate their lives to such a painstaking task, is no simple thing."
"I understand," Jaime said, "but what if there were more men who could read and write?"
The Septon frowned. "That would be a blessing, of course, but…"
"Think on it, Septon," Jaime continued, his voice filled with a genuine-seeming passion. "Right now, only the nobility and the maesters are truly learned. But what of the classes just below? The merchants, the master craftsmen, even the clerks who work for them. They are the backbone of this city. They deal with numbers, contracts, and bills of lading every day. They have a need for literacy, and many of them must surely have the wit for it."
He gestured around at the grand, stained-glass windows. "What if, just if, there was a place in Lannisport where the sons of these men could learn? A school. Not to become maesters or lords, but just to learn to read the words, to write their names, and to properly sum their figures. Would that not be a great good?"
Septon Orland's eyes widened as he began to grasp the implication.
"It would improve their trade, of course," Jaime continued, anticipating the next argument. "A merchant who can read his own contracts is less likely to be cheated. A craftsman who can read an order will make fewer mistakes. It would make the entire city more prosperous. And a more prosperous city means larger offerings for the sept, does it not?"
"But more than that," he said, his voice softening again, returning to his original theme. "If more people could read, then there would be more people who could read the Seven-Pointed Star and also copy it. The Faith would no longer be something they only hear from a Septon once a week. It would be something they could hold in their own hands. They would read of the unity of the Seven for themselves. Their faith would become deeper, more personal, and truer. You would have more candidates for septons. You would have a populace that is not only richer, but more pious."
He paused, letting the picture form in the old man's mind. A better, richer, holier city.
Septon Orland stared at him, utterly speechless for a moment. His gentle smile was gone, replaced by an expression of profound awe. "My lord," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "That… that is the most sensible and most noble idea I have heard in a very long time. A school… for the common folk…" He seemed to be tasting the words. "Of course, there would be challenges. Finding teachers, the funding…"
"The funding can be found," Jaime said with quiet confidence. "And teachers… That is simple, perhaps there are some of the learned brothers who would see this as a holy calling. For now, it is just an idea. A prayer, perhaps."
"A most powerful prayer," the Septon said, his eyes misting over. "The Seven truly work through you, young Lord Jaime."
Jaime just smiled. If they knew the strange truth, they might think otherwise.
He took his leave of the now-energized Septon and walked back down the main aisle. As he stepped out of the great sept doors, back into the sunlight and the noise of Lannisport,
"Jon," he called, and the knight was instantly at his side. "We're going home."
As they walked across the square before the sept, a great flock of pigeons that had been pecking at crumbs on the stones was startled by their approach. With a unified thunder of wings, they took to the air, circling over Jaime's head in a grey and white cloud before scattering to the four corners of the city.
Jaime stopped for a moment to watch them fly, they looked so free, and it was a joy to see.