Title 20BD.docx ✅

“Never heard of it,” the squire muttered, scratching his head. “Must not be important, then.” “Tormund.” Jon’s voice was edged with steel. “The boy has given no insult, nor has this one felt slighted,” Daeron said, raising his bony hands. “It’s been aeons since the Church of Starry Wisdom has been of import, and this one is a rather poor monk.” Starry Wisdom. Where had he heard this before? Brynden had only spoken of the Seven Who are One, their septons, and the Old Gods. Jon’s mind fluttered to an old, half-forgotten memory of his lessons with Winterfell’s old maester. “Wasn’t the Church of Starry Wisdom based in… Leng?” Daeron let out a low, raspy laugh. “Yi-Ti and Qarth, benefactor. The Lengii have long since cast out the powers of the Golden Empire and do not welcome outsiders even to this day, and hold their faith in their grim, faceless gods lurking in the nethers of the earth. The Church of Starry Wisdom has some small branches in Qohor, Lys, Lorath, and Braavos, but the other Free Cities rarely welcome our kind.” “Fascinating,” Jon said, still uncertain what to think. Tormund brashly asked, “What do your gods do anyway?” Daeron spread out his arms. “What all gods do, young one. They offer you meaning, a direction, and… solace in the cold darkness of the night. Do you want to hear more about the gods dwelling in the stars?” Jon’s mind drifted to a low, seductive voice he had tried very hard to forget. The stars are dead, and only horrors lurk amongst them. “Perhaps another time,” he said with a shudder. “I’m far more curious how you ended up at the bottom of a well, at the other end of the world, if I might be so bold as to ask.” Daeron’s face darkened. “These damn godless Freys,” he hissed like a viper. “They wanted to charge this poor old monk a burdensome toll to cross their rickety bridge and another toll to spread the divine word of the Starry Wisdom. When this one swam through the Green Fork downriver, their outriders caught me and tossed me into a well.” Jon shook his head in exasperation. “That certainly explains it.” Tormund's mouth twisted. “Can't even swim across the river? Do they think they own it?” “The Freys?” Jon let out a scoff. “A meagre Green Fork is nothing. If you ask Walder Frey, he’d probably claim he owns the very air we breathe in and the sky above his lands all the same. And he would charge all a toll for it if he could.” His squire muttered some curse under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody kneelers.’ “You seem quite familiar with the House of Frey, benefactor.” Jon’s jaw tightened. “I have yet to meet one, but I know of them and their unsavoury deeds. The weasel lord and his ilk are not to be trusted with anything.”