Theocracy, Seven Gods' Prophet, Monk-Governed Nation

Dust rose beneath the horses' hooves like a thick yellow fog.

Septon Arlan gripped the saddle tightly, each jolt sending pain through his old bones.

He was a septon, accustomed to measuring the land with his feet rather than racing wildly on horseback.

More than a dozen Long Retainer Guards assigned by Suleiman surrounded him, silent as iron.

They were weapons, extensions of will. Their cold eyes held only purpose—and a warning for him.

The wind howled past his ears, whipping his gray septon's robes.

They had ridden for a day and a night, cutting south from the heart of the Riverlands straight into the Reach.

Only when a writhing black mass appeared on the horizon did the captain of the guards pull on his reins.

The horses pawed the ground uneasily and snorted.

That was no black mass.

It was a sea of people, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Banners stood everywhere, yet not one belonged to any lord or noble house.

They bore only crudely painted white Seven-Pointed Stars.

The air was thick with the mingled stench of sweat, dust, and fanatical faith.

The guard captain spoke coldly. "Septon, we're here."

"You'd better not try anything."

Septon Arlan looked at the sea of people, and his heart tightened involuntarily.

This was the army of the Seven.

They were blacksmiths, farmers, half-naked paupers, and hollow-eyed refugees.

Their weapons came in all kinds: rusted swords, freshly cut wooden spears, and, more often than not, nothing but sickles and axes.

Several sentries riding gaunt horses and holding pitchforks blocked their way.

Those who noticed the disturbance crowded over, their words and demeanor far from friendly.

"Who are you?"

Their eyes were full of vigilance and hostility as they scrutinized the guards' fine armor and weapons.

The guard captain